<em>Prologue</em><br/><br/>The old man sniffs the northern wind, narrows his dark eyes, and frowns.  There is snow coming - lots of it -of this he is sure.  Snow, and a bad moon, for it is that time once again.  The moon is nothing new,  but this snow . . .he is an old man, and his bones are twigs in autumn; they ache already from the winter chill, and no longer leap through the drifts like they used to.<br/><br/>Still, there is a bad moon, and work to be done.<br/><br/>The old man licks his brown, cracked lips and squints at the eagle feather held aloft between his fingers.  Knees popping, he kneels and traces a circle in the snow at his feet.  He sings a song to himself softly, the song of futures not known, the song of things to come.  He sings to the feather and the snow circle.  Raising his head, he sings to the mountains, to the sky.<br/><br/>He must know.<br/><br/>The ritual is simple:  he sings the song twice more, then holds his arm out straight before him, and drops the feather.  If it lands in the circle, the Beast is coming once more, to feast by the light of the bad moon.  If not. . .it means that their prayers are being answered, and the Beast will pass them by once more.<br/><br/>The feather drifts slowly to the ground.  The old man smells the smoke a moment before he can place the odor.  By then, the eagle feather is firmly planted in the center of the circle.  It smolders another moment, then bursts into flame.<br/><br/>His eyes widen with surprise and fear, the old man jumps back from the burning feather.  This omen is not good.  Not good at all.  He must go, he must warn the others.  And he must hurry. . .<br/><br/>. . .For the snow is beginning to fall.