Bearclaw Valley echoes of the past

rolled a 13

sweet child, sweet child, let there be a feast upon your flesh. let blood overflow cups of liquor and drunkenness seep within.

if this place was of her dreams, he would turn it to a nightmare.

he prowled in the looming distance, the snap of a twig set off as teasing bait. run, hide, pray, cry, fight. he would have her, and would savor every delectable bite.

the cry of a fox bled into the distance as the beast took a hateful step forward, hellfire gaze locked upon youthful bones.