"The Misplaced Dove" Log Date: 4/2/01 Log Cast: Soft-Feather, Faanshi, Many Shadows, Mehul (The Hunter) Log Intro: The Festival started off with all the merriment and marvel that is the great Varati celebration of Dipavali -- and for Faanshi in particular it was a time of wonder, for had she not been commanded by her mistress, the Maharani, to create and carry a lantern for Clan Khalida itself? Was she not permitted to sing and dance in the streets, with her beloved and her friends at her side? So rare a joy was this that it would surely shine in Faanshi's memory... If her memory were intact. She no longer remembers the disaster that has fallen upon those who revelled in Atesh-Gah at Dipavali's ending, or the poison that lurked within the food and the water consumed by many within the Varati embassy. She no longer remembers these things... for Faanshi has ingested the poison as well, and in the crisis that has swept across the dwelling of the God-King and His Maharani, the halfbreed shudra healer has disappeared. In the nearly two days that have passed she has stumbled through the streets of Haven, no longer recognizing them, and no longer remembering the man called Mehul, who even now keeps a tenuous grip upon his lighter self as he tracks the young halfbreed in his desperation.... ---------- Faanshi What is she? The most obvious thing to draw the eye to this maiden, the crowning ebon glory that is her hair must surely come straight from the Children of Fire -- and so, too, must the hue of her skin, a warm dark gold that speaks of the blaze of Ashur Masad's light upon generations of her forebears. Yet she is paler than many Varati, and standing as she does at only 5'9", she is small for a woman of that race. With a slender, delicate build that makes her seem in form akin to a young tree, she can be judged too dainty to pass easily for Varati or even Mongrel. Shy or simply trained to submissive silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh impossible to determine the nature of her voice. And she carries herself such that the thick curly mass of her black hair seems to serve as a natural veil, hiding much of her countenance from easy view -- but when she does chance to peek out from behind the strands that fall across her face, the clearest of signs that the Children of Earth also had a hand in her making can be seen. Her eyes, set at an un-Varati-ish slant, are the color of summer leaves... and unmistakably Sylvan. At the moment, her garb shows signs of sore abuse. The red choli, blue silwar, and black sari are all undoubtedly of Varati make, but they have been sadly torn and dirtied. While a maiden of Varati affiliation would doubtless usually wear that sari wrapped neatly about her frame, this particular one has come loose and now seems to cling only haphazardly to her body, some of the ebon fabric often getting in the way of her feet. On those feet she wears nothing at the moment; if she had footwear, she's lost it. Like her clothing, her person seems sadly battered as well. The long black curtain of her hair is tangled and disheveled, smelling of illness and sweat; her complexion is gray beneath the sungolden hue of her skin. Where her garments have been torn, so too has her skin, and there is a wild and lost look in her summer-hued eyes. As the morning sun peaks over the horizon, Soft-Feather makes his way through the garden, probably on an errand of some sort in the city. Not wearing his usual feathered-cloak and headdress, the man instead sports a thick and lose robe the color of dark soil. His hood is drawn, his face hidden as his head is down. With the coming of sunrise there are generally some small living creatures rising up already within the garden's green confines -- and some others of nocturnal bent retiring for their daytime slumber. But into neither category falls the figure who comes stumbling through the shadows. Twigs and leaves snap and rustle beneath unsteady feet, and as if it were a particularly loud crash of thunder atop the smaller noises of a rainstorm, there comes a sound of something weighty falling into a bush. Immediately on the heels of _that_, little gasping, choked sobs. Morning. Dawn. The sun's coming up. That's important, isn't it? She who has been running seemingly for hours through a febrile haze of half-imagined visions and scraps of memory thinks perhaps that she can recall something vitally important about _dawn_. It's the first solid thing that shines through the tangle of fire and pain in her limbs and her head, and even from the middle of the bush into which she's fallen, she tries to pull herself up again. To turn prayerful, desperate green eyes towards the east, a sungolden hand whose skin is marred with small bleeding scratches lifted as if in supplication. Hooded head suddenly raises up, ears undoubtedly perked beneath the cloth covering. What was that sound? Golden gel slides over Soft-Feather's ears, then receeds, leaving the ears of a bear in its wake. With "improved" hearing, the man is quickly able to pin down the source of muffled sobs and swishing leaves. With caution, yet with concern as well, Soft-Feather makes his way to the downed woman. There -- she couldn't be more obvious. It's a maiden, in dire straits from the look of her; the expression she's turned to the sky is wild and frantic, and so it remains even as the noises of the ursine creature drawing nearer to her out of the slowly brightening gloom reach her. Eyes as green as any Sylvan's snap towards the evident beast, and as if she were almost half-feral herself, the girl freezes where she's fallen. Then her sungolden brow crinkles up in what perhaps could be deep confusion -- and a soft, cracked voice croaks pleadingly, "K-Kosha...?" Soft-Feather A bird. That is the first thought to perhaps cross your mind when you look at this man. He wears a rather odd garment. Aside from his brown robe, which ties at the waist, Soft-Feather wears a heavy cloak made of golden eagle feathers; brown and tipped with gold, these feathers are quite beautiful, not to mention durable. Connected at the wrists and base of the hood, the cloak flows down in a V-shape. The hood is the most interesting part of the outfit. Eagle's head rests on top of man's, upper beak curving down just above the forehead. Fierce eyes, golden in hue, stare out of the headdress at whoever finds himself in their field of vision. Soft-Feather himself is a fit man, standing about six feet tall. His eyes are brilliant jade, and his short brown beard compliments them well. His face always seems graced with a smile, unless the situation calls for seriousness. He carries with him an air of great maturity, though he looks only to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps. Authority also clings to him, though his great warmth tends to shine through even more. All in all, Soft-Feather may be odd to behold...but he is one of the greatest allies you could hope to have--that, or your worst enemy. Soft-Feather approaches cautiously, trying to identify the woman. Of course, he cannot...he's never seen her before. At least, not that he can recall. With a thought, his ears return to normal. The rest of his face had been unchanged. Lowering his hood, revealing his own jade eyes, short beard, and soft expression of concern, Soft-Feather crouches done somewhat, trying to give off an air of trustworthiness. Soft-Feather asks, "Are you alright?" As the shadowy figure seems to the girl to change from strange ursine shape to that of a man -- as his face seems to materialize out of surrounding shadow -- she starts visibly and tries to scamper backwards. She cannot go far. There's the broken branches of a bush all around her, and furthermore, they have snagged the silk of her garments. And so she voices a confused and frightened whimper that modulates into another hoarse whisper: "I... I-I do not know... a-are you real, Imphadi...? Do I dream?" The hand she'd lifted to the dawn now lifts to her own brow. Soft-Feather certainly doesn't know what an....Imphadi...is, but that doesn't keep him from responding. She obviously means him, at any rate. "I am real," He kneels down now, blocking the sun out of her eyes with his body. "As for dreaming...I'm not sure," a soft smile spreads across his face, "It's going to be alright...let me help you up?" He offers a warm hand to the downed maiden. It... _does_ seem to be a man... though she can no more assign a name to him than she can any of the other faces that she has glimpsed through the course of her mad run through the city. The voice is kind, the eyes friendly, and all at once the lost-looking maiden begins to tremble, undone by the gentleness of the expression trained upon her. Her hand shoots forward now to clutch at the one offered her, while she babbles out in a plaintive, childlike tone, "Help... yes... I-I beg of you... I... I seem to have become lost..." And ill as well, if the weakness of her gentle voice and the heat radiating from those unsteady slender fingers are any sign. As the hand surges forward and grabs his own, the first thing Soft-Feather notices is their warmth. Its not right. He may not be a healer, but he knows enough to figure out that something is wrong with this woman. Her semi-delirious state is another give away. Very concerned is Soft-Feather as he rises, gently lifting the woman up with him. "Don't worry, I'll help you find your way. I am Soft-Feather. And you?" His voice is full of compassion and understanding, and his eyes reflect that as well. From her clothing, Feather surmises her to be Varati...but her eyes seem to suggest otherwise. Halfbreed comes to mind... "I..." A heartbeat. Two. And then the maiden, already shaking, makes a low and throaty groan somewhere in the back of her throat. Fright wells up within those wide leaf-colored eyes, and in her agitation she collapses to her knees... yet maintaining that desperate hold upon the hand that's taken hers. "I-I-I don't _knoooooow_... not one, o-o-or the other, the blood of fire does not blend with the blood of earth!" Imploring eyes cling with their gaze to the Sylvan man's face, echoing the unexpected grip of deceptively slender hands. "I beg of you, Imphadi, tell me who I-I-I am...!" Soft-Feather lowers to his knees as well, still holding onto that hand. He speaks in quiet, gentle tones. "I do not know, Inkanna," if she's going to use odd terms of endearment, so will he, "but I want to help you find out. But first," he looks around, "we've got to see a healer...can you make it to Delphi?" He doesn't trust that place, but right now, it seems like the logical choice. There should be quite a few healers there, healers who can help fix whatever it is that's wrong. Memory flashes behind the maiden's eyes -- only bits and fragments, but coming in hard and fast behind that one word 'Delphi'. An old man, seemingly grandfatherly, but who stretches forth his hand to make the very stone open up. A dog, howling in terror. "Noooooo," she moans, shaking her head violently back and forth, loose black curls spilling this way and that across her haggard face. "Can't go there, n-not supposed to go there, I am ordered... h-he is there, he wants to tip me over, calls to the blood of earth b-but not to the blood of fire..." The words tumble forth from her in a headlong rush, propelled by mounting fear. Where are the names that go with the images behind her eyes -- that would make the words erupting out of her make sense? Where is _her_ name? _Who am I?!_ Real concern, more than before, flows into Soft-Feather's eyes. If Delphi is out of the question, then things have gotten a lot worse. With this woman not knowing who she is, only that she isn't supposed to go to Delphi, it is apparent that Delphi is something so wrong to her that it even supercedes her identity, at least somewhat. But the question is...what to do now? He looks around, trying to think. He could try to find the city Sylvans, but they hide pretty well...and he might have to leave this woman in order to find them. Not an option. An inkling of an idea swirls in his mind, "Alright...no Delphi. Let me take you...to the forest. You will be safe there, and my people can help you." When he says this, he does his best to project security, trust, compassion, gentility, and strength. "Do not worry...it will be alright. Let me help you...let -us- help you find your name, and remember once again..." The sun continues to rise, and a few people begin to walk through the garden as well. Confused though she is, frightened though she is, it seems that that demeanor of safety and worried, gentle concern has its effect... as does the word 'forest', as well. The girl looks wildly about herself, gaze skimming yearningly over the branches overhead in search of a sign of greenery -- though perhaps such is a bit tough to come by in the winter. Then her attention comes back to this stranger before her, and a few of the lines of profound consternation smooth out of her delicate dark golden features. "You can help me?" she asks tinily, her voice that of a child again, a child looking for guidance out of the dark. Soft-Feather nods slowly, a smile spreading across his face once more, "Yes...we will do our best, Inkana." His eyes shift to someone walking by, then back to the woman, "But the sun is rising...and soon, the hounds will be out. If I'm not mistaken, if they see you, they may try to take you to Delphi...we must leave soon." Would they actually do that? In his mind, they would. Seeing a halfbreed stumbling around weakily with a suspicious Sylvan man, they just might try to escort them into Delphi, instead of allowing Feather to take her home. "Inkana... is... is that me?" the maiden asks now, her small and anxious voice latching upon that word -- though no recognition of it registers in her eyes, no more than any had when Soft-Feather had sought her name. But she starts again, nervously, at the suggestion that Others might come and stop this kind one from helping her... and so she bobs her disheveled dark head in agreement. Slowly, she begins to try to rise, though the sari wound so haphazardly about her and now snagged upon the ruin of the bush hinders her from truly regaining her feet. More distressed little noises escape her, as she peers down without comprehension at the length of ebon silk. Soft-Feather kneels slowly and gently removes the sari from the brush, in the places it is snagged. Then, he rises once more. "Inkana...it is a word my people use to describe someone considered..." He looks for a similar term, one she might understand, "Someone considered a friend." Now that she is free from the brush, and standing, Soft-Feather begins to slowly lead her out of the city, at her own pace. [The Sylvan, however, does not lead her in the form of a man. Soon enough, once he is safely out of the city, he shifts into the form of a bear to carry the ailing maiden with more strength. But she who has become lost and ill barely notices as she is borne away into the woods to the west, so overcome is she by her illness. And after many hours, the bear reaches his destination... little realizing that another who has been desperately searching that very same maiden has tracked their progress into the forest...] The small sounds of forest animals in their dens grow hushed as their hidden trail is trod upon. Leaves of the trees far above rustle as this secret path is walked, guardians of the wood keeping watch. After long moments of being concealed in arboreal shadow, the thick woods part to reveal... Sylvan Glen - Forest The serene beauty of this forest glen would seem to have been crafted by the loving hand of a beneficent deity. A natural amphitheatre allows for a spoken voice to carry well within its confines, but leaves it muted to the outside world. In the depths of winter this area becomes a smooth bowl of sparkling white, but by summer the graceful curves of the green grassy hill are dotted by the colourful presence of wildflowers. Trees of the thick greenwood surround this placid break in the forest's growth. Knotting and interweaving, they seem to work together to maintain a natural border between woodland and glen. Well past the bottom of the amphitheatre's slope, near the far border of the wood, stands a massive oak tree. Its girth is near unspeakable, for it has grown older, and far larger, than any other oak in the forest; only the land's natural sweep in this area would keep it from being seen above the other trees. Majestic in its grandeur, the ancient oak rises from the earth like a symbol of Nature's enduring power and strength. Neither time nor storm would seem capable of felling this titan of the forest. Roots as thick as a grown man's thigh twist and tumble together in an arcane pattern as far across the ground as a house is wide. From this base springs a trunk of legendary proportions; vast and thick, gnarled by age and hard as stone, rising up past the height of three men before the foliage thickens so deeply as to hide the top of the tree within an impenetrable leaf-green mask. Contents: Soft-Feather Many Shadows Obvious exits: South Sachem's Chamber Northeast Northwest A very large bear softly pads into the Glen, carrying a woman on his back. The animal takes great care not to let her fall, but it is apparent that he is tired. A thick brown robe is draped over the form of the woman who is Faanshi, though she cannot recall her name right now. Keeping the maiden from falling -- that's a challenge in and of itself. She has accepted Soft-Feather with the disoriented innocence of one whose world has vanished and who has turned to the first sign of help that has presented itself... but partway out of the city, the halfbreed girl had slumped, her store of energy spent. Now she rides, barely conscious, upon the bear that her mind hasn't truly connected with the man with whom she'd spoken. Black hair spills losely over her shoulders and down her back, bared for once to the sunlight now that her sari has fallen from its wrapping atop her head. Occasionally, if she turns her head just right, her ears might be glimpsed between the tangled ebon waves... but there's something wrong with them. The Sylvan clearing is seldom if ever silent as large as the tribe is and today is no different from any other. High in the oak is the shushing and singing of a mother trying to comfort a fretful child. Beyond some of the surrounding shrubbery come some rustling noises and a feminine squeel and giggles. The clunking of a heavy wooden spoon aganst the bottom of the cookpot as it is sitrred and of course, the murmur of a quiet conversation. Such quietness is vastly different from the noise of the city produced by a like number of people. As the bear enters the area, two of the men first slip out of the shadows from which they keep watch, alert and making sure no danger is near. One moves to ssist the bear with his burden. The other darts down to the Sachem's chambers and disappears inside, soon exiting with Many Shadows following, her cloak being settled round her shoulders. Many Shadows raises her hand to narrow her field of vision and focus sharply on those approaching. She strides forward, bare feet against the chill earth till she is positioned at the base of the slope down which the bear and the one he carries must come. "Chookma" Is all that she says for now as she tries to discern what is happening. The Hunter enters the Sylvan Glen via the hidden forest path. The Hunter has arrived. The bear heads for Many Shadows, as he sees her exit from her tent. The help afforded him by his tribesmates is welcome, but an instinctive and safegaurding whuffle is given the men...be gentle! Bear gently nuzzles Many Shadow's hands. She knows who it is. Voices... voices and faces all around her, and the world is shifting again... the creature has stopped. Hands are reaching for her, and the maiden in her sadly torn silks starts visibly, wide dazed eyes looking this way and that without recognition. Her arms are hot to the touch, her delicate features strained and pale beneath the dark golden hue of her skin, and as her clothes are tattered and torn, so too is her skin in several places. She could well have crashed singlehandedly through a forest, or at the very least a number of bushes. Not yet does she manage to speak; indeed, the maiden seems to be doing well to stay conscious. Many Shadows lets one hand rest lightly on the bear, acknowledging him before she moves to help the one burdening him off and to the side, casually looking this person over as she tries to ascertain more about her. She does not question the bear, awaiting him to take form of Sylvan before speaking more. A glance toward others around and a quick gesture sumons blankets and water, warm broth. "See if Heartsease is near, please." She asks as she oversees what seems necessary at the moment. The bear visibly shudders with relief as the women is lifted from his back. It's not that his burden was so heavy, merely that he carried it for so long, moving as fast as his legs could carry him. In eagle form, the trip would not have taken nearly so long, but...bear legs aren't as swift as wings. A flash of light engulfs his body briefly, then fades away, leaving Soft-Feather on his hands and knees. Normally, he would take them time to set himself as standing after the change...but he doesn't have the energy right now. In fact, standing seems difficult. One of his students, Massaging Toes, brings him his feathered cloak and headdress, which the man thankfully slips into. "Many Shadows..." He addresses the Sachem slowly, "I do not know her name...I was in the city, and I found her...delirious and sick. Her skin is hot to the touch. She begged me not to take her to Delphi...here was the only place I could trust, then. Please, do not be made that I have brought an outsider into our lands." He casts a glance over at Faanshi, hoping she's alright. Thump...... thump....... thump...... Inaudible, inperceptable to those but one, he who bears its throbbing and inscecent rythm, not of that of any heart, but of a curse, a drive, a howling rage that will not release. He who stares, shrouded within shadow and malice, with merciles charcoal eyes upon the scene before him. Not far away, is he... Closer infact... than most might think. But aware, he will make them not, for he sits with a practiced stillness, one probably unachievable by anyone other than he. For he is The Hunter... he is stealth... and he is death. Faanshi... Faanshi. Unaware of the hidden eyes of the one that has tracked her, scarcely aware of the _obvious_ eyes of the ring of faces that surrounds her, the maiden is all too obviously ill. Her shuddering form almost topples with the relief of the extra layer of warmth the blanket gives her, though the sure hands of the Sachem and her tribesmate prevent it. As her glazed eyes focus in with an effort on the blanket and tug it to her with an almost animal need -- she is cold. So cold, and tired, and confused -- she does not see the scrutiny given her. Nor does she seem to try to hide any of what few details can be gleaned of her person: the long curtain of raven-black curls. Her sungolden skin. Her eyes, as green as those of any man or woman or child in view. One of her ears, glimpsed as heavy tresses of her hair fall just so... her ear is mutilated, the top of it missing. The hand of the Varati is apparent in her clothing, though, the sari now augmented by the blanket, the choli and silwar she wears beneath. Many Shadows 's clearing is well guarded, experience having taught the Sylvans to not let their guard down. Those who approach pass through rings of well trained graisha warriors with all their honed senses. Gaps through which one may cautiously observe exist, they do not stand elbow to elbow round the area, yet approaching too closely is likely to be discerned. The Sachem lays one hand on the woman's brow, her mouth set in a straight line that does not become frown yet does not smile either. "Difficult to know what would have been best, Inkana. She seems too ill to move much now, but in the future, set a temporary camp near the springs and we will come to her. Do not wish to expost the tribe to...disease...like struck the city before. What is done is done however. We shall do what we can for her that she may soon be well enough to leave." The sachem is not speaking rudely, just in a matter of fact tone. "You of the Fire Bringers, Chookma....er..good day." She translates the words not quite percisely yet to something city dwellers tend to use. Soft-Feather nods solemnly, "Yes Sachem, I understand." He knows she is not being rude. She is being wise. That is her job, and that is who she is. She knows that he was worried, and that he did what he thought best at the time. His attention now focuses on the woman again, his voice warm and gentle once more, "It's alright...we won't hurt you. These are my people...the ones I said could help you." He hopes that all of this isn't too much for the poor woman. As for the Hunter...he is not aware of his presence, yet. But with the increased security filing in now, it won't be too long til he's possibly uncovered. No attention is given to the guards. He sits, calm, crosslegged, an outward picture of utter serenity aside from the bruning flames that reside smoldering above his charcoal eyes... searing and delving in to the flesh of these before him as if he could peel it away and watch them die without a finger lifted... A breath is needed to steady him, but it shifts him not in the slightest, nor does it sound or rustle. He is stillness; The Hunter is transparent. Immaculate and... perfect. Only from the consuming flame, the destroyer... can such perfection come. But his gaze lingers on the maiden... Faanshi... Faanshi why... Here... Here.... they will die! THEY WILL ALL DIE! Faanshi... Dark lids, painted even more so draw closed so that in a moment of silence, aside from the throbbing, the screaming... he can collect himself. Many Shadows' voice, along with that of Soft-Feather, seems to pull the maiden out of her daze somewhat. She lifts baffled green eyes beneath a crinkled brow to regard the Sachem, and then to her she bobs her head shakily, murmuring, "N-namaste', Imphada..." From unthinking habit she tries to pull her hands together palm to palm at her breast and bow over them, though this turns rather more into a pronounced slump forward as she threatens her own balance. Many Shadows watches as some of the tribeswomen stat to settle around with what is necessary to succor Faanshi till HeartsEase can arrive. Some are calmly accepting, some are like timid deer that will dart away at the least rustle of a leaf or imagined danger. Others stare at the stranger in facination, the first time they have seen one such as she up close. Part of the tribve is reclusive enough to have never entered the city despite its proximity. When the woman makes motions to bow, a few withdraw, one giggling just a little nervously. "Rest easy for now. Our healer must be on an errand or busy with another since she has not come to her summons yet. Have you been ill long?" Wolfsong seems to step out from behind the titanic mass of the Great Oak. Wolfsong has arrived. It is evening, and Soft-Feather, in bear form, just returned to the Glen after a few days of being gone in Haven. Now he is in the form of a Sylvan, and the burden he carried back from the city lies surrounded by helpers. Soft-Feather and Many Shadows stand to one side....the Hunter hides far enough away not to be noticed yet, but close enough to see. The atmosphere of the quiet lifestyle of Sylvans is different subtly from the normal. Near the entry to the path leading up the slope of the bowl and away from the heart of the glen is a huddled bundle on the ground, one which on closer examination seems to be a woman. Around her are some Sylvan women fetching cool clothes, warm broth, blanket and generally staring at the stranger while making excuses to timidly approach. Others are staying well away watchfull. Many Shadows is standing near her as is Softfeather. Many Shadows Nothing about Many Shadows is truly remarkable at first observation. Her ordinary dark brown straight hair streaked with silver is tucked behind pointed Sylvan ears and gathered into a long loose braid. Leaf green eyes are heavily flecked with brown that matches nut-brown skin tones. High cheekbones, broad brow and slightly prominent nose reflect strength of character that ages gracefully but falls short of beauty. Age is not clearly discernable but an experienced look in the eyes, maternal bosom and slightly thickened waist that soften a short rangy build, and dense palm and plantar calluses suggest mid 50's. Movements are economical and precise. Resonant mellow voice tones are a tool that can be pitched to reach the ears of one or carry to many. The clean fragrance of new turned earth clings to Many Shadows year round. Many Shadows wears a soft pure white doeskin knee length dress slit up the side for easy movement. The yoke has a matching headband and belt purse all adorned with dyed quills and tooled as a work of art. A coordinating cloak is worn in cool seasons. Bare feet seem to take comfort from contact with the earth. On the left wrist is a living vine bracelet with tiny white flowers. An iron tipped staff serves as a walking stick. A bell tolls above the endless throb of the darkness, one that draws, with a frightened snap, the Hunter from his comforting recluse behind closed lids and within the sheltering embrace of the shadowed madness. Giggling... Giggling... So fateful is the sound, that he becomes transifxed upon it and those who were its source. Yes, that, even if he can not quite understand the speech... he can hear. Death... never has death not been that which held him with warmth... He snarls beneath the clotch which covers his lips. Death... death to them... You will show them the oblivion of eternal rest... you will bleed them til they cry... you will hear their pleas for mercy and you will enjoy their suffering... you will... you will... Faanshi... Directly questioned, unconsciously responding to the age and authority of the Sachem, Faanshi looks dazedly up again... and can be seen to pause, her dainty features crinkling in returning consternation. "I... I-I do not... I do not know," she whispers. "Am... am I ill?" Something is wrong with that. She should _not_ be ill; something in jumbled memory says that this should be practically impossible. And she lifts a shaking hand to her brow, features tightening further as if she struggles to concentrate. But the effort saps her and abruptly she tosses her head back and forth, babbling, "It is lost... it is all lost! The touch of my hands... does nothing, it's gone, I'm gone..." As the words escape her, she starts to crumple again, even that brief burst of frantic energy draining her. Soft-Feather listens as Faanshi mumbles, sympathizing with her, though he is not sick. Exhaustion, though, is setting in...and his legs wobble beneath him. He needs to rest, and soon. But he must be sure that Faanshi is taken care of, first. He promised that to her. But what is sanity... and what is madness... where and when is the line between these two relative figured drawn.... where is it do they clash and what weapons do they wield...? Who is it that dictates that of perception... of he who is made but believes himself sane... or he who is sane but believes himself mad. Who is he to judge himself? Who is he to judge another? What is truth? Death is truth. Death is all... is all there is. Faanshi...! Perhaps sanity is the restraint, furious and battered, that keeps The Hunter now in his seat as she shrieks and crumbles... perhaps it is that sanity that drains him, pulls from him the life that nearly causes him to slump... or the madness that tugs at him but gives him the strength to remain. Where does one end and another begin? Arms, with maticulous movement, carefully monitered, shift from their position in a black-gabed lap... and with a steadiness of incredible will, draw from the obscurity of his hidden form obsidian colored steel, deaf to the shine of the sun. Many Shadows shakes her head as she listens and watches. With an abrupt motion she indicates to place the woman near the fire in a quiet place so the warmth and comfort can help her. To others she cautions. "Not too close, let her rest and do not bother her. Heartsease will check her soon. Till she comes, just keep her warm and light broth, and help her to the necessary beyond the tree and back when she needs it." Practacle to the end the Sachem tries to anticipate and tend to the needs. To Soft Feather she then speaks. Inkana, eat then rest. You had a hard trip to do all this. When you can collect your thoughts we will set ourselves to seeing if we can figure out who she is and why she risks coming here instead of Delphi. Does not seem to be something simple....though am no healer to know. Her words...are disturbing." The ailing girl puts up no resistance, and indeed, as soon as she is moved closer to the fire she seems to settle down considerably. Those glazed green eyes of hers settle their wandering attention raptly, almost worshipfully, upon the flames; her attention stays there as well, even as she gradually topples over sideways and must be tucked by deft hands in under the blanket. Fire... something right, something comforting in fire, and it is the last thing she sees as her eyes begin to drift shut. Soft-Feather nods to Many Shadows, as he sees the woman tended to. "Yes, Inkana. That...would be best, I think." He smiles and then begins to move off towards the Oak, longing for the arms of his mate, the presence of his children, and something to eat...and sleep, of course. No, this is not the day... But yet, is that the sanity, or the madness that beckons him to depart. Which one calls for a retreat... one of tact, or one of fear? Does The Hunter even know fear...? The blades that have been drawn, find their way hidden, safely, securely, beneath earth that is quickly replaced with perfection... To be found by interested eyes...? Hardly likely at all. No, today is not the day. Sparks illuminate, if momentarily the darkness that is Faanshi's form, her beautiful form... until at last, he turns, shifting and begins to depart, keeping low and undetected. But there is that, which both, sanity and madness can agree upon, an unaimed thought thrown back in the direction that he came... 'I will come back for you.' [To be continued...]