"The Capture of Doreel" Log Date: 10/6/02 Log Cast: Rillwhisper, Ynderra (emitted by Guest1, trying out for the part), Trollkiller, Woodhawk (emitted by Rillwhisper), Wayfound (emitted by Rillwhisper), Doreel, Oriolle/Thicket, Tefin (emitted by Rillwhisper), Arnos (emitted by Rillwhisper), Maerro (emitted by Rillwhisper) Log Intro: Rillwhisper has never been a particularly headstrong or impulsive elf, not when she was living in the tribe of Redbear, not when she was chieftess of the Willowholt... and not now, as she leads a party of her tribesmates into the remote, hidden grove inhabited by the mad Firstborn Doreel. To the unwary it would be an impulsive jaunt indeed -- but the need is great, for Lostholt has taken it upon themselves to try to track down the source of the monsters that have been sighted all over the land, bringing about the deaths of not only elves but humans as well. And to Lostholt, the first name that comes to mind at the thought of the shaping of monstrous creatures is Doreel -- creator of giant spiders. Along with two of the humans of the people called "Vraeyans", the Wolfbringer and her tribesmates have been spending several eights of days on the hunt through the woods surrounding the mad one's hideaway. Eventually, however, they must make their way in and confront Doreel himself, though they have yet to discover that Doreel is not alone in the heart of his grove... ---------- Grove(#9784RLU) Life abounds in the center of this grove, not quite drowning it in profusions of vegetation. All around it plants grow, twisting about each other in a magical dance of life that makes the hair on the back of one's neck stand up. It is an oval, about an arrow's flight across its longest part and slightly less than half that across the narrowest, covered over with a lawn of brilliant verdant green. The distance is narrowed some by the many trees spread about the outer span of the oval, spaced rather neatly apart from one another. They are odd trees, though, filtering through the many stages of a tree's life: some are covered in flowers, others in thick summer growth, while the leaves of not a few are stained the colours of deathfall. Many of the trees are adorned with fruits, but not those commonly seen anywhere else on Abode. Beyond those trees rises a high wall of thorns, tangled and thick enough to prevent any idea of what lies beyond. A creek cuts across the middle of the place, winding this way and that with no apparent purpose, flowing both in and out under the wall. On one side of it grows a huge tree, one whose top towers far above any other, its trunk easily wider than half a dozen elves could encompass with arms spread. Twisted roots shelter tiny niches where grow odd patches of mushrooms and berry brambles. On the far side of the water is another tree, smaller and more twisted, with odd, raised patterns in its trunk. The space is almost deathly quiet. There are no birds, no chattering small animals, not even any noisy insects.. only the sound of the water. Contents: Trollkiller(#3442PVc$0) Doreel Guest1 Obvious exits: Woods Path Hole Tree Wolfriders have never been much prone to the counting of days -- but even more so than usual for the elves of Lostholt, time in the dark, bewebbed forest that rings the hidden grove of the Mad One Doreel has run together into a seemingly endless, shadowed span of hunting and killing. The noises of the spiders have been incessant at first, slowly lessening through the eights of days as the band of elves and humans has diligently tracked and slain each one they've run across. True to their word, the Vraeyans Arnos and Maerro have staunchly fought at their smaller companions' sides, the elder male proving himself adept with the spears he's called "jav-uh-lins", which he's asked Ynderra to shape for him once he's conveyed what he's had in mind. Maerro has fought with all the eager recklessness of a half-grown cub, for all that he towers over every single elf in the group -- but even Maerro has done his share of damage. Now, at last, they've come close to the heart of the grove. The sense of ancient magic hangs thickly in the air, aided by the pungent, multi-layered scents of flowers that ornament a tangled wall of greenery that to anyone else might have been impassable... But then, that's why the party led by the Wolfbringer has brought Ynderra. With the humans, her daughter, and her daughter's lovemate further down the trail to guard the supplies and the two ponies, Rillwhisper lurks down on the fringe of the green border of the grove, beckoning briskly to Ynderra. ** Can you get us in here? ** Running to the front of the grouping of people, to give the border of the Grove a looking over before even trying to attempt using her magic, Ynderra gives Rillwhisper a look of confidance. ** I will try my best. ** She sends, before stepping up towards the closest range of the border's foliage edges, confronting it. Extending her hand and touching the greenery - eyes closed in concentration, a soft green-gold glow emits and the greenery bends to her will, slowly working a way through the barrier. The maiden doesn't waiver her attempts as the barrier weakens, seemingly oblivious to the world around her in her trance. Trollkiller keeps a watch from the back, looking to see whether any more of those clicking monsters decide to make another run at us - but so far, they seem to have gotten smart enough - or at least wary enough - to stay away from the party, at least for now. He glances forward occasionally as Ynderra works, checking on her progress. ** Do you think he knows we're coming? ** Woodhawk asks gruffly, just behind his fair-haired lifemate, opposite his befurred one, guarding the narrow trail on the other side. His lean hands are slack upon the bow he's been carrying through the woods. No spiders are in evidence, not for the time being, but the biggest danger is ahead of the group and not behind it. Spiders, even monstrous ones shaped out of proportion by mad magic, can be shot and killed -- or if you happen to be Woodhawk, scorched by his own particular magic. Their Shaper is a much more problematic quantity, though... and Woodhawk hasn't forgotten the last time they set foot in this place. ** And how exactly are we going to confront him, lifemate? ** Rillwhisper's mouth curls sardonically, as her attention never wavers from Ynderra's attempts upon the foliage wall. ** There's always the direct approach, though I doubt if I stride up to him and demand 'Have you been making three-headed near-wolf monsters', he'll actually tell me. But who knows? He's crazy. He just might. I'm worried about that other elf Fallberry claims it saw, though... ** Inside the Grove, that mad Shaper has begun to pace. His Helpers have alerted him that they thought something strange was going on, and amid their attempts to tell Doreel what they were worried about, there was brief mention of a preserver. Since then, the Shaper's taken to having daily walks along the fringe of the Grove, poking around with bits of magic so he might detect any change in the structure of his walls. As the group from the outside begins to make their way in, he's taken up a spot next to the creek, simply watching the flow of water while seated on the green grass nearby. Every so often, he glances around for that 'other' elf. After all, she's been left free to her devices. That Other, the 'leafygreen highthing' of whom the Preserver has babbled to its companions, is not yet in evidence... but then again, the maiden Doreel has claimed for his own has not yet been quite strong enough to venture far from the great tree at the heart of the Grove. It's taken the Helpers, Lira primarily among them, to remind their Master that his Creation needs to eat... and in between furtively glancing out into the distant woods, they've scurried occasionally into the Tree to attend to the needs of the one now called Oriolle. But Oriolle herself has not emerged... and in the meantime, somewhere on the edge of the Grove's wall of living green, magic spikes up in a palpable wave. Shaping magic. And it does not taste of the infant power born within Oriolle. A noticable amount of prespiration forms over Ynderra's eyebrows, as she works hard to dispatch the barrier from the way of the others. Slowly, the vines and other foliage part at her command, twisting and forming just enough of a parting to allow elves and humans through - provided they ducked. She opens her eyes when the task is complete, stepping aside from the newly formed entrance to the grove with a look of accomplishment, but also of worry. ** I hope that the shaping did not alert those that reside inside. ** 'Derra sends to the others, pushing a lock of her black hair from in front of her eyes. The humans would come through -- except that they've already been warned that staying out of the sight of the Mad One is the wisest course for the time being. Rillwhisper nods to the shaper's proclamation, before turning to toss a sending back down the trail. ** We're going in, daughter. You and Tefin and the Tall Ones -- stay alert, be careful, and be ready for my signal. ** ** Acknowledged, Mother. Arnos tells me to wish you good luck. ** A pause, then the unseen daughter of the Wolfrider adds with just a touch of anxiety ruffling her otherwise stoic calm, ** Tefin wishes you the same, as do I. Watch yourselves, Mother. ** Rillwhisper blows out a silent breath, then turns back to her nearest companions. ** I guess we're about to find out. Eyes high and ears up -- let's do this. ** Squaring her shoulders, setting her jaw, the Wolfbringer slips carefully through the hole in the hedge. Each of her hands lingers near her brightmetal knives, ready to whip them forth at a heartbeat's notice. Inevitably, it turns out to be one of Doreel's helpers that first alerts him once the wall has been breached. A rather panicky Lar rushes over towards the Shaper, babbling something about intruders over that-a-way, doing the couragous thing and hiding afterwards. It's with a frown that Doreel gathers himself to his feet and takes the first steps over towards said opening, his eyes narrowing slightly as the small group is sighted. ** I thought someone was out there. I figured the spiders had a few meals, but it seems I was mistaken. ** His eyes pass from one to the next, pausing a moment longer at the furred form of Trollkiller's. ** This is not your first time here. ** he expresses to all, covering those he knows have visited in the past. Trollkiller blinks, and nods affirmingly. That's quite a bit more... coherent ... than he was expecting. He'd say something, but... well, it's Rillwhisper's place, not his, after all. So much for getting past the foliage wall unanticipated. Rillwhisper does not look particularly surprised to find the ancient elf already on his way to intercept them, but as Doreel approaches them the Wolfbringer simply stops and waits for him to draw closer. Woodhawk takes up a protective stance just behind her, and for all that Rillwhisper no longer wears a chieftain's topknot, the aura of a chieftain still lingers a bit about her as she looks coolly upward at the Firstborn. ** That's true, ** she agrees. ** And we apologize for the intrusion, but we've come to speak with you on a matter of grave importance. I take it you remember us, then. ** Ynderra takes a few steps back from Rillwhisper, allowing her to pass through the opening first that she had shaped open. 'Derra watches in silent appeal of the situation, readily waiting to see what happens. Stepping through the opening and skirting beside Trollkiller, her eyes lifted upon the form of Doreel in front of her and drifting to Rillwhisper she looks ready to do whatever she is needed. Remaining silent yet, Ynderra waits to hear the Firstborn's response to the posed statement. ** ...to an extent. ** is all Doreel decides to say in response to remembering those present. He considers each of them warily, as one might be expected to do when one's home has been entered without permission. Folding his arms at the chest, he stands up straighter than usual, prompting, ** Speak. ** ** Elves are dying, ** Rillwhisper sends bluntly, willing enough for now to forgo pulling her weapons as long as Doreel seems coherent -- but it's plain that she's as wary as the Firstborn is. ** Monsters are killing them, monsters that have been shaped. Some of them look like this. ** And she offers forth a sending, gleaned from the sendings of her daughter, of one of the three-headed near-wolves that had attacked the camp of the Vraeyans... though she offers nothing more than the monster itself. ** Others have looked different, but there have been others. ** To a treeshaper's senses especially, the Grove veritably... _glows_. Layer after layer, thread after thread of magic pulses through every green growing thing in this place... though it's an almost sterile kind of life, and it has not much changed since the last time these four elves were here. If anything, the canopy of leaf and branch and vine overhead has grown thicker, permitting very little light down into the heart of the place. And as before, there are no noises of insect or animal life; there is only the greenery. And the magic. And no sign, at least not yet, of any other elf that might be here with the Firstborn. Oriolle and the helpers are not in view; only Doreel stands before them as the sole elf to speak with. While he listens, a scowl takes shape mostly at the visual image of the near-wolves. ** And you think I made them? ** he accuses bluntly, shaking his head in annoyance. ** I have not made those...abominations, or any of them. I do not create to harm. ** Trollkiller blinks. Well. Good. That was unexpectedly easy. Assuming that he's as not-completely-crazy as he... suddenly sounds. He wonders whether Doreel could be doing it and being so crazy that he doesn't even know. He looks on, and tries to figure it out. Ynderra looks as though she wishes to say, or send, something. But distractions are many in the Grove for her, making her feel light headed with all the magic abounding here. Blinking a couple times, she brings herself back to the here - now, where Doreel and Rillwhisper carry the conversation. That might almost be a laughable assertion, given the prior circumstances that have brought elves of Willowholt and Lostholt into this place -- but neither Rillwhisper nor Woodhawk shows any sign of impending levity. The firestarter _does_ slip a locksending to his companions, though, grimly taking note of the fact that Doreel has _sent_ his proclamation of innocence. Such is not lost upon Rillwhisper, either. ** We didn't honestly know, ** Rillwhisper answers the Shaper, crossing her arms, though doing her best to keep to a non-hostile stance. ** You're the only elf we know of with power enough to make them. And we have to find out who's doing it -- elves _have_ died. So has my daughter's wolf-friend. This may not mean anything to you, Old One, but it does to us. ** She pauses, studying Doreel keenly, brow furrowed. Something _is_ different about him, something the Wolfbringer can't quite ascertain. ** But we'll take your word for it, since you've sent it. And we'll not disturb you further. ** In the meantime, though, Rillwhisper as well shoots a locksending to the others: ** Any of you -- sense _anything_ here besides the treeshaping he's done? Anything that feels... like monsters? Ynderra? ** Nothing that feels like the twisted magic that made the three-headed near-wolves. But there is... _something_. A tiny, tentative trickle of power, barely noticeable amongst the greater overall aura that pervades this place. A single bud in the midst of a forest... but it's a power that doesn't feel like Doreel's. Doreel's lack of concern is telling, appearing as though his mind may be wandering in the midst of Rillwhisper's explanation as to how they arrived here to question him. ** You're right; it's not my concern. I have nothing to do with the outside, only this place as it is my home. ** He turns away as though he's through with the meeting, a flat send tossed back their way. ** Do leave my wall as you found it when you go. ** For someone who has shown a need for companionship to Oriolle, he comes off quite uninterested in this new group of elves sticking around. Perhaps they are too many. Perhaps they cause bad memories to poke and nudge at his troubled mind. A look of concentration forms on Ynderra's face as she tries to sense if there's any oddities in this grove, but the overwhelming magic here nearly drowns out the spark of *something* that might be different. The look fades on her face, and her gaze follows Doreel as he turns away from the grouping. Ynderra responds to the locksending of Rillwhisper with an odd answer: ** There's something.. not the monsters, and not Doreel, but something else. Something familiar. It's so hard to tell. ** You sense in a locksend to Ynderra, Rillwhisper: Trollkiller isn't sure. ** I don't have much skill at that sort of thing... ** He's a terrifically good sender, but that's most of his power. He pokes out a bit, though, trying - taking care to avoid anything sent in Doreel's direction. That wouldn't do in the slightest. All too eager to get out of the place, her nose crinkled in distaste for the pervading blanket of floral scents that block out almost everything else to a Wolfrider's sensitive nose -- what _is_ it with mad treeshapers and intoxicating flowers, anyway? -- Rillwhisper begins to turn and beckon the others back through the wall. Before she does, however, that other Something tugs at the awareness again... that corner of elfin senses that Suntop has called 'magic feeling'. It does not come from Doreel; rather, it originates from the distant central Tree, uncurling like fragile Newgreen leaves into the sunshine... Uncurling, like the vines that begin to slowly trickle forth out of the entrance that leads into the Tree's inner chamber. One vine, two, three, hugging close to the Tree itself, almost shyly. With them comes a hand. And then the stumbling, pale form of a she-elf, taller than the Wolfriders but not so tall as Doreel, teetering with the unsteadiness of a newborn cub and clinging as though in the throes of Recognition itself to the tree along with the vines. And vines are all she wears, wrapped all along her frail form and threaded through the mane of silver hair that spills clear down to her ankles. Oriolle walks down the stairs from the heart of the tree. Oriolle has arrived. Oriolle Though she is starkly thin, each detail of an impossibly delicate bone structure clearly defined beneath her translucent skin, there nevertheless lingers about this she-elf a hint of something like starlight. It glimmers across her features each time she moves, and lurks in the sheen of a mane of hair that spills in silver glory clear down to her ankles. And yet, there is also a strange, exotic tinge of the faintest green about her face and form as well, as though the starlight that touches her is filtered down through a thick blanket of leaves. Green too are her eyes, enormous in the perfectly proportioned structure of her visage, prone to sad wistfulness one moment and a dreamful distraction the next. She stands taller than many younger elves would at roughly five feet, though there are many elves of older breeds who would surpass her height... and while there is an apparent inherent, unconscious grace in her every movement, she nevertheless makes those movements like one who is not accustomed to the body she wears. Her voice is a pure, crystalline soprano, at least when she chances to use it; most often she sends instead, and the strength and clarity of it may well strike a receptive mind like the chiming of silver bells. One other detail may well also stand out to those who have the senses to perceive it: the memory of magic trails about her like a cloud. By someone with a powerful hand indeed, this maiden has been shaped. At the moment she is clad in nothing but vines, wrapped tight and close about her thin form, almost enough to hinder her already uncertain moments. They're tangled thickly through her hair as well, and between the vines and blossoms in which she is entwined, the green tinge to her skin is heightened... making her begin to look almost as if she were one with the vines she wears. Thinking, perhaps, that the intruders will simply listen to him and leave, Doreel smiles as something tips him off to that she-elf stirring, deciding to come outside perhaps for a bit of life-giving sunlight. ** Ahh..my dear Oriolle.. ** he sends openly, a look of joy spreading across his features as his pace, for once, picks up to more of a normal walk back towards the tree. ** You've slept well, I hope? ** To the observer, it looks as though he's got himself a friend, a blend of both elf and vine. Trollkiller peers. Well. _She_ doesn't look so entirely healthy. But... well, what? He exchanges a concerned glance with Woodhawk, and pads nervously from foot to foot. "Timmorn's Blood," Rillwhisper blurts out loud, her eyes going wide and her jaw physically dropping at the sight of the apparition emerging from the Tree. The vines shift and cling to the newcomer with her every uncertain movement, and she glows as well, a paler edition of aura Ynderra has produced when penetrating the Grove's outer wall; as she glows, the trunk of the great Tree seems to shift ever so slightly, seeming to pull her against itself. "What has he done..." The one the Firstborn calls Oriolle, still clinging to the Tree all the while, lifts up enormous, confused eyes -- first to the faint beams of light that manage to penetrate the canopy of greenery overhead, then to the Shaper who begins to head toward her. Then it slides dazedly to take in the other elves -- and abruptly she twitches, bodily, for all that she does not let go of the Tree. Intermingled fear and confusion shoots across her pale face... and a sending bursts forth from her, surprisingly strong, and as oddly tangled and layered as the foliage that grows in this strange, twisted, near-choked place of magic. ** Magic... sensed magic? New magic... _want_... Who... what... others? Make Trees of others? ** And then, right on the tail end of that, an entirely different sending, one that accompanies a spike of alarm and desperation in the she-elf's face: ** ** Ynderra quirks a slender brow, her eyes widening as she sees the she-elf called Oriolle move towards the Firstborn. She takes a step backwards, nearly stepping on Trollkiller's foot before catching herself. The send too, also sends her reeling, her eyes darting to Rillwhisper as though looking for an order for action - if there is to be one. As the stranger's latter sending howls forth, Rillwhisper jolts as though physically struck -- and then springs forward, galvanized, determined to stop the Shaper before he reaches this bizarre newcomer. ** _Hold it_, Doreel! ** she demands, hurling forth her insistence with all the force and surety of one of Strongbow's own arrows. ** Who is this and what in the name of the High Ones did you _do_ to her? ** Behind her, Woodhawk snaps to attention, bringing his bow to the ready, though he does not yet nock an arrow to its string. ** Who... didn't know... don't know... am... am Oriolle, Shaper says so, Shaper made... am Oriolle for Shaper... ** High and sweet and clear the maiden's sending sounds, and she sways against the tree, clinging tighter to it now as the vines writhe closer against her, seeming to encourage her to hold fast to the trunk. ** Am... elf... am Tree... am Oriolle... ** With the she-wolf flare of sending, her mind's touch turns abruptly gruffer, the bell-like tones vanishing entirely... and her thin form jerks hard within the vines, such that she might almost fall if they were not holding her fast. Doreel whirls from Oriolle to the others, now well aware that they're still here. He then stares at Oriolle again as the she-wolf he'd tried to vanquish rears her ugly head again, at the worst possible moment. ** No..! Oriolle..don't you remember? ** He seems to panic, worry overwhelming the elf's actions, concern that the others will take Oriolle from him and leave him alone again, or worse. ** Leave us alone! You can't have her - she's mine! I needed her..made her better! ** He doesn't appear to think or understand that he's done anything wrong at all, ignoring the elves with bow and arrows as he tries to get back to Oriolle in time to soothe her, comfort her. ** It will be all right..I promise... ** Trollkiller appeared first dumbstruck by the sight of the stranger from the tree, before hearing the send, and leaping over beside her, sending to the _very_ strange elf. He starts to grab at the vines to tear them free, but at the last second, thinks better of it - at least for the moment, as he almost, but not quite, collides with Doreel in the race there. ** I don't think she's in agreement with you on that 'better' concept, Old One, ** Rillwhisper growls, and along with the growl in her sending come a bit of a rumble in her throat as well. ** I know a call for help when I hear one. _Ynderra_! Help Trollkiller with her! ** The Wolfbringer occupies herself in the meantime with the Shaper, not foolish enough to try to actually bodily grab him, but she does dart around to plant her smaller, sprightlier form in his path. The stranger, in the meantime, writhes visibly in the bizarre embrace of the vines, pressing up closer against the tree that seems to ripple even as the others watch, letting her sink into the living wood. Even as she does profound, immense confusion spills through her expression and her sending, triggered by Doreel's anxious call. ** ** And then, at last, though it's difficult to tell of whom the plea is made, comes an addendum that sounds bizarrely as though sent by two minds at once: ** Help me!/Help me! ** Trollkiller doesn't need to hear anything else, and slices at the vines - it's a good thing he kept the small blade sharp after all - pulling her away from the trunk of the tree - and trying also not to hurt the tree itself. After all, it isn't the tree's fault. It's this lunatic. He locksends to the stranger that someone else is here, that we're trying to help, and also that she's not a tree, no matter what Doreel might have done to make her think she was one. Rushing over towards where Oriolle is sinking into the tree, nearly pushing Trollkiller out of the way as she reaches for the vines and bark. The familiar gree-gold glow radiating from her hands as she works at getting the vines to let loose of the she-elf being rapidly entrapped within the tree. Leaving plenty of room for Trollkiller to work at helping her get the maiden out of the tree they may be successful if she doesn't pull herself further in. Ynderra sends to Oriolle, not in words as much as images and feelings to try and calm her, they were there to help, not harm her. Brows knitted, and concentration focused, she works at freeing the elfess from the tree, leaving the Doreel to be dealt with by Rillwhisper. Doreel hesitates as Rillwhisper takes charge and calls for others to free Oriolle, but it's an extremely pained look he gives both Oriolle and Rillwhisper when she moves to stop him from advancing any further to impede the progress in freeing his...creation. The worst of the pain isn't because of them, however. No - it's from Oriolle herself when her own voice makes up the call for help. He reacts as though whatever heart he has has been torn from him, staggering backwards a moment before..changing. Not unlike the sudden snap of a branch, his send completely changes from that of a fretting old elf fearing the loss of a loved one to someone spiteful and vengeful. ** You should not have interfered. I tried to do something good, and you've ruined it. I will make sure you never leave my grove again. You will all become my newest trees when I am done. ** Along with this, an angered and stormy visage as his magical aura spikes, calling forth every vine he can control to do their best to quickly ensnare the thieves of his Oriolle, numerous green growing things beginning to flow from all around the closest trees, seeking out elves, bows and arrows, everyone and everything in the party that's come here. Snakelike, they writhe as some move along the ground, others advancing from branches overhead. They're not /fast/ but quick enough that they'll wrap around and ensnare unless their targets are swift in dealing with them. For all that the stranger called Oriolle is taller than Trollkiller, he outmasses her significantly -- in fact, she's even thinner than a Glider, this disheveled and obviously ailing she-elf. One would think that pulling her away from the tree would not be much effort, and even though she is easily lifted, the living wood of the great Tree seems oddly reluctant to let her go. Her limbs still glowing, vines still writhing seemingly of their own accord along her fragile frame, the maiden crumples back against Trollkiller and Ynderra both. _Her_ vines are not nearly so guided as the Firstborn's, mostly seeming to wish to cling to _her_ rather than anything else... but the Firstborn's are threat enough. Trollkiller guh. This again part again. He hates this part. Stupid moving plants. Stupid Doreel. Stupid crazy old ones. Plants shouldn't move like that. He slashes at the vines around the tree, and then as soon as they seem back enough, starts slashing with his longsword like a scythe at the new wave of oncoming vines. ** Back _off_, stupid old plantshaper! She doesn't want to be here! You've hurt her badly and you're too crazy to understand but BACK! OFF! ** Uncharacteristically furious, he sends with particular anger and force, right at that beady little wibbly thing Doreel uses for a brain. ** 'Hawk, _NOW_! ** comes Rillwhisper's sending, and the firestarter is a heartbeat in her wake, his brown eyes flaring to gold and the smell of scorching greenery flaring up as soon as vines shoot towards himself and his nearer lifemate. Rillwhisper herself growls more visibly now, but before she does anything else she tips back her head -- and howls. "Ayoooaoooaoaooaoaaoaooo-oaaah!" >From somewhere outside the grove comes an answering howl -- Wayfound's. And as soon as the Wolfbringer hears her daughter's answer, she throws herself headlong at the ancient elf, bent on holding him at bay until the others can arrive. Wayfound, Tefin, the humans who she prays to the High Ones will be clever enough to keep out of the path of the Firstborn's rage -- and the Preserver. Doreel balks at the slicing and dicing of his precious vines, gasping especially when Woodhawk sets them aflame. ** Don't --! ** The way he reacts, one might think it actually affected him as well. Trollkiller's heated sending doesn't appear to get very far with him right now, too caught up in thoughts of revenge before Rillwhisper howls and unceremoniously removes him from his feet. Not the best at physical alterations by any stretch of the imagination, he fights back with instinct alone, wrestling for a hold on her - a hand, perhaps the face or neck - and letting loose with a flood of healing magic meant to hurt and cause pain throughout the entire body, centered especially where he touches. ** You can't take her..I won't be left alone again! ** Woodhawk can't yet leap into the fray to join Rillwhisper, occupied as he is with setting alight every vine that comes near her -- and himself as well. Not so practiced as the Firstborn in his control and power, the firestarter's doing all he can to keep himself and Rillwhisper unencumbered. As for Rillwhisper, magic is why she brought Woodhawk and Ynderra with her on this particular hunt. Gritting her teeth, sweat beating her brow as she grunts in low-level shock at the pain that sears through her slight form, she doggedly straddles the Firstborn and does her level best to keep him down... and reach one of her knives. Working hard to free Oriolle from the tree she's trying to keep herself attached to, only a few of the grasping vines remain wrapped around her. Ynderra reaches for her knife and cuts them, leaving Trollkiller to bear the weight of the elf maiden alone until she can be freed from the tree completely. Swiveling around to see Doreel and Rillwhisper wrestling admist the growing flames and vines, ** She's free! ** Is the send that Ynderra gives, though who knows how long before more vines reach to grab Oriolle back to them. Trollkiller lurches towards the still-open hole in the grove's edge, carrying the stranger across his shoulders. She's not nearly as heavy as she ought to be - the crazy one has probably been feeding her rain and not much else. He'd wonder what plants eat if he had the time to think about it, but he doesn't right now. ** I can't cut much vine and carry at the same time - let's go! ** Doreel's struggles continue even as the vines he commands remain in action, showing little to no sign of stopping in spite of their maker being occupied with Rillwhisper right now. The flow of magic continues and intensifies, Doreel trying to cause her enough pain and discomfort as to drive her away from him. Rage, hurt, and determination are just three of the many emotions leaking out of the Mad One's head, also sending these very feelings to Rillwhisper, wishing her to understand how painful it is to take someone from him, the first someone he's been able to call a companion in far, far too long. Rillwhisper doesn't even try to debate the Old One's wrathful ravings; it's all _she_ can do to hang onto her consciousness as every muscle in her body seems to shriek with pain. And all she can do to lean the full force of her slight weight into him -- while she pulls her brightmetal knife from its sheath. And plunges it, almost blindly, into the Firstborn's shoulder. Even as she does, a tiny bolt of purple and green comes winging through the open hole in the wall of vines: the Preserver, sent ahead by its young mistress. /EEEEEEEE! Fallberry come! Fallberry come for highthings! Findaway highthing send Fallberry!/ Physical pain. For a moment there, Doreel isn't even sure what that is or how to react to it, so long has it been since the last time he's been wounded. On reaction alone he cries out, his painful touches cutting off abruptly as he reaches shakily for the blade and rips it free, casting it aside before kicking at Rillwhisper to get her away, grimacing as he places that hand over the wound to begin healing it shut. The sound of a preserver is heard but the potential meaning of this does not register. Still, the vines seek captives. It is unclear whether or not Doreel is even consciously aware of them now. Broken free of the unhealthy clinging of her vines, Oriolle stirs once, feebly, in Trollkiller's grasp. The tiny flicker of power that seems to be hers and not Doreel's extinguishes itself, once her contact with the tree is broken -- but as the furred elf races towards the hole in the grove wall with her, she whimpers fretfully, deliriously. Fragments of sending escape her, seemingly at random, as if the power roused within the Grove is as sharp within her awareness as it's been within Ynderra's. And, for that matter, the fury and fear. Rillwhisper, in the meantime, rolls away and hard as Doreel shoves her... but she has _two_ knives. The one Rainfire gave her... and the one Lifefire gave her. She draws her second one now, stumbling up again, and crying out breathlessly, "_Fallberry_! _DO_!" The Preserver shoots towards her, remembering the command it has been given -- and even as the Wolfbringer lashes out to clout the Firstborn across the skull with the pommel of her second blade, Fallberry's wrapstuff flies. That'll do, oh yes. Very nicely, in fact. The moment Doreel's head gets up close and personal with the second blade Rillwhisper's got, his whole world goes numb after the flash. Having caught it in just the right spot, the shaper's body crumples to the grass in a heap, the activity of the vines immediately ceasing even while wrapping around one elf's arm, another's leg, yet another one's head. Just in time, really. Trollkiller struggles forward, struggles forward, struggles forward, and suddenly doesn't have to struggle at all, and barely keeps himself from stumbling headfirst into the glade wall. Well. That's much better. He turns and looks towards Rillwhisper, and Doreel as he's being wrapped up, and then looks to the elf he's carrying. Water and food, most of all. Following behind Trollkiller, Ynderra tries to keep the path clear of the vines with little luck until Doreel is put out by Rillwhisper. She glances back towards the two as the preserver rushes in to get straight to work on wrapstuffing the Firstborn. ** Can we please get out of this grove? ** She asks sincerely, a growing headache from the over extension of her magics and the overwhelming magic feeling in this area. ** Are you alright, Rillwhisper? ** She asks, having second thought that she might be hurt, swivling at the opening she'd created earlier to look at her. "We'll _all_ get out," Rillwhisper pants, "and _now_..." Fortunately for her, Woodhawk's there to give a strong arm to lean on to let her keep moving. Now that Doreel is unconscious, vines are easily shoved aside... and nothing pleases the Wolfbringer more than getting back out into open, fresher air. The others materialize at the wall, Wayfound and Tefin first, but the two blink and clear the way for Trollkiller to carry the stranger through first. But Wayfound's ambergreen gaze shoots to her mother -- and with a hastily blurted, "Mother... Arnos, come on!" over her shoulder, the Wolfbringer's daughter bolts in to help her Fire-father walk Rillwhisper out of the ruined grove. Behind her comes the older of the humans, his green gaze flickering nervously about the place, but Arnos follows Wayfound undauntedly. At least until he reaches the cocoon, murmuring to his elfin friend as he does, "Shall I... carry him? I think I'm best able..." Wayfound bobs her head hastily, adding sidelong to him, "Yes, my friend... but be careful with him...!" Trollkiller is, meanwhile, busily carrying the stranger - whoever she really is. ** We need to get out of here, just so we can _feed her_, if nothing else. And quickly, too. We don't know what the spiders will do, with their master unconscious. ** /Highthings bring oldold bendtrees highthing?/ Fallberry pipes, fluttering up with a distinct air of satisfaction. It's actually gotten to make wrapstuff for once, and it beams down at its handiwork with what can only be a Preserver's version of pride in one's own art before flicking a curious glance at its favorite highthing. "We can't leave him," Wayfound pronounces, in a tone as even as her mother's would be, if Rillwhisper were not staggering on her feet. "We... can't l... leave him," Rillwhisper agrees. "Might die if we leave him... no elf dies. Even if he's crazy..." That seems to be enough for Arnos, who crouches lithely down to take the cocoon up into his arms and follow after the others. Trollkiller hms. Well... that makes sense, he supposes. He tightly locksends to his ... rescued? ... that we're out of the grove and going away from the spiders and into the real forest. The frail she-elf borne by Trollkiller lets out a ragged sigh at the brush of his mind, her bone-thin form quiescent now across his broad furred shoulders, silver hair still tangled with leaves spilling down loosely all along his frame... but even if her body is still, her mind is not. Not quite yet. Answering sendings, two of them, flare up weakly in answer to Trollkiller's own. One young and sweet, high and dazed... and yet, for all that there's a taste of it as if it comes with a fraction of the strength this stranger's mind could muster, it's surprisingly clear. And it relays her confusion and dismay at being separated from her tree -- but it also relays, for a fraction of an instant, something like hope. The other sending feels entirely different, older, gruffer, tasting of the she-wolf who had howled within their minds for aid -- though now the she-wolf stumbles into the safety of a new but protective pack. ** ** comes her wordless burst of contact. ** ** Freedom. It's on the minds of elf and human alike, as Maerro hurries to help his older compatriot with the cocoon that contains Doreel. As Wayfound and Woodhawk help Rillwhisper out of the grove between them, to a place where it'll be safer for Ynderra to catch her breath and brace the Wolfbringer's strength... and as Tefin casts a stunned and wondering glance over his shoulder back into the grove they're all abandoning, filing the sight of it away in his active mind. None of them, though, manage to catch the furtive, stocky figures who peek out from hollows at the bottom of the Great Tree, and whose eyes go round with shock at the sight of the strangers who are carrying off their Master. And who, perhaps, may well now find their own minds pondering the same notion: Freedom. [End log.]