The Short Story Thread

[Snake Dave]

Hey everyone

I'm a big fan of both reading and writing, especially short stories. So I thought I'd create a thread which allows people to do both.

We could review eachother's stories, highlight what was good, what wasn't so good etc. They can be about any topic at all (within reason, obviously).

With regards to reviews, I thought we could do it in a points system, and mark them out of 300, and the 300 would be divided as follows:

Plot Structure (0/100)

Character Development (0/50)

Description (0/70)

Spelling/Grammar (0/80)

Total Score (0/300)

I'll start us off, my short story is entitled The Heart of Isafdar:

Hastor could feel the tension in the guards around him as they rode through the cool, Autumn morning, sensing it in their stiff, awkward movements and strained conversations. He felt a great deal of apprehension too, but hid it beneath an aloof exterior. He needed to be strong and worthy to be granted respect from soldiers such as these, and any palpable unease on his part would only unsettle his men further.
Born and raised in Falador, Hastor was an aristocrat of the Kingdom of Asgarnia and had always known wealth, comfort and security. However, he had never allowed these luxuries to intefere with his physique or martial prowess, and spent many hours every day honing his skills on the parade ground. Despite this, he had nothing to show for his efforts. He had always been sheltered and protected, either by his family as he was growing up, or by his counsellors to the present day. Two days ago, he decided that enough was enough. He'd grown weary of the boring, monotonous drab that he was forced to face every day, he lacked a true challenge. So he gathered together 6 of his finest guards, prepared enough provisions for a month's hard travel, and set off from the white gates of Falador into a setting sun. After studying some of the maps and manuscripts in the castle library, he decided he'd travel to Isafdar to visit the Elves, and learn of their secrets in crafting and combat.
The day was cold and Hastor could feel the coming Winter in the sharpness of the air, and saw it in the shrivelled appearance of the last few golden leaves that still clung to the bare branches of the withered trees. Times such as these depressed Hastor, but armed with the knowledge that he'd soon see a brighter, happier land, he rode on with a smile on his face.
"We're just coming up to Camelot Castle now, sir." Called Murphy from the head of the group.
"Thank you, saddle-up lads, let's go in looking sharp." Hastor replied
The guards nodded their response with a weary expression plastered on their faces.
"But who can blame them?" Thought Hastor. Yesterday's experience was enough to rattle even the hardest of bones.
They had made good time, reaching Taverley by nightfall. There they had spent the night laughing merrily in the company of the village's druids and wash maidens. After a hearty breakfast offered by the locals, the company made for White Wolf Mountain. The treacherous peak was aptly-named, as after two falls and nearly four hours of sweat and toil on their part; they struck. The wolves came thick and fast, a ravenous look in their eyes that could only be caused by weeks of starvation. The majority came from the sides, harassing their flanks and the others seeked to surround them. They worked as an efficient, oiled machine, and they had to pull every ounce of skill from the deep catacombs of their bodies to fight them. One man, Chubbs they called him, didn't make it. He was a very popular man, and his death hit the men hard.
"Hastor!" Boomed the cavernous voice of Sir Lancelot "welcome to Camelot, my friend. How are you?"
"Weary, but resolute." Smiled Hastor "it's good to see you again, Lance".
"Likewise brother, come in!"
And so they spent another night in the company of men, freed of their troubles and granted permission to gorge themselves on the finest food and drink.
It took a further four days to reach the mouth of the Pass of Arandar. A great sense of foreboding filled Hastor as he saw the bare landscape, wondering where the great colour and wonderful wildlife that he had read of had disappeared to. His men gazed around at the dreary scene with an expression of fear upon their weathered faces.
"Come on men, into the breach, courage and honour, remember that!"
A low, thick mist closed in around the riders, deadening sound and imparting a ghostly quality to the soldiers that followed Hastor as he rose ever westwards. According to the manuscripts, this road had never been more than an overgrown mud track, little travelled and little cared for, clearly explained by its remote location and depressing setting.
As they descended into the valley, Hastor glanced around, taking in and mentally storing as many images as he could so that he could copy them for the library back in Falador. Fog hugged the ground leading towards Isafdar, wild, scrubby heathes of unkempt grasses and small shrubs were dotted along the side of the valley, and here and there, Hastor could see a rusted sword blade or the bleached whiteness of bone.
"My lord..." Muttered Murphy
"Yes, Murphy?"
"I don't like this place, it wreeks of death. It is as if the very air we breathe is saturated with its clammy grip"
"I don't like it either, but we've got to go on. Besides, from what I've read, Isafdar seems like a magical place, don't worry, it'll be worth it"

Murphy nodded, but clearly wasn't persuaded.
They continued on for another five hours, until they came to a junction. The company decided to take a short break whilst Hastor studied the map to judge their position accurately.
"Hey, Murphy, do you see those lumps down there?" Asked Lionel
"Yeah I see '**, what are they?"
"Well, I'm not sure, but my old da' used to tell me a story. He said that an evil necromancer once came here to raise an army of the dead to unleash upon Isafdar. They're burial cairns!"
"I'll have no more of this nonsense!" Boomed Hastor "we have enough to deal with without the likes of you spreading evil ghost stories throughout the camp!"
Suitably chastened, Lionel shut his mouth.

 

[Snake Dave]

Here's my second one, entitled Days Gone By:

Come with me if you will; look down upon the golden roofs of Ardougne stark as building blocks in the afternoon's golden sunlight. Survey the vendors and entrepreneurs of this fast-paced metropolis: the merchants stepping energetically to the beat that outlines their lives, the nobility holding noses in the air as they strut through the packed streets. Witness a world that has not seen true magic in over a decade.

Now focus westwards.

See that castle bathed in the sun's last glow? The one that seems to scrape the pastel skies with its crenellated towers? It is commonly called the Castle of Ardougne. A mage does reside within it but public opinion has put a collar about his neck. He is a showmage: a tamed mage, used for entertainment purposes only. He is the last in a proud line of wizards and makes a mockery of their name. The time of the mage has passed, many people say, now is an age of development; an age of science; of truth. They see their magic pet and think they have conquered the mysterious, that the Wizard Wars that once ravaged the countryside are a thing of the past. Little do they know that magic still runs strong in their blood; that true magic will always resurface.

Come. Let me show you.

A path of liquid gold runs out of Ardougne - a river by the name of Bax frequented by skiffs and barges seeking a profit. It flows southward but we shall work our way north, against its current. Soon the Baxtorian Falls appear below, pounding water into a fine spray fraught with rainbows. We head further north still, until even the austere walls of Barbarian Outpost fade behind us and then we are out above the sea, following the course of a narrow, rocky isthmus. A solitary lighthouse flashes by below, waves pounding incessantly against its rigid sides and then land is replaced by uninterrupted ocean in all directions, an ocean thrown into turmoil by the storms that frequent this area.

 

[Nanci]

Rest In Peace, Tar Baby Rat Fetus

It was early July. I was recovering from a bout of pneumonia that attacked out of nowhere. In the summer, no less. Which prompted some "routine" blood work. Which led to the unexpected discovery of a near-diabetic glucose level. The pneumonia had taken twelve pounds off me, and now, scared straight, it was seriously time to diet and exercise. My most recent physical activity was a grueling trail marathon the Sunday before Memorial Day. It had been a long time since I biked religiously, but I got on BF's old road-tired mountain bike and started riding for my life. I had to drop the princess act if I wished to ride nightly, and ride nightly I must. No more confining my rides to paved trails, safe from bone-crushing, bike-mangling motor vehicles. I bravely took to the rural roads of my country neighborhood.


One evening, venturing further than I ever had before, I rounded a corner into the bike lane. As I passed by, I glimpsed something- some...thing, out of the corner of my eye, and my head nearly twisted off my shoulders as I whipped around for a second look. I'd seen something odd laying on the ground, in that nether-world between the bike lane and the grass, in the sandy area where only the hardiest of weeds grew, where glass and nails collected. What was it? I couldn't tell. It was black, flat black, pitch black, tar black, and about the size of a small kitten or large rat. Completely hairless, it lay in unnatural repose on its back, with arms and legs out-flung. I was past it so quickly I didn't have time to take in all the details, and it occupied my imagination throughout the rest of the ride. When I passed on the opposite side of the road on the way back, I watched for it, but, foreshadowing times to come, I didn't cross for a second look.


Some people go through life with a continual sense of wonder, others are just counting the days. When I got home, I couldn't wait to describe my strange and exotic find to BF, but, predictably, he wasn't interested. My story trailed into nothingness. Whatever the thing was, though, I couldn't stop thinking about this alien creature, striving to come up with a plausible explanation for it, a taxonomic description of it. I anxiously awaited my next ride, and the following evening I rounded the corner with almost unbearable anticipation. I expected the thing to be further down the road of decomposition, putrefication, melting away to nothing like that dog last summer, hit by a car and hidden by the canopy of trees from nature's undertakers, the vultures. Over the weeks, the dog had gradually vanished, dissolved by the harsh Florida summer elements until all that remained was a grease stain on the road. But the mystery thing, it was not there, not there, not there, wait! Twenty feet down the road, resting gently on its back in the long grass, there it lay, unaffected by the weather, untouched by scavengers, unchanged. I tried to examine it as I went by- matte black, hairless, with a long, gently-curled tail and rounded ears, maybe a vaguely pointed snout, not so much cat-like as rat-like. But why didn't it have fur? It seemed almost...unborn. And why was it so completely black? Had it been, could it possibly have been dipped in tar?


Over the course of my next few rides, a set of rules of engagement developed: no stopping to examine it, no going back for a second look, no crossing the road to look again on the way home. I could only gather as much information as one pass would allow. But I never really learned anything beyond my initial observations. By the third or fourth visit, the thing had acquired a descriptive name: Tar Baby Rat Fetus. And now, with a name, it became a fixture of my rides: a landmark, an inanimate animal that I spoke to in passing like the other creatures on my route. "Hi Cowies, Hi Mr. Turtle, Hi Tar Baby Rat Fetus." BF would inquire about my ride, and I would say "Tar Baby Rat Fetus is still there." And it always was, fixed and unchanging, a constant. I introduced it to my new road bike. "Lava, this is Tar Baby Rat Fetus. I don't know what it is, but there it is."


Weeks passed, summer almost turned to fall, and one Sunday evening, BF and I were on our way to dinner at our friends'. As we drove by The Spot, I told him to watch out the window for Tar Baby Rat Fetus. I desperately wanted them to meet. I don't know if he didn't look hard enough, but he couldn't spot it, and neither could I. The next evening, I set off on my ride as usual. Halfway through, something in me shifted- I experienced a sea change. No longer content to merely pass by, I had this urge not only to stop when I came to Tar Baby Rat Fetus, but to take its picture, with my cell phone camera. Imagine my excitement! I felt as though I knew the location of, and was about to establish proof of something fantastic and unbelievable, a legend, like the Loch Ness Monster, or the Abominable Snowman. I rounded the corner, already unclipped, and Fred Flintstone'd to a stop.


But Tar Baby Rat Fetus was not there. There was no longer anything to document. I searched in vain up and down the shoulder of the road. Gone, definitely gone. Where would it go? Where _could_ it go? I didn't think anyone would kidnap it- heck, I was probably the only one who paid it any attention or even noticed it at all. Then it came to me. Saturday, as I rode a triangle of three small towns, I had passed a road clean-up crew, picking up trash from a golf cart. I'd passed them going out, and coming back, then continued past my usual turn, and passed them a third time on my way back home. I waved at them, they waved at me as they weaved through the long grass in the ditch and out to the bike lane, picking up everything that didn't belong. That was it then, Tar Baby Rat Fetus had been tonged up like a piece of trash. Like an empty beer can, a single flattened shoe or an crushed cigarette pack, tossed into the blackness of a slick black garbage bag. Into a black sack, like the black of Tar Baby Rat Fetus' smooth hairless skin, and it was gone, never again to see the light of day. I felt a pang of regret in my heart. I am going to miss you, Tar Baby Rat Fetus! Why hadn't I ever stopped to solve the mystery? I know why. Because I had preferred Tar Baby Rat Fetus to remain an enigma, rather than find a simple explanation for its inscrutable existence. Now it was going to be a mystery forever. Maybe it's better that way.


There's always tomorrow, though. I'll keep my eyes wide open as I round the corner, and maybe, just maybe...

 

[tom e]

Cool story!
I saw some graffiti recently that read, "Tar Baby Rat Fetus Lives!!"
Well, not really, but I do kind of expect to now..

I dig your stories too Dave! For some reason I didn't see them when I first opened the thread..

I've got something I'll post when I get home, but it's kind of a silly food review really.. I wrote it when I was bored in Iraq eating an MRE, and it occured to me that someone needed to write a review of them..

 

[Nanci]

Bizarro Ride

Yesterday was my first "cold weather" ride of the year. I was expecting a temp at the start of about 50F, heating up to 75F by the end if I was lucky. It was hard to choose what to wear, but I settled on running knickers over Trashy Cat satin shorts, a long sleeve jersey, Early Winters fleece jacket with windblock on the fronts of the arms and the whole front, and Mountain Hardwear windblock hat instead of a helmet. (Paved trail). Oh, and stretchy gloves instead of bike gloves.

You can't imagine how much I look forward to my long rides- hours and hours of uninterrupted Podcast listening time. I confess, I am an addict. I leave one earphone out so I can hear my surroundings, but the talk of triathlon training, wine tasting, and everything bike is so relaxing and entertaining that my riding hours fly by, as long as I have my Podcasts. There's this one Podcast, Zen and the Art of Triathlon, where the guy often talks as he rides, and it's almost like I'm there with him, riding the dusty roads of Texas.

It seemed to take forever for daylight to arrive. I got packed up, and brought my Camelback just in case, though I don't drink that much in cold weather, and thought I could survive from one little store to the next with just a single bottle. The drive to the trail is about 50 miles, and I carry my bike on a rack. When I arrived at the trail, I took my bike off the rack and immediately discovered that the left aerobar pad had fallen off somewhere along the way. How disappointing- the aerobars were only a couple months old and fairly expensive. ($40 to replace the pad, it turns out.) Oh well. I decided against the Camelback, and loaded up all my snacks into the Bento Box. Should I take my little camera? No, not enough room. Never see anything new, anyway.

I can't believe how cold the wind is! I am so glad I am wearing all the windproof stuff. I had planned on riding about 60 miles, but with gas as high as it is, and the sun coming out and heating me up without broiling me like it does in the summer, I decide to do 70 instead. Passing a little park on the left, I see a bunch of food stands and carnival rides. The smells of Kettle Korn and barbecue tempt me as I pass. What is going on? Oh yeah, Cooter Days!

My bottle of Gatorade lasts through the first 35 miles, and I plan on stopping at a little store for a refill. Road shoes are not made for walking. Especially when, like me, you insist on putting on SPD mountain bike cleats so all your shoes go with all your pedals on all your bikes. My shoes are a pair of bargain basement Sidis from Sierra Trading Post. I couldn't afford the red Sidi Dom MTB shoes, so settled on a pair of road shoes. Some things I like- they are super light, very stiff, my feet take a lot longer to get numb, and they are roomy and stretchy and comfy. Some things I HATE. Like how you can't just step on the pedal and stick there until you can click in. You have to either hit the pedal just right, or the slick road shoe sole goes skidding off the pedal, and you rack yourself with all your might on the top tube- geez that hurts!!! Or how you can't walk up the metal ramp to your shed- it's like a skating rink. Or how, walking up to the store, little dogs run in fright from the strange clacking sound of your steps. I opt for a bottle of green tea, and take off home.

But soon I notice my right foot is really float-y. Like too float-y. I think my pedal spring must be getting loose, so I stop to check. But I can't even unclip that foot. So I have to take my shoe off. I turn my bike upside down in the grass. Apparently, one of the screws holding the cleat to the shoe has come off, and the other screw is loose, allowing the shoe to spin, but not unclip. A nice kid stops to help. We bust the shoe off, but can't get the cleat out of the pedal. An older man and his wife on their tandem stop, but are baffled. I shed layer upon layer of my windproof clothing, sweating now, and marvel at how the millions of ants I have planted my bike in aren't biting. Finally, a 71 year old man stops. He manages to get the cleat out, and even has a temporary fix! Yes, if you lose a screw from your cleat, the bottle cage screws are the same size. Amazing. He tells me that at age 71, he has just done his first Century ride last week. His average speed is several mph higher than mine. I am tired of elderly people kicking my ***!

I'm off again, planning to stop at a bike shop in about 10 miles for some replacement screws. There is a little traffic on the trail. I am coming up behind an odd-looking character. He is wearing what appears to be a floppy sombrero, long olive drab pants and a flapping, long-sleeve matching jacket. As I very slowly catch up to him, I see his bike careen off the paved trail, swerve wildly but not go down, and swerve back onto the trail. "Great save!" I plan on telling him as I pass. But my words die in my mouth as he glances back at me. His face looks like a skull surrounded by long gray wispy hair. He wants to ride on the left side, but moves over to the right as I go to pass. Right as I pass, he swerves to the left, narrowly missing me. I accelerate, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing. Did he do it on purpose?

Now I am riding scared. The trail is empty except for me and Creepy Guy. But geez, he's riding a million years old Kmart mountain bike, held together with duct tape. He's about 60 years old, or maybe just looks it. Never-the-less, I decide to book out of there. I'm riding as fast as I can without collapsing- 17, 19, 21 mph. I'm breathing like a racehorse. I'm pretending I'm in a race. Then I come to a tore-up road that I have to cross. My plan to veer off to the right doesn't pan out- there is an eight-inch drop down to the gravel which I am afraid to do on a road bike. I unclip (thank God my cleat holds!) and hurry across the two-lane lime rock road, heedless of traffic. Get on, take for freaking ever to clip back in, and set off at a fast pace. And guess who passes me, glancing back with his skull-like blank expression. Creepy Guy.

Ok, I have a new plan. I will drop back, let him go on. I observe his strange passing etiquette several times. Ride on the left, move to the right to allow someone to pass, swerve suddenly back behind the bike that just passed. Ok, maybe it's just his thing. I almost start to relax. I am wondering how women protect themselves from someone on a bike, who can out-ride them. Pepper spray? Taser? Finally, civilization. Creepy Guy, who has been gradually slowing, takes a hard left down a sidewalk into town. We're right in the middle of Cooter Days. I keep going to the bike shop a block further, and turn off the trail. Creepy guy, having circled around behind me, goes careening past.

Now I am officially scared. I go into the shop, ask for a bottle cage screw. I ask if they are familiar with a strange-looking man in a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Nope, never seen him before. I explain that he has been following me. They apparently don't want to discuss it. I drag myself out of the shop, and scan the crowd for signs of the man. I don't see him. I have 15 miles to get to my car. I worry about the last seven miles of the trail, through the woods, ending in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, where I am almost always the last car to leave. I fantasize about asking someone for a ride to my car, maybe even offering my last $8 as payment.

But I decide to tough it out, die at the hands of a serial killer if I have to. I ride about a mile, and see the familiar sight of a sheriff's car, coming down the trail! I am filled with happiness. I stop next to him, and he continues to talk into his radio. "Yeah, they're coming now. I have the Field Service Techs waiting for them at the road crossings." Is it a gang of creepy guys, with a SWAT team preparing to intercept them? The deputy finally turns his attention to me. I describe Creepy Guy. He hasn't seen him, but will watch for him. He says "If I were you, I'd get off the trail for ten or fifteen minutes..." (but I already have, I think, at the bike shop) "...there's a cattle drive coming."

What??? Yes, now I see there are a bunch of horses across the road, on both sides of the trail. I cross to their side. 100 feet away, I see even more horses, and a milling herd of longhorn cattle. Good thing I didn't bring my camera! I edge even further into the trees on the side of the trail. The cattle ooze off the pavement to my side of the road. I cross to the other side. They are about 50 feet away. As soon as I settle in, they swarm over to my new side. Cowboys whoop at them, and a few strays trickle in and out of the trees. I cower (is that where that word comes from?) back even further into the trees. Soon the cows are even with me- big liquid eyes showing fright. This is not routine, and they definitely aren't expecting a strangely-dressed being in the woods. (I know how they feel!) I call out to them- "Hey cowies, it's ok, I won't hurt you, it's ok, go on." You can see it in their eyes, they aren't really sure I'm safe to pass, but there are men on horses and barking dogs and they have bigger things to worry about.

The passing of the herd has lightened my mood. I forge on, kind of fast, but saving some reserve speed just in case. Not that it would do any good. Lance Armstrong can catch me any time he wants. Out in the middle of nowhere, I glance behind me, and have quite a shock before my brain can compute that the quickly-approaching rider is actually another one of those elderly speedsters in a bright yellow and black jersey, not a flapping swerving creepy guy. I try to keep up with him the last five miles, but can't quite do it. Still, through extreme effort, I keep him in sight until the last mile. I wonder how far a human scream will carry.

Then finally I am back safe in the parking lot, and Yellow Man is packing up his bike, and Nice Mom and Kid are trying out roller blades. I am safe at last.

 

[Snake Dave]

Great stories Nanci! Keep 'em coming!

Oh and thanks Tom, I appreciate it.

 

[Maize411]

These are all wonderful stories! Well I was surfing youtube and I started to listen to some native american music..mostly about wolves...So I've been inspired to try and actually write a story that I have been working on for a very long time..This is a story that I hope to make a book and who knows maybe a movie or something some day...Either way..Tell me what you guys think..Here is a link to a cover I made for when and if I do make it a book:http://ladypicies.deviantart.com/art/Capo-book-cover-66704415 :0)

Please be aware that this will be just a short introductory into the story..If you guys like it as I think up more I will make it regular thing to post more..let me know what you think..

Capo
by:
Desirea J.

The sun set that winter's evening the same way it has for winters past. The cold air blew through the trees, sending the loose branches to the ground, a gentle snow started to fall. A warning of the storm that was quickly approaching. All the creatures had retreated to their dens and homes for the night with the exception of the deer in this part of the forest. The deer were foolish creatures that never made dens for themselves, they just padded through rain and snow always on the look out for predators that might be eying them for a next meal.

Near the forest edge where the trees stop to make way for the mighty rocks of the mountains a figure stands on a cliff's edge. The moon shining down on him revealing a powerful looking alpha wolf. In the moonlight he almost appeared silver in color more clear light would show that he was in fact just a delicate mix of gray and white. He was very strongly built, his muscles easily made out from under his heavy winter pelt. His fur was long and soft to the touch. His markings struck a close resemblence to that of a husky but his coloring and build told anyone who knew dogs and wolves otherwise. He was Sabio, leader of the Westland Pack. He stood at the entrance to his den, keeping an extra careful watch on this bitter cold night. The snow didn't even seem to phaze him. His yellow eyes shined in the moonlight as he gazed over his territory, every now and then giving a concerned gaze towards the den.

Inside the den was the cause for Sabio's concerns. Renza, his mate was preparing to deliver their last litter of pups for the season. This litter had come more late then they had hoped and so Sabio and Renza knew this was going to be hard winter for both them and their new pups. Renza's coat was a mix of gray, white and brown. Her eyes were a deep brown almost mixing with her black pupils. She layed in the corner of her den, every now and then rising to dig at the corner, attempting to make it as comfortable for her and the pups as possible. Lera, Renza's sister sat close by comforting her sibling in her time of need. Lera's coat was a mix of patchy brown and white that almost made her look like a german shepherd dog. Her eyes were a bright yellow and gave anyone who looked into them long enough a feeling of comfort and aw. "Don't worry Renza, the time is coming quick, it will all be over soon." Renza licked her sister's paw gratefully. She was so lucky to have such a caring sister.

As Sabio sat outside in the frosty night, his ears perked at the slightest sound, he could hear the night birds calling to one another, the quick flutter of bat wings as the bats from a nearby cavern were leaving their nest for the night to hunt. Similar to the wolves, the night was their day, their best time to find food. Sabio remembered when his pack used to be able to hunt both by day and night, but ever since the humans started pushing further and further into their lands, they've had to keep their hunting times until late into the night when Sabio knew that humans had long stopped coming out for the day. Suddenly his thoughts were broken by the sound of his mate's painful howl, her howl was mixed with the sound of tiny cries. Sabio stood quickly his tail wagging, the snow that had settled on his coat shaking off him in his happiness. A few moments later Lera came to the entrance of the cave. "How is she? Was her delivery okay? How many?" His questions came out almost like an anxious wolf pup preparing to try meat for the first time, he pranced around barely able to control his built up anticipation. Lera gazed at him with her gentle expression, a soft smile over her maw. "Renza is fine, and you are the proud father of three beautiful cubs." Sabio licked her thankfully, letting out a side of him that not many get to see. He rolled around happily in the snow and as he rose he gave a happy and grateful howl to the moon, letting his pack members in the area know that things had gone well. He then turned back to Lera, a little calmer and collected once more. "Thank you Lera". She nodded to her leader and padded off back towards her den for the night. Sabio stepped into the den, His eyes widening to take in any available light in the darkness. As he approached his new family he saw Renza lying contentedly on her side, and his three new pups were already nursing on her, a promising sign that they just might pull through the winter.

One pup showed signs that he was going to be solid brown in color, this would make for a great advantage for hunting. Though he was the smallest he seemed to already portray the dominance of a leader as he pushed his brother aside with his nose. The second pup was also a male. He showed signs of having a gray and whitish coat like that of his father. As his smaller brother pushed him he acceptingly retreated and found another source to drink upon. The third pup was a female. She showed definite signs that her fur was going to be jet black. He gazed at her for a moment, her tiny whimpers filling his ears, there was something about her that he could sense. As he watched them, the smallest pup, tired of his current location seeked to push his sister aside and take her place of feeding. The black female acted upon this immediately, pushing her brother aside and continuing her feeding happily.

Sabio gazed at Renza. "She's a tough one and has good spirit". Renza nodded looking down and licking her pups one by one still cleaning them from their delivery. "What shall we call them"? Renza gazed at them for a moment contemplating the thought for a moment. "I will call the smallest one Ranz". Sabio nodded in agreement with the name. "Then I'll name the other male". He thought for a long moment, gazing at his son in thought. "I shall call him Kail". Renza smiled and gave Kail a gentle lick. "That is a fine name". Then I shall name our daughter". She gazed at the black female pup. Her eyes glued to the small body and the expression on the pup's face. Though the pups could not see or smell yet, the female seemed to already have a good feeling of the space around her. She almost acted more alpha then her brothers. Renza smiled a bit and looked at her mate. "Capo". Her mate gazed at her as if thinking of the name for a moment. He then gazed his daughter once more. "Capo it is then". He gently stepped towards his new pups licking them gently as they cuddled close to their mother, each of them having eaten to their fill and now enjoyed the silence as they rested with their loving parents. Dreaming of what their futures would bring. Sons and daughter of the leaders of the Westland Pack.

End of Part 1

Sorry it's soooo long...like I said..I do want to make this a book eventually :0)