Ah, of course. Fairy lights. Will-o'-the-wisps. Some call this sort of bullshit 'methane daydreams', fancies of the bog - but I know better. You know better.
The uncles on my mother's side say the Red Wolf hangs his singing lanterns on gossamer threads just ere sundown once each month, in the days of the waning moon. They also say he's looking for a lost love. That in his death, he promised a thousand-thousands souls, all to bring her back.
It's a pretty tale to cover up suicide, isn't it? But that's all it is. A pretty story. People always make things up in the firelight. Whatever helps them sleep. Whatever gives them reason.
Hah. Like I need reason.
A wondrous first entry in a place of lost things. No closer to finding what I need, though. No closer indeed.