I've wanted to write something for COAD for years. Last night I was procrastinating going to sleep, so I decided to write instead. Here are the results. I own nothing you recognize. Enjoy.

They have become legend. The Spirit Walker. The Fiery Archer. The Wolf.

Darmot grew up hearing tales about them, told at night around the campfire. Many of the Elders had known them, before. Even the Mage, his white complexion growing almost ghostly as he leans close to the fire, telling of how the Spirit Walker had died, and then come back.

As Darmot grows older, he is not sure which of the tales to believe. Many seem a bit far-fetched. The whole notion of Spirit Walking, which in times past he had held reverently, now looks more like a fantasy, told to spark the imaginations of the young.

In time, he comes to hold the Spirit Walker as a childhood dream. Something astounding, something that he will always be fond of, but not truth. He is impossible. Fantastical.

Darmot is in his fourteenth year when it happens. He is alone, sent by Fin-Kedinn to track some deer. He is a good tracker. The storm comes on suddenly, the rain pelting down in sheets. He can no longer see the trail, or much of anything for that matter. There is a sudden flash of light from above, and a tree right in front of him suddenly falls, barely missing him.

Something grabs his arm. He twists towards it, and in another flash of light, catches a glimpse of dark red hair as he is pulled along by the figure. A makeshift door is pushed aside, and he is propelled into a shelter as another figure moves the door back in place.

"What were you thinking?" a female voice asks him angrily, and he looks to see that the red-haired figure is a small woman, now dripping wet and scowling at him.

"It was a very sudden storm," remarks the other figure. He has his back to Darmot, and is feeding the fire in the center of the shelter.

"I was tracking some deer," Darmot admits. "I guess I got caught up in it. Thank you for rescuing me."

"Humph," the woman replies, shimmying out of her parka. Underneath she wears a tunic, with raven feathers sewn onto her shoulder.

"You're Raven Clan?" Darmot asks, surprised. He doesn't recognize the woman, and those who mated outside their clan usually take up the other clan's Guardian.

She cocks her head to the side, studying him. "You could say so."

"I hope Wolf is alright," the man suddenly says. His back is still facing Darmot, and he has yet to see his face.

"He'll be fine," the woman assures him. "He and Darkfur and the cubs almost certainly knew the storm was coming before we did."

Darmot is now quite puzzled. Cubs? People don't have cubs.

The man sighs. "Yes, you're right. Stew's ready."

"Would you like some?" the woman asks Darmot, handing him a shallow wooden bowl-full when he obliges.

The man dishes some for the woman and for himself, and then finally sits back, allowing Darmot to see his face.

Darmot freezes, his bowl halfway to his mouth. The dotted tattoo marks of the Wolf clan, but broken by a scar on one cheek. Hair tied back with a leather thong, leaving the colorful round world tattoo on his forehead visible. Brown eyes flecked with green, and looking older than the trees themselves.

"You're the Spirit Walker," breathes Darmot. "And you—" he turns to the woman, who has just picked up a bow from the corner of the shelter and is polishing it lovingly. "You're the Fiery Archer."

"Actually," the woman says, a small grin creeping onto her face, "I'm Renn. This is my mate, Torak."

"But you are, aren't you?" Darmot sets his stew down, looking from one to the other. "You're real!"

The man looks startled. The woman laughs.

"We are. And we're real." the man says at last.

"Fiery Archer?" the woman asks, still looking amused.

Darmot can't believe it. His childhood heroes. They are real. They rescued him. They are sitting in front of him and eating stew. "But where have you been?"

"That's a long story," the man says.

"The storm isn't going to let up any time soon," Darmot points out.

The man sighs, and looks to his mate, who nods encouragingly. He sighs again. "Once, a man and his brand-new mate decided to go over the mountains..."

All night. They take turns, telling of their adventures of the last fifteen summers. They laugh, they grow somber. They both cry at one point.

Darmot sits and listens, not interrupting once. It is just enough to hear the tales from the mouths of the heroes who have lived them. At last, they draw to a close.

"I think the rain has stopped," Renn remarks, cocking her head.

Torak suddenly looks up, a huge grin spreading across his face. "Wolf is coming."

They remove the door from the shelter opening, just in time to see a pack of wolves emerge from the brush. The leader springs forward into Torak's waiting arms, and the two have a joyful reunion. Renn follows from the shelter, greeting the rest of the pack as well.

Darmot can hardly believe his eyes. It seems just like a scene from one of his childhood tales. Torak and Renn visit with the wolves for a while before turning their attention back to Darmot.

"Are you coming back to camp? I know that Fin-Kedinn would be happy to see you," he tells them.

Renn smiles. "We might drop by."

Torak looks at the sky. "It looks like it could rain again. You should probably be heading back."

Darmot nods, and gathers his things. He hesitates though, before setting out. "Torak?"

"Yes?"

"Did... did you really Spirit Walk in an ice bear?"

Torak smiles. "Yes, but I don't recommend it."

Darmot suddenly feels a whole lot lighter. All the stories were real. All of them. "Thank you!" He begins to walk away. Just before he is out of sight, he turns and waves.

The Spirit Walker and the Fiery Archer wave back. The Wolf gives a happy bark.

Instilled with a renewed sense of wonder, Darmot returns to his clan. He has so many new stories to tell the young ones.

There you have it. Don't forget to favorite and review, and then go check out my other stories. I have quite a few of them. Thanks for reading! -Queen