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

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?"