“The last minutes before dawn. A whitish haze of fog curls over a narrow river. The flaming rays of the sun appear from behind the hill. DMITRY, about thirty years old, appears on the hill, obscuring the sun. The tails of a monastic, well-worn cassock are tucked into his belt. Over the shoulder - a bag. There is a heavy staff in his hand. Dmitry looks around and runs down the hill. He runs along the river bank, his muscular legs barely touching the ground. Stops. He crouches and examines the wet ground. On the ground there is a huge imprint of a clawed paw. A little further away there are drops of frozen blood. Dmitry examines the print, touches the blood, looks around and listens. Then he deftly gets up and easily, playfully, runs up the path into the forest...”