Moira wandered along the rocky ridge that marked the edge of the downs, demarcating the place where her family had kept a farm for as far back as anyone could remember. There had always been Larabe's along Loch Lyra and there always would be. Just as there had always been sheep on the broad, grassy downs that stretched from the edge of the loch to this rocky ridge that was the last whisper of the far away mountains. She turned her head and looked north at the high, white-capped peaks that looked an easy walk away. But she knew, from when she was a girl, that once you crested the top of that first hill that the foothills stretched out forever like a thorny blanket tossed down upon the land. Her tail of long red hair streamed in the wind and her simple dress flapped as the breeze carried the scents of the loch out toward the mountains. She could tell that a storm was coming and she would have to get away home as fast as she could if she didn't want to be caught out in the storm. But she had come looking for a lost ram and duty and generations of shepherding wouldn't let her turn her steps back toward the house. She moved along the ridge and toward a patch of rocky torland that lay ahead. She had retrieved sheep from among the stones there before and she knew that that was most likely where the missing ram had gone. Why they were drawn to that place where no food grew, where there was little shelter and a sheep could perish in just a few hours she did not know, but every fortnight of so she or one of her brothers would have to come and guide the lost animal back home.
She rounded a boulder and the tan and gray stone columns stretched out before her. As the wind died down she could hear a distant panicked bleating and with a sigh she unwound the sling from around her wrist and then bent to snatch up some small stones that would be suitable for casting. She could take a hare running through grass, but her eldest brother, Sean, could take a bird on the wing. A sling was a simple weapon that any child in this part of the world learned how to use soon after they could walk. A well slung stone could chase away the long-tailed hunting cats that sometimes came out of the hills in search of food and even ward away a lone wolf. And Moira was mostly worried about the træg, the large weasel-like predators that seemed abundant this time of year. Not much larger than a house cat, a træg alone was a danger to few aside from a carelessly attended babe. But a nest of them could and sometimes did bring down sheep or even the occasional shepherd. But she knew to look for their spoor and avoid them, and she wasn't afraid of them.
She walked quickly among the stones, past places where the tors had been quarried to glean rock for fences and homes for hundreds of years. Her sturdy boots crunching among the sharp castoff of the old quarries and the gravel and rock chips slipped under the stiff leather. She could feel how sharp some of them were and she was grateful for the sturdy footwear. She passed a pair of columns and the momentary shadow turned nearly pitch black as the fast running storm clouds covered the sun. She heard a terrified bleating up ahead, echoing strangely among the rocks and a moment later it was drowned in an ocean of thunder, making her start and crouch protectively in against herself. She should have turned for home as soon as she saw the dark clouds, and now she would be caught in the storm. She moved a little faster, still seeking the lost ram and as the first of the rain started to torrent down she espied a cave as a bolt of lightning sizzled overhead followed quickly by a blast of thunder that must have been the voice of some angry god. Moira almost ran into the shelter, the rain like a curtain now, soaking her to her skin and swirling around her ankles to flood her boots. As soon as she stepped into the cave the din of the storm lessened and Moira stopped, relieved for the shelter but wary as well. There was something about this cave and as the wind died down, the scent of something animal reached her nose. There was a feral, dangerous quality to the scent and the hair on her neck prickled as she looked around in the still darkness.
Another bolt of silver-blue lightning illumined the cave for a moment and she saw that it was deep, far deeper than it had looked, far deeper than she thought it was possible for a cave to be in this area. As the darkness descended again she gingerly felt her way forward and the hungry, animal smell got stronger. Her fingers, trailing on the wall, encountered a wetness and she thought perhaps there was a trickle of water in the cave until another flash of lightning lit the cave and she froze as she saw the blood painted across the floor and wall of the cave. Her heart was hammering and she thought about turning back out into the storm. Some predator lived here and she had no desire to find out what kind. A she-wolf with pups would protect her nest fiercely and a family of hunting cats was more dangerous still. She began to back away when a voice from the darkness ahead froze her in her tracks. It was deep and rich and masculine, as if from a man with a great barrel chest and Moira was unable to force her feet onwards for the power that the voice carried.
"What is this I smell within my home?" Came the words from ahead of her and Moira felt a hot tear escape her to run down her cheeks. "I know this smell..." Said the voice and Moira heard a deep snuffling, as if some great animal nearby. "Yes... this is the smell of a maiden, freshly washed by the rain."
Again came the snuffling sound, from much closer and Moira felt a warmth against her front as the stink of whatever called the cave home drew closer. There was a strong masculinity to the scent, as of an unwashed labourer, sweat and dirt and the maleness of his musk. It was overpowering, revolting and at the same time somehow intoxicating. She found herself gulping for air as a shape began to take form in the darkness. At first it was merely a darker shape against the black of the cave, but as her eyes began to adjust she saw the size and rough shape of it and her heart hammered in dread.
"Fear..." It spoke again, and Moira felt an almost tender caress against her cheek. "Such dread and terror from one so lovely. You have nothing to fear from me, tender maiden. I've sated my hunger for flesh on tender mutton, a strong ram driven to me by yon storm. No, my hunger now is for something... different... indeed."
The tender caress on her cheek moved down and she felt it pass her arm and then down until there was no touch remaining. But still the presence of the speaker was close, so close she could feel the warmth of him, so close that she was bathed in the hungry animal stink of him and something within her twisted and turned at the scent. It was a feeling like nausea, but different, lower down and more primal, instinctual. She gasped for breath and when the voce bade her to follow, she couldn't resist. For a long time she walked after the speaker, unable to make herself stop, unable to make herself speak or disobey in the slightest. It felt like an hour passed and suddenly she rounded a corner within the cave and there was smoky, guttering torchlight in a huge cavern. She looked around, there at the entrance, and her heart hammered in her breast at what she saw. Hanging from the ceiling, appending from roots and creepers were all manner of decorations. There were crystal glasses and polished stones, bits of horn and bone, the skull of a hart and another of a ram, still gory and wet with blood. There were dried butterfly wings and here and there she could see braids of long hair in all different colours. The floor was strewn with hides and pelts from many different animals and among the soft wools and furs were cast dozens of twinkling jewels and gems, nuggets of gold and silver and brass. The walls were hung with more pelts and dozens of torches and candles lit the space.
But it was the body of her host that drew her eyes. He was lounging already on a pile of furs, mink and marten, sable and hare. He was huge, taller than any man she had ever seen yet no man was he, though there was no mistake that he was male, for his great turgid member was bare and visible, shining with sweat and as she looked at it she felt that clench down in her core, below her stomach once again. He had legs like a goat, back-bent knees and cloven hooves, a dark mat of fur covered his legs and his obscenely bared manhood nestled among another, darker nest. His chest was broad and powerful and his head was crowned with a great rack of antlers above a thick mane like none she had ever seen before. His arms were overlong for his body and his hands were broad and strong, tipped with wicked looking nails. His face looked human enough, though his eyes were yellow where a man's were white and his pupils were slit like those of a cat with irises that gleamed emerald and gold in the ruddy light. He was smiling and through that smile she could see his wolf-like teeth and smell his breath, which stank of blood and meat. She had heard tales of the fauns that had once danced among the ancient stones that were erected at the shores of the loch, but this was no faun, for he was at least eight feet tall and as powerful as any creature she had ever seen.
"What is your name, maiden fair?" He asked and she faltered for a moment, but could not stop herself from speaking.
