Log Date: 10/4, 10/5/96
Log Cast:
	Pacer/Evergreen, Thicket, Falorn
Log Intro:
	Her oddly changed mate having returned with his cache of
mysterious objects, which he claims will be used to make Thicket's new
clothes, Thicket has slept a little easier in the past few days. But
not quite easy enough, for she's still worried over hints dropped by
Slate that something might be wrong with Pacer....

----------
Humming softly, finding here and there a string of words to put voice to 
  before returning to meaningless variations on melody, Pacer crouches among 
  the brush closer to the falls' spray. Intent on selecting berries of a blue 
  shade, which pile in a piece of scrap leather among so many blue petals and 
  berries of other blue kinds, footsteps apparently go unnoticed, drowned in 
  waterspray and song.

Thicket blinks sleep out of her gaze, and stumbles out of her den -- 
  immediately relieved, when she spies the silver-haired one by the water. She 
  hurries to him.

Scurrying steps do break his intent concentration, however, and, pleasantly, 
  Pacer turns, great smile spreading over his face. ** Dye-berries, ** he 
  explains, setting the leather and its bounty aside to reach out a hand to 
  you.

Thicket is already reaching her own hand, and hers clasps yours, as she stares 
  at you longly; relief fills her eyes at the actual contact, to be replaced 
  by gruff curiosity. "Dye," she repeats, not liking the sound of the word, 
  but gleaning its meaning from the sending.

The silver-braided wolfrider nods once, eyes gleaming in delight. He tugs 
  gently on the hand clasped within his own, adding, ** For new leathers for 
  Thicket. ** The gleam in his gaze turns brilliant and laughing for a moment, 
  wry and pleased.

Thicket crouches down beside you, nose wrinkling slightly. She sends, renewed 
  bemusement at the idea of herself in such finery as you've come clad in, but 
  her gaze lightens at the encouragement.

Pacer's smile gentles and he bounces a little closer to you, reaching out to 
  pull the leather along. With one fingertip, he pushes around the contents of 
  the collection, sending briefly the origin of each item - a bush here, a 
  shrub there, a patch of tiny flowers in the more distant woods. ** I'm not 
  sure what will be best, ** he murmurs, gaze lifting to meet yours once more. 
   ** I'll find out. **

Thicket meets your regard steadily, anxiety in the corner of hers, but muted. 
  "How..." She swallows, unsure of her words. "How make, 'dye'?"

Falorn stirrs from his sleep near a rock.

<Falorn>
Falorn is of average height, but very strong. He is wearing a one piece tan 
  jumpsuit and a matching bandanna that protects his black haired head. A 
  metal belt surrounds his waist. He holds the handle of a large axe and 
  stares at you with purple eyes. His face is scarred and so is most of his 
  body. Black knee boots add the final touch to this warrior.
Carrying:
big metal axe

Falorn looks at you for a moment.

Thicket, not having noticed the stranger in her territory yet, peers with 
  furrowed brow at the pile of blue berries and blossoms before the 
  silver-haired elf beside her.

The silver-haired elf's broad smile and glittering eyes deepen a little in 
  consideration. ** Squeeze colors from berries or flowers, keep colors in 
  something. Dry them sometimes, wait for them to go to air, and wet it a 
  little so it's stronger than it was. Mix them with... ** He squints, working 
  on this one. ** Some need something else with them. I'm not sure yet. ** It 
  doesn't halt the return of his smile, though, this casual uncertainty; 
  again, he sends, ** I'll find out. **

Falorn clears his throat as he sits up. He blinks the sleep from his eyes.

Thicket studies her companion, eyes thoughtful. But wth a slight change in the 
  wind, her head turns, and she sniffs the breeze, inquiringly -- then snaps 
  her gaze around to the sound from the stranger. Immediately wary of gaze, 
  she scrambles to her feet by the poool.

Falorn notices the two elves, rolls, grabs his weapon and takes a defensive 
  stance. He glances back and forth between the two of you.

Pacer startles, laughing eyes turning stormclouded as his mate gets to her 
  feet. He, too, rises -- though not before pulling the small hunt-knife from 
  its place at his ankle -- leaving the blue berries and petals aside. ** What 
  -- ? ** Searchingly, his gaze catches on the stranger, silver brows 
  furrowing in curious defense.

Falorn sends openly ** WHo are you? **

Thicket has no visible weapon save for a flint knife in a crude sheath at her 
  side. The sight of the stranger's ax, though, summons up a gutteral snarl in 
  her throat, as her hand flicks, perhaps by reflex, to her right shoulder. 
  "Am Thicket," she barks, no more, no less, and her voice is more growl than 
  word.

The silver-braided wolfrider's brows furrow more deeply yet, a smile hinting 
  at the corners of his mouth; he looks aside at Thicket and, as she manages 
  an introduction, so does he: ** Pacer. And you are...? **

Falorn says "Falorn."
Falorn realizes you are elves and sets his axe at his side. "I am sorry for 
  alarming you. I've been jumped one too many times while sleeping."

Thicket's nose twitches, taking the measure of the stranger's scent. Eyes 
  narrowed, she studies him, till he puts the strange shining weapon aside; 
  when that happens, the scowl on her face lessens, but only slightly.

Falorn's eyes narrow slightly. "Trolls ya know, can't trust 'em. It was my 
  first instinct to grab my axe when I heard you moving."

Pacer's silver brows arch, but his smile returns, lighting eyes and 
  expression. ** Trolls? ** The sending contains zero net comprehension.

Falorn nods, "Aye, trolls." He sends a vivid picture of a troll, armed and 
  angry.

Thicket growls, warily, "Not 'troll'." The awkward stress on the word suggests 
  she has no idea what it means, either, and she adds, "Not try take Thicket's 
  place, Thicket not fight stranger." At the sending, her scowl narrows again, 
  musingly. She offers neither acceptance nor denial of the image, nor any 
  other sign that she even got it.

Falorn says "Don't be rediculous, I'm not going to fight you. You're not 
  trolls."
Falorn says "Just don't anger me and you'll be fine."

Pacer sidesteps, putting a hand on Thicket's arm, touch light and gentle. ** 
  This is her living place, ** he explains, send-voice soft. ** Ours. **

Falorn grins, "I see. It was late and I was tired. It seemed like a nice place 
  to rest. If I had known, I would have found somewhere else."

In a locksend, Pacer smiles. ** No harm, ** he states, referring to the 
  stranger. ** Just travel-weary. He'll move on. **

Thicket glowers, as if annoyed by the implication that the stranger's anger 
  takes precdence over hers; at the touch on her arm, though, she eyes the 
  silver-haired elf with her, and seems to relax, ever so slightly.

Pacer nods, pleased. ** Is well, ** he states, fingers drawing a palm's width 
  down Thicket's arm in a gentle stroke, reassuring.

Thicket then barks, gruffly, "One more stranger not hurt hunting." With that, 
  her face turns indifferent -- mostly. Her gaze lingers on the silver-haired 
  one with a hint of unsureness; she allows the stroke, then drops back into a 
  crouch, returning her attention to the berries and flowers in a pile at the 
  pool's edge.

Falorn nods. "I should be off now anyway. Staying in one place too long tends 
  to make it boring to me. I need to keep moving. It's been nice."

Thicket utters a rough grunt; perhaps it is assent, perhaps indifference. Her 
  gaze flicks to the stranger long enough for her to register his preparations 
  for departure.

Blinking greyly at Thicket's drop in posture, then shrugging liquidly, Pacer 
  smiles at the stranger. ** Hunt well. ** That said, he too crouches, looking 
  curiously at his mate.

Falorn says "And you, and stay away from trolls."
Falorn packs his few belongings and heads off on his wanderings.
Falorn heads for the rising ridge and Sun-Goes-Down.
Falorn has left.

Thicket stares down grimly at the pile of blue at her feet.

Pacer's gaze remains on you, worried behind the slight smile. Softly, like a 
  whisper, hesitant and curious, he sends, ** Mate...? **

Thicket remains scowling, poking with one finger at a sky-colored blossom. 
  Only when the stranger's scent fades from immediate notice does she slide a 
  look to you.

Pacer smiles, encouragingly. ** Not so bad, ** he murmurs, one hand slipping 
  toward the bluethings to touch your own.

Thicket sends, gruffly, ** Another stranger. **

Pacer nods, curling his fingers to clasp the back of your hand. ** More elves 
  than...before...? **

Thicket's scowl lessens somewhat but does not entirely fade. Shortly, she 
  nods, not meeting your eyes.

He blinks, greyly, a few times, dipping his head a little to try to get a 
  better view of your expression; failing to steal your gaze from the berries 
  and petals below, he, too finally drops his head, staring blankly at his 
  hand on your own. Aware of the silence save for the waterfall, he quiets his 
  breath.

Thicket finally mutters, "Scared."

The silvery gaze snaps up, catching on your face again; just as quickly, Pacer 
  lowers his head once more. ** I'm here, ** he offers, quietly, and squeezes 
  your hand, unsure of anything better to do.

Thicket turns to you, then, abruptly, and hugs you, roughly wrapping her arms 
  around you.
You locksend ** Scared... <This time it's a little more anxious, as she 
  reaches to your mind for assurance. Something seems to have frightened her, 
  and something rather more than the stranger with the strange metal weapon.> 
  ** to Evergreen.

Pacer's arms lock about you, hands stroking helplessly through your hair, 
  taken aback at the abrupt anxiousness. Locksent, he tries to offer the 
  reassurance you need, to reaffirm you and himself, mates; this place, his 
  home and yours...what is 'pack' to him. On the tail of it all, the slightest 
  curiousity, a worry: ** What is it...? **

You locksend to Evergreen, Thicket touches your mind, and, in prideless fear, 
  pleads with you to send to her, full, letting her feel every corner of your 
  mind. <Need to feel Aron/need to see you're alright> flares in her thoughts.

Pacer startles, but only briefly, his embrace fiercening and closing about 
  you. He opens his mind, wincing inwardly at the still-too-crowded space in 
  it -- but opens that too, Aronness swirling with memories he can only guess 
  are his own. Whatever it is that dwells in that crowded space makes little 
  of itself, not hiding but not reaching out either; but all that is Pacer, 
  and all that he has decided must be Pacer merely because it is here, opens 
  arms and embraces, certain. ** Vess, ** he murmurs, everywhere, ** I am 
  here. **

Thicket lifts her gaze, then, looking into yours; a frightened but fervent 
  love is there, but so, also, is wariness. Sensing... something, she reaches 
  and accepts the extended mental hand, but flinches ever so slightly. ** 
  ....? **

Echoing, Pacer returns the query, unaware of anything wrong. So much is 
  different, yes, but it must be right...he is _here_, with his mate. It 
  _must_ be right. This much, he sends, smile shining in his eyes, expression 
  yet solemn.

Thicket breathes, "Your... " Why, all of a sudden, does she feel as though 
  someone is watchng her? Her gaze snaps around in all directions, before she 
  looks up into your grey eyes once more.

He shakes his head, non-understanding, grey eyes locked on your leaves-on-soil 
  ones. ** What is it...? ** Unbidden, his arms press you a little tighter, 
  his mind yet open, its embrace a little more hesitant.

Thicket lifts a hand to your cheek, touching it uncertainly. She then sends, 
  of conflict in her head: your black-haired, blue-eyed image warring with 
  this face before her. And the feeling of... another presence. A nervous 
  muscle twitches in her cheek.

Pacer's brows furrow slightly, silver shadow sinking over his gaze. ** Much is 
  different, ** he agrees, shivering slightly in your arms and beneath your 
  touch. ** New. **

She swallows hard, then finally sends again, with what is perhaps the crux of 
  her fear; you are still half stranger to her, with this new body, new face, 
  new scent. Her touch on you is hesitant, even as her fingers quiver in a 
  kind of desperate need; you can hear her breath catch, and sense the change 
  in her scent, the old, heavy, choking loneliness.

His eyes close, expression pained. ** Thicket, ** he murmurs, curling his arms 
  about you until he can hold you no closer. ** I...can't change it... ** His 
  sending drops a notch, abruptly, becoming small and even afraid, though 
  locked to your mind alone. In that sending, he calls to you, weary and 
  uncertain, sure only of himself and you, of Aron and _Vess_, hunt and mate 
  and time, so much time-beyond-time in between.

Something in Thicket makes her wince, makes her cling to her mate's 
  inexplicable new form, trying to give rough comfort. But color drains out of 
  her face even as she senses that fear in him; she cannot remember, cannot 
  fathom, anything ever making Pacer afraid. Except the Tall Ones. And that, 
  she does not want to think about. Shuddering, she holds him, and finally, 
  she send-whispers, for his mind alone and roughly, ** Not be stranger now. 
  <plea> New body not be stranger. **

If Pacer is taken aback, it shows for only an instant. A breath later his 
  embrace is, if possible, tighter, and he forces fear and worry from his 
  mind. He bows his head to breathe into his mate's hair, shuddering for a 
  moment in the mix of her scent - famililar - and his own, not so. He sends, 
  after a time, of newer, finer furs than those that hide within the cave 
  behind the falls; of the cool embrace of tree-roots among shading brush in 
  the wood, of the pleasant chill of the fast-running water in the sparkling 
  heat of summer. He lifts his head and tilts it back to look at the wolfrider 
  in his arms, gaze questioning, smile tugging for its place on his features.

Thicket, her weathered face strangely shy, meets Pacer's cloud-silver gaze, 
  her own a trifle liquid. Just once, she nods, and slowly. Her answer is that 
  she _needs_ this, needs _him_, to show her that he is truly here, truly 
  present. Will not leave again. Is well, and himself... no matter what shape 
  he wears.

The silver-braided elf tilts his head to one side, looking a bit wry and 
  pleased. He steps a bit away, arms slipping down Thicket's back, one hand 
  circling her arm and dropping to find her hand. A send, decisive, of 
  cool-breezes warm-night in newgreen, here and now, grasses on the path 
  eastward overlooking the silver water. A step that way, smiling, he takes, 
  and sends: ** There? ** for approval.

The two vanish, then, off to the hidden place Pacer suggests. Even yet, 
  Thicket remains oddly shy, oddly torn, clumsy and hungry both, needful and 
  scared all at once. Not a sound does she utter at any time, not even when 
  she and the silver-haired one are safely under cover of the leaves; not even 
  then, does she feel very comfortable with opening her eyes for a time, 
  letting hands lead her instead through what she herself has requested. In 
  sending, though, she clings to her mate's mind, striving to assure herself 
  that the thoughts she now touches match the facets of the soul she's so long 
  held in memory.

And, if her silence and her apparent uncomfort with his new form, the very 
  hands that touch her, perturbs him, Pacer does his most to keep it casually 
  concealed. A moment of strangeness now and again, he can't escape - 
  especially the occasional feeling of memory that he can't place - but his 
  mind, open, is with that of his mate, struggling to find and hold the Now. A 
  few sends, a few murmurs, and eventually he chooses to echo her silence, 
  filling his mind with her scent and presence, the joy of his mate here with 
  him; filling his ears only with the whisper of grasses in the wind.
A joy and a whisper that stay with him, perfect reflections of the great Pacer 
  aliveness in his mind, and the echo in the back of it, that remain when he 
  wakes to the tangle of the grasses against his skin. Silent, he sits, leans 
  over his mate with a smile, breathing in the lake-scented air. A moment 
  later, he turns to stare out over the dim reflection far off, the water 
  spreading out distant from the trail. Softly, testing, he sings, a word here 
  and there among the simple humming of a brook in a wood by a falls, and the 
  hidden treasures of brambles there.

Thicket has curled up at last in her mate's embrace, sleeping like a 
  half-frightened child who's perhaps at last convinced she's in a safe den at 
  last. For the longest of times she remains thus, till the rising warm tenor 
  lifts out of his chest, making her stir.

He loses words more quickly than once he did, and the voice he uses is strange 
  - but his ability to use it is familiar, and every bit Pacer. His notes, 
  wordless, are carried almost entirely away when the breeze stirs, for his 
  song is soft; and it seems filled with questions, rising in curiousity by 
  tone even when no words form. Absorbed in the sound and the waking and the 
  thoughts swirling unasked for and unheeded in his head, he imagines his mate 
  sleeps on.

It is this, more than, perhaps, the actual joining, that begins to make 
  Thicket's eyes glimmer over with tears. The voice is too high -- but she 
  knows the way it sails on the breeze, and she hears that, now, for all that 
  the sound is not quite familiar. But the difference in pitch and in timbre 
  is irrelevant. She opens her eyes, and gazes up at him, liquidly.

When he runs out of words and notes to lift his questions to the wind with, 
  Pacer falls silent, and bows his head. After a moment, he reaches back to 
  touch the braid, unfamiliar and increasingly tangled, hanging behind his 
  neck; as he pulls it over his shoulder to stare at it, perhaps contemplating 
  unknotting it to comb it out, his eyes catch on the liquid gaze fixed upon 
  him. Silver hair forgotten, he smiles broadly, and reaches down gentle 
  fingers to touch your face.

Thicket whispers, "Is... is you..."

Pacer nods, fingertips slipping away to stroke back your hair. ** It is. **

Thicket opens her mouth to speak, but, perhaps finding it inaquedate, sends 
  timidly, ** <A fear. She has sensed something odd about your head, but now, 
  holding you, hearing you _sing_, she can simply accept it as part of the 
  strangeness of the new body.... a strangeness she hopes will pass in time.> 
  **

Pacer nods, his own thoughts, similar, echoing in response. ** Vess, ** he 
  murmurs, whispersent, and leans down to brush his lips over your hair, the 
  tip of one ear. ** I've missed...us. **

Thicket draws an arm around your neck, pulling you close to her again. ** 
  Missed, ** she echoes. Missed, for time-beyond-time, badly enough to ask a 
  Kin to shape dreams of you into mushrooms.

He curls willingly into your embrace, smile breaking into a soft laughter, 
  untangling his arms and encircling you within them. ** Here now, ** he 
  replies, feeling for the first time as though he has said that many, many 
  times, and finding it relaxed and funny.

Thicket's mouth quivers a little... then, after a moment, spreads into a 
  smile. A timid one, but a smile, nonetheless. ** Here, ** she agrees, 
  wholeheartedly for the first time; the slight discomfort of your new form 
  has left her eyes, as her hand traces the planes of your check.

Which rise and curve as the great smile spreads over his face into a grin. ** 
  With my mate, ** he sends, softly, lifting his head a bit to let his breath 
  ride soft over your shoulder; his eyes open, fixing on your own smile, 
  precious.

Thicket fixes on that brilliant smile of your own, drinking it in in clear and 
  almost giddy adoration. She sends wordless agreement, blazing in her 
  thoughts. Here, with mate, never alone again... it spins a little in her 
  head.
Thicket presses to you, as if loathe to pull away again. Now, at last, you've 
  seen anew the thin bony frame of her body, weathered round her face and 
  eyes, softer of skin below, at least under where she clothes herself in 
  Slate's crude leathers.

What would it matter whose leathers, or what skin? He twines a leg around 
  yours, fierce in his silent embrace and grinning joy, glad only to be 
  reconnected with his mate, his Thicket, his _Vess_. In his mind, she is 
  lovely, and it is no inability to see what is true or denial that makes her 
  so; it's just seeing differently. He drops his head once more to nibble at 
  your shoulder, sending a little laughter, and closes his eyes to inhale deep 
  the scent of your wild hair.

The nibble again, as if prodding her with memory, drives her to you again; 
  this time, she is more like the wild Thicket of Recognition's memory, even 
  occasionally growling with need and pleasure, as she pulls you hard and 
  close into her arms.

Nothing left of his worry or hesitance can survive that, and this time, his 
  sending is left unrestricted, echoing your vocalizations with driven hunger, 
  hot fierce joy. His motions lead and follow and sometimes fight with your 
  own, giving reason to growl, and to clasp you tight in a desperate embrace. 
  One part of his mind in the silence stays -- that part, if not within his 
  bidding and not of himself, at least part of what is right, accepted, now -- 
  stays alone, a little withdrawn; though when Pacer's embrace is fiercest and 
  his throat allows a moment's half-howled half-whispered tenor song, that 
  quiet part is in it, true and whole.

[End log.]