Log Date: 5/20/97, 5/21/97 Log Cast: Aureole, Doreel Log Intro: A great tornado -- a twistwind -- has struck the Plainsrunner canyons, and the young huntress called Aureole has managed to survive it when the twistwind caught her out alone on her sentry watch. But in the course of the tornado, Ree was struck from behind by a flung stone, and wounded. Dazed, her memory reeling, the elfin maiden could not recall who she was or where she belonged, and has spent several of the intervening days wandering northward at random. Eventually, though, her wandering has taken her to a secluded wood which has ensnared other elves in the recent past. But the stricken Ree has no way of knowing that the forest into which she's stumbled is inhabited by the mad Firstborn Doreel... nor can she have any way of knowing, upon entry to that wood, what creatures inhabit it along with him. Ree has encountered the giant spiders of Doreel's shaping, and has fled with all the speed she can muster. She no longer recalls that she inherited her mother Starwing's fleetness of foot, but that very thing is what eventually saves her life as she crashes through thorn and flower to collapse near the heart of the grove.... ---------- The grove in the center of the spiders' forest, where it is always midway between summer and autumn despite the storms that may rage overhead and outside, is remarkably quiet. The occasional breath of wind stirs a leaf or ruffles the tips of a few blades of grass, carrying with it the scent of exotic flowers and nearly ripe fruit, as well as the earthy non-scent of mushrooms, but it is not enough to make noise. In fact, the only thing that could possibly be considered loud is the soft burbling of the tiny stream that meanders aimlessly through the clearing. Far less loud even than that water's quiet chatter is a slow, rasping breath from somewhere on the edge of the grove. Within a rampant patch of flowers, a slim form lies crumpled, blood staining her ragged leathers and her bright hair. Carried along the gentle breeze comes an occasional whisper -- spoken so softly as to have lost any words that might at one time have composed it, reducing it to little more than a murmur. She does not notice the quiet grove around her, where she lies; her eyes are clamped shut, and she groans, troubled by the blurred images flickering across her memory, insubstantial, wisps of grass tossed about by a fierce, mighty wind. Once, she opens dark blue eyes, only to register impossible flowers at her nose, and she does not take long to faint again. ** ... ** The murmurings cease after a time, leaving the place rather quiet for an indefinite period of time: it could be seconds, it could be half the time it takes the sun to cross the sky. But it is not eternal: louder, nearer, something mumbles quietly, the tone obviously disappointed, if the words are lost. She is aware again of pain, in countless places along her body, and throbbing dully at the base of her back; there is fire in her veins, and a strange lightness in her head, wrestling with a lethargy that seems to keep her pinned where she lies. But there, too, is a memory of danger. She has to run! With a bare ghost of strength, she cracks her eyes open, trying to make sense of the misshapen blurs in her vision. ** Soulwea... Briarcatch? Help me.... ** More distinct now are the mutterings... perhaps they've come nearer, but they are still very faint. "Blasted rain," is told to the sky, which at the moment is quite blue where it shows above the grove. "And blasted birds. Mother, you have to stop feeding those birds." Something is added to this as well, but it is too quiet to be audible. A voice? Who? Her mind spins, as she senses she doesn't know whoever that is -- but still, it's a voice, and they must be warned, the danger, they have to be told. ** ......! ** "It's over there," comes a reply, still distant but pushed closer by the gentle wind. "No, no, not there." Pause. "Yes!" Pause. "Thorn-picking birds..." The tones change with each breath, ranging from calm to acknowledging to rather disgusted for the last, but they do not grow any louder. Panic grips her. With a desperate shard of strength, she rolls onto her side, then onto her belly, Her arms wobble beneath her as she struggles to push herself to her knees; as she gets a faceful of the scent of the flowers, she very nearly collapses again. But, somehow, she manages to shove herself up to something resembling standing, as she sends desperately again, ** ** And she stumbles forward towards the open brightness just beyond the trees, the world pitching and tumbling about her. "No, of course not." Something -- or someone -- grumbles, much nearer now, and thus much louder. "Niriah? Did you hear that?" Another pause is inserted, as though the speaker were waiting for a reply, and although one doesn't come, it -- no, he -- continues. "You're right. Probably one of the helpers." Another soft pause, followed by an exasperated sigh. "Blasted rain." She has to run. There's danger. She has to get away from it -- what? She doesn't remember, but she has to run! But all she can manage is an unsteady stagger, as at last she bursts through into the grove. Blood streaks down her arm, and from the other wounds upon her body, stiffening and cracking when she moves, softening when new blood oozes out of her; blue eyes shift around in frantic dismay, seeking out the source of the voice. ** ** The sole occupant of the grove is the drably clad figure off to the right sode of the lawn, at the moment stooped to inspect a growth of purple-spotted mushrooms smattering the grass. Said figure leans heavily against a staff, careful balance almost lost as he looks up and over toward the tree in the center of the place. "You see? There it was again. Are you sure it's a helper? It sounds like a bird." Pause. "No? Hmph." He sighs, carefully straightening, and turns around. "I still think it's one of those blasted noisy birds." She sees someone, now, and a hoarse moan escapes her as she thinks to approach that figure -- but whether to urge it to run, or to beg it for help, she cannot make herself grasp. Her entire body aches with fire, now, and it's so hard to send -- but she tries again, frantically, with wild strength: ** Help me! ** "Ah!" The other's expression brightens visably, and he shifts his weight to lean against the staff again. "You're back!" He pauses and blinks once before his brow furrows into the faintest of frowns. "What's wrong?" There is open space around her, now, and she moans again, convinced that -- something -- will overtake her, because surely it can see her now. She has to run, has to hide... have to get to the low places to get away from the twistwind!... has to run.... her mind blurs, and as she sees the face turn towards her, she sways, buffeted about by the waves of flame in her veins. ** Help... help me... ** The grey-clad figure leans on his staff and watches the approach with rapt attention for several heartbeats before blinking again. "You came back late," he says amicably, straightening and smoothing out his garments. "Mother was getting worried. But what's wrong?" The battered, bloodied figure lurches left, lurches right, blue eyes filled with desperation. A thick, bright forelock, sullied by dirt and yet more blood, falls across one eye as she mumblesends, ** I don't... feel very good... ** And, quite abruptly, she pitches face-first into the mushroom-dotted grass. "Oh," he says blandly, finally moving to draw nearer. "You should have come back sooner. It's not good to wander the forests in the rain." He smiles gently, only to blink one more time at the falling-over. "Oh dear." The newcomer lies uncremoniously crumpled where she has fallen -- revealing the thick, brownish crusting of blood across the small of her back. "You've fallen," notes the grey-clad one as he comes closer, pausing perhaps a step and a half away and looking down. "In the mud. Tsk." He crouches there, spindly limbs folding and staff lowering slightly, a lock of pale hair falling into his face. "Mother will not be happy." She has, indeed, fallen over. But Mother's displeasure does not appear to move her, for the stranger -- stranger? -- remains quite fallen over. One very thin hand reaches gently for your nearer shoulder, fingertips coming to rest carefully there. Almost instantly, though, the hand is withdrawn. "Oh, my..." The fallen one is filthy, covered in sweat and blood and dirt -- and her bare shoulder, an unhealthy sallow color that might once have been golden brown, is achingly hot under the skin. Cautiously now the hand is re-extended, once again carefully coming to rest on exposed flesh. "Elisel? What happened?" He shakes ever so gently, leaning in closer. She groans, stirring ever so slightly at the shaking. And she sends dimly, her mind whirling, ** Who? ** "It's me," he murmurs softly, his hand once more simply resting where he set it. "What happened to you?" Not waiting for an answer, though, he looks up and over his shoulder toward the tree again. "She's back, Mother! Tasheya! Vargo!" The maiden rolls over weakly onto her side, her brow furrowing under her filthy pale hair. ** You... who? I... I don't know... I don't know you... help me? ** The other looks down again, brow furrowing as well. His hand moves to brush some of that hair out of that way, probably so that one or the other can get a better look. "It's me. Doreel. We'll get you all fixed up, won't we..." He peers up again, nodding to something. "Yes, Mother. I know." A lean, tanned -- but, like the shoulder, unhealthily pale and sallow -- face can be seen under that matted hair. Blue eyes under pale brows, fringed in long silvery lashes, blink foggily up at the blurred face leaning over her; her pointed ears peek out from that mop of hair, more visible as it falls back from her face. ** Gotta... run, ** she send-mumbles, before slumping down again, losing consciousness. "Run? From what?" He blinks once more, peering into the trees on the edge of the grove, and shrugs. Perhaps the darkness gathering there gives him an answer, for eventually he gives up waiting for one from his visitor and sets to work correcting some of the more obvious problems. The flames of poison-induced fever are burned away in the same brilliant golden glow that closes thorn-ripped flesh; dirt is washed away in cold water from the stream. All the while he carries on a rather one-sided conversation with entities born of his own imagination, sometimes asking them for advice, or inquiring about the orders they may or may not give him. Eventually, though, he drags his visitor over to a shady patch under the trees, "Out of the rain," as he puts it, and softens the grass there for her before wandering away. Some time later... she is not sure how long.... she awakens again, frowning. As sensation and awareness return, she can note that her body no longer aches, and that she lies somewhere soft, but her surroundings are strange, and she stares skyward to a canopy of leaves intermingled with bits of sky before realizing that she lies under a mighty tree's spreading branches. Where is this? Finding nothing about it in her short list of immediate memories, she frowns and stirs, pushing herself up to prop herself on her elbows and look around. The grove is less than remarkable at first glance: little more than an expanse of thick green grass littered with odd flowers and mushrooms, surrounded by trees in all stages of growth, some with flowers, some with fruit, some with coloured leaves. One large tree sits in the center of the place, and sitting in its roots, legs folded up under him like the limbs of some big spider or gangly nesting bird, sits a pale grey elf. His head is bowed, and he's either fast asleep, or contemplating the staff resting across his lap. Danger! She can remember danger -- something chasing her -- and this makes the maiden look around sharply, propels her to her feet before she even realizes quite what's going through her mind. Her ears twitching, she hears nothing, and an anxious sniffing of the air gets her nothing but a noseful of heavy, heady flowerscent that makes her sneeze. She scowls for a few minutes, trying to remember why she is so restless and alert, but nothing comes to mind, and at last, she relaxes. Blue gaze roving about the grove, she focuses at last on the elf, and she edges toward him, not finding _him_ in her immediate memory, either. ** Uh, hey? ** The other elf sags slowly, leaning ever so faintly over with each passing moment. Then he falls over forward, blinking himself just awake enough to realize he now has a faceful of grass. This causes him to sneeze and mutter something inaudibly to the grass before righting himself. Then, and only then, does he look toward the sender, rewarding her with a benign sort of smile. "Ah, there you are, Elisel." Elisel? The maiden stills, a chill dropping down the length of her spine, as she abruptly realizes that she does not know this elf before her -- and she does not know the name by which he's addressed her. It occurs to her to wonder what else she does not know, and, with a wary kind of fright that makes the hair rise on the back of her neck, she hears herself sending, ** Do I... know you? ** "Of course you do," he bobs his head once or twice in a nod of sorts, then looks down at his legs. His brow furrows a bit as he attempts to figure out how to unfold them, and that pondering seems to require what attention the pale one has for several moments. He mumbles at them, then looks up again. "We figure you must have gotten lost," he announces. "Came home all scratched up, covered in mud," he wrinkles his nose. "Feeling better?" Blue eyes flick left, flick right, taking in the quiet grove and the green growing things. Something nags at her, reflecting visibly in her expression, and the maiden sends straightforwardly enough, ** I don't hurt anymore... ** Her sending trails off, though, as she doesn't elaborate on whatever is bringing that nervous look to her face. ** You... healed me, didn't you? ** The other again busies himself with attempting to unfold his legs, becoming more or less successful on the third attempt to stand. "Shouldn't have let me doze off," he states flatly to someone who isn't standing just to his left, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. Sky-coloured eyes move then to the young one, and he nods a time or two. "Of course I did." The girl's mouth quirks -- she doesn't miss that comment to someone that isn't there, and the hair already risen on the back of her neck stays up. ** I don't remember you, ** she sends then, bluntly. "You don't?" Again his brow furrows, more intently this time. He peers, leaning forward and bracing himself with his staff. "I'm Doreel," he prompts. The disheveled, pale-haired maiden frowns; evidently, this makes no sense to her. ** And I know you, ** she answers, not quite a question, though with a hint of dubiousness. He nods, watching closely for some flicker of recognition. "Of course you do." He pauses, glancing to the side again. "And Vargo here... you've known us both for a very long time." He sounds terribly sure of this fact, at any rate. Sliding her gaze sideways and finding no one but herself and this stranger here, the maiden unconsciously steps back, feeling another prickle of unease along her spine. ** I don't know any Vargo either... ** A slight pause is allowed while the other contemplates, occasionally glancing sideways as though confering with his unseen companion. Then he steps forward, holding out a pale, thin-fingered hand. "You must have hit your head... it'll come back to you, I'm sure. Are you hungry?" Something flickers in the unrecognizing blue eyes. Hit her head... ** I did, ** she allows, grudgingly. ** In the twistwind... ** And she pauses, brow furrowed, trying to remember what that is, and where it happened. "Twistwind, eh?" He blinks now, shaking his head. "Missed that... oh well." He again looks distant -- this time across the grove -- and ponders. ** Yes, it was... ** The maiden frowns, lifting a hand to her head, then scrubbing the back of that hand across her eyes. ** Somewhere else... ** "Ah well, it's alright now. You're home." All this is said quite cheerfully as the tall, pale elf moves, heading for the trees on the edge of the clearing. "Would you like some fruit?" Still nervous, the little female turns to watch this stranger, and takes stock of herself. She no longer hurts... but there is this disturbing cloud across her memory, and this keeps that chill going along her backbone, distracting her for a few moments before she forces herself to finish taking stock of her own condition. Food... yes. Hunger there, in her belly. ** Yes... ** she finally agrees, hesitantly. He picks his way across the green, pausing beneath one of the trees and staring up into its branches. "Not quite ripe," he notes absently before reaching for one of the green-touched orange things. "Oh well. Might get some mushrooms, too." ** Those are food? ** the maiden sends doubtfully, stepping after the taller elf, making a careful trek through the colorfully dotted grass. Several spheres are pulled from the branches, the hand that plucks each welling up with just enough light to bathe each for a few moments as it pulls. "They are. Mind the purple ones." ** They're not food? ** comes the reply, as the female squats down on her haunches, squinting warily at the caps of shrooms poking up through the grass. "Well, they are, but..." He pauses, frowning at one of the orange fruits. "They're Niriah's. The brownish ones are better." The blue-eyed female flicks a wary look up at the mention of another unfamiliar name. ** ... alright, ** she finally sends, brushing a lean tanned hand across one of the brown shrooms, and pulling it up out of the earth. With one hand she brings it up to sniff at it, almost absently, while she stares at her other hand -- suddenly caught by the shape of it, callouses and muscle along her palm. It smells, believe it or not, exactly like a mushroom: slightly damp, and rather earthy. Harmless. The much paler elf eventually finishes his fruit collecting and turns to watch, one brow raising just a little. The maiden considers, trying to figure out whether the scent of this shroom matches anything she can remember. She eventually starts eating it, flicking dirt off it as she does, pausing to rub it against her ragged halter when some of the dirt doesn't come off. But her attention wanders from the shroom back to the details of her hands, and then to her clothing, which she fingers bemusedly. And at last she notices the feather and talon hanging on their thong at her neck; over this, she pauses for several moments, holding the crude necklace in her hand and staring at it. The other elf draws near, plopping unceremoniously down in the grass not far away. "These should be about right," he announces, glancing at the necklace for a moment before offering a piece of fruit. "Where'd you get that?" ** I... don't remember, ** answers the maiden, troubled. ** It's... important, but... I don't remember... ** "Tasheya gave it to you," he decides before setting to work peeling one of the orange things for himself. "She's good with feathers. Does lots of things with them." It does not escape the maiden that her host seemed at least for a moment unsure about the necklace -- and neither does it escape her that he appears to arbitrarily explain it, either. ** I don't remember a Tasheya.... ** "You will," he says blandly before taking a bite of now peeled fruit. Warily, the maiden picks up one of the fruits, and sniffs over this, too, before settling in to eating it, eyeing her host for cues on what to do with it. ** Thank you... for the food, ** she ventures after a moment. The other elf nibbles at the flesh of the now peeled orange thing, the stuff crunching a bit when he bites into it. "Quite welcome." The female eats, restlessly, still warily. As with everything else she has encountered thus far, the fruit is greeted with a perplexed eye, as though she's never seen anything like it before. Her eyes keep darting around the grove, her ears twitching to keep track of the sounds, and it is with a tense regard that she keeps tabs on the other elf. Finally, slowly, she asks, ** Who else is here? ** "Eh?" The other elf blinks once, his gaze wavering for a moment between the fruit in his hands, the central tree, and the inqusitive young one. "Mother is here, and Tasheya, Niriah, the helpers... everyone. Even you, since you came back." He nods once or twice in agreement with himself. "All here... all safe." The female's brow furrows under shaggy bangs as her gaze tracks around the grove again -- finding no one here but this Other, and herself. Slowly, gingerly, she stands, and sends, ** Where is everyone, then? ** "Over there." He raises one frail hand to point in the general direction of the tree. "They've all gone inside now, except Vargo. He's with the helpers." He tsks softly, now sounding slightly disappointed. "You haven't eaten." The maiden eyes the great tree, then blinks and looks around. ** The fruit and the shroom, ** she begins. He nods quietly, "You're supposed to eat them. Aren't you hungry? You said you were..." She frowns, then settles again, and nods reluctantly. ** Yes. ** He nods again, smiling gently. "Eat, then. It's good... you like that fruit. It was your favourite." His brow furrows for a moment and he peers off at the tree, then shakes his head. "It's good." With that, then, the maiden does eat, slowly at first, then with a desperate kind of quickness as she first determines that the food doesn't seem... bad, then that she is _extremely_ hungry. Something about that troubles her anew, though, and she mutter-sends, ** Haven't been able to hunt... ** "Hunt?" He blinks, pausing to watch the eating with an almost critical gaze. "Don't hunt, it gets you in trouble." He nods sagely. "You come home covered in mud." ** But I have to hunt, I'm--** And she cuts off, frowning, blue eyes going dark. "You're...?" The pale elf prompts gently, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He shifts a bit on the grass before reaching for another piece of fruit. She begins to look disturbed. ** I don't remember.... ** Her gaze lifts, and she bursts out suddenly, sounding frightened, ** I don't remember you -- or any Tasheya, or Vargo, or Niriah... or this place... something's wrong with me, something's wrong... ** It's the other elf's turn to frown now, and he does. He sets the fruit aside, resting his now free hand on the grass and tightening his grip on the staff. "You will," he announces. "You hit your head. It'll come back, I'm sure." Perhaps the maiden isn't so convinced, for she gets up, gulping down the last of the brownish shroom as she does so, and she begins to pace fretfully. ** This... this doesn't feel right... I was someplace else... where was it? I had to get away from the twistwind... ** "And you are away from the twistwind," points out the other elf, still frowning a bit and leaning his head to one side to watch. "You were somewhere else, but you came home." The maiden whirls back around, looking distraught, visibly unsettled. ** I... I don't remember this place. It's... wrong! It didn't look like this! ** "Shhhh... nothing's wrong." He holds out one frail-looking hand quietly. "Calm yourself and sit, tell us what it looked like." The maiden eyes that offered hand, then, warily, takes it, while answering, ** Open. Wider. There were... rocks. And wolves. ** He nods once or twice, squeezing gently with his hand. "Rocks. And wolves? Well, you're safe from those here, I promise. The thorns keep them out." ** No, no, you don't understand, that was _home_,** the maiden insists, still looking around wildly. Her hand is tense, her grip firm, but from the look of her she might snatch her fingers free at any moment. His hand begins to glow with a soft, warm radiance, soothing and calming what it touches. "Shhhh," he says again softly, shaking his head. "No need to get worked up about it; that might have been home, but we're here now, eh?" Her grip flutters, and she shoots a startled blue gaze to the older elf, as if only just now realizing that he has magic; her face turns starkly startled. ** I _don't_ remember you, ** she maintains, starting to pull away. Doreel sighs softly, letting go and shaking his head. Then he bows it, white-blonde locks tumbling down to hide his face. "I suppose you'll go away again." She skitters back, blurting out, ** I don't know where I'm supposed to be! ** For that, he offers no answer, he just sits with his head bowed. Her brow still furrowed, the maiden eyes this other elf, then swallows. ** Look... you're a healer? If... I hurt my head... can you fix it? ** He sighs again, reaching to pick at the grass with his free hand. "I could try, I suppose." The maiden frowns. ** Well, if you don't want to, I won't hold a knife to your throat... ** Worried, more disturbed now, she begins to pace out across the grove, intent on exploring it trying to grasp the elusive recollection of danger in her mind. "I can try," he repeats quietly, intently watching the grass he's picking at. He eyes each handful of green blades before discarding them, tossing them aimlessly over one shoulder. She turns back around, clearly uneasy, swallowing again, hard. ** I'm... this isn't right. If you can help me, please... ** He sighs, looking up again. "You have to calm down first. I can't do anything if you're wandering around like that." The maiden heaves a sigh, and shoves a hand through her matted hair -- which makes her pause again, as she grasps a hunk of it to stare at, as if it, too, is unfamiliar. ** Alright... alright... I'm okay. I-I'm okay. ** "Come and sit," he says quietly, finally lying his staff on the grass beside him and letting go of it. "Unless you'd rather get Mother to help..." ** I don't know her any better than you, ** the maiden sends, nervously. But she edges back over, and, slowly, sits down next to the other elf. "Oh, well..." His brow furrows, echoing his faint frown, and he leans back a ways. "Maybe I can help, and maybe you'll remember afterward, eh?" ** Maybe... ** She turns to face the other elf, braced, as if still wary. ** So. How do we do this? ** [To be continued....]