I own Maie and the nameless pony and Daëmor. No one else though. Read, enjoy, please, please, please review!

Her name? She had none, and yet she had many. Lady Death, some called her, and Dark One and Black Hawk. But none knew what her real name was. She knew not herself. She knew not her past, her parents and siblings, her place of origin, her way of life. She knew only who she was now: the dark herald. The queen's one expediency. This is her story.

.
.

Maie grumbled as she deftly swung off her horse. Could it be called a horse? She didn't think so.

Stupid thing looks like a cross between a donkey and a rat. And is just as slow, too.

Stripping it of its tack, she gave it a quick rubdown before sending it to the paddock. And she noticed how much faster it went there, compared to when it was being harried by whip and spur- why, it was even doing a fast walk.

And this caused Maie to grumble some more, wishing for a horse, not some plodding pony. And that led to, of course, wishing for a companion.

Like every other child in Valdemar, she would run to see the annual herald trotting his silver-white companion down the cobbled road. Like every other child, she would greet him enthusiastically, eyes shining in wonder and awe. And maybe even envy. And like every other child in Valdemar, she would dream, long, hope for a chance to be special, for a chance to be a herald.

And not just any other herald, too. I want to be special. I want to be the best.

Which was, she knew, as she glared at the shaggy, mud-splattered bay pony, about as likely as the pony turning into a companion. As if in contempt, the beast chose that time to snort its dry, winding snort.

Yeah, well, she thought darkly, I hate you too.

And she did hate it, it that smothered her dreams, that dragged her back to reality when she so willingly would have danced upon stars and moondust. It that had her wings bound tightly, so she could not soar with the winged ones above her. It that rendered into ashes her long ago flame of passion, her long ago flame of hope.

She turned and headed back to the little cabin that she shared with an only parent, her mother, bracing herself for chores and yelling and verbal abuse. Shoulders slouched, she trudged on towards home. Yet she couldn't resist one last glance, one last once of hope, towards the road, waiting for the click of iron against cobblestone, the jingle of silvery bells.

Nothing.

Nothing but a wintry chill filling the air, the breath of death on her neck, the sensation of being watched, being taken measure of.

The birds had stopped their merry chirping.

The mud-caked grass of the paddocks were too still, caught in the suspense of something no one knew about.

Something was wrong.

Maie froze, then shook her head violently. If she rushed a little going back to the cabin, if the muscles on her back wired tight in wary suspicion, people wouldn't know. Her mother wouldn't suspect anything.

But it was only people who would not know.

For fading into the growing darkness, slit eyes, glowing dimly a darkened red, stalked the young girl until she disappeared into the cabin. Then a piece of black parted from the shadows of the woods, gliding softly away. There was no click of iron against cobblestone, no jingle of silver bells.

Just a dark, chilling silence. No sound, no snort or thud of hoof or rustle of grass. And the creature's name floated into the minds of every watcher, up in the trees, down cringing in the grass.

Daëmor.