Barrow Fields und sahn sich nur noch zuweilen im Traum;

my mother told me stories. gaze remains steadily on him, even as foreign words slip from his maw. she thinks on them, but they fail to conjure up any memories. his question does not receive a reply, as is typical, but after a long moment does she gather breath in her lungs, and then, "tell me. of Volfbane." the words are low, hoarse, and yet more than any other has managed to draw from her thus far. 

eyelids glide over coal-dark eyes that do not shift from the ruined face, the raven perched with eery stillness on her barrow.