Barrow Fields marked graves

Pelagius wasn’t a roamer at heart. He never had been. The moaning choir in his ears agreed. So, when he had set out from the forests and the shores, he hadn’t had a destination in mind.

This place, piled high with the seeming mounds of graves, called to him. So, here he went.

He had been digging practically all sunset, and with the moon to his back, he came to the realization that, perhaps, this was a fruitless endeavor.

He had dirt and dust clinging to his pelt for nothing. He turned to glare at the skull, sat innocently upon a rock not far away.

You led me here for what?

Reason reason reason

Ghosts weren’t the greatest communicators.