Morgantha the Night Hag stood on the precipice overlooking the valley and the flickering lights of distant Vallaki. If the steady drizzle bothered her, the ancient crone showed no sign of discomfort as her burning gaze surveyed the valley below, fixed on the walled village.
“Doubtless they think themselves safe” she muttered to herself. “Soon they will learn that Strahd is not the only power worthy of fear in this cursed land.” She hocked a gobbet of phlegm on the ground as she spoke the vampire’s name, as if daring him to hear and respond.
Morgantha was an ancient being, a denizen of the Shadowfell, and one of the few creatures in the land of Barovia who did not fear “The Devil” Strahd von Zarovich. She respected him and his power certainly, but the night hag feared no being living or dead.
Turning away from the overlook, she hobbled back towards the decrepit windmill the locals aptly referred to as “Old Bonegrinder” and made her way inside where her two younger sisters were grudgingly cleaning up the mess that the rude interlopers had left behind. She took it particularly personally that they had upended the barrel which held the viscous and vile fluid needed in what was to be her latest summoning ritual. How dare they! The audacity… well soon they would pay the price for their interference. Morgantha swore it on The Raven Queen and Mother Night. By the dark gods they would pay…
“Sisters” she cackled, “Put your backs into it… we’ve a ritual to prepare!”