Lost Creek Hollow Nemo Sine Vitio Est

Tell her a story. Gannet had never been good at finding stories, let alone telling them. He didn't know what made one good or bad, or what details needed included and what left out. Oftentimes he would forget the one he was telling was not in his head to know what had happened. It had always been an uncomfortable thing, but it helped that she asked for any story. It did not need to be good.

He did not have the ability to make up tales, but he could tell something that had happened. Maybe a story of home.

Okay. He said quietly, then thought for a minute. He knew the one he could give. When I was young, we were outside the den. Whip and Ferret dad and mom and I, in Redhawk Caldera. A huge cloud of bugs came, probably the loudest thing I've ever heard. I was scared, but Ferret and dad weren't. Eventually they went away, but after, things were hungry. He looked at the grass they stood on, remembering how the insects had eaten most of the green away. They didn't taste so good, but we ate them. It was a bit of a downer story, mainly because he had left out a slew of packmates and the fact that they'd played with the bugs for a time as well. But it was real and it happened, and it was one of the clearest memories he had of his parents. Especially his dad, standing guard, firm against the hoppers and ready with a laugh. He missed that.