It has been nearly ten days since WolfSinger freed the Jupani slaves, in which time they have bound each other's wounds, scavenged the Kavi slavers' wagons for food and supplies and small valuables, repaired enough sandshoes to cross the desert, and set off to where the black wolfen female tells Wolfsinger is 'home'. Two days ago the Jupanis struck the lowlands, escaping the treacherous desert, and now Kahanoohr seems excited as she sniffs the wind. " – Close! (something) close now! – " Her Lupine language continues to sound odd in Wolfsinger's ears, the effects of thousands of years of divergence.

The other Jupanis wag their tails and loll their tongues at the news; a few break away to run ahead and bring the news.

Yips from the distance, short but joyful, sound that the pack knows that Wolfsinger, Kahanoohr, and the others come.

WolfSinger howls out a greeting to the others. ARRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

WolfSinger's tail wags excitedly.

Virro's tongue hangs out at a comical angle as she joins with the howl! Ahhhh-RrrrrrrrRRRRROOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOO!

Kahanoohr joins in, "AROOooooo! ArooooO?" The second howl seems to be a question… Answered by a male voice calling back.

WolfSinger cocks his head to the side curiously, trying to discern what she called out.

A huskier howl arises from the group. "ArrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRooooooo"

Shortly therafter, a welcoming party crests the hill, coming to meet Wolfsinger and his company. Most are clad in little, just loincloths, but the chief among them wears leather robes with finely sewn beadwork. "Kahanooohr!" the chief calls out. " – Father! – " The black wuffen runs ahead to meet him.

WolfSinger looks at Kahanoohr, and then bounds up ahead with her.

The chief, his fur growing white, and wrinkles showing in his skin, smiles sunnily, as he hugs Kahanoohr. "The Ring has blessed us greatly in bringing you back to us!"

The chief stands tall and raises an arm. "Tonight… we shall FEAST!"

A white-mantled figure follwos the group. Two apprentices trail her, carrying an assortment of objects. "Hrrf-wlcome, Kahanoohr," the long and low howl comes. A fan of beaded feathers is waved over the wuffen's head.

He turns to WolfSinger. "Were you the one who saved these fine ladies?"

Kahanoohr says, "It was this stranger!" She gestures toward WolfSinger, looking a touch proprietary. "He came on a shooting star… He freed us with so much anger and rage I thought those Dagh-taken slavers would faint before his claws!" The quick exchange of tribal Lupine gives WolfSinger some confusion as to what is being said, but she mentions his name in the long explanation.

WolfSinger looks around curiously, taking in all his surroundings.

The rest of the party wags their tail toward the chief and the approaching mantled wolf, though they must be dusty and yearning to bath and refresh themselves.

WolfSinger nods to the Chief, his ears flushing red at the story Kahanoohr tells of him.

The Shamaness waves her fan toward Wolfsinger and mutter something to herself. A fine mist of sparkles drifts from the end of the fan. "Stharr-born?" she asks, skepticism lacing her voice.

The chief talks quickly in Tribal Lupine, faster than Wolfsinger can catch. He asks questions about the shooting star, and the slavers. Satisfied, he shakes his head. "I know not how the First Ones brought you, Wolfsinger, but glad I am that you have returned my daughters."

WolfSinger says, "I come from a land very far away."

WolfSinger he stops for a moment, thinking how to describe a starship.

The chief nods amiably, and listens.

"Fahrr? Muchfahrr away?" The shamaness' accent is thick and almost untranslatable. She makes a furtive gesture toward one of the assistants.

WolfSinger says, "I was flying a ship that can travel between the stars. I was attacked by pirates, and forced to come here for safety."

Kahanoohr blinks. "Like an *untranslatable*?" She gestures with a fist and a flat palm to indicate something floating over the ground.

The chief nods. "Many *untranslatables* have flown over us."

WolfSinger says, "The creatures that took your daughter prisoner happend to be traveling by. They tried to capture me, also. "

WolfSinger says, "After a fierce battle, we stood victorious."

"*untranslatables* are *untranslatable*," mutters the Shamaness. One of her assistants nods. "*untranslatable* medicine," he adds.

"They were 'Kavis'," Kahanoohr says viciously. "They tricked us with some kind of *untranslatable*. Foul slavers!"

WolfSinger looks at the Shamaness curiously, trying to guess at what she is saying.

The Shamaness gives WolfSinger a smile that shows all of her teeth.

The chief's eyes grow wide. "Kavis? *untranslatable* (possibly -ungood-?), every one!"

WolfSinger says, "My only regret wass that I was not able to save more of your packmates."

The chief turns to Kahanoohr. "Stay closer to home when you *untranslatable*." His language moves faster, and you catch the phrases 'slaver', 'howling range', 'pack can rescue'.

There are some mutters among the group as the more linguistically skilled translate for the others.

"Better death than slavery!" Kahanoohr says, spitting into the dirt. Then whines a little at the chief at his admonition. "But faaather… "

The chief looks stern. "And better to bring all *untranslatable* than to see you either."

The chief smiles, showing no teeth. "But first… we FEAST!"

The Shamaness waves her fan and mutters, "The *untranslatable* ceremony should begin. It would be *untranslatable*garble* to let the guest go notblessed."

Kahanoohr droops her ears… Then perks them up again, hugging her father. (he's so easy to distract)

WolfSinger smiles at Kahanoohr and her father.

Kahanoohr reaches out and takes WolfSinger's hand. "Come on!"

The chief hugs his daughter back. "The sun, the ring, the stars, and the *untranslatable* have *untranslatable* blessed me, for you were dead, and now you are alive."

A cheerful howl arises from the group as they re-form and head down to the valley. Fires can be seen winking below.

WolfSinger goes with her, tail wagging happily.

The chief carries a torch, leading people toward the communal feast.

The feast is simple but plentiful, the bounty of the land and the forest of the lowlands of Himar. Venison. Legumes soaked in water and baked to swell them up, studded with thin rods of something sweet. Beans and other greens mixed into a spicy salad. Something like ham. Kahanoohr sits to the left of the Chief, Wolfsinger on her left, and the Shamaness sits on the right.

Howls from below, obviously celebrating the homecoming, rise in the air. The group howls back, conveying something. Occasionally words can be made out in the long wolfsong: 'blessing', 'return', 'food', and, ominiously, 'challenge'.

Kahanoohr digs into the food with, well, a wolf's appetite, as do the others who were rescued. *MUNCHGOBBLEEATCHEWCHEWDEVOUR* (but daintily, of course)

WolfSinger sits down quietly, watching the cerimony.

The chief raises a wooden mug of of fermented juice. "To the tribe! May it grow and *untranslatable!*" Wolf howls and yelps express their approval.

"Arooo!" Kahanoohr says in agreement with that, then looks over to WolfSinger to make sure that he knows to take part in the toast as well.

A young female stands up and makes another toast. Her words are not clear, but the reaction of the crowd indicates that it's a rather ribald toast. Mugs of wood and hide are waved toward WolfSinger and a loud howl goes up. The Shamnaness and her apprentices scowl.

WolfSinger howls out in happines with Kahanoohr's encouraging.

Kahanoohr giggles and pushes WolfSinger's mug toward his hand.

The chief laughs heartily and approvingly at the toast.

WolfSinger blinkblinks? He takes the mug in his hand and takes a sip.

At the teasing, Kahanoohr's ears go back a little. She mock-glares at the teaser, then laughs and swishes her tail.

The mead tastes sweet, as if not completely fermented, but it is alcoholic.

WolfSinger whispers to Kahanoohr, "what did she say?"

Kahanoohr whispers back, "She wished us *untranslatable*." She tilts her ears as WolfSinger doesn't seem to have gotten it yet, then tries to think of another way to put it. "Many cubs."

The chief smiles to Wolfsinger. "Have the people of *untranslatable* hunted out their small *untranslatable*?"

Another female rises and makes a joke, somewhat more understandable, about a warrior and a virgin male. A chorus of loud guffaws greets this, and the teaser wiggles her hips. Someone begins clapping rhythmically and the prankster begins a stomping sort of dance, waving her mug and prancing around.

Kahanoohr actually seems to be blushing a little from her mannerisms.

WolfSinger's ears flush bright red as he chuckles to himslef.

Two strong males leap from their bench, and join in with the stomping dance, twirling around the female, and each trying to outdo the other.

The dancer wag-wags her tail, thumping it lightly against the legs of the males who join in the dance. The audience claps and sings in long, tuneful howls. The shamaness mutters to her asistants who slip off into the dark.

WolfSinger smiles at the chief. "I beg your pardon? I don't quite understand.

The chief's ears droop, and he repats the question to Kahanoohr, in a more gutteral language.

Kahanoohr looks puzzled at the question. "*Untranslatable* 'Rephidim'?" she asks of the Chief. "I don't know… "

One male, wearing a red loincloth, spins madly about her, leaps over her tail, and pants slightly.

WolfSinger tilts his head to the side, listening to the conversation between the chief and his daughter.

The chief tilts his head. "Did not WolfSinger come from *untranslatable*?"

Kahanoohr turns to WolfSinger and asks, "My father wants to know, did you come from 'Rephidim'?"

The fire suddenly flares, blue and white – the crowd freezes!

Kahanoohr blinks at the flare!

The chief looks up, and peers at the flare.

WolfSinger yips! as the sudden flare in the fire startles him. He answers Kahanoohr, "No. the land I come from is called Rydian."

WolfSinger smiles at the pyrotechnics, his tail wagging happily.

The two dancers stop prancing, and stare, concernedly, at the fire.

The fire roars high, white and blue, and the dancers freeze and then fall back. The Shamaness rises. "Speech by firestorm!" she announces. "Fires say tongue *untranslatable*." She points to the waggint tail. "SEE?" she rasps.

WolfSinger suddenly looks a bit concerned.

Kahanoohr whispers, "It's an omen!" She tugs on WolfSinger's arm and says, "Whenever the Shamaness points to someone, it means they have been chosen for *untranslatable* or *untranslatable*. I wonder what the *untranslatable* want?"

WolfSinger says, "i have been chosen?"

The chief looks concerned. He barks at the shamaness, in a deep voice. Not a word gets translated.

The little dancer shakes her head and snaps at the Shaman, "No! *Untrnslatable* *verb-to-be* Rephidiannnnnra if not shown."

WolfSinger looks between the Shamaness and the chief, trying to guess what they are saying.

"You must be *untranslatable* for something great," Kahanoohr whispers urgently. "You came by a shooting star… "

WolfSinger quietly listens, not daring to interrupt the Shammeness or the chief.

The chief awaits an answer.

The Shamaness draws herself upright and points to the fire. "Fire lies not," she announces and clutches a beaded bag to her. Her assistants, who have reappeared, sit at her feet, eyes awe-stricken at the bag. She slowly withdraws a small handfull of white objects; bones; from the bag. "*untranslatable* not lie. See?" She flings the bones in the fire, and the flames burn blue and roar like a thousand bees.

Kahanoohr trembles and watches the Shamaness with some fear. What can this mean?

The chief stands. "I cannot believe *(no-good??)* of he who saved my daughter."

WolfSinger whispers to Kahanoohr. "what is happening?"

The Shamaness points at the fire. "*verb-possibly-doubt* sign from *possibly a name*? Proof needs you?"

The black wolfen freezes near WolfSinger. "She says you are *untranslatable*. Bad luck for the tribe. The *untranslatable* say so! But there must be another… "

The chief crosses his arms in front of himself. "*possibly name* has spoken, but *noun* is uncertain. Possibly a *noun* of great evil, possibly great good."

Kahanoohr insists, "He is good! A brave warrior like none other!" Her hackles are standing. "He cannot be *untranslatable* of evil!"

WolfSinger's ears and tail droop.

The Shamaness points to a distant tree, stripped of all its leaves and standing inthe middle of a circle of stones. "*possibly name* not-lie. Proof in *possibly test or challenge*. *something*-daughter, you speak with eyes of *untranslatable* but you are not full of years. Still, I will *howl-something. Let him *heaven-knows-what,but-it-sounds-ominous."

The black wolf female droops her ears and tail at the Shamaness's admonition.

WolfSinger looks at Kahanoohr for a translation.

The chief nods, satisfied. "Agreed. That proof allows *name* to show if Wolfsinger be *untranslatable-good?* or *untranslatable*."

Kahanoohr tells WolfSinger, "You must go on *still sounds ominous* to prove you are *untranslatable* of good. The Shamaness will tell you what you must do… "

The Shamaness simply points at the tree that gleams palely in the darkness. "*name-thing*," is all she says.

WolfSinger looks directly at the Shamaness.

The chief turns to WolfSinger. "It is settled. In the morning, shall you prove *untranslatable-ominous*, and let *name?* tell all what the *sign?* means."

The Shamaness simply points. It is both a sneer and a challenge. Her grin, which might be interpreted as friendly or supportive or even hostile, shows all her very long and very white fangs.

WolfSinger nervously steps forward, looking the Shamaness in the eyes.

The chief sits, and watches WolfSinger and the Shamaness.

The Shamaness' assistants step in front of their mistress, chins raised, hackles raised. One silently offers cords and a bone needle.

Kahanoohr cringes a bit and calls to WolfSinger, "Don't… " She knows it's dangerous to challenge the Shamaness.

WolfSinger says, "I do not quite understand what you want me to do. The tounge of our ancestors has changed greatly over the years, but I will do my best to prove to you I am not evil."

The chief, from his position, says, "*name* will prove. She guides us."

The Shamaness leads the way toward the tree, her assistants wait. One of them hangs a small bag around Wolfsinger's neck and then points toward the tree.

Even the dancer seems to accept the notion of the challenge. She brings a mug toward WolfSinger, which is intercepted by one of the assistants.

WolfSinger walks toward the tree. he looks at the bag curiously.

The bag is light in WolfSinger's hands and smells rather odd; not unpleasant, but not pleasant – a sort of earthy herbal smell unlike any scent he's encountered before.

The festival feeling has fallen. Several wolves take food as they walk into the night to their dens.

Kahanoohr brushes past an assistant, risking the Shamaness's glare… She whispers urgently to WolfSinger. "The *untranslatable* tree. You must drink of its *untranslatable*. It is what young cubs do to become *untranslatable* adult… "

"Then they go on an *untranslatable but still sounds ominous* in the morning… " Kahanoohr finishes. She touches WolfSinger's arm and looks into his eyes deeply.

WolfSinger ears twitch. He understands it to be some rite of passage ritual.

WolfSinger says, "I must drink of the the tree's what?"

The chief says, his ears flicking forward. "In the evening, we shall either *happy?* your translation, or *sadness?* your passing."

Some of the pack move the stones aside, leaving a narrow aisle that affords entrance through the circle to the tree.

Kahanoohr spreads her hand. "Its blood… " she hazards.

WolfSinger blinks? "Drink of tree's blood? You mean it's sap?

Kahanoohr nods, not quite positively.

The shamaness waves her hand over the cup of drink, which promptly turns a very deep red; the color of dried blood.

WolfSinger looks at the Shamness curiously, not fully understanding.

Kahanoohr stands at the edge of the fire circle, watching WolfSinger be taken toward the tree…

The Shamaness raises her hands to the sky, silvery fur limned against the pale starlight. She howls an invocation, long and low. The others join her in the song to the sky; one word, a name of some sort, all vowels. The ragged chorus settles into a long harmony, almost like an African tribal wsong… if they had heard of such things.

The howl, long and mournful, becomes an interwoven melody of the Name.

The chief adds himself to the wolven chorus – singing in eerie harmony with all, following the undulating waves of the melody.

WolfSinger glances between the others, wondering if he should join in the song or not.

From the hills, the woven chorus of voices continue – even the guards on watch join the solemn invocation.

WolfSinger looks at the tree, wondering it's part in the ritual.

The song dies away, low and soft, and soon it seems as though only the wind sings the Name of the One, over and over again. The Shamaness makes another gesture.

One assistant ties a bag of herbs around WolfSinger's neck. The container smells similar to the other herb pouch he carries.

One assistant ties a cord around Wolfsinger's paws, tightly enough that he cannot move them. She does not tie the ends, leaving it easy for WolfSinger to remove them, if he so chooses.

The chief stands, and motions to Kahanoohr. "Come, *daughter? girl?*. We have much to *howl?* about."

WolfSinger lets her ties the cords around his wrists. He smiles slightly.

The Shamaness leads WolfSinger to the tree as the crowd falls back. Torches are placed at six points around the ring of stones and the assistants rub the torches with something from a salve jar.

Kahanoohr's tail droops a bit. "I don't believe he's *untranslatable* of evil… " she mutters to the chief, but walks alongside with him.

With a swift gesture, the Shamaness stabs the tree, roaring out somethig about war and death. Surprisingly, a gush of liquid emerges from the tree – a strong stream, like water from a hose.

WolfSinger says, "drink from the blood of the tree" he mutters to himself."

One assistant holds the cup briefly under the stream of liquid and then gives it to the Shamaness. She takes a long, slow sip, then gives the cup to WolfSinger. Taking a long step back, she leaves the circle and the others rush to close it with the stones they took from the perimeter.

WolfSinger sniffs at the mug.

He slowly takes a sip.

The crowd watches. The Shamaness indicates he should drain the cup.

The drink is oddly sap-like; as though he took a mouthful of weeds.

WolfSinger swallows the sip, then starts to drink the rest, not letting up.

He then offers the mug to one of the assistants.

The warriors look impressed at the display of strength of drinking the potion so quickly.

The crowd falls silent, and something begins whispering on the wind. The Shamaness' mouth seems to move for a moment and then becomes still, but the voices tease and whisper around WolfSinger's ears.

WolfSinger's ears swivel to and fro, trying to find the source of the sound.

At a gesture from the Shaman, the crowd melts away. She is the last to leave, her eyes gleaming green in the light from the torches that guard the circle. One of them begins to smoke and WolfSinger can smell an odd tang to the smoke.

The tree and the torches seem to blur for a moment.

The world seems a touch out of kilter; the ground, the trees, the tables, and the benches seem hazy and indistinct.

Sparks fly from a torch, and become fireflies; they last for what seem like hours, but are minutes.

His heartbeat slows. The time between beats grows to centuries, then to aeons. The torches seem to slow in their burning, then stop. Indirect light shines, illuminating the scene.

The torches, the benches, and the people seem to flicker away in a haze. WolfSinger appears to be in an open field, at night – his vision preternaturally accurate.

Movement strikes his eye. As he looks around, dozens of creatures seem to converge on him, forming a ring around him – looking, but not moving. Ahead are a fox, a coyote, a bear, and a rabbit.

Around him and over him whispers the Wind – a living breathing force that tantalizes and offers suggestions in a soft murmur that is only half-heard and little understood.

The Wind carries the smells of the forest – leaves after a rainstorm, the passing of animals, the earth, and the traces left by other wolves.

A distant rumble of thunder snarls at the dark night sky.

WolfSinger looks around as if in a daze.

He leans up against the tree.

Animals around him stare at Wolfsinger, but say nothing. A deer placidly crops the grass.

WolfSinger shakes his head out, trying to stay alert.

From above, flies down a long-tailed bird of bright and blue plumage. She lands before WolfSinger, speading her wings widely three times before settling down.

She looks him over once. She is the only source of movement, as she examines the wolf.

WolfSinger looks back at the bird.

The bird's beak opens. In a mocking caw, she forms intelligible words. "Who are you?"

The bird's eyes glitter red and blue; the color of fires in the night. Her voice is strange; a twitter that's almost a harsh caw.

WolfSinger says, "I… I am WolfSinger. Who are you?"

The bird's eyes glitter red and seem to fill the universe. "I am not the quester. I am not the one being tested," the voice says. "WHO are you?" Obviously something deeper is being asked.

WolfSinger thinks for a moment. Answer a riddle with a riddle?

WolfSinger says, "I am the one who flies between the stars."

WolfSinger says, "I am one of the two joined in the circle."

WolfSinger says, "I am the one who sings a lonely song to the moon."

The bird picks up a staff that has two silver feathers attached. She raises it above her head, and makes an unintelligible sign. "What are you doing?"

The wind echoes her question: What *are* you doing?

WolfSinger chuckles to himself, the drink making him a bit giddey.

WolfSinger says, "Why, I'm talking to a bird, of course! Trying to prove my innocence to the unbelievers."

The bird's eyes glow, and the sky darkens.

The wind tears at WolfSinger, sand rasping against his fur and nose.

The rocks lining the circle seem to waver and dance and lean closer. "What are you doing?" they whisper… or so it seems they say in the noise they make as they grind together.

WolfSinger shields his eyes with his hands, watching the bird carefully.

Her voice rasps in the sound of sandpaper upon a rocky path. "What *are* you doing? Have you no life beyond this moment?"

WolfSinger says, "My heart yearns to be set free of this curse arround my neck."

The bird's demeanor softens, and the thunder fades in the distance. "How came you by that curse?"

WolfSinger says, "I want to be free again. I want to free him."

WolfSinger says, "An evil sorceress captured me… She practised her magics on us… "

A tear starts to form in the corner of his eye.

WolfSinger says, "She tortured us until I escaped!"

The rocks stir again, looking like glyphs of stone. Their eyes glow red, like lava, veined with black.

The bird nods. Her voice is like the rush of water as it flows through a stream. "Where are you going?"

The rocks lean forward to listen and the grasses whisper among themselves.

WolfSinger says, "I search for a place I can finally call home."

The bird's voice crackles like dry wood burning. "What is in your heart?"

WolfSinger stops to think for a moment, his voice suddenly getting softer.

WolfSinger says, "I love of life. Compassion for all. "

WolfSinger says, "A yearning to make others happy."

The needle twists from the tree and arrows straight for WolfSinger's heart, burying itself deep into the fur.

The cords – previously unfelt – wrap themselves around his hands tightly.

WolfSinger winces in pain.

The red of the bird glows strongly. "Do tell of your love… for this sorceress who has enslaved you."

The needle begins working its way into WolfSinger's body, bringing with it an icy presence.

WolfSinger's body tenses.

The needle burns with the cold of the space between the stars. Like a worm of steel; a wire of frozen reality it slides slowly inward, invding the cells and the tissues.

The red of the bird glows until it fills Wolfsinger's vision. "Do tell… how you yearn to make her happy."

WolfSinger says, "I feel sorry for her in a way. I want to know who she did this to me."

The bird cackles, "Oh, he who flies between the stars, what is in your heart?"

WolfSinger says, "Our souls touched breifly as she perrformed her magics. I could only feel… an emptyness."

The needle stabs and cold burns in WolfSinger's heart.

WolfSinger grasps at his chest.

The rocks tremble and grind together and the circle looks somehow like a mouth… with large white teeth. The stones writhe in a strange parody of lips and say, "To gain you must lose all."

The ghost wind laughs long and low.

The needle's pain seems to diminish. "Rest, then, he who flies among the stars."

WolfSinger closes his eyes. he lets out a sad sigh.

WolfSinger says, "don't fight the pain by lashing out at others."

Water chuckles and the earth seems to laugh. Thunder rumbles in a distant sky as rain washes in, covering him, cleansing him.

Sleep comes surprisingly quickly; the wolf's dreams seem to be about the roaring of birds and the flight of lions – of promises kept and words never taken back – and of the stars. Always of the stars.