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.
When approached by strangers he would lie to them; at first it had been painful, but thoughts and ideas–lies–became like a second language to him.