	“Shaman Dhryn, I presume?”

	The contralto voice cut through the smoke-choked hut like a dagger. Instantly the occupied gnoll's ears turned to face the entrance. He squinted, glimpsing a large silhouette through the haze. Who – or whatever she was, she was tall enough to have to duck to step inside.

	“Who calls?” Dhryn answered, his eyes not straying from the simmering stone bowl perched precariously atop the pile of hissing embers. It wasn't a voice he recognized.

	“Just a friend,” the voice answered, “Of a friend. Call me Elya.” Her voice sounded strained, but she was clearly trying to hide it – perhaps she was wounded, Dhryn thought, from some faraway tribe, or she sought his aid for some sort of strange malady. 

	“What ails you, Traveller?” Dhryn asked as he carefully removed the bowl from the pile of embers, his hands wrapped in layers of leather to keep them from burning. 

	“I'm not sick,” the voice answered curtly before drawing a long breath, visibly ducking her head down to try and avoid the suffocating smog. As she stepped closer, the gnoll could see a very distinct pattern of stripes, and it finally dawned on him how large the traveller Elya really was.

	She was one of the nomadic zebra-folk that passed by roughly this time every year. Her people traded with the gnolls and the leonin for protection before settling down for a day or two to recuperate and  give last rites to those that didn't survive the gruelling trek through the torrid wilderness. Then, it was off to cross the Great River, where at least another third of them would perish at the hands of raging floodwaters and vicious beasts. The gnolls always followed, eager to glean what they could from the grisly leftovers before purging the carcasses in their own profane celebration of death and rebirth.

	If the two of them stood side-by-side, Dhryn's ears would have maybe scratched the bottom of her chin. The starkly-shaded mane on her head, short and stiff enough to stand completely erect, probably added another foot to her height. She probably weighed twice as much as her host, and her frame was supported by wide hips and a broad, full chest. The cause of her apparent strain was obvious – Her distended midsection, heavy with foal, filled the gab between her supple thighs and plush breasts. A dark, sickly-sweet-smelling trail, barely visible through the haze, had followed her inside and stained the inside of her thighs.

	Dhryn pushed the embers aside with his staff, scattering them before snuffing them out with handfuls of dirt. Elya quickly filled the space, sitting crosslegged with both hands pressed to the ground behind her, allowing her to lean back. There wasn't a scrap of clothing on her – her wide, black areolas blended in with the stripes across her breast, and the only hint of colour on her was the pink inside her ears, her nostrils, and her inner labia, bulging outwards between her legs. The shaman was impressed – it must take an almost supernatural endurance to remain so calm and collected with the head of a foal trying to force its way out from the inside. He made a mental note to grill her on meditative techniques once this was over.

	“Do you remember,” Elya began in a calm, measured voice, “Last time we met?”

	Dhryn was silent, hoping she would continue. He couldn't possibly remember each and every Zebrakin he was introduced to, and even though he was loathe to admit it, he had a rough time telling them apart. He knew each pattern of stripes was unique, but it was like trying to read foreign script: it all looked the same and blurred together.

	“I was the one who fell down the ravine,” she smiled coyly, possibly sensing the gnoll's reluctance to answer. Instantly, his face brightened.

	“I found you crumpled at the bottom,” he replied, the memory returning quickly.

	“I rolled my ankle and fell flat on my front.”

	“You were pregnant then, too. The impact broke your waters.”

	“I thought for sure the foal was dead. The pain was coming on much too soon, I wasn't ready . . .”

	“But I sat you up and splinted your leg with a tree branch-”

	“. . .  and you practically dragged me up the ravine, telling me how to breathe properly so could save my strength for later. I thought for sure I was going to crush you under my weight when I slipped a second time!”

	“You nearly did.”

	“But I didn't, and we managed to make it back to the camp, where you gave me some sort of tonic.”

	“Elixer,” Dhryn corrected, “To keep the foal from coming until it was time.”

	“But it didn't work. The foal was already coming.”

	“I didn't give you enough. Your body was more resistant to the medicine than I expected, but I couldn't give you more without it being dangerous.”

	“So you made a choice. You sat me down, in this very hovel, and you told me to push the foal out.”

	“It happened much too fast. The baby colt was so small and limp . . .”

	“I thought for sure the fall had killed it. But you didn't give up.”

	“I puffed into his nose, pushed against his chest for what felt like forever.”

	“And after an eternity he finally coughed-”

	“-before kicking me in the chin.”

	Elya giggled, although it sounded more like a throaty bray. “You'll be glad to know he hasn't lost that attitude,” she replied, “He's a yearling now, constantly picking fights with stallions twice his size.”

	“Uppity little maverick,” the gnoll replied, hoping the equine wouldn't take offence to the term.

	“Indeed,” she agreed after a brief pause to breathe. Dhryn could see the muscles around her gut clenching down, and the peek of pink between her thighs increase slightly in size. Her foal had to be right there, grounded deep in her pelvis. And still, she didn't cry out. It was such a change from last time, where she was pleading and braying and screaming for mercy. 

	“But I'm not here for him,” she continued, “I'm here . . .” The zebra winced, pausing in her speech before taking several deep, short breaths, flaring her nostrils each time. She was almost panting like a dog. She held up a hand, letting Dhryn know she was still alright. “Forgive me, shaman, it's becoming harder and harder to concentrate. I'm here because you told me that I owe you something in return for his life. And because my herd is crossing the Great River soon, I may not get another chance to repay you.”

	Dhryn nodded. “I'm impressed that you came back at all,” he replied curtly, “especially in your condition. And how you can be so utterly silent is beyond me.”

	“Taboo,” she replied curtly, “It would be shameful to sshow ss-ssuch painnnn!” Her teeth clenched and her gut visibly clenched, almost tight enough to frame the foal inside. She resumed panting quickly until the contraction passed just over a minute later. “Before I become unable to speak,” she grunted hastily, “The foal I carry belongs to you. A life for a life.”

	“Unconditionally?” the gnoll asked, apparently sternly enough that the mare didn't care to argue. 

	“Unconditionally,” she replied. “I prey for its safety, but that's all I can do.”

	Dhryn nodded. “Both of you are in good hands,” he replied, “No harm will come to it.” Elya visibly relaxed, letting out a long snort. Dhryn wasn't sure whether his words had a calming effect, or whether she was just taking a moment to wind down after the release of another contraction. “Is there a position that would be more comfortable for you?” he asked, his eyes still fixated between her legs.

	“With only two of us, I'm not sure,” she replied quickly, knowing she couldn't speak for long. “Normally the stallion holds his mate in a deep squat. There might be another mare to catch the foal, but not always.” 

	Dhryn knew he didn't want 'his' foal to hit the ground. He also knew he wouldn't be able to manage the foaling from the front. He needed to be behind her. “It might be easier on your hands and knees,” he offered, “There's nothing in here sturdy enough to lean on, and I need to be behind you.”

	Elya slowly obeyed, leaning forward until she was almost close enough to kiss him before she leaned her head down, stuck out her rear, and swished her tail. “Hurry,” she bleated quickly. But by the time the equine had finished speaking, Dhryn was already behind her, his hands poised between her legs. 

	“Now push,” he commanded again, “Let us see what you have brought me.” The gnoll was expecting the mare to finally go wild, grunting and snorting and braying now that she had 'permission' to foal, but he was rewarded instead with only frustrating silence. Still, he could not deny the equine's strength. The head of the foal pressed against her bulging nethers and then was forcefully shoved out into the dim light of the wigwam before the slippery, dark lips seemed to swallow the foal's nose back up. “Breathe,” the gnoll reminded her, “And try again.”

	Elya took several deep breaths, as ordered. Her rear bobbed up and down gently with each filling of her lungs, and her tail flicked around, the long hairs sticking to her sweaty flanks. Dhryn tried to pull it back, to the side, anywhere but in front of her birth canal, but that just seemed to irritate her even more. By the time the next contraction surged through Elya's body, the gnoll had given up trying to position her to his liking. She leaned forwards and held her breath, arching her back and hiking her rear into the air so far that Dhryn had to lean back to avoid getting swished with her wiry tail. He pushed it to the side with an elbow, keeping his hands close to her groin to keep the foal's narrow head from slipping back inside.

	It was a good thing he was prepared. Elya's facade silence hid the primal power of an entirely different beast. Without warning, the head of the foal plowed through her lower lips up to its brow. Elya took a deep breath and he head pushed out even further, up to the point where its bony cheeks caught against Elya's pelvis and held it from slipping back inside. And it wasn't stopping. Elya's thick legs quivered as the foal's shoulders pressed against her hips. Dhryn cupped his hands around the foal's head to try and turn it, and felt the umbilical cord around the foal's neck.

	“Woah, stop,” he warned. Elya ignored him. “Stop pushing!” he barked, frantically trying to loosen the cord while the little zebra corkscrewed in his grip. “Stop, Stop!” he demanded,  holding the shoulders back so the cord couldn't tighten. It was like a tug of war, only backwards. Elya was trying her hardest to push the foal out, and Dhryn was trying just as hard to keep it in. 

	Slipping the cord around the head of a gnoll pup was difficult, but doable. Trying to unravel it from an equine's long muzzle was next to impossible. That left with with two options. He could try and loosen the cord and pull the foal 'through' the loop, or he could cut the cord, cutting off the foal's oxygen until it could breathe on its own. He didn't have time to choose, and it was the simple fact that he couldn't reach his tools that made his decision for him. He hooked his fingers between the cord and the neck, feeling a good, strong pulse in both. He tugged a little, and the cord yielded just as the foal's shoulders slipped out, and the entire body literally squirted into the gnoll's arms, face-up and with enough force that its skinny little legs shot up to its chest, revealing the little colt in all his miniature, masculine glory. The umbilical cord had slithered down around his matted body to loop around his hoofed feet – had he swam through it on his own, it would have knotted for sure. There was a moment of silence before Elya let out a bestial huff of exhaustion and her newborn son clenched his arms and legs to his chest and let out a lusty screech.

	“It's over,” Dhryn warmly, “Take a rest. Breathe. You're finished.” Elya slowly began to turn around, careful not to overexert herself, before the gnoll placed a warning hand on her shoulder.

	“Eyes closed,” he commanded. “If I let you see it, you might get attached.” Elya paused but closed her eyes all the same. “And hands behind your back,” he added, “I don't want you laying hands on my gift. You can grant the foal its first meal, but after that it belongs to me. I'll have one of the females take on the task of wet-nursing, don't worry.

	Elya obliged with a soft smile, rolling gently onto her back and holding her arms flat against the ground. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back, almost as if she was going to sleep. Dhryn lowered the still-crying colt down against his mother's skin and watched him crawl up her chest until he found what he was looking for. Dhryn took the opportunity while the mare's eyes were averted to unclasp his loincloth and use the tanned hide to rub the foal down, keeping him from getting too cold. If Elya saw, she didn't react.

	The three of them must have stayed in that exact spot for almost an hour. The placenta slid out after a few long minutes, and only then did Dhryn slice through the cord with his obsidian dagger a few inches from the colt's belly. Elya rested and gathered her strength. The little newborn fed eagerly before falling asleep, and Dhryn merely watched, studying every little detail of the foal's body and how mother and child almost seemed to blend into one singular entity. He looked for some sort of unique, tell-tale mark somewhere on his body to tell him apart from the others. It was Elya who broke his focus. 

	“I need to leave before dusk,” she stated plainly. Dhryn took the hint and gently scooped the child into his arms. He was definitely on the heavier side, as equines were, but he was all limbs. In Dhryn's experience, equines weren't born with the same cushion of baby fat that protected the gnoll-cubs. Elya rose slowly, first into a crouch and then finally to her full height, where the top of her mane again brushed against the ceiling of the small, primitive dwelling. She hadn't yet opened her eyes. Dhryn took a large pelt from the sleeping area and wrapped it around himself like a robe, closing the foal inside to protect it from view as she finally blinked her eyes and looked around.

	“Your debt is paid,” Dhryn declared, “May the Great Mother smile upon you and your herd.”

	“And may the Blessed Wind be at your back, shaman Dhryn,” she replied with a curtsy and a flick of her tail as she turned. “By the way,” she added, “His name is Eden.”

	“You peeked,” Dhryn accused through a furrowed brow. Elya only answered with a wink before letting the hide flap of the wigwam fall behind her.
