Further down the dirt path the trees began to thin out into a single line, evenly spaced. Between each tree Gregory made out a broad field of tomb stones. He whistled between his teeth; he had always pitied those people who lived next to grave yards.
In the middle of a field he spotted an abandoned barn. Its silver-grey wood shone in the waning light of the sun; from his vantage it looked sturdy. It was still standing.
Alfar, the archaic voice which lived in his head muttered, ill at ease. Whatever it was, this alfar had the appearance and demeanor of a general. Or an executioner.
Alone in the field he stood, feeble against a backdrop of black and grey—black and grey from the angry storm clouds stretching straight to the horizon.
It looked at him with its beady black eyes. From the shadows he could see nothing, except for those eyes.