Log Date: 9/13/96, 9/15/96 Log Cast: Thicket, Pacer/Evergreen, Slate, Winterblessing, Silvermoon Log Intro: The lone Wolfrider Thicket has gotten the shock of her long life: a stranger's body sending to her with the mind-voice of her long-dead lifemate, Pacer. This stranger with her mate's voice knows her soulname and Pacer's, and so, she is made hysterical by the impact of what appears to be a reunion with him after a span of time longer than she can measure. Carried into her den-cave by him, Thicket rests, guarded protectively, not yet knowing that there are new arrivals entering her territory: Slate, whom she knows, and his Recognized and cub. ---------- His only company his sleeping mate, her scent, the sound of her breath, and his own, strange body, Pacer remains by Thicket's side, shaking his head from time to time in awestruck pleasure. Having given himself some time to try to sort things out in his head hasn't helped much, however, and a craving for peace instead of the constant conflict within got the better of him quickly. Musingly, he turns over his inherited knife in his hands, then touches the strange leathers he wears, getting used to his new Wolfrider scent and appearance. Slate locksends ** Thicket? ** Slate locksends ** Thicket? Can you hear me? It's slate... ** Thicket lies where you've placed her, curling up tightly against you like a frightened cubling. Her sleepfurs are old and ragged, worn thin, as though she has clung to them to eke every shred of use out of them she possibly could. It still is the same den you recollect, with the sheltering curtain of the waterfall shielding it from outside... the sound of the cascade, too, nearly blocking almost all sounds from without. Almost. If you strain, you might catch new sounds through the tumble of water. Thicket stirs, then, frowning vaguely. You locksend to Slate, Thicket's mind is there; she sleeps, from what you can tell, but fitfully. Her thoughts jerk in drowsed and startled reaction, but if she truly hears you, you can't tell it. Slate steps in from outside. Slate has arrived. New sounds, perhaps, to be expected after the passage of time-beyond-time...Pacer smiles down, distracted by the motion of his mate. ** , ** he greets, softly, reaching out with one hand to stroke the elf lain among the sad furs. Winterblessing has arrived. She has been dreaming, confused dreams born from the still-strange scent and shape of the elf that's holding her, and the long-denied, achingly familiar feel of the mind holding hers just as protectively. Now, though, it can be felt within her that she stirs restlessly, for some reason... then through the curtain of water comes the cause. Or causes. Slate pokes his head in the cave...A face...from long ago...**thicket..** he sends softly, staying a respectful difference away... Winterblessing coos softly at the water. A cub is in his arms... To Slate's sight, Thicket's cave looks the same -- save for one obvious difference. There's another elf here, and he cradles Thicket's thin shape to him almost like the young father does his cubling. In that elf's silvered arms, Thicket stirs, eyes creaking open. Grey eyes dart up, focusing on the intruder with needling, meaningful strength. ** Stranger... ** he warns Thicket, crouching down and leaning forward, hand dropping to a boot to pull forth...nothing. The silver-haired elf's hand scrambles and catches up a knife from a sheath at his side, holding it unsurely, wary. **Thicket?** he sends again...finally noticing the other elf. He stiffens, holding the cub protectively...**Who are you...?** he sends to the other elf...**What are you doing here?** ** Pacer, ** comes the certain, biting reply. ** This is my home. ** Winterblessing quiets. Slate moves back from the knife, his right hand raising...**No need for that knife...** then...shock. Thicket snaps awake, stunned, groggy. Her eyes as they open go round at the silver-haired, grey-eyed one over her... round still, they flash to Slate. She stares at him dazedly, evidently thunderstruck. Slate sends openly ** Pacer??? But you....you're dead... ** Slate Slate looks at you, his grey eyes glinting in the bright sunlight. His hair, so brown that it is almost blackm hangs to his waist in a thick braid held together by a leather strap, ornately embroidered with red, white, and green thread. He stands about 4'7, tall for a forest elf, and is muscled in all the right places. He is wearing a pair of dark blue, almost black deerskin leggings and a black ravvitskin loincloth. His shirt, the same color as his eyes, is covered by a heavy leather vest with a scene of a wolfrider on the hunt embroidered on the back in dreamberry purple thread. His shoes are well broken in boots that lace up over mid-calf. He carries with him a pouch of dried dreamberries, a small, razor sharp dagger in his left boot, another dagger on his right forearm, and a third strapped to his left hip. A bow and quiver of arrows is slung over his left shoulder, read for use in hunting down unsuspecting game or enemies. He sees you smiling at him and grins back, showing even, white teeth. A stray tendril of hair that escaped the braid hangs over his right eye, twisted into a smaller braid with a single white feather at the end. He is an elf that would do anything for his lifemate, even die...and she knows it. Carrying: Tracker(#4912IJMQaeps) Satchel Slate sends an image...a black haired elf...the image thicket sent of pacer to him long ago... Exhaling low, a whispered growl, the silver-braided elf's hand retreats, knife still within it, though he does not sheath it yet. ** I'm back, ** he states, absurdly, knowing the sound of it as he sends it, and wincing through it. ** Who are _you_? ** Thicket mumbles shakily, "Is.... is Slate..." Winterblessing wimpers softly. Slate sits on the floor of the cave...**Slate...** he sends quietly...**I..cared for your...lifemate....** he sends, comforting his cub. quietly, you can hear him shushing the little cub... Slate looks at you for a moment. Winterblessing wimpers again, and then her thin crys, crys for her mother, it can not be known, fill the cave. Thicket blinks a third time at the sight of the cubling; then, for no apparent reason, her eyes begin to go liquid, her expression speaking of deep shock. The self-identified Pacer withdraws, then, knife disappearing into the sheath at his side. His eyes narrow, greyly, with a bit of pain at the cub's cries, and he looks at her longly, quiet. Slate says "shh.....hush...." A gentle send, locked, trying so hard to conceal the expectation of a fall, the premonition of hurt: ** Is she...that...your cub...? ** Slate rocks her back and forth...sending a soft lullabye to her... Winterblessing wimpers though her tears, and eventually quiets, soon, the sounds of her sleeping can be heard. Slate sends openly ** Thicket...Pacer...this is Winterblessing...my cub. ** Slate moves slowly toward the pair...carful not to wake her. Pacer's head ducks a bit, eyes still on Winterblessing, then lifting as the cub quiets to measure her sire. He takes a step back, straightening. ** Cub... ** Thicket jerks her gaze up to the one who has named himself her mate, staring at him blankly; she starts to shake her head, whimpering out, "Cub... cub gone..." From the way she speaks the last word, it sounds almost a dubious concept, as though its certainty has been yanked out from under her. Slate's introduction seems to calm her but slightly; her eyes stay round as pebbles as the infant is brought nearer. You locksend ** ** to Evergreen. Slate settles down on the furs...smiling down at the sleeping infant. **I promised I would take care of you thicket...** he sends softly. **I am back from across the burning waste to keep my promise...and to raise my cub...** He shifts so she can get a better look... Winterblessing sleeps in her father's arms, tiny arms near her chin. At the words, and at something unheard, Pacer rocks forward to reach for Thicket, grey gaze gone pained with uncertain loss. He hesitates, though, one hand lying upon her thin shoulder, looking up once more at the stranger, brows peaked in pain. Slate sends openly ** Pacer? What is wrong? ** Slate looks concerned for the grey haired elf...his eyes showing great compassion.. Winterblessing wimpers in her sleep, sencing the heavy air. Slate rocks winter gently...humming a song softly...nudging her gently back into slumber. At the sending, Pacer closes his eyes, fingers tightening slightly on Thicket's shoulder. ** Don't know. ** A moment more, and he opens his eyes, looking first at the shocked Thicket, then up at Slate. ** You...took care of...? ** Longly, Thicket near-gapes at the sire with his cub; Thicket then curls her arms around herself, shuddering, beginning to weep without noise. Slate blinks a few times...then reaches out with one arm to gently touch thicket's shoulder....healed now. Slate sends openly ** Thicket.... ** Head bowing, crouching to wrap his own arms about Thicket's, Pacer shivers slightly. At the sound of his mate's name, he looks up again, over at Slate, so near now. He is silent for a moment, then bows his head once more. ** If you took care of her... ** A frown, inward, in the locked sending -- Pacer has his doubts that the caretaking was well done, based on the thin, gaunt Thicket he feels within his arms -- ** Then I thank you. ** That one arm moves gently around thicket's shoulders...sqeezing her gently... Slate locksends ** <> ** Slate nods at a send... <> **I did....** he sends quietly... Slate locksends ** It's allright thicket...would you like to hold her? ** With both males close to her, Thicket shudders. And, brokenly, in fragments, sendings more escape her than are sent by her: memory-flashes, herself in the Now, arm dead, cold, hungry, starved. Remembered kindness; two other elves, very briefly. This one, then, this Slate, bringing her meat after so long. Clothes. As the sendings crack free, she looks forlornly up at her companions. Slate smiles at her....**You remember...** he sends quietly, squeezing her shoulders again. They met long ago...another elf was with her. When he returned, the skunk-haired elf was gone and thicket was alone...Slate was thicket's only compainion for two hands of turns... A nod from the silver-haired elf, and he squeezes Thicket gently before half-withdrawing, uncomfortably close to the one whom he still reckons as a stranger. He sends, clearly, ** Thicket is my mate. ** Neither challenge nor dispute to anything come of her knowing this other elf, it nevertheless pleases him to know; he looks down at Thicket, stroking the shoulder near him with gentle fingers, smiling broadly in pride and pleasure. Winterblessing wimpers softly, needing the touch of a female elf. Slate looks down at the cub, then over to thicket...**would you like to hold her, Thicket?** he sends quietly...one hand on her shoulder... Winterblessing sniffles softly. Pacer's smile fades. His eyes lock on the cub, expression unreadable. ** Changed... ** His nose works, scenting the den, though his eyes don't leave Winterblessing. Winterblessing sees Pacer, and burbles slightly. **Different cub...** The dazed Thicket lies propped in Pacer's sturdy arms, and at gently sent offers from Slate, she blinks, and stares at the infant. "Cub," she croaks, hoarsely. Evidently, the sight of the tiny creature is simply adding to her shock. Pacer's locked send is brief. ** I know, ** he informs Slate, though his tone is mixed. Slate nods...**My cub...Winterblessing...** he sends. **Would you like to hold her?** he sends softly... Winterblessing bubles at Thickeet softly. Slate gently shifts the sleeping cub into thicket's arms, carefully....carefully.... Thicket's eyes go circular anew, and she releases a tiny half-whine, half-bark of a sound. She doesn't reject the babe, but to be holding it must daunt her, for the color drains further from her already pale face. Slate puts one arm around thickets shoulders, gazing lovingly down at the bundle in her arms. Winterblessing wakes up, and gazes into Thicket's face, her eyes so like her mother's. They are clear silver-blue, only this time, the silver eyes that gaze at her are not filled with fear, but cubly love. Slate says "Isn't she beautiful....?" Edged back further by Slate's arm pressing round his mate's thin form, Pacer's expression becomes even more mixed, confused and hurt, perhaps angry. He takes a crouched step back, trying to hold to Thicket and get free from the closeness to Slate all at once, eyes going wide and pained at the cubling in Thicket's arms. Slate smiles at the cub, giving her something to smile back at. He notices this, and shifts slightly away...he does not remember pacer looking like this...at least in the sends, but if he is thickets mate... How long has it been, since she's held a cub in her arms? Without sending to either male, Thicket abruptly remembers the black-haired, blue-eyed babe at Lostholt. A cub there. New life. New life here as well... and for all that she's fled from it, she is dimly aware that elsewhere in the lands in which she's wandered for time-beyond-time, elves continue to have cubs.... everyone save her, and the knowledge, instinctual though it might be, makes her eyes glimmer with tears. Thicket croaks at last, voice gruff, barely intelligible, "Pretty..." Slate smiles...."She seems to like you..." he says, touching the cub's cheek gently with one finger. Trembling, Pacer sends, ** Thicket... ** His tone wavers, as if fighting to hold on. He opens his mouth, perhaps to growl or to protest, but makes no sound, cutting off the idea as if he thinks it a bad one. ** I'm here, ** he manages, softly. She's very old...Slate knows that. Not as old as Savah...but old...too old for cubs...isn't she? Winter kicks and grasps at Thicket's hair with a gentle grip, cooing softly... Thicket's damp gaze snaps up then, to Pacer, she-wolf locking in on a scent that needs investigation. Her brow furrows at the expression playing across his features; her own reflect a curious mix of shock, tracks of tears, but now a flicker of tenderness in her leaves-on-earth eyes as well. "Here," she agrees with him, lowly, as though tasting a strange new concept, knowledge she's never possessed. Winterblessing coos softly, still looking at Thicket. A deep frown comes across the silver-braided elf's face, looking not at all at home there, on features meant for a joyous grin. (Tension, in the too-full skull, waiting...) Pacer shakes his head, as if to clear it, and at Thicket's acknoweledgement, smiles, eyes lighting. He moves forward, giving Slate a brief -look-, taking his place close to Thicket. ** A fine cub, ** he admits, coolly, as one hand strokes his mate's hair. Slate nods...**Thank you...** he sends softly..noting the frown on PAcer's face... **Why do you frown, PAcer?** he asks softly...not looking at him. Winterblessing giggles softly, and reaches for Thicket, her soft cub sound joyas. Nor does Pacer glance at Slate, as he answers, simply, ** Strangers. Many changes. ** Thicket seems, a moment, almost shy, gazing at the braided one's face in a kind of wary wonder; an odd look for her to be giving one who claims to be her mate, but then, if he has been gone as long as she has claimed in the past, would she not be captivated by him on his return? The tiny hands of the cubling distract her, then; she blinks bemusedly at it, then squints at Slate and barks, "Mother. Mother for cub... where?" Slate gestures outside the cave..."Outside...she is afraid..." ** You should comfort your mate, ** comes Pacer's sure, full comment, regarding one who waits by the falls. ** Be with her. ** He looks up from Thicket's shoulder and the furs below her at last, greyly regarding Slate, as if at a distance, though not unsmilingly. Thicket sits up slightly, then, as if gathering resolve around her, trying to get past stunned-ness and shock. "Cub be with mother," she mutters, gruffly. "Is Way...." And, gaze full, she turns to pass the infant to her sire. "Tell mate... I not bite... " she finsihes, still sounding strangely unsure for the taciturn huntress that is Thicket. Winterblessing wimpers ssoftly, being passed from the female to Slate. Soon, his scent, she recongnises and settles. Thicket then pauses there, half-sitting, half-propped on her aged furs, and she moves a hand to steady herself. The hand finds Pacer's forearm; once more her gaze flicks to him, and once more bemusedly rapt, she stares at him. Thicket's brow clouds a bit; without diverting her gaze, she barks to Slate, "You, mate, cub, be here? Or go again? What do?" That great, broad smile spreads quickly across Pacer's features, strange as they are, the gaze returned and held through a short, soft sending, broken only when she speaks. One hand reaching up to trace her jawbone gently, then falling to the furs, he looks up at Slate at last, with a nod to Thicket's query, marking it as his own curiousity, too. A caress, unpressing: ** Thicket...mate..._Vess_. ** Joy, filtered through worries of the moment, but joy nonetheless. Winterblessing burbles softly. You locksend to Evergreen, Thicket tentatively, as though she still does not expect to make full contact, returns your soulname in answer to hers. There's embarrassment there as well as her fading shock; she does not like sobbing so, as though she were this tiny infant, here. And apology, for she had forgotten entirely about Slate, and it makes her head hurt now to try to handle both his return and yours... but, pridefully, she strives to steady herself, you can feel it. One arm slips down over Thicket's shoulder, protectively. Pacer watches Slate, relaxing slightly, panic swallowed, at something unheard, and at his mate's closeness. He watches Slate, gaze unwavering, waiting for the stranger's response. He looks outside the cave, then back down to his cub, thinking. "I do not know how long we will stay...perhaps a day...perhaps a hand..." He thinks again, looking over his shoulder and sending silently... From the entrance, a head pokes it's way inside..."Slate?" It asks in a quavering voice... Pacer's gaze shifts, fast striking the source of the voice at the doorway. Though not gentle yet, his expression is unthreatening, comforted perhaps by the contact with Thicket. Unsheilded, he sends wordlessly to his mate, concerned for her comfort with strangers -- as he thinks of them -- so near, within her den. The shape in the entrance shifts nervously from foot to foot, ready to flee... Thicket sits up fully now, watching falling spray dampen Silvermoon's form. She finally says gruffly, "In. No get wet." Thicket allows to Pacer, perhaps in sending, perhaps simply in stance and scent, that this is not Familiar to her, but here and now, there is apparently a need to deal with it. "I just want my cub..." she says stepping forward slowly...like a pup approaching a dominant wolf. You locksend to Evergreen, Thicket's head hurts, too, with all the thoughts that fill it, but you can sense her struggling to try to put things in order. Give them place. Slate turns slowly, the sleeping winterblessing in his arms..."she's allright, Silvermoon..." he says softly, trying to calm the frantic mother. "thicket didn't hurt her..." Pacer nods once, not twitching from his place at Thicket's flank, hand gently tightening upon her upper arm. His eyes flick to Slate, gentling only slightly. Thicket scowls. "Not hurt cub," she snaps. "Ever." She edges foward slowly...nodding at the gruff elf's speech. "he told me you wouldn't..." she says lamely, bending and taking her cub into her arms and settling to the ground behind slate, out of the spray and partially hidden by his body... Pacer, too, seems to hurt in the head, and his locked send is strained slightly under the influence of an echo he can't place, but that he knows is Wrong, is out of place. Mentally as well, he grasps you, comforting and needing of your presence for his own comfort. Slate watches her sit, then turns back to thicket. "Ever since you first met, She had been frightened of you...afraid you would hurt her." he says to thicket, explaining. ** We would never harm a cub, ** Pacer asserts, frowning only slightly and briefly before his expression returns to one of mere seriousness. He looks down at his mate, then, and the grin to which his face owes its better characteristics spreads broadly across his features. Thicket's sharp gaze -- that, too, returning to what Slate, at least, knows to be normal for Thicket -- rests on Silvermoon critically. "Never hurt cub. ot Way." Her brows draw together at the further explanation, and she goes on in a taut and blunt sending, ** Not hurt elves, if elves not hurt Thicket. Or try make Thicket follow new Way, not ask Thicket first. ** Her gaze shifts, then, to Pacer beside her; again her gaze flashes with something like surprise, as though his mere presence, much less his contributing to the conversation, is a wonder she has yet to fathom. "I know...that's what I told her." slate says softly, looking back over his shoulder at Silvermoon, who at this point has fallen asleep from exhaustion. Turning back around, he listens and nods...**that is the way it should be...** he sends quietly. Eyes taking on a silver glow of joy, Pacer squeezes Thicket's shoulder once more and grins, for the first time, at Slate. ** Yes, ** he states, nothing more. You locksend ** ** to Evergreen. You sense in a locksend, Slate sends the image you sent to him a long time ago...a dark haired elf...different looking...asking **Is this pacer?** he asks about the image...then looking at The Pseudo Pacer, he asks again...**Is he pacer?** Thicket blinks once, head turning, back to Slate. You sense in a locksend, Slate sends it again...conflicting images...one is the pacer you shared with him...the other is not. You locksend ** ** to Slate. Slate blinkblinks at a send...shaking his head to clear the cobwebs... Instant reassurance. Of course he's well -- he's with you, his mate, his ** Vess. ** He shakes off the worry, sending, ** Only...so new. Different. Wonder why the changes. ** Slate looks at pacer curiously, memorizing his features... Steady, Pacer's gaze holds on Slate's, letting himself be memorized like a wolf standing up to the measuring-up of a rival. there is something different about him. Long ago, thicket shared a memory of her long dead/so she thought/ lifemate, pacer...long black hair and blue eyes...different facial features...he's finding it hard to believe that this person is Pacer... Perhaps warily, Thicket regards Slate and Silvermoon and the infant, before shifting to face Pacer, studying him just as searchingly, but with worry now mitigating the harsh reserve of her gaze. One brow raises, giving his great smile a wry touch for a moment before the whole grin fades. ** What is it...? ** Pacer's brows peak, concerned; he looks from Thicket's worrisome expression to his own torso, grey gaze clouding. ** Is it this...? ** Slate stops looking, then gazes at thicket...then at silvermoon. "she'll be crushed..." he thinks to himself when he considerers telling her that he thinks that this elf is not pacer... The gaunt she-elf takes on expression half-scowl, half-frown; the lined skin at the corners of her eyes crinkles with a squint that makes her look as ough she wrestles with a headache. The headache of dealing with all these elves at once, though this she does not voice. She finally sends, glance flickering to encompass the others, ** Too much... too much right now.... ** A frown, then she continues, uncharacteristically verbose, ** Sort out. You, Slate. You and pack not sleep here. My den. I need. Space for thinking... ** Slate nods...**Allright thicket...** he sends, standing and moving over to Silvermoons's slumbering form. Gently, he shakes her awake and leads her out of the cave. **Goodnight, thicket...pacer.** Pacer nods, a strange look crossing his face, though he sends well-wishing to the packlet, sire, dam, and cub, as it slips out. Slate heads towards Out Slate has left. As if just thinking of it, and as if the thought is important to him for its very occurence, Pacer queries: ** May..._I_...stay...? Or should I not... ** Thicket fixes her gaze on you, now, and begins, ** You, mate... ** It's tinged with unsureness. There is no reason to chase a mate out of a den... He nods, but waits; something here, he knows, is unsure, and he has no wish to make it shakier. He, too, has thoughts to sort out, as well -- that nagging echo of a memory in the corner of his head, to start with. ** If you need to be alone... ** Thicket abruptly grabs at you, arms shaking, but no less fierce of grip for it. ** No go, ** she insists, vehemently. ** NO go again! ** All at once, relief and reassurance rushing forth in a send, his arms -- strange and strong -- enclose you, Pacer's form shaking as well with the tension of waiting, of being judged, released. The worry and fear he'd felt in the presence of a stranger -- reminding him of his not-right form, of time passed -- fades from him as the now-thought of his mate, of her form ill-treated by time in his arms, fills his mind. ** No go, ** he repeats, agreeing, eyes closing on bare slight tears that do not fall, but hang in his silver lashes. ** No go. ** ** Think with, ** Thicket sends to you, almost a plea. Her hand, callused, seamed, lifts to your face; her fingertips explore it, shyly. Help her sort this out. He nods once, then bows his head to breathe upon your hand, warm lips brushing gently over roughened skin. Gaze lifting, though his head remains still, he sends, opening his thoughts to yours, and beginning. ** Gone, ** he states, easily enough; you've shown him that. And the time-beyond-time, hazy in his recollection, that you lived alone, save for these few elves who've intruded. His brows drop, thought-weighted. Dead is dead, comes the thought, unbidden, almost a send and reachable as one, though unworded. The Way. ** You were here. Where...was I...if I am here now, and was here then...? ** She watches you, rough face gentled, anxious; her fingers quiver slightly at the touch to them. And in answer, she gives, also unworded: you, always on the edge of her mind, as though she would turn her head, and find you there. But it would be nothing at her flank, no one to share den or furs... only a subliminal shimmer in the air, a sense of not-quite-aloneness, fractional drops of water on a thirsty, near-withered green growing thing, not enough to sustain it. Another flash of crushing grief... and she begins to tremble. As does he, though perhaps for another reason. He winces with your grief and reaches to embrace you once more, desperate to remind you of his presence. ** A dream-thing, ** he offers, considering, near-light in his sending, almost-grasping. ** The... ** (The story-part, that remains past life to...to take...the echo worries at its captor, torn between helpfulness and rage, and fades as Pacer turns from it, passing it off as an unbidden thought.) Thicket breathes aloud, "Dreams....", tone fretful. She allows herself to settle gingerly into the embrace of the strange arms, then sends, anxious: something important must be told. "Had dreams, had to keep them, had to...." As her voice grows strident she scowls at herself, hating inadequate words, and forcing herself back to sending, striving to keep her thoughts ordered. ** ** And she goes on, warily, not knowing how this news will be taken: ** ** (Yes, yes! The blue swirls on blackness, the growths that tell stories -- ) ** Dream-plants, to call the dream-part...of me. ** Pacer nods, thinking he understands some of this. ** To keep me...near? ** ** Had to... Had to! ** Thicket's eyes glimmer over again, as she locks her regard on your face. It's not the Way, and the thought of that shows cloudy in his eyes as his gaze meets yours; but that is the lesser of thoughts, the second and larger bringing a reminiscense of his proper smile to this strange face. ** You...need me. ** He shakes a little, his arms about you trembling briefly with the daring to make the observation, the expectation of a gruff denial, non-assent. More tears well up out of her eyes, then, in streamlets down her weathered cheeks. Need flares in those wet eyes, and flares in her sending; need that pulsed... still pulses... to the point of pain and beyond in her bones. Bitter, biting loneliness, that drove her further into hiding from the elves becoming more and more numerous across the land, for fear that she would stumble across another elf someday, only to be claimed as mate by the same force that paired her with you. And that she could not have borne... But he is here, Now, and with a gentle squeeze and a send he reminds you of that, what is, to him, the most important fact. ** And I was here, then... ** Almost a question, regarding from the distance of second-hand recollection the growths that brought forth the glimmer, the dream-part of himself to her in her lone-time. (Bring out...bring out the...dream...!) Pacer blinks a time or two, and continues (the echo's sudden flare fading into waiting-time), ** I must have found a way...to be here now. ** His grin, full this time, eyes twinkling greyly, returns. ** Because you need me. ** The vehemence in her thoughts lessens, but the desperate certainty does not. ** , ** she acknowledges, almost childlike of expression now. Need admitted is need that can be conquered, if that which is needed is not at hand -- and sated, if it is. But even as she confesses it, the sending is like a groan of pain, and she whimpers aloud, tinily. Yet smiling, Pacer sighs relief, saving his small triumph for his own thoughts -- though its joy sparkles a bit in his strange eyes. ** As I need you, ** he replies, lifting one gentle hand to your face, gaze still upon -- and part lost in -- your own green and earthen one. ** I must...to be here...after so long. ** That said, he leans forward from where he's knelt, arching an arm around to welcome you to an embrace, should you choose it; yet his eyes do not waver from their target, nor his grin falter. Her face begins to shiver a little, strangely. Then, the corners of her mouth waver up, first one, then the other, slowly enough at first that it might almost be imagined. But... no. She is. Thicket is smiling. [End log.]