Log Date: 2/12/96
Log Intro: Mender, along with Lursa, Zirek, and SpiritThorn, has followed
Slate northward out of Sorrow's End. Mender is bound for the Go-Back
country, where -- or at least so he hopes -- he is going to perform a
healing. But on the way, there is another healing he's been asked to perform,
and although the description given by Slate of a feral she-elf with a
dead right arm does not bode well, Mender agrees to try to perform
the repairing of Thicket's limb, made dead by the blow of a human axe.

But the task proves too difficult for him, perhaps because of the age of
the injury... or perhaps simply because Thicket does not wish the bother
of healing the arm.

And in the meantime, Woodhawk of the Willowholt scouts for his tribesmates,
who have just succeeded in the harrowing task of rescuing their chieftess
Rillwhisper and the Lostholt archer Strongbow from a dangerous, mad
Firstborn and his spider-infested grove....

----------
He knew it... water. Thought he smelled it nearby. Good thing, too, Woodhawk 
  thinks, as he carefully makes his way down the trail towards the sound of 
  the waterfall. _Rill needs it. The archer, too..._ His footsteps herald his 
  approach, at least to Wolfrider ears: the tread of a leather-shod foot on 
  dry needles blanketing the forest floor.

Mender sits relaxing near the waterfall, letting his feet dangle in the water 
  while staring off in the distance.

Woodhawk, bow out, arrow lightly drawn in case any prey should catch his 
  attention, pauses when he clears the trees, and blinks.

Mender just sits there, in silent contemplation.

Woodhawk blinks several more times -- Sorrow's End's healer? _Here?_ Once more 
  he blinks for good measure, then sends, ** You? Mender? **

Mender blinks in surprise and twists his head around sharply. "Who..?"

Woodhawk waves a hand, from over near the edge of the trees.

Mender squints and hauls himself out of the water, padding over to where the 
  voice was.

Woodhawk steps out into view, grinning crookedly, though he flicks a quick 
  gaze around to judge the openness of the area around the falls. But it must 
  be safe, if Mender's here.... ** 'Sme. Remember me, healer? **

Mender narrows his eyes and tilts his head quizzically, trying to remember. 
  "You are...were at a festival?"

Woodhawk inclines his head, a wry quirk around his mouth for some reason. ** 
  Aye. My tribe and me, at Sorrow's End, for a time. Few turns of the seasons 
  ago. Willowholters. **

Mender's eyes light as aninclination of remembrance arrives in his mind. "Oh 
  yes!"

Woodhawk leans his bow against him, and smiles, though a bit gravely. Shifting 
  into speech, as long as the area's known to be safe, he adds, "Glad to hear 
  you remember my tribe, at least. I recall my daughter speaking well of you."

Mender quirks a brow, trying to hide some amusement. "Daughter?"

Woodhawk replies dryly, "Brightmark. Never told you, did she?"

Mender shakes his head. "Never told me her parents names, no."

Woodhawk gives a low, deep chuckle. Then eyes you, brown eyes lightened a bit. 
  "Aye. I'm Brightmark's sire. She was at the Festival, too, but the whole 
  thing was rather, um, frantic. Didn't expect to find you in these woods, 
  though..."

Mender chuckles and shakes his head softly. "Nor I! I came with a group to.. 
  well, we'll be heading up to the frozen north eventually to attempt a 
  healing."

Woodhawk quirks his head, and glances over his shoulder, off to Sun-Goes-down. 
  "Huh. You haven't been to Lostholt on the way up, have you?"

Mender thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "We've been travelling 
  rather haphazardly, making detours here and there."

Woodhawk distractedly nods, and adds, "Well, we have to get them back..." He 
  smiles, and adds, absently, "A bit of work for Leetah and that other maiden 
  of theirs... long story. Hunting around here any good?"

Mender frowns slightly at the mention of a healer being needed. "Hm? Hunting? 
  Oh, yes, it's quite fine."

Woodhawk nods levelly. ** Good, ** he replies firmly, drawing his bow off his 
  shoulder. ** My chieftess needs fresh meat. So do Strongbow and Moonshade, 
  and we have to get them strong enough to finish the trip. **

Mender does outright frown now. "What happened?"

Woodhawk regards you seriously, and answers, ** Long story. Might want to come 
  to Lostholt, since I think Rillwhisper is going to want to hold council with 
  Cutter. I'd advise, though, that if you're still heading Hubward, that you 
  work your way a good way towards Sun-Goes-Down for a while, so you can stay 
  out of the same spider woods my chieftess and the archer got into. **

Mender frowns seriously and crosses his arms, biting his lower lip in thought. 
  "Well, I can't make any decision without discussing it with the group... is 
  your tribe nearby?"

** Aye, ** and the tall, lean elf jerks a thumb back the way he came. ** We're 
  camped, but moving soon. We'll be coming through here if it's safe. If 
  your'e with others, though, tell them..... <And abruptly, he slips into 
  images, short, but stark and clear. There are pictures of a twisted, hidden 
  wood, filled with huge eight-legged creatures big as most elves, bigger than 
  many. And another elf living in the center, mad, raving.> **

Mender blinks! and then just stares, thinking about the images. "What... -are- 
  those?"

Woodhawk finishes, gravely, ** We had to fight our way out. I don't know 
  whether Doreel or those spiders of his are still alive -- I burned the 
  woods. Can't say I'm sorry, either. If they _are_ still alive... ** And he 
  turns, pointing now sharply northwest, ** They're that way, and I strongly 
  suggest you stay out of that part of tese woods if you can avoid it. Don't 
  know yet what my chieftess will want to do, but there will be a council. **

Mender nods slowly, still in thought. "Perhaps.. my group could travel with you 
  a ways? If possible?"

[Had to cut off the log here. It is assumed that Woodhawk went on his way,
 and that Mender and his party decided to continue on theirs, as
 they were going in opposite directions. Mender told Slate about the
 danger of the grove, as well.]