Sometimes, when the ravens cry loud and angry in the dark sky, you can see a dim shadow under the evil looking trees. You wouldn't go near it, no. Some ancient fear forbids you, so you go, go back to your safe little home with cold electric lights and don't think about it. But in the morning there's a fading memory of blank birdeyes staring you angrily in your dream. This is her. The Ravenwoman, the Ravenqueen, the Ravengodess. There's no human word for her. She is the image of their rage, blind powerless hate against mankind. Those twolegged malformed creatures, who carelessly destroy everything the birds see as their own. And for a reason. Because in their simple minds lies a memory of times when there were no cities, no cars, no smoking chimneys, no dead plains nor memories of thousands of nymphs bewailing their beloved trees. Memories of the times without humans. So from their rage, she was bourn. And under the dark sky where stars unsuccessfully fight their way through the poisonous clouds, she stands, looking at shadows hurrying by and crying silver tears, for she knows the future of the Earth.