Barrow Fields Let's go back, back to the beginning

She arrived in the midst of a storm. Rain pelted like waves, soaking her grey coat. 
She blinked, raised her muzzle, a silent observer of the combination of blessings and destructive power pouring from the sky. 
it was a blessing, she was certain, from a god she no longer remembered the name of, no longer was certain she believed in. 
Macaria slipped through the knolls, Hairs standing on end. This was a sacred place. She could feel it in her bones, feel the electricity crawl across her shoulders. Hear the whispers of spirits in her mind. 
She moved like a wraith, dark eyes forward, unsure of where the spirits were going to lead her. 
For now, the witch would revel in this sacred space.

It was as necessary a function as eating or drinking, or lifting his leg on a curious moss-covered rock. Ranging was part of the male's regular maintence, and as such, he thought nothing of setting out for the day to stretch his tawny legs.

Today, he trotted toward the sharp scent of the sea, brushy tail swinging in idle pleasure as he sniffed at the bay breeze. It was a beautiful day — though he feared it might rain — with spotty sun and fluffy white clouds dotting the sky. As soon as the great blue waters could be seen on the horizon, he slowed and took stock of his surroundings. Ahead of him, he could see the craggy headlands, complete with a menacing woods standing front and center. To his left were the mountains he had, as of yet, failed to cross. To his left were another, smaller set of rises; he was sure there was a forest just on the other side from which he had entered this stretch of wilderness.

And then, of course, there was the protected field he was standing in. Something about it had him slowing almost to a stop; a feeling that raised the ridge of fur on the back of his neck, and had him glancing often over his shoulder, as if one of the faeries or something worse might appear quite suddenly behind him.

Not that there was much to hide behind. The moorlands were empty except for vegetation, small game, and garden-variety hills that Kincaid was nonetheless compelled to investigate — first one, and then three more just to be sure. It was only on reaching the top of the fourth that he saw company up ahead. The male gave a low woof of greeting and stood his ground for a moment, lifting his head to test the breeze for the other's scent.

Cautiously, he came a little closer, raising his voice to speak over the low moan of the wind. "Queer place, ain't it?"

A voice lifts her from her thoughts, and she turns, eyeing the russet colored male, her dark eyes with their odd penetrating stare seeming to read his very soul. 
After a moment she sits at the top of the mound she was currently perched upon, cocking her head. 
"There is a unique energy here, yes." She hums softly, her voice sounding a bit like those eccentric women who read palms or tarot cards, and try to sound mystical. Not that a wolf would know what tarot cards or tea leaves or anything else of the sort are. "There are spirits here...of wolves, and things not wolves but almost." 
She flicks an ear again as though pestered by something whispering in it.

The woman's stare was quite unnerving. Kincaid felt the ridge of fur over his spine beginning to stiffen, but he showed only signs of wariness and not aggression as he drew closer still, and sat at the bottom of the hillock the woman had claimed. He'd assumed, at first, that she must be the one he'd felt watching him, but even facing her, Kincaid could feel eyes on the back of his head.

When she spoke of spirits, he turned to make sure there was no one sneaking up behind him, and then gave the woman his full attention after all. She'd piqued his interest with talk of ghosts and things not wolves; the rambler didn't necessarily put much stock in anything the woman was saying, but he loved a good story, and a good jump-scare to get his heart going.

"What kinds of things?" he asked her, squinting up at the witchy woman. "How do you know all that, anyway?" Tone testing, but not mocking.

The red wolf steps closer, made anxious by the spirits. 
She didn't blame him. They were known to be... unfriendly...to the living, at least the ones not trained in the arts of necromancy and witchcraft. 
She stares down at him, wise beyond her years, watching him intently. When he sits, childlike, before her, she closes her eyes, completely motionless before speaking. 
"I speak to things few others can see. I speak to the earth, to the spirits. The Ravens know me, and share their secrets..." She answered cryptically. One eye opens, peering down at him, laughter in her voice. 
"You do not believe. Come. I will tell you your past....and your future." 

Speak to your herb cache, more like, thought Kincaid, not quite kindly. But he had no quarrel with the woman, and didn't judge her if she did happen to rely a little too much on poppy or devil's bell. There were some days he didn't want to be sober with himself, that was for damn sure.

"It ain't that I don't believe in spirits, ma'am," he told her, easily obeying and approaching the strange woman on her little hill. Since she seemed to be in just as playful a mood, he added, "Anyway, ain't chu a little young t'be tellin' fortunes?" 

He stood before her either way, tail wagging peaceably at his hocks. "Whatchu need me t'do?" he asked, looking down at himself, and then back at her. Whatever other lived on the land was still peering at them, and he found himself thinking he ought to be kind to the stranger, just in case she was something eldritch or preternatural.

He objects at first, and she chuckles softly at his question. 
"I have been training since I could walk. My mother's milk was laced with herbs that allowed me to understand the spirits, until I could talk to them freely." 
Perhaps she was mad. But it was a pleasant madness. A comfortable madness. It gave her a sense of comfort and importance. 
"Look into my eyes." She stared deep into his own orbs, the spirits whispering, whispering, whispering. 
Finally, she broke the connection. 
"You have traveled a long way. From far to the north. A land of ice and sea. You were not always alone...you had a lover. One you deny even to yourself. You left him when he needed you most." She paused, watching closely for his reaction. 
"As for your future...I do not see fame or glory. Your importance will lie in the lives you touch, rather than the actions you perform. There is a lover, fated to die young, not of this world. The spirits know her too. Yes, they know her very well." 

Laced with — Aw, hell, thought Kincaid, preparing himself for a very strange encounter. Still, his sloe gaze was turned dilligently into the woman's almost equally dark stare. It felt as strange as ever to be making prolonged eye contact with a perfect stranger — perhaps even more so, since he still felt strongly that he was being watched.

The male's hackles began to rise once more when some of her points were uncannily accurate. He was from the north, and of course, she might've gleaned that just from his thick pelage. And didn't everyone have a lover? Perhaps she determined from his mien that he might be the sort to pick up and run — but on the word him he stiffened entirely, taking a quick step backward in his shock. While he wilted, inwardly, his demeanor grew more defensive.

"I have no lovers," he told her, and to him, this was a sort of truth. He had loves, but no lovers. He had desires, but he had not acted. Not really. "What do you mean he needs me?" he asked, his voice a little gentler. "And Leu — how can you know these things? What more can you tell me?"

This all had to be a trick. It would be just like Nine to send some poor girl all this way just to fuck with him. Just to get him back — I did this for you! he wanted to scream, as he was suddenly quite certain that he knew who had been watching them all this time.

Still, he waited for the woman to respond.

In her training, and since, she had come to expect certain reactions to her fortunes. Some denied it, though the spirits don't lie. Some grew angry, demanding to know who told her things, threatening harm if they weren't aappeased.Some wept, in shock or pain, and sought further council. At least one had ended his own life just days after. That spirit had haunted her for weeks, wailing and shrieking. 
So she blinked, unphased, at his outburst. 
"Not now. But you did. And you shall. You will be judged for it, and some will look at you in disgust. Pave your own path, and do not mind those who do not understand the boundlesness of love." 
More questions, and her eyes closed again, listening to the constant whispers. She grew as still as the mound she was perched upon, the rain beginning to relent. Finally, she spoke again. 
"I Know only what Spirits decide I should know. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes they tell me lies, but usually...not. This was no lie, or you wouldn't have been startled by it. I sense a tiredness...of the mind, the body, or both. An end of a journey. Two hearts that call to each other even across the veil.' She peered down at him, that eerie stare pointed. 
"You have a restlessness in your heart that nothing on this plane will appease. There is a damage that must be undone, and you cannot avoid what you are running from forever." 

All this was quite upsetting to Kincaid, even though he'd half convinced himself it must be some kind of trick. But Nine's scent was not on her pelt. Of course it wasn't; he was happy, a thousand miles behind him with his Mollie. And he hadn't chased Kin down, so of course he wouldn't send someone else to do it for him. No, if he'd wanted to find him, Nine would have come here himself.

So the woman knew things.

"Maybe them spirits is speakin' t'you," he said quietly, turning his face away to hide his shame, "but you ain't understandin'. I don't give a rat's ass what folk think of me — but that boy deserved more, and he got it. It don't matter no more that I'm damaged or restless, long as he's taken care of."

His heart thumped uncertainly. "He's still with Mollie, ain't he? He didn't — " Kincaid felt his stomach drop, and he was sure he'd soon be sick. "He ain't dead?"

What did across the veil mean? And was Eleuthera in danger?

"Ma'am, please. What all am I meant t'do, here?"

She shook her head, her body aching. It took a good deal of energy to cummune with the spirits in any sort of purposeful way. 
"Seek me out on the next full moon. But there will be change to this land before then. Lives lost. Homes destroyed. It's the rains....the rains always bring messages. Clear away the old, so new can grow." 

Kincaid wasn't sure if the woman wasn't making sense, or if he was just too dimwitted to understand what she was saying to him. Was it the rains that were destroying lives, or just bringing messages? Who had ever even heard of rain doing a thing like that?

But the male was shaken enough that he gave a reluctant nod. "Where will I find you? Here, or someplace else?" he asked.

And then, realizing he'd never introduced himself, "What do I call you, ma'am?"

She stood, lightly leaping down from atop the mound. With a wink, she turned to pad away into the downpour, looking over her shoulder at his question. 
"I am Macaria, the Blessed Death. And to find me, follow my ravens." With that she seemed to vanish from sight, dissapearing into the rain and mist.

The wink sealed the deal, for Kincaid. This woman had to be crazy, or pulling one over on him. How else could she say such awful things and turn away as if they'd just been discussing the weather? Or was she a powerful portent, sent to warn him from beyond the veil? Oh, Nine, he fretted. Eleuthera. Is there anything I can do right?

He did not try to follow her; it was clear to him that he would gain no further insight from her, now.