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Sitting on a stump with a flask of ale stolen from a sleeping lumberjack, Patrick O'Toole sat on a tree stump, drinking and playing his flute. The notes haunted the woods and echoed off of the trees. He was unlike most of his people who were crazy with gold fever, at least that's what humans believed anyway. Patrick was more obsessed with figuring out puzzles and mysteries. His favorite book was Sherlock Holmes, which he read at least twice a year. Being able to teleport, he often "Borrowed" library books at night while they were closed. Suddenly the roar of a car engine cut through the fragile notes of the flute like a knife through butter. 

Patrick jerked up and teleported across tree branches and watched as a limousine flew up the dirt road to the Stone Circle. The Circle was one of the few sacred areas left in Ireland, for his kind. He followed the limo up the road but paused at the clearing and watched an odd looking fellow get out of the back seat. Almost instantly several people appeared as if out of nowhere; he recognized the residue of magic use in the air and knew instantly this was no ordinary meeting of pathetic humans. They were circling around his Stone Circle. 

Listening closely Patrick could almost make out the voices, he closed his eyes and concentrated momentarily as his body shimmered and then completely disapeared. He decided to get a closer look. He ran as quick as his short legs would carry him and then teleported on top of the tallest rock in the stone ring and laid down immediately. He had made no sound at all as he laid on the rocks. 

Carefully he associated the voices to their owners, and on in particular he had recognized.

Atticus.

A good Irish name that one had, one his ancestors would be proud of. If Atticus was here meeting in his woods it could only mean one thing. Something dire had transpired or was about to, and his particular help was needed.