It had been a full day of traveling and one restless night's sleep for Cadenza since the small black pup had joined him and Lorza on their trek through the woods. Denza had been unable to shake the feeling of distrust in the pup and could feel the ruff of his neck bristle when the pup would look back at him, as if to check how far back Denza was from his hocks, as they trudged through the dense trees and brush. Lorza had taken so quickly to Caspar and chastised Denza for distrusting him simply because of his age. Denza wrinkled his muzzle at the thought of how things might have gone had Caspar been a full grown, adult male. Size meant nothing and age was no illustration of power of mind – nor was it an excuse. His mother had known that.

The sun had already begun to set and Denza looked forward to rest, even if he awoke numerous times throughout the night, at least to get off his sore paws. Glancing down, he could see a small bloodstain next to the claw he had torn sliding down a boulder earlier that day. He bit his jaws together – he would not alert his travel companions to his pain and allow them to think him any level of weakness.

Overall, the trio was glad to be out of the section of the woods they had stayed the previous night in. Denza, with his clearly superior scent skills and tracking practice, had found the remains of an odd and foreboding scene. He had left Lorza and Caspar cowering under a large pine bough, and had crept around the side of a rock to find the unsettling sight. A large elk carcass lay in a clearing in the brush, parts scattered about. The elk had been touched with a green blood-like substance, and Denza noticed the green ooze smeared all around the clearing and on the scattered pieces of elk, as if the thing that killed it had been wearing it. It even smelled a little of blood, and something more abstract, like wet earth and sickness. He had reported back to the other two, and they hurriedly made their escape. It was then that Denza learned that both Lorza and Caspar were familiar with the green substance.

Lorza had said, through trembling breaths, that the four large, black wolves who had ambushed her family in the forest near her territory had all been marked by scars, and fresh wounds, some of which spilled green blood instead of red. Caspar had chimed in to comment that his sister had taken off with a dark-coated male who also sported some fresh gashes, though he didn't bleed any unusual color. Denza would have found the conversation foolish and even fabricated had he not witnessed the scene of the kill for himself. While it was all foreign and irritating that Lorza and Caspar knew more than he, Denza was sure to spend his time discovering what had caused it, if only out of curiosity.

Now, the small group halted as Denza pricked his ears and made a small grunt to catch the others' attention. His ears heard the trickle of water before he scented the wet earth and he tipped his head to the right. As Lorza and the pup fell in behind him, he stepped with more confidence. His family had prided themselves with teaching excellent scent and hearing skills, something Lorza and Caspar clearly did not have even at their ages.

Poking his head between a clump of bushes, he could finally see a small creek running a little down the hill just a few leaps away. He stepped out of the cover, glanced around himself, then set off for the creek. He heard the others follow. They drank their fill without incident and headed back up the incline, where Lorza began digging at the ground beneath a bush.

“Sleep here?” Denza asked. She nodded, then promptly returned to softening the earth.

“Can we tell stories now?” Caspar piped up, bouncing over to Lorza, careful to give Denza a wide berth. He watched the pup, only mildly annoyed at his youngish behavior. To his frustration, but not surprise, Lorza smiled.

“Of course,” she huffed as she laid down in the small bed she had made. Denza found himself fighting from rolling his eyes at their lack of hardiness, as Caspar clumsily dug at the ground beside her.

“What story do you want to hear?” Lorza asked as Caspar busied himself.

He stopped for a moment, only to chirp, “a Thireador story!”

Denza ignored their discussion as he turned in a circle a few times and flopped down. The forest was becoming dark quickly, and he could already hear raccoons chattering in the distance. He snuffled his nose into his tail and found himself gravitating toward the voices.

“Who's your favorite?” Caspar asked.

“Hmm,” Lorza pondered, “I've always had good feelings toward Philomena. And Sidra. I've always been a little nervous of the dark, but mom always told me to seek Philomena's energy and to see the moon, to know that she is there for me. And when Philomena is resting, Sida guides us with the light from the stars.”

Denza sighed, rolling his eyes. He started slightly as Lorza shot him a look.

“I like Sheol,” Caspar went on, oblivious to Denza's response.

“Really?” Lorza grinned slightly. “Why's that?”

Caspar shrugged. “He's more important than most give him credit for. I mean, we'll all meet him one day. He makes the world what we see.”

“How do you mean?” Lorza asked, turning her head to one side.

“Well,” Caspar shuffled his paws in the earth, “I was told that he takes the bad energies and turns them into something good, something to decorate the world... like trees.” He looked up into the dark sky. Denza found his eyes reaching upwards, catching glimpses of stars between the branches of the trees. “My momma told me that, if you're bad, Sheol will take your soul and turn you into a tree, or the grass, or a pebble in the river.”

Lorza raised her brows. “Huh, I never knew that.” She glanced down to the ground at her paws. “Do you suppose...” she began, “That the earth is made from lost souls?”

Denza rolled over, his back facing the two. Their ridiculous stories frustrating beyond words, he stared off into the darkness of the woods, listening to the sounds of the branches swaying in a gentle breeze in the canopy, and the sounds of small rodents moving about in the leaves. His stomach rumbled, but he did not dare hunt in the night, where his vision was weakest.

“...only die in your sleep.” Caspar yawned. “He wouldn't kill you in a bad way, unless you were really bad.”

Lorza was silent for a moment, though Denza could hear her shift her weight in her small bed of earth. “Well... that is good to hear.” He noticed the strain in her voice and realized she was choking back a fit of tears. Only mildly sorry for his insensitivity, he rolled back over, and she whipped her head around to look at him.

“Do you know anything of the Thireador stories, Denza?”

He shook his head. Lore, tales, fiction. That's all they were. It was childish to actually believe them, he had been taught early on. They were just stories bored wolves had told each other and to their pups to get them to behave.

“Your mother never told you any?”

Again, Denza just shook his head. “I was told about them. But never more than just so we were aware that they existed.”

“Oh,” Lorza said, a slight smile playing around her face, “You're missing out.”

Caspar bobbed up and down slightly beside her. “Can we hear one about the sprites?”

Lorza looked back at the pup. “Which ones?”

Denza fought to keep a straight face and feign mild interest, for Lorza's sake.

“Any,” Caspar bounced. “I don't know many about them.”

“Alright,” Lorza readjusted in her pit, “I'll tell you one of my favorites.” Caspar yawned, then perked up. Denza found himself clenching his jaw to fight yawning, himself.

“Once, in the realms of Einar – while she was still young – Philomela, sister to the Moon Godess, wished with all her heart for someone who would sit with her in the pink clouds of the morning sunrise, and sing songs to the world. Philomela had a beautiful singing voice, and all enjoyed hearing her sing, and she would sing for the High Gods, the sprites, everyone. She also loved the world where we are, down here, and hoped that someday a time would come when she could visit to add her gift of song, once she was of age. See, not eve the gods or sprites can visit our world until they are of age, and have the High Gods' permission.”

Denza listened, genuinely interested. He knew none of it to be real, but he had never heard any stories in his lifetime. His mother had told him it was silly to expect pups to listen because of stories. She had raised her family to learn by experience, earning your worth... something Denza knew he was fortunate to have made it through, though he also had been taught to remain silent about it.

His sister, Thrush, was the only other littermate of his to have made it as far as he had. But now she was lost deep in these woods, just as he was. Much more curious and naive than he allowed himself to accept she was, Denza was able to acknowledge it very likely she was no longer alive. He had learned quickly to block and hide any such emotion as he had begun to feel when the realization had hit him, two days before, that his birthsister was probably dead.

“Anyway,” Lorza continued, “Philomela loved to sing, but she could only sing her beautiful songs by herself. Of course others would join her, but none could weave such intricate melodies as she. One day, strolling about the lands of Einar, she came across the sprite Arno. Arno was always described as a small, woodsy colored wolf,” Lorza added. “And he was responsible for creating hunters of the sky. He had already made the eagles and the hawks. But Philomela was fascinated when she saw his small, flighty birds he was working with. And for days, she would go to see him and visit him, asking about his work. She had never seen a sprite working on their craft up close and Arno taught her what he knew. Then, they had an idea! Philomela would sing to the birds while Arno was away, to keep them company. And, after awhile, they began to sing her songs back to her. When Arno heard them, he asked for Philomela's help with his birds. She sang to them every day, teaching different birds their favorite songs that she made up. When the birds were ready to come to our world, Arno thanked Philomela, whom he cared very much for now, and they both presented the birds to the High Gods – Atalaya and Kyneric. Impressed with their work, the Gods permitted Philomela and Arno to continue working together. They, to this day, make the songbirds of the forest. It's even said that, when you hear the wind rushing through the trees, or rustling the branches, or see the leaves move in the wind, that it's the presence of Philomela, coming to sing to her birds once more.”

Denza raised one eyebrow. That was it?

Caspar beamed. “I knew they worked to make the birds together, but I didn't know they stayed together.”

Lorza nodded. “That's what I was told.”

Denza laid his head on his paws, bored once more, having hoped for a more intriguing tale. He hesitated a moment, but couldn't help but ask, “What's Thireador?”

Both Lorza and Caspar looked at him.

“Well...” Lorza began, laughing nervously, “I never knew. I know they are called the Thireador Fables, but the concept of Thireador is one you get to way later in the stories.”

Denza squinted in the dark. “So... you don't know what it is unless you have heard all of the stories, in order?”

“Right,” Lorza replied. Caspar nodded enthusiastically. “And I don't know anyone who knows that far into the stories.”

“Oh,” Denza sighed. “How... many are there?”

“Heh,” Lorza laughed. “I've heard that there are dozens. I only know a pawfull of random ones. I wish I knew them all.” She looked off into the distance, eyes unfocused over Denza's head. “My mom knew all of the stories I know, and so did my sister. I asked them to tell me them over and over, so I could remember them, too. And there are a lot more,” she looked back to Denza. “There are even stories that just tell about how to treat each other, stories about respect, stories about the Gods, the sprites, stories about the creatures they made for this world... so many. I think they are meant to teach us something, probably about our own intentions and how to live well amongst our kin.”

Caspar was nodding again.

“So... this Thireador is just the name of a place?” Attempting to keep his ties at least compatible with Lorza, and avoid traveling solo again, he attempted to take interest in their stories.

“I really don't know,” Lorza huffed.

“Maybe,” Caspar began, “It's the name of the first one to tell the stories in this world?”

Lorza looked at the pup in surprise. “Maybe.”

“Maybe it's where your gods reside,” Denza shrugged.

“No, no,” Lorza quickly replied. Denza furrowed his brows. “That's called Einar.”

Denza grunted, laying his head back down. “Well... let me know if you figure it out.” He rolled over again, his back facing the group, looking out into the dark woods. He could feel their eyes on his back, but the atmosphere felt less cold than it had earlier that night.

After a moment, Caspar's voice whispered, “More tomorrow?” Lorza chuckled and, presumably, nodded.

Denza finally closed his eyes. Sleep came rather quickly this time. Just as he began to drift off, he thought he heard a whippoorwill call in the distance.