Babh waited under the black branches of the dead oak. She preened her dark feathers in satisfaction at the fear she sensed from the forest denizens. In the shadows of the night, all that could be seen of her were her eyes, glowing flame red.
The harvest moon rose high above the castle she watched, bathing its white towers in soft light. Her claws curled, scraping unpleasantly against the stone upon which she perched. The light would save no one tonight. Soon, her sisters would return and her vigil would end.
As she gleefully imagined the coming reunion, the mist rose from the river below. Thick, like the hated smoke from the castle kitchens, it billowed up the sides of the mountain. When it reached the causeway, her sisters would call, and she would answer.
Macha and Anann appeared black against the mist, their wings morphing into long arms tipped with bloodred nails, dark hair flying around pale faces in the windless night. Babh spread her own wings and rose into the moonlight, her screech of joy freezing the blood of the humans awaiting their fate.
She heard their cries, tasted their terror, as her feathers lengthened and knit together, her power calling the mist to her as a great dragon covering her victims with its mighty wings. She opened her mouth as her sisters strode purposefully to the gate, their hands outstretched for blood. Her bain sidh wail echoed from the walls and shattered the gates.
The mist shattered with them, and an army of shadows descended upon the one who despised the Mor-Rhiogain. Driven by the bain sidh, the dead would collect, unhindered by sword or spear. Babh would have her revenge, and her sisters would feast upon the blood.
The Mor-Rhiogain had returned.
The Word Worker 
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