The bean, it must be found. For MHD's Fairytales contest.

I have no idea why I wrote this. All I can say in my defense is that it seemed like a good idea at the ti--wait no that's a lie, I said, repeatedly that this was stupid and shameful every time I mentioned working on it.

The truth is I needed to publish something before the end of the year and there is CLEARLY a burning need for wolf stories in the psyche of children using the internet. But then they write them badly, or make their wolves behave like clans of cats. So here is a simple straightfoward story of a young wolf leaving his pack in search of a better life. Maybe no one will ever feel the need to write another one now, or if nothing else maybe this will give them ideas for how to do it in slightly more minimum-standards-meeting ways.

Final conclusion however is that writing about some dumb animal with no agency is not something I'd recommend.

If you don't know what this is for, then it isn't for you.

Thought it was interesting that the prompt didn't mention fog at all, but both authors just went there for the alliteration it seems. Anyway, you guys got served up with two excellent stories this time, looking forward to seeing how the vote turns out. If we can keep up this quality level going into 2026, holy heck we're going to have a good time.

Story B Wanderers in the Fog ”Out. Get out.” The words are burned into your brain, all you can remember while the harsh winds scold your face. You give your dog a few pats on the back and begin walking out and away. The endless night and darkening clouds greet you while you walk, the safe haven of home getting further and further. The dog follows you, the soft pitter-patter of his footsteps giving him away. Within a few minutes, you sigh, turning to send him home. “Henry, go back.” You chastise, clenching your teeth. Even being built for this weather, you worry about his safety in the ruins. But as you tell Henry to leave, he sits on your old leather boots and rubs his head on your arm with a stubbornness more human than you have seen from your people. Whatever. If he is determined to stay with you, he’d stay with you. You adjust the pack on your shoulders as it digs into your flesh, tap the pistol at your side for reassurance, and continue walking. A low, soft melody drifts toward you on the breeze. Immediately, you turn around and begin walking opposite of it while readjusting your earplugs. The melody grows softer as you walk, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see Henry, still trotting close behind. Your eyes feel heavy as you wander through collapsed stone structures, and you know eventually you’ll have to find a place to rest. When you come upon a half-standing hut, you know that this is it. It’s the only place for miles with half a functioning roof, and the first few drops of rain steadily approach. Tipping underneath the small door, you find a dry corner with remnants of a bed and set down your pack and holster. Henry immediately walks to it as you collapse beside him. The heat radiating from his fur comforts you a little as you pull out a handwarmer, grateful for the foresight you had while throwing this bag together. Just in case, you always told yourself. You never expected it to actually happen. The odds of being thrown out of the town into the Barrens were minuscule, considering all the hard labor that needed to be done to protect the area from Faders and Wanderers. You had thought the only reason to be thrown out was doing something horrendous, like murder of a young, fit person, but your crime had apparently been ‘much worse.’ You wonder briefly at how sleeping in for three hours was worth being thrown into a wasteland full of certain death, and muse on the ridiculousness of your fragmented society’s regulations. Words like 'home' and 'society' seemed altogether ridiculous to you right now. Home was just as much you sitting with Henry in this decaying shack as it was that falling wooden house on the outskirts of town. Society was just as much the Faders and Wanderers as it was the Elders and Workers. There was no point in building a home anyway if it were to be jeopardized by the radical idea of one person sleeping in once. That was no kind of place to live. Leniency be damned. Resting your head on Henry’s back, you close your eyes, breathing softly. Sleep greets you, for what feels like a moment, as an old friend. The rain begins to fall outside, and the sound relaxes you further, piercing through your earplugs. Footsteps. An echoing screech in the stone half-building you shelter yourself in. Your eyes shoot open, but your body stays still. From the screech, you can tell it is a Fader, and will detect any movement you make. Your gun will not work. The only way out of this situation is to stand still. Henry, a smart, well trained dog, is acutely aware of this as well. Your heartbeats seem to thrive on each other, growing louder with each passing second. Time seems to slow down as you hear the click thud of the Fader’s steady gait. It pauses in front of your shelter, and you halt all movement, even that of your breaths. A part of you prays to a long forgotten god that you will be passed by. A light appears from far away. You hear loud clanging, unlike the noise of the Fader. It turns and begins to run as you hear gunshot after gunshot, and finally, a loud thud. A separate type of footsteps come for you now. Lighter, practiced. Wanderer. You would cuss under your breath if you weren’t still so resigned to not moving, knowing that it still will not save you. Clawed, darkened, unnatural hands grab hold of the entrance door. A face, human-like and yet, so wrong, peeks through the doorway. It points at Henry and tilts its head. A question. Your silence is broken, if from nothing other than nerves. “This is Henry. He decided to come with me.” You’re not sure why you expect an answer, Wanderers are famously mute, but as the strange thing approaches, you sense its curiosity. It pats Henry on the head, and when he responds by sticking his tongue out and wagging his tail, the Wanderer leaps up and down, a smile on its unnerving face. It runs out, dragging back another Wanderer. The second, more apprehensive, approaches Henry and lightly taps him on the head. Henry’s response is to look around, confused, as if he was expecting more attention. He places his head on your lap, looking at you expectantly. You laugh, patting him. For a moment, you almost forget the monsters at the door. The two Wanderers glance at each other and seem to come to a consensus. The apprehensive one gently lifts your 84 pound dog as if he were made of glass, cradling him with all the gentleness of a mother and her child, and the curious one tosses you over their shoulder like a sack of flour. You manage to grab your bag before being dragged off, praying you’re not about to be killed and eaten. The pistol lay forgotten on the stone ground. Ten other Wanderers are gathering up the Fader’s corpse, trying to fit it into a comically small bag for the twenty foot monstrosity. Its bare-bone structure easily crumples in, leaving you astonished. A couple creatures look up curiously at the sight of you, but the others seem unbothered. The only Wanderer not carrying the corpse points out into the Barrens and gestures for all else to follow. The thing carrying you turns to one of its friends and seems to have a full conversation without moving their mouths. You glance over at Henry, who is now fully comfortably snoring in his new captor’s arms as other monsters walk over to pat him, which he enjoys. Traitor. Eventually - and you can’t help it, two minutes of sleep was not going to last - you doze off on your own creature’s shoulder. A light shake causes you to rise from your sleep. You see that you’re in a well lit living room, the couches from a time where fabric was not a luxury. In front of you is a new Wanderer, wearing a grey mask and holding a strange device. Henry sits loyally by your side, as if he wasn’t just cuddling up with a bunch of monsters. “Hello. I am deeply apologetic about taking you without permission. Two of the younger ones gained entertainment from you and thought you could perish out there.” The sound came from the device, mimicking human speech. But something, as always with the Wanderers, was off. Maybe the word choice, or the stilted tone. But something. The Wanderer tilts its head as if waiting for a response. You contemplate, unsure how to respond. “I wasn’t doing very well on my own. That Fader might have gotten me. I thank you.” You hope this will be sufficient for whatever they want from you. The Wanderer considers your answer. “Yes. It was hunting for the joy creature’s scent. It was good that you both stayed still.” You’re still trying to process that she called Henry a joy creature when a familiar looking Wanderer wanders into the room. It’s the curious one, bouncing still up and down at the sight of Henry. You suppose that proves one point or another, but as the kid crosses to Henry, Henry leaps on it and begins nuzzling its warped face. The young creature falls to the ground, kicking its legs with joy. The Wanderer with the device turns to you. “It would bring them much joy for you to both remain here. I know you have been exiled from the place you previously resided in. This could be beneficial. We need a talking thing.” The Wanderer tilts its head again as you hesitate. The decision seemed obvious, who would stay with a group of mutated creatures? But you do consider it. The more you do so, in fact, the more you like the idea. Safety. Food. Care. Finally, you smile at the Wanderer. You can see a new home being built after all.