Log Date: 7/29/99 Log Cast: Wildfoot, Midnight, Fallberry, Wayfound, Rillwhisper Log Intro: The wanderer -- and, it would seem, treeshaper -- Wildfoot has been invited into the Willowholt, after having been discovered by Trollkiller and Wayfound. A newcomer in the Holt is a great event as far as young Wayfound is concerned, and she is most eager for an opportunity to perhaps repeat her encounter with Ayerth in the Gathered Tribe Festival. But as it happens, Wildfoot turns out to be rather more in temperament like Wayfound's agemate Midnight when it comes to reacting to her conversational habits, much to the disappointment of the chieftess's daughter... ---------- Clearing by the Old Willow(#123RHJ) Here in the heart of the Willowholt, the air is thick with the scents of the Newgreen -- regardless of season. Green growing things crowd the clearing, from the myriad bright 'mushrooms' hiding among tall shoots of grass, to dreamberry bushes sandwiched between the trees, to the mighty, massive 'Old Willow' that dominates everything in sight. A fallen 'log' under the Old Willow's branches provides a place to sit; a gurgling 'fountain' provides a constant song of water. Amidst the almost overwhelming weight of Newgreen scents, the air, to elfin senses, is alive with magic. Immediately to the northeast, overlooked by the mighty willow, lies a small pond; to the southeast, south, and west, paths to the Holt's more secluded parts; to the east, the distant marshes. Evening falls clear and cold over the snow-covered Holt. The first stars of evening appear above. The twin stars of Timmorn's Eyes begin to come out as the dimming red light of sunset fills the chill winter skies. Contents: Wildfoot(#9915PJceg) Obvious exits: Branch Old Willow Hillside Path Starwillow Copse Marsh Pond Wildfoot is seated near the fallen log, her legs curled under her. With a crude flint knife, she chops at the butt of her well-used spear. Her large wolf-friend is nowhere in sight--probably off hunting. Midnight emerges from the willow tree. Midnight has arrived. Midnight looks at you for a moment. /Nooo! No no no! Jabbermuch highthing naughtybad!/ The unmistakable voice of the Preserver Fallberry is the first herald of the approach of the chieftess's daughter; seconds later, the Preserver in question zips into the clearing, flitting circles around the tousled fair mop of young Wayfound. And the cub is arguing right back, sternly, "And again I am telling you, bug, if I am to properly learn about the mushrooms in the Holt then I _must_ be able to try them! It makes absolutely _no_ sense to forbid me to try it merely because I do not have as many turns of the seasons as everyone else!" Wildfoot's eyes widen and she glances up from her task to watch the chieftess's daughter. "What is that thing around your head called? I've seen one once, but it sort of flitted away before it could....talk." The sour set of her mouth speaks volumes of her opinion of the bug. Fallberry seizes upon the opportunity to zip over to Wildfoot, piping, /Am Fallberry!/ At the same time, Wayfound's features arrange themselves in a small childish scowl not really given much in the way of age by the near-adult irritation in her ambergreen eyes. "It is a Preserver," she says as gruffly as a cub with a high young voice can speak. "We have two more in the Holt, and their names are Flickerflame and Flutterbye. I would advise you to not permit them to sing--" /Jabbermuch highbaby talk more than Fallberry,/ the Preserver scolds, waggling a tiny purple finger at her. Midnight wanders into the clearing and drags a large stick behind him. The stick leaves a furrow behind it when it isn't hopping over rocks or roots that poke out of the ground. As Midnight hears the approach of Wayfound and her pet, he scowls...although it's not clear if this is because of his opinion of one or the other. Midnight One of the newer members of the Willowholt, Midnight's name comes from the jet-black hair that rests atop his head, a mop of sorts that ends past his ears and looks unruly at times, yet not. Large blue eyes take in all that is to be seen around him with a curiosity present in most his age, and the average-sized cub can be seen in earth-toned leathers of dark green and tan, almost like a jumper of sorts, with a small belt around his waist and soft ankle-length boots over his feet, also tan in color. He's proven himself to be a mostly quiet type, after the early racket that usually comes with most, if not all newborns. Wildfoot Dancing indigo eyes dominate a small, pale and sweet looking face that is unusually innocent seeming, even for a Wolfrider. Her large liquid eyes are the most expressive feature on her face and gives her a doelike, wild quality that matches her unruly mop of straight strawberry blonde hair that flows to the middle of her back in crazily chopped waves. A few long beaded braids are wound into the windblown mass, and the way she seems to be constantly glancing about or in motion gives one the feeling that she's alot like a stormy breeze blowing through the holt--and might just as quickly be gone again. Her dainty features and full mouth give her a very wholesome, young look--until you glance closer at her eyes and notice that it isn't calm dancing in them--it's cleverness. Thigh high boots made of dark green are crisscrossed with brown straps that make the weathered boots hug her legs snugly, a flint dagger just barely poking out of a pouch in her boot-top. A warm, long sleeved tunic made of close fitting deerskin provides some protection from the elements for Wildfoot. Dyed a dark, lush violet, it clings to her slender form and covers her from neck to wrist and is belted close at her waist. Covering her legs are thick leggings in a dark green, just barely stuffed under her boots. A wooden torque necklace, otherwise plain, encircles her neck. Carrying: Grayface Wayfound(#10402Pcpg) This small creature is an elfin child, possibly anywhere between five and seven turns of the seasons in age. She is possessed of a fine, tumbled mop of light golden hair only a shade or two darker than her pale skin, through which her pointed ears poke up to display their tapered ends to any who look her way. Her agile little form is reed-thin, but her frame and face have about them a healthy, sturdy look. Enormous eyes of a shade somewhere between amber and the pale green of young leaves dominate that face, and study each and every thing and being in her world with thorough calculation. When she speaks, it is with an adult's words and cadences, and when she sends, an unmistakable intelligence can be felt adding force to her mind's touch. The sour look on Wildfoot's features deepens. "Can you get it to shut up? It's making my ears hurt." She makes a shooing motion at the bug and gives Wayfound a dismayed look. "There's two more of these things around here?" Midnight watches the two elves converse, earning him reputation at being fairly quiet. Or maybe he's learned preservers only leave if they get too bored. The Preserver scowls, doing an aerial about-face to return to the girl-cub. Fallberry doesn't let her get away without another scolding, though: /Jabbermuch highthing stay out of treesweets! Sunnygreen highthing say so! Fallberry know!/ Then, *voop*, the winged creature vanishes up into the Old Willow's thickly fronded branches. Wayfound does not exactly smile; such is not this cubling's way. She does, however, look distinctly more satisfied... at least until she sees that Midnight has entered the clearing. Then, lifting her little chin, she says loftily to the older cub, "Shade and sweet water, Midnight." Those are all the words she addresses to the boy, however. As she strides over to Wildfoot, the visitor gets the vast majority of what the girl has to say. "You are unacquainted with Preservers? If you wish I can advise you on their habits and the best ways to avoid them; I have spent most of the last turn of the seasons specifically learning about ours." Wildfoot blinks her large, dark eyes several times quietly. She shakes her head, making her messy mane of tangled braids and waves shake about her shoulders. "No....I think i've seen enough of them. Thank you though." She gives the child another odd look, as if unable to put her finger on something strange, and then turns her gaze to Midnight. "Shade." She says quietly. Midnight mumbles something under his breath which might have been, "Like she's some sorta sunfolk..." Approaching a little closer, her continues to drag his stick into the dirt, making a few meek clouds of dust fly in the air. "Hey Wayfound." He then lets Wayfound batter the visitor with unsaught preserver advice, at times offering Wildfoot a sympathetic glance. Ah, but contrary to whatever Midnight might think of the younger cub, Wayfound _does_ know the meaning of the word 'no', in addition to a wide variety of other words. She inclines her head gravely to the braided adult, standing up straight and tall. "As you wish," she replies with dignity, though there is a small spark of hope in her large eyes as she goes on, "If you require any advice about anything within the territory of the Holt, I would be more than happy to share my observations with you. If you have any knowledge to share about places you have visited, I would also be most grateful to receive such information." Midnight just blinks at Wayfound's speech, wondering to himself if this is the price one pays for being around preservers too much. Wildfoot seems reluctant to volunteer information. "Oh, I've been here and there. Not anyplace special. You've been to the Gathered Holt already, so it'd be wasted breath to tell you about it." She shrugs her shoulders slightly and gestures in the direction of the Itchgrass circle. "I do have a question, though. What is that and who Shaped it?" Midnight takes a frightened step backwards, realizing how a question like this could have Wayfound going on for days and days. Foolish, foolish elf. Wayfound squares her small shoulders, blatantly ignoring Midnight now, though her little face retains its reserved expression. Casting a glance in the direction Wildfoot indicates in order to best determine what the older elf means, the girl-cub bobs her head a single firm time and then returns her attention to the visitor. "That is the circle of itchgrass shaped by Sweetleaf, brother of my mother," she proclaims with something almost like pride lightening her otherwise solemn demeanor. "It was created to shelter the Holt from intrusion by humans and trolls, as well as certain tribes of hostile elves which Mother informs me have occasionally caused trouble to us as well as several tribes with which we are amiably acquainted. Since Sweetleaf's death, it is maintained by our other shapers. If you wish I can explain the properties of itchgrass; I have studied that, too...?" Wildfoot puts a hand up abruptly. "That was more than enough." Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks. "Sweetleaf? He must have had a lot of magic. I'm not good at sensing this kind of thing, really...but it practically crawls off of that itchgrass." She shivers slightly, her gaze focused on the circle. Midnight clings to the branch he dragged in with him, weathering the storm of Wayfound's explanation. Tossed and turned as he may be, he consoles himself with the one fact that helps him at times like these. Even Wayfound eventually runs out of breath. Wayfound's little mouth snaps audibly shut at the gesture of Wildfoot's hand, and for a moment, just a moment, she seems to droop ever so slightly in posture. Is that a flicker of disappointment in the little one's eyes? If it is, it is gone quickly, as she seizes upon the topic of Sweetleaf as a possible way to have a serious conversation with this newcomer to the Holt. "Sweetleaf was possessed of extremely large quantities of magic," she ventures earnestly. "He was the most powerful treeshaper any of us have ever known, and the leftover power from his death still lives within the green growing things that fill the Holt. All of this is, of course, according to my mother, as his passing occurred before my birth, but Mother has shared many of her memories of him with me in sending..." She pauses, briefly nibbling at her lower lip, before she concludes, "I am currently making a study of the mushrooms which he created, and attempting to memorize their various effects in relation to their colors, shapes, and sizes. I trust you were advised by Mother or Fire-father or Fur-father as to which ones you should and should not eat?" Midnight looks at his stick and considers learning to carve. Wildfoot gives Midnight a blank look that says 'what-did-I-just-walk-in-to?' But she does force a polite, if not overly interested look to Wayfound again. "If they told me about the mushrooms, I lost it in wolfsong." She doesn't seem overly concerned with this, though. "So the mushrooms are shaped as well?" That perks her interest and she stands and moves over to examine one. Midnight looks over at Wildfoot, and his expression flickers from amusement to a little belligerance. He then scratches a bit into the dirt with his boot, it seeming to attract all his attention. Now, Wayfound might be overly talkative, but there's a reason for that. The cub's bright. And not without some sense. She stares up at Wildfoot for a moment, taking in the older elf's expression and tone, and her little face begins to turn more stoic. Again, her shoulders square, as she stays where she is near Wildfoot's former seat, not looking at either her or the nearby boy-cub. "Yes," she murmurs tinily. And that's all she says. Midnight relaxes, and realizes this is the time to jump in....before Wildfoot feels guilty and asks another question. "So how do you like our holt so far?" Wildfoot's response is a bit dry. "Well, since I've arrived here, I've been accused of being sick in the head, stared at like i've grown another head, sung to by the world's most annoying creature, and talked to death by this one." She gestures at Wayfound and quirks an eyebrow at Midnight. "So overall, I can't say I'm in paradise, but it beats being stuck in the swamps, I suppose." Wayfound more visibly droops at this. But only for a moment or two. She straightens up again, resolution filling her little face, and turns to look at Midnight only long enough to say politely, "Please excuse me, I will take up no more of your time." The small voice isn't quite matched up with her eyes, though; talk like a tiny adult though she may, those are a cub's eyes, now. And without another word, she turns again and abruptly darts out of the clearing. Wildfoot groans aloud and closes her eyes, shaking her head. "Not again." Midnight turns as he watches Wayfound run off and rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about her. Unless you listen to every word she says and act like she's wise enough to have her own facefur she'll get all upset and run off." Wildfoot picks up her flint knife again and sits back down on the ground, concentrating on her task again. "She's something else. I almost felt stupid talking to her. Think she does that on purpose?" She watches Midnight with dark, wide eyes that don't offer any hint of emotion. Midnight nods firmly, "Of course she does. She's always trying to impress everyone, but only the High Ones know why." Wildfoot snorts and whittles at the butt of her spear for a moment. "She'd impress me by keeping a bit quieter. All that chatter's enough to make me doubt my own sending." She looks askance at Midnight for a moment. "I'm Wildfoot. Visiting. Who are you again?" A sudden thought occurs to her and she frowns. "Don't tell me. You're the chieftess's cub also." Midnight laughs and shakes his head, "Not me. Yikes! The very idea of having her as a sister and having to listen to that stuff..." He then breaks off as he sees the Chieftess approach. "No," comes a fairly dry voice from the northern edge of the clearing, "I've just got the two. And No-fur's rather more your size these days." This, obviously, would be the chieftess. Rillwhisper has paused as she returns from her hunt, a pair of birds on a thong slung over one shoulder and her bow over the other. Her eyebrows are up, and she flicks a green glance from the small elf to the visiting one and back again. "You don't need to stop on my account, cub," she adds even more dryly. "You were saying?" Never being the sensible one, Wildfoot smirks slightly at Midnight. "I believe he was mentioning something about your cub having a rather gushing mouth. That cub goes on and on, doesn't she, Midnight?" Her look is all sweetness and light. Midnight scuffles up the dirt a bit more with his shoe as he considers. "Me? Why I was just...telling our visitor of the dangers that can be found in the holt and the best way to avoid them." He then offers the Chieftess what he hopes is a passable innocent look. Midnight shoots Wildfoot an extremely irritated glace before looking up again at Rill. The Wolfbringer is in fact wolf-accompanied; her big bond-friend Prowlfar lopes out of the shadows behind her, before lying down some distance away and taking a moment to curl around and try to scratch at his backside. At the moment, though, Rillwhisper's attention rests solidly upon the guileless-eyed boy and visitor. Her gaze measures them both, and she finally turns to the latter, slinging the birds around off her shoulder. With deft hands, she removes one, and tosses it to Wildfoot, saying, "Here. If you and your wolf-friend are hungry, this particular marsh-bird is the best of the hunting during this season around here." To Midnight, she nods shortly. "What say you continue your conversation then, lad, and I'll chip in if I need to." Wildfoot beams a smile at Rillwhisper and uses her knife on the bird, slicing it open to gut it. She grabs a handful of grasses and lays them down to save the entrails for Grayface. "My wolf's hunting for the moment, but when he gets back, he should be plenty hungry. My thanks, chieftess. We were actually just discussing the itchgrass circle around the holt, right Midnight?" She gives him a sharp look and rips into the bird. Midnight looks a bit unsure of himself, pausing to look away as if in hope someone else might wander in and change the topic. "Um, sure." He then points in the general direction of the closest bit of itchgrass. "That's itchgrass. Stay away from it or, well...you'll itch. That pretty much sums it up..." He then edges slowly away from the Chieftess. Rill's sharp green gaze studies Wildfoot for a few moments longer, neutral, unrevealing; in fact, there's a distinct resemblance between her expression and that of the cub who'd bolted out of the clearing not long before her mother showed up. If the chieftess is aware of any lingering traces of Wayfound's scent in the immediate vicinity, she gives no sign of it. She merely says tersely, as she claims a seat on the log and begins to divide up the other bird between herself and her wolf, "We're hard to find, but we do try to be friendly to those who visit." Wildfoot squirms slightly under the chieftess's gaze. "This seems to be a rather quiet holt compared to the Gathered." Her voice is perky and interested as she makes a grand heave to change the topic. "Less elves than them, right? Or just a lot quieter overall?" Midnight relaxes now that he isn't the focus of the chieftess's attention. He even starts looking a little smug, prehaps telling himself he's once again escaped trouble with his quick wit. Drawing a brightmetal knife from the sheath on her thigh, Rillwhisper slits open her catch, slicing feathers free and beginning to make a pile of them on the log beside her. "I didn't get a count of the elves who live at the Gathered Holt when we were there," she replies in her low, cool voice. Her tone's got just a touch of gruffness. "And I expect that the number of them was thrown off by all the visitors, anyway. But no, we're not large." The knife cuts the first sliver of fresh free, and as she pops it into her mouth, she eyes both the other elves and sends matter-of-factly, ** And we do tend to be quiet. It's been a relief for me to hear someone trying to talk; it's a refreshing change of pace. ** Wildfoot doesn't know what to make of the chieftess's words. It's definately the first time she's been praised for talking, judging from the surprised look on her expressive face. "Yes well....sending's a bit more private than I like to share with most." Her serious tone belies her casually shrugged shoulders and she stands, dusting off her leggings. Midnight nods to Wildfoot and what she says. "I can understand that. Plus if some people sent as much as they talked, we'd all have a pounding headache..." One corner of Rillwhisper's mouth curls up. The smile, such as it is, doesn't quite reach her eyes, and her gaze is as steady as any chief wolf's. She swallows down her sliver of meat, and replies calmly, without missing a beat, "It _is_ nice to talk to a newcomer, but I was actually speaking of my daughter." Her gaze shifts to Midnight, levelly. Midnight's eyes open wider, and he searches for a good response. "Um...well. She does talk. Can't argue with that." If any of that was aimed at Wildfoot, she ignores it, continuing to dust off her quite-clean behind. "Well, i've got to go find Grayface. He'll want the innards to this bird before they get too cool." She scoops up the kill, not noticing that it hasn't been hardly more than bled--the innards are still inside the bird. "Shade to you both." And she exits as hastily as Wayfound did, several minutes before. Wildfoot slips down the path around the Old Willow. Wildfoot has left. The chieftess's gaze shifts to track Wildfoot's departure, noting her direction as well as the rate of her leaving. Then the green regard swings back to the boycub, and she considers him steadily for two full heartbeats before inquiring straightforwardly, "Are you hungry?" Wayfound might be trying to imitate her mother's generally stoic and gruff behavior, but if there's one thing about Rillwhisper that the cub doesn't mimic, it's her brevity. Or perhaps the chieftess has been more brief of word as of late, to make up for her daughter? Midnight nods, his hunger making his other fears fade away as quickly as mist before the blazing sun. "Sure! I never say no to some food, especially the prize animals you always seem to catch." It seems he's decided flattery might help in this situation. The flattery doesn't appear to make much of an impact on Rillwhisper's expression, but she does gesture with her knife at the space on the log beside her, on the opposite side from the neat if bloody pile of feathers she's building as she skins her catch. She slits a shred of the meat from the carcass for the cub, holding it out for him. "Familiar with the dangers of the Holt now, are you?" she inquires. Midnight obediently takes a seat, still draging the stick alongside. He then drops it to the ground as he's offered food, taking the meat and tossing it into his mouth. While he chews on the birdmeat, he shifts to a send. ** I think so. ** A sizeable chunk of the bird's flank is tossed off to Prowlfar, who catche the bloody morsel with a snap of his big jaws and starts in on it vigorously. Rillwhisper, in the meantime, continues to make progress through what's left of the bird, and she suggests, ** Suppose you tell me, then, since our visitor left us. I'd like to see what you've picked up. ** Midnight picks as a bit of meat that's got stuck between his teeth with a rather dirty fingernail. "Well...there's the itchgrass. Gotta stay out of that. While it stops humans and other elves, I bet soon I'll be able to fly right over it!" He looks a bit smug at this fact. ** Not all of us can fly, ** the chieftess points out. ** Are you familiar yet with how the rest of us get through the circle? ** Midnight shakes his head, ever so subtly moving his hand out for another piece of meat. "Um...you jumped from tree limb to tree limb?" ** That's part of it, ** Rillwhisper allows, not missing the hand, and deciding that the answer's worth another share of the bird. However, the chieftess presents it along with a long, steady stare, and the terse advice, ** Getting through the itchgrass is tricky, but it can be done, swift and quiet. ** She rises, then, downing a few more slivers of the fresh kill before turning to let Prowlfar finish off the rest of the carcass. Midnight blinks at the stare, only taking the food after the chieftess looks away. He then nods at her words, clearly not understanding but certain to remember what she said. ** There's much that can be learned if you can apply yourself to it, ** Rillwhisper adds, taking up her bow and turning to go. And perhaps the point of her advice can be gleaned as she finishes, ** Even if you're small. ** With those cryptic words, then, she's leaping up into the branches overhead... and she's gone. [End log.]