"A Challenge of Blood" Log Date: 10/24, 10/25/04 Log Cast: Ynderra, Doreel Log Intro: The Wolfrider healer Ynderra of Lostholt has picked up a most unexpected companion on her journey northward from the Cat Elf jungles: Doreel, Firstborn son of the High Ones, healer and shaper who went mad with grief and spent millennia in a remote grove capturing any random elves who stumbled across his hideaway... and in his madness, bending them to his will to try to soothe his own desperate loneliness. Now, the ancient magic-user has been restored to something close to sanity by the combined efforts of several elves, including Ynderra--but she never expected to lay eyes on him again. Especially so far away from Sorrow's End, where she'd last left him. With great hesitation, Derra has permitted Doreel to come with her on her journey. Much to her surprise, she has begun to see signs of the elf he once was as Doreel shows her his remorse for the things he's done in the past; she's even reached out with her own magic to soothe the pains of the rigors of the journey that have built up in his unprotesting frame, and done her best to convince him that allowing himself to suffer does neither those he'd once wronged nor himself any good. But she has also seen him suffering a nightmare... and, as they continue on their journey and cross the Burning Waste, she begins to see his shock and disgust at some of her more wolfen ways. And as they draw close to the trees they've both been sorely missing, she sees that he is not quite as stable in mind and soul as she had hoped.... ---------- Forest Edge The southern edge of the forest along the Great River borders on a green grassy land, open space that intrudes almost to the river's shore in places. The contrast is remarkable, on one side green darkness and on the other sunlit meadowland. The twin stars of Timmorn's Eyes begin to come out as the dimming red light of sunset fills the chill winter skies. Contents: Doreel Obvious exits: To the Canyon Forbidden River She's done the crossing a few times in her life now, but each time has been far enough apart that Ynderra has tended to forget: crossing the Burning Waste is _brutal_. This time, she's taken as much time as she dares before setting off across the desert sands with her tall Firstborn companion. The Wolfrider maiden notices his grimace of distate when she takes the time to bring down a small pronghorn on the grasslands, but there isn't much to be done for it; the meat is needed for the crossing, and so is the skin. "Look," she tells him, trying not to snap but frustrated at having to explain a Wolfrider's ways yet again, "you may not eat meat, but I do, and I'm going to need as much jerky as I can carry once we hit the Burning Waste. And we're _both_ going to need protection for our skin unless you really want to keep your magic going the whole time to keep us from burning alive." She's not much of a tanner, but she prepares the pronghorn's skin as best she can, slicing it up into strips that can be used to cover every exposed inch of both her flesh and Doreel's. It's taken eights of days to prepare--and three blazing, tortuous days to cross. Another to take shelter in a cave in what Derra tells her companion is called the Wall of Stone. Three more to trek up into a new stretch of canyons and ridges. And now, at last... Trees, in the distance. There are times within the Burning Waste that Doreel lagged behind - his slender frame doesn't take the harsh elements all that well. Not that he gets ill, but that his body simply doesn't handle such extremes the best and he tends to slow down. When the pronghorn was taken down, he obviously didn't much like all the blood and carnage ensued with it's being taken down for shelter or anything of the sort. And they call him a killer, Wolfriders murder daily! I mean, really. Doreel just shrugs it off, not calling anymore attention to his dislike of the savage nature of wolfriders. As time passed, he grew quiet again as he's oft to do over these long distances. Even when they camped, he remained fairly quiet, only listening to her rattle on about whatever topic she chose for the evening. He -does- however, mention something about the sight of trees in the distance. ** About time! ** Derra could argue that Wolfriders kill only what they need to eat to survive--not out of malice or hatred or a love of simply killing. But it's not really a fruitful argument. She's learned that, just after turns of the seasons of conflict between her folk, the Gliders, and the elves of the Underworld. Besides, she has better things to do right now, like getting herself and the elder into the northlands. What they'll do once they reach trees is a question she hasn't yet let herself consider, but hey. Now, after days of pushing herself to the edge of exhaustion to get safely across the desert, she raises her eyes to the line of green in the distance and almost bursts into happy tears at the sight. "Oh, how my eyes see _that_ with joy," she breathes. And if she's been frustrated with Doreel on some past days of this journey, there's no sign of it now as she shoots him a broad, sunny smile. "See, _told_ you we'd make it back to the trees!" The object of frustration only offers a meek smile back, tugging the strap of his satchel a little higher up on his shoulder. ** Think we can make it there by the time we're done walking for the evening? ** Doreel asks, uncertain himself. Seems no matter how long they've been walking, he's been misjudging distances and requiring to ask Ynderra her opinion. Or, perhaps it's simply some manner of trying for conversation that won't get him snapped at. The two really are quite different, and this time together has only gone to increase this knowledge of difference. Derra is tired... more tired than she'd like to admit. But the prospect of camping among trees has been driving her for days now--and at Doreel's shy query, she squares her small, slender shoulders. "I don't know about you," says she, "but I want to give it a try! With trees in sight now, how can we possibly _stop_?" Different though they may be, they seem to have one distinct thing in common: that's an unmistakable anticipation brightening those blue eyes of hers. Anticipation for trees. ** Yes, I'd like to try. ** Doreel admits, though if his body will carry him that far or not is something to be seen. Surely, he knows that the wolfrider companion of his would be terribly disappointed if he didn't think he could make it, and that should keep him driven enough - avoiding any sort of confrontation with her over something as trivial as a comping spot. He tries to pick up the pace a little, a glance given up towards the stars that are as ageless as he is. Happily, conflict seems to be the farthest thing from Ynderra's mind as the two of them hasten closer to the far line of trees. She beams at Doreel's sending, the brightest expression she's given him for many days now; it's all she can do, exhaustion or no, to keep from breaking into a run just to get there faster. Besides--can Doreel even _run_? She hasn't ever seen him do it; it doesn't seem like him. And she did say she'd keep pace with him, so! Still, her blood quickens as a few more hours progress. Soon the scent of the trees reaches her on the wind, and Derra groans out loud in an anticipation so fierce it almost hurts. "C'mon, Doreel, we're almost there! High Ones--_trees_!" Closer and closer to the forest's edge they come. And in a last burst of energy, the maiden does actually break into a run, flinging herself happily at the trunk of one of the first trees she reaches. Steadily, Doreel crosses the distance with the usage of his staff more heavily as time wears on. He might be immortal, but it's becoming ceasingly obvious that he is having trouble with these long distance walks. It's getting to be routine that either he's healing himself in the mornings when the time for rest has come, or she's healing him when he's too weary to do so himself. He doesn't run the last jaunt towards the trees, in fact it takes him a fair amount of time to catch up with where she is flung against a tree. Rather than doing the same himself, he looks for one of the closest to lean against, resting his head against the trunk of it. ** Can we stop.. for a day? ** He asks, it might be the outskirts of the forest, but it /is/ one and he seems disinclined to continue with this pace for a while. It'll give her some time to go off hunting on her own a night, too. Breezily, elatedly, Ynderra actually dances happily around the entire tree, touching it and several of its neighbors before she scampers back around to Doreel's side. Forest! Ayoooooaaaah! Hubward forests that hold _proper_ Holts! And as she comes up to him and sees him leaning, the little she-elf reaches up a hand to his elbow. ** Sure, ** she sends, gently now. ** We deserve a rest. _You_ deserve a rest, putting up with this whole big walk with a cub like me. ** Lacking the energy for such a celebration, Doreel simply remains leaned against the tree and half closes his blue eyes as he does so. It's only when she touches him that it brings him out of his reverie, and he snaps to a standing position. The gentled send dulls his reaction, and he stands more languidly afterwards. ** I appreciate it. I'm really quite weary, ** He admits, leaning on his staff a little more this time. Derra nods easily, studying him with concerned eyes now. ** Rest, ** she encourages. And she waves about the nearest trees, adding, ** One of these should be big enough for a den, I think. I can shape us one. You just settle yourself down and rest those slender bones of yours, okay? ** Doreel takes a few more steps before choosing one of the nearby smaller trees to sink himself down beside. He shivers a bit, the chill of the winter air starting to get to him once they'd slowed down. What would he have done without her? Probably moved much slower, is all. It's a wonder he made it out of Sorrow's, with the way he's acting now - or perhaps it's that journey that's got him to the point he's at now, with all this excess travel. Setting his staff aside, he reaches to pull his hair back and out of his face, as it'd been draping itself in a rather mussed manner. ** Thank you, little one. Are there tribes of your kin out in this area? ** Taking just long enough to leave her sack by Doreel and taking only her weapons with her, Ynderra begins to scout around for the best possible tree to hold a den large enough for the both of them to take their shelter. As she goes she touches each one with visible delight, as though they are old friends or perhaps even the tribesmates of which she has so frequently chattered on the way into this colder clime. ** We're getting closer, ** she sends back, cheerfully. ** If we keep going more or less this same way we should get to where Grove Holt is... if Willowholt still stood, they'd be closer, but the floods destroyed Willowholt many turns of the seasons ago. ** There is a touch of despair remaining in Doreel's sends, flavoring them as he speaks of her kin. There's none of his left, he knows this, and as such he just tries to content himself with her smallfolk. Self-pitying half the time, and remorseful the other, this elf might be sane but he's still an emotional wreck. He nods at the send, and replies with, ** Alright, and your lifemate and sister might be there? ** Derra comes back into view around the trunk of an oak, and pauses as she takes another look at the Firstborn. Her face falls a little, but only a little; though she's had her own share of despair about whether she will ever find Myriel and Kai again, she's done her best to set it aside as long as she's had this other elf in her company. ** Maybe, ** she admits. ** Though if they'd made it to Grove, someone at Grove would have told Lostholt by now. Our tribes used to be one, before we split. More than any other tribe of Wolfriders, they were brothers and sisters and cousins to us. Doreel--maybe I'd better make a fire first? You're shivering. ** Doreel pulls himself together, wrapping his arms around his legs and huddling at the base of the tree. Being so tall and slender does have it's disadvantages, it makes him catch chill far quicker than the smaller and more compact wolfriders. ** I'm /fine/ ** He sends, nearly snapping at her though he does turn those doleful eyes on her afterwards. He half closes his eyes afterwards, and rubs his hands over his legs. ** Just tell me if you need some help, I can do something if you need me to. ** Why in the world hadn't she thought to bring sleepfurs with her from the Cat Elves' tribe? Because she hadn't known she would be travelling with an elf far more sensitive to cold than she, that's why. With her youthful magic flush within her, correcting little damages of heat or cold or exertion almost without her consciously willing it, she often notices the Whitecold even less than her tribesmates. But here... here is a Firstborn with power that surpasses her own, and no will to use it. At least... not for himself. Ynderra considers, then beckons her companion over to the oak. ** C'mere. Settle down here on this side and help me start on a den, hey? You'll be out of the wind that way, and if we work together we'll get a den faster. ** There's been no golden light of his own beyond his hair, and Doreel has all but refused to use his magic on himself and as Ynderra has her own - he doesn't offer to use it on her either. It's almost like he'd forsaken that part of himself in some sort of retribution for all the shaping, all the hurting he'd done with his magic over the years. The plantshaping he /has/ done has been solely practical, denshaping and that's about it. As such, he pulls himself to his feet and wanders over towards the oak that she'd chosen. ** Do you even need my help? You seem to have quite the fair amount of magic yourself. ** More refusal, it'd appear. She said she'd do it, after all! Ynderra looks at him askance, pondering whether this is another sign of that profound reluctance he's exhibited to do more than scratch the surface of his power. Part of her cannot admit to surprise--but then, another part counsels, is it right? Is denial of his own magic any more right than a Wolfrider who might have killed denying his wolf-blood? But that's a question best left till she has the luxury of relaxation and slumber. Which she has not yet earned. ** Well, ** she answers, ** I could probably do it by myself, but it'll take longer, and it _is_ colder here than it was down before the Burning Waste. It's because we're farther Hubward. I thought I smelled snow on the wind, before we got to the trees. We do need a den and we need a fire, too. If you'd rather not help me shape... can you make a fire? ** Doreel lingers near the oak for a long moment, considering the options at hand. Shaping, or making a fire. It appears he chooses the later of the two, as he wanders away from the tree in search of downed pieces of wood that aren't too waterlogged to make a fire with. He doesn't send anything in return - instead he just goes about his work in silence as has become common in the past short while. Silence, and thoughtfulness likely accompanying. What is the Firstborn thinking about though? Perhaps something about this she-elf he's travelling with, her wolfblood, and their intended destination. Why /is/ he following her? Perhaps that's part of it as well. She looks after him as he goes about the task he's chosen, frowning unsurely, before applying herself to the one that's left for her. Dainty hands lift up to the oak's broad trunk--and a green-golden glow envelops her fingers as she begins to convince the tree that it really wants to open a niche within its living wood, a niche large enough to shelter a pair of elves. Even as she begins she realizes it's going to take her some doing; Ynderra hasn't had to do a task like this in quite some time, not since the last time she shaped a den in Lostholt. And she's already tired. But she sends nothing of that. Her jaw setting, she begins to pour forth as much power as she can muster to persuade the tree to pull up a little taller and grow a little wider. She needs that extra breadth, if they're going to rest well out of the wind and any snow that might fall. And as she works, she sends timidly, ** By the way... I'm sorry for being a cranky badger the last few eights of days. ** Continuing to gather pieces of wood for the fire, Doreel returns to the place where she's shaping the tree to set them down and start working on getting the fire going. It takes some work, as he's tired and the pieces of wood don't wish to light for him. He turns a blind eye to her shaping, in fact his back is turned towards her as he works on getting the fire going. ** It's fine. ** He sends in return, though from the quip in his mental voice it's more that he's come to terms with it and perhaps blames that irritability on her wolf blood - yes, those savage animals can't control their emotions, after all. He sends no more than that, just continues rubbbing the sticks together to try and sprout a fire. That's a shut mind if she's ever sensed one, and Ynderra sighs to herself. _Probably made him angry,_ she muses, and the thought strikes enough of an uneasy chord within her that her shaping flickers for a few seconds before she reels it back under her will. Slowly, slowly, the tree gains in girth; just as slowly, its height increases as well. Derra begins to sweat despite the cold and she does not notice. Her sending comes out a little strained, though, as she ventures, ** Well... I won't blame you if you decide you want to set off on your own. Maybe you'd be happier seeking out... elves who aren't... ** Well. Like her. Doreel doesn't look back at her, not even at the wavery sending. He keeps his attention on the task at hand, slowly getting the fire to blossom under his urging with the scraping of wood and blowing on it. Takes a bit of work, but eventually the fire starts sprouting and he adds a few pieces of the drier wood to it. ** There's nothing out there for me. I've told you that. ** Tall elves, short elves, the Firstborn really sees no difference in any of them - none of them are his tribe, his family, friends and tribe are gone. He's accepted it. Silence, while Derra focuses all her strength upon the tree. A hole begins to open within the trunk she's widened, and several minutes pass till it grows even as large as her head. Sweat streams down her face now, but she doesn't ask for aid; Doreel's already made it fairly clear he'd rather not. And, she adds bleakly to herself, fairly clear that he doesn't think much of Wolfriders. Finally, with more strain in her sending than before, she answers, ** Aye, you did... I'm just saying... don't seem to think... anything... _here_ for you, either. ** Translation: with her. That notion flashes out wordlessly in between those strained words in her mind's voice. And she scowls fretfully as she shapes. Why is this bothering her? It's not like Doreel is the first ancient, gifted elf to look at a Wolfrider with disdain. Maybe it's that hair the color of light, she thinks, and then her scowl deepens. _You've been away from Kai too long,_ she accuses herself. Allowing the fire time to get itself properly lit to the point he's fairly sure it'll remain that way - it's only then that Doreel turns around to see how the shaping is going. He arches a brow at her strain, not only in send but in physical expression. Taking in a deep breath, he walks over to help with the shaping, placing his own hands on the opposite side and lending his power to assist in the shaping of the large oak. It comes fairly easily for him, despite his physical weariness. ** There isn't, is there? ** He asks, not looking at her as his eyes are closed for the moment as he attempts to help with the shaping. With the assistance, the hole widens far more readily than Derra could manage alone, and she cannot suppress a flash of gratitude across her sending even as it segues into a reply. But there's frustration as well, and her head hangs down a moment as she blurts, ** Maybe... Timmorn's Blood, I don't know, I could almost like you if you didn't look like you were going to retch every time I hunt or do anything else I need to do to survive! ** She's not looking at him, either, by now, and in a burst of annoyance Ynderra realizes tears are joining the sweat dampening her face. Curse it. This _is_ bothering her, isn't it. ** I'm proud of what I am, but High Ones, Doreel, nobody likes to be looked at like they ought to be ashamed of what they are! ** Doreel cuts off his help as the send reaches him, his gaze flickering to her and glaring - or at least staring at her. ** You can't help what you are, and neither can I. You eat like an animal, without even cooking the food you hunt. It's.. ** He'd say savage, but he doesn't even feel he has to. He just droops down to pick up his staff and turn away from her - there's no look of compassion on him, just a hard look of contemplation and prolonged solitude. ** Maybe I should shape my own den, so you won't have to deal with me and my looks. ** Gah. Ynderra's power dies down as well, and she slumps forward against the tree in defeat. ** Your looks are not the problem, ** she sends without thinking, and then rubs her hand across her eyes. _Definitely_ too long away from Kai. Two-Spear's Madness, but she's tired. Maybe his looks _are_ the problem, all that radiant hair and those mournful eyes... ** Do as you will, Doreel. ** She's done. She will not argue. Arching a brow nearly to greet his hairline - or so it would appear - at the first send Doreel turns away from her. ** Right, like I'd /ever/ with a wolf-elf like you. ** He sends, disgust apparent in his send and given like daggers towards her. Walking away from her, he grabs at his satchel to find somewhere else for himself, even if it means it's away from the fire. Who knows if he'll be there when she wakes, or if he is, what his attitude might be then. What?! Ynderra flinches visibly under that mental assault, and then her wolf-blood--that wolf-blood that Doreel finds so offensive--rises up within her. She whirls and hurls a sending after him, far less strong but no less heartfelt: ** I was trying to tell you you're beautiful, you ungrateful, ill-tempered troll! But apparently you're too stuck in self-pity to realize that! So your tribe is gone--GET OVER IT! ** Crying freely now, she abandons the partly shaped oak, stalks over to retrieve her own belongings--and to stamp out the fledgling fire. She wants out of these trees now, and far away from anywhere where the Firstborn's scent can be picked up. But she won't leave a fire blazing in the woods. Twirling back to look at her, he turns those blue eyes of his fixed on her and bearing that wounded cub look he was sporting through much of their journey. Doreel throws his hands up towards the starlit sky, ** Wait! ** Come the plea from him, perhaps not the one she might expect from him, something more along the lines of 'fine', or 'whatever'. ** Don't leave me. I know my tribe's gone, but it doesn't mean you have to be so pitiless. I .. just, you're so small, like a child. You're nothing like me. ** And then there's that disgust he has with the wolf-like things she does, but he doesn't voice that in his send. Ynderra stops just short of beginning to throw dirt upon the fire, though whether it is because of Doreel's sending or because of the simple fact that that tiny sphere of warmth is far more enticing than she'd like to admit, she doesn't say or send. Her eyes close; the tears on her checks glimmer in the erratic firelight. And she stands there, a rigid little figure of controlled hurt. She does send, though, tightly and tautly, ** Answer me one thing, Doreel. If my kind disgusts you so, why does it bother you so much that you hurt any of us? Rillwhisper? Strongbow? Dart? My sister's cub? ** Then she opens her eyes, lifting up her wet, palely gleaming gaze to stare up starkly at the Firstborn. ** The precious Oriolle you seem to care about so much? If what we picked up from Thicket was true... _she_ had wolf-blood, too. ** ** Maybe it shouldn't. ** Comes the heartless hollow sounding reply from Doreel, his arms crossing over his chest in the manner that a young child might when told he was wrong. Really, where *did* he learn his social skills? ** I helped Oriolle; I helped her get out of that wolf-skin. ** He does remember that he changed her, at least. To the point she too is immortal like he. It's then that he turns his gaze towards Ynderra, having been looking off and away from her to this point. ** Would you like me to help you, too? ** His question comes with that leveling and measuring gaze, one that might be given a piece of meat that needs to be tenderized. Just the look she probably was hoping not to see from him. The maiden does not flinch; if anything, her dainty features harden, and her lip curls up into ever so slight a lupine snarl. Oddly enough, she's still crying--as if even in the midst of this battle, it causes her grief that it's happening. ** Doreel, you _had her believing she was a tree!_ High Ones! How was that _helping_ her? ** Astonishment, and yes, more of that sorrow, washes out through her sending. ** You _broke her mind_! ** ** I cared for her, I was helping her! ** Doreel insists, with no tears marring his face. He doesn't back away from that lupine snarl, though doesn't take any advancing steps towards the maiden either. He just stares at her, a hardened expression wiping away all trace in those eyes that were once so full of grief and sadness. ** Let me help you too. I can make it so you won't leave. Don't leave me. ** He sends, offering a slender hand towards her with faintly glowing light. Perhaps it's the trees, but something's changed in Doreel suddenly - he's not the terribly docile elf he was in the passage through the savannah and the wastes. A bolt of fear wings through Ynderra's system now as the hopes she had begun to harbor about restoring a whole, healed Doreel to the companionship of elves all over the land take a deep, unnerving strike by the sight of him standing there now, implacable, his magic beginning to rise. Snake-quick, her own little hands whip her bow and an arrow into position, but she does not fire. Not yet. And still she cries, all the harder now for what she sees happening before her--and more than a little self-doubt, even more than she's harbored within her ever since trying to heal this tall golden elf before. What has she done to cause this backslide? ** Touch me without my consent, and you will bleed, and I will leave you. Change me, and it will not make me love you, and I will still leave you, ** she sends, that sorrow radiating through every word now. ** I cannot travel with you if this is the path you choose. And I will not travel with you if you cannot look past my wolf-blood and see me for what I _am_. ** He might have noticed that bow and arrow lifted towards him, but Doreel's magic only spikes a little higher - a brighter glow of gold mixed with a tinge of green that threatens to chase away the darkness. The surrounding of trees is not as helpful to his mental state as others might have hoped, for he's taking a large step backwards - only her reactions to him will tell if he'll come back to the fore. There's something vacant about his gaze, no true thought going into what he's doing, perhaps. All he knows is that she was going to leave - leave him alone here in the darkness and the quietude of the forest. ** I can *help* you, Ynderra. You need helped, you don't know it, but you do. ** Doreel sends in return, obviously believing this even if it's not quite right to. ** The wolf in you needs freed, let go. Just let me help you. I won't make you a tree, you're not a tree. ** With that send, and an outstretched hand he tries for another step towards her. ** I do not need your help, Doreel. ** Derra pulls back her bowstring, prepared now to shoot if it means defending her body and blood, keeping herself the way she was born--the way _she_ believes the High Ones meant her to be. ** I know what I am. I am a healer. Doing what I was meant to do. Taking the wolf out of me is not going to help me do that any better. ** She's not running.. Doreel notices this, and rather than taking this sending as a heeding to stop - he continues to advance on her. His magic is still flared, hand extended towards her in an attempt to get his hand on her. ** I can take the wolf out of you - if it were meant to be there, why would I be able to? ** He asks, this seems to be a very valid question to him and he keeps his gaze leveled on her. ** I wouldn't be able to do it, if it were not meant to come out. It's taint, Ynderra. You'll see when I heal you. ** Nope, doesn't seem like he's going to let up on this. Not at the moment anyways, with his mind firmly on this track. If he won't let up on this, then fine. Ynderra will stick to her guns--or, rather, her bow. Tears still coursing down her cheeks, the little Wolfrider healer fires, aiming for the Firstborn's shoulder. That gains his attention, the dull thud of the arrow penetrating flesh causing Doreel to cry out in pain. Dropping to his knees, the golden glow fades as he reaches over with the opposite hand to touch at the arrow. ** Why? ** He asks, pain permeating his mental voice. Something within the maiden wails at causing deliberate pain like this--but she does not back down. As soon as the shot is fired she throws her bow aside and scrambles into her sack, pulling out a handful of the leathern strips she'd cut up from the hide of the pronghorn for crossing the desert. With these in one hand, she edges closer to Doreel now, not willing to touch him as long as he is conscious, and now watching him like a hawk for the slightest wavering of his awareness. ** Because, ** she sends heavily, ** cubs are scolded when they do something wrong, and this is the only way I know to convince you that you're trying to do something wrong. ** Still, Doreel doesn't help himself - the arrow impaled in his shoulder starting to cause a streak of blood down the front of his tunic. ** I was trying to help. ** He sends, pulling himself back up to his feet with some effort. He uses his staff for the assistance he needs, though a wobble in his steadiness proves that he's not well off. ** I didn't -hurt- you, I wasn't going to hurt you, I never would. You hurt me. ** He laments, closing his eyes as he leans more fully on his staff and a pair of twin streaks of tears start falling down over his cheeks. ** Changing me without my consent hurts me, Doreel. ** The sending is a whisper now, full of grief. She didn't want to hurt him--but Derra would do it again if given no other choice, and she was given none. She doesn't tackle the taller elf, not yet. But she watches him unflinchingly, her eyes reflecting back the cold Whitecold moonlight. ** You have two choices now. You travel with me freely, and you keep your hands off me, and you learn to handle the fact that I am a Wolfrider, I like being a Wolfrider, and you _will hurt me_ if you try to make me otherwise. Or else you travel with me bound, and I'm going to take you to the nearest Preserver, slap you into wrapstuff, and stick you somewhere till you truly are ready to make amends for what you've done. ** ** Leave me. ** Doreel sends wrought with pain, as he reaches over to touch at the blood that trickles down the front of his tunic. He holds out his fingers afterwards, staring in morbid fascination at the darkness covering his fingers. ** You said I was free. ** He sends quietly, resting on his staff more and gripping it with the hand that bears some of his own blood, marring the light color of the wood. ** You won't put me in wrapstuff. I won't let you. ** He warns, glancing at her with his eyes starting to flutter closed involuntarily. The weakness that starts claiming him brings out more of his docile nature, however, and he sends timidly as though not under his conscious control, ** Help me, Ynderra.. ** ** You are not free to take from me anything I do not wish to lose. ** She is implacable on this, even in her sorrow. ** And you are not free to travel with me only to treat me with contempt. If you're that lonely--if you truly do not wish me to leave you--then start making me believe it. ** Ynderra is too gentle a Wolfrider to really make a challenge as her people would call it--but it's a challenge, nonetheless. ** What's it going to be? ** ** I won't. I won't take away your wolf blood. ** Doreel sends, sinking a little lower against his staff and reaching for the arrow with his hand to attempt and pull it out. It doesn't go very well, and all he does is whimper as it's shifted in him. ** I.. ** He murmurs in his send, gaze lowered to the arrow protruding out of his shoulder. ** I'm sorry. I like you, I just wanted to help you like you helped me. ** Ah, _puckernuts_. He would have to ask for her help, wouldn't he. The ferocity begins to drain out of the she-elf's eyes, and though her stance remains profoundly wary, Ynderra drops the leather rags she'd pulled out of her knapsack. "I might be a short wolf-blooded child of a barbarian," she says then, hoarsely and heavily, "but in the tribe I come from, if you like someone, you don't treat them like bear scat." But even as she speaks, she reaches up to press her one hand against Doreel's shoulder while she pulls the arrow out with the other. It hurts, sharp and hot and bright--but at least as she does, her magic explodes into life to dull the pain. Doreel reaches to try and touch his hand againt hers, only the slightest flicker of his magic apparent when he's doing so. Luckily, he's too distracted by the pain to be any threat to her - at least for the moment. ** I was trying to help. ** Or, so he thinks he was. He gives a cry of pain as the arrow is removed, sinking fully down to his knees so he's more on an even keel with her. ** I just.. don't like your ways. You could change them. ** Yep, that's completely logical - to him. Ynderra does note the stirring of his power--but with hers a golden nimbus around her hands, swelling out to engulf much of Doreel's upper torso as she wills the hole in his flesh to close, she is not dismayed. Yet. Without meeting his eyes, her expression hard and set, she sighs and says, "If you think I should change my ways just to suit you, Doreel, then you don't like me, know me, or understand me." Doreel sinks down further yet into a sitting position - any will he had to preform an attempt magic on her dying down to just him sitting there with his eyes half closed. The blood remains on his tunic, and with the loss of lifeblood and the long walk and physical exhaustion wearing on him he's not much of a threat to anyone at this moment. ** I.. like you. ** He reaffirms, though doesn't touch upon the other areas, since he doesn't really know or understand her. He then tries to push her hands away from him, healing finished or not. At that slight push Ynderra immediately backs off, the glow dying down and leaving only the firelight and moonlight to brighten the night. She turns away, towards the little fire, and reaches once more into her sack; now she pulls out one of the wood fragments she's carried all the way from the savannah and tosses that into the flames. She stands there. She watches the fragment burn. And without turning back to the Firstborn, she asks shortly, "Why?" Doreel remains where he's slouched down, head downturned towards the ground and his gaze lingering on his hands - one blood covered and the other clean. He doesn't look up at her, only to the fire when the pieces of wood are tossed into it. ** Why did you do that? What purpose? ** He asks, knowing she brought them all the way from the savannah. He skirts the question asked of him, for the moment, just lowering his gaze back to his hands before wiping the blood on the grass by his knees. ** I don't know. ** Right, he likes her because maybe she was the first person who happened to be nice to him - most of the time, when he wasn't threatening her. "I can't shape them. I've tried for moons; either I'm just not strong enough or they've been off of trees too long." Abruptly Ynderra looks very, very tired. She's already spent much of her strength on trying to shape the oak--now, after spending more of it in healing, it's all she can do to keep to her feet. Before her knees can give out from under her, she sits slowly and carefully down upon the earth, her gaze hollow now, fastened upon the flames before her. "They'll better serve to keep us warm." Making his way by virtue of crawling, Doreel moves to sit beside Ynderra and tries to pull her closer to him. Strange, how moments ago he was trying to shape her into something she wasn't and now he wishes to give her comfort. The larger of the two, it only made sense that he would try and pull her closer than vice versa. He tries to - anyways, provided if she doesn't pull away like he has the plague. ** I'm sorry. I thought you might want.. but, you don't, so. ** Yes, those aren't full thoughts, but he doesn't feel the need to explain further than that. He sighs, giving in to the fact there is no changing her, and since he doesn't want her to leave him he has to be a lot nicer than he has been. Derra doesn't pull away--but she does stiffen in surprise, her head swiveling round to the far older elf, her gaze snapping up to search his face intently. ** ...? ** The wordless query rolls out of her thoughts; through her body, her magic rises up again. This time, however, it's in instinctive protective reaction rather than the need to heal. Small she may be, wolf-blooded she may be, but this little she-elf's frame is humming with power. There's no malice there, when she looks at Doreel, none of his prior intention to turn her into something of his own devising. Just weariness and blue eyes that are deeply troubled and saddened. He doesn't pull away at the hum of power, instead his brows knit and he sighs in resignment. ** If you wish me to leave you alone, you need only say so and I will go. ** And now, she is back to the Doreel she could almost like, even admire, the elf who showns signs of something greater than his wounded soul has allowed him in far longer than she and anyone else in Lostholt has been alive. The contrast is staggering, and such a wave of self-doubt arises in her now that Ynderra is no longer certain she can fight him off if he teeters back into madness again. ** You don't have to go... if I can trust you. ** It's barely a whisper, that little sending. Lifting a hand to run through her hair, petting her almost, Doreel sighs and falls silent for a long while. He watches the fire quietly, that little break from being 'normal' apparently finished and he's back to just wanting affection. ** I won't hurt you. I won't change you. ** He promises, the truth in his sending. He gives a little tremble afterwards, the fire not quite enough to ward off the chill for him. There is only truth in sending. It is one of the truths all elves know, and hearing this truth now, Ynderra accepts it. And with a slender, graceful hand petting her hair, it's enough to make her head droop, a tremble of her own starting from there and working its way down her entire frame. ** Thank you, ** she sends then, her mind's voice turning almost insubtantial now, like moonlight filtered through clouds. Make no mistake: the she-elf is exhausted. ** Sleep. ** Doreel urges, only with a send and not trying to encourage it further with any form of magic. She can fall asleep on her own, after all, with as tired as she is. He doesn't try dragging her off or picking her up until after she's drifted off - then he might move her to the already made den for the evening and let her sleep there in comfort. Fingers continue to pet at her hair and run through it, trying to relax her to sleep. How long has it been since anyone stroked her hair or offered her physical comfort? Since, Derra thinks bleakly, the last time she denned with Kai. That thought's enough to add another layer to her exhaustion, for it's times like this that she cannot quite fight off the desolation of having driven her lifemate away from her with an argument. That she has just shot this ancient elf beside her no longer seems important; that he seemed obsessed with taking the wolf from her blood retreats in consequence. There's sanity now in his sending--and she craves that comfort. She turns to him and leans against his frame, even as she murmurs tinily, "Den's not finished..." Doreel doesn't quite feel up to finishing the shaping of the den, so lingers with Ynderra near the fire until he does. He continues stroking at her hair, not really looking at her but enjoying the feel of the hair slipping through his fingers. As promised, he doesn't try to shape her, or take away her wolf blood. Only when he feels up to it does he slip away to finish the shaping of the den, then tries to get her into it. The Firstborn is right--tired as she is, it doesn't take much at all for the fierce little wolf-blood to fall asleep. She curls into a ball against him, and soon her breathing drops into the soft, regular rhythms of slumber. Derra does not resist as he lowers her down to rest by the fire; nor does she stir when he returns to move her again. And there's the rub; can he lift her? Doreel attempts to move her, but finds his strength considerably lacking from what he figures he might have. A couple lifts are tried before he gives in, wandering away to get some warm things for them to curl up in and sleep next to the small fire. Until she wakes, that's how she'll have to sleep, curled up close to the Firstborn and covered for warmth. Strange night, this. In the grip of her exhausted sleep, Ynderra barely stirs when the elder returns to her side. But when he does, she nestles in against his side beneath the skin she'd tanned with her own inexpert hands, instinctively seeking the warmth his frame can provide her. She has wounded him with her own weapons--but she has turned around and healed him. And now, in trust, she sleeps. A very strange night indeed. [End log.]