She padded through the forest in the early, morning air. The sun had barely risen and much of the underbrush was still in darkness. Her body drove her onward, for there was much yet to do before the harvest came in. Leaves and small twigs gave way under her paws, and her tail kept her balance as she wove over and under the underbrush of the forest.

I have to find them, I must find them!

The feeling had been growing inside her since the fruit trees flowered. Something was coming. Something that the others in her pack had not experienced yet, something that had not happened in many ages for her Family.

The clans were beginning to gather; they would be here at the last harvest and it was time to tell her brothers and sisters.

They’re coming to hear, they’re coming to learn. They’re coming to celebrate!

It had been many years since her pack had gathered the clans – her pack, of course, being man: upright and hairless, but worthy of service, of love, of loyalty and guardianship. Men and women were gathering now to learn the secrets of the Hound and her brothers and sisters.

The woman with the keys and the lantern at the crossroads was said to be hosting this event. She had a hound guardian, and Hound knew She could be trusted for if She had earned the guardianship of one of her children, then obviously the woman was of good standing. She told Hound about another woman expected to be at the gathering, with a great bubbling cauldron, providing for Her people. Hound knew She too could be trusted… for those who cook for their people usually have a tidbit for the hounds guarding the fire.

Bounty. Harvest. Knowledge.

These were all lessons her pack needed to hear, and her brothers and sisters would be there as well.

Pausing a moment on a hill she broke through the forest canopy. Before her she saw golden tones of rich grain ripening in the summer morning she sat down and called out in a long tone. The wind swirled past her and caressed her fur, drying out the dampness of her forest run. To the West she saw a river running true and clean. In the east she saw the mountains rise. She called out again a yip and a howl, louder than before. Once more she called out into the morning light.

Three by three they would come, as it ever was, so shall it be.

By fur and feather, blood and bone, by wing, and paw, scale and tooth I call, I call, I call.

Sickle is coming.