Pedestal Rock broken bottles all around my feet

Bard? He blurted out, his brows pinched tight in confusion. He had never heard the term before and was curious as to what it entailed. Despite the curious words spilling from the female’s mouth he was intrigued by her, and the stories she weaved. He still wasn’t sure if he believed any of them but it made him feel young again. Like the innocent, naïve cub that had watched the stag stampede toward him (and his father); eyes wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. That child had died with his father. And while a glimmer of him remained, illuminated by the stories the older she-wolf told, it would dissipate as soon as their encounter ended.

Do you have any stories? He gave his head a soft shake at her question as the corners of his mouth fell. Not really. Sure, he explored a lot, but the boy was mostly visual. His tongue had remained a prisoner behind his ivory fangs for weeks after his father’s unexpected death. His eyes had done all the talking for him. And the knights—the heroes—his father had mentioned? He kept that to himself. He didn’t want to share the words of his father with a stranger. Even if they wove pretty stories about gods and warriors.

Cyril’s confusion was expected of a child so uneducated as he had proved to be. Yes, a bard. You’ve never heard the term? She posed, asking for clarification before she went on to explain exactly what that meant. Bards are historians, in a sense… a pack storyteller, so that traditions and the actions of those who have since passed on are never forgotten. It was the most eloquent way she could think of to describe them. My father passed these stories on to me shortly before he passed, and his father before him… it helps keep their legacy arrive, sharing them with other wolves. It was why she did it, passed on stories that, despite her outward behavior, she wasn’t sure she herself believed in.

It also wasn’t the only way she carried on her father’s legacy… but those were skills that needed to be subtly used, so wolves had no idea what they were planning to do until it was too late. She did hope that she found her siblings soon so their plans could be put into action. A storm had blown her off course from the path she was supposed to be taking. She doubted that he didn’t have any stories – a child so young without the scent of a pack on his pelt? He had stories, he just didn’t want to share them, and she wasn’t the kind to push a wolf into the uncomfortable, it made them less pliable.

The sullen boy gave a quick shake of his head at her question. Knights he had heard of before, but bards? Fortunately for Cyril she quickly dove into a response so he didn’t have to come up with his own definition of the word. A storyteller. He blinked, intrigued by her words. Did that mean his father had kind of, sort of been a bard? Had Whitestone even had a historian within their ranks before the pack crumbled? He’d have to ask his mother once he returned to the mountain, as he was curious as to whether she had any stories to share with him. Maybe his interest in the past would show his mother that he was getting better and that she didn’t need to worry about him. Even though he wasn’t sure that he was getting better. He’d accepted the fact that his father was dead, and that nothing was going to bring him back, but it didn’t mean that he still didn’t blame himself. Cyril didn’t know if the blame would ever stop.

That’s, uh, neat, he responded with a small half-smile, his dark tail wagging gently behind him. We didn’t have anything like that, he added, his shoulders rolling in a soft shrug, I think. He couldn’t be sure. He’d blocked out a lot of what happened on the monadnock—even the good parts.

Sienna chalked the lack of stories that other wolves had to offer with cultural differences. History had been everything to both her pack and all of the packs around her, while here they didn’t seem to carry any weight at all, and that was fine. Sienna would adapt, find other ways to extract information from others… she just needed a little bit of time to figure it out was all… and perhaps a few more trial runs of trying to solicit stories that revealed who a wolf was from others. The ebony girl nodded understandingly, not everybody does. She did offer as she let her tail wag softly in response to his.

Was there anything else, besides stories? Each pack had one thing that made it special, in her opinion, and she assumed that in order to make it to his first year of life, he wasn’t always a loner. Otherwise, it’d be highly unlikely that he’d have made it to be as old as he was now without someone snatching him up or kidnapping him… Sienna had been tasked with taking loner pups on a couple of occasions for the clan – they claimed it to be a service project, giving them better homes, but she knew better. Raising them to be slaves would have been more appropriate of an explanation.

He frowned—there wasn’t anything else. Or, at least, nothing he could recall. Cyril gave another small shake of his head. He was feeling rather lacklustre compared to the bard. By no means did the boy had a bad childhood. He’d spent most of his youth exploring and trailing after his parents. Observing mostly, listening occasionally. He rarely sat still long enough to listen to stories—not unless one of his parents insisted. Nothing, sorry to disappoint, he offered with a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. He was, however, intrigued by what she had to say. Maybe he could commit some of her stories to memory and share them when the time came… You have anymore stories you're willing to share..? He asked, his nose tipping to the side as his hindquarters reclined against the ground. Cyril didn’t have anywhere else to be—not now. If the loner didn’t mind hanging around for a while longer he wouldn’t mind listening.

He offered a soft smile and his sympathies for lack of stories and she just shrugged. It wasn’t a particularly great loss for her, even if she did feel she was at a disadvantage for it. He asked if she had any more stories and she just smiled at him coyly. Ah, but that takes the fun away from it all… maybe if we meet again, I’ll share another story… for now, well… I don’t really stick around in one place for too long. She offered, her tail wagging softly as she turned to leave. Was it abrupt? Sure, but the loner had places to be, and he’d already said he had nothing to provide in return.

She’d simply lost interest. Until next time, Cyril. She was almost certain there would indeed be a next time.

-Fade-