"Reshapings and Regrets" Log Date: 9/19, 9/20/02 Log Cast: Doreel, Aureole/Oriolle/Thicket Log Intro: For many turns of the seasons now, the she-elf once known as Aureole of the Plainsrunners has been a captive in the grove of the mad Firstborn Doreel -- held there by the seductive pull his power has gained over her, for she is exquisitely sensitive to his magic. And held there, furthermore, by virtue of the Shaper trapping her in a living tree... doing his best to, with his art, make a tree of _her_. For many turns of the seasons now, that she is a tree is exactly what Aureole has believed. But now the soul of the Wolfrider Thicket, lying dormant within her and awaiting an opportunity to prod the hapless captive into regaining her freedom, has begun to rouse again. And Doreel, in a twist of motive spurred far less by his madness than by the soul-shattering grief and loneliness that has caused it, has begun to regret what he has done; to wonder, indeed, if he was in fact _wrong_. He has re-discovered that his 'tree' can in fact _send_... and even discovered a hitherto secret name within her, a name that resonates with a truth he cannot deny. And so the Shaper has released his captive from the tree that held her, and works now to try to make an elf of her once more. Little does he know that even as Ree is eager for his contact, the soul of Thicket is not yet ready to let her yield so easily.... ---------- Tree The inside of the tree hums with energy. Like the inside of a Wolfrider father tree, except a lot more. Similar images to those entwined in the limbs outside have been shaped into the walls here. Every once in a while you think you see one of the images move but when you look it is the same as when you entered. Narrow and steep stairs curve around the inside of the tree to a small area where soft and warm furs have been left lying for a sleeping area. Several windows line the highest parts of the tree and give a wonderful view of the sky and stars. This place is surely one of the most wonderous things you have ever seen. Contents: Doreel Obvious exits: Out Numerous days have passed since the fateful day in which Doreel's mind was opened up to a whole new way of viewing Elisel - no longer as the tree he'd been turning you into, but rather as another elf, someone who might be able to help provide a bit of companionship for the lonely, tormented shaper. For your benefit, he's carefully unshaped you from the tree itself, his helpers bringing you into the large tree that dominates the grove, and you've been left to rest on a soft pile of greenery, lush and aromatic. Nothing meant to influence the mind as much as the other plants he's used, however. He's also kept you subdued, as though in a long slumber - the better to do the work his mind told him must be done. He's removed the tainted wolfblood from your system, reworked the structure of your body to add height and make you look more like a high one, and little by little he's tried to restore proper pigmentation to your skin. It's a somewhat dull green now, on the light side. Hair has been left as it was for the time being. Also, lacking anything better in which to dress you, he's shaped vine and leaf to at least provide some coverage for the bare essentials. Taking a break from the time-consuming and tiring work, he wipes a brow as he kneels next to you on another soft pile of growth, exhaling slowly as he tentatively reaches out with both hand and mind, an old set of fingers touching your cheek as he greets. However magically enforced her slumber might be, it is still a truer state of being than the drugged thrall that has held this maiden captive out in the silence of the grove. She sleeps, but it is a sleep of rejuvenation rather than of stagnant dreaming -- though even as she remains deep asleep, her body seems pliant to the lonely shaper's will. A fragile form whose lines and contours have been concealed in living wood has emerged once more; she has hands, limbs, shoulders, a face. She is... an elf. She lies now motionless upon the rushes, her hair and frame tended by the Helpers when their master is not attending her himself. The green-brown tresses flow loosely down around her neck and shoulders, spilling freely over the edges of the pile of greenery upon which she is nestled. Much of it spills down, too, to help the shaped leaves and vines blanket her. Her breathing is even; the rhythm of her heartbeat, slow and regular. Weak... but perhaps, just perhaps, gaining strength. And as those fingers touch her cheek, for the first time in many days there comes a subtle change to the pacing of that weak rhythm of her life energies. It flutters. In spite of his current state, Doreel has worked tirelessly as much as he's been able to, doing his best to reverse much of what he had done before. It is not natural for an elfin body and mind to have such changes occur, so perhaps it was best he kept you at rest while he did the bulk of the work to date. His mouth opens momentarily as he considers something to say, shaking it off with a frown instead. What /can/ he say? It is the first time he can recall that he's felt compelled to undo something, the first time something has told him that what he's done was not right. Not used to questioning his own actions; that's one of the issues here. His fingers linger yet, attention refocusing slightly as the eyes initially move, and he leans closer by a few inches to look you over, making sure all is coming along as it should. While your muscles will be weak from lack of use, he's started working on restrengthening them. ** I.. ** he does send now, the hint of uncertainty present as he finds himself forgetting what you should be called. ** Can you..forgive me? ** he asks. The sending seems to reach her on some level as the touch does, making a mind grown rusty from years of dreaming stir as feebly as her breath had fluttered... but the stirring is, nevertheless, there. Her eyes do not open, but her lips part for a moment; ever so slightly, her head turns towards that lingering hand. As it does, the barest ripple of a sending slips out of her: ** ...? ** Doreel is hesitant to say anything further just yet, watching as he leaves his hand in place, waiting to see what, if anything, you do. He rubs his forehead and eyes briefly with the other hand, glancing down at the greenery you rest on along with the rest that keeps you looking decent. ** I was wrong.. ** he finally sends again following a long pause. ** You..are supposed to be an elf. ** _You are supposed to be an elf._ _You are supposed to be an elf._ The words slowly course into her subconscious, carried in by the sending. A strangely familiar sending, though weakness and confusion make her uncertain as to who it is that sends. Who it is that touches her. ** .............. elf? ** The question is hazed, slow, a bare whisper of a sending. Threaded unspoken throughout it is profound disorientation. Apparently, the mind might be too far gone for Doreel to have any success. He should have known, after all the things he had done to it before. There's only so much the mind can take. ** You..don't understand, do you? ** he wonders, the tone of it on the flat side, sounding defeated and lost. Somewhere in there, while it does feel like there's something in your answer that recalls a faint memory in his mind, it's still faint and his guilt is great. She is too weak to truly shiver... but the instinctive reaction to do so nevertheless tries to rise up within her. The almost-shiver ripples through her flesh, detectable to one whose power has lavished itself upon reshaping it. With it, she finds herself sending again, fragments of wordless impressions and sensations struggling to piece themselves together in her muddled thoughts. ** ....... Elf? I.... ** ** You are..and I am. ** Doreel nods slowly, staring more intently at you as he listens and picks up on that tired confusion so evident in your question. ** I..have abused my abilities. ** he laments in one of those rarer moments of sensibility. ** I've tried to fix it, but..there is still work to be done. How do you feel... ** Another pause, then a name he seems to remember suddenly. ** ...Teme? ** That name. It pierces through the cloud across her consciousness... and makes her eyes fly open, unseeing, dazed. Blinking rapidly, she struggles to focus, to move, to try to establish who and where and what she is... and her gaze swings groggily to he who leans over her. ** T... Teme? I... I am... I am Teme? ** Doreel's old eyes widen initially at the response the name draws, inhaling through an open mouth. His hand has withdrawn back to his side, leaving it there in a somewhat odd moment of self-consciousness. As you look, his head dips in a nod, the send confirming it. ** I believe so. ** Drained, she sinks back again, but her brow furrows up. ** I can't move... * That comes out of her plaintively, the tiny, fretful sending of a child. And it is with a child's innocence that she spills out her sendings. ** I... I can't move...? I-I am... but... you -- who...? ** ** You can..if you concentrate. ** Doreel explains, reaching out briefly to touch a shoulder and instill a sense of warmth, the brief glow of healing sending it washing over your body. Perhaps movement might be easier now, even though muscles are still weary. ** I..am someone who has gotten what I deserved..a life of being alone. ** She does feel so very stiff, so very leaden, but the warmth loosens muscles that all too easily let themselves lock into place. Frowning vaguely to herself, she struggles to twitch an arm, a hand, a finger, as a dim concept that she must try and try _very_ hard to move wafts up from somewhere deep within her. But then, the lonely tone in the sending to her makes her frown a little harder, and glassy green eyes focus truly now upon the much more ancient elf. ** A-alone? You are alone...? That's... I'm so sorry.... I'm... ** Doreel shakes his head, perhaps at a multitude of things but definitely a pair that are evident here and now. ** Relax..you've not used your limbs in some time. I've helped restore them a ways, so far. ** The other part of his apparent disagreement lies in the compassion and sympathy he is given, unaccustomed to anyone offering such a thing. ** I have not earned that from you. It is I who should be sorry. I..tried to change you to something you were not. ** Still, his tone is flat and distant, like he needs to explain it but would rather run from the truth. ** I don't rem-- ** And then she cuts herself off abruptly, the disorientation in her eyes beginning to give way to a burst of comprehension. _You do remember._ _You are Teme, cub, and he tried to change you!_ _Don't trust him!_ A throaty little whimper escapes her, and with a mighty effort, the maiden struggles to bring a hand upt to her face. However, all she can manage is to almost turn onto her side in her agitation. "Shhh," she mumbles into the air. ** S-stop it... stop it... ** ** What..? ** is Doreel's initial question, wondering what in the world you could be asking to have stopped as he leans closer, reaches towards you with a hand, towards that shoulder again. ** Are you unwell? ** Aside from the obvious, of course. A show of concern registers in both send and expression, worry evident. The she-elf blinks dizzily, flailing a clumsy hand in a movement that might have had a point when she tried it, but which due to her weakness simply comes out random. ** She's mad, ** comes the tiny sending. ** Inside my head...! S-she says... she... ** Doreel shakes his head slowly before offering a hand in case yours chooses to touch it..just for the sake of doing something after so long as a would-be tree. ** I..don't know. ** He fumbles over his own words, partial confusion of his own present there. ** Do you remember who you are? Not just..Teme. ** How long has it been, since a hand was last offered to her? Fractional impressions flicker behind her eyes, other hands with four fingers, male, female. Some seen from her perspective as much bigger, her own tiny as a child's... some, reaching to her in love or affection or support... but different elves. Different times. One stands out sharply from the others, a lone wanderer who doesn't seem to belong with the others in her memory, and yet, she remembers him too... ** I-I-I don't... know, ** she whimpers. ** H... hard to remember. It c... changes... ** In spite of the changes Doreel has worked to restore you to what you should be, even still he has done so in what his mind's eye views you as - a tall one, none of the tainted beastblood left behind. Now, you are supposed to be beautiful, someone he would not like to see leave, someone he would like to have around to speak with. The hand remains given, his other coaxing yours along by reaching to place it over his aged palm, looking down quietly. ** You..will remember, with time. ** he suggests softly. The taint in her blood -- oh, aye, it's gone. Her reed-slender form has easily altered itself beneath the shaper's will, making certain that when she has the strength to stand once more she will be taller than she once was. Her features have become delicately, perfectly proportioned, though the greenish tint still lingers in her skin and hair and eyes... eyes which focus again upon the shaper and peer uncertainly at him. Memory flashes... a strong stirring of recollection, more physical than mental, seizes her as her hand is taken. She can remember... this touch, shaping her. Her eyes unfocus, even as she struggles to press herself towards that touch. ** I... am... Elisel, ** she sends then, dreamily. ** You shape me. I am... your Dream... ** Doreel's whitened head dips again in a slow nod, a partial smile flitting past in spite of his generally downcast mood. ** I wish it did not have to go this way, but I have been a fool..an old and irresponsible fool. I..hoped I could make you better again, better than you once were. ** He dares not share that he would like you to stay..not now, when all is so fragile and uncertain. Perhaps, for once, he can convince someone to stay by his own virtues and not by force. ** You..do look...brilliant. ** he insists, the other hand of his settling at your waist, over the leafy but soft 'garment' worn. But at the imagery of the tree, he tries to shake it out, away. ** You are not that..not any longer. ** That makes her frown aagain, unsurely, though her body does not pull way from the hand that holds her own. If nothing else, she doesn't have the strength. ** N... not.. not Elisel? I am... not Elisel? ** __No! You never were!_ Grudging agreement growls up from somewhere deep within her, in another soul's voice. And she twitches, frowning harder, gaze unfocusing completely and turning inward. ** You agree w-with him? ** she demands weakly, apparently not of Doreel. ** B-but you said -- you said -- ** Additional confusion dots Doreel's features as it appears you may perhaps be talking to yourself - it is not something he is unfamiliar with, mind. His hand remains there with yours still touching it, seeing if perhaps that helps bring back any elfin memories as his other slowly glides up your side, additional warmth fed into you, meant to heal as he goes. ** You..are not Elisel. Think back..into your memories. ** he encourages, expression becoming more distant as his eyes shut. A breathy, erratic sigh slips out of her as the healing glow envelops her, creating a corona of peace, of rest so very tempting that she almost slips back into unconsciousness right then and there. But the sending tugs at her, and her still-faintly green brow crinkles over closed eyes -- even as distress flickers across her groggy thoughts. ** ** ** What do you hide from? ** Doreel wonders, whether it's a past hiding or something that still exists to this day. This comes after he's watched you quietly for a couple minutes, growing more still so as not to disturb much. Some of those memories strike him as odd, so used to the green canopy of his years-long home. Looking down, he observes his free hand, the one that had been gliding up your side. The sensation of healing has faded, enough done for the moment. That seems to startle her, somehow, and her features crinkle up further though her hand remains slackly held by the shaper's; for a moment it twitches, as if she might tremble if she had more strength. Her head turns fractionally -- and then her sending turns strangely gruffer, all at once. ** Other! Others, they aren't Pacer -- ** Tears beginning to leak from beneath her lashes, the maiden finishes wanly, the gruffness fading as quickly as it had come, ** But.... but... I don't know who Pacer is... ** Doreel shakes his head slightly, observing the little shuddering movement in the hand before thinking about what you send and the two different tones it comes across in. ** There..is no 'Pacer' here, nor any others except my helpers. ** he explains as if to say there's nothing to hide from here. Nobody will hurt them - present company's past actions excluded. ** ..you are confused. ** he notes, his own brows bunching together in attempted thought and comprehension. ** Yes... I... I am... ** Her eyes flicker open, green and wet and limpid, to seek the old elf's face once more. ** ** And interwoven with that, Doreel himself, his hands' magic washing through her. Shaping her. His voice murmuring gently _My lovely Elisel_, banishing the horrid confusion of selves and bringing clarity. Bringing contentment. So long as she was his Tree... ** W-won't you tell me who I am? ** she begs then, piteously. Doreel continues to frown, placing his other hand up to his temples to rub lightly. Such confusion - it threatens to throw him off a bit as well, just when he'd been starting to get a little more sane for once. ** You.. ** he begins, stalling out at the various voices and pieces of memory that hit him. There's disagreement given at the mention of Elisel, even if there's some smaller part of him that feels it may yet be right, that perhaps it was destined to be that way. But..no. He sends, sensing that he may be making a decision for you, ** You..are Aureole. ** Dazed, teary eyes blink several times more, and the maiden seems a trifle shellshocked for a few moments as the sending sinks in, features still crinkled, as if she might sniff the name critically to test its scent. Or if she might prod it with a stick to see if it moves. Aureole. Or-i-oll. Oriolle. The syllables ripple and flow through her disjointed thoughts, seemingly as pliant and shapeable as her body has been. ** I... don't... remember it much, ** she confesses, once more in that tiny, tired, childlike mind-voice. Doreel avoids looking into those eyes just now, his conscience too guilty to allow him that much. It's difficult to do, knowing what he now seems aware of, knowing what he'd done. ** I..don't know how to make you remember. ** he confesses, a shake of the head following. ** Just that the name feels proper and right. ** His hand threatens to leave yours, a general withdrawal of sorts beginning. Another little whimpergrowl sounds tinily in the back of her throat; with it, comes a burst of sending, a sense of fractured parts of this maiden's mind arguing with one another. But with an effort she forces her fingers to grip, though it brings a sheen of sweat to her brow. ** D... don't go! H-help... help me... sha-- _Heal_... You... you are a healer... ** Instead of being allowed to retreat, you wish Doreel to..stay? The pressure on his hand, while not anything that could truly prevent him from leaving, is enough to call for his attention to return. ** Don't go? ** he repeats, frowning at the need for help..and more. That companionship. After that, his send is something of a self-defeating chuckle. ** Healer..I doubt that very much. ** He has the sound of one who's hit the dreamberry wine a bit too much, only there is none to drink. ** But... I'm... sick, ** the maiden protests, striving to focus, to pull coherence out of the jumble of her consciousness. ** And... you're... making me feel better... ** With that, though, her sending's strength flags... but not enough that one shining concept cannot fail to come through. ** Healer. ** Doreel is as well. Very sick, in fact. However, his is the mental kind. Do you /really/ want him mucking further with you? Truth, though - his attempts at healing /are/ showing signs of improvement in you so far, so perhaps it is a calculated risk that is worth going through with. ** I..am trying. It takes time, though. ** What he'd done before is hardly natural for anyone. As before, he sounds remorseful, looking back to you in some sort of hope that you might accept the apology he's given. After all...companionship is a nice thing. The remorse touches off another sharp flicker of intermingled compassion and sympathy in her eyes and in the sending she still has open; it's as weak as her hand, that mental contact, but she seems to try nevertheless to keep both a physical and a mental connection as long as her shaper... her keeper... her companion is clinging to his lucidity. For a moment she wavers, remembering the powerful persuasions that here in the Grove there _is_ no time, that as a Dream and Memory she is a timeless creation of the Master... but if she is not Elisel... perhaps that is untrue as well. Confused, exhausted, she wrestles for clarity, and send-whispers, ** I'm... not going anywhere... ** Wait a minute. That tastes, almost, like humor. Humorous enough that Doreel even chuckles for all of a second or two. ** But..would you if you could? ** comes the big question, a secret hope that the answer to it would be a no, expectation stronger that it would be a yes instead. Since the healing touch seems to have been going over well, he exhales slowly and closes his eyes, placing both hands to your shoulders as he concentrates on restoring more of the proper pigmentation to your skin. If they are to be companions...well. No sense in getting ahead of oneself or getting one's hopes up prematurely. Ah, but what is her proper hue? That is the question. Like Doreel's own, perhaps, and slowly her skin lightens closer to that color, the green of trees slowly giving way to a shade closer to moonlight. Involuntarily, she releases a small noise that sounds like pleasure; shards of dream-memory tumble through her, making her remember Tree-ness, vines, leaves... But no... she isn't a tree... is she. She is Aur... Or... Oriolle? Seeking reassurance, she sends that very question, even as she admits unsurely, ** I... I don't know... I... she... keeps me awake... tells me to... go... ** All at once, in the midst of the healing light, her expression comes into keen focus as she adds anxiously, ** But if I did you'd be alone! ** Closer to Doreel's skin tone, yes. It is on the paler side, showing of one who does not spend much time in direct sunlight, so he would not have that bronzed skin the desert elves do, nor would he have the tanned skin many of the surface dwellers possess. The little noise you emit is something to focus on, something to pay a bit of attention to as he works a bit more easily, wishing to continue giving you that particular sensation so long as it helps. ** Aureole.. ** he confirms again, sending more distantly this time, as though already attempting to protect himself from the sorrow of loneliness. ** If you left I would be alone, ** he agrees, a physical nodding of the head accompanying the words. ** But..I have always been alone. ** ** Aureole... ** Slowly, though, she relaxes, finding it very easy to lose herself in the glowing warmth suffusing her. Very close now to renewed sleep is this maiden, but the magic persuades her to remain aware even as her body coaxes her to drift; if she sleeps, she can't sense the magic, can she? It _does_ fill her senses, and she unthinkingly sends a surge of delight at its presence as she struggles to focus on that last plaintive statement. Almost drowsily, she answers, ** You don't have to be...! ** Doreel can only shake his head again, not convinced of your last claim there. He does not answer that part, instead confirming ** Aureole ** a few times, the better to help you remember it. Nothing that has to do with Elisel is mentioned any longer, his fingertips sliding along your jawline to your hair, concentrating on restoring more of the proper hair color some part of him thinks he remembers. He's doing a fair job convincing himself, internally, that once you are able to, you will leave. The shaper may dread it, but the maiden -- Aureole -- for now seems not only too weak to move but actively drawn to the magic flowing through her. Her head arches back ever so slightly; her lips part, as her breath flutters in her throat. Skin lightens further and further, till it begins to reach a translucent almost-white that speaks of the touch of starlight, and the barest hint of green remaining. ** ** comes forth from her in a wordless flare of sending, surprisingly powerful, surprisingly strong. Doreel is given cause to slow down a moment and blink at the strength of the sending there. While his is quite strong in its own right, it has been quite some time since he's felt a similar ability in someone else. In fact, he's somewhat drawn to it as he exhales deeply, mind opening a ways. ** ** Now instead of infusing you with additional color-changing magic, his fingertips find themselves spreading along your jawline again, gently. Paler now, though her flowing mane of hair retains much of the woody hue that had been washed through it, Aureole shivers delicately where she lies; just barely, she manages to open her eyes partway, and her blurred green gaze lingers upon the ancient elf with much of the singleminded fixation with which she had regarded him while he'd tried to make her a tree. ** , ** she sends again, without words, little more than a heady, instinctual acknowledgement of the power coursing through her and the hands who direct its flow. ** ** The magic is like a drug then, in that respect. You cannot bear to be without the touch of magic now, apparently growing addicted to it. Doreel senses this, yet he does not know if he prefers it that way or not. It might be nicer if you chose to stay here for other reasons...but still, if you do like the magic, why does there have to be a better reason? ** ** he does confirm, a sliver of a smile threatening as you look up as he hovers somewhat above with his knees close to your head. He then turns to return to your side, grimacing momentarily as his aged limbs complain without the aid of his walking stick, settling more on one side while he sits up. Exhaling, curious hands smooth over the bare skin around your collarbone, closer to the leafy top you have on. Perhaps it is because of what he did to her before; to be sure, she has felt the touch of his power many times since she first came to this place, and the links he has caused her mind to make between the shaping and potent bliss are still present within her thoughts. But then again, somewhere beneath that, there _is_ a long-unused strength to her being, which surges up in response to the power and tries to answer it in kind. Something potent of itself... something elfin. She has no shaping of her own, but somewhere within her bloodlines... perhaps she had ancestors who did. ** ** So attuned is her flesh now to her shaper's touch that even the smallest contact of his fingers causes tiny, subliminal reactions... like now, as Aureole draws in a deep breath. Most likely, you've become so accustomed to the flow of shaping magic in this place that it's difficult to go without it in some form. That may or may not be the case, but given the way the healer can sense that bit of need, he seeks to supply it in some way, this time just a general warmth that flows from his fingertips as they linger near shoulders now, the old one inhaling slowly as they start down the upper arms little by little. In a way, it's awkward for him. When was the last time he had anything remotely intimate with another elf? ** ... ** It is dizzying, and Aureole sighs, barely audibly. Her face is much more like Doreel's now, though more delicate... and yet, the tranquil expression of Dreaming is familiar. So is the way her sending strives to twine around his, almost as though her mind were a vine obeying his will to be shaped; a lingering remnant of Dream slows and blurs her thoughts as she sends her pleasure, almost as distinct and as palpable as the healing warmth. Her sending sways and bends, recollections of Doreel's own hands putting mushrooms into hers so that she might eat of them -- ** ** -- interspersed with the mushrooms shaped by that Other. For a moment, there is hesistance, a strange gruff portion of Aureole's mind exhibiting resistance... as if it does not want to give that memory forth.> ** Doreel eyes shut at the sensation of your sending wrapping around him like that vine, the draw tantalizing and beckoning as it helps coax him closer. His send-sense lingers nearer, opening up his mind a tad further in acceptance of the Dream that lingers, like it could be touched if one were to reach out for it. ** ** comes the thought, hazy and heavy as his fingers trail down towards elbows, leaning slightly overhead again. Her agreement is immediate and unstinting, for memories of the shrooms belong to Before. Belong to everything else outside the golden aura that surrounds her, guided by the hands upon her now. Vaguely, dimly, she is aware of those two hands as focal points within the boundless sparkling magic, and giddily, she fancies herself almost able to float between them. Memory flashes again-- ** ** Would it make sense if some part of the shaper forgot a little bit of how to make another feel certain ways? Perhaps, given the long period of time in which he hasn't had this sort of companionship with someone else. For the moment he does nothing that may be considered more than just general pleasing touches, feeding you with more of that tingly magic you like so much as the shaping ceases for now. ** ** Exhaling again, his hands reach yours and turn over to clasp them lightly, looking over for your response. Yes... she _does_ remember this. Much is blurred within her recollection, but contact and closeness... that she can recall. Who precisely has shared such things with her is unclear; faces flashes in half-remembered glimpses across her, until even they vanish in a wash of golden light. ** ** Doreel considers what to do with those hands, opting to simply lift them a tad and settle them atop your thighs. He even shrugs in spite of himself, the hint of amusement dotting his sending. The hands partially cross over the other leafy garment worn lower, and as he closes his eyes he seeks to think of you as you had been before the shaping to Tree. There..may have been something then. His right hand settles against your ribcage, still just there. Before... wasn't she... different, then, than she is now? Smaller, her hair a different hue? But before... her blood had been tainted, too. The taint in her blood might have made her smaller than a true elf should be... But she doesn't concern herself with that; that was Before. Now, aware of the leaves and vines that clothe her and the hands that trail across her form, she arches slowly, just a little. She does not have much strength... but the sensations against her magic-sensitized skin are irresistible. You certainly had been tainted, and too small for what an elf should be; Doreel has compensated for that, fixed it by removing the wolfblood, making you taller. Perhaps the hair color is different, but some memories aren't as clear as others. Sighing softly - this time in a bit of personal pleasure at the positive responses you give - he passes hands along your sides again and supplies another round of that strengthening magic, aware that you still do not move much. Muscles may feel more useful now, limbs more a part of you again instead of lifeless extensions of the one-time trunk. The arching of your body coaxes him on, his send filled with interest, a sort of childlike wonder as though doing this for the first time. Bark-brown begins to melt away from her hair, a purer green rippling through the strands; then, that same green begins to lighten, growing more and more towards an ethereal shade of silver. The green still holds... but it is less prevalent now, diminishing to an exotic hint rather than the overt hue. And as her limbs are strengthened, one of them rises unthinkingly, fingers spreading in a gesture not unlike the spreading of branches... But this time, her fingertips are reaching for the form of Doreel, rather than sunlight. Is there a difference? she wonders wildly. Sunlight shines... and so does the magic. Doreel finds himself satisfied at the progress of the hair color, helping to do away with a little more of the remnants of your days as the Tree. Now his hands pause at either side of you, at the leafy vine that wraps 'round your bosom. The magic continues to flow, less shaping again but through the vines to sort of encircle where they touch, flowing through you there and also into the grouping of them that rests lower. Smiling more visibly, he watches for that reaction while your fingers approach him. Where will they go? Aureole shivers, more distinctly now, for it seems to her that the vines that are blanketing her grow warmer with the magic -- and a great part of her still remembers the embrace of the vines that had held her as the Tree. She arches up against them, first above and then below, while her hand blindly seeks to connect to the source of the rich flow of power. She must stretch her branches to the sunlight-- No. No, she isn't a tree-- But the powerful draw remains, and her hand, impossibly delicate, connects with the shoulder of the shaper. ** ** Doreel is no sun of course, but indeed, the magic may help give off the impression considering the warmth it provides. In a fashion, Doreel is beginning to have.../fun/...with this, if you will. It's like experimenting without damaging or altering, save the improvements he's already made. As you touch he conveys pleasure in his send, encouraging you to do more if you like it as you may also find limbs loosening up a bit more. Still, he watches where the vines cover you, a twinkling of magic heralding more that slowly approach but linger unused, concentration fading from them for the moment to return to you. That tingling washes through both places they'd begun in, enjoying watching you arch. Shaping vines is easy; they have always been here in the Grove, available to be guided and bent by the will of Doreel. Shaping Aureole -- it is more of a challenge. And yet, she slowly bends and twists as responsively as the vines, her motions almost seeming to flow back and forth along them. That extra twinkle provokes another arch in her slender frame... and her one hand begins to rub clumsily along the shoulder she has found, while her other begins to blindly seek out the vines that trail over her, two fingertips following the course of one of them. ** ** It could be an attempt to cleanse, help wash out some of the other things Doreel had done to you. A way to atone for them, perhaps. It would be nice to make the /elf/ feel good, help remind you that elf is what you truly are and not some tree. Inhaling, he dips his shoulder closer to you as you touch and rub, sending approval, encouragement, and pleasure. It's something of a physical response he finally gets - a start, a beginning. Now a little bolder, he moves a hand to meet yours over the vines at your chest, slipping to the side to cup lightly. The warmth flows thicker for a moment. ** ** She cannot yet manage fine movements; her hands are still sluggish to her will, barely able to grip when she fiercely concentrates. And now, concentration is rapidly escaping her power, replaced instead by instinctual response. But still, the hand at the shaper's shoulder presses a little more firmly, a bit of a roll from the sides of her fingers to her fragile, reconstructed palm. At her chest, her other hand rolls in much the same fashion... but so does more of her, a deep exhalation of air making her breast rise. And with it, a slight twist of her dainty frame turning her towards that hand. Her eyes are no longer open, but she hardly needs them. The sense of touch is already afire with the blaze of power, and there is not an inch of this body that is not known to the ancient elf, by now. Magic can tell him of the profound reactions he is setting off within her -- and what his power does not supply by way of information, the flood of sending from the maiden does. ** ** Doreel reacts with a mild shiver of his own through the sensations conveyed from your mind and the ability he has to feel and sense what your body does. His eyes have also shut, no longer of any special benefit to him unless he just wants to watch. To touch, to feel - that is more sensual now, and as you curl towards him he finds himself settling more on his own side to face you better, free hand reaching for your own to place it at his chest once he's undone the tunic a ways, lacing coming free. Then as the first hand begins to lightly rub over your bosom, the magic flares again and he trails down to your belly with the other, the vines down there seeming to tickle on. ** ** Really, much of the sensations you give to him, he returns. On some level, she seems to sense the closer proximity; on some level, like the vines tickling at her own mostly bare flesh, she cannot help but pull closer in return. Her hand goes where guided, alternating between pressing and stroking, and now the rest of her follows suit. Her body wriggles, as though she is sister to the vines that wreathe her, and with each little motion she comes nearer to the shaper's own form. While many, many years have gone by between now and the last time Doreel was this close to anyone, some things just are not forgotten. Times like this are one of them, finding himself pressing closer with desire when he feels you responding the way you do. His chest rises and falls evenly as your hand feels him out, one of his own aiding himself in getting out of the tunic to leave leggings left. The flow of magic settles down gradually, pausing in his actions to ask of you, ** How do you feel, my special Aureole..? What do you seek? ** You may not yet be ready to go too far; he may be finding the urge to growing stronger, but he does not wish to harm. The words bring back a tiny bit of focus, a fractional amount of clarity -- just enough to make her open her eyes and then close them again, as her vision has blurred and it is massively distracting. Instead, she presses up closer to the warmth of a frame far older and almost as fragile if not more so than her own, heavy, groggy thoughts rippling out within the explosion of sensation linking them both. ** I... I feel... I... _want_.... Y-you... you're _different_ now... changed... I... You... trapped cub. Changed cub. Remember. I remember! ** Doreel's hands massage and start to stroke a bit more, over bosom and the other now lower, over the middle of those vines that cover you further down. His head tilts a bit to one side, a leg shifting closer as well when you press in. ** ** he conveys, a confirmation of all those sensations and that desire of yours, shared between the pair. But..unexpected is the differently-voiced send. It catches him off-guard and his eyes reopen, confusion and sudden lack of certainty clouding his expression. ** Trapped..? ** he repeats, frowning while shaking his head. His hands stop, begin to withdraw. Something's...changed. Not quite right. ** Saw! Saw cub! _Saw_! Trapped her! ** Aureole writhes, her expression contorting, a noise like the growl of a nervous she-wolf rumbling up from within her; something that might well be fear and wariness shoots through her system now, threatening to chase away the bliss of her prior sensations... And just as abruptly, she whimpers, confused, torn. ** NnoOOoooooOOOoo... _Want_... ** Doreel shuts his eyes and turns away from the accusing send, the memory that seems all too real. "No..!" he blurts aloud, guarding and protecting himself by backing away with a push of the tree's floor, making an effort to close off his mind to the new voice, the new sending. Must..get away from it, from the bad things. With another whimper, Aureole tries to grab hold of the shaper... but her fingers are still too clumsy for her will. Her hand merely flops against him, while her body twists within the loose embrace of the vines... and her head begins to jerk back and forth. Little growls escape her, while her sendings continue, jarring and clashing against one another, the she-wolf voice ebbing and rising in counterpoint to the younger wide-open-sky voice of Aureole. ** Trapped you! Made you tree! _Go_! ... NnooOOOoo... W-want... I want... ** Doreel grimaces, stumbling back to his feet with a mild struggle, the flow of magic certainly stopped by this point. That she-wolf voice inside is fouling the whole thing up, taking away the companionship he was so craving, responding so well to up to now. ** N-not..not now.. ** he balks, shaking his head as he reaches out for the side wall, needing a bit of support. The conflict inside you almost..it almost /hurts/, and he wants nothing to do with it. ** Stop it.. ** he tries to request, more of an urgent note to the words. Perhaps..perhaps the fates do not smile on him after all when it comes to the closeness of another. The bliss that has suffused her has already begin to splinter and tilt within her mind, and now the sharp, urgent sending from Doreel scatters the sensations further, blurring almost everything in her consciousness to a maelstrom of random impressions and memories. Almost everything. Not quite. ** _Don't hurt cub again!_ ** The she-wolf, growling, as Aureole's glazed green eyes focus for a fleeting moment upon the shaper. ** No trap cub! ** ** G-g-go away! ** Aureole's voice now. ** He's... helping -- he's -- I-I-I want-- ** Her strength faltering, the maiden sinks back into the vines, one hand unthinkingly tangling in their leafy tendrils as she does. ** You're supposed to be /gone!/ ** Doreel sends with more of a dangerous tilt to his send-tone, less of the peaceful, lucid, and...almost normal ways he'd been acting throughout this visit. Now his eyes have begun to grow distant again, his words followed by a moment of unintelligible mumblings, then more. ** I got rid of you... ** Seems you're not the only one with something going on inside a troubled mind. Grimacing again as he approaches, he wears a look of distaste as he reaches down to touch your forehead, ordering, ** Sleep. ** as you feel magic again, only this time it's intended to drag you back into unconsciousness. Enough of the mindfighting. ** Cursed /wolf!/ ** Responsive as she is to the magic of the shaper, her form goes immediately slack -- and as the power floods her, the duality in her mind can be more clearly sensed. She is... _two_, and both of the voices inside her waver and grow still at the irritated command. ** ......... ** It done, Doreel stands over you, looking down at your still form. You still look like what he has reformed you into..it's hard to believe that only moments before, he was touching you, you were touching him, and the pair were sharing pleasant, happy thoughts. Now, it all feels ruined, like someone cold and cruel has stepped in to rip it all away. Turning away rapidly, he can't bear to gaze down any further for now, shaking his head in sadness as his eyes blink quickly, reaching down for his tunic. Beginning to shuffle away towards the grove outside, he fights off a shudder and fails, reaching up quickly to rub around something at the eyes. She does not stir; she does not protest. Commanded, she sleeps, her reshaped form a melody of silver and white and the palest hint of green, accentuated by the vines that curl about her. Her breathing slows... softens... steadies. Her face goes tranquil... as it has been in her Dreams. As it has been while she was a Tree... and the Wolf was not there. Doreel pauses at the exit to the outside, looking back at you over a shoulder for a few seconds before a troubled sigh escapes. "Hoped..not to be..maybe...maybe another time." Shaking his head again, he turns away and trudges out, shoulders slumping forward as he settles back into that more usual leaning walk of his, using his walking stick as an aide. You're left as you are, no additional vines made to grow and keep you in place. Chances are you aren't going anywhere anyway. It felt so..nice, but it's gone now. He might not be stable enough to try a second time. [End log.]