Barrow Fields crows lie, strewn their eyes are

Lowering his hind paw to the ground, Anselm frowned as he tried to make sense of Sam’s expressions and subsequent question. He couldn’t place the emotions behind Sam’s eyes, and the word he spoke was foreign enough that a blade of irritation stroked at Anselm’s patience. He didn’t like it when there were things he didn’t know — and as a classical archetype of wolven ignoramus (or ignoranus, depending on who is asking) Anselm was immediately dismissive. 

He didn’t like that Sam was looking at the thing around his neck, either. It made him defensive; it was something he couldn’t explain, and that which existed without his understanding also existed without his consent. 

No. He hadn’t heard of the Huldra, and he wasn’t about to admit to Sam that the question inspired a stab of fear in him. He had no rational explanation for the shadow that had passed over him, the thing that had taken him and stripped fur from his limb and tacked on a strange hide around his neck. And that supremely pissed him off. 

Get out of my face, Sam. Anselm suddenly shouldered past, lashing out at poor Sam because he was too ill-equipped to handle his own ignorance. He wasn’t about to get caught a second time, and something about the hovering, almost subservient Sam rankled Anselm in a way he could not explain. (Mostly because Anselm was a self centered prick.)