Log Date: 9/15/96 Log Cast: Pacer/Evergreen, Thicket, Slate, Winterblessing Log Intro: Even as she is struggling to comprehend why a stranger seems to now possess the soul of her lifemate, Thicket is startled anew by the return of Slate -- and his Recognized and cub -- to her territory. She and the oddly-bodied Pacer greet the newcomers warily; Thicket even holds the cub, and is bemused by her. But eventually Thicket orders the family out of her den, and begins to tell Pacer something of what has transpired in the time he has been.... gone, until they both drop asleep.... ---------- Curled about his mate, protective even in sleep, needful of her closeness, Pacer sleeps but fitfully, waking still and unmoving, breath held, time and again. Dreams like he's never had, clear and striking and barely Wolfriderlike at all, that shimmer in his mind for far too long after waking, and that take far too much time to shake down when he sleeps again...dreams calling up the intrusive echo in his head, that now-fearless, only-waiting presence. The fourth time he wakes, he dares not sleep again, the feeling of slipping overgreat, and he clings to the sleeping Thicket, staring into the cascade of the waterfall outside the den's entrance. Thicket huddles to the warm shape beside her, now stirring restlessly as memory tells her he has the wrong scent, now settling again when Pacer rouses enough to see her shift, to soothe her with a tender touch or sending. Her features do not quite relax in sleep, as though her inner self remains partly alert even when drowsing, unable to lower guard completely. The end of the silver braid drops to the floor and hangs as Pacer lifts his head, scenting. He sends, tinily, to the form beside him, a gentle warning of a presence, and a reaffirmation of his own; then he rises to a sit, peering toward the falls. After a moment, he gets to his feet, shaky for a moment in the form he's not yet used to, and steps softly to the den's entrance. Two ravvits...each slashed cleanly across the throat. It is like, at least to Thicket, Slate never left...the offering of food that went on begins again... the old cycle begins anew. Thicket's eyes come open, glittering palely in the dim light filtering through the water. "Hunt offer," she murmurs, gruffly. Pacer turns, to stare down at his mate, the falls spraying his back and braid somewhat. "Hunt..." The grey gaze narrows a little, as his brows knit. ** _I_ can hunt, ** he points out, feeling his rightful place shaken. ** , ** comes a grudging answer -- though not from Thicket. However, Pacer continues, ** I am here. I will hunt now. You feed your pack. ** She blinks at the slightly hurt tone, then rises, stepping forward to sniff. "Two now. Brought one, before..." And she stares down at the just-visible proffering, one hand curling around her stick-thin belly. Food... Thicket then scowls to herself, and without taking the thin lip of stone that goes round the water-curtain, but rather stepping right through the water itself, she leaves the den. You head towards the Headwaters of the Wandering River. 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. The sun is high in the hot summer skies. Contents: Slate Slate's Den(#3253JUe) Obvious exits: East Bank Pool West Bank Trail Crest Trail Slate locksends ** You still seem a bit shaky...accept my gifts. I care for my pack and your lifemate...and you until you are well. ** to Pacer. Evergreen arrives from the Cave under the waterfall. Evergreen has arrived. Eyes closed...calm...he sits by the edge of the pond dangling his feet in the chilly water. His hair is blowing free in the wind, but he is alert...the smell of you over the water is faint...but there. Thicket comes right out through the waterfall, rather than around it, and stands there in the water, bare, staring down searchingly at the ravvits. Slate sends openly ** H'llo thicket... ** Slate sends openly ** PAcer.. ** A breath behind his mate, Pacer emerges, though careful not to drench himself in the cascading water. His eyes catch and remain upon Slate, expression strangely surprised. Wordless, he sends a greeting, and tears his gaze away to look down upon the ravvits. he looks to the ravvits...fat from summer feeding...**Eat...** he sends softly, stretching a little... She stands, wet now, water glistening on skin that seems strangely perfect for all the gauntness of her form; not a single ancient scar mars it, though tiny new ones criss-cross her legs, her forearms. "Food," Thicket murmurs bemusedly, as if stunned by the notion. Slate chuckles..."don't you remember, Thicket? All those turns...every morning..." Instantly, Pacer echoes the sentiment toward Thicket. "Eat," he repeats, eyes worriful at the sight of her thin frame. At Slate's voice, however, his grey gaze flicks back to the strange elf, paling a bit dangerously. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Pacer...do not fear. I have a lifemate of my own...I simply am resuming my normal habits... Thicket blinkblinks at the exchange, gaze flicking from black-haired elf to silver and back again. "Hunted, when arm dead," she barks, nodding her damp head at Slate, then reflexively lifting a hand to rub at her right shoulder... and then moving the right hand, curling her fingers, uncarling them. "Arm not dead now." Slate nods slowly..."I will hunt for my pack...if I catch extra...*shrug*" ** And I am here now. ** But the send is gentler, this time, as if understanding something, and there is a slight acceptance in it, toward Slate. Thicket abruptly sends, ** , ** though at the mention of 'pack', her stance tautens. Scowl still lingering across her features, she reaches for the first of the gutted catch, first with her left hand, then with her right, as if just remembering she has both of them to use. After a time, Slate stands and walks over to the pair...**Pacer...eat...** he sends, urging. Gaze still a bit unsure, Pacer steps back, allowing his mate to reach for the food. As she does so, however, his sightline travels to the other ravvit; just how long _has_ it been since he ate? He looks up at Slate and shakes his head. ** I should hunt, ** he tells himself, one hand tracing down the bare swatch of chest and belly between the edges of his vest, pausing there in awareness of hunger, awareness which leaves his expression almost bemused. Thicket turns, gnawing at fresh blooded meat, and stares at Pacer. Her eyes begin to go liquid, anxious, as she asks roughly, "..... remember food?" The great broad smile spreads over the silver-braided elf's features. ** Yes, ** he sends, gentle, almost laughingly chiding. Paused, Thicket barks, concernedly, flickers of desperation in her gaze, "Eat. You eat, too." Pacer blinks, and, as if led by Thicket's orders more than his gut, steps forward, crouching to pick up the second ravvit. Still crouched, he reaches for a knife, fingertips brushing first the top of his boot, then rushedly reaching the sheath at his side. ** You should eat too, ** he mutters Slateward. Unquestioningly, he skins and cleans the creature, that skill apparently not lost to him nor the form he wears, and rises again. His eyes lock on Thicket's, then on the ravvit she holds, and he sends a merry query, eyes sparkling a bit, wordlessly shaking the knife once in punctuation. Evidently comforted, Thicket resumes tearing ravvit-flesh from ravvit-bones, but her gaze doesn't leave Pacer. Pacer only laughs, then, and cuts flesh from the bones of the carcass he, himself holds. A strip of it, he holds out to Slate, one brow quirked; another, he pops into his mouth, chewing slowly, as if the sensation is near-forgotten and remembered with relish. [Watching the apparently reunited lifemates accepting his hunt-gift, Slate backs off somewhat, quietly, to tend to his resting lifemate and cub. Perhaps the meat gives her strength, for after eating it, Thicket's movements are surer. She retrieves her ragged leathers, from where they'd lain abandoned by the pool, and squats there inspecting them critically; leathers as aged as her furs, patchwork, worn, and now dampened with spray and dew. More slowly and thoughtfully, her mate finishes his meal as well, and he follows to the waterside, looking down at the poor sad leathers. ** Should hunt, ** he states, again, with a smile in voice and on face; ** Food for us, and leathers, and furs. ** Leathers. Thicket considers, looking up at you, gaze going to the leathers you're wearing. And her hand lifts, thumb and finger grasping the edge of the vest, wonderingly. "Soft." He nods, grinning warily, eyes bright. He takes one step closer to you, reaching out a gentle hand to brush your face with his fingertips. ** I...didn't make it...I think, ** he finally manages, ** Don't remember making it. ** Thicket rises, then, shrugging into the crudely stitched tunic and breeches; there is no color to them, and little skill of design, but Thicket has apparently worn them to the last shreds of leather. "Slate made," she mutters, looking down at them, still looking back and forth as though to compare what she wears with that you do. The stars seem to particularly fascinate her, and her hands return to them, exploring. Pacer looks down at his own unfamiliar leathers, watching Thicket's hands roam over them with the curious expression of a cub just given new leathers, and having them admired. ** Could... ** He considers, a bit hesitant. ** Hunt, now, and bring leathers. I could try to make leathers like these. ** Thicket snaps her gaze up, expression suddenly shifting back to slightly panicked, slightly desperate. "No go," she barks, almost whimpers. "No go..." **I could help, if you wished Pacer.** Slate sends. **I made the ones she was wearing...rough as they were...** It was the best he could do...they kept her warm...what more could she ask...**Perhaps I could watch? Learn some new ways?** Pacer turns on a heel, eying Slate, then turns to look over his shoulder at Thicket. ** I'll come back, ** he states, gentle, grinning; ** I always have. ** **Farewell, Pacer...** Slate sends quietly... Thicket grabs at Pacer's shoulders, skittishly now, as Slate's sending alerts her. "No go," she repeats, voice nearing stridence, already arrived at fear. Slate locksends ** <> He will be back, Thicket... ** With a soft slight sigh, Pacer steps to Thicket, standing very close now. He lifts a hand to place his palm warm against her face, then embraces her, fiercely, and steps back. ** And we'll make leathers for you, and have meat for a while. ** His eyes gleam, expression yet grinning, and he turns to slip off into the forest, afterthought thrown back at Slate: ** Stay with your pack...with Thicket. ** Evergreen heads for the rising ridge and Sun-Goes-Down. Evergreen has left. Thicket stumbles after him, a step or two, whimpering. Slate follows her...reaching out and touching her shoulder... Thicket startles; in that contact, it can be felt that she is trembling, violently. Slate sends openly ** Shhh....Thicket...IT's okay... ** He sends this softly...his hand clenching her shoulder in a light grip, letting her know he is with her... Slate sends openly ** He'll be back... ** Thicket blinks rapidly, eyes oddly full and liquid. "Be back," she mumbles, in fervent plea. He nods slowly..."he will..." he murmurs, squeezing her shoulder again before letting his arm fall to his side. What is it like, he wonders, to lose a lifemate? To be alone for so long that escaping time is the only way to keep grief from overwhelming you..."he will be back..." he says again, a bit more confidently...hoping, no praying he is right. Thicket's gaze rivets itself to the direction the silver-haired one took. "Came back," she mumbles. Slate nods slowly..."Yes.." he says..."I thought...he was." The words do not flow as easily as they usually do...the return of a thought-to-be long dead elf is a blow on all slate knows... Plainly, it bothers her, for she continues to tremble. Her arms wrap about herself, and her gaze doesn't move from the path along whic the one who has named himself her mate has vanished. Slate looks at you for a moment. **Are you cold?** slate asks noting the shiver. Without turning her head, she shakes it, tensely. He nods slightly and touches her shoulder again, moving to his den. A moment later, he emerges carrying two things...a shirt from sorrow's end made of soft mothcloth and his cub, Winterblessing...When he returns, he offers the shirt to her, eyes turned down...**I know you are not cold...** he sends lamely, **But I would like you to have this.** It is a soft shirt, dyed the same light blue as the sky just after dawn... Thicket turns, then, and stares. **I brought it from across the wastes...** he sends, holding it out to her with one hand, the other holding the happily smiling winterblessing. Winter gurgles and reaches with her chubby arms for Thicket's dangling braid..just like daddy's except no feather. Thicket takes the shirt, but dazedly, eyes gone round. The leathers worn by Pacer were a wonder enough, but this.... she breathes, "What?" Slate thinks...How can he explain cloth to someone who has only seen leathers. He sends an image...the bagworms in their cocoons...unraveling them then weaving...**It's called Mothcloth** he adds, hoping that she understands... She considers, brow furrowing at the image of the cocoons as though finding it somehow familiar, but only momentarily. "Is... is shirt." Slate nods..."It is a shirt made of mothcloth...for you." At that, she looks up, studying you bemusedly, fingers still on the delicate blue stuff. "....." ** ...... ** "..... is.... soft." Slate smiles gently and takes it back, helping her slip it on over her emaciated frame... The old leathers have to be discarded, first, at least the old shirt... but she doesn't protest. Indeed, she gapes, boggling, at the drape of the cloth over her skin. Slate gently removes the old leather shirt he made so long ago and slides the gauzy mothcloth over her. He smiles when he sees that it fits her as well as he'd hoped..the description he gave the clothesmaker was accurate. With the same amazed hands with which she'd fingered Pacer's leathers, Thicket now fingers the delicate new shirt, but more gingerly, as though afraid she'll tear it simply on contact. So incredibly light, this cloth-stuff... barely any weight on her frame at all. ** ..... ** Slate sends openly ** I'm glad you like it, Thicket... ** Slate smiles and adjusts it a bit, pulling the sleeve up and stepping back to look at her approvinly. "thicket?" Slate asks curiously..."I have to know something..." He sighs, drawing in a breath before continuing..."Is that pacer?" Both hands still tentatively exploring the moth-cloth, Thicket nevertheless looks up sharply again, eyes widening. "I'm sorry..." he says... "I know that..he says he is Pacer...but..." A tinge of uncertianty enters his voice as he sends an image...the pacer you shared with him a long time ago... Thicket cries, abruptly, "_Is_ Pacer!" Slate jerks a bit at the cry...and sends the image again...is it pacer? Slate shakes his head...no...he shouldn't do this... Slate sends openly ** It is Pacer...I think... ** Thicket's hands fall away from the moth-cloth shirt, shaking. She begins to tremble more, gaze going back to the direction in which the silver-braided elf walked off. Send verging on the edge of fear, she acknowledges, dazedly, that the elf of memory, with tousled black hair, eyes like blue twilight, and a long-legged, unhesitant stride, was her lifemate Pacer... He sits heavily...the past few days weighing heavily on his mind...What will happen? he thinks to himself...what will happen to thicket if this elf "isn't" pacer...she would die. He reaches up and touches her arm again gently...a send coming from him that soothes the wolf...or tries to at least. Thicket continues to twitch, and she stiffens at the touch but does not bat it away, for her arms have returned to being wrapped about her. "Is Pacer," she barks, voice harsh, grieved, desperate. "Is!" **Allright...** he sends softly, standing behind her and giving her a hug like he did so long ago...trying to calm the trembling...**I just don't want to see you hurt...if...** he sends, not finishing the sentence. "if he is not pacer." is what he is thinking, but he cannot say it. It may alienate him further from thicket...shatter the turns of patience he has donated getting this elf to trust him...even a little. Slate sends openly ** It will be allright... ** Slate hugs thicket tightly. "Is Pacer," she mutters again, insistent. "Is Pacer, inside." Slate blinkblinks..."Pacer inside...?" he says quietly, trying to puzzle out what she means..."Is pacer's soul in a different body?" "Sends like Pacer... knows.... " Her brow furrows, and she abruptly turns slightly away, even as she thumps her slight chest under the blue shirt. "Knows inside name. Knows mine. Knows Pacer's." He starts at that...he knows thicket's soulname...pacer's soulname..."he...he must be pacer...how else could he know?" Thicket, trembling still, nods vehemently. "Knows," she breathes, as though clinging to the words. "Is Pacer. _Is_... _is_ Pacer..." Slate clutches her to his chest, trying to still her shivering..."Thicket..." he murmurs..."It will be allright..." Inside, he is a turmoil of emotions...is he pacer? Is he not pacer? Yes? No? His head spins with the possibility as he stands there, holding her, comforting her like he comforts his sleeping cub... Thicket steels herself at last, as though embarrassed to be caught expressing such fear -- though her regard keeps flicking repeatedly in the direction Pacer took. Gruffly, mutely, she nods. Slate sends openly ** He will be back...I know it... ** As pacer or as whoever he is... "Back," she echoes, firmly now, perhaps trying to make herself believe it. Slate nods..."back. And I will stay for a while...just to make sure you are allright.." Thicket's wary expression doesn't quite change... not quite. She looks downward to the moth-shirt again, fingering it, then gives another short, sharp nod. Slowly, he releases her and stands an arms length away, his hands on her shoulders. He smiles at her affectionatly...a sparkle in his eye. Winter awakens, crying lustily! Thicket jerks a little, staring then at the cubling. Slate looks down and smiles sheepishly...then turns and heads toward his den. **I will see you later, Thicket...** he sends quietly. **She wants her mother...** He steps into his den...**If you need me, I'm here...** he sends before entering. Slate has left. [And with that, worriedly, wearing the strange new blue moth-cloth shirt from Sorrow's End, Thicket crouches at the pool-side and anxiously watches for the return of the elf she is now accepting as Pacer -- for the alternative, to her, is unthinkable. End log.]