The beast was running in the night, its fleetfooted gallop racing past the hunters. Blood dripped from its fangs, and the cries of despair faded in the distance as it scurried away into the forest, away, deep into the darkness, into its hovel, the dry and dreary cave it called home. There, nestled among the bones, it curled in on itself and fell into a deathlike sleep.
And silently, so silently, the little boy followed, his bare feet making nary a sound in that dusty hole.
Into the fallen crypt he crept,
his dagger in his hand;
into the graves of many men,
he slipped under the land.
There was the beast what killed his friends,
it slept there at his feet.
There was the monster of the night
asleep in its retreat.
The dagger plunged into its neck
it squealed in its surprise.
The blood exploded from the wound
and in death’s throes it dies.
Tale Told 