Log Date: 2/12/96
Log Intro: It has been days, more than Thicket usually cares to count,
since Slate and his sister Lily left Thicket's territory to go to
Sorrow's End, to seek a healer to repair Thicket's dead right arm.
Left with the cloak Slate made her, new sleepfurs, and a knife,
Thicket has resumed her habits of foraging for her food, taking what roots
and berries she can find, for it's difficult to hunt or even craft
a reasonable snare with her right hand unmoving.

But eventually, she finally receives a sending which signals Slate's
return....

----------
Slate locksends ** <Slate and Mender enter the clearing.> **

Thicket(#4108POXc)
Lean and wiry, this elf has a look about her of one who has seen many, many 
  turns of the seasons. Her pale, weathered face - too strong of line to be 
  called either delicate or pretty - is framed by an untidy thatch of dark 
  hair that catches the light in streaks and sparks of silver and red; one 
  single thin braid dangles loosely beside her face. Her eyes, dappled light 
  brown and green and gold, are crinkled at the edges, and her glance gives 
  the fleeting impression of moonlight on leaves scattered across damp earth. 
  When she chances to speak, it is with a low, rough voice that is likely not 
  used often.
She is clad in nothing but a cloak stitched together from many tanned hides of 
  ravvits, in pale dappled shades on the outside; when her movements allow, 
  glimpses of assorted colors of fur can be glimpsed along the inner side. The 
  cloak hangs oddly, too, off her right shoulder, and only her left arm moves 
  from under the leather at any time. Her legs and feet are bare, gauntly 
  muscled, and with myriad old scars and scratches.
Her mood, if it can be called that, seems one of distrustful, feral wariness. 
  She reacts to anything in her vicinity with alert sniffing, a twitch of her 
  ears, and occasionally, a low growl....

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 bright tangles of the Waterfall fade into the glare of morning as light 
  fills the hot summer skies.
Contents:
Tracker(#4912JMQaeps)
Slate
Mender
Slate's Den
Storm's tent(#5786Js)
Obvious exits:
East Bank<SE>  Pool  West Bank<S>  Trail<W>  Crest Trail<E>  

Slate whispers under his breath, "there she is."

Thicket emerges, from somewhere behind the waterfall. Her passage through the 
  spray leaves her damp, and she stands, bare-legged, in the middle of the 
  pool.

Mender narrows his eyes slightly and studies the new elfin figure. "Is she 
  expecting me?" he asks Slate in a whisper.

Slate locksends ** Hello, thicket. I'm back. **
Slate says "she might be. She may have forgotten."

Thicket turns her gaze up out of the pool, eyes narrowing slightly as she 
  sniffs at the air. New scent, here....

Slate sets his things down and moves to the edge of the pond, leaving Mender 
  standing alone.
Slate says "do you remember why I left, thicket?"

Mender
Slender as a whip, with leanly defined muscles, this young elf moves with 
  lupine grace. He is richly tanned, but palely, hinting that while he might 
  be a desert-dweller, he is not a Sun Villager by birth. His hair is a pale, 
  bleached blond, wavy and tumbled; it hangs loosely about his angular 
  features and down to his shoulders in back. Slanted and wideset, his eyes 
  are a warm shade of grey, like the sky during a gentle rain.
He is clad in next to nothing, as dwellers of Sorrow's End often are: a green 
  loincloth with panels of blue and green dangling in front, and light boots 
  of blue, green, and gold, open at the toe and heel. The belt of his 
  loincloth sports a golden ornament with a sliver of teal-colored clearstone, 
  that matches a similar ornament embedded in his segmented golden collar, and 
  the golden armband on his left arm.

Mender folds his arms softly across his chest and tilts his head, gazing back 
  quizzically at the female elf.

Thicket squints at Slate, then growls out, "Healer." Her gaze lifts again, and 
  she sniffs towards Mender. "Him?"

Slate nods once. "Yes. Him. This is Mender."
Slate motions for Mender to come closer.

Mender narrows his eyes slightly, not quite sure what to say at the moment
Mender nods to Slate and slowly moves over

Thicket remains standing in the pool, water swirling about her bony calves, 
  and holds a leathern cloak steady on her shoulders with her left hand. Her 
  gaze flicks about Mender, widens a little, at the sight of pale wavy hair 
  and golden skin.

Mender locksends ** <gently, unobtrusively> Do you trust me? My name is 
  Mender. **

Slate says "Mender, this is thicket."

Mender nods slowly, still studying the figure

Thicket skitters back a step or two in the water, sending it splashing around 
  her knees. Apparently unsettled, she frowns up at the other two elves, and 
  then, absently into the air. For a moment or two, her mouth moves, without 
  sound.

Slate locksends ** <questioning> **

Mender blinks and quirks a brow in surprise. "You.. don't send?"
Mender ahs and nods slightly, turning to Slate.

Thicket mutters, "Different cub." At last, warily, she climbs up out of the 
  pool; her bare feet cling to the rocks, and her visible leg muscles shift as 
  if she puts all her concentration into balancing herself without the 
  assistance of arms.

Mender turns back to Thicket and takes a slow step forward, holding out a hand 
  for her - a show of equalness

SpiritThorn comes upriver from the southeast.
SpiritThorn has arrived.

Thicket eyes Mender... then, as soon as a new elf arrives on the scene, jerks, 
  gaze snapping to the new figure. A growl begins to rise in her throat.

Mender twists his head around and looks directly at SpiritThorn.

SpiritThorn
Nearly four and half feet tall, is this elf maiden, slender enough to look 
  almost delicate or fragile. For all of that, there is a sense about her of 
  indelible strength and steadfastness. Perhaps it is something in her eyes, 
  dark sanguine orbs that are often unreadable and rarely betray any hint of 
  the emotion that might flicker across otherwise finely chiseled features. 
  Skin that is a light coppery-brown in color is set off by thick locks of 
  honey brown hair, a shorter few of which frame her face, while the mass is 
  braided thickly, and left to ride her spine to the small of her back. Silks 
  traded for leathers, she wears a halter-top, the bottom edge of fabric 
  stopping just above her ribs of a smokey color that is both brown and grey, 
  depending on the slant of the light. Tight trousers of so dark a grey as to 
  be nearly black cover long legs, and disappear into the top of dark grey 
  boots. Low-slung about her hips rides a belt, and wooden dagger.
Carrying:
Wooden-hilted dagger

Slate locksends ** Thicket! Stop! **
Slate spins around to stare at the new elf.

Mender slowly turns back to Thicket and speaks softly. "She's with me... she's 
  my friend."

Thicket snarls lowly, "No pack. No pack!" And starts backing up, warily, gaze 
  flicking from figure to figure as if she expects attack.

SpiritThorn freezes, almost as soon as she comes into full view, one hand left 
  on the branches of a bush at her side, the other left to dangle beside her. 
  Her eyes, only, move, going from Mender, to Thicket, to Slate, and back 
  again.

Slate locksends ** I didn't know she was coming. . . **

Mender spreads his hands outwards to his sides, showing Thicket he means no 
  harm, and has no weapons.

Thicket's gaze again snaps into the air, and for the briefest of instants, her 
  expression twists, falters.

SpiritThorn nods faintly. Now she moves.. backward, to return the way she came.
SpiritThorn sets off down the east bank of the river.
SpiritThorn has left.

Thicket then, slowly, returns her gaze to Mender, but the visible hand on her 
  cloak remains tautly clutching the leather.

Slate locksends ** <Slate tries to calm the bristling she wolf> **

Mender narrows his eyes gently. "Do you trust me?"

Slate locksends ** He's here to fix your shoulder, remember? You have to trust 
  him. **
Slate steps into the pond and slowly moves toward Thicket.

The fist gripping the leathern cloak shifts, up to her shoulder. Thicket snaps 
  a sharp, short growl at Slate. "Remember. Not lost in Now." Then, narrowly, 
  she peers at the fair-haired one.

Slate sits and watches.

Mender keeps his arms spread, showing no malicious intent, and waits patiently

Thicket finally barks, roughly, but clearly, "You. How fix this?" She pounds 
  her right shoulder with her balled fist. "Is lame."

Mender purses his lips in thought, obviously thinking of how to answer that in 
  what he perceives the best way. After a moments thought he says plainly 
  "With magic. Healing magic."

Thicket stares at the stranger, frowning. Then, abruptly, seizes the fringe of 
  her cloak and tosses it aside, leaving herself unclad, and her right arm 
  visible.

Slate takes a moment to look thicket over. SHe's still thin, but not as thin 
  as she was.
Slate looks at you for a moment.

Mender frowns softly and looks over at Slate, unsure if Thicket wants to be 
  healed or scrap to prove she doesn't need it.

Thicket reaches with her left hand to lift the arm that hangs, held only by a 
  leather sling, at her side. "You fix this?" she barks again. The scowl 
  hasn't left her face.

Mender glances back at Thicket, still looking confused, and nods. "I'll... do 
  my best."

Slate locksends ** Thicket, do you want him to heal you? **
Slate stands and stares into Thicket's leaf-colored eyes.
Slate locksends ** Look at me. He might be able to make you well again. . 
  .Don't you want that? **

Mender takes one step forward, letting one foot closer to the water. "Would you 
  like me to come there?"

Slate locksends ** It wouldn't hurt to try, would it? **

Mender keeps his arms held off to his sides, head tilted slightly to try to 
  show harmlessness

As Slate worriedly backs off, to resettle himself and his wolf in their den, 
  Thicket eyes the fair-haired healer grudgingly. Then at last, still 
  scowling, rolls her scarred shoulder at the stranger. "You fix what Tall 
  Ones break."

Mender narrows his eyes slightly as he takes a few more slow steps closer, 
  studying both the wound and your face in turn. "Tall ones did this?" He 
  studies you again

Thicket's austere features are impassive of expression; she shrugs her left 
  shoulder. "Tall One. With axe. I fight."

Mender nods slowly in understanding, nearly reaching you now. He shifts his 
  eyes back to the shoulder and lifts his hands. "I will need to touch it, you 
  know."

Thicket's nose wrinkles slightly, as she sniffs at the now very-near stranger. 
  She shifts slightly, back onto her heels, as if perplexed -- and perhaps she 
  is, at the scents of sun and sand on this barely-clad elf. But perhaps she 
  is also impatient, as she once more thrusts the scarred shoulder at you.

Mender nods once, again in understanding, and presses his fingers gently 
  against the shoulder. "I think you'd prefer to do this standing up" he 
  murmurs while narrowing his eyes in concentration, a soft orange healers 
  glow beginning to surround fingers, hands, and shoulders, probing for the 
  cause of the wound.

Thicket hisses a little, in startlement, at the sudden light. And her body 
  jerks somewhat, but not enough, really, to tear the shoulder out of your 
  grasp...

Mender lifts his eyes to you and raises his fingers a little off the skin, 
  prepared to let you move away if you are too uncomfortable. Realizing your 
  intent to let him do what he can, he replaces his hand on the shoulder, 
  sending a soothing sensation through the skin

Thicket stares at the glowing hand on her, then at its owner, and utters a low 
  whine -- but she does not move. If she is either hurt or soothed by the 
  glimmer, she goves no sign, and eventually, she just narrows her eyes at the 
  light.

Mender lets his magic probe deeper into the shoulder, slowly easing it along. 
  He closes his eyes in concentration, feeling his way past the skin, into the 
  nerves and bones

The wild, wolfish elf remains firmly standing, just watching, as the glow 
  peremeates her flesh. She barely bats an eye, as the healer's consciousness 
  first meets.... scar tissue. Deep, gnarled, thick. Puckered skin covering 
  it, shiny, crinkled. Under this, a disturbing lack of feeling -- blood 
  perhaps flows there, but little else. And deeper still...

Mender furrows his brows in silent thought, looking deeper past the skin and 
  damaged nerves, looking to see if there is anything there alive at all left 
  to heal.

Some things _can_ be learned, at least viscerally; this injury is old, old 
  enough, perhaps, that the flesh is beginning to forget what it was like to 
  be whole. And deeper still: bone. No -- chips of bone, buried deep in the 
  shoulder, at the heart of the scar tissue. Something _struck_, and struck 
  with massive force, nearly ripping the limb from its body.....

Mender scowls softly and slowly begins ebbing the flow of magic, until it 
  reaches a complete stop. He removes his hand and opens his eyes, letting 
  them flicker back to yours.

Thicket demands bluntly, "When fix?"

Mender quirks a brow and can't help but chuckle. He looks down briefly. "It... 
  -can- be fixed.. but not easily." He lets out a sigh and speaks a little 
  quieter. "It might even be more than I can do."

Thicket's brows draw together in a glower, and the she takes a step back from 
  you, warily. "So. You not fix?"

Mender purses his lips together and lets out a breath. "I.. can try. But 
  this.." he sighs and and spreads his arms out "... I'm a healer, not a flesh 
  or bone shaper. There is more to fix here than a simple wound."

Thicket turns her head slightly, frowning, a baffled furrow between her heavy 
  brows.

Mender says "If I can't do it, I know others who can try..."

Thicket suddenly growls, and whirls away. "No others."

Mender nods slowly and looks down. "I thought as much."

Thicket leans over to pick up the cloak, and her one good arm clumsily works 
  at draping it around her shoulders.

Mender studies you for another moment, feeling like he has somehow failed you 
  before even trying. "When would you like me to try? It will be hard and 
  long, but I will see what I can do."

Thicket, in the middle of settling the cloak, pauses and eyes you. The look is 
  stern, speculative, as of an elder wolf considering the pleading whines of a 
  cub or yearling. Finally, her brow furrows again, and she begins, sounding 
  startlingly as though she is thinking carefully about her words, "You... 
  say, magic not strong enough, maybe."

Mender stiffens his features somewhat and stands tall, proudly, as he nods 
  affirmation to that.

"I not know this kind of magic; I know tree magic. This different." Once more, 
  Thicket strikes her shoulder, soundly, with her balled fist. "I not tree. 
  How you fix, best?"

Mender thinks for a moment on how best to describe it. He stammers a few 
  times, then makes a funny face and looks around. Getting an idea, he walks 
  over to a tree and plucks a large twig off it, and holds it in front of him. 
  "Your shoulder, on the inside, is all broken." He snaps the twig in two to 
  help visualize. "I will try to mend the insides so they form a whole again." 
  He replaces the twig halves back together to show his point.

Thicket considers this. For all her brusqueness, and short speech, her gaze is 
  shrewd, and she finally barks, "I not tree, to stand still for Sweetleaf. I 
  stand still for you?"

Mender smiles a little. "You, um.. *soft chuckle* You will need to, yes."

Thicket regards you, eyes narrowed slightly, then demands, "Where?"

Mender looks around for a soft area for you to lie down on. "Wherever is 
  comfortable. You will need to lie down."

Thicket pauses, then quite abruptly turns, and strides into the pool. "Den. 
  Safe."
Thicket, with that, wades towards the 'waterfall'.... and vanishes into it.

You duck down through the sheltering bushes, and along the short path; the 
  waterfall roars merrily just over your head as you step into...
Cave under the waterfall(#4243R)
This tiny nook under the waterfall is constantly filled with the sound of 
  rushing water - yet, surprisingly, seems always dry itself, protected by an 
  overhanging ceiling of rock which prevents any spray from the plummeting 
  water to dampen the cranny. That curtain of water casts ever-shifting, 
  dappled shadows along the walls, and its constant murmur lulls the senses 
  into dreaming.
Contents:
furs
Obvious exits:
Out  

Mender steps in from outside.
Mender has arrived.
Mender pads in slowly after you, looking around very quizzically.

Thicket crawls into the cave, hair and cloak dripping, and she tosses the 
  cloak aside. "Is den," she pronounces. "Is safe for doing magic. No Tall 
  Ones find. No bears."

Mender nods slowly, still looking around. "It's... nice."

Thicket plops down unceremoniously on the dry furs at the back of the cave, 
  and finishes, "Only Thicket. Only mate." There's very little else in the 
  cave, save for a knife lying on the sandy stone, and no other possessions in 
  sight save for a tattered leather bag, lying near the furs; no scent by 
  Thicket's is here, at least not recent, or easily findable over the scent of 
  the water.

Mender nods again and walks slowly, rather cautiously, over to you before 
  kneeling beside you. "You'll need to lie down and make yourself comfortable. 
  Sleep even, if you can."

Thicket settles back on the fur, and her hair falls back from her long lupine 
  face in an untidy mass. She squints up at you thoughtfully. "Need herbs to 
  stop pain?" she demands.

Mender smiles softly and shakes his head. "Nono.. that won't be necessary. You 
  just make yourself comfortable."

In the water-dappled light of this cave, Thicket's scowl seems somewhat 
  softened. She curtly nods, and lies back, waiting; her eyes remain open, 
  alert, curious.

Mender nods and leans over lightly, reaching nearer to the wound. Again, he 
  raises his hands and places them on the shoulder, and closes his eyes in 
  concentration. The orange healing glow comes quickly, spreading its warmth 
  into the arm.

Thicket remains unmoving, as of yet, squinting as the glow fills the cavern, 
  giving it a strange and ethereal shimmer past even that of the continually 
  falling water.

Mender continues the healing probe, looking first to knit the arm back 
  together, the bone, searching magically for the pieces

It feels like... trying to push mud. Or stone, perhaps. For the longest time, 
  Thicket seems to sense or feel nothing, as her eyes reflect back the light 
  cast out of the hands on her shoulder. The play of shine and shadow blurs 
  her stark features... as well as the rest of the cave, hiding corners, 
  suggesting in others that other faces might watch the healing, that another 
  pair of eyes might be peering over the shoulder of the healer.

Mender frowns at the resitance he finds, not unexpected, but not welcome, 
  either. Pushing harder, he puts more effort into the bone, determined to 
  prove himself worthwhile to this elf.

Deep, very deep in the mass of scarred and twisted flesh, the bone can be 
  felt... nearly smashed in two, perhaps held together only by the surrounding 
  press of muscle. At last Thicket groans a little, as if finally troubled by 
  what transpires; for the briefest of instants, perhaps as if in reply, there 
  is a sensation as of a breath of air in the little cavern, but no wind 
  reaches in past the waterfall.

Mender makes a soft noise of satisfaction, having finally found something to 
  work with. Starting with the muscle, he gives it some strength, as if 
  breathing some life back into it, and in turn feeding the bone, giving it 
  strength to live, bringing it back together.

Thicket sucks in a sharp breath, a growl rattling in her throat. ** _Hurts_! 
  ** she sends -- so she does send -- abruptly, but almost too starkly to be a 
  word; rather, there is the sudden sense from her as of weight and pain and 
  loss in the shoulder.

Mender sends to you, trying to sooth your worries and pain. He slows the 
  actual healing process for a moment, focusing instead on dampening the pain 
  before returningto reconstructing the bone

If Thicket's flesh does not remember, then Thicket herself does -- and _what_ 
  she remembers flares up in that flesh: a renewed memory of a heavy stone 
  edge, coming crashing down onto the slender bone of her shoulder. Blood. 
  Pain. The shattered bone, reminded of that impact, protests the healer's 
  will -- and the flesh around it, reminded of pain, protests at the feel of 
  jagged edges, within it.

Around Thicket, there comes once more a strange... ripple... in the light, 
  barely discernible, if the healer even chooses to notice it. But Thicket 
  blinks, and frowns into the air, lips moving soundlessly.

Mender clenches his eyes tight and breathes in a sharp breath, refocusing his 
  energy and magic on the bone, determined to fight it until one of them gives 
  in, noticing nothing else than the internal battle.

Thicket's head shifts slightly, and her gaze fixes on some point beside, or 
  perhaps behind, the elf leaning over her. The presence of her mind yet 
  remains, but distant; louder is the presence of her flesh, thin and 
  near-starved through most of her, nearly lifeless in the shoulder. Only by 
  the stiffening of her bony form does she give any sign at all that she 
  retains awareness of the magic.

Mender again re-focuses on easing the pain, taking a healing break for himself 
  as well as he opens his eyes and takes in a few deep breaths. Feeling ready 
  to continue, he again brings the bone to the fore of his magic, forcing it 
  to his will to mend.

Thicket once more hisses, and tosses out a vague sending not at you, but past 
  you, and her body relexively jerks. Her left hand comes fumbling round, 
  starting to bat at you, as she growls.

Mender jumps in his place and loses some concentration, then reflexively 
  scowls at you for interrupting him.

Thicket's face has broken out in a sweat, and she snarls right back at you, 
  sending harshly, ** <pain/pain _resumed_, not _fixed_/angry/pain> **

Mender lets out a breath and closes his eyes, face softening tremendously. 
  "Soon," he says softly, and immediately resumes his healing, expressions 
  quickly falling into that familiar healing trance.

Mender's chosen charge is tense under his hands -- perhaps she does not 
  believe that this glowing light will do anything _but_ bring pain? It is 
  tough to say. Tough, too, to urge the bone to join, for, as the magic 
  continues, it speaks of many tiny slivers caught within the flesh. Slowly, a 
  sliver moves, seeking to join with the bone nearest it, but the flesh around 
  it screeches to healer-senses. And Thicket gasps, shuddering.

Mender gasps loudly as the senses and feelings hit him head on and sweat 
  begins to pour down his forehead. He battles the urge to reel back in 
  defeat, and instead focuses purely on mending those shards and fragments of 
  bone, doing his best to force them to his will.

Is this what it feels like to shape rock? The bone in Thicket's shoulder might 
  as well _be_ rock, for all the willingness it displays to bend to the 
  healer's directive. Thicket convulses, once, her hand snapping up and 
  fumbling at Mender as if she strives to fight off an attacking predator. Her 
  eyes, wild, flash up to the healer's face.

Mender lets out a very long, tired breath, and begins slowing his effort to 
  shape the bone, now more interested only in easing the pain of his ward, 
  which he has done numerous times before.

Thicket slumps, and her one working hand drops, wrapping around her. Her head 
  snaps to one side, and her eyes clamp shut.

Mender sighs and falls back against the wall. He closes his eyes and slowly 
  begins to regain his breath and composure, running one hand through his 
  hair. "I'm sorry..."

Thicket offers no reply, save for fumbling at her dead shoulder, and uttering 
  a tiny whimper.

Mender speaks softly, trying not to disturb you with this suggesstion. 
  "Leetah.. or Delenbae, could do it, I'm sure. They're much more powerful 
  than I.."

Thicket muttergrowls, "No."

Mender sighs softly and nods in resignation

Thicket rolls onto her side, away from you, growling, "Too many. Not see 
  others."

Mender considers for a long moment, then nods again and begins to stand. "I 
  should go."

Thicket gives neither permission nor dismissal; she simply remains, huddled, 
  on her fur, the one mobile hand she possesses clutching at the scarred 
  shoulder.

Mender stays behind you for another moment, looking at you, a look of pain, 
  sympathy, and sorrow on his face. He lets out one small sigh before climbing 
  around you wordlessly, making his way out.
Mender has left.

[End log.]