Log Date: 12/27/95 Log Intro: As Rayek, Ekuar, and Ember continue to spend time in the remote northern valley in which they've camped, Ember begins to take advantage of the link she's offered to Rayek -- the sending link she's established that lets him see how the world looks, when perceived by a Wolfrider. Or, at least, the particular Wolfrider she is. Rayek has spent more than a few days simply trying to sort through the increased flow of data to his own senses, but once he seems to have a handle on it, Ember decides to take the Palace's erstwhile Master out on a hunt.... ---------- It has been, shall we say, a long day. One that Ember has approached with infinite patience. Barrelling in where fools fear to tread will not catch dinner. It is evening, or more accurately late afternoon, still warm enough that the group of tree-horns that the hunters have been creeping up on are feeling lazy and safe. Were you to think Ember an uncharitable sort, you might think she'd dragged this hunt out longer than necessary, for no clear reason. Stretchd out on her tummy, she looks around for you, though scent tells her you're not far away. Just above audible, she whispers, "Which one shall we go for?" Rayek lies crouched in the grass -- indeed, not far away. And although his dark skin and hair and the remnants of his ragged, bright Sun Village garb make him stand out rather more than he should among the tall waving strands, he admirably doesn't twitch. That comes, you've come to learn, from his already established hunting skills. But even so, his gaze occasionally flashes restlessly from side to side, and his nostrils flare unexpectedly, as if testing a new scent. It takes him a beat to answer you, and when he does, it's by way of his amber regard lingering on the biggest male in the herd. His mouth curls -- clearly, he's approving of that target. Ember shakes her head. And absently considers that something needs to be done about your clothes, but not right now. Her eyes, in turn, dart to a much older beast, still fully healthy, but clearly past his prime, coat a little dulled, manner quiet. Rayek stares at the big male for a few long moments. A bit of an eldritch glitter flickers in his eyes, before, with an effort, he pulls his regard over to you. And if anything, you hold his attention for as long as the herd does, as that amber stare remains pointed in your direction. Ember has moved another several inches, perhaps even a foot or two, forward, before it occurs to her that your attention is not on the hunt, and she glances back over her shoulder, sea-colored eyes half hidden under a wash of falling red hair. An eyebrow cocks curiously. Rayek pauses, distracted again, as the sending's enhancement of his senses snares his attention. Fascinated, he stares at you, and shivers a bit -- before abruptly shaking his head as if to clear it, and muttering, "You're... the teacher. Which?" Ember points, this time, movement silent through the grasses, at the older beast. If you need explanations of why, they drift through the sending: better for the herd that an old animal be taken; the young blood should be preserved for strong fawns. More information flashes through: best to take out its throat, if possible. Hamstring to disable if necessary. But most important, silence approaching. Only three or so hands of feet to go. Rayek frowns to himself. For an instant, he clamps his eyes shut, and wrestles with temporarily ignoring the sensory input of your link, for the other relevant hunting lore. He knows this, he thinks. Not too different from choosing which bristle-boar to slay. Then, he opens his eyes again, and steels himself for the renewed flood of information to his eyes and ears and nose. His hand tightens on the spear he's carrying with him, and he gives you a barely noticeable nod. Ember grins, and her eyes show encouragement, and then she's creeping forward again, silent in the tall grass. One of the smaller tree-horns raises its head uncertainly, sniffing at the air, but goes back to grazing after a few moments. Ember's path leads her as close to around the back of the herd as she can stay, while not moving upwind. It is hard, very hard, to resist floating to keep up with his young Wolfrider companion. As it happens, Rayek's only a beat behind you now. His movements are commendably silent, though there is just the barest whisper of slightly louder noise as he steals through the brush in your immediate wake. Ember would stick her spear right into you if you spoiled a perfectly good hunt by floating up into the air and scaring all the poor treehorns. Steady creeping will get you where you want to go. Or more accurately, where Ember wants you to go. It's only a few feet away from the old animal that she finally stops, the wind's change too great to go any further secretly. Slowly, she begins to pull herself into a crouch, still soundlessly. Rayek smirks, at that relaying along the sending. There's a flash of injured pride from him: what, do you think he's a fool or a child, that he'd float high enough for them to _see_ him? He _does_ know how to float only a fingerwidth above the ground, after all. Even as he sends, he's already in motion, and as if by way of irritated proof, crouching beside you. Poised, with just a hint of a glimmer of golden sparkles about him, exactly a finger's width off the earth. Ember nearly laughs at your poor insulted pride, one eye closing in a quick wink. Point taken, airwalker, threads through the sending. Then, more seriously, ** They'll bolt as soon as we move. Have to be quick. And none of your golden stare, either. ** The sending is accompanied by fluid movement as the lithe maiden leaps out towards the animals, sending most of them, indeed, bolting, in all directions. The old gent who's the target moves more slowly than the others, startlement and confusion clear in dulling brown eyes. Rayek still smirks. Wielding nothing, now, save the spear he'd crafted after hours of exhausting labor, he jumps out only a breath behind you. He doesn't glimmer, now, and, stubbornly, he relies only upon his own body's strength as he starts closing in on the old male -- but without a quick side glance at the lead male. But what flashes through Rayek's side of the constant sending communion is not a prideful lust for the best target. Well, not entirely. There's a clear concern that the creature might prove to be a threat, and he doesn't want to ignore it. In truth, the lead male seems more concerned with collecting his multitude of wives and calves some distance away from the elves than trying to rescue his older compatriot. But there's approval through the link, as Ember moves in to feint at the beast, then trips lightly -- not awkwardly -- back again, looking for the chance to make a killing thrust or to leap on the old man's back and take knife to throat. Rayek grins suddenly, fiercely. There's... a new sensation to the sending link, and he tastes it in sudden surprise, wondering when exactly his -- yours? -- his? -- blood started pounding in this unfamiliar fashion. Not knowing, quite, when his borrowed senses began to narrow to the immediacy of the prey, he moves in, spear poised, jabbing here, jabbing there. Yours, hers, does it matter? The scent and taste of the hunt are high, and the grin on Ember's features is sheerly feral, teeth snapping and a low growl sounding as she lunges in again, distracting the animal, the intent to open a clear shot to the heart for you. Nothing better to learn the hunt than a successful kill early on. Rayek seems uninterested in feinting -- and, indeed, dodges nimbly aside only when the beast's antlers swing a little too close at his dark form. Yes! he thinks, giddily, as the part of him immersed in your sending revels in the surge of adrenalin brought on by the motion and the courting of danger at the big beast's horns. Once, though, you can feel him falter, before he sorts out the difference between your sent perception of your own strength and speed, and what he truly has at his disposal. He's not as fast as his augmented senses suggest, nor is he as fast, really, as he should be. It takes him a few long moments before he gets into a position to strike the blow you're setting up for him.... Long moments taken advantage of by the terrified treehorn: rack lowered again, in desperation, the old man charges, intent on skewering at least one of the unfamilar predators, and it is Rayek who is the most easily obtained. Long moments taken advantage of by Ember, as well, if not as efficiently as the treehorn uses them. Undiluted anger, at herself, rushes through the sending, anger at having forgotten for a moment that you are not, in fact, as fast and agile as a Wolfrider. Her dive is not intended to injure the old beast, merely an attempt to knock him a step or two out of the way, slight elf's weight against the bulk of the treehorn. Rayek, as the terrified treehorn charges, seems to lose a measure of prudence even as the hunt-song filling his mind -- and to some extent, his own body, as his pulse races to match Ember's, trying to synchronize his actual reactions to hers -- urges him onward. Grinning ferociously, he snakes forward, until Ember's own charge distracts the beast. But, unexpectedly, it swings its head the way opposite what either elf intended, and its antler grazes the magic-maker, sending him sprawling. Ember lets out a curse that would do her grandfather proud -- Bearclaw, not Sun-toucher, obviously -- and drops to the ground, rolling to safety, away from thrashing hooves. The treehorn, half out of his mind, whirls, bawling in terror, and thunders away, towards the rest of his distant herd; his approach heralds a general panic on the part of the beasts, and, as a unit, they disappear into the distance. Ember comes to her feet, with another curse, then moves to your side, concerned. "Rayek?" Rayek lies, propped up on one elbow, the other hand pressed to his eyes. -Sparks of pain flashing behind his forehead, dizziness, an ache. Pain, too, he discovers in dismay, is augmented in a Wolfrider's senses.- "Down," he mumbles, "turn it down..." Ember stares at you blankly for a few moments, then shakes her head, murmuring, "Sorry." The sending fades away, to virtually nothing, as she crouches next to you. "Where'd he hit you...?" Rayek grits his teeth, and, carefully, sits up. "Head. I think," he mutters tersely. His heart's still racing, he realizes dimly, and the sensations of the hunt, however secondhand they were, are still churning in his immediate memory. Whether it is these or pure stubborn pride driving him, he begins to clamber to his feet. "They're getting away! We'll lose them..." Ember shakes her head, offering you a hand as support. "There'll be more. We can hunt again tomorrow. I don't want you hunting with your head spinning, airwalker." Rayek flicks a hand dismissively, declaring, "It'll pass, I'm fine." But the sharp motion seems to suddenly point out to him that he's not as fine as he claims, and the same hand after a moment hesitates a moment, near yours. He stares at your fingers for a moment, before his move onward to grasp his spear. Shakily, he uses _that_ to lever himself upright. Ember stares at you a bit. "Timmorn's blood, Rayek. Doesn't it /hurt/ to be so prideful?" She pushes up out of her crouch, shaking her head. "Back to the camp. I wish I were a healer." Rayek glowers at you, then starts to smirk, to stride off -- or at least try to stride off, though his steps are slightly unsteady -- back towards the camp. But at your last comment he pauses for a moment, frowning. Healer. Healer. Which Ember is not. There's enough of the link still formed for the half-thought, not like mother, and perhaps a faint image of Leetah, to come through. And her steps are quick, as she stays close to you, prepared to offer support, wanted or not, should you need it. Rayek blinks several times, startled by the sending, faint though it is. "Your... mother," he breathes. "A healer. Yes?" Forgetting that he's ostensibly on his way back to camp, he slows. And eventually draws to a halt, as he murmurs, "I... do not remember that...." Ember, with a wolfrider's pragmatical sense of things, says, "You will. Come on." She goes beyond you a ways, then turns to see if you're following. Rayek frowns. But after a moment, he sets off after you. His mouth tightens a little, as his senses try to reorder themselves back to a more normal, more Rayek-like level of information... but they can't quite make it, and the ground seems alternately a little farther from, then a little nearer to, his feet than it should be. Ember watches the unsteady footsteps, and when you reach her, does her best to slide under your arm, the one that isn't hanging onto a spear at the end. Quietly, she says, "It'll be all right, Rayek." Rayek flushes, a hint of a ruddy scarlet darkening his cheeks, as he finds himself suddenly propped up by tall Wolfrider maiden. For an instant, there's a palpable flash of confusion and embarrassment from him, before he abruptly terminates the contact from his end, without explanation. He is silent, too, but he allows you to guide him back towards the rock shelter, where Petalwing is guarding Ekuar. Ember's sending to the old elf does not expect an answer; it's mostly venting irritation. ** I do /not/ understand him! ** This said, she ushers Rayek towards the shelter, assuring Ekuar that the airwalker is all right, just a bump on the head. "You need to rest, Rayek." Rayek mutters dismissals to both Ekuar's and Petalwing's fussings -- but the rockshaper and the Preserver both, once Ember has explained how the hunt went, echo the young chieftess's insistence that Rayek relax. Grudgingly, he crawls into the shelter, and, once within, he stretches stiffly down on the pile of furs there.... Ember doesn't exactly hover over Rayek until he sleeps, but she manages to find something to do inside the little shelter until she's certain he's drifted off. Once he *is* asleep, she walks very quietly out of the shelter, collects a large handful of rocks, and goes off to fling them at trees. Stupid airwalker. So she's not Leetah. She can't *help* that, can she? And he can't even remember Leetah anyway. So what's his *problem*? She's actually muttering to herself, probably loudly enough for Ekuar to hear, as she hasn't really left the area of the shelter. Stupid airwalker. [End log.]