Lost Creek Hollow deep within the most sacred grove

It seemed all too fitting that on the eve of Samhain he would come crossing over distant mountains to rolling valleys. Arduous had been the trek thus far and the road had long left his paws weary and rough, but to say that he hadn't been left rough for some time would have been a stretch. Though the wounds had long healed and the coming winter adorned him with a plusher coat, he was far from looking the part of all right. In fact, he didn't even look like much more than a weathered scarecrow all skin stretched over stick thin trestle.

He had asked for a sign, and two ravens heralded him as he neared the recessed woodland. The pungent smell of fresh borders struck him first, gave him reason to pause. A careful test of the air did not reveal much to him other than the obvious any other could sense; one raven called from the canopy to be answered by the other, and his gaze flitted upward to question. Here? his thoughts inquired, only not to receive any answer. Like so many dreams he had ever had, such entities had never spoken before and why they would start now was beyond him.

Hesitantly, he decided to linger a beat longer before daring to travel the stretch of markings that wove along the thinning tendrils of timber. He heard the crow call again, this time the second one, and struggled to recall any warnings he knew of a pair. How did that go?

One for sorrow, two for mirth—and after that it became just as muddled to him as the jumble of days into weeks into months of things better left covered and kept out of prying eyes. His pointed muzzle hovered over the wilting grasses, passed over fading blooms that somehow still dared to cling on when the weather had turned so unfavorable. But so have you, came the whisper in time with the revelation of the creek, and his steps halted as he stopped at its edge.