Copyright 2003 (C) Robert Blezard.
The beast races through the night its eyes burning with amber hatred. It stalks the prey through the night, driven by passion and a lust for blood.
The trees of the Morrowwood pass by as nothing more than a wind of leaves and branches. It leaps and swerves through the mist and shadows of dusk.
At last it comes to the edge of the Valleywode and pauses just long enough to catch the scent of its prey. With teeth bared and a snarl the beast lunges down the valley rim.
It knows that the prey has gone to the Widdenloc to try to soak away its scent. But not even the water can hide the sweet smell of racing blood.
It nears the lake and slows to follow the trail more carefully. It can sense the prey, breathing heavy and shivering in the cold water.
The beast finds the prey hidden among the watertails, its eyes wide and fearful. It growls deep down within, hungry for the kill.
She is the perfect prey, flesh so soft and tender. It can smell the hot blood pounding through her veins.
And yet... it pauses unable to strike, something about her reminds it of what it once was. It howls with rage and torment, for it knows it cannot destroy her.
So perfect is her form and grace as she bolts away in fear. The beast, unable to follow, hangs its head in despair and pain.
The beast urges its starving frame along the shores of the Widdenloc. Its last hope for survival gone with the retreating mist.
It drags its hollow body upon a low stone and waits for the morn. It catches the first light of dawn off the Widdenloc in its eyes.
The beast knows that it has hunted the perfect prey. It knows that it has truly lived as it drifts away into the darkness.