Barrow Fields it's brains without hearts have set saint against sinner

The mist descends from a roost among a copse of oak and elm trees, creeping slowly but with purpose until the mounds come in to view. He had discovered them a day or so ago, in the twilight. The thought that these were grave markers must have been common, for he thought it too until he approached, inspected, and deemed them too small. Lest they were the graves of children - and at the time, the thought had sobered him.

Now as the ghost swept through the field, he inspected the mounds with passing glances and a probing nose. He did not realize he was not alone yet - the sky was overcast and grey, threatening a freezing rain at some point, so the mood was set and the scene was poorly lit. He drifted; in thought and in person, sliding from one barrow to the next, until he heard the drum beat. It was low and quiet and missing proper euphony, but it was there reverberating through the soil.

He turned, and was startled upon spying a red-cast creature not unlike a fox following in his footsteps.