Claps of thunder rattle the windowpanes of every house in Dwyerym, unhinging the nerves of most. Fences are ripped from land in the fists of loathing wind, crops drowning from lashes of rain. Those who are fortunate drink their worries away in the local tavern while the anxious pray at their bedsides. Children cry between searing flashes of light, raising monsters from shadows inside their nurseries.

In a barn, a Doctor’s wife is on her back. She screams for mercy into the arms of her Mother, the cycle of life feeling most unnatural to her as her body births her first child, exhausting her sanity. Her Mother hushes her in gentle tones, rocking her as if she is still a bairn herself.

Hours pass as the Doctor’s wife sobs, her body pushed to its limits. Her husband checks in on her once an hour, commuting between said barn and the tavern. His friends drinking to the impending birth of his first born. He stumbles into the barn and winces at the high pitch wailing of his love. She looks awful and he’s glad he’s drunk so he won’t recall much tomorrow. He drops to his knees by her ankles.

“She’s in so much pain,” the Mother says. “I cannot soothe her at all.” The Doctor grumbles something incoherent and checks to see if all is as should be. He’s delighted to see the head of his child is crowning.

“Soon,” he tells his wife and pats her knees which are stationed like alps, tight with unbearable pain. He tries to coach her through childbirth though now his wife is barely coherent enough to hear, let alone understand. The whimpers of their child are mute but the baby squirms as babies do. The Doctor holds the bloodied child to his chest, cheerful for its health though disappointed with its sex. They would have to try again.

He hands the newborn girl to its Grandmother and tends to the umbilical cord. As he severs the tissue between Mother and child, the doors to the barn blow open and his wife’s head drops. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the bleak weather outside, a hooded figure creeps in. The Doctor turns to said figure.

“Tell the tavern we have a girl,” he says, forcing a smile despite his discomfort. The stranger is certainly odd.

“I smelled the blood,” the stranger replies and as the Doctor processes this meaning, the stranger zips forward to loom over the immobile Mother whose eyes are vacant of life. The Doctor then notices her stillness. He touches her knee.

“Rosie?” He asks, sobering. The stranger pushes him to the floor, red eyes trained on the distressed infant. Rosie’s Mother pulls away and the stranger chuckles.

“A child born of stormy death,” he murmurs and snatches the baby. “A perfect sacrifice for Him, so very perfect. So it is foretold. And when the child of angry elements bleeds the night of its sixteenth year, an ancient evil awakens.”