It is rare indeed for the buttery buckskin boy to be seen any further North, East or West than the Thistle Meadow.  Yet, the early reaches of birdsong find him creeping quietly through the thick trees surrounding the beautiful pavilion known as the Ancient Rotunda. This is a place he has not been before but today he moves in a trance like manner, nowhere near as engrossed in his surroundings as he has been known to be in the past.  He has been summoned you see and having experienced such a thing only once in his short life he has not yet built up any tolerance for of resistance to this phenomenon. So, on the occasions when he hears such summons from the more powerful beings of his native land they tend to overcome him completely.  He very nearly tried to swim from the Throat to the mainland rather than await the coming of a key holder to open the gates for him.  Luckily a crowd of adults showed up just as he was preparing to make the attempt and so he was able to sneak out in the wake of the group.  Many of them are probably among the gathering he is now approaching but he is too entranced to take such notice.

He comes to linger at the back of the pack and all he can see above the heads of the much larger adults who create an unintentional wall before him is the upper half of the sea-being's looming form.  Some among the crowd address the over-sized fish-thing by a name, a name that Patrick will not remember an hour from now.  He simply listens to the crooning, watery voice as the instructions are given out.  Cleaning and fixing does not strike the lad as any sort of fun but he gives a huffy little grumble of acceptance all the same.  Then his ears stand up in sudden attention as the word "collect" reaches them.  His eyes darken in confusion just as quickly however.

"Bones? Bones not pretty."

Why would anyone wish to collect and horde things that are not pretty?  He mutters this small objection about the aesthetics of the thing to himself with little care to who might be overhearing.  After a moment or two of serious thought he rolls his small shoulders in a shrug-like gesture as if to say "adults, will be adults" and turns to go about the task despite any distaste he may harbor for it.

"Pat gather."

These two words are spoken with authority to any who might think to try stopping him as he wanders off towards the blackened, dreary, southern end of the ancient wood.