Her mother had been terrified of her from the moment the Mystic realized she was pregnant. The timing, it was all wrong. She'd been away for two months on her journey. She hadn't seen her stallion at all during that time. There was no way this pregnancy could be the result of anything... normal.
Memories of her encounter in the desert had been slow in coming back, what few did. The concussion did a number on her coordination for weeks following the incident. The stare of hostile red eyes had been imprinted on her mind, as had a flash of red claws... a shock of red spikes... but little else came to mind when she tried to remember what precisely happened. She rarely tried. Only at the behest of her stallion had she even attempted it. Could it... could she... possibly? The mare just didn't know.
When the foal was born, she knew.
Tiny red front hooves flailed as the little filly struggled to stand, gray eyes that matched her mother's looking around at a new world with innocent wonder. Four Mystics stared down at her in mute horror. A little abomination had just been born in their midst, the first of her kind that any of them had the misfortune to see in person. They had heard of such creatures, as stories told in warning by their Mystic parents in their original birth Songs, but they were so rare. And for good reason.
Could their Song never produce a normal foal? Were they cursed? Was there something in the water? First an Aboreal, then a Sa'grisayr, both obviously the children of the lead stallion. They had been fine, if strange and entirely unexpected. Lovely girls both.
But now... this.
Her dam began to have horrible nervous fits as she cared for the filly. There had been a very small debate over whether or not it should even be allowed to live, but none of them were entirely comfortable with ending the life of a helpless foal in cold blood, however much it should never have existed in the first place. Mystic of the Silent Jungle nursed the babe quietly, without complaint, but she began to look haggard and worn around the edges as she lost sleep. The stress and anxiety of her position made it impossible for her to find peace. Her dreams were nightmares, more often than not, suppressed flashes of memory that she could never properly recall in waking. It drove her to random fits of sobbing, or trembling, or numb and apathetic silence. Her Songmates worried, and blamed the foal. It was her fault for existing, even if she had done and could do nothing to change that fact.
Physically, the young Misery grew strong. She was provided with all the food, clean water, and shelter that a foal needed to stay healthy. If she was under their care then it was appropriate for the Song of the Quartered Dawn to actually care for her. They just didn't care about her. She received a chilly reception from all of the Mystics, especially the stallion who was not her sire. Having to endure the presence of a foal from one of his mares, a foal whose species was an affront to the natural order and who was not of his blood, it wore on the Song as a whole.
She was brought up to understand her place in the world in the eyes of these Mystics. She was an outsider from normal society and she could never hope to join it, merely exist within its borders as an unwelcome presence. She was not loved. Her dam showed her more sorrow than affection, and the others would not tolerate her to be near them for overlong. She grew up with shame and loneliness in her heart. As she approached adolescence, these feelings were joined by a bitter resentment. She was not an easy foal to raise.
So she had been born an abomination. What choice had she had in the matter? Why did they punish her with dislike and distaste and disinterest when she had done nothing to deserve these feelings except for being born? She had magics too! She had four legs, and two eyes, and two ears, and a tail... what made her so different from all of them besides the mane on her back? She would be the same if only that mane had been two long strands instead, but they would love her then, just like they had loved the strange foals she heard stories of! Her half-sister, born with weird hooks where her hooves should be and a monkey's tail, had been accepted with love by her dam. The bizarre beaked and taloned feathery thing had likewise been welcomed into their Song with confused joy. But not her.
They had Mystic Strands. She had a Back Mane. That was all the difference in the world. The strands made them beautiful, and the mane made her abhorrent. She could hardly stand it.
Misery left her birth Song at the equivalent of twelve years old, driven out by her own bitterness and the cold encouragement of the Song's members. Her dam had nothing to say to her when she announced her departure. The Mystic had turned her dull gray eyes to the ground and said absolutely nothing. No 'be safe'. No 'take care of yourself'. Not even a 'goodbye'. Just... nothing.
And so she left.
