The Barrow Camp

 




Ritter stood at the water's edge, dense fog hiding the opposite bank. His sparse campsite was only twenty paces away, and he could barely see it through the uncanny mist that had descended overnight.

He yawned. His sleep had been uneventful, even though the local villagers had warned him about the old barrow near the lake.

He stretched, letting his back crackle like breaking celery. Every village had their local superstitions. A mossy pile of stones denoting an ancient battle would not scare him.

Still, something seemed odd. He couldn't quite place it...






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