Log Date: 9/8/96 Log Cast: Evergreen, visions of Pacer, and Thicket Log Intro: Wandering the woods, ostensibly on a hunt but also taking a breather from his continued worry over his lifemate Onyx, Evergreen of Needlebrook Holt has stumbled across an unusual find: patches of mushrooms colored blue and black, that bestow on him startlingly clear visions of a Wolfrider elf. He has already witnessed a dream-Recognition of this Wolfrider, and once the shroomhaze wore off, has found himself fascinated by whether he can use these strange shrooms to bring tales back to his tribe. Thus, he continues to hunt for more of them.... ---------- Stirred only by the occasional breeze, the wood is silent until leathern footsteps, crunching softly upon crisp new leaves and twigs, approach from off toward the lake. The sound brings with it the Needlebrook elder, bow strapped across his back beneath a pair of small corpses, one field-ravvit of the pufftail type and one feathery young quail. He hums softly from step to step, voice gentle despite little use, melodic if arrhythmic. His attention is easily taken away from his little tune, as his gaze darts from the base of one tree to the next, searching out a familiar color. How common, exactly, are those blue-streaked black shrooms? Not as common as many others that grow in these woods... far more of the earthy sweets come in much more prosaic colors. Hours spent searching prove fruitless. Evergreen is, in this thing, patient. Dreamberries are elusive, and they're far easier to scent. He tries varying his little song, testing his low range and his high like one who's never thought seriously about it before, and perhaps still isn't. He crunches on through the leaves pleasantly enough, pausing at every flash of blue, determining its kind. Berries and blossoms in not-quite-right color abound and, once, he mutters, ** Could be red for all I can find them. ** Yet he searches on, comfortably, pausing at last to string the quail over a branch in a tree and, near it, skin and bone the ravvit. Dinner is dinner and gone, and another half-day passes before another patch of the strange mushrooms is finally discovered, farther to the west, much farther along the past. This patch is nestled, almost hidden, at the base of a thick stand of slim young trees, blue-and-black capped shadows among the greenery. The storyteller's face brightens in a grin. Shining grey gaze regards the stand of trees. Focused on their sheltered gift, the blue-streaked patch among them, he thinks not a thing of their odd growth so near one another, among the much elder trees. Finally the elf nods, once, and steps in among the trees, steps careful in desire not to smash any of the precious find. Seven of them, three barely poked up from the sheltering earth, three more with somewhat more grown on them, and the last spreading higher and prouder above the rest like a parent sheltering its cubs. Bigger, this last one, than any of the previous day's finds. Crouching, gaze stuck to that largest mushroom, he shakes his head in mild amazement. ** , ** he tells the growths, eyes sparkling in the shadow of a few disobedient tufts of silver hair. He reaches out to touch the largest mushroom. The effects of one of the smaller ones seemed so shortlived -- perhaps this one would be more useful. On the other hand -- the elf sits back on his haunches, withdrawing his hand -- it might serve a purpose. The taleteller tilts his head, considering it and its 'offspring.' That scent... maybe it's Aron's, something in storyteller instinct suggests suddenly, offering a way to link details in the Story of these shrooms... lingers on them, as if stirred even by brief contact from elfin hands. Nose wrinkling in curiousity, Evergreen shakes his head. More of them, then, would bring more of the tale from before...or a different one, linked. He closes his eyes, straining clear thought from drives and curiousity. Why so important to put someone's life in...shrooms? Grey eyes open again and reach gently down to select one of the smallest, and one of the middle 'generation' of fungus. One way to know. He rises, shrooms cradled in one palm, and unhooks his bow from his backstrap, setting it carefully against the tree. He looks around, grasping a firm image of this place for later reference, and lifts the smaller of the chosen shrooms between fingertips to nibble at it, savoring the scent-not-scent. Yes, there it is again... that sensation of the scent that doesn't belong to you swirling slowly through you, beginning to permeate your being. With it comes a very mild sense of dislocation, an ever so faint blurring of your surroundings. Larger nibbles, taking the cap off and chewing it. A last thought, wondering if the cap and the stem act differently, as in so many mushrooms they taste differently, and the Wolfrider standing among the stand of trees gives himself over, as much of him as the vision chooses to take. ... The trees around you take on ghostly other-shapes, making them seem younger, and in more than one place trees begin to appear that were not there before... before what? As the ghostly shapes grow more firm, you shake your head a moment, then grin to yourself sheepishly. No time to let your head wander. You've got a mate to feed, if she'll let you back to the waterfall again today.... Well, _that's_ a thought that certainly melds in easily, whether the elf in the glade, one or any other, knows or notices or not. Must get food to mate. He gazes around (a faint thought of a quail intended for a mate...), as if to choose a direction to go. Strange. The smell is real enough... on some level, it's as if there is some quarry there outside the Story, disrupting it, almost. For a moment you wonder which wolf it is doing the tracking.... Can he move in this, function through the shroomhaze? Must be wary of the trees, he thinks in his little Evergreen space inside his mind, and moves toward the prey, figuring his own wolf days away, as is his wont. A brief check of his form, of something in his hand -- shrooms, he presumes -- and presses on, letting the vision guide his form as well as that in the experiencing of the tale. Strange, indeed, how the scent tickles at your nose on multiple levels. How did the shroom know to give you this memory....? And then... ...Quail. You can smell it, Prowler reports it, and with a fierce satisfied grin you both hunt it. Your long legs propel you towards it with surety. How, indeed, did the shroom guess? Something's up, the storyteller-spot thinks, but doesn't object, yet. Form follows thought (ware for the trees!) and lets the vision guide the hunt. ...The quail's... The quail's deathscream is jarring, but the scent of its blood is sweet, once you catch it and slay it... ... And Prowler bounds up to you, demanding her share, but firmly you insist upon patience. This kill is for the mate, for she is with cub, and you'll make her let you stay to help take care of it if you have to heap kills at her feet every day for the next moon! The thought is strangely pleasing for all that you've been exasperated at her retience. But she hasn't chased you off yet! (In the Evergreen-space, a recollection of swordfoot-death, a scream like that, though different...fades. And that feeling of 'not-chased-off-yet' ...) Yes. Another kill to help the mate...and the cub growing within. A sense of companionship with the wolf, and enthusiasm -- time to go, to offer this kill while it's still fresh. ...Sun-Goes-Down lies the waterfall, the birthplace of that young river; she's there, you know it. With Prowler at your side you lope off along the private trails you've claimed for your own.... And eventually, your vision spins slightly, the ghostly trees losing something of their other-shapes. (Ah. That's the signal. Twist the fingers upon themselves, feel for the next size up of shroom in the palm... Not so different from berrying, this part, striking this balance. Slip closer to the shroompatch, squint, make the ghosts fade enough to grasp reality...crouch and catch up three of the shrooms, avoiding the grandparent. A good supply, as many as he took last time, these four in his hands now and the one in his belly...lift one to his mouth, and chew.) The vision slowly restores itself, and about time, because -- ... Thicket's hungry, though you know she'll hardly admit it to you. But the girl-cub has grown big in her belly and it's hard for Thicket to hunt; pride in the coming cub, and a tangle of emotions for the mother, make you slightly giddy as you run, steps faster now in your eagerness to return to her denning-place. (Much better. Thicket, the name, and a good one...) He lets his feet carry him, then, matching those of the Story, searching the ghost-trees for the right way. (Pride for a cub...so strong it almost hurts.) Headwaters of the Wandering River(#1730RJ) The air here is mountain-cool, pine-scent-sharp; tall trees along the sloping ground here add their individual tangs to the breeze, and pine and other kinds of evergreen needles blanket the forest floor. A waterfall bursts from the mountainside and plunges down along the incline into a wide pool; from that, the waters flow out and away, giving birth to the river known as the Wandering. Along the hillside and in between the tall conifers, random bushes weave in and out; a 'blackberry bush' catches your eye. Mother and Child Moon make a matching pair, as their gibbous disks sail the hot summer skies. Contents: Slate's Den(#3253JUe) Obvious exits: East Bank Pool West Bank Trail Crest Trail Evergreen has arrived. The sound of water. And its scent, too, clear as anything to wolfish senses... ... The sound and scent of water, and you know you're coming home, or at least as much of a home as you've ever had. You break into a run, grinning widely now, one hand on the captured quail, ready to send in greeting to your elusive mate -- surely she has seen you coming, but just in case she hasn't, you toss off a bright, ringing sending. ** Thicket! ** The falls! She has to be here, he -knows- she must be. Her place, for her and the cub. (At least she doesn't need for water...she's no fear of dehydrating. Hunger of a different kind, unanswered...the thought fades. Thicket, the storyteller-space thinks: Thicket Thicket Thicket. The Story.) ... You catch her scent before you catch sight of her, and it makes your heart pound in your chest. Fortune, then; night's falling, and she's come out... Thicket kneels, bare-skinned, in the pool, splashing water on her face, and staring in furrow-browed bemusement at a right arm she's still not quite used to seeing work again. Pelting footsteps make her head snap around, green-gold-brown eyes glinting in the darkness, instantly alert. ...for the elf approaching. She's here, for the returning hunter -- smell her, see her...! (So clear! The focus of the Story, then...every detail perfect and exact.) ** Thicket! ** Giddy and rushed, holding out the quail -- (All right, hold out the quail, as long as I've got it...test the motion, the control.) For she's no doubt hungry! ... She turns, scowling gruffly when she sees that what she thought was a coming threat is you instead, and her hand drapes across her wet belly. She flicks a glance to your offered meat, and, grudgingly, sends gratitude.... Thicket turns, startled, eyes going round. Who in the name of...? Her silvered hair hangs damply around her shoulderblades, and her lean gaunt form glistens with water that catches the twilight's faint light and makes it sparkle. ...Triumph! She's never admitted gratitude before, and it makes your heart tighten within you, a heavy warmth that intoxicates even as it makes it hard to breathe. _Vess_, your mate, even though it's tougher than pulling thorns to get her to admit it! Breathtaking, she is, all gruff and glimmer. Such eyes... Crouch, lay the meat at the edge of the water as one would offer a kill to a wolf. (Motions. Like dancing a story through, or shaping its acts in firelight. Crouch...lay the quail out. Rise again...) But it's true, whether she admits it or not -- and I can wait, I can hunt and provide forever if need be, for her! Thicket scrambles backwards out of the water, expression alert, bare fists clenched. Where's that new flint knife? She barks out, "You. How know Thicket?" Your head spins a little. Something's wrong; even as the vision plays out in your head, the dream-Thicket stepping out of the water to sniff cautiously at the fresh meat, something else is happening on some other level of your perceptions. And the trees are beginning to glimmer, oddly, losing form and definition... (Ahh, that would explain the discrepancy. Hm, wonder if I've scared some creature, maybe a deer, and got confused. Easy solution, though -- pull a mushroom from the partly squashed three in the hand, pop it into the mouth. Relax, chew, swallow...) ... You step to her, smiling ear to ear, and even more when she narrowly glances at you and keeps staring, transfixed. You _know_ she has noticed the way you smile, and it pleases you like nothing else has ever pleased you before. ** Thank _you_, ** you send, then, your mind-voice going tender and soft, ** Vess... ** ... ** Aron, ** she returns, oddly shyly, still gruff. Her gaze mellows somewhat at your tone, and she stares at you again. Then glances down as the cubling within her kicks... and for an instant, _she_, too, smiles, a rare smile like a flash of sunlight through the leaves... Thicket scrambles again, snatching up the knife she'd left on the pool's edge, and again barks out, "Who you? _How know Thicket_?!" How can he help but smile, broadly, lighting his eyes as well as his face? (Silver-grey eyes, these ones, sparkling narrow with the equivalent smile, so glad and such a feeling of -right- and gratitude, sent...as the storyteller would send it, and pose it, for an eager audience...) And how can his heart help but surge with the glimpse of her _own_ smile? [To be continued.]