She kept moving -- she had awaited night's descent and when it came she fluttered into the darkness like a specter unleashed -- fierce yellow eyes as round and illuminant as the distant moon.

Now her hunger could be ignored no longer -- it overtook her in the manner of a accursed shade, raw and feral. Slithering forwards in the bent tussocks where the snow sheathed her approach the wretch planted herself downwards, crawling on her stomach. Out in the fen a singular doe, irradiated by moonlight, grazed quiet.

She watched, bent to the cold ground -- her fur dusted with snow. The doe remained watchful, a slender pipe-like ear swerving as it looked about. Caiaphas' breath froze -- she watched wide-eyed and unwilling as the doe stood still and then swung its willowy frame sideways and bounded headlong into the snowdrifted rushes.

Caiaphas cursed her luck heavily -- her hateful gaze cast about to bescry the source of her dinner's sudden disappearance. And then she saw it -- this stupid, mangy cur red of fur with a woefully abruptly shaped muzzle. Prepared to spew bile upon this unknown deliquent, she rose. She would have continued her bristling approach were it not for the sundry scents that assailed her nostrils -- this little cur was not alone.

The headstrong lass, usually contorted by her own impulsion, was at a loss. This was not a wolf -- it was not even a coyote -- and as she inspected its twitching frame, something seemed incredibly off about the animal.

The spasms did not alarm her -- not even the ripple of snickers beset on his wretched head bothered her -- what alarmed her most was the strangeness that embodied him -- as if some malign star kept him. This was not the benevolent work of the gods, nor was it the wrought fiber of the wilderness. Something had bent and sharpened and dulled this creature.

She did not want to advance any further, but curiosity compelled her. "What are you doing?" She inquired, standing a distance away as if afraid he carried some sort of malaise.

For all she knew, he did.

The shudders that seized his body were not unlike Cthulhu's, who Caiaphas assumed had succumbed to the fierce will of the wild. As he staggered forwards the thickness of her winter coat doubled, hackles stiff and raised as she watched him with suspicion in her hawk-yellow eyes.

He smelled strange, but not sick -- Caiaphas had all assortment of inquiries to press unto him, none of which found assignment on her slack tongue. She arched her back, her tail raised -- for a moment, the wretch looked like a phantom cat skeletal and sleek with menace. "Dog?" She hissed, the diction strange on her tongue -- "You're a funny looking wolf."