Out of the mist that rests in the mountains of West Virginia came a boy born not of his own design but the gracious design of the unknown who handcrafted the mysterious and sacred hills of his father’s land.  Jefferson Bennett was raised by wolves.  Some were horrible. Some were nice.  But they were all wolves.  As Jefferson grew he longed for a pure and virtuous friend.  He used melodies and rhythms to call out across the valleys below in search of someone who could answer his deepest and darkest questions.  Night after night he went to bed not knowing if he would be devoured by the biting and growling that underscored the midnight forest until one morning, before the sun came up, he was approached by a stranger.  He could not see the man, but he was led by the invisible guide back to the cliffs whence he sung.  He was shown that everyone is raised by wolves.  In the forest.  And together they bid the forest farewell and jumped. 

These are their songs.