T'was a cold night, so dark and foul it threatened to suffocate the soul. The Silver Goddess had not yet risen from her sleep. The Silver One's favored, Misty Dawn, her old bones protesting against such abuse, shambled wearily along the rutted trail, alone as always. She wanted to be at the village market early. This was when the best offerings of the marketers were normally laid out before them.
Though old and tired the woman possessed an ethereal beauty. Withered and battered by time and excess, her body ached to the marrow of her bones; there were times when only her trusty staff maintained her equilibrium and kept her aright. The elder local folk called crone and eccentric, some quietly referred to her as "The Witch," sensed, no, she felt, there was someone, or some thing, following close on her heels. Behind her, as she shuffled slowly through the new-fallen snow, that some one, or thing, was watching her every move very closely. The one who dared this, actually stalking her, smelt of the realm most evil. The old one worried naught. Long eon ago she had fully accepted her fate and she was always ready to die. If Silver Goddess willed this be her time, then she was ready to face Chiron boldly, head up and staff in hand. Death was not to be feared. Death was her friend, her ally. She would welcome his eternal embrace. Athe thought, on wings of a wind most chill, snow flurried about her frailty. This caused her frayed cloak to billow in an ominous portent of this event yet to be seen.
Without warning, destiny was suddenly standing there on the frozen path in front of her. Lifting her staff in a manner to ward the danger away, the elder prepared herself. The Dawn of the Mist's future was swift in its approach, so swift it came to her in a blur. A soft gasp escaped her. Frail strength gave way to overwhelming power. The staff was ripped from her gnarled fingers
In less than two heartbeats the beast most foul held her creaking bones in a cold death grip. With a quick flick of his head in a sweeping motion, her throat was bared, made vulnerable to fang and claw. The aged one, long and long a priestess of the Silver One, was held firm in this powerful creature's arms, scrawny neck exposed. The dark beast's head dipped. "Fear me, Old one. You are soon to meet Death!"
The old one gasped as he bit her carotid, hard. The ancient one groaned, "You are ever the fool, Dark One," she gasped. "This lowly one is ready to greet Death, as always. Death is an old and dear friend. Nay. Death but opens the door to resurrection."
"Fhaah! An old hag! If not so by a strange hunger, I'd have waited, for the young maid of the flock. The lass, sweet-tasting I am sure, is due soon along this way."
"Have at me, Beast of the Night and my curse upon you for the doing."
"Greet then your maker, Crone. Thy time here is done!"
'Tis far better me than that sweet child."
"An age it will take to rid my mouth of your foul flavor," the vile werecreature snarled, the ancient one's blood dripping from his fangs.
"Not so long as you may think," the old one whispered as the night beast ripped at her flesh, devouring the final spark of life from the husk of her arthritic-bent body.