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Vakaal stared at the pale blue sky. It was so clear and calm it was hard to believe that somewhere beyond the horizon, roiling clouds of dark red, gray and gold churned towards them. A looming storm of sand and fury, of change and desolation was coming. They had to prepare, or they would lose everything. Vakaal sighed, balling up his fists. Father's shaping had only just ensured their oasis would not run dry, and now a storm threatened to ruin it anyway.

For most of Vakaal's life, the urd'thin had traveled, following the water and the rains. Whenever they found a stable oasis, they built their village around it. Father always told the pup it was important to know how to survive without their shaping, in case it ever failed them. After all, their shaping was a gift given to help survive the mistakes made by those who came before, not to make their lives simple. To do so would be repeating the same mistakes that once devastated the world.

Vakaal's people used everything the desert and its oasis had to offer. Because trees were rare, and bore life-sustaining fruits, they only harvested wood from those already dead. The urd'thin wove fibrous reeds and their soft springtime fluff into rope and cloth. They made leathers from the hides of the great rakatch that dwelled in deepest oasis ponds. They scavenged materials from the ruins left by stories that ended. The carcasses of the great winged beasts once bound to their fallen predecessors gave them plenty of bones to gather.

When the rains pushed on, the urd'thin followed them before the waters began to dwindle. It was the rains that refilled the oasis, but if they did not follow them in time, they might run out of water long before the next cycle swept through. So their homes were temporary, structures they could pack up and take whenever they had to travel once more. Most of their houses were built from wood, rope, cloth, hides and great bones. They lashed them together or assembled them around sturdy hand-fruit trees.

But here, at the edge of the largest and deepest oasis Vakaal had ever known, he hoped they could stay longer. Maybe even forever. Already Father's shaping had created enough channels between several smaller, spring-fed oasis within a day's walk to help feed each other with fresh water. If Father kept shaping, they might even have rivers to spread the fresh water through their desert home. They could plant more trees, grow more fruit, draw in more game.

But first they had to survive the storm.

As he followed his father through their half-disassembled village, Vakaal paused to watch a family take their house apart. An industrious little brown-furred pup carried a wooden panel over her head and into the stone tunnels where they'd ride out the storms. Vakaal scrunched his muzzle, not looking forward to days spent hiding underground. He much preferred the warm sun on his fur, the open sky above him, and the hot sand beneath his feet. His people were made to roam the golden sands, not hide inside great stone prisons like those who came before. But the storm that was coming left them little choice.

At least they had a place to shelter. The land around the oasis was dotted with great stone mounds, angled slabs, and rounded boulders worn smooth by blowing sand. According to Father, they were the remains of great structures, built by those who ruined their own story. Beneath them, stone corridors lay buried beneath the sand. Though cramped, they would make excellent protection from the coming storms.

In the days that passed since Vakaal's worrying vision, Father used his shaping to push the earth away from the long-weathered stones around their village. He exposed great tunnels long buried by the drifting sands. They were much like the hollow stones Vakaal enjoyed playing in, and climbing atop, only much larger. With his shaping, Father cleared the earth from within the stone corridors, then connected them together and patched their holes. It was more shaping than Vakaal usually saw from him, but he had to protect his people from what was coming.

When the shelters were clear, the whole village worked to move everything inside the stone walls. Families dissembled their houses, carrying patchwork walls into the storage rooms so they would not be lost. Pups dragged swaths of leather inside, and half-grown youths brought in nets full of live birds and sacks of fruit. Families set up spaces inside the shelters for themselves. Urd'thin yet without mates helped each other move belongings and pieces of homes inside. The heaviest objects were lashed together with fibrous cord and placed on great sleighs to be dragged inside.

The day before the storms, Vakaal followed his father as he made his final checks. In a few places, Father shaped the stone. He closed up old cracks, and knit openings back together to keep the storm out. At the very ends of the newly connected tunnel complex, Father parted the stone in small, narrow openings, cut at an odd angle. As he explained it, they would help make sure the tribe did not run out of air while sheltering from the storm, and the slants would help keep out the dust. He also had some of the tribe hang blankets and large leather swatches behind the vents to help trap the sand.

For a while, Vakaal watched his father work in silence. As Father shaped, Vakaal hummed to himself. Behind him, the sands rose and fell. The winds swirled the golden dust into the shapes of urd'thin pups, dancing and frolicking in time to the music in Vakaal's head. Father glanced back, hummed along with him a moment, and smiled at the prancing sand-pups.

"You do things I could never do, Vakaal." Father laughed as he traced a line in the stone. The old gray rock parted, forming another air vent.

"Huh?" Vakaal chirped, then glanced over his shoulder. All the wispy forms in the blowing sand froze as if trying to avoid being spotted. One by one they cascaded back to the dusty earth. Vakaal giggled. "I didn't even mean to make those!"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." Father smiled and waved him forward. "The Gods' story bends to your will without you even realizing it. Come here, help me make another vent."

Vakaal padded up alongside his father. Father wore more emblems woven into his gray fur than usual today, and his dark eyes held a strange blue shine. Charms of bone woven into the fur all around his neck spoke of his power and position as their prime shaper. Runes cut in the silver bracelets around each wrist declared him the village chief. At his neck he wore the oldest emblem, a rune carved from black stone that proclaimed him their teller of stories. He kept the village histories and passed on the old tales.

"I dunno how." Vakaal smiled at his father, then put his hand on the stone. The surface was hot in the sun, almost too hot. It was not as heavily weathered as the rounded stones he climbed out further out in the desert. Even lines ran along its length, marking where many smaller stones had been piled together to create the structure it once was. Vakaal rubbed his finger against one of the lines, glancing up at his father again. "It doesn't work for me."

Father just laughed and ruffled the fur between Vakaal's ears. Vakaal pulled away, swatting at his hands. Father beckoned with his fingers till Vakaal stepped forward again. "Of course it does, Vakaal. You sculpt the sand and make it dance to your songs without even realizing it. You could do this in your sleep. You just have to practice more."

Vakaal scrunched his muzzle, pinning back his ears. He nudged his foot against the sand, feeling its warmth shift beneath his pads. "Nuh uh. You're the best at shaping, and the whole village knows it."

"I'm just the most practiced, Vakaal, that doesn't mean-"

"But the elders say you're the strongest of all!"

Father scowled at Vakaal, his ears splayed. "Someone's been listening into conversations he shouldn't, again." Vakaal whined, rubbing his hands, and Father's expression softened. He perked his big gray ears, and a smile spread across his muzzle. "Besides, they just like to talk. I'm not _that_strong, Vakaal, I just-"

"But no one can do things like you can! That's why they think you're the most powerful."

Father gave a strange sigh. Vakaal never understood why Father didn't like to acknowledge how strong his shaping was. It was good to be humble, but it wasn't as if the whole tribe didn't already know. They'd made him chief for a reason, after all.

"That's only because they don't yet know what you can do, my lovely son." Father reached out and cupped Vakaal's muzzle in his paw, smiling. "Do you remember when you were little, you found that wounded rakatch youngling?"

Vakaal grit his teeth and glanced away, tucking his tail. There were some things they were never meant to do with their shaping. Like save a life meant to end. "You can heal, too."

"Only with great effort, Vakaal. But you..." Father laughed, and pulled the pup against him, hugging him. "You saw pain, and fear, and you saved its life without even meaning to. I could not have done that."

Vakaal slowly tilted his head back to smile up at his father. They'd never told the rest of the tribe about that, not even the wise elders. Nor had they told the others how they carried it back to the water, and let it swim away, healthy and free. What was it father said to him, whenever he claimed his powers weren't strong enough?

"You just have to practice more, Father."

Father laughed and wrapped his arm around Vakaal's shoulders, hugging the pup. "So I do! And speaking of practice, put your hand back on the stone."

Vakaal leaned against his father, taking comfort in his strength. He set his palm against the hot stone. He knew what Father wanted, but wasn't sure he could accomplish it. He grit his teeth, telling the stone to part. His muscles tensed, and something ached deep inside him, but nothing changed. After a few moments of effort, he splayed his ears back with a low whine.

"I can't do it."

"Yes, you can." Father put his larger hand over the back of Vakaal's. "Remember, Vakaal. It's all just a story. The gods began it, and left it to us to continue spinning the tale. And if we tell the story, we can change it. If you tell the story, and in the story there's an air vent right here, in this stone...then there's a vent in the stone."

"You make it sound so simple." Vakaal sagged a little, resting against his father.

"It it simple, Vakaal. Especially for us. Now..." Father pulled his hand back to ruffle Vakaal's fur between his ears and horns. "Try again. Think of it this way, Vakaal. Imagine it's your story, and you're the one telling it. It goes any way you want it to. If it's your story, then all you ever have to do is change it."

Vakaal swallowed and nodded. He spread his fingers against the stone. It was coarse and hot beneath his pads. It was solid, firm, impossible to part like soft clay. And yet...if Father was right, then maybe it wasn't. But...how would it go, if it was a saga Father spun for him? Father often told the tribe stories of heroes from their past, of those who could change the world, or perform miracles. How would it sound if he was the one spinning such a tale?

"Vakaal pressed his hand to the stone." The pup murmured his story to himself. Father squeezed his shoulders. "Beneath his touch, the stone softened. It turned to wet clay, yielding to his fingers."

The stone softened. Vakaal's hand sunk into it as if he were pressing his palm into deep mud. Around his hand, ripples rolled over the surface of the rock, as if he'd tossed a pebble into water. As the waves cascaded across the surface, the stone turned from gray to red brown, the shade of clay the sculptors dug from the bottoms of damp oasis beds. The end of the tunnel bent beneath his hand, the whole wall sunk inwards.

"The stone grew softer still, soft enough to be sculpted, molded, to be shaped as his tribe pleased."

The stone grew softer still. Soon it was soft enough that he could have scooped it up like wet earth and shaped it between his fingers. And then it was too soft. The top of the tunnel bent inwards, and before Vakaal could stop it, the whole structure collapsed. It was too wet and too soft to support itself anymore, and end of the tunnel caved in. As the wall gave way beneath Vakaal's hand, he pitched forward and into the pile of soft, wet, clay. More of it piled atop him, grabbing at him as he thrashed in panic. It smothered him in clutching darkness. Terror squeezed his heart so tight it hurt. He could not draw breath as the weight of all the crumbling stone turned to clay pressed against him.

Something snatched him around the middle, pulled him back. All the brown clay turned to wet mud, and then blew apart completely, leaving him in a hollow void within the crumbling corridor. When the weight was lifted, he gasped for breath. Father yanked him free and Vakaal stumbled back, knocking his father over. They both ended up on the ground, but Father was on him in an instant, pulling clay and mud from his muzzle to make sure he could breath.

"Vakaal!" Father wiped his hands over Vakaal's muzzle. They were slick, and wet, as if Father had shaped water into existence in his hands. "Vakaal, can you breathe?"

Vakaal could breathe, but he couldn't yet find his voice. Instead he nodded a few times, and gave a wheezing groan.

Father probed at his muzzle. Vakaal tried to turn his head away, but Father grasped his chin. "Open your mouth, Vakaal, keep it open!"

The urgency in Father's voice left little room for hesitation. Vakaal tried to open his mouth, only to find it more difficult than expected. With great effort he forced his jaws open. The exertion made them ache. He wasn't sure what the problem was until he saw Father pull another lump of muddy clay away from his fur. Father tossed it to the side, and it landed in the sands not as clay, but as misshapen stone. It hit the earth with a thump and rolled to a stop. Vakaal tried to lift his head, but found it difficult. The wet clay that coated his fur began to turn back to stone. With a squeal, he tried to free himself from its increasingly tight grasp.

"Easy, Vakaal, easy." Despite the tension in Father's voice, Vakaal found it calming. Father ran a hand over his head, smiled at him, and his fear melted away. "You'll be okay. Let's just call this a lesson learned, hmm? I'll fix this."

He'd be okay. Father would fix it.

Vakaal sighed through his open maw, now stuck in that position. He was glad he didn't have to worry. Then he blinked. Wait, had Father just shaped him? Or at least, his fear. He didn't even know he could do that. At least he wasn't panicking anymore.

Father held his hands around Vakaal's head, then ran them down over his ears, down to his neck. Something he could not see tugged and pulled at his fur. It hurt just a little, like thorns scratching at his skin, or his breeches pinching and yanking on his fur. Something wet ran down the sides of his head. Vakaal feared he was bleeding. But when Father's hands came into view, Vakaal saw no blood. His fingers just looked wet. Father rubbed Vakaal's nose, leaving it damp but cleared of clay. The air smelled burned, acrid.

Once his head was free, the pup lifted it to watch his father work. Father ran his hands over Vakaal's chest, his fingers half curled and twitching ever so slightly. Father muttered under his breath, but Vakaal could not make out the words. Patches of clay had hardened against his fur, leaving him caked in blobs and swaths of stone. As Father's hands passed over them, the rock trembled, shivered, softened into clay, and then melted into mud. Then droplets of water came into being at Father's fingertips, just beneath his dull claws. The water ran down the underside of his fingers, dripped off his palms, and rinsed away the mud from Vakaal's fur.

"You can shape rain!" Vakaal gasped and tried to sit up. His arms and lower body were too stiff to move, and all he managed was to lift his head and shoulders off the ground. "How come you don't-"

"Shush Vakaal." Father gave him a look that silenced all his questions, his expression all bared fangs and pinned ears. "This counts as an emergency."

Vakaal lay his head back down, gazing at the sky while Father finished freeing him from his own mistake. There were no clouds today, only the endless, bright blue expanse, and the sun's golden fury. He hoped Father wasn't angry with him for screwing up. He had no idea he could change things that way. That must have been what Father was talking about. Part of him was thrilled to have done such impressive shaping. Maybe Father was right, and one day he'd be the tribe's chief shaper. Yet as he tried and failed to wiggle his stone encased fingers, the rest of him felt afraid. What if he'd tried that on his own, and Father wasn't there to save him?

The pup whined, unsure if he could have shaped his way back out of that particular dilemma.

"You're alright, Vakaal." Father's voice softened, and he gave the pup a comforting smile. He worked his hands down one of Vakaal's arms, slowly freeing it of the evidence of his error. "I think you surprised us both that time."

"I...I thought it would be easier to make an air vent, if it was like clay." Vakaal lifted his head again, swiveling his ears to test them.

"So I noticed. It's a good lesson for you to learn, even if you gave us both a scare." Father washed Vakaal's fingers one at a time. "You proved to yourself you can do what I do, but you also proved to us both that you have to learn to be careful with it."

Vakaal dropped his head back down, staring at the sky again. "I don't think I wanna try again."

"Give it sometime." Father moved around the other side of the pup to cleanse his other arm. "Your powers are nothing to be afraid of. You just need to learn to control them, and to use them only in moderation. If you ever think to use your powers to cheat the challenges the gods put before us, remember this day. Using our powers too much, or to try and change our story's end will only result in great calamity. Just as befell those who came before us."

Vakaal took a slow breath, flexing his fingers once they were free. He glanced at his father, unable to help a little smirk. "They trapped themselves in an old ruin they accidentally turned to clay?"

Father gave a boisterous laugh as he finished releasing Vakaal from the remains of his mistake. "Probably not. But it does make a good example. They used their powers so much their story changed until it could no longer support them." He offered Vakaal his hand, and helped him to his feet. "Just as you changed the stone until it could no longer support itself, or you."

The pup looked himself over as he stood up. His fur was damp, and dirty in places, but it only looked as if he'd been playing in the mud. "Thank you, Father." Vakaal threw his arms around his father and gave him a hug.

"Of course!" Father hugged him back, laughing. "You should go get washed up. I'll fix this, alright? And we won't tell anyone it happened. Well...maybe we'll tell Yeera."

Vakaal's eyes widened and he pulled away from Father's hug. "Don't you dare!"

Father only laughed harder, ruffling Vakaal's damp fur. "So you _do_like her!"

"I may like...oh shut up!" Vakaal's ears burned under his fur, and he turned away, folding his arms. His tail swished in agitation. "Just...don't tell her!"

"Oh, I'm not gonna tell anyone." Father walked back towards the broken tunnel, his smile evident in his voice. "Just wanted to take your mind off it."

Vakaal snorted. Damn sneaky Father. He looked over his shoulder at the end of the buried corridor. Now that it had turned back to stone, it resembled a crumbled, caved in ruin rather than an intact hallway buried beneath the sand. It made him wonder if all the tunnels were ruined that way, when they first came here. Had Father had simply shaped them back into being?

"Father..." Vakaal licked his nose. He tasted mud, and something bitter, charred. "Is...is there anything you can't do with your powers?"

Father stiffened in a strange way, and Vakaal knew in an instant he shouldn't have asked. Father waved off the question with a forced laugh. "Plenty of things!"

Vakaal swallowed hard, glancing away. Vakaal wasn't so sure that was true, but he knew it brought up terrible memories for his Father. There was one thing Father had not done with his powers. And because of it, Vakaal had never known his mother. After she'd birthed him, she'd bled. And bled. And bled. Until her story ended.

Wiping his eyes, Vakaal shuffled away from his father. Now and then he glanced over his shoulder to watch his father shape the stone tunnel back into form. Father lifted chunks of broken stone with his power, fit them back into place, and molded the sheltering tunnel anew. But the way his shoulders sagged, his ears drooped, and his tail hung limp was not from the exertion. Vakaal sometimes wondered if using his powers truly wore his father out, or if he only feigned it. He knew Father could heal, even if it did take great effort. Maybe he could have saved her, if not for the tribe's beliefs. Would they have even let him? That was where her story was meant to end, they said.

They were never to use their powers to save a life meant to end.

And so her story ended, and Vakaal's began.

Whatever the truth, Vakaal knew her loss was a weight upon his Father's shoulders not even the strongest shaping could ease. If Father had a chance to do things differently, would he take it? Would his father change a story's ending to save her? To save Vakaal? Though Vakaal had no way of knowing, he suspected if the chance came again, Father would seize it.

Vakaal knew if he ever had the chance to save someone he loved, he would do so, their story be damned.

*****

The pup was ill-at-ease while world's anger raged around them. The stone tunnels shook and rumbled. Dust fell from the ceiling and made him sneeze. Pebbles skittered across the floor. Utensils and tools rattled in their crates and hide bags. Even through stone, the storm was loud. Where rainstorms brought thunder, this storm brought a terrible, anguished howl that rose and fell, as if the world itself was screaming as it was torn apart. No rain came with it, only destruction, ruination, and change. It came with clouds of whirling sand and flashes of scorching blue-white light that would blister the earth, sear fur from flesh and flesh from bone.

That was why they sheltered.

Father said such storms were the result of those who came before, those whose ruins their tribe shaped into shelters. Their predecessors had twisted and changed their story so many times that eventually, the world could no longer support itself. When their world collapsed, it unleashed terrible forces that warped nature. The combined powers of so much misspent shaping had woven themselves into storms of ruination. Father said they were the god's way wiping the world clean before a new story was born.

According to Father, they were that new story. That the storms would fade soon. But Vakaal wasn't sure what to believe anymore. He half-wondered if his father could ease the storms himself, if he but wished to. Of course he knew what Father would say about that. The Gods gave us these gifts to survive our predecessors' mistakes, not repeat them.

As far as the pup was concerned, the Gods sure seemed to put a lot of unnecessary restrictions on everything. Why give them gifts to reshape the world, but deny them the chance to save a life, to divert a storm? It seemed like they were being punished for the mistakes of others. They hadn't ruined the world, why should they cower from the storms when they might well have the power to stop them? Why chase the rain when they could make it?

The young urd'thin sighed as he followed his father through the tunnels. It wasn't truly their way of life that made him uneasy. Vakaal knew the desert would provide all they'd ever need. Not being allowed to call the rain wasn't what Vakaal truly thought unfair.

What was unfair was for the gods to punish his father. That was unfair. Part of Vakaal wanted to ask his father about it, to hear what wise words he could offer. If nothing else, it soothed his fears and anger to know that his Father had answers, even if Vakaal was not yet wise enough to comprehend them. But he dared not ask about his mother's death. It was just too painful a thing to put Father through.

Vakaal folded his arms, sulking even as he stuck close to father's tail. Days spent in what felt like a stone tomb always left him morose. He missed the open skies and the endless gold sands. Walking through narrow stone corridors filled with gloom, and the musty scents of rot, lives long passed, and the smell of everyone else's fur left him feeling trapped.

Most of the tribe sheltered in the deepest parts of the ruin, still half buried in the sand. They had the more protection there. But as the tribe's chief and prime shaper, it was Father's responsibility to ensure their sanctuary remained intact. If the storm caused any damage or fractures, Father had to repair them to ensure they were all kept safe. Father also liked to make sure none of the other pups were sneaking off and playing in places they shouldn't while their parents were distracted with their tasks.

Father carried light with him. Though the urd'thin saw well in the gloom, their shelter was especially dark. They were shrouded in stone walls, and the storm beyond stole the sunlight for days on end. Vakaal and his father set up night embers at key positions throughout the network of tunnels. The night embers were bowls of mirrored metal they'd scavenged from another ruin. They filled the bowls with a mixture of ground claw-fish scale and dried, shredded pulp from the heart of a hand-fruit tree. The mixture burned slowly and smoldered like incense, but something in the mixture caused its ember to burn far brighter. The shiny silver metal they encased it in helped to cast its orange glow all around them. A wooden handle made it safer to carry. As they walked the old tunnels, their shadows danced, dark silhouettes wavering against the orange light.

The shadows made Vakaal smiled. He liked dancing. He waggled his fingers, and the light shifted. He stood still, and his shadow kept dancing. It pranced across the wall, pirouetted forward, and soon it spun and twirled around his father's shadow. Father's ears twitched. He glanced at the wall, tilted his head, and soon his own larger shadow snatched Vakaal's around its shoulders. Father's shadow held Vakaal's and ruffled a hand against the smaller shadow's head.

"Hey!" Vakaal laughed and playfully smacked his father on the arm.

"Hrrrm?" Father gave him a mock absent look and kept walking. Their shadows returned to normal.

"You know what I'm-EEP!" Vakaal jumped when the storm cut him off. A long, rising shriek beyond their shelter made him wonder if some poor creature was caught outside. It sounded as if even the storm was in pain. He pressed up against his father, splaying his ears back. "It's...loud today."

"Yes, it is." Father put an arm around the pup, hugging him. "It's a bad storm. But you saw it long in advance, Vakaal. You gave us plenty of time to prepare. We'll be safe in here until it passes."

Vakaal glanced up at his father. He smiled, a swell of warm pride lifted his ears. It was nice to be able to help the tribe like Father did. When the tunnel rumbled and trembled around them, his ears flattened right back down. He pressed himself against Father, and Father hugged him tighter. Then he stroked the fur on the back of Vakaal's neck, murmuring.

"Shhh, you're alright, Vakaal. We're safe in here."

"I know." Vakaal murmured, rubbing his hands together. A memory flickered in his mind, an image of the land after the storms passed. It made his fur bristle as tingles of dread prickled at his skin. "Still scary."

"Nothing wrong with being afraid, son." Father kept his arm around Vakaal as they walked the tunnels. "We'll be deeper soon. It'll be quieter there."

"Will you tell a story?" Vakaal glanced up at his father, hope perking up his ears around his little horns.

"I did promise, didn't I?" Father smiled at him, then eased away to put his hand against a section of gray stone wall. Lichen crusted it in pale, yellow splotches. He closed his eyes, shaping something unknown beyond what Vakaal could see, and then moved on. He put his arm around his pup again. "Now that we're settled in, it seems like a good night for a story."

Happy excitement coiled in Vakaal's belly while they finished their rounds. He loved stories. He'd heard them all before, but Father was so good at telling them they always remained exciting, even when he knew the ending. And Father was such a good story teller, that sometimes he even changed the ending, or swapped the characters around. Not everyone in the tribe appreciated that, since the stories were supposed to be based on their history. But Vakaal always enjoyed being caught off guard by some new surprise Father threw in. He hoped someday he could spin a tale as well as his father.

When they returned to the deep part of the shelter, Vakaal split up from his father to help with chores. There, the tunnel was lined with hide blankets and wooden partitions set up to make little private chambers for the other tribe members. They'd piled hide cushions stuffed with feathers and reed fluff on the floor to make beds. Normally the tribe would gather at night around a fire, but with little place for the smoke to go, they had to make do without one.

Vakaal took his knife, twirling it around his fingers as he went to the area where they had penned up their captive birds. He used his blade to dispatch a few of them and plucked their feathers. Then he cut the animals up, slicing all the meat from the bones, and pulling the entrails up. He diced up the hearts and livers with the rest of the meat, and put it all in a stone bowl. Then he peeled and sliced up a few hand-fruits along with a large, bright yellow mud melon. He mixed all the diced meats and fruits up, and let the meat marinate in the juices. The others did the same with more birds and fruit. When it was ready, he carried the bowl around to let other tribe members get a few handfuls as well. No one was ever going to be full while they were hiding from the storms, but no one would go hungry, either.

When everyone had eaten, and the night's chores were complete, Vakaal found a place to sit near his father, in their shelter's de-facto gathering place. Other tribe members came to hear Vakaal's father tell a story of their people. The pups gathered the closest, while the adults and the elders settled a little further away. Father thanked them for their patience, assured them they were safe from the storms, and promised them they'd be able to rebuild their village in a few days. It wasn't the first time they'd been through this, but Vakaal knew all too well how much it helped to hear words of reassurance from someone so wise.

As Father started the story, Vakaal smiled. He knew the many tales of their people well enough to know that the stories his father chose that night were a mixture of myth and history, though he was never quite sure where one started and the other began. Especially when Father changed things around to keep the pups on their toes.

First Father told a story about their predecessors, and the gods of stories and tales who breathed life into the first of Vakaal's people. An audience to play out the many stories they had to tell. Their predecessors too, could shape their world. But unlike Vakaal's tribe, they abused their powers. The disregarded their gods, ignored his many stories, forget the very words which first gave them life. When at last their world could take no more changes, the gods' grief was greatest of all. So great that in their sorrow, they tore the sky itself asunder.

As if on cue, a great, howling rumble came from the storm beyond the tunnel. The pups gasped and shrieked. One hid his face in his mother's fur. Even Vakaal jumped a little, though his father shot him a quick smile before explaining that it was this sorrow that led to the storms themselves. And that only now was the gods' grief waning. Vakaal folded his arms, wondering if Father had changed that last bit. If he had, the elders didn't seem too perturbed.

The first story segued into the next, which was one of Vakaal's favorites. It was the epic saga of their first chief. Vakaal liked the story because the hero began as a pup like him, uncertain about his powers. When their water dried up, and the gods forbid them for making more on the penalty that it would be forever poisoned, they were forced to travel, to journey, to find new sources of water and food. Their first chief spurred them on with a promise of a land of water and trees far, far beyond the edge of the blasted wastes. A tale within a tale, to give them hope as they traveled.

Thus began their way of life.

As the story went on, sometimes the other pups shouted out what would happen next. Father laughed every time. Sometimes he told them they were right. Other times he told them they must have been remembering it wrong, and then he sprang a new twist on them that made them gasp or giggle. Some of the elders seemed less amused with his alterations to history, but as far as Vakaal was concerned, this wasn't a history lesson now, it was to help the pups forget how frightened they were.

While Father spoke, he wove pictures with his shaping. He waved his hand, and painted moving images across the stone walls. Other times, he stretched his arms and flickering scenes sprang into life over the pups' heads. Some of them tried to grab at prancing animals and dancing tribe members. Even Vakaal had to resist the urge to snatch at the phantoms Father spun in the air as the story ebbed and flowed.

"And so they came, clad in heavy robes to protect them from the sands, astride great winged beasts long bent to their will." Father spread his hands wide, an array of monstrous creatures with robed riders tore across the tunnel. "His people, too afraid to fight, would surely be bent next. He asked himself, where were the righteous? And knew then that he alone had come to face them, and face them he must. Yet he knew it would not be enough."

Vakaal rose to his knees as Father spun the climax of the tale, mouthing the words. "And so he met them in the desert, clad in glorious old armor, glossy ebony and gleaming gold."

Father glanced at him, and Vakaal gave him a sheepish grin, realizing he'd been speaking aloud. He patted Vakaal's head, smiling. "Do you want to tell the rest?"

His smile growing, Vakaal nodded. He rose to his feet, then licked his muzzle, ears perked. "Can you make the pictures?"

Father nodded, and splayed his fingers. An urd'thin wrapped in ebony plates and golden sigils appeared over the heads of the pups. The hero who made the sacrifice that galvanized the rest of them, showed them what was worth dying for. In the tales, their first chief gave his life in a hopeless battle, but his death lead the rest of them to rise up, and fight against those who would enslave them.

But now it was Vakaal's story to tell.

He waved his hand as if gripping a great weapon, lifting his voice till it echoed around the stone. "And so the righteous one rose! The others were too afraid, and though he too was scared, he refused to let his people fall! In his glorious armor, he met them in battle. He knew he was meant to fall, that his story should end, and yet, somehow, it did not!" He glanced back at Father, who shrugged and gestured for him to go on. "He knew if he died, others would rise to take his place, but then their blood too would be shed! So he found within himself a great power!"

Father gave him an odd look, but played off his newest twist on the story. Behind the armored figure, more urd'thin watched as if in awe, while the robed invaders upon their great scaled beasts charged at him. The air around the hero shimmered, and then froze, waiting for Vakaal to continue the tale.

Vakaal swallowed, ignoring the dismayed looks the elders gave him. It was a story, it didn't have to be true to history. Vakaal threw his hands in the air, and the hero did the same. "This power within him, it gave him strength he'd never known, it let him shape his own story, shape his peoples future! And so, when he should have died, instead he lived! He battled the conquerors and their monsters, and with his new power he felled them one by one!" He swung his hands around, snarling and yelping, thrust invisible knives in the air, clutched his belly as if he'd been stabbed, pretended to keel over. He glanced back at Father, his tail swishing. "Well?"

"Oh, right." Father grinned, and soon a scene of battle played out in the tunnel all around them. The hero forged weapons from the sand with his shaping, and with his new powers he cast his enemies down from their mounts. Vakaal swung his hands around again, and the robed invaders toppled to the ground, defeated. He threw his hands forward, and more of them flew through the air as if blasted away by a great gust of wind. The beasts turned tail and ran, leaving the hero standing amidst his fallen foes. "How's that?"

"Great!" Vakaal clapped his hands, then spread them wide. "With victory in sight, the hero fell to his knees, overwhelmed by his power. His people rose and came to his aid, and so he survived, and so did they! The invaders were vanquished, and because he had only used his power to save lives that otherwise would have been lost, the gods smiled upon him! And they let him use his powers for..." Vakaal glanced around, perked his ears and grinned. "Everything! So they always had what they needed, but never had too much. And...uh...he had pups and stuff, so the tribe went on. The end!"

Vakaal's father laughed. The other pups glanced around at each other, and soon gave howls of approval for his new ending. They slapped their hands against the stone floor, and even some of the adults gave howls of their own. An elder laughed, while another shook his head.

Father stood back up, and gave Vakaal a hug. "And so it was that the tribe learned to use their shaping to better their lives and to defend themselves. And seeing the hero so brave yet so overwhelmed by his own abilities, they vowed to never use them any more than they needed too, to ensure the tribe's future. A future which has carried us to this day, and sees us surviving, by the gods will, in a world ruined by those who dared use their powers _too_much."

Vakaal wagged his tail, then settled down onto a fur rug alongside his father. As one of the elders came forward to tell another story, Father sat back down next to him. Vakaal only paid the elder's story a little head. Elders told boring stories that always ended the same way. He leaned against his father, and father wrapped an arm around him.

"That was a good story, Vakaal."

"Thanks!" Vakaal leaned his head against his father. "I didn't...change it too much?"

Father shook his head. "Of course not. It was your story, you can change it however you like. When you tell the story, you can end it any way you wish."

Vakaal smiled. He liked that idea. He closed his eyes, picturing his own story in his head. "Father, was that hero real?"

"We believe he was, yes."

Vakaal cracked his eyes open again. "But...was he really?"

Father only smiled and shrugged. "That's for you to decide." He tweaked Vakaal's ear. "Maybe someday, when we're gone, someone will tell our tale."

"But what if they change our stories? Will our lives go differently?"

For some reason that made Father laugh. "You're going to make my head hurt, Vakaal."

Vakaal put his hand atop his father's. "If I told your story, Father. I'd make it happier."

Father sighed, but his smile never faded. "It's not our place to change our own stories. Besides, my story is already happy, because you're part of it."

Vakaal splayed his ears and glanced away. "You make my story happier, too."

Happy and safe alongside his father, Vakaal closed his eyes again. With the storm muffled by stone, and loving comfort, Vakaal was falling asleep before the next tale was even finished. He scarcely noticed when his father scooped him up and carried him to bed.

In his dreams, Vakaal wandered the desert with only his father. They had no village, and there was no tribe. The world was empty, and they were alone. In the dream, Father was lonely. As if even Vakaal wasn't there. Darkness fell, and Father cried. So Vakaal built him a great family out of sand, a whole tribe to call his own. He breathed life into them, and they sprang into being. Then Father was happy again, and so was Vakaal. All the new tribe danced with him and his father.

Vakaal opened his eyes, and found himself in bed. What a strange dream. Father lay nearby, his breathing slow and even. The rumbling of the storm beyond the shelter covered up any other sounds from the rest of the tribe. Vakaal could almost imagine it really was just him and his father. He licked his nose, smiled to himself. That would make a good story, too. He thought about it a moment as he dozed off again. Soon he was fast asleep, safe with his father sheltered beneath the raging maelstrom that sought to undo the world beyond.