The night is silent, the ripe moon overhead. After dusk, humankind sleeps, thinking the world pauses its functions, taking its rest, but that isn't true. The night is always full of activity. 

Lover's embrace in the night, entranced by the moon's glow. Children dream deeply of their day's adventures. Sleeping beasts awaken with empty bellies and a craving for blood and bone. 

And wicked men trespass on land they should not tread, seeking that which is not theirs. 

Moriganna can feel the trembling under her bare feet in the soil. The taste of anger on the wind coats her throat. The forest is not happy. Despite the full moon, the shadows deepen, making the ancient oaks seem taller and grizzlier than usual. No insects chirp, no rodent stirs. 

Her eyes are closed, head tilting side to side, listening. Her long black locks swept over her shoulder; a few strands twirled in tight braids, decorated with feathers and glass beads, clinking together with the breeze. 

She grips her hunting bow tightly, opening her eyes to reveal amber-colored lamps are gazing upward. A sudden gust of wind and flap of wings has the woman crouching, squinting against a sudden flurry of leaves. She relaxes when she spots the two ravens land before her, giving her deep bows of their dark heads. 

She moves to her knees, swinging her bow onto her back so she could stoke both birds lovingly. They lean into their mistress' touch, nuzzling her fingers with their long beaks. 

"How far are the intruders?" she asks them. 

'They have crossed the border and entered the village.' The larger raven dips her head in shame. 'We didn't make it in time!'

The smaller bird hops on one leg to the next. 'They destroyed the necromancer's shack!' 

'Hush, Nemain!' orders the older bird, her feathers ruffled, and Nemain ducks his head. 

Moriganna picks up the smaller raven gently. "We will go there now, Amel," she said as she strokes Nemain's feathers, trying to soothe the distraught raven. He is still too young for this kind of action, but Moriganna realizes that fledglings must grow to learn the harsh truths of the world. And there is never a perfect time. Hopefully, they will come out of the situation with everyone safe, but Moriganna tilts her head to the side, listening to the creaking of the branches and knows that it is a far fetched thing to hope. 

Amel clicks in her throat but bows in acknowledgment. 'The Wizards will be there soon enough to aid us. Crackle left to find them the moment our scouts spotted them.'

'Shall we fly, my Lady?' Young Nemain looks at his mistress with one small black eye, glimmering in the moonlight with hope, like a child wanting to join in on their first hunt. 

Moriganna leans back, gaze thoughtful. She could run faster than any deer in the woods, but flying yields fewer obstacles along the way, though it takes more magic. 

"Yes," she says finally. "We shall fly." Nemain jumps down happily from his mistress' hand, wings spread out to steady his fall. 

She reaches down to grab her bow, intent on saving her village as quickly as possible when she heard the rasp of dry leaves rustling behind her. She whips around on her knees, her braids smarting against her cheek, and her arrow notched, aiming at the intruder. 

Nemain and Amel squawk their fury a couple of seconds behind their mistress' movements and fly up to perch on her shoulder, a raven for each side, ready to protect her from danger.

Moriganna's eyes widen, keeping a steady hand on her bow, the strong taut and ready to release, but she does not strike. It is an abnormal visitor, not like the brutes who are trampling her forest, and it only stood staring up at the Dark Goddess of the forest, not the least bit concerned over the sharp arrow aimed at its face. 

A wooden doll, twelve inches in length, stood before her. Faux skin sanded smooth and painted with dark varnish, pieces chipping away. Smears of dirt and leaves clung to its limbs after traveling for many years on many different paths in the dark and dirtiest places of the world. Its hair made of real child's hair, no doubt from the original owner, glued haphazardly here and there, creating patches over the bald head. Deep sockets carved into the face, but the glass eyes were missing. 

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

She notices the trail in the dirt and leaves leading straight to the doll. It was not there earlier. A chill went through her as she realizes how quietly this child's toy moved. 

No, not a child's toy. She senses an ancient presence within the doll. Older than her soul. A spirit. It watches her, not with any sense of hostility but rather curiosity. 

Still, she holds her arrow straight, muscles feeling the strain, and her thoughts kept snapping back to the village under attack and needing her protection. 

"Spirit, I have a battle I must attend. Shall we talk after I spill blood? She speaks quietly, hoping she doesn't offend it in some way by speaking before it does. 

A strange creaking sound came from its wooden neck as it cocks its head to the side. The dark pits of the sockets were empty, but she can still feel its gaze on her—an eery feeling. 

"Why do you fight?" Its mouth did not move since it is only a heart-shaped carving of petite lips, but the masculine voice that echoes from within is strong and deep, with a heavy accent of northern lands. 

The question makes her pause. It is a heavy query, and she fears what the spirit may do if she took it too lightly.

"This is my home," she says firmly. "Those who look up to me as a goddess, they are my people! They come to me, always wanting to help me in my hunts, and in return, I help them if they need medicine or advice. Anyone who attacks them and disrupts my forest disrespects me. I cannot allow that." Her face darkens with each word, and the anger she feels leaks her power, black tendrils flow up and down her arms. 

The spirit gazes at the shadows and straightens its head back to her face. "All must die."

"And all must live!" She counters angrily. "At least once, we are alive. Even in the womb, there is a spark of a soul. Death cannot exist without life."

The doll spirit nods its creaky head. "You want justice then. They've already crossed your borders. You may not catch them before life is taken."

She stiffens at its words. "Scout, Amel," she orders, and her raven leaps from her shoulder to the village. 

Moriganna reaches to the rest of her flock and finds that the village has indeed already been ransacked. Using their eyes and memories, she sees the smoke rising from the buildings. People are rushing around, trying to save the hurt and gently laying aside the dead. The villains who cut through her people have already left. With what she can't be sure. The necromancer's home is burning brightest of all the fires, and she whispers a prayer to her ancestors that the necromancer still lives. The priests of the dead are a peaceful people, and the villagers will depend on him more than ever after this. The souls will need releasing. 

Switching through each of her flock, she finds Amel close to the intruders. She counts six mean and a string of seven villagers connected by chains. 

So that's what they came here for. Young women and children. 

She withdraws from her flock, silently asking them to track the invaders, keeping a few birds behind to monitor the village and border. It is strange that these men found her village. It is small, with little manpower to help against attacks like this. Without my protection, they are vulnerable to slavers and thieves. Isolated as we are, it was easy to take children or young adults from the woods. But coming into the village? Did they not know where they tread?

Fury filled the Dark Lady of the forest, and she grips her bow, recovering her calm. 

The doll never moves while she confers with her flock, just watches her. Moriganna doubts the spirit is there just to observe, but she doesn't have the time to deal with the threat of an old entity in her domain. It could be it was here because of the intruders, but it never makes a move to threaten her. 

"They are leaving, as you say." She takes a breath, and it catches in her throat. "They took some of my people." Her voice shakes, but she pauses, strengthening her resolve. She can't show weakness. Not now and in front of the spirit. 

Standing, she lowers her bow and slings it onto her back. The doll fidgets slightly. "You would help your people, even if it goes beyond your boundary?"

Moriganna understands what the spirit is asking. Going over the border of her forest meant leaving her home soil, and along with it, she will be considerably weaker. Her magic will not be as potent, and above all, she would be mortal. 

She smiles at the spirit, making it shift its wooden feet in surprise.

"Yes, I would."

The doll bows its head respectfully toward her. "We shall speak again, moya boginya." 

She nods her and raises her face to the night sky, eyes of amber alight by the moon and sparkling fiercely.

Nemain hops from her shoulder as a sudden wave of magic bursts from Moriganna, clearing away the dead leaves. Shadows erupt from under her and curl up her bare feet and pale legs, a stark contrast of white and black. Her head flew back, eyes wide as she welcomes the change. 

Black tendril crawls up her hunting leathers and up her face, creeping along her cheeks until there isn't a part of her body that wasn't touched by her magic. Her form constricts, tightens and shrinks, her limbs contorting at painful angles. The black magic compresses the goddess smaller and smaller until it reveals the form of a stately raven with silken feathers and glowing amber eyes. 

Without any hesitation, Moriganna flew away to join Nemain in the flight to the intruders.  The doll watches them fly away, and with a chuckle echoing deeply within its chest, it follows the dark goddess.