Title: Sharing Camp RP Date: May 6, 2003 Pacer, Ryriel, Verlaan A strange elf has camped for some time beneath Pacer's tree-home. Pacer decides the time for a meeting is due, but the arrival of a sick elf delays matters somewhat. ---------- Newgreen has finally come, and Ryriel couldn't be more happy about it. The snow has started to melt, and the sharp chill to the air has lessened. The daystar is ending it's descent against the horizon once more, and he's aware that this means that those with wolfblood are rising. He's alone at this camp for the time being, and sits himself at the small fire that's been started for this time of day, with his gaze fixed across towards the other side of the river. There's a pile of old dried bones near the camp that've been gathered up, not a really large pile but a few armfulls of them at least. The tree stretching low over the river, too, shows sign of the whitecold's passing, leaves budding out along its branches and boughs. The gathering of old leaves matted in the crook of limb and trunk seems aged, even soiled, in comparison to the young budding green of new life. From time to time, a half- rotting leaf falls, dislodged by the melt of thawing ice. A wolf's time it is, night drifting in. With it drifts a shadow in the bushes, a familiar shape, unsubtle in the poorly-leafed, near-naked branches of newgreen. Having been camped near that near-fallen tree, the old leaves falling isn't something that catches attention readily. However, the shadow of a wolf is something that causes Ryriel to move a smidgen closer to where his tent is set up. Uncomfortable with the beasts, it's no secret from just his motions and expression that he's frightened. ** Who's there.. ** He asks tenatively, knowing most wolves in this area come with elf friends. The shape pauses, then moves again, disconcertingly in the direction of camp. He emerges from the thin brambles, nose low to the ground and eyes raised, a suspicious but unthreatening posture. He pads on too-long legs to the edge of the trodden area around the tents, and makes a soft snuffle into the soil there, as if taking note of the scent of the camp's inhabitants. As wolves go, he seems aware of - and unsurprised by - an elf-camp; still, no answering send comes. [Ryriel] This youth is mostly angles and long limbs though he is beginning to show the promise of a stronger build. Although he is lean, his shoulders are already wider than his hips and lean muscle fills out the narrow lines of his body. His skin is a lighter shade of the sun-browned desert dwellers though it is certainly darker than that of a Wolfrider. He is taller than the average elf, standing at 4'8" tall though there is every possibility that there is growth in him yet. Black hair hangs in thick waves to his shoulders, held back by a headpiece woven of some thin, flexible vine. It is decorated with small stones and feathers and frames his angluar face, accenting the slate grey eyes, sloping black brows, aqualine nose and expressive mouth that make up his features. The leathers that cover his body are worn and sorely in need of replacement. Though, they were well made, they show signs of age with splitting seams and worn, tattered edges. The legs of his breeches are much too short, though it is clear that they have been added to at least once. The sleeves of the tunic are all but non-existant, having been sacrificed to make the additions. The tunic is a simple buckskin color with patches of a deep reddish brown hue, or would be if it weren't for the dirt that has been ground in over time. The leggings are also of the deep red-brown color except for the extra length added that is also the dingy buckskin color of his tunic. His boots, too, have seen better days and sag wearily at his ankles though the soles are still intact and in good enough shape to still provide protection to his feet. Reaching for a nearby stick, thick enough to be a weapon to use against the wolf should it get close enough to Ryriel for him to need to, he watches in silence as the wolf sniffs at the ground. He keeps close to his tent, protective of it for one reason or another, as he speaks out loud this time to the wolf. "Go away." He says though it comes out less threatening, and more pleading. Verlaan steps out of the river. Ryriel is sitting nearest his own tent as he can get, as the wolf paces around the camp. He has a decent sized stick in his hand, though it's remaining unraised for the moment. The daystar has sunk from the skies entirely now, and only the firelight and starlight illuminates the scene. There's a stack of dried bones near the tents, gathered up neatly though out of place seeming. "Go away!" He insists at the wolf, though it might not be the best idea. There is a sudden crashing in the thinner parts of the forest. The one approaching is definately two legged and seems to be confused about direction as the syncopated, stumbling steps seem to move back and forth following no apparant reason or rhyme. A reedy send emerges from the source of the crashing, she is definately elven and the send seems terribly dioriented, **Mother..? Mother, can it be you..?** The long-legged wolf stops sharp, head lifting, eyes narrowing upon the crashing. His ears flatten, and between his furry lips a flash of teeth can be seen. After a second, the teeth hide again and the ears lift partway, as if the hackling was soothed by some unseen hand. Narrowing his eyes at the sound, Ryriel looks far from impressed. He knows nothing of the behaviour of wolves, but the one approaching must surely be the 'owner' of this one. ** I am not your mother, but get your wolf away from my camp! ** He replies to the unfamiliar send. He glances to the wolf, brows furrowed as he watches for the animal's reaction and hopefully it'll decide to leave. The crashing about ceases as the send sinks into the fogged mind behind the previous send, **Wolf..? Camp...?** There is a brief pause before the crashing begins again along with a send, **Where is mother..? What have you done with her?!** Now there is anger swelling up in the fogged mind and only a heartbeat later the source of the send breaks through the trees weakly waving a sword about, **What have you done with her? I must find her!** the elf sends before she comes to a halt and blinks in the sudden brightness of the firelight. At that, the wolf growls in earnest, fur ruffling along his bony shoulders. He lowers his form slightly, elbowing his front legs downward to get his foreflanks closer to the ground, as if readying to jump into motion. Some greeting for a wolf's elf-friend! The sword, something that Ryriel hasn't seen much of, catches his eye and he stands up fully. He has the stick still in his hand, as he takes a few unsteady steps back from both the visable elf as well as the wolf. Well, that's interesting, this new elf isn't anything like the wolfriders he's run into lately. "Get back! The wolf!" He yells out towards the elf who's stumbling closer, a fear rising within him enough that he didn't think to send. ** ... ** It's a send of nothing, a suggestion of a thought: an elf's introduction, nothing more. From above. Where, should one look, nothing but a tree with a mat of rotting leaves clutched in a bough-crook is to be seen. Whomever it came from, however, it seems to have some bearing on the wolf, for the long-legged beast's rear haunches lower to level with the fore ones, his teeth once again sheathing behind furry lips. He 'hrrs' softly for a second, then the growl abates. Silent, the wolf considers one elf, then the other, eyes narrow; poised to run, he holds his ground for the moment. The strange elf blinks first at the shouting elf then slowly turns her head toward the wolf to blink at it. The sword slips from her fingers to land in the dust as she sends, **Not my wolf..** and sinks to the ground, crumpling almost in slow motion to her knees. To those with a wolf's ability to scent, she stinks of sickness and infection. To those without that ability, her face is flushed as with a high fever though her skin is pale, a shade or two lighter than that of a wolfrider. She doesn't even seem to notice the send from the tree as she turns back to the one standing nearby, **Help..?** she sends just as she pitches face first into the dust of the campsite. The wolf straightens and paces a few steps forward, halting again several yards from the flattened elf. His glinting eyes consider her for a moment, then his head swivels toward the base of the tree, throat emitting a low, soft whine. Skittish to say the least, Ryriel looks up to where the /other/ send originated and narrows his eyes as he tries to pick out a shape in the mat of rotting leaves. Nothing, at least for him, since he can't see as well in the dark as a wolfrider, nor scent as well as one. He takes a few faltering steps backwards from the elf that pitches herself into his campsite. A few things run through his mind, but he doesn't make any movement to near her. ** Get up. ** He orders her, tossing the stick down and crossing his arms over his chest. He's not impressed if this is just another wolfrider prank. From high in the oak's branches, a soft rustling is heard. Wind? The fallen elf makes not a sound, nor does she move a muscle.. not even a twitch though if one listens closely she is still breathing, though it seems very shallow and rapid. The wolf backs up a step and faces the faceplanted elf once more, lowering his fore half again, this time with another low whine. As nothing comes from the tree, his head swivels the other way, and his gaze fixes on the black- haired elf. He repeats the whine, louder. While the wolf is near the faceplanted elf, Ryriel doesn't make one movement towards her. He wants nothing to do with a wolf, and doesn't trust the animals in the least no matter how docile it looks now. "Drag her back to your holt if you want to." He says to the wolf, like it could understand his words, and points towards the other side of the river. He then drops his gaze to look at the elf sprawled out in the firelight, where before he hadn't really looked hard at her. The beast's gaze follows the point, and after apparently determining that the river's of no help to sick, strange elves, the wolf 'hrrs' softly again and turns from the mess to stalk over to the base of the old tree. There, he seats himself, well out of the way. ** Why ever would I want to do that? ** The send is bemused, but gentle. ** Smells wounded, and fevered, and... ** It trails off, ending not in words but in sensation, the feeling of 'otherness,' an impression of 'stranger.' The fallen elf is tall, or would be if she were standing. She is certainly taller than any Wolfrider or Sun Villager (except for those that have been aided by magic). Judging by her clothing, it was made by someone with knowledge of leather working as it is of sturdy construction, hardly showing any wear other than dirt from what appears to have been a long journey. ** And I don't like being spied upon in my own camp. ** Ryriel sends crossly to the elf still in hiding. He then walks towards the fallen elf to nudge her with a foot to see if that elicits a response from her. She does seem different than those he's run into before, and he curiously squats down beside her to look at her without touching. From high in the oak's branches, pale green eyes peer down, almost glowingly, from over the edge of the leaf-mat. ** I was here first, ** he remarks, pleasantly. ** She needs whine-leaf, which I have, and a healer, which I haven't. Shall I come down? ** The wolf emits a small whine, almost a pout. The strange elf emits only a small groan from being nudged with a foot. On closer inspection, her left shoulder and upper arm bear wounds that are an angry read in color. Some are open and oozing with infection while the rest are caked with the dried remnants of the same stuff. The entire arm is pink with the infection running through her blood and, in all likelihood, it is the source of her fever as well. Ryriel looks up at the leaves, his eyes meeting those glowing orbs of the elf in it. ** If you think you can help her. ** He sends in response to the question. He leans over to look at her, seeing the wounds and the infection that eminates from them. ** I'm a healer. ** He adds, but, does he touch her? No. From high in the oak's branches, some amount of irritation is evident in the mental voice that, apparently, belongs to those silvery, lunar eyes. ** If you're a healer, ** he sends, more softly, but with a certain tone of disgust, ** Why are you wasting time? ** More rustling goes on, and the eyes vanish; then they appear again, accompanied by a shadowed form, making an agile climb down the tree's broad trunk. The elf pauses on the lowermost branch, to see if anything's being done. The sick elf just lays there silent and unmoving now since the prodding has stopped. She seems quite oblivious to what's going on around her now. Why, indeed. Ryriel hovers over the fallen elf like it's a foreign being to him. Does he want to touch her? Not really, but he does have a wolfrider pressuring him and his wolf nearby too. ** I.. ** He starts, and then doesn't finish the sentence. He finally makes the decision to place his hand on the reddened skin of her arm, feeling the warmth of it beneath his hand, but nothing happens. [Verlaan] Silver hair has been cropped even with the point of this female elf's chin, except for two thin tail of hair that fall from her forehead to her waist framing her heart-shaped face. A pair of delicately pointed ears part the hair on either side and make it obvious that she is indeed an elf. Wide, sapphire eyes peer out at the world amidst a face that is pale in comparison to a wolfrider but, tanned when compared with the rest of her Underworld bretheren. The rest of her facial features are sharp but, nonetheless attractive. Her willowy, 5'4" frame is covered in a top of charcoal grey leather with a swath of deep blue running down the center in the front and flaring out to follow along the hem at the bottom of the tapered skirtlike hem. There is a v in the center as well that is held closed with a matching lacing that zigzags up the center of her chest. The top is cut so that her right shoulder is covered but the left is left bare. A silver band is fastened around her bared upper arm and a silver bracer bearing the mark of House Jaersendo covers most of that forearm. The right arm is encased in the tightly fitted gray leather sleeve of her top. At her waist, is a pair of belts, both made of black leather and crossing at front and back. On her left hip is a coiled whip and on the right is a leather covered scabbard bearing the weight of an ornate, yet very functional crysmetal sword. Her legs are encased in breeches of the same dark gray of her top that disappear into the tops of a pair of thigh-high, black boots. The boots are made of soft, yet sturdy leather to allow her steps to fall silently. A narrow stripe of deep blue runs up the side of each boot, tying the ensemble together. The only other noticable touches are the heavy travel cloak slung over her shoulders, the twin dagger hilts at the tops of each boot and the choker-style necklace encircling her throat. It is constructed of long beads made of antler and died a dark blue strung on three strands of dark gray sinew. It ties at the back of her neck and lends a feminine touch to the warrior's garb. The strange elf groans again, this time in pain as a hand is laid on the injured arm but, still she does not move. The wolf does watch, though his attention is interrupted as the Wolfrider lands softly on the ground next to him. The pale-eyed elf, far from tall and not overly lithe, drops a gentle hand onto his beast's neck, soothing down the fur over the animal's hackles before leaving him to approach the other elves. He halts at five steps' distance. ** Not from that holt, either of you, ** he observes, with a mental flicker of description: a massive tree full of dens and elves, wolf-elves and stranger ones, but mostly the former. Then, with a hint of concern, ** Can you help her? ** [Pacer] A slender, compact elf of average Wolfrider size, Pacer is blessed with a clash of features, each in its own right beautiful, but taken as a whole almost a cacophany of color. His eyes, actually a silvery green, seem almost white against his olive skin. His dark slate-gray hair has a sheen that makes it, in woodlight, almost blue; in bright sun, however, it sparkles like water in the day. Twin braids of it stray down his back, tied with black leather and a downfeather from an owl. His face is lined with the faintest trace of down. Not at all like an elder's face-fur, it's rather more like the halo of soft fuzz on certain mushrooms. He wears an undyed doeskin tunic, open in front and tucked into breeches of the same hide. A sash of black leather keeps his quiver close at hand, while a small bow sets upon his shoulder. At either ankle, small bone knives tuck into black boots, each trimmed with another tuft of owl's down. Pacer wears a neck-band of black leather, streaked with a series of blues dark and midnight; from the band hangs a single owl's claw. ** I'm from no holt of wolfriders. ** Ryriel sends, as though it were a demeaning thing to be from one. His touch is gentle against the fallen elf's arm, and though for some time there could be the doubt that this elf carries any healing magic before it finally comes. It's not even or gentle like Leetah's healing might be, it's coarse and untrained but none the less effective. The infection is purged from her body, though the wound doesn't close fully before he takes his hand away and just stares at her. ** She'll live. ** ** Nor am I, ** replies the wolfrider, with that hint of detached amusement again. ** Do you know her? ** The uninjured arm tenses and a pale fist clenches at the lack of softness in the healing magic but, not another sound comes from the strange elf. Instead, she seems to fall into a much deeper sleep after the healing is complete. Apparantly the cold ground is as good a bed as any for the time being. Ryriel pokes at her again afterwards with a finger between her ribs, trying to get her to wake up despite the fact she was seriously ill when she arrived. ** I don't know her. ** He sends, in response. ** Wake up! ** He insists of her, sending sharply to her before lifting his gaze to the wolfrider. ** Who are you? ** ** I? ** The pale-eyed elf seems to ponder a moment, then decide. ** Pacer. From past the needlewoods. ** A swift bevy of mental explanation: tall, narrow trees of coniferous blend, and beyond them to elderly woods of giant trees, sparse undergrowth, and fungi everpresent on the ground. A falls, even, flickering in memory. He retreats a few steps, holding one hand out at his side, and in a moment the wolf rises and trods over to stand beneath the elf's waiting palm. ** Why? ** The sleeping elf jumps as she's poked in the ribs and her eyes flicker open, clear now of the fever that had glazed them before. Slowly, she pushes herself up from the ground. Frowning in confusion, she casts her dark gaze around the campsite only to have them settle on the two elves here. **Where am I?** she queries even as her hand settles on the top of her empty scabbard. This seems to give her a bit of a start and she looks all around in a rather hurried fashion searching for the missing weapon. Upon locating it, she scrabbles over to it and rests her hand on the hilt. For now, she doesn't lift the weapon but, she doesn't move her hand away from it either. Teetering on his toes near the elf he'd just healed, Ryriel ends up falling backwards as he looses his balance. Falling in a rather ungraceful show of limbs, he then pushes himself back up into a sitting position. Perhaps the effects of expending his magic were delayed or he was just trying bull- headedly not to show off as being weak afterwards. Either way, the illusion is gone now and he sighs deeply. "Just wondered.." He says meekly to the one who deemed himself Pacer, and shrugs at the elf who'd just woken up. "I don't know really." He'd never gotten the name of the place off of Cutter, that he recalls. ** Tree-holt, ** Pacer agrees, with the same flurry of images that identified it before, and a new one: the countenance of an auburn-haired elf, stern and narrow, sinewy, an archer, and as far as Pacer seems to know, the alpha-wolf. ** Many wolfriders. ** Verlaan looks over at the wolfrider with a frown, **LostHolt... ** she sends sounding very distracted. Her distraction is soon revealed as she lifts her free hand to her head and scratches just above her temple **I.. I was in the jungle.. How did I get here?** she sends sounding entirely confused. ** Walked? ** suggests the smaller elf, face breaking into a grin. "Yes, walked, far as I can tell." Ryriel points towards the tracks leading up towards the camp where she lay sprawled out. He scoots himself away from her as she starts moving around, not really having wanted to get as close as he had to in the first place. "You were sick, passed out in my camp." He frowns, looking up to Pacer to assure he's a good distance from the wolfrider elf too. Verlaan blinks slowly digesting this bit of information, **I walked...?** She looks at the evident trail where she entered the camp then looks back to the two others. Noticing that the taller of the two has moved away, she lifts her sword and sheathes it before she pushes herself tiredly to her feet. She looks back the way she came and a ripple of magic passes from her as she closes her eyes, reaching for someone or something out there. It is only a moment before she gives up her send search and sighs, **Was I unaccompanied?** she finally sends to the two in the camp. Pacer assists in this process by backing up to the tree, his wolf following at a pace. He leaps into the branches and hauls himself hand over foot back to his nest, replying as he does so, ** As far as I can tell. ** He vanishes over the edge of the nest, then reappears, climbing down with a bow on his shoulder and a quiver at his hip. ** Going hunting, ** he remarks, more toward Ryriel than the female. ** Game's getting better. I'll share, ** he adds, landing on the ground with a soft thump and a sharp smile. All these 'helpful' elves, Ryriel doesn't look amused but isn't much in a position to rebutt Pacer's words. He nods in agreement, "Alone." as he just watches the two with oddly curious eyes for someone who's trying to push everyone away. "You're both leaving then?" ** -I'll- be back, ** Pacer replies, grin broadening. He pads off into the night; the lanky wolf remains for a while, but eventually he, too, vanishes into the undergrowth. [End log.]