VACANT novel Chapter 8

"It was a normal night, like all the other nights. We had dinner, and we went to bed but they never made it to breakfast. "

The wind blew furiously across the field, and the fire flames roared with passion, their colours ranging from orange to blue. She peered long and hard into the embers, her yearning to learn more about the pack's past intensifying.

This was her favourite part of the bonfire, as well as the history and traditions of the Claw Pack. She was well aware of how history might be distorted through propaganda in order to promote the interests of those with vested interests.

She constantly compared it to how fairy tales were told, since there were always two sides to every narrative. How they wanted you to hear certain portions, how they planned to build a magical place with magical animals living in peace and harmony. She was well aware that it was never about what had occurred, but rather about how it had occurred.

They told the stories of how it transpired in her pack. The elders in her pack were wise and filled with stories that would keep her tamed for the next three winters. They were storytellers, each giving a story from their own point of view, as they perceived things. Every year, the elders, who included ancient warriors, doctors, and a few heads, would deliver a story.

Elder Wilton was the featured speaker this year. He was the oldest of the bunch, having lived for three centuries. He was a warrior, and she believed he told the best stories.

Footsteps echoed across the field, and all that could be heard was the wind roaring. The tingling fragrance of wood and cinnamon roused them all, and they bowed slightly in respect to the elderly who sat on the ground in front of the pack. The pack trailed behind The Heads, and the talk began all over again. A shudder raced up her spine as she watched the elderly chat amongst themselves, but her gaze was fixed on Elder Marcus Wilton.

His gold-brown eyes gazed over the pack, his grey hair that floated across his back now being blown slightly with the harsh wind, and she couldn't help but be in awe of the man. He was three hundred years old, although he appeared to be in his fifties to her.

"Many names recognised us, some named us pelts, some only remembered our sharp claws, not like they couldn't, they left marks," he said, reaching out his hands to the flames in comfort.

Alanis could feel herself slipping into the story, into his soft words, and she nearly forgot why she hadn't returned.

Nearly.

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