"The Maiden Within the Tree" Log Date: 8/4, 8/6, 8/7/02 Log Cast: Elisel/Thicket/Aureole, Lira (emitted by Doreel), Doreel Log Intro: She no longer remembers that she was once Aureole of the Plainsrunners, daughter of Starwing and Blackmorn, lifemate of Briarcatch. She doesn't remember the twistwind that struck her tribe's lands... in which she was struck upon her head and left to wander blindly northward till she stumbled across a hidden northern grove wherein dwelled a strange mad ancient elf. She does not remember the ancient one enthralling her, drugging her with the products of his shaping magics, until reality blurred and she came to believe herself to be what he saw in his own mad visions: a slender tree forever rooted within his hideaway. A tree who would not leave him, as his entire tribe had once done, as well as his mate and child. She does not remember the older she-elf who stumbled into the grove and who strove to liberate her from the shaper who had made her his captive -- and who had incited him to take her life rather than lose his beloved Tree to an invader. But the Wolfrider called Thicket had not truly left, for her soul -- a Wolfrider's soul -- went into the shaper's captive. And stayed there as she fled. Stayed there, as the she-elf who had been made almost as mad as the shaper came back to that selfsame grove, half of her mind craving healing, half of it still craving the mindless bliss of the magic that had been done to her. Thicket is still there, hiding deep within the heart of the she-elf who has been made as much of a tree as Doreel's art can achieve. That she-elf was once Aureole, but now she is Elisel, for the shaper has made her so... But she is also _Teme_, deep within. And the soul of Thicket is determined to see her free. Though it may well be Teme who finds the key to her own freedom.... ---------- Grove(#9784RLU) Life abounds in the center of this grove, not quite drowning it in profusions of vegetation. All around it plants grow, twisting about each other in a magical dance of life that makes the hair on the back of one's neck stand up. It is an oval, about an arrow's flight across its longest part and slightly less than half that across the narrowest, covered over with a lawn of brilliant verdant green. The distance is narrowed some by the many trees spread about the outer span of the oval, spaced rather neatly apart from one another. They are odd trees, though, filtering through the many stages of a tree's life: some are covered in flowers, others in thick summer growth, while the leaves of not a few are stained the colours of deathfall. Many of the trees are adorned with fruits, but not those commonly seen anywhere else on Abode. Beyond those trees rises a high wall of thorns, tangled and thick enough to prevent any idea of what lies beyond. A creek cuts across the middle of the place, winding this way and that with no apparent purpose, flowing both in and out under the wall. On one side of it grows a huge tree, one whose top towers far above any other, its trunk easily wider than half a dozen elves could encompass with arms spread. Twisted roots shelter tiny niches where grow odd patches of mushrooms and berry brambles. On the far side of the water is another tree, smaller and more twisted, with odd, raised patterns in its trunk. The space is almost deathly quiet. There are no birds, no chattering small animals, not even any noisy insects.. only the sound of the water. Contents: Doreel Obvious exits: Woods Path Hole Tree Elisel(#769POce-0) What is she? At first glance, one might think this to be a small young tree... but if one looks closely enough, the shape of an elf can be glimped in the close embrace of bark and vine. The sweep of arms uplifted can be spotted amidst the spread of branches. Within the curve of the trunk, the outline of an impossibly delicate figure can be glimpsed... and roughly five feet up, framed in flowered vines interwoven with the front of a tangled mane of hair, a face fixed in tranquil immobility. Enormous eyes the color of summer leaves stare unseeing from a face as pale as moonlight... that is, if moonlight were tinged with a wash of green. Even the hair that tangles through the vines is a gentle shade of green, streaked at random by glimpses of browns like the bark that sheathes much of her visible skin. Nothing but the tree that holds her clothes this strange altered elf, and it leaves little more than her head, throat, shoulders, and the beginnings of her uplifted arms visible to the eye. All else is hidden away within the tree in which she is immobilized... as if she is, in fact, becoming the tree, in a transformation almost complete. Doreel A very tall elf is this... or he would be, if he stood up straight once in a while. Instead, more often than not, he's sitting or leaning on the pale wooden staff that is apparently a permanent fixture in one hand or the other. Auratic white-blonde hair frames his face, falling loose and unbound halfway down his back in gentle waves, oddly clean and tangle-free. Something vacant has stolen his gaze, leaving the look in his eyes as endless and ageless as the sky they are coloured after. He wears an odd conglomeration of leather and cloth, his tunic and leggings a mish-mashed patchwork with its only common thread being its colouration. Silver and dove and mist and foggy white are these shades, mingled here and there with bright purple. Pale he is, and etherial, as though he only half exists in this place. Often enough it seems that his mind is elsewhere, made terribly evident by his introspective mutterings. Time has ceased to have any meaning for her. It can't, not when she is surrounded by the changeless twilight of the grove... and held fast within the embrace of wood and bark and vine, as snugly and immovably as the eternal fog holds her thoughts, permitting nothing but the vague awareness of *branch* and *root* and *leaf* and *sun*. Nothing from without, that is. The fog is doing nothing for the voice that rises up from within. She can hear it again, stern, gruff, relentless, whispering up from somewhere within the fog, through a lessening in the thick cloying green-gold mists that inundate her mind. ** I know you're there, cub. He's hid you in here, trying to bury you, but he can't hide you from me. ** She stirs... at least, within her mind, for her body has forgotten how to move. And her mind has almost forgotten how to form words... but not a sense of protest at the disturbance, an irritation that her dream is being disturbed, like a pecking bird hammering its beak against her trunk-- ** You can't hide yourself from me, either. We've been together in here for too long for that, cub. I'm not leaving. And you're going to listen to me. ** Her consciousness ripples, a sense coming to her of a she-wolf nudging her peremptorily, seizing her by the ruff as though she were a cub being hauled out of the den... but, but she's not a wolf anymore, is she? The wolf-blood is gone... ** That's it, cub. Not a good memory, but it's a memory. Grab it and hold it with everything you've got. ** ... and she is the Tree now, not a wolf, she has been returned to her rightful form... ** Trees don't send, cub. Trees don't talk or see. You have eyes and a mouth, and you can use them, if you just _focus_! Stay with me, Teme! ** Teme. Something tugs at her, harder, when that glimmers up from the very deepest part of her being, a faint shining star almost obscured entirely by the fog. Inwardly, she blinks at it... and outwardly, unthinkingly, tiny muscles twitch at the corners of closed eyes... Which open. The effort is exhausting, and for many long moments she is swept by the most disconcerting conflict in sensations. She is rooted, solidly rooted within the loving earth... but everything _spins_, all for that fractional effort. Everything blurs and swims before her... Her eyes. She _does_ have eyes, she realizes, dimly. And the Voice within nuzzles her warmly, the she-wolf approving of her cubling. ** Yes! You have eyes, Teme. Use 'em. Look. _See_! ** No, there are no woodpeckers to pester the Creator's many trees. Not in this grove, for he has seen to it that no threats will put his beloved plants in danger. The day is one of the nicer ones, the light of the daystar shining down brightly on the trees, the shrubbery, the vines, and the grass. It provides warmth and life, two things any good tree - including those in the process of becoming more complete ones - should appreciate. Nearby, one of the Helpers is busy picking at unruly tufts of greenery, helping keep all in order, as it should be. Lira is the one, a member of Doreel's helpers here for turns upon turns. Only a few feet away from the elf-tree is she, close enough to work in what shade the branches are able to provide. She does not look up. She doesn't _want_ to have eyes. She doesn't want to look or see. She _wants_ to retreat into her blissful Dreaming slumber... for that is infinitely easier than obeying the insistent inner Voice. Confusion surges, sending wispy ghosts of memory drifting across the fog -- Others she can no longer identify calling her strange things. Aureole. Ree. Pathkeeper. Overlaid across them all, a clearer recollection of an ancient, worn face murmuring to her, "You are a lovely Tree, my Elisel." She is Elisel. She is the Tree. Then why is the inner Voice calling her Teme? Another fractional twitch of muscles, and delicate brows flicker for a moment above half-lidded eyes. Confused by what she hears within her as well as what she sees before her, the Tree... groans. It is the tiniest of noises, a plaintive little whimper that barely escapes her flower-wreathed throat. But it is there. ...and Lira looks up, stopping in the middle of pulling up a grubby handful of weed. One would think Doreel would simply cause the weeds to stop growing, but then the helpers would have less work to perform, wouldn't they? "Tree make sound..?" She shakes her head, blinking her eyes. "Lira work too long. Lira start to hear things..." But yet, her eyes drift further up, up until they settle upon the green-tinged elfin face, bark and growth surrounding it. Slowly, sluggishly, her sight begins to focus. An image... a tiny creature before her, looking up. Then three, then two, then three, all with the same face, swirling and merging and separating again in a languid progression that holds her hypnotized as she watches it... ... until the Voice nudges her again. ** It's a Helper, Teme. Looking at you. Look at it. See it. Speak to it. It's a Helper and it can help you! ** There it is again, that word-sound-concept, that 'Teme'. It prods at her every time the Voice utters it, and in an unthinking, instinctive reaction -- hoping the Voice will stop prodding her with the Teme if she will do as it asks -- she stares blurrily down at the creature who stops to behold her. Another tiny whimper of confusion sounds. Lira's wide eyes blink up at the Tree, a hand tugging nervously at her tunic before she looks each way. If the Master comes... Hesitantly, she approaches such that she could reach out and touch the bark surrounding the elf inside, but she stops short of actually going that far. "What..something wrong? Elisel need more water? Lira go get some..!" Yes, perhaps she's thirsty! "Lira help!" Quickly, she begins to backstep, looking for something to bring it over in. Words... those blur in her hearing, just as the images before her blur in her sight, barely making sense. But 'water' is a word she can recognize... she likes water. She drinks up water like a good tree, and the thought of new water sends yearning slowly through her even though there is a vine that trickles droplets across her slackened mouth. She wants more water... yes... doesn't she? ** Water for your throat, cub. So you can talk better. But you need to drink it. Get her to bring a cup. You can do it, Teme. Talk. ** Talk? Her mouth flickers, just behind a miniscule curl of vine, and in a weak, hoarse, high whisper, the word comes. "C... cup..." Apparently Lira doesn't hear the roughly-uttered word of the Tree, for she scampers off. All is quiet again...for now. Out of sight, she scrounges around for something useful. She's... gone? Elisel-Tree would frown at this... if she could remember how to frown. But she can barely manage to blink, even as her head spins and bafflement exhausts her. So tired... so sleepy... and thirsty, too. The fog cajoles her, and a dim recollection makes her take that tiny, dainty vine just before her mouth between her lips, as blindly as a newborn wolf-cub trying to suckle its mother. The moisture she gleans is marginal, but it is there... and sweet and warm. And good. It begins to renew the fog... And the wolf-mother Voice nudges her harder. ** No, Teme. Let it go. That'll taint you -- let it go! ** She whimpers again, craving the taste of that sap-heavy water against her tongue. That is part of it. Part of the way it is done. In that sap-laden water that trickles into the Elisel-Tree's mouth and throat is...something...that continues to cloud the mind, continues to help leave it open and receptive to all the efforts the Creator has undertaken to bring the Tree as far along as he has so far. Yet, there is still more to come. More that needs to be done to complete the transformation. More he...perhaps cannot do, but not for lack of trying. Soon, Lira returns with a bowlful of water, coming back to pause at the base of the Tree. "Look..water!" Well, of course trees cannot actually look; it's more a call for attention. But trees cannot give attention to others either. Carefully, she rises up on her toes but it's not quite enough to reach the mouth, a few grunts escaping before she tries again after bringing over an old treestump shaped like a couple steps to aid shorter, smaller beings in reaching heights they couldn't normally. "Drink.." she insists, the cool flow of water felt splashing over lips, into mouth. It only takes a heartbeat... but in that heartbeat of time, the wolf-mother presence rises up to push away the fog, just enough to provoke a brief jerk of her neck and jaw... just enough to make that vine slip down off her lips. Elisel's brows knit again when the wolf-mother subsides, leaving her with a niggling need for more of that laden water... a need that makes her consider, for just a moment, trying to strain her head forward to seize the vine again. ** Look, Teme. She's bringing better water. You want water, drink that. But you have to reach for it. You have to ask. Ask her, Teme. _Ask her_. ** "W... wat.." comes her hoarse mumble, trailing off into another whimper of pleasure as the bowl reaches her mouth. _Water_. This water doesn't answer the niggling need... but it does answer another need that she had forgotten she had, a far simpler, more basic craving: her body's for untainted water. Thirstily, she twitches her head as far forward as it will go... and struggles to drink. "Drink, drink.." Lira coos, smiling with pride that she might help in some way, though confusion mars her trollish features at the sound that once again comes from the Tree. "Tree...don't talk." she insists, finding it difficult to believe. But this one seems to. Biting hesitantly at her lip, she misses with some of the water, a bit of it running down neck and shoulders before dribbling over bark. "Need to get more water..?" she half-asks, half-observes. Trees don't cough, either, if they drink too much too quickly. But Elisel does, almost but not quite choking on the life-giving stuff she's gulped down. She can feel it trickling down through her, a cool silver counterpoint to the heavy, warm fog still holding her captive, making a thin, fragile trail of clarity through which _Teme_ shines ever so slightly brighter. Wearily, she blinks, eyes almost closing... and then opening again, a little farther, with a massive effort. "Water," comes a more solid whisper now. And then, in confusion, "Am... tree?" With an emphatic nod, Lira finishes up with the bowl and descends the stool, setting the bowl down afterwards. "Tree, yes..but why talking?" It's confusing. Trees aren't supposed to talk. Trees are just supposed to /be/. "How can tree..talk?" she asks, unfamiliar with the concept. She's seen Doreel at work of course, but much of this has been done with her out of sight. That's a cursed good question, one which threatens to send Elisel's thoughts into a spin all over again... and she has to struggle with an answer. "Don't... remember..." ** Keep going, cub! Keep talking! She's listening, Teme! ** The wolf-mother presence lurks, taking advantage of the fractional dimming in the fog that comes with the clean water, and enveloping _Teme_ in a rush of encouragement and strength. "You... talk... more? You... help..." "Help?" Lira repeats the word as though it's the one thing she can do, responding to it favorably. "Help..how?" Still, there is confusion in her tone, confusion at how a tree is talking. Yet, there she is hearing it. "Lira must've gotten into bad fruit again..." Another good question. Elisel cannot manage to crinkle her pale green features into a frown of dismay... but the beginnings of it flicker across her eyes nonetheless. Even more confused than the little Helper -- for Lira does not have the inner Voice prodding at her -- the Tree is silent for many moments before she whispers at last, "You... help... by... talking... yes. Let me... listen. I... I remember... talking. Words..." Lira will just pull that trunk right up and plop down on it, then. "Lira talk..! Can do that." After a pause, she amends, "Just never with tree before, not like this. Sometimes 'Lira help nice tall tree by picking weeds,' but tree never answer before..!" And that's the thing... she _can_ remember talking now. It hurts her throat, for she has not tried it for some time... but she can _remember_ it. Flashes of herself turning towards... who? Someone. Turning towards someone, calling out words. Of greeting. Of pleasure. Of fright. Or words just to _talk_... Why did she forget how to talk? ** He made you forget, cub. Hang onto it. Keep at it. You can remember, Teme. You can remember. ** "I... didn't... s... see you. You... Lira?" "Remember wolf talking..but never tree." Lira continues, her head tilting to look up in wonderment. "You remember talking wolf?" Elisel was here when the Master had that visitor some turns ago. "That was last to come in. No other since. Master sound more lonely sometimes. Worried he stop protecting us." Stopping as she realizes she's been spoken to again, she nods crisply. "Lira..that me." "Lira," the Tree whispers... and now, at the Helper's other words, Elisel does begin to frown in earnest. "Lonely. I... am... lonely. Talk because... _lonely_..." Then a strong ripple of something else shoots through her, disturbing the fog, calling up intermingled alarm and yearning, a sense of being protected... and a sense of fear. Her eyes widen, and she rasps, "Master?" "I am here..." comes another raspy voice, sudden and off to one side. Lira promptly falls off to one side, startled as she scrambles back to her feet and tugs nervously at her tunic. "M-master..!" she squeaks, looking worriedly between Doreel and the Tree. "L-lira was bringing water, and Tree talked.." Doreel frowns, a distant look passing through his eyes as he hobbles forward, hunched over a bit while using his walking cane to aid him. "Trees...do not talk." he explains. Lira bites her lip, hesitant to just accept that given what's happened. "But Lira heard.." "Trees.." Doreel repeats, voice quiet yet on the verge of warning. "..do not talk. Now go, Lira. There are more weeds to pull." Another tiny whimper escapes the Tree, even as the ancient elf comes into her line of sight. She would tremble if she had the room... and within she does tremble, as the wolf-mother presence hauls her consciousness back and back hard. ** That's _him_, cub! The one trying to make you forget who and what you are! Don't let him realize you're awake! ** Lira looks quite ashamed of herself right about now, and if she had a tail like a wolf it'd be tucked between her legs. Scooping up the bowl she makes an attempt to apologize while Doreel mutters to himself. "Lira..just try to help, Master! Like always!" Doreel ignores Lira and leaves her to go off and handle her chores, though her words echo inside his mind as he approaches Elisel-Tree slowly, looking at her with measuring eyes. "You did not speak..I am certain of it. You are not an elf or a troll, but one of my trees." Yet, there's something in that voice that wavers as he considers the green-tinged, elfin face. A face which has been made impossibly delicate by deprivation... but by the Master's art, as well. Little more than almost translucent skin covers the structure of her face, skin rendered as soft as flower petals and the green of newborn grass... and yet, it is a face that makes this Tree unlike any other in the grove. A face that, furthermore, is not as tranquil as the last time its Master beheld it... for the eyes are _open_. Focused. And full of intermingled fear... and need. ** Don't look at him, cub, shut your eyes, curse it! He can't know you're awake! ** But she looks upon him... the need stirring, for that which has been made Tree within her awareness recognizes this as the source of the peaceful Dreaming. And moreover, recognizes something in _his_ face, as well... something... that looks like the flashes of memory deep within the fog. Doreel leans ever so closer by mere inches, head tilting further as if he might be thinking something is more than it seems with the Tree. In the end he shakes his head and breaks eye contact, muttering again to himself, something about it not working like it was supposed to, something else about being a failure. Suddenly he casts a bony finger at Elisel-tree, hurt mingling with his accusing words. "You're supposed to be my special tree, my Elisel..!" The trunk Lira used to stand on is now taken by him to sit upon carefully, easing himself down slowly. A great sigh sees his chest and shoulders rise and fall before he looks up at Elisel-Tree. "Have I failed..?" he asks you, or perhaps himself. ** Don't _look_ at him, Teme! ** But she does look. Her green brow crinkles as the ancient settles himself awkwardly down, and for a moment or two her vision swims again. Altering him. Making him straight and tall, achingly beautiful, starsong shining in his sending and in his eyes... Master, she remembers. This is Master. And what had the Helper said about him? Even as the wolf-mother presence growls her protest, Elisel struggles to move her mouth. Slowly. Stiffly. But enough to let another whisper escape her: "........... lonely?" Surely the voice Doreel hears cannot be coming from the Tree itself. Trees Do Not Talk! It is simply impossible. So, he sits up a little straighter and haunted eyes sweep left, then right. Nobody there. They return to that which he has shaped before him, trailing slowly up beautiful bark to limb and greenery, finally that face and those eyes. He is far from whatever her eyes would suggest. He is what he is - a lonely, old elf with nothing else to live for but his grove and those he protects. Good luck drawing it out of him so easily, though. "I am not alone. I have my trees, my works....myself." he declares to that which surrounds him. Drawing anguish out of a Firstborn? A phenomenal task, for one for whom drawing in a solid breath is a task of world-moving proportions. But the Tree tries that latter, nevertheless, her brow crinkling further, her lips quivering and then parting, as she finds herself struggling to pull air into her lungs. If she could only breathe... perhaps she could clear her head... perhaps she could think. But even the air here is laden with the heady scents of the green growing things that hold her fast... and with every breath she takes, fog swirls. "Y... your.... trees," she whispers. "Am... your... tree?" ** NO, TEME! You're an elf, curse it! Listen to me! ** And as the wolf-mother voice growls within her head, the Tree abruptly whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. Doreel shifts a hand to run it slowly over and through his head of hair, exhaling in a slow sigh that hints at his weariness, both physical and mental. Here, he was doing something grand, a transformation the likes of which had not been seen before, and it's stalling. Talking back to him, in fact. "Was..supposed to be." he supposes with a shake of the head. "Yet you speak, which trees do not do. Not in the same way." The fog is yet thick, the strong influences of the various blossoms, scents, and things in the water he's added helping to keep you in your state, but for now he does not reinforce it. The confusion is terrible, and for several long moments the delicate figure trapped within the embrace of the tree that binds her wrestles with the fog that clings to her thoughts. It is so tempting to just relax, and drop back into the embrace of the Dream... but there is a wolf pacing restlessly behind her eyes, and the inner growl of protest will not let her sleep! She wants to turn her head, to try to cover her ears against the conflicting sensations roiling through her... but she cannot move, of course. "Voice," Elisel whimpers. "Voice within... v... voice without... say one thing, say another... I am Tree, I am elf, I do not know, I do not know..." And now desperation fills her eyes, as another need surges through her. When confusion has touched her before, this One before her has come to soothe her. He is not soothing her now, and she cannot comprehend why! Again she strives to move, but she can only succeed in moving her vine-crowned head a fraction of an inch out. Huge green eyes, liquid and imploring, fix themselves upon the master of the grove. ** Help... help me... ** Doreel's eyes rise again at the sending, something coming and going as is wont to do with the aged elf. He exhales, lips tightening in a show of discomfort at the urgent tone of the send, shifting to rub his brow with a pair of fingers. "I..cannot. I have tried...tried to do something good and restore you to what you were..yet it does not work." It would indicate that he still sees you as tree first, over elf. "Help.." he repeats, as if mulling over the concept in his head, it tilting back your way in consideration. Her sending uncurls further, trying to reach for Doreel almost as if it were a vine reacting to his magic; indeed, to Elisel-Tree, she can almost visualize the vine in her thoughts. If she can only reach the Master... perhaps she could remind him of what she needs? ** Do... good... I am Elisel... I am... I am... ** Outwardly, Elisel's eyes go wide... and she gasps unseeingly. Doreel's brows scrunch together at the sending that emanates from the tree. Isn't it supposed to go the other way? He has been the one to infiltrate the mind with suggestive sending, aided by his creations in this strange grove. Now he looks up as though picturing that vine he 'sees,' standing slowly to trudge closer as he grips his walking stick. "You..are.." Are what? His expression turns to one of confusion, conflicting visions of tree clashing with that of the elfin face, those eyes. Why did he seem to miss those many times before? His hand lays against the bark, fingers touching a shoulder. There is contact..perhaps a faint hint of magic. There _is_ a shoulder there, just barely distinct against the enveloping wood, a place where the bark yields up to a texture as soft as a blossom's petal. But it is _warm_, warmer than a flower should be. At the contact, however, the Tree shivers minutely, causing subtle rustles of the vines that crown her brow. ** Am... I am... ** Her head sags in the tiny space she has to move it, relaxing against the cradle of vines and branches behind it; her eyelids droop. ** I am-- ** Then she twitches again, visibly, eyes going round and blindly staring just past the Shaper. ** Not supposed to say! ** "Must..think about this." Doreel mutters quietly, seeming to experience one of the few true conflicts of interest he's ever had in here. There is a part of him that..that knows the being inside the bark and vine /is/ elf, and it clashes with his clouded sight that leaves him seeing only a grand tree, waiting to be shaped more majestically. He returns a hint of uncertainty of his own in a light send that grows and lingers, picking up on the sense of roots and branches. "Sometimes.." he begins, as if holding a conversation with you, or perhaps himself, "Sometimes I..am like you. Uncertain of what I am..." Is he a monster? A savior? Neither? Body weary, he shakes his head as the faint tingle of magic remains, turning slowly before sagging against Elisel-Tree, sinking down to sit. ** We _know_ what he is, Teme! Look what he has done to you! ** The she-wolf within growls, barking out her disgust and her fury, hackles rising. The outermost thoughts -- the ones claimed by Elisel, claimed by the Tree -- ripple in gentle bemusement at the Master's uncertainty. He is... the Shaper, isn't he? He is the one who has rooted her within the earth again, to make her safe, to make her what she was... and as he sinks down beside her her only thought is to try to shade him. The vinelike sending curls forth again, in her thinking almost as substantial as a true vine would be, seeking to twine about that perceived lingering magic. But the Presence in the middle... that one struggles to peer out through the clinging layers of fog. And for a moment, a brief shining moment of clarity, a thought coalesces for Teme. _Maybe he -WOULD- help..._ It could be an opportunity for Thicket there, Doreel acting the way he is now. Over the many turns, he's seemed so certain of what Elisel was, that being a tree and nothing else. He had to put her right again, and that meant building up the trunk around her, adding branch and leaf, vine and blossom. He looks up and blinks a few times. Is that a vine headed down towards him, or is he merely seeing things that aren't there? "Is that what this is..?" he wonders aloud, carrying to words the thoughts that stumble through his brain as to what you may really be. Has he been seeing something incorrectly all along? But oh, to be a tree himself..nothing to worry about then. He could be one with the others here, since his own kind are long gone. With a faint sigh his eyes drift shut, hand still splayed against the bark. You can feel it, too. Feel the tingle. He grows quiet, more still. Thicket lurks so deep within the Tree that the fog cannot reach her... and she can almost pull Teme in far enough that her thoughts pull free of the fog. But not entirely, for Teme cannot break her ties with her own body, no matter how much her Shaper might have tried to change it... and to reach outside the boundaries of her own mind, she must go through the fog. And she cannot help it, almost, as most of her mind tries to trickle forth to join with that lingering tingle. She _wants_ it. She wants it enough that her body constricts with the need of it, as much as it can within the wood that holds her. ** <... but just beneath the unseen 'vines', an equally unseen 'hand' reaches down through the fog to the Shaper's golden hair.> ** Doreel's chest rises and falls slowly, mumbled names of those he used to know trickling from his lips before he grows silent again. There's a brief twitch, some sort of other presence there that would appear to coax him not to leave it. "Hmmm.." he wonders, hand nearly falling away from the trunk before it settles again, still there. Somewhere, he might swear he felt something coming towards him if one asked. ** ...... ** The sending that comes to her in answer makes Elisel draw in a tiny gasp, almost as much air as she can manage when she is caught so snugly in living wood... sending. _Sending_. The touch of a mind that is not her own sends further ripples through the fog... and opens, at least for a heartbeat, a path through which something bright and clear shines down from the Tree. ** You are _elf_... I remember... you send. You are _elf_... ** Doreel is..but is that what he truly wishes to be any more? ** ** Like this, he almost seems..vulnerable. Many times prior, he was in control. His will won out, aided by pounding things home over and over with the help of his shaped plants. Now, the leaf is on the other branch. ** .... ** ** Curse it, cub, what are you _doing_?! ** ** _No_... let me... let me think! ** Her will wavers, the fog threatening to pull her under, but the spark that remains of Teme battles to keep itself alight. She tries to reach forward again... but even as she does, the fog slides all over her thoughts, blurring them the more she tries to exert herself. But one thing does manage to glimmer through: ** I... _am_... elf! I remember! ** Greened lid squeeze shut over green eyes, and strain begins to crack through the mask of tranquility that has been the expression Elisel has worn for turns of the seasons she has forgotten how to measure. She cannot move... but she can send. And even though the wolf-presence deep within skitters back in alarm, she latches onto the sending that touches her with all the strength she can muster. Doreel does not act as if he's aware of that other voice in Elisel's head right now, her sending the only one that reaches his mind. It's strange enough to be getting it at all from one that he thought was a tree, but the more it sends to him the more that bit of doubt grows that what he did was perhaps wrong. His eyes flutter but remain closed. He might be visualizing something, for there is still a strong sense of tree in him, only this time it's akin to him being in the place he's put you in. The imagery is not of him as a strong thing, no - instead, he is a withered old tree, alone and neglected. The magic stays up though, and there might be a way to influence it in some way should it be sought. His mind, like those of various victims of his, is vulnerable while in slumber. ** <--a flare of memory, of a newborn wolf cub discovering his legs, and swiveling a head crowned with enormous ears to the tiny elfin hands extended to him in delighted welcome--> <--the sending totters like that wolf cub, but it grabs onto that contact in instinctive reaction. Much of it is addicted need, seeking more of the peace that has been enforced upon her... but beneath that, beneath the fog, Teme frowns tightly as she falls into the vision the Shaper's dream is building. Falls and falls hard... and discovers that she has come through the fog with a strangely indinstinct form. She pauses long enough to blink dizzily at her hands, deeply green and wreathed at the wrists in leaves... but hands that she can move. Like her bare green feet, as well. Unsteadily, she totters to that withered old tree, and reaches for it.> ** Much of the bits that feature a wolf cub are lost on Doreel, even generating a faint sense of distaste. ** ** ** ** ** ** Well, it makes sense to Teme, at any rate... as long as she is almost one with Elisel, wrapped in fog and dream. The wolf-presence, the Other, is on the other side of the fog... dimmed, for now. ** ** Doreel's sending flickers, fades briefly before the pleading words register, the connection remaining though a bit weaker than before. He..'looks' up with his eyes open in the physical realm, though what they show him is not what is real. He still sees the send-self that speaks to him, not the tree his hand remains touching. ** ** ** ** Doreel is...not used to this. Not one bit. He curls his other arm around his waist, twitching briefly as your visage shifts to hold less of that plantlike appearance. ** ** He's..made a mistake, hasn't he? He's done something he shouldn't have with you? But now he has the look of the tree, roles reversed. ** ** But, no, he is not alone right now. ** ** Elf...tree. Tree...elf. Perhaps there's some of both in Doreel, though not at all in a physical sense. Right now, Elisel is much more a combination of the two even if he has not been able to truly turn her /into/ a plant. It must just not be something he has the ability to do, leaving it to cosmetic changes instead. Through a sense of his own fog, Doreel picks out that beacon-like light you seem to generate, his true self tilting his head in consideration as the tree-image begins to shift around, blurring. ** ** A pause at the image of himself that is offered, that followed by a general feeling of admission. Not truly a plant, no... for all that she is cradled within the slender shape of the tree so securely that she might as well be one with it. The vines have pierced her with tiny thorns at wrists and temples, learning to draw sustenance from her even as they feed _her_ with the subtle, constant stream of sweet, beguiling sap... but they are not truly one with her... ** ** Of course, no pain would be felt at those points where the thorns have broken through skin, Doreel having dulled the senses and nerves in those locations. It's something he had to do in order to constantly keep the sustenance up, and now his eyes begin to refocus on the tree before him, images still strong in his mind as he appears to move in a dreamlike state of his own. The brief thought flashes through his mind, that he might be able to construct a similar setup around himself, should he give up on all else. It..is considered. Doreel, however, is still in something of a vulnerable state with the way the sending remains open, influenced by your own thoughts and senses, his physical form standing by in a dazed state as he looks down at the vines securing around your ankles. Real ones begin to sprout from the ground and caress his own, an odd smile crossing his lips. As he is the Shaper, he shapes. Head tilting at the name he has given you, his other hand slowly rises to brush against a green-tinged cheek. The springing up of the true vines from the malleable earth sets off a green-golden glow in the fog that wreathes the mind of the Tree... and her thoughts instinctively curl towards that magic, having learned to crave it like the vines themselves. ** ** swirls through the Dream as that which is Elisel rises up to gain strength... and in the Dream, the strangely leafy elfin form sways again slowly before the Dream Doreel. ** ** Doreel is felt to shiver briefly, eyes glancing down at the vines that hold his ankles, encouraged to an extent by your desire and need to send a few your way as well, trailing down from various tendrils near your head as they reach out and tickle then touch lightly. They begin to sprout a few scented blossoms but they pause in the middle of opening when the begging for two different things touches the Shaper's mind. Still woodlike on the dream side, he's again hit with conflicting senses of elf vs. plant. Your true self still seems so plantlike, yet the elfin side in the dreams is strong. ** ** As the sense of embrace tightens in the dream world, both of his hands now cup your true head at the cheeks. The vines, meanwhile, have crawled up to his knees. ** ** And her true face crinkles ever so slightly, green brows trying to draw together, awareness flickering within the verdant depths of her eyes. Awareness... confusion... need... and fear. Her mouth moves, and another whimper escapes her. "Wh... what... am... I?" Doreel's hands feel the movement of that mouth as the question is asked, echoing in his own troubled mind as well. He has the answer as it pertains to him; it's just a matter of figuring out what he will do with it. The magic continues, felt to flow through you and the bark into the ground, where it comes back up as the vines that wrap around his true self and your dream self, as if an odd sort of reflection - the same as your real-tree self faintly mimics his dream-tree self. ** ** A few thorns seek to grow and break through into his own skin through his clothing, the multiple pricklings felt very little if at all. His eyes roll back briefly as if flooded with the sensation, new to him though known to you. He, for the moment, shows no sign of ending the slow-going process, though his mind seeks out yours in the interest of aid in what to do next - continue? Or withdraw? Contact. Contact of hands, of minds, of magic... she who is the Tree soaks it in, not remembering the last time she had experienced such contact, loneliness and desperation making her cling to it all the harder. ** Elf, ** she sends, suddenly, a star of clarity within the Dream... a sending in reality, but one which ripples bizarrely. Elf... but which elf? _Who_ is she? ** Am... am Teme? ** The contact is among the more important things that are kept up, the sending being the other main one. For the first time in as long as he can remember, Doreel shares minds with someone in a way that is not meant to dominate or overpower, and in fact it's the first time in turns upon turns that the Other may actually influence his thoughts and actions. Still appealing to him is the process taking place that has him suddenly beginning to feel the effects of his own craft, the thorns seeping the deceptive sap into his body - the same as those still in your wrists and temples, their own activity increasing as his magic flares. In spite of you, his mind begins to sink further into the concept of /Tree/, until... ** <..Teme..?> ** It's an odd name, though Doreel is immediately aware that it is /you/ and plants cannot possess such a thing. The wolf had it too, for some reason. His hands tremble slightly against your cheeks, even as the vines shift to include them in the actions of the prickly thorns. He struggles with the conflicting sides, teetering dangerously close to falling off the edge to the wrong side, the not-elf side. The wolf-mother Presence deep within has been calling her Teme, hammering her with that word-sound-concept which has the power to rouse her somewhat from the eternal, treacherous fog. But the fog holds the name of Elisel, and at least up until now, the Shaper has called her Elisel, too. So have the Helpers. And it has been easy, blissfully easy, to let that imposed name sink into her consciousness until she has very little room within her mind for any other identity... Until now. Until she unthinkingly sends that inner name, and the wolf-mother howls in dismay -- and the Shaper sends it, too. ** I... I am... Teme! I am Teme! ** That star-clear sending resonates up from within the fog, driving it temporarily away... and the source of it suddenly feels, surging in to try to fill the void, the sense of despair and desire to lose himself in his own workings flooding in from the mind communing with hers. ** What -- what are you doing? You can't! ** Teme..Teme..Teme - that special name resonates within Doreel's mind, showing itself to be something he cannot ignore. It's not Recognition, but not far from it in the sense that, try as he might, he is drawn to pay attention to it, to not let it go. Although the effects of the tainted sap do exert some form of control over him, giving him the sense of what it's been like for you all these turns, he is still the one who made it in the first place and he can control it - if he's lucid enough to do so. The chances of this do not look very good until you repeat who you are, the shining sense of the send breaking through that misty haze. The strength that bursts forth stalls the Shaper's descent, the firm claim that he /cannot/ do what he's doing enough to cause his eyes to blink twice, hands hesitating at the sides of your face before a thought finds the vines and their thorns suddenly retracting, both from him and you. He stumbles backwards and sinks to a knee, one hand against the ground and the other against your bark for support as he sputters, "I..what have I..done?" The Shaper has, unfortunately, more lucidity than his Creation... and more strength. With that one bright burst of sending having rung forth from the innermost depths of her being, she who is caught within the Tree -- Elisel? Aureole? Ree? _Teme_? -- slumps imperceptibly in its embrace, her greened brow sheening with sweat, exhaustion slackening her features. ** ......... ** Doreel is still not truly right, but he has snapped out of that trance-like state he was previously in. Rubbing his eyes slowly, they focus on the reddening marks the withdrawal of the thorns leave, focusing enough to close them up before doing the same with those along his legs. Looking up at you, he recognizes you as an elf inside a tree, evident in the fluctuating sending that still holds a connection with you, as though reluctant to let go. "You..you do not belong there..not like this." he mumbles, reaching up hesitantly to fill you with another sense of magic, though this time it's not the shaping of plants around you. No - rather, he closes the wounds the thorns have left on you, voice shaky. "Must..fix you.." The healing washes over her, turning green-tinged skin whole and unmarred, though still streaked by remnants of sap... and hints of blood as well. Even as the vines retreat at their master's will, the magic whispers of a heart whose beating skips erratically at the interruption of the flow of the taint into her blood. It whispers of profound weakness. And it whispers of flesh which has already felt this magic's touch, skin and hair that have been retinted, limbs that have been lengthened... blood that has been _changed_. She is familiar... and yet entirely new, with _Teme_ shining, wavering, rippling like a reflection of the Little Moon in the surface of the creek that bubbles through the grove. And as the healing washes over her, it does something else, too. It begins to clear the fog away, letting _Teme_ shine more clearly, and letting the familiar body that holds her open its eyes again, with a monumental effort. Once again her brow furrows, mouth moving soundlessly to try to shape words, though all that escapes her is a thin tendril of sending clinging tenaciously to the Shaper's mind. ** .........? ** It's the best Doreel can do for the moment; you may note an overall weariness in him, such that usually goes along with someone who is close to being spent. Whatever all that was, it's taken a lot out of him. "Rest..must rest." he whispers in spite of your growing alertness and attempts to continue with that contact and sense of holding. He finds himself returning it though not as firmly, part of him wishing not to let go for it seems like there is finally a way he may not /have/ to be alone. "Rest, Teme..I...I will work to free you once I have the energy I need." He slumps such that his back now settles against the trunk, remaining in contact and focusing enough that he can at least will the bark, branch, and vine around your arms to loosen to the point of them at least being able to slip free. It is the most he can do right now, chest rising and falling rapidly but evenly. And for the first time in turns of the seasons she has forgotten to count, arms that have been held immobile and uplifted have new room to move. Her left slips but a fraction, muscles too accustomed to holding that same position and catching and remaining partially aloft. But her right... shakingly, slowly, heavily, it drops down from the living cocoon that has held it. It drops, until a bone-thin hand droops forward, very near the shoulder of the elf who slumps against her trunk now. As it does, her mind swirls, groggily-- ** ** ** ** Doreel's weary mind attempts to reinforce, eyes closed as he senses the movement from above, knowing the muscles are going to need work before you can do much on your own. That is the biggest hangup and it will take some healing to help make right. He exhales, head turning to nestle in against the trunk. He is going to need to sleep again, but this time he does not seem in danger of falling out of touch with what he is - or what you truly are. Her... _arm_. She is an elf. She is _Teme_. And she has... an arm. She stares muzzily down at it, the confusion and the fear in her glazed eyes allowing something else to join it for just a few moments, as the Shaper turns his head towards her limp fingers. The Shaper, whose hands and face and voice she recognizes and whose contact and magic she has craved... and now, too dazed to know whether it is the enforced need from the fog or the deeper, purer need for contact from deeper within that makes her do it, the one within the Tree tries to reach once more. Slowly, clumsily, the arm _moves_... just enough for the hand to find a resting place atop that bright tousled head. There it relaxes again, quivering... but now the fragile fingers can twine in golden hair. The sensation, the feel of fingers in his hair cause Doreel's heavy eyelids to open slightly, just long enough to register what is happening. At first he takes it to be a vine but he realizes he isn't directing any right now. There is something...welcoming about the touch, something he has lacked for longer than even he can possibly remember. Not that unlike a cub might, he props himself up just a little higher so you don't have to strain. After a long pause, he sends. ** ** As Doreel is weary, so too is Teme... and even if the fog has lessened, her own exhaustion is close indeed to pulling her down into true slumber. But that plea that wafts across her thoughts coaxes an echo of the image that had occurred within the Dream before: ** ** And in truth, in what passes for reality in this twilit, timeless place, Teme remains with her hand in her Shaper's hair until sleep steals across them both. [End log.]