Barrow Fields crows lie, strewn their eyes are

@Sam

The moment he woke again, Anselm was running. His mouth dry like cotton, an alien weight wrapped around his throat. 

He didn’t recognize where he was, and so he ran, and ran, and ran until the rocks gave way to gravel, which gave way to sand, until eventually he was filled with the vague notion he was heading south and somewhere west of him a sea thundered. 

Instinct told him to press on, but the longer he was awake the more questions budded to the surface of his disoriented mind.  What had he been doing last, where was he — and, where was @Etienne? Gideon? Ezra?

Sitting against a boulder, Anselm scratched at a bare part of his under arm, troubled. How did that get there? He chewed at the bald skin, then scratched at the thick of his neck — freezing when his hind paw felt the alien sensation of something heavy and resistant around his neck. 

The fuck?