A full moon rising, this night has been set aside for those whose thoughts turn to darkness....


     A murder of crows sit upon the tree branches, silent as the grave, with eyes glowing red. And it seems as though, indeed, something wicked this way comes. The time approaches with infinitesmal passage and yet with a haste once feared and resisted. The very air seems full of electricity and foreboding. Tonight is the anniversary of the death of a girl, one who cried out for help, yet was ignored. A girl who, one hundred years ago this very night was taken from her home and used for the sport of soldiers come victorious from another land, and cared not for who they hurt. Her cries ignored by her own townsfolk, afraid for their own lives. Better her, they thought, than they themselves or one of theirs, and when the drunken soldiers had finished with her, they left her for dead on that chill All Hallows Eve and went back to their drink and ill-gotten gains.
     But this poor, brave girl was not dead, although she wished it now, so taking a snoring soldiers dagger from its sheath she began to walk down the road away from the town. This town where she was born, and had lived her entire seventeen summers. Her face a mask, dagger held at her side, she took the path that led through the forest and into a moonlit meadow where she had come often before to sit and think of life and dream of how things might be for her in the future. But now the dreams are gone, cast away like chaff, and she reaches the stone in the center of the clearing.
     Her eyes begin to glow with a luminous, hellish light and as she climbs atop the stone she begins, softly at first, then louder an unintelligible chant which rises and falls on the gentle night wind. She grasps the blade, pulling it through her palm 'til the blood flows, and using her fingers begins to draw the ancient runes on the stone. Casting away her ruined dress, she now draws on her body, and finally, she lays down on the stone face up, the moon lighting the tracks of the tears down her cheeks. Another soft chant and then she raises the dagger and plunges it into her breast. Her body arches, and with both hands she twists the knife. A soft moan escapes her lips, and then with a gentle smile her hands release the dagger and fall, lifeless, to her sides and the light in her eyes slowly fades to black.
     The meadow is deathly silent, no wind or animal sounds to be heard, only the steady drip, drip, drip of the blood flowing from her body. And then the bright moonlight begins to fade as a cloud floats across, and then another and another until the sky is pitch black. The wind begins to rise, moaning ominously through the trees, a far-off rumble, then another, closer, and suddenly lightning crashes in the meadow, blinding in its intensity. In the afterglow the girls' body is gone, only the runes on the rock remain.
     The soldiers encampment is less than a mile away, those who had raided the tavern and terrorized the townsfolk having retrurned to sleep away their drunkenness and dream of more plunder and evil as their future paths dictate, the guards are losing their battle with sleep, even the horses are quiet, standing with their heads low.
 Then, as though all the hounds of Hell are at the door, the wraiths take their promised vengeance. Tents are shredded, man and beast alike are torn limb from limb, swords broken and armor crushed like tin until everything is but a gory wasteland where death and destruction is all that can be seen. Silently, the wraiths slip back into the forest from whence they came, and a short distance away a final bolt of lightning strikes the tavern, blowing it into a thousand flaming shards which light the other structures in the town....

     The rider examines the place in the early morning light for signs of survivors of what appeared to be a terrible fire, but he finds no one alive. Riding on, he comes to the encampment and in awe, sickened by the sight of utter destruction he spurs his horse on, and loses himself in a fugue. Waking, he finds his horse has stopped in a beautiful meadow near a large, flat rock in the center. The rock is still wet from the morning dew and he does not see the runes, but he spots the dagger and picks it up. Immediately a terrible vision invades his mind, he sees it all, and before he can drop the dagger it takes him, stealing his mind for its own, and the luminous light returns, now in his eyes. He shoves the dagger into his belt and turns his horse back in the direction of the main army column that he saw two days earlier fifty miles to the north...
     The stll-silent murder of crows watch him depart with their shining red eyes...