For she was hardly a child, 18 winters old – 19 within the next full moon – and had the voluptuous body of a woman, not the slight frame of a mere girl. She sighed quietly to herself. Not a moment later, her hand slipped and she made a shallow cut in her finger. Immediately, she woke up.

It was still dark outside, yet a few more hours til dawn broke, a dangerous time to spill blood. She dropped the knife screeching at her Mama to give her a cloth to stay the bleeding. Her mother rushes to her, binding the cloth tightly, adding perfumed herbs between folds so as to try and disguise the sent of blood. The two are silent, staring at each other, fearing the worst may happen. They are tense, listening for any unusual noise – like the leathery flap of wings, too loud to be a mere bat. The exact sound that now pierced the silent house, the sound of it circling. A dull thud echoes as it hits the roof, scratching follows shortly; hard talons dragging on the solid boards even through the fresh layer of snow.