Midnight came quickly, the skies the blackest anyone had seen in a long time, the brilliant stars concealed by angry clouds, choked out of existence by billowing smoke that rose in a thick column from a bonfire burning in a field miles away from civilization. On this night the air was laden with the stench of death. Those who did live near by, country folk residing in small, ramshackle homes with leaking roofs, will claim to this day that they could smell death-even taste it. None ventured out, too terrified by how the earth seemed to tremble with sinister intent. They all knew something unnatural was taking place and wanted nothing to do with it.

It was in that field, with the massive fire burning away like Hell itself, that a woman stood tied to a post, her elegant face pale and streaked with tears, her wild blue eyes watching the eight cloaked figures circling the fire slowly as they chanted, their faces hid in the shadows of their sagging hoods. They were death. More specifically-they were her death. But she had known from the moment she had married, from the moment that marriage was consummated and she had become pregnant that this day would come just as it had come for her mother, her mother's mother, and every mother before - a family curse forced upon them for centuries that was no longer understood. Part of her had dared to hope, had dared to dream of a life that was normal. She should have known better. Now she was paying for her foolishness.

Her husband, a handsome man in his mid 30's with chiseled features, broad shoulders and laughing hazel eyes was no more, killed mercilessly by the figures now chanting to the fire before her. She would soon join him, but that thought gave her no pleasure for she was leaving behind the one thing she cherished most next to the man she had loved. Her eyes darted to a raised dais built crudely out of wood and a keening moan escaped her lips. God, her daughter. The one small life that would come out of this horrible night. The one small life she would never hold, never rock to sleep, never kiss the downy hair that covered her small head ever again.

Fresh tears stung her eyes and rushed to join the others on her cheeks. She had to hold it together. She would not die this way! She was no coward and although that one part of her had dared to hope for something different, there was the logical part of her that had started to prepare for this day with the determination of a military sergeant. If she was going to die then it would be on her terms, giving no satisfaction to those who snuffed her life out.

Suddenly the chanting stopped and six of the men moved towards her. They looked like ghosts shrouded in black sheets, floating rather then walking across the ground to her. She did not struggle. She did not cry out. She merely waited for her fate.

Two of the other men picked up carved bowls from the ground next to the dais and moved in position behind the others, their heads bowed low. A slicing noise cut into the air as a blade was pulled from the folds of one of the mans robes. He held it up and very softly the chanting started once again.

The woman glared at the men with pure hatred. Her lips moved and an incantation spilled from her mouth, the words pouring out, one on top of another in her haste. She would leave her mark upon this world and she would leave it with her daughter, making her far more superior in strength then she had ever been. Maybe then she would have a chance; she would be able to live without fear.

Too involved in the task at hand, the cloaked men did not notice the light that flashed briefly around the infant; they did not notice the sadistic smile that curved the mother's lips as she faced them. And when the time came they did not notice that the mother's smile remained, fixed on her face, giving her a somewhat peaceful expressing despite the fact that she had been run through with the lethal blade and was now dying.

As the last breath left her, shuddering from her lungs in a futile protest, the two men with the bowls collected her blood. It would be needed to mark the child, to pass on the curse of the mother to her child. It was marked with her mother's life force. She screamed the entire time, shrill wails that rose up into the night striking fear into even the cruelest beasts of the surrounding forests. That night, when the skies were as dark as they had ever been and the stench of death clung to everything, Cailleach Bas was reborn.

Halfway around the world where the skies were pristine blue and people walked the streets of New York City, unaware of the horrors that were taking place, four pet turtles were released from their captivity when their young keeper was pushed by a man and accidentally dropped the large glass jar he was carrying them in. They were swept down the street and into the sewers, landing unceremoniously in a puddle of glowing green goo that would later be found out to be a very strong and unique mutagen.

They didn't know it then, but their fate tied directly to the child's. She would need them to break free of the mystical bonds that tied her to the mistakes of her ancestors. They would be her salvation.