Log Date:
	12/12/99

Log Cast:
	Spirit of Sweetleaf (emitted by Woodhawk), Rillwhisper, Acorn, Dusk,
Dawn, Zalen (emitted by Dawn), Midnight, Sela, Trollkiller, Woodhawk, Tsoran,
Wayfound (emitted by Rillwhisper), Crystal (emitted by Acorn), assorted
Willowholters and Preservers (emitted by Rillwhisper), No-fur, Calmwind,

Log Intro:
	For the past two seasons, the weather at Willowholt has been
positively dreadful. It is now Newgreen, and much of the Deathsleep and
Whitecold seasons before have brought heavy rains and snows pouring down
onto the Holt. Enough water has fallen from the sky that the ground has turned
to mud, the pond at the heart of the Holt has overflowed its banks, and the
elves who dwell among the willows have to their extreme dismay noted that
many of the plants among which they dwell have begun to die, choked off by
the water oversaturating the earth. The mud is everywhere, getting into furs
and leathers and making the two members of the Willowholt with furred bodies
-- Trollkiller and Dusk -- particularly miserable. Tempers are short all
thoroughout the tribe, and in the heart of it all Rillwhisper, the Wolfbringer,
has begun to try to plan for moving her tribe to drier ground if this abuse
the weather is dealing them keeps up much longer.
	Little does Rillwhisper or anyone else in the tribe realize, however,
that the time to make that decision has passed...

----------
Lightning arcs across the sky, followed in a few seconds by thunder so loud it 
  shakes the soggy ground. After the initial flash, countless other branches 
  of skyfire light the sky, and the resultant thunder rolls together one after 
  another into a steady-rolling roar. The first spatters of yet more rain 
  start hitting the ground in huge, arrow-like drops.

A not-so-far-off >thump< reverberates through the clearing, and one of the 
  larger trees surrounding the clearing lets out an anguished, creaking groan. 
  The trees start to sway with the wind, almost as if they're moving in time 
  with the flashing skyfire, and distant cracklings herald damage to the upper 
  branches of the trees.

A shudder of green-and-gold magic shivers across the holt as the old tree 
  falls. Its roots writhe almost as if they were still alive and still 
  growing, searching for nourishment in the muddy ground and the rain-filled 
  air.

Wet, muddy, and miserable. That just about describes the entire Holt right 
  now, and Rillwhisper is no exception. The jolt of yet another thunderstorm 
  starting up outside snaps her awake out of an uneasy doze, and the -thump- 
  of that falling not too far away has her dressing and scrambling out of her 
  den as fast as she can go. Stumbling out of the Old Willow, the Wolfbringer 
  tosses off an urgent tribe-wide sending: ** Anybody hear that?! Acorn! Fhen! 
  Blythe! Was that a tree going down? **

Acorn spooks, grimaces, and stares up at the sky. ** He's going to fly in 
  this?! ** Her expression turns wistful and she glances sidelong at the Old 
  Willow, shifting closer to it as if seeking comfort. Anxiety tinges her 
  mindvoice, and her eyes dart around the clearing, finally settling on the 
  fallen tree's twitching roots. ** The ground's too wet for the trees to hold 
  on to. ** Nodding sidelong, she does not look at her chieftess, ** I hear 
  it... and there's nothing I can do! **

Dusk flinches at the crack of the thunder, the flash of the skyfire. It's 
  enough to cause her to miss Acorn's reaction to her news as she clutches 
  Midnight a little closer to her. The holt is falling down! Quickly, she 
  seeks out a place not too close to any trees in danger of falling on her and 
  Midnight, trying to make sure he'll stay with her. Soaked, she is, as well. 
  "Are you okay, Midnight?!" she asks, the words rushed.

Dawn and Zalen are in the process of scrambling down out of the old willow, 
  responding to Dusk's send about getting ready to leave the holt. At the 
  crash and shimmer, Dawn shrieks and throws her arms around Zalen, who 
  prudently switches from climbing to gliding. They float down to join the 
  muddy throng in the clearing.

Midnight nods silently, looking around with wide eyes.

Sela huddles on the branch, really not prepared for yet more wet weather.

Trollkiller, from up in the branches beside Sela, looks down at Dusk and 
  Midnight. He doesn't approve. But he's not _as_ concerned - Dusk's come back 
  once, on her own will, and been unbroken for the experience. But he still 
  doesn't like it. And he likes the groaning of the trees even less. He 
  wonders whether the Old Willow seems to be swaying a bit more than usual, 
  and decides to decide that it's his imagination.

DarkWing has arrived.

Woodhawk can't sleep, and there are great dark circles under his golden eyes. 
  He crouches beside Rockclimber at the clearing's edge, the great wolf's bulk 
  providing a token shelter against the storm.

Darkwing swoops out of the darkening sky, outlined in a distant flash of 
  thunder for one dramatic moment. Tsoran sends from the birds back, to be 
  heard over the approaching storm. ** Dusk, Midnight, we are leaving NOW, 
  while Darkwing can still outfly this weather. ** As the giant hawk wings to 
  a landing, the Chosen glides off his back to help Dusk and Midnight up.

Midnight bites his lip, look at the nearby elves... For a moment torn with the 
  need for a proper goodbye, but then he obeys his father.
Midnight climbs onto DarkWing's back and settles himself between the giant 
  wings.
Midnight has left.

Right after the great bird has left...

The air is unnaturally still with the tambor of thunder and lightning staying 
  just beyond the holt. Then, with a rush, a wall of wind comes, shrieking 
  through the trees like angry spirits, and bringing with it the true rain, a 
  rush of water from the sky as heavy as a waterfall. The lightning flashes 
  illuminate the water and the thunder becomes a deafening roar.

Midnight sends to the whole tribe ** ... Goodbye, everybody. I will miss 
  you... **

The Old Willow lets out a creaky complaint of its own, and at least the upper 
  portion is moving; not enough to break it... not yet. The loud splashes of 
  several trees diving into the pond is almost covered up by the lash of the 
  rain. The odd, slurping noises from the itchgrass circle can't be good. The 
  Shadewillow shudders, catching a falling tree in it's aged branches.

Dusk covers up her head as heavy, thick, big drops of water rain down upon her 
  and the rest here. It really -does- seem like the place is going to fall 
  apart. Tsoran's firm send helps snap her out of it, and she follows Midnight 
  quickly, also distraught that she can't leave with proper goodbyes or help 
  out very much. ** We're..going back to the Mountain..! Get out of here, 
  somewhere safe! Hurry! Mother, father..if you need to see me, you know where 
  I'll be! ** She sends for Flameruff, her bond, and the wolf tears out of the 
  holt on a path for Blue Mountain as well before Tsoran helps Dusk and 
  Midnight up.
Dusk climbs onto DarkWing's back and settles herself between the giant wings.
Dusk has left.

The green magic trembles through the Shadewillow, and green shoots spring up, 
  clasping the dead tree to the one yet living.

Hairballs, puckernuts, Two Spear's Madness. Every curse Rillwhisper knows 
  comes immediately to mind, but she keeps the control to avoid actually 
  uttering any of them. Instead, as her tribesmates peek nervously from this 
  and that den-hole, as bedraggled elves and increasingly frantic wolves make 
  their presences known in and around the clearing, the Wolfbringer sends out: 
  ** Everybody! To me! We're getting out of here! Grab whatever you can carry 
  and go Away-from-Hub -- away from the river! ** She snaps a look up at 
  Tsoran's hawk as the great creature wings down as best he can over the 
  clearing, and adds urgently to Tsoran, ** Get them out of here, yes! Go, go! 
  ** For once, any animosity she might have towards the haughty Glider is 
  forgotten. The welfare of her tribe comes first.

In response to her mother's call, Wayfound comes scrambling down from the 
  wolf-den hill, three of the wolf-pack keeping her frenetic company. Their 
  whines and whimpers show their own opinion of this latest blow the weather 
  is dealing the Willowholt. And the chieftess's daughter sends, her youthful 
  mind's touch nevertheless as clear and piercing as a shaft of sunlight 
  through the clouds: ** There's two trees down on the hill! **

DarkWing shrieks a protest, and rises to vanish into the churning sky.
DarkWing flies up.
DarkWing has left.

Acorn throws her head back, nostrils flared, the whites of her eyes clearly 
  visible around the green irises. Softly at first, quickly growing more 
  urgent, ** The trees won't hold out much longer; they're all so weak..! ** 
  Frowning, she scampers swiftly into the trees, sliding briefly as muddy feet 
  encounter wet moss. After a couple of breaths, she returns, smaller 
  belongings thrown into a hasty bundle and wrapped in a sleeping fur, 
  Crystal, groggy but alert, following after with more furs.

Sela darts over to her bower and rescues her longbow and arrows. Nothing else 
  is important. She glides down and holds her hands out to Wayfound. ** Come, 
  fledgling, I'll carry you to higher ground. **

Trollkiller cries out aloud, as the Shadewillow is knocked hard by its falling 
  neighbour, and blinks in shock at Rillwhisper's command. He dives then into 
  the tree, grabbing his sword and bow and whatever of his remaining jerky he 
  can find - it's been bad for making it for months now - and returns, just a 
  moment later, with that and whatever of Rillwhisper's and Woodhawk's things 
  he can grab.

Woodhawk raises his head to his lifemate, and sends ** throw them to me -- 
  we'll see what Rockclimber and I can carry -- **

It's as if the falling trees opened a path for the water rushing over the 
  saturated ground. With a roar even more deafening than the thunder, a wall 
  of water on the ground comes rushing through, turning the lower parts of the 
  holt into a raging river. The torrent of water tears up whatever is in its 
  path, trees are snapped up like twigs, barely audible in the din of the 
  storm.

The ground in the middle of the clearing starts to slump, as if unable to hold 
  up under the water's fierce onslaught. After a brief hesitation, the center 
  of the clearing actually gives way, swallowing the stone fountain into a 
  morass of churning mud. The Old Willow shudders, the Shadewillow tilts, and 
  the Whisperwillow's trunk shivers and shimmies, fronds waving wildly in the 
  wind like a psychotic dancer.

Wild waves of magic wash over the trees, as they struggle to adapt, struggle 
  to survive. Branches writhe, and the ground churns as roots writhe as well. 
  Green shoots sprout only to be battered away by the pounding rain. And from 
  the wet ground, a strange bloom of algae and fungi spatters the mud in gold 
  and green.

Just as wide-eyed as their fellows, others of the tribe hasten to rescue what 
  few small precious items they can salvage from the now-dubious refuges of 
  their dens. Duskshadow, Fhen, and Joy can be glimpsed, along with young 
  Summit, tossing things down through the sodden branches to be caught by 
  tribesmates below. The Holt's Preservers are roused now, too, and their tiny 
  frantic cries sound out barely audible piping descants over the roar of the 
  thunderstorm and the crashes being caused by the slamming of branches into 
  branches. Flickerflame's managed to vanish along with Dawn and Zalen, but 
  Acorn's bug buries itself in her hair, and on water-laden wings Fallberry, 
  trying to reach the chieftess, winds up landing on Woodhawk's head instead.

There's no hope of being heard via voice now: only sending has a chance of 
  being heard in the riot of the storm. ** GET MY CUB OUT OF HERE! ** comes 
  Rillwhisper's thunderous sending to Sela, as she hears that one's offer to 
  Wayfound, and never mind the young she-elf's ardent sent protest that she 
  can help carry things too.

One of the wolves howls in terror and pain as it is caught beneath a smaller 
  falling tree, somewhere around the Starwillow.

Acorn starts at Rill's send-bellow, but looks around sharply for her and 
  Crystal's wolf-friends. She never bonded very closely with Greyshadow, so he 
  doesn't even notice her in his efforts to get -his- pack to somewhere safe. 
  He shudders convulsively at the young wolf's shriek of pain, but moves to 
  his elves and growls insistently. Swinging up on his back, Acorn winces at 
  the abrupt shriek of Flutterbye, ducking -- just missed by a branch falling 
  from the Old Willow.

Sela shields Wayfound as much as possible as she speeds through the lashing 
  rain, focusing entirely on keeping her bearings as she heads ... away.

Trollkiller is all but paralyised by shock and fear. He falls from the branch, 
  into the water with a splash, spitting and looking around wildly. He first 
  spots Woodhawk close nearby, and flails towards him, confused and terrified 
  - once beside, he grabs his lifemate's tunic, and looks around for 
  Rillwhisper.

Woodhawk has his arms full of random possessions, and drops half of them in 
  order to grab his lifemate. He scrabbles up on Rockclimber's back, glad that 
  the huge wolf can easily carry two grown wolfriders. But his golden eyes 
  follow his cubling and Sela, and he urges Rockclimber in their direction.

Echoing the muddy whirlpool surrounding the sinkhole, the sky seems to boil, a 
  fingerling extending down from the clouds, twisting as it reaches to touch 
  here and there. The lightning is simultaneous with the thunder, and the rain 
  is a constant hail, water mixed with ice falling and pelting everyone and 
  every thing within the holt. The raging flood rises, pushing toward higher 
  ground now. With so much water in the air and on the ground, even those who 
  can fly have difficulty breathing without inhaling water.

With an immense groan, that of an ancient being bullied by hyperactive 
  younglings, the Old Willow slumps, releasing the other willows from it's 
  supporting clutches. The Shadewillow, with a whimpering creak, starts to 
  fall into the clearing. The Whisperwillow begins falling away from the 
  clearing, then is beheaded by a lighting-strike with a spine-tingling, 
  hair-raising *>FZZZZRACK!!<*.

After silence for such an eternity after the storm broke loose, a glimmer of a 
  sending is felt from just south. The sending of a healer who's regained 
  consciousness after having an unfortunate meeting of hard object and soft 
  head. Not quite fully making sense yet, but still alive and here nonetheless.

Where is Rillwhisper? There, on the southern edge of what's left of the 
  clearing, trying to keep her feet as the very earth seems to be trying to 
  swallow the heart of her Holt. The sight of it sends a bolt of primitive 
  terror winging through her system, and for once even the redoubtable 
  Wolfbringer is almost stricken motionless with fright. But she's snapped 
  alert again by panicked send-cries coming from what's left of the western 
  half of the Holt: Talek. Softlock. Trying to help the others to get free, it 
  seems these two are in peril. ** WE'RE COMING! ** she send-screams, 
  determined to swim that way if she has to do to reach her endangered 
  tribesmates, even as Woodhawk and Trollkiller on the firestarter's belabored 
  wolf draw closer to her.

In the meantime, Joy, desperately trying to echo Sela's rescue of Wayfound, 
  shoots through the air clutching her son in her arms, her gliding magic 
  shooting off erratic sparks of light as she strains with everything in her 
  power to get Summit to safety.

The magic can make plants grow, but it cannot fight gravity or fire. As the 
  broken trees hit the ground, they send out roots and shoots and leaves, but 
  the cozy dens of the Holt are no longer recognizable in their shapes. Reeds 
  and cattails proliferate, and the green algae writhe.

Acorn curls forward on Greyshadow's back, apparently reassured silently that 
  Crystal achieved his wolf's back as well. Abruptly, she sits bolt upright, 
  completely unnoticing of the falling trees, and sends silently, intently. 
  Those close enough can see her grave expression abruptly grow limp with 
  relief; Seedling leaps out of the Old Willow with some few belongings, 
  landing lightly on the large wolf's back, and wraps an arm around Acorn's 
  waist. Hunching forward again, the two wolves (and three elves) dart 
  southwards in search of safety. Before leaving sight, Acorn calls back ** 
  We'll find you! **

From the branch above, No-fur swings down off the branch to the clearing below.
No-fur drops down from the branch above.
No-fur has arrived.

Calmwind's traditional quiet is shatterered by his peaceful world falling to 
  chunks around him, and he screams outright as the Whisperwillow is destroyed 
  by the sky. Luckily, nobody can hear him. He is holding onto Rhythm's ruff 
  with one hand as he desperately tries to collect tools that have fallen from 
  where they were stuffed in his belt, and then as the mud writhes around him, 
  he gives up, throwing himself across his near-panicked wolf and letting the 
  two of them race towards the south of the clearing.

Wayfound has left.

Acorn slips through the trees up the hill.
Acorn has left.

No-fur, previously jumpy and nervous around all this, becomes suddenly calm, 
  his attention focusses soley on working his way westward, towards his mate, 
  now oblivious to all around him.

Sela returns after depositing Wayfound safely. She sends ** Healer... there 
  are those who need you. Where are you? ** She attempts to wipe the water 
  from her eyes and get the wounded and the healer together to safety.

** Talek! ** comes a thought from the south as a certain healer picks up on 
  her brother's frantic sendings, still trying to recover from her own problem 
  at hand. But with Talek in trouble, and the tribe in equal danger, there's 
  not much she can do until the ache in her head further clears up. ** The 
  camp, the water's not over it yet, come south! Sela, I'm alright, Talek 
  needs you more! **

Trollkiller clings to Woodhawk's back, eyes wide open as he sees everything of 
  home being destroyed in water and fire, until he sees Rillwhisper dive into 
  the water - he shrieks, a sound lost in the wind, and sends ** NO! ** as he 
  starts to dive after her.

Woodhawk seizes his lifemate by the back of his furry neck, sending ** NO! ** 
  back just as strongly. Rockclimber pushes forward, floundering in the 
  roiling mud, heading towards the south, all but oblivious to the elves 
  wrestling upon his broad back.

The tempest in the heavens softens somewhat, the lightning subsiding, and the 
  thunder becoming a gentle roar. The rain settles into a steady, soaking 
  downpour. It is almost, by comparison, peaceful. Except... 
 Except that the water is still coming down, and the torrent of water from the 
  formerly peaceful river is now scouring the holt with violent muddy water 
  carrying branches and indeed whole trees as well as the occasional grim 
  carcass of drowned animals. A treehorn corpse finds itself wedged in the 
  branches of the fallen great willow, hanging ludicrously upside down as the 
  raging waters continue their devastation.

The green-and-gold magic still flickers in the uprooted trees, but the Holt is 
  no more. Reeds and willows grow side-by-side, sprout and are churned from 
  the earth by the roiling water.

With the Old Willow toppling over, some small haven from the water flooding 
  through the heart of the Holt now is provided. Rillwhisper takes immediate 
  advantage of this, scrambling as deftly as she can up into the branches 
  while Fallberry clings tenaciously to her soaked red-golden tresses. 
  Trollkiller's desperate sending stops her -- but only just long enough for 
  her to snap a sharp green glance in his direction, a growl in her sending, 
  palpable where the growl in her throat is not. She might be Trollkiller's 
  lifemate -- but she is also his chieftess, his alpha, and she will not be 
  told No. Not when her pack is in trouble. ** GO! ** she send-lashes out to 
  her two beloveds, her mind's touch going almost wordless in its ferocity 
  now; she might almost be Strongbow, and it's doubtless the archer from whom 
  she learned this way of sending. ** Get free! I'll meet you! Have to get to 
  Talek and Softlock! **

Calmwind squirms at the edge of the clearing, shaking his soaked hair away 
  from his face and dropping his face briefly into Rhythm's fur. Then he 
  raises his head and turns to look across the devastation of the Holt, the 
  angry river, the chieftess balanced on the corpse of the Old Willow. It's 
  not so easy to just turn and ride away, especially knowing there are people 
  still trapped inside. He waits edgily, hopefully.

The pale locks of the chief's son's hair dissapear beneath the water, the 
  lad's footing lost, but only for a moment. He stands quickly, glancing back 
  towards his mother for a moment, his wet hair sticking to his face as his 
  head turns. His gaze returns forward, though, as he moves on, not waiting 
  for his mother's (or anyone else's) help ... or even slowing down.

Sela's sends turn to seeking Talek, and she glides off with the hopes of 
  rescuing him.

Silversong, on the far edge of what the boundries of the holt could be 
  considered to be, continues to provide the aid that she can. A sending, a 
  beacon for the others to follow back to its source to safety. A lighthouse 
  in the storm, where the healer waits her tribesmates.

Trollkiller looks back at Woodhawk, eyes wet with more than rain, and whines, 
  wolflike - but obeys the command of both his lifemates, and stays. He 
  flinches again when his no-longer-a-cub dives in - and, again, stays with 
  Woodhawk. As told.

Woodhawk crouches forward, his fingers still twined in Trollkiller's thick 
  fur, and pushes Rockclimber towards the south with one thought in his mind 
  -- to find his young cub, and join her in safety on high ground.

The rain becomes the softest of drizzles now, although the wind is still 
  blowing. The roar of the water is undiminished as trees crack as loudly as 
  the thunder did a short time ago. The flood scours everything in its path, 
  washing it away with the muddy torrent.

Wayfound's mind, too, provides a beacon. Not too far away from Silversong, the 
  chieftess's young daughter sends with every ounce of strength she possesses 
  as she hunkers down to await the coming of the older members of the tribe, 
  somewhere southward where the ground is still stable and trees are holding 
  up against the onslaught of the rain and the flood. She's scrambled up into 
  one of these sturdier trees, too, all the better to stay out of reach of the 
  muddy torrent surging southward from the river.

In the meantime, desperate Willowholters continue to flee. Duskshadow, Jylien, 
  and Blythe all send out their own anxious calls, torn between staying to 
  help those in trouble and getting themselves to safety; overriding them all 
  as well as the urgent sendings of Rainfire, the chieftess orders _everyone_ 
  not immediately near her to get Away as far and as fast as they can. Ahdran 
  and Vale have long vanished in the wake of Joy and Summit. Nightwisp, 
  desperate to try to help her parents, is the last of the rest of the tribe 
  to try to linger, though even she finally despondently yields to the 
  Wolfbringer's will.

The green magic is tinged with sadness, as the uprooted trees die, scattered 
  by the wind and water like so many skeletons of autumn leaves. Sadder it is, 
  too, as one by one the elves leave the land that used to be their Holt. The 
  reeds still grow, but the wind still moving through them sounds like a long, 
  sad wailing howl.

Calmwind bows his head to his chieftess's commanding send but lingers a moment 
  more, listening to the howl. Rhythm murmurs under him and he tightens his 
  fingers in her fur before throwing out his own brief spiralling send 
  announcing his continued life. Then he heads further south to find Wayfound.

No-fur, almost a ghost through the debris and the rain, suddenly dissapears 
  under the water, dissapearing, off in the distance, under the smoothly 
  flowing water. Moments later, no more than a handfull of feet away, a touch 
  of color makes itself visible again .. the cub's hand, desperately clinging 
  to a thick branch that's gotten itself wedged between two bits of the 
  crumbling landscape.

Calmwind has left.

Sela has helped a few more elves, and then her mental presence is lost in the 
  chaos. There is no sight or sound of her again.

With Calmwind the first to come into her view, Silversong's send takes on a 
  regretful greeting as she waves to him from the twisted and warped branches 
  of the plane tree in the camp. Such a contrast, that, between the healer and 
  her tree. She motions him onwards south, towards Wayfound's own beacon.

Trollkiller clings to Woodhawk's back, silent, overwhelmed - drowning, but not 
  from the water - as Rockclimber resolutly pads southward, to higher ground.
Trollkiller locksends ** You feel a tenuous, almost-subconscious continuation 
  of contact from Trollkiller. **

The roar of the water becomes a white noise behind the shock of the absolute 
  loss. Ears ring with the leftover noise and eyes are wet with more than the 
  downpour. Trees crash against one another as the river carves a new face to 
  the landscape which was once home.

Woodhawk's face is grimly set, and sparks flicker deep in his eyes, as he 
  peers through his sodden hair towards the south. But one hand lies gently on 
  his lifemate's thigh, and his voice murmurs a stream of encouragement to the 
  determined wolf.

The Holt's own soul is charged with grief and loss as the trees drown and the 
  elves flee. There is a cry that is more than the wind's voice and a howl 
  that is more than the pounding of the relentless water.

Her tribe is fleeing. Most of them are safe. This provides Rillwhisper a 
  fragment of consolation as she finishes her frenetic scramble from the Old 
  Willow to what's left of the other trees where Talek and Softlock had been 
  denning. Knowing her son is striving to reach his lifemate, the Wolfbringer 
  focuses instead upon Talek, latching in on his increasingly weakening 
  sendings -- but before she can reach them, they stop. The silver-haired 
  dreamer's thoughts slip exhaustedly out of her ken and of those still 
  struggling to keep contact with him, as though Talek, like No-fur, has 
  slipped beneath the surface of the churning water. Perhaps fortunately for 
  the Wolfbringer, she has not seen her son go down. With stubborn, 
  singleminded purpose, she dives for where she'd felt Talek's last sending. 
  But she does not reach him. Later, perhaps, she will remember something hard 
  and wet smacking into the back of her skull... but for now, she is slammed 
  headlong into oblivion. Fallberry the Preserver is the only witness to this, 
  and even as the chieftess drops unconscious, the waterlogged sprite does the 
  one thing it knows it can do in the midst of all these nastybad waterroar 
  thunderbooms: it can save the sunnygreen highthing. As the thunderstorm at 
  last begins to subside, Fallberry begins to make wrapstuff.

The single touch of color, the cub's clinging hand, dissapears, his grip on 
  the branch lost. His fingers dissapear beneath the surface smoothly, and 
  quickly; so quickly that if one were to blink at the wrong time, one might 
  easilly be convinced that the cub's hand was never there to start with...

With her brother's sending slipping away from her mind's touch, Silversong's 
  sending takes on a more insistant, desperate tone. ** Talek...? Talek! ** 
  Still she calls, even as Woodhawk and Trollkiller come into sight, and she 
  motions them on south towards where Wayfound and Calmwind are waiting. But 
  she remains, holding tight to her tree.

What remains of the holt is a spread of brown churning water, sprinkled with 
  broken limbs and floating bits of debris. And even so the water rushes 
  relentlessly past and through the holt, washing away all that was familiar 
  and leaving who knows what in its wake.

The green magic still moves through the water where the Holt once grew, a 
  cattail sprouting here, a fallen branch springing with a leaf there. A bit 
  of it moves through a fallen trunk, enclosing a safe space in which a 
  Preserver works with wrapstuff, enclosing a golden-haired Wolfrider. But a 
  little of the magic departs, too, in the leaves borne on the flowing water, 
  and with the elves straggling away towards the south.

[End log.]