The Scottish Highlands sprawled around me, jagged and brutal, offering zero comfort. Damp moss and sharp wind hit my nose, the air nipping sharp. The breeze whistled low, and in the quiet gaps, the land felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to crack open.
I'm Robert MacCallum, archaeologist. Not some whip-cracking movie hero, though I've been known to mutter that artifacts belong in a museum. Usually. Kneeling in the rocky dirt of my ancestral homeland, I let my mind spin wild stories to keep things lively. I narrate to myself, like I'm the star of my own tale. Am I a bit nuts? Yeah, probably.
You're getting this through a memory crystal, a slick magical trick that lets historians and students live my life like I'm right there, spinning yarns. A rare tool, it captures my thoughts and sights for scholars to study. As a scholar of Doras Dagda's history, I hope this grips you as much as it did me. Shit went down, so I'll keep my rambling short and let you observe.
***
Robert knelt in the rocky Highlands dirt, knees aching from years of digging. The cold bit at his neck. The memory crystal in his pack warmed faintly, its runes glowing soft, recording his every thought. Brushing soil grew tedious, so he spun epic tales in his head to stay alert. This dig site was an obsession, clawing at his mind despite logic's pull. Whispers of strange artifacts from this remote corner had him drop everything to come here. The stone carvings stopped him cold, spirals jagged and chaotic, rejecting Celtic symmetry. They pulsed with intent, a coded warning left in stone.
He leaned closer, studying a lone woman carved under a stylized wave, arms spread wide, facing something vast. His gloved fingers followed the lines, breath catching as the chill sank in. "What's your deal?" he muttered. His touch sparked a faint pulse beneath his boots, unease tightening his gut. His stomach tightened: Was the ground answering back?
A harsh caw snapped his focus. A raven perched on a boulder, feathers dark and gleaming, staring him down with unsettling focus. Gran's voice echoed: Ravens carry the Morrigan's word, child. Watchers. "Chill, it's just a bird," he muttered, though the stare felt too sharp.
"What's the verdict?" Hamish's voice cut through, boots crunching as he approached. Mud clung to his coat, wind reddening his face. Built like a brick wall, he preferred hammers to brushes but had a gift for seeing beneath surfaces. He nodded at the stone. "Just fancy decor, aye?"
Robert shook his head. "More than that. These patterns feel like a warning."
"A warning?" Hamish squatted beside him. Hamish, squinting, felt his skepticism waver for a second. "About what, ye reckon?"
Robert hesitated. "Not sure. Just a feeling." He glanced at the raven, still watching. "This place feels off."
Hamish snorted. "If they meant to warn us, they'd've written it in plain Gaelic. Looks like my grandkids' doodles."
Robert smiled. "It's not doodles. Look here." He pointed to the woman. "Arms out, under the wave. They left this for a reason. A story they needed to tell."
Hamish scratched his chin. "A story, eh? Vague enough to mean anything. Still looks like scratches to me."
"Locals call this a 'thin place,'" Robert said. "Where the wall between worlds goes flimsy."
Hamish raised a brow. "You don't buy into that old rot, do ye?"
"I think some places matter more than others," Robert said, motioning to the land. "They're pieces of something bigger."
Before Hamish could answer, the raven cawed again. Its eyes flicked between Robert and the stone. Robert touched the carving, and a deeper pulse rolled beneath them. The bird stepped closer, head cocked like it dared him.
"Alright, ye pest, enough of that," Hamish said, waving his arms. The raven flapped away, snagged his hat, dropped it by a boulder, and vanished into the trees.
A gust swept across the moor. The carvings shimmered faintly in the shifting light, enough to make Robert squint. His heart kicked up. "You catch that?" he called, but Hamish was too far, reclaiming his hat.
Robert pressed both palms to the stone. The tremor deepened, steady and slow, like something waking below. His chest went tight.
"What the hell?" Hamish's voice cracked as he stomped back, hat in hand, eyes wide.
"It's waking up," Robert said. The woman's figure shimmered faintly, her outline sharpening.
The raven returned with a shriek, feathers puffed, eyes locked on them. Hamish muttered, "I'm no' keen on that bloody bird."
Robert said nothing. As they hiked back to camp, his mind churned with the carvings, tremors, and that damn bird. They ate quietly and turned in. Sleep wouldn't come.
Gray light crept over the hills. Robert stood alone with his coffee, steam rising in the chill. Hamish was at camp, logging finds. The land was still, expectant.
The tremors still nagged him. So did the raven, and last night's dream—figures chanting around a fire that moved like it was alive, flames twisting in ways fire shouldn't. The carvings glowed, spirals shifting like they were breathing, the raven watching from above. Doubt crept in despite brushing it off as nonsense.
He knelt again, fingers following the spiral lines. His pack rustled. The memory crystal pulsed warm, its glow pushing through the fabric, still recording. A steady rhythm thudded in his palm, ancient, waiting. "You're just a rock," he said, unconvinced. The markings pulled at him, like they knew something he didn't.
Wings cut the fog as the ravens scattered, silence dense and unnatural. "You again," Robert said to the bird perched ahead. More gathered, watching from nearby rocks.
"You tread on hallowed ground," a voice came from behind.
Robert spun. An old man stepped from the fog, wrapped in a worn cloak, leaning on a gnarled staff. His beard tangled with twigs, eyes sharp and calm. Not the weirdest thing today, Robert's mind quipped.
"The stones don't forget," the man said. "The roots sing if you listen. What do you want here?"
Robert straightened. "I'm here for the history. The people. Their stories."
The old man's eyes softened, as if measuring intent. "And what will you do with their stories? Protect them? Or twist them?"
"I'll honor them," Robert said, firm. "That's the whole point."
The man nodded. "The land listens. It don't forgive theft. You can pass, but there's always a cost."
He pulled a charm from his cloak, rough with carved symbols. "Take this. It'll guard you. Show respect, or the land will remind you."
Robert hesitated, then accepted it. The charm warmed his fingers, symbols glowing soft. "Thanks," he mumbled.
The man vanished into the fog. Ravens took off together. Robert stood still, wind stinging his cheeks.
That night in his tent, he turned the charm in his hand, its pulse steady. The day churned in his mind: tremors, carvings, dreams, the old man. A whisper slipped through the tent wall. He froze, listening hard, but it faded before he could catch it. He gripped the charm tighter, its edges biting.
"This ain't just a dig site," he said. "It's a doorway. A thin place. But what's it opening to?"
Hamish pushed into the tent, bleary-eyed. "Ye look like ye've been chattin' with ghosts again. What's got into ye now?"
Robert shook his head. "This place is watching us. Waiting."
Hamish grunted. "Tell it to wait till I've had my coffee. I'm not talkin' to spooky rocks till then."
Robert chuckled, tension easing. A raven cried outside, cold and mournful. Something listened.
He drifted to sleep. Dreams came fast: mist, wings, fire, old things waking. He jolted upright, charm crystal hot in his hand. A slow, deliberate step sounded outside, heavy, circling the tent.
Hamish snored, unaware. Robert held the charm, warmth flaring. The flap stirred, cold mist pushing through. He reached forward, breath tight.
Moonlight spilled over the trees, sharp and pale. Massive wolf-hounds galloped through the shadows, larger than any dog, dark fur blending with night. Their eyes glinted, sharp, sizing him up. They moved as one, silent, precise, like guardians, not animals.
His breath caught, chest tight. Old Celtic texts came to mind, sacred sites always had guardians. The Green Man, a wild spirit in human or beast form. That old man, twig-stuffed beard, charm crystal… him? He blinked hard, struggling to line up what he saw with Gran's old stories.
The hounds froze, heads snapping toward him. Their eyes locked on his, low snarls curling, like he was prey. His legs turned stone. The charm burned hot, heavy in his grip. Run? Hide? his mind raced, but those eyes pierced through him.