Barrow Fields und sahn sich nur noch zuweilen im Traum;

perched on the barrow, the wolf faces the sea. she draws breath; there, dancing, almost, is the same scent as was embedded in the coat of the girl she'd walked with, through the mirrored floodplain. soon, she will follow it -- but first she will remain here, in this field that should not be. there are old stories buried here, she can feel it, in the cut of the air, in the gentle prickle against her spine. 

above, dark wings cut through shifting thermals, circling, waiting, veering back toward the ridge. she is not dead yet. 

but how akin to prey she feels! something alien stalked this place once, she knows it. under the veil of night, she imagines the barrows have eyes. she wraith shifts a fraction, adjusting her limbs beneath her before falling completely, eerily still once again. she revels in the feeling, the gentle warping of the mundane, and so is content to perch here, a statue.