Pedestal Rock broken bottles all around my feet

It had come to Sienna’s attention with her last encounter that the wolves in these parts were just weird, uneducated in the lore of the lands they appeared to stand in. She found it peculiar that such common tales she’d heard growing up and yet to reach most of the years she was in the presence of. Perhaps this was why her paws had brought her here, to tell the stories, too make sure these wolves knew the history of their race like she did… a mission that one humble woman could go on and complete in order to enrich the lives of others.

She felt the hum in her chest, a story floating gently across her memory as she recalled in vivid detail yet another story from her childhood, one particularly relevant to the falls around her. Her tail wagged slowly as she gently sang the words.

I head your voice on the wind
and I hear you call out my name
“Listen my child,” you say to me. “I am the voice of your history”
I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain.

She recalled the tales of Chac, the god of rain and thunder… her promises to the wolves of the olden times, the promises of rain to maintain the soil and bring about the prey that remain even to this day.

Most of his time was spent exploring the neighbouring territories, for the sullen boy was trying to get acquainted with the west. It was not as open as the north but, for now, it would do. He had always dreaded the idea of living in the forest beneath a heavy canopy of branches. It still didn’t feel right, even though the small group had situated themselves between the woods and the mountain, but he was growing accustom to their new surroundings.

His ears twitched as an unfamiliar voice called out through the trees, luring the boy forward. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, his head tipping to the side as he tried to figure out where it was originating from. He didn’t really understand what the voice was saying but he was intrigued nonetheless. He padded forward, his steps hesitant as he closed the distance between himself and the stranger. Poking his head around a tree trunk his yellow irises fell onto the dark figure in the distance, curiosity bubbling furiously within his chest. For a moment he had forgotten about all the woes he had left behind in the north and he was a puppy once again, filled with questions that threatened to spill off his tongue. But nothing came. Instead, he looked like a creep peering around the tree, his eyes wide with confusion and his voice caught in the back of his throat.

It was not until she finished humming her song that she noticed the boy, the ebony beauty turning with a sly smile as her tail wagged. Like what you hear? She posed coyly as she approached him slowly. You never knew with other wolves, what might set them off, so the woman remained very careful, particularly around a child so young. Perhaps his parents were about somewhere nearby? Perhaps near the sound of rushing water that she could hear faintly from here. Of course, it was possible the boy was as uneducated as the woman she’d found amongst the willow trees…

After all, who didn’t know the stories she often sang about? Apparently quite a few wolves didn’t… something she’d have to remedy. What’s your name, kid? Are you lost or just letting your paws carry you around like an old loner like me? Of course, it might sound patronizing to some, but it wasn’t her intention. She wasn’t even old, but she was certainly older than he was, by a couple years, give or take a couple moons or maybe a season. Do you know the story of Chac? The story she’d just been singing, give or take a couple of important battle scenes.

Like what you hear? The boy shrugged as he exposed himself from behind the tree trunk, his yellow gaze fixated on the dark female before him. He did not inch closer, not like she had, for he was still a little wary of meeting strangers. In the past, before his father was brutally murdered by a rogue deer, Cyril would have bounded up to the female with a million questions dancing off the tip of his tongue. But now? He couldn’t be bothered. The questions were still there but he no longer cared if he asked them, or if he got answers. Cyril was content in keeping to himself.

His chin tipped to the side as she questioned him once more, asking him for his name and what he was doing among the trees. Cyril, he introduced quickly, his tail flicking absently behind him. Just exploring. Another shrug followed, his tongue clipped as he kept his answers short and to the point. He didn’t really know how to interact with others anymore—not unless they were called Adeltra, as he could talk (or not talk) to her all day.

He was only doing this for his mom, as she wouldn’t want him to keep sulking. Plus, if they wanted to remain at the base of the mountain they would need numbers, and perhaps he would persuade the bizarre wolf before him to stay with them. If she wasn’t too weird, of course.

Of who? He asked, his brows pinched together as he blinked at the foreign name. His father had told him stories of knights when he was younger—was this… this Chac a knight as well?

Another uneducated canine. The thought, Sienna knew to keep to herself. She didn’t want to scare anyone off with such crude talk she reserved for her time with the Ravenger and his crew. Chac… he was a valiant warrior who earned a place amongst the stars, even became a god for his heroic deeds in solving the water crisis lifetimes ago. She explained to his confusion at the mention of such a sacred name. OF course, whether or not she believed these stories… a story-teller never told. Did she truly believe these tales? That was what some might ask… they might be right, or they might be wrong.

Cyril, I could tell you about him… he was truly a role model to those around him. She enjoyed the act of storytelling, bending an audience to your will with words alone, no tooth or claw needed. My name is Sienna… a humble servant of the Gods. Or was she? She’d leave that for Cyril to decide for himself… just as she had unknowingly left Leotie to do back in the Willow trees near the strange pack’s lands.

He remained quiet as he waited for her explanation, his yellow gaze fixated on her dark frame. Nothing about her screamed danger! so he did not worry about lingering in presence. Not yet, anyway. Plus, he was curious about who this Chac was and why they had stories written (spoken?) about them. Chac… he was a valiant warrior … Huh. He blinked, the corners of his mouth pinching tight as his ears twitched with youthful curiosity. Was he… he started, his age getting the better of him, like a knight? Was that what a god was? The word felt foreign on his tongue, for he had not used it since his father’s passing. He didn't like the way it sounded and he wished he could take it back but it already hung, suspended, in the air between them. And now he was left with nothing but a sour taste in his mouth.

His lips curled into a frown at her suggestion. Was he real? He asked boldly, his tongue clucking against the roof of his mouth. As she introduced herself—Sienna—he stored away the name for future reference, as he would likely tell his mother about her once he returned to their mountain haven.

The word Cyril used showed he had some knowledge of olden times… a knight indeed. She offered a nod. He was a knight in his mortal life… and he ascended to become a god upon his death. She assured him. There was a distinct difference. After all, not all knights became gods, and not all gods were knights… that was assuming all gods had a mortal life at all, which they did not. It was his second question that caused her to pause for a couple moments… real? Legend? What was the difference.

I can’t answer that for you… I have no way to prove whether or not he was real or a legend. She confirmed as she looked at him. Even if it weren’t… legends were stories that become true to you, over time of course… and they make you a better wolf because of it. She tried her best to explain her interpretation on stories. After all, Legends aren’t for the desperate, or the gullible… they’re for the brave. Did that, by chance, answer the little shadow’s question?

So this Chac was some sort of knight. It made him a little more interesting but Cyril wasn’t sure he was buying everything she was telling him. But every one had their own stories to tell; their own back stories. Who was the boy to judge?

He was, however, intrigued by her words. His head tipped to the side as he tried to make sense of what she was telling him. Legends were for the brave? He blinked. Cyril couldn’t remember the last time he felt brave—he certainly hadn’t been when the stag stomped toward him. A frown cut into his lips at the thought, his ears sweeping back against his skull. Where’d you learn all of that? He asked, his youthful curiosity getting the better of him once more. The stories of knights his father had told him were the only stories he knew, and even they were fading as he struggled to remember his father without a blanket of blood covering his charcoal fur.

The question, admittedly, was not one that Sienna found herself faced with often, and she might have considered it too personal. I learned it from my tribe… the wolves I grew up with. I became their bard after my father passed away. She explained, though passed away was too kind of a statement. He’d been killed by a giant cat on the mountain near her home. It’d been shattering, led her to leave home shortly after, even though she took their history with her. It’s the stories that keep me alive. The lessons she’d learned from them, the memory of her father lingering with them.

Cyril himself appeared to be mildly cynical, something she could relate too even though it wasn’t on the outside. Do you have any stories? He looked like a boy with stories, even if they weren’t happy, or heroic like those she was accustomed to. Surely an adventurer like you has some stories that could be passed on…