Log Date:
	6/12/97

Log Cast:
	Aureole, Doreel

Log Intro:
	Aureole, wolf-blooded huntress of the Plainsrunner tribe, has
been lost in a twistwind that struck the canyons in which she resides,
and the surrounding terrain. Her memories lost to a blow dealt her
during the furor, she has wandered northward for days, dazed, unguided...
till at last she has stumbled into the spider-infested woods inhabited
by a mad Firstborn:
	Doreel.
	Doreel has found her, and swears that she is 'Elisel', and that
she has come home. But she does not remember this... and has had to
turn to Doreel to see if he will heal her and restore her memories....

[NOTE: This log should be assumed to take place in time immediately
after 'lost-ree.txt', although that log's RP was done several days before
this one.]

----------
Something, she knows, is deeply wrong. She cannot remember this quiet glade, 
  and this fair-haired, ancient-eyed elf that lives within it... yet, he seems 
  to know her. And he claims to be a healer. Should she not, therefore, allow 
  him to try to bridge this disturbing gap in her head? She who has no memory 
  past the twistwind that spat her forth into days of delirious wandering 
  fights down a prickle along the back of her neck -- like fine hair rising -- 
  and sends, ** How do we do this? ** 

There is a soft pause in answer to that, filled only by the gentle sounds of 
  the grove itself: the whispering of unfelt winds through the highest 
  branches of the trees; the murmuring of the spring to the rocks it caresses; 
  the inaudible but still felt coursing of the life through the plants that 
  surround and enfold and embrace. Then the old elf holds out a hand, offering 
  at the same time a gentle smile, and motioning to the patch of grass beside 
  him. "Come," he says quietly. "Sit."

Slowly, grudgingly, the tousle-haired maiden does so, glancing about as she 
  does so, her ears and her nose twitching slightly as the place fills her 
  senses. ** So... many scents. **

"Perhaps there are," murmurs the aged elf, nodding slightly as he does. "But 
  none of them will hurt you... but you know that." His faint smile remains, 
  even as he leans forward and moves one terribly thin hand in the beginnings 
  of an attempt to touch his fingertips to your nearer temple. "Now, then..."

** Something... chased me, ** she protests. ** I remember that. ** But then 
  she frowns. ** I don't smell them now... ** Momentarily distracted, she 
  glances around again, before lifting blue eyes back to the old one.

One slender brow skews itself a bit, and the other tips his head ever so 
  slightly to one side. "Don't smell what now?" He almost doesn't give any 
  opportunity for a reply, though, because his hand moves instead for the 
  moment to gently smooth out tangled hair. "It doesn't matter, though, you're 
  quite safe now. Home." He nods, really to himself. "Home."

** Can't smell anything but the tree... you... ** The maiden's slim golden 
  nose wrinkles. ** Flowers. Something else, but only bits... ** She shifts a 
  little, restless still, but making herself sit calmly. Her eyes linger 
  warily on the old one's face, but anxiously, and she swallows hard.

The old one smiles again gently, his hand acquiring a golden glow as it, for 
  now, continues to stroke pale hair. The glow is one more felt than seen, 
  like sunshine warmking the skin of one whose eyes are closed, but somehow 
  without the heat. He shushes softly, shaking his head and extending his 
  other hand now, this one also gaining a delicately coloured aura as he moves 
  to touch a finely-boned finger between the troubled one's brows. "It'll all 
  come back to you."

_He is a healer,_ she thinks, sensing the glow-without-warmth, and marginally 
  comforted by it. She blows out a breath and closes her eyes.

Without the aid of sight and the barrage of blues and greens that is the 
  outside world, it is possible now to see the radiance in another light, as 
  it were. It is soft and enfolding: the light wrap desired on a cool summer's 
  night; it suffuses itself in, seeping through flesh and bone to meld and 
  illuminate like sunshine through honey, beginning to light up the dark 
  corners for the one who watches.

Now that her immediate hurts have been tended, the old one can sense 
  immediately that this ragged maiden has gone without regular food for many 
  days. Her young body is overthin, still strained from the poison that had 
  burned in her system, yet recovering well enough from it; most notable, 
  though, is the half-healed damage, bruised flesh and a cracked skull beneath 
  that mop of silvery-white hair, that speaks of something having collided 
  hard with her head.

That damage is easily -- comparatively speaking -- taken care of, and it is in 
  those places that the physical injuries are present that the light lingers. 
  Tiny tendrils of the glow coalesce, flooding with shimmers of amber as they 
  descend into the tissue. The process is a simple one, quite easy in that 
  nothing unnatural is done: the re-growth that would come about of its own 
  accord is prompted to almost incredible speed, with bone knitting itself 
  together almost as swiftly as the palm from which the radiance comes can 
  pass over. Battered flesh repairs itself, guided by the light, and skin 
  smooths itself over the whole.

For a brief moment, the maiden's eyes half-flicker open, and as the substance 
  of her flesh and bone is repaired, her mind flickers, too: images of 
  herself, scattered, running on wide grassy plains. A wolf with large, sharp 
  ears. Someone at her side, a loved, loving presence...

The flicker carries over into the suffusion of light, causing it to shimmer 
  for a moment and shift in colour only sligtly. Then it passes, and the 
  tendrils retract, back into the honied glow from which they came. Something 
  else makes itself known now, something not exactly part of the light, but of 
  the same stuff. But where the light is golden, it has more silvery tones to 
  it. It is that something else that inquires after the flicker, and makes the 
  wordless observation that it should be fostered, and allowed to become 
  whatever it has the potential to be.

Foster...a flicker? The maiden stares into herself, attracted by the images of 
  light and wind and wide open spaces. Familiarity, there? Home? Different, 
  though, from this sheltered glade... and there is no sign of the ancient elf 
  before her there. Bemused, her mind stirs, trying to make sense of the 
  discrepancy.

That, it is also observed, could prove to be a serious problem. In much the 
  same way it had once extended fingers of itself, the saffron radiance again 
  shifts its composition, moving to envelope, as it were, the rising shadows 
  of memory. At the same time, it attempts to solidify itself: to form walls 
  of amber iridescence around them.

_What....?_ The maiden stirs, sensing this, and as if in protest she emits a 
  low, throaty noise, her head turning slightly as she senses the walls 
  rising. Still fragile in their new reassembly, the pieces of memory within 
  her consciousness begin to buckle under the amber radiance. But she senses 
  it, and her hands lift; her uttered noise becomes a whine, then a growl. ** 
  <protest?!><want to see the memories!> **

The presence, golden and not, pauses for a moment hesitantly. Then the outer 
  layer of the 'wall' formed dissolves itself once more into pure light, 
  diffusing out into a heatlessly warm light, heavy, and yet not. The other 
  part takes on a softly chiding aspect that manifests itself as a tinge of 
  lavender threaded through the silver. You'll see them, it promises without 
  any words. You'll see them quite soon enough.

Reflexively, the pale-haired female snaps her blue eyes open, and they have 
  turned wild, feral; distrust surges through her thoughts, and more than a 
  little fear, as she sends a wordless demand to know whether this is healing?

Quite benign is the expression the other wears, his own eyes having lost 
  almost all of their blue colouring and having fixed somewhere just beyond 
  the back of his subject's skull. Equally wordless is his reply, purely in 
  acknowledgement: this is a healing... but the healer must be trusted to know 
  what he's doing.

With an effort, the maiden makes herself relax, makes herself relax both 
  physically... and within. Her thoughts, having recoiled from the strange, 
  thick amber glow, tentatively open towards it once more.
And without, the maiden unclenches hands that she'd unknowingly lifted towards 
  the older ones touched to her head. Her fingers tremble.

Again it presses itself in, caressing and lulling as it encourages those 
  flickers of memory to resurface, but in such a way that they must pass 
  through it first. It is, it insinuates, here to help, is it not?

The elder's hands remain still, the one having come finally to rest gently 
  against the temporal side of the other's head, and the fingertip of the 
  second only barely touching her forehead.

The maiden's hands slowly lower, and her mind, beginning to be soothed, allows 
  that yes... the light must be there to aid. She turns back towards those 
  pieces of recollection, anxious to rediscover them... and with them, what 
  she's lost of herself. Wind in her hair, and her wolf-friend's rough pelt 
  beneath her hand. Someone handsome smiling at her.

Something about that disturbes the healer, and to such a degree that the 
  healing is ended. Not abruptly, exactly, but the light begins to dissipate, 
  retreating from the shadows and restoring -- or attempting to restore -- 
  them to their former darkness.

And at last, bemused and confused, the maiden blinks open her eyes. ** Why.. 
  ** Her sending is slightly scattered, before she strengthens it. ** Why did 
  you stop? **

When he's quite certain that the light is gone, the aged elf withdraws his 
  hands, folding them together and setting them in his lap with an air of 
  gentle finality. ** Because, ** he makes the transition from thought to 
  speech almost thoughtlessly, his voice carrying echoes of the silvered tones 
  that had bled through before. "It's... enough, for now."

[End log.]