You find the theurge standing in a grassy field just barely screened by the budding spring trees. It rained all last week, but now the mud at Elton's feet is dry enough that it's starting to crack. He's wearing his familiar frock coat; when he turns to note your arrival, his white Mezzanine t-shirt is a pale blur in the fading light. Beyond him, spherical structures of brick, between five and eight feet high, dot the field. More are visible deeper in the forest. The wind whistles among the bricks, and it sounds like a woman screaming. Elton hesitates, then forces himself to examine the structures. This close, you can see the remains of glyphs covering some bricks, but every one has been effaced, smoothed away.
I practice my shutting up skills and follow my elders.
Can I put my technical skills to work here and examine the masonry?
Screaming women are bad news even when they're metaphors. I go back to the van for my hatchet.
"The outdoor bread oven graveyard. At last, we've found it."
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