Felltree Marsh lives of the witching circle

lestan did not think he had ever wanted to kill anyone before; murder and its very thought appalled the man, twisted his belly.
but the deerbone talisman cried out for him, for him, and the mayfair filled with rage to think that its spirit was being tormented now.
oh! he fixed their minds in his face, that old crone and that hard-voiced boy; and in the spring grass his claws clutched, ripping stalks from their bed until he had created a small rough circle of bare earth.
to anyone else, it would seem as if lestan stooped to dig now, when in truth the darkened hateful glint in his eyes watched as his own paws described a mark he had never seen or writ before, a shape of sharp points and odd symbols; "tha mi a’ mallachadh d’ anail," whispered again and again. it was not a language he had ever known either, not before the fever.
now that same fevered, painful energy entered his paws, and he pressed them more harshly against the ground.
the circle, left behind, the man, plodding on as his horrible vengeance coalesced in the very core of him.