Log Date: 10/24/96
Log Cast:
	Trouble, Doreel
Log Intro:

Trouble swallows down bitefuls of the third mushroom, and closes her eyes 
  again. Her hand lifts slightly, both in body and in mind, as she 'pokes' at 
  the lacework of images in her head. Will they flow over her again?

The blue-purple shadows cease to dissipate, holding their places once more. 
  Forms can be seen within them, glimpses only, whispers of thought that may 
  or may not have been there before.

Utterly fascinated, Trouble sends, ** I see... more things.... I think... **

** Do you want them? ** Doreel sends, his mind's voice coloured blue-purple by 
  the shroomfog. ** You can have them, if you do. Or.. ** A pause, maybe for 
  effect. ** Or you can find your own. **

Trouble pauses, thinking; her fingers shift, delicately, as her mind's hand 
  languidly lifts and touches swirls of blue and purple. ** I'm... supposed to 
  look for my name, ** she recollects. ** This doesn't... feel like myself.... 
  **

Tendrils of soft colour twine about your 'fingers', feeling almost feathery. 
  ** You want a name, then? **

Trouble considers nodding, then simply sends earnest assent. ** Want a name... 
  that's why I left the Holt... <She shows you a string of recollections, 
  another argument with Dart, diving into a nook in a tree and taking her 
  things, sending to Ynderra...> **
Trouble looks at her entwined 'fingers', and send-giggles, dreamily. ** Soft, 
  ** she reports.

** Mmmmhm. ** Soft as the tendrils is his sending. ** You like that? **

Trouble tries to rub her 'hand' against those feathery tendrils of blue. 
  Agreeably she answers that, indeed, she likes the sensation.

Still they whirl, slow and gentle, shifting in shade but not in feeling.

In her sending, Trouble lingers there for a time among the tendrils, drawing 
  her hands slowly back and forth through them and watching raptly as they 
  drift about her... the Trouble that lies quietly there before you draws in a 
  slight breath, and relays a giddy pleasure at the sense that, incorporeal 
  though they might be, the tendrils are drifting across her skin. Then, with 
  an effort, she frames the thought: nice, this blue-purple softness, but it 
  wasn't what she was looking for... she thinks.

The old elf sits thoughtful, somewhere outside the realm of blue-purple 
  shading. He watches, frowning faintly, still absently rubbing your shoulder, 
  augmenting the 'feeling' of the tendrils, which still flow about.

For a while, Trouble lies in thought, and at last muzzily sends, ** Name... 
  that's what... I was looking for... have to find.... ** Suddenly, her eyes 
  open a little, and she cries, "Dart...! I have to find..."

Doreel sighs quietly, shaking his head. He retracts his hand, folding it with 
  the other, but still watches you. "He's long gone, I'm afraid."

Trouble lies there for a few moments, then frowns vaguely, moving her hands to 
  try to push herself into sitting up. "Have to find Dart. Have to find..."

"But you promised.." He trails off, looking down at his hands and sighing once 
  more. "You said you'd stay."

Trouble makes it into sitting, but sways, propping herself first on one hand 
  and then the other, and murmuring indistinctly as blue-violet 
  feather-tendrils pillow her palms against the grass... or seem to. "Stay?"

The motion sweeps away the mist, tendrils running around you before flowing 
  away, melting off into darkness.

Doreel nods once, faintly. "Stay."

Trouble whimpers a little, blinking several times and looking down at herself 
  as the blueness -- violetness? -- blueness trickles away from her. "Dark," 
  she whispers. "Can't go anywhere, in the dark..."

"Of course not. So you'll have to stay here." The other looks up again, 
  watching you intently. He seems less fuzzy, now, and maybe closer.

Trouble peers owlishly at you, and echoes, "Stay here..."

Doreel watches you intently, frowning to himself. One hand twitches, slightly, 
  and every now and again he stops watching -just- long enough to glance at a 
  mushroom.

Trouble breathes, once more, "Stay... " Her brow wrinkles. "Send... send to 
  Dart maybe....? Ooooh..." She sways a bit where she sits.

Doreel shakes his head, tsking softly. "Don't need to." He says, as 
  reassuringly as he possibly can. "It'll be alright, won't it?"

Trouble peers glassily at you. "Be alright?" she repeats thickly, apparently 
  groping at the assuring tone of the words. (Her head is spinning, now, and 
  it's so hard to talk....)

Doreel mmmhms quietly, bobbing his head in some semblance of a nod. He smiles 
  now, gently, and leans his head slightly to one side. "How do you feel?"

Trouble's head leans as if in mimicry of yours, and her eyes stay wide, 
  glazed. "I'm... so dizzy, everything's... fuzzy."

Doreel nods a time or two more, hmmming thoughtfully to himself. "It isn't 
  bad, then? Doesn't bother you much?"

Trouble starts to shake her head; the motion then changes, to her head lolling 
  first in one direction, then the other, and she giggles slurrily. 
  "Everything's... spinning... spinning..." Her voice grows more distant.

Doreel slowly quirks an eyebrow, still watching you. "Hmmm." He says, mostly 
  to himself. "Most intruiging."

Trouble's head lolls once more; she lolls with it, then, in that direction, 
  falling over with a soft *ploff* onto the grass. Her eyes drift shut, and do 
  not open again.

Doreel chuckles quietly to himself, shaking his head. When he's sure you're 
  not about to wake up again, he reaches his hands to the grass around him, 
  closing his own eyes and returning to his shaping.

The maiden lies curled where she has fallen, her features slack, her chest 
  rising and falling slightly. She remains thus, outwardly. Within, she floats 
  anew, this time in real dreams, surrounded in swirls of images: her mother, 
  oddly mutable of face and form. How strange! And everything is blue, violet, 
  blue....
After a time, once or twice, Trouble stirs in her slumber; her face crinkles 
  in slight displleasure, as though something she dreams disturbs her. (Her 
  mother doesn't want her. She has to get away! But why's he following? She 
  didn't ask him to! Nobody follows her like this, what's wrong with him?)
The dream cycles, blue-violet tinge to it gradually fading away entirely, to 
  be replaced with a lingering hurt: he followed, but he's gone. Trouble 
  groans, and her eyes start to flicker, lids scrunching, then relaxing again.
Trouble, at last, rolls onto her back, and squints vaguely skyward. Wha? The 
  light's changed.... Again, she groans.
"Dart....? Dart, where're you.....?"

The light's changed, indeed. It was dark before, but now sunlight trickles 
  down through the leaves, sending light and shadow dancing together over the 
  grass, and over you. Painfully bright at first, it becomes almost tolerable 
  after a few moments, possibly more so if you'd move to get that one ray out 
  of your eyes. Your limbs, somewhat leaden and discombobulated after the 
  floating of the mushrooms, though still attached, are reluctant to respond, 
  doing so in what might seem to be their own time. The only trace of the 
  fuzziness seems to be your tongue, which is now not -quite- furry.

Doreel sits still, where he was, in the center of the ring of mushrooms not 
  that very far away. Motionless he is, all but unbreathing, caught up in the 
  faint glow of golden light that suffuses everything, a combination of 
  sunlight and magicglow.

Trouble lies there trying to catch her breath for a time, frowning and trying 
  to remember what had happened.... then, she draws it up. Dart left.... and 
  she had some of Doreel's mushrooms. But, Timmorn's Blood, is this what it's 
  like when you're done being drunk? She winces at the light in her eyes, and 
  starts to try to make her weighted limbs move, to get to her feet. And if 
  not her feet, at least her knees.

That's possible, probably, as motion becomes easier as your blood begins to 
  circulate more freely. Around you, the entire grove is bright, and yet 
  beyond bright, everything in it is remarkably clear. Each blade of grass is 
  distinct in and of itself, each leaf a seperate entity instead of being a 
  part of an entire structure, the dew on the ground about you brilliant and 
  sparkling. Everything smells new, and alive, and -green-.

Trouble pauses as she makes it to her knees and stares about, in wonder. High 
  Ones. Then, slowly, she gets to her feet; Doreel she spots, and at him she 
  stares, awed anew, as even the old one seems suffused in the radiance in her 
  vision. But she needs water, and she toddles slowly towards the stream.

Doreel still sits, quietly, blissfully unaware. Right up until you turn your 
  back, at which point -he- falls over.

Don't fall in, mm? That doesn't seem like it could even be possible, as the 
  way to the water's edge is as wonderfully illuminated as everything else, 
  even the distortion of the light and leaf sharp where it falls. The water 
  babbles at you, softly, whispering over rocks and round them.

Trouble stares round-eyedly at the water for a time, then, kneels beside it 
  and cups her hands into its depths. Not seeing Doreel slump over, she lifts 
  the water to her mouth, and laps...

The water tastes, believe it or not, exactly like cold, clean water, purified 
  by its journey over the rocks, flavoured only faintly by the afterthought of 
  sweetness left in it by the roots of the fruit trees it's gone through.

Water. Relieved that this, is at least, normal-seeming, Trouble drinks as much 
  as she can, till the fuzzy coat over her mouth starts to dissipate. She 
  splashes her face, too, and then runs her damp hands through her mop of 
  hair, trying to push it out of her face. At last, carefully, she gets up 
  again, wondering why the grove seems to have changed, and looking around 
  herself in a slow circle...

The golden clarity of everything is still apparent, but now it begins to fade. 
  Whether this is because of Doreel's change, or because of the water, or for 
  some other reason entirely isn't all that obvious. And yet, as the gold 
  retracts into puddles of light coming down through the trees and the greens 
  meld slightly, it holds fast to the underlying -green-.

Trouble rubs at her eyes, blinks a few times, and at last sees Doreel lying 
  slumped over. She frowns, and makes a cautious trek back to him. Her eyes 
  still seem strange; why should everything seem so... green? But then, why 
  not? She IS in a forest....
Trouble, unsurely, reaches the old shaper, and studies him. Is _he_ alright?

Doreel is, apparently, fine. If relatively unconscious. Wisps of pale blonde 
  hair frame his even paler features, and as well meld into the grass about 
  him. Around him is the mushroom ring, two layered, the large purple shrooms 
  from last night alternating with smaller, paler purple shrooms who's caps 
  are spattered with various shades of green.

Trouble considers, not liking the idea of being alone here. Where's Quickfire, 
  anyway? And where's.... suddenly remembering Dart, she bites her lip and 
  glances off into the trees. Her eyes glimmer over at the thought of him, 
  but, stubbornly, she sits down, and refuses to send to him. But still, 
  there's Doreel, here... if he's asleep, she supposes that's alright.
Trouble sits for only a short while, though. Restless, and somewhat bored, she 
  gets to her feet again. Where are the little troll-things? Maybe they know 
  if Doreel's asleep...

Doreel dozes, quite contentedly, showing absolutely no signs of waking up. Now 
  that you've thought about it, though, the grove -does- seem remarkably 
  empty. Just you, Doreel, and the plants.

Trouble wanders about, looking into the great central tree, and up into its 
  branches, but still seeing no sign of the others in the grove. Half-hoping 
  that Dart might have repented and come back, she looks for him, too -- no 
  luck. At last she returns to Doreel, and mutters at him, "Well, I promised 
  I'd keep you company, but what kind of company is this? What can I do with 
  you asleep?"

For a moment, nothing at all happens. Then the old one sits bolt upright, 
  blinking hard. "Wha? Who? No, Reelah, I didn't move your.." He pauses, then. 
  "Oh." Ooops. Looking terribly embarrassed, Doreel reaches up to rub at his 
  head. "You woke up."

Trouble starts, then after regaining her composure, nods slowly. "Yes. How 
  long have I been asleep? It was night, last I knew..."

He considers that question, thoughtful, then shrugs. "Long enough, I supppose? 
  Did you sleep well?"

Trouble leans against the tree, and considers. "I dreamt," she murmurs.
You say "I... feel alright now, so I must have slept alright. But everything 
  looked so... strange, when I woke."

The ancient one hmms for a moment or two, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 
  "Strange? In what way?"

Trouble looks about herself, thinking. For some reason she cannot name, it 
  seems pleasant, to simply sit and consider... after a few moments, she 
  answers, "Everything... glowed. Golden. The trees... the grass... you. The 
  stream. Now... nothing's glowing, but everything is still... green."
Struck by a thought, the maiden adds, curiously, "Is it... like that, for you?"

"Really..?" Doreel looks around the grove, one brow delicatly arched. When 
  that question is asked, his gaze fixes on you. After a pause of sorts he 
  nods, just once. "Sometimes."

Trouble, sitting near now, idly rubs at her fingers. "What makes it happen? Is 
  it your magic?"

Doreel looks now at the mushrooms, peering intently at one of the nearer ones. 
  "I think so." He says, after a bit. "Though I don't know why you'd be seeing 
  it. Unless.." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Unless what?" Her hands continue to rub at one another, in slight 
  restlessness, seemingly of their own accord. Trouble follows your gaze to 
  the mushrooms, and then blinks. "Did they make it happen?"

"It's possible." The other reaches out to tap on the shroom's cap with one 
  slender finger. "I don't know what else would have done it."

Trouble ohs. For a few moments, she watches the movement of your hand, and her 
  own fingers tap against one another; her green gaze then shifts for a moment 
  to them, and she frowns vaguely. Finally she asks, sounding distracted, 
  "Do... you spend all your time shaping?"

Doreel traces the speckled pattern on the cap with his fingertip, glancing 
  sideways at you to shake his head. "No, not all of it. I sleep sometimes, 
  and I eat when Lira reminds me to."

Trouble repeats, brow furrowed, "Eat." She sounds as though she's not sure if 
  she likes the sound of the word. Then, "What... what can I do here? Is there 
  anything I can help you with, or something?" And then she quirks her head at 
  the mention of the Helper. "Where _are_ the others?"
Trouble's hands continue to fidget. Half aware of them, she grasps her left 
  hand with her right, and massages her palm with her thumb.

Doreel smiles gently. "You'll find something to keep yourself busy with, I'm 
  sure." He then shrugs, retracting his hand from the purply shroom. "They're 
  around, somewhere. Probably in their den, or foraging."

Trouble frowns down at her hands again, and shakes one. "I can hunt, and 
  guard, and that's about it," she says vaguely. "I'm not all that good at 
  making things, and I don't have any magic..."

The other nods a few times, considering. "Then perhaps you can look for your 
  name." Again that faint smile. "That doesn't take any special skills, does 
  it?"

Trouble's face falls a little. "Maybe that's why I haven't found it yet," she 
  mutters. "No skills."
Trouble scowls down at her hand, and adds bemusedly, "My hands are cold."

Doreel tsks softly. "Maybe you haven't found those either?"
Doreel then raises an eyebrow. "They are, eh?" He glances round again. 
  "Shouldn't be.. it isn't all that cold yet."

Trouble says slowly, "Just feels like... the blood isn't moving in them...." 
  She flexes her fingers, confused. "I want..."

Doreel ehs? softly, holding out one of his hands. "What's wrong?"

Trouble reaches her hand for yours, and answers baffledly, "I... don't know. I 
  want... something..."

Doreel takes your hand in his, rubbing it gently. "Just something?"

Trouble appears to think hard, as she sits there allowing her hand to be held 
  and rubbed; her skin does feel a little chilled. Finally, sounding slightly 
  embarrassed, she asks, "Can... I have one of the fizzy shrooms? Maybe 
  that'll get my blood going again...." Her brow remains a bit furrowed as she 
  asks this, as though she isn't sure she's taking the right path for this 
  problem to be solved.

Doreel rubs, gently, following the lines of your fingers. Then he pauses, once 
  more quirking an eyebrow. "Fizzy shroom?" The concept seems to puzzle him, 
  but he nods. "If you want one. They're over there."

Trouble nods, slowly, disengaging her hand from yours. She then rises and 
  wanders in the direction you've pointed out, a slight look of longing 
  entering her gaze. When she reaches the clump of shrooms, she kneels, and 
  pulls one up; after a moment's thought, she pulls another. With a shroom in 
  each hand, she then comes back, starting to smile as she nibbles at the 
  first one.

Doreel folds his hands in his lap, watching this rather analytically. "You 
  like those, then?"

Trouble sits down beside you again, still nibbling. Her eyes have lightened, 
  and she pauses for a moment, perhaps taking stock; the smile spreads across 
  her face as her fingers begin to tingle. "It works," she breathes, eagerly. 
  Then she nods at you. "I... _like_ them..."

He nods once or twice, head tipped slightly to one side. "And they work to 
  warm your fingers, then?"

Trouble eats the first shroom rather quickly, then lifts her head and smiles 
  at you. "I guess so... my hands are... tingling now. Here, see..." She 
  reaches her free hand for yours, impulsively. And she sends, of the fizzing 
  feeling in her fingertips, spreading from them up through her wrists. It 
  feels, oddly, more potent than the last time, more delightful than she 
  remembered, but this does not seem to bother her.

Slightly puzzled and faintly amused, Doreel nods. Then he chuckles, taking 
  your hand, reaching with his other hand to pick one of the purple mushrooms. 
  "Try one of these with it and see what happens?"

Trouble readily nod and sets down her other shroom for a moment, taking the 
  one you offer. Then she giggles a little and takes up both of them, in the 
  hand you're not holding, and starts eating them both, alternating from one 
  to the other and sending surprised pleasure at how they taste together.

The fizziness becomes fuzzy, or does the fuzziness become fizzy?

Doreel continues to watch, chuckling softly to himself. "You really do like 
  them, eh? That's good. Very good."

Trouble gasps as fizziness -- fuzziness? Both? -- close in around her, and she 
  finds herself beaming, nodding to your near-distant voice. "I like them," 
  she repeats, her own voice slurring.

Doreel releases your hand, patting it gently before he does. "Very good." He 
  repeats, bobbing his head once in acknowledgement. Then he moves, picking 
  his way over the grass to the fizzypatch.

With both her hands empty now, for she has finished the two shrooms, Trouble 
  giggles, and lifts her hands before her, staring at them with a gaze that 
  has become quite rapidly glazed. Her fingers curl and uncurl, and she 
  watches them in fascination.

Doreel picks through the ring, selecting mushrooms, some of which he picks, 
  others he passes in favour of something else. He pauses though, now and 
  again, to watch you.

Trouble has, next time you look at her, pulled off her boots and gotten to her 
  feet. She appears to be trying to either walk or perhaps dance, taking slow 
  and unsteady steps through the grass, occasionally twirling around in giddy 
  delight. Her gaze wanders at random, from the overhanging, fruit-heavy 
  branches to the blades of grass under her soles, and she beams at everything.

Doreel stops gathering mushrooms, moving back to sit in the center of the 
  purple ring. He tips his head slightly to one side, watching this behaviour 
  curiously.

Trouble twirls back, and stands still for a moment -- well, almost still. She 
  delicately sways, as though she were a young sapling being nudged by an 
  unseen breeze. Her eyes focus on you, and she giggles again.

Doreel smiles at you, distant as he might be. "Be careful.. shouldn't fall 
  over like that." Now he begins gathering the purple mushrooms, being much 
  more selective this time.

Trouble sends in wonder, ** <Everything has been suffused with the blue-violet 
  mis, but now, joining it, are fizz-flashes of scintillating light. She seems 
  to perceive herself as made of the light-sparks, wrapped in a blanket of 
  blue-violet... the light flows out of her, replaced by the mist, then flows 
  back to dislodge the fog... over and over again, like water swirling along 
  her skin.> Fall? **

"Yes, fall." He nods again, then chuckles. "Nevermind. Enjoy yourself. And 
  look while you're in there, eh?"

Trouble tells you dreamily, ** Can't fall... floating... floating just like 
  Windkin... ** She giggles, apparently pleased. Then she blinks. ** Look? **

"Yes, look." Doreel pokes absently at the grass, now. "Look for your name, 
  remember?"

Trouble brightens, and bobs her head at you eagerly. ** Look for name... ** 
  Her send swirls out of her, even as she swirls back over to you. And she 
  giggles yet again as her slight form sways a little too much, and she knocks 
  into the tree.

"Your name." Doreel greens, then blinks, looking up and over in concern. He 
  straightens, momentarily forgetting the shrooms.

Trouble slumps against the tree, and indeed seems unfazed; if anything, she 
  seems even more delighted, for she's wrapped her arms around it and is 
  embracing it as though it were a beloved friend.

Doreel frowns to himself as he watches, setting aside his now rather large 
  gathering of shrooms. That out of the way, he settles to watch, head leaned 
  forward slightly and then tipped a few degrees to one side.

Trouble slumps liquidly down to a hollow between the roots, as though her legs 
  have turned to water. Her hand lifts to trail up and down the trunk of the 
  great tree supporting her, in fascination, and she send-babbles to you, ** 
  Everything tingle-misty... not like the Holt, not like home... you should 
  see the Holt maybe, other elves, then maybe you wouldn't be lonely 
  anymore... **
Trouble adds blurrily, ** Leetah and Ynderra are great healers. They could 
  help you not be lonely... ** Her head sways a little. ** Aunt Ynderra... 
  mother's sister... Mother.... ** Her face shifts, into a vague frown.

"See the holt," echoes Doreel, toying with the idea for a bit before shaking 
  his head. "They wouldn't want me. Nobody wants me."

Trouble turns, or at least tries to, towards you. Her eyes brim over with 
  foggy concern. ** I do...! ** she sends, her thought flowing slowly, like 
  honey. ** Promised to stay... don't want you to be lonely...! **
Trouble smiles vaguely. ** Don't want you lonely. Don't want you sad. My 
  tribe's healers could help you. Then you could be friends with us and 
  wouldn't have to be alone alone alone anymore... **

Doreel's head inclines the other way, his sky-blue eyes misting for a moment. 
  Then heblinks, hard, looking away from you to shake his head again. "There's 
  nothing to help." He states. "I'm a healer. Fix myself."

Trouble blinks limpidly. ** Ohhhhh... ** And she breathes that, aloud, too. ** 
  You make magic, and it sparkles... ** She quivers with a bit of bubbling 
  laughter. ** You sparkle, I can see it... **

Again the old elf looks at you, lifting one pale brow. "Sparkle? I do, eh?" He 
  glances down at himself, puzzled. "I wasn't aware of that.."

Trouble nods, slowly, eyes gone wide and childlike. ** Everything... 
  sparkling... <Blue-violet mist, swirling, seeming to pillow her skin; the 
  fizz in her blood tingles and snaps and sparkles, just as she claims.> 
  Pretty....! **

"That's nice." As he speaks, Doreel picks out another pair of shrooms, which 
  he hands you. "Very pretty, indeed."

Trouble bobs her head in agreement, then mmmmms? as you wrap her fingers 
  around the new pair of shrooms.

Doreel smiles, faintly. "More of the mushrooms you like so much." He then 
  leans back, looking thoughtful yet again. "Maybe we should go.." He trails 
  off, not saying exactly -where- it is we should go.

Trouble brightens, as she lifts the shrooms to sniff at them; she rubs her 
  hands over them, too, as if delighting in their feel. This occupies her for 
  several moments before she settles down to nibbling them happily. ** Go to 
  my Holt? ** she sends in blurred, hopeful innocence. ** Then my tribe could 
  fix you... **

"I don't need fixed." The old one sounds, if anything, like a very young 
  childwho's been told he's not going to get his way, therefore will whine 
  about it. "I'm fine. Nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all."

As the world narrows down to the enticing morsels in her hands, Trouble 
  consumes each of the shrooms, and as she does, her eyes begin to grow more 
  vague. ** Nothing... wrong? ** she answers. ** But... they said... they 
  said... they said... ** Then she giggles, as her head seems to get stuck.

"They said. Hrmph." Doreel folds his arms over his chest. "If they'd told you 
  I was a Tall One, would you still believe that?" Looking terribly indignant, 
  he shakes his head yet again. "Do -you- think there's something wrong with 
  me?"

Trouble swallows the last few bites of the new shrooms, then blinks heavily at 
  you. Tall One? No... not when you're veiled by the mist and the sparkles. 
  Tall Ones aren't like that. She sends this, smiling languidly. ** Nothing 
  wrong... **

Alright then. Doreel smiles again, nodding approval. "So I don't need fixed." 
  Simple enough, isn't it? "And we can't go to your Holt just yet, because we 
  haven't found your name yet, have we?"

That sounds _so_ reasonable... Trouble bobs her head with exquisite, slow 
  motions. ** Have to find it, ** she sends, and seems captivated by the way 
  her own sending trickles out of her, like the stream bubbling over rocks 
  across the grove.

"Then we should go look for it." Doreel nods in the same fashion, mostly, then 
  pauses to frown at himself. "I haven't been out of this grove in.. uh.." He 
  trails off again, still frowning.

Trouble's eyelids droop almost closed for a moment. ** Go? ** she 
  send-mumbles. ** Where go....? **

"I haven't the slightest idea." Doreel smiles.

Something, the maiden thinks muzzily, is slightly wrong with this idea; what? 
  After an effort, she sends, a blurry mix of word and image, shot through 
  with mist and glitter, ** What if... <image of... someone, tall and 
  brown-skinned, with huge violet-brown eyes>... comes back? **

Doreel furrows his brow for just a moment, contemplating that. Then his head 
  shakes, possibly of it's own accord. "Vargo? He won't come back."

Trouble blinkblinks, confused. ** Not Vargo, ** she sends, head tilting. ** 
  Not Vargo... don't know Vargo... this was... <Her head spins. Fog, sparkle, 
  fog.> Dart. My friend Dart. ** She abruptly beams, at her success in getting 
  the name out of the fog.

Doreel shakes his head yet again, brow furrowing. "Vargo." He says firmly, 
  repeating himself. "It's always been Vargo."

Trouble lifts her glassy gaze to you, and frowns unsurely. ** But... I know... 
  Dart... I... remember... **

"Do you?" Now he arches a brow.

Trouble nods, very slowly. ** Remember Dart, ** she repeats. ** Came with... 
  followed... from Holt... I remember. Remember.... ** She sways slightly, 
  where she sits.

"It's Vargo." Doreel starts to look hurt. "Vargo was here, with you. Vargo 
  left. It's Vargo. Don't know who Dart is."

Trouble's face crumples, as she sees you looking pained; that somehow makes it 
  through the fog around her senses, despite the fact that your features are 
  blurred. Her mouth works a bit, as she tries to talk and fails; then she 
  sends, ** But... why... why do I... remember Dart? <She sends you an image, 
  of another place, other trees, of the tall brown-skinned one there. And 
  another image, stranger still, of a place with hardly any trees at all, but 
  lots of rocks, and heat, and barren sand around delicately shaped huts.> **

Doreel shrugs for a moment, then blinks at the shared image. All pretenses of 
  pouting vanish, melting into a look of total wonder. "What is that?"

Trouble brightens; that's better, you're not sad anymore! ** My Holt... and 
  Sorrow's End... another place where elves live... I remember...! **

Doreel blinks. "There's another place?" This, obviously, hadn't occured to 
  him. At least, not any time that he's capable of remembering right now. 
  "With elves?"

Trouble readily shares her images with you -- tinged though they are with an 
  air of dream and unreality, with all the violet-blue mist and fizzling 
  lights in her mind and blood. ** Another place, ** she agrees dreamily, 
  slowly bobbing her head.

Doreel shakes his head, slowly, looking around the grove again. "Can't be." He 
  says softly. "Can't be. They all went away. Tall Ones got them. Got Vargo, 
  even."

Trouble considers an image of a bubbling pool of water... an image of a 
  strange, dainty tree with cloud-like leaves... and elves, many elves, 
  brown-skinned, brightly clad. ** But.... but... I've been there, ** she 
  mumbles, plaintively. ** Remember. I remember. **

Doreel continues to shake his head. "Can't be. They all went away. Aren't here 
  anymore." He sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them. 
  "Can't.. just can't."

Trouble awwws. With difficulty, she sits up, then crawls to you and tries to 
  hug you. ** Don't be sad... **

Doreel is hugged, however awkwardly it ends up being. He rests his chin on one 
  knee, looking out across the grove. "Why not?"

Trouble offers helpfully, even as her sending unfocuses and reels with the 
  weight of dream, ** Could take you... show you... know me there... know me! 
  ** She reels herself, slumping against you. And at your question, she 
  murmurs glibly, ** Have me now. Don't have to be sad. **

He lets that sink in, taking his time with it. "Do have you." He agrees, 
  glancing rather sideways at you. "You're not Trouble, to me. Not any trouble 
  at all." He ponders for a little while longer, then nods, faintly. "Could go 
  see."

Trouble sways against you, and smiles muzzily. ** Not Trouble, ** she repeats, 
  curious. ** Go see? **
Trouble giggles, a bit. ** Am Trouble, to my Holt, and Sorrow's End... know 
  me... **

"Not Trouble." Doreel frowns, slightly. "Not your Holt, not Sorrow's End. Not 
  Trouble."

Trouble mrmms? Her head tilts, as she tries to look up at you, where she's 
  fallen lightly against your side.

Doreel uncurls a little, looking back. "You're not Trouble. You need to find 
  your name." He nods once or twice, mostly to himself.

Your face is clearer, with her beside you, and she gazes up wide-eyedly at it. 
  As you straighten, she falls, feather-light, her multi-hued head landing 
  into your lap. ** Find name.... have to find name.... **

Doreel blinks sharply, though he does eventually get around to what might pass 
  for a nod. "Can look for it here for a little while longer, if you want." 
  Very cautiously he reaches a hand to touch your hair. "Or, if it isn't here, 
  we can look for it somewhere else."

Trouble smiles absently. Her hair, during her stay in the grove, has grown 
  matted and tangled, yet is still fine to the touch. ** Want to look for 
  name, ** she affirms.

He picks gently at a knot, still being very, very cautious. "Look for it 
  where, though?"

Trouble's small body quivers with liquid laughter. ** Nice... nice here... not 
  sure I can walk... **

Doreel chuckles softly, touching the tip of your nose with one finger from the 
  hand not currently occupied removing leaves from your hair. "You're probably 
  right."

Interestingly colored hair the maiden has: strands of dark gold, honey, red, 
  all together. Her long eyes regard you from under weighted lids, and a smile 
  continues to curve her mouth, softening it. ** You... you help me, find my 
  name? ** She doesn't even stir as you tend her hair.

"I'll try," comes the answer, very quiet. He frowns distantly at the knot, 
  moving his other hand to help the first with it.

Trouble sends unfocused happiness up at you. Her eyes drift shut again, and 
  she offers random swirls of thought as she tries to think about a name. She 
  wants a good one. It should fit her, like a good Wolfrider name would. Sum 
  up what she is... her life... spent hunting and Howling in the Holt-place of 
  foreign trees....

Doreel takes this all in with what might actually be amusement, or possibly 
  faint concern. Once he's got the knot worked free, he reaches over to select 
  another one of the violet-speckled mushrooms.

The maiden seems near-asleep, soothed by the gentle fingers untangling her 
  hair.

Doreel gingerly sets the mushroom on your chest, then returns to gently 
  combing out the mats in your hair, taking his time.

Trouble makes a soft humming noise where she lies, then tells you vaguely, ** 
  Feels good.... <Her sending, rippling, seems to indicate the feel of fingers 
  in her hair, parting the strands like the tendrils of blue-violet fog part 
  chains of the fizzling lights flowing through her.> ** As the mushroom is 
  placed on her chest she hmmms? again, one hand coming up slowly towards it.

"Another mushroom, dear one." Doreel smiles slightly, not bothering to glance 
  at it. Another thought apparently makes it through the fog in his own mind, 
  as now his hands move to your temples, where he rubs gently.

Trouble seems to actually purr a little at the rubbings at her temple. Her 
  hand fumbles to grasp the shroom, and slowly, she lifts it, begins to nibble 
  at it. Delight glimmers in her fogged sending, a slow and sweet sense as of 
  a child being given all the playthings she could ever want.

Flickers of incandescent gold, coloured with hints of green, lap at the edges 
  of the fog, comparable perhaps to flashes of skyfire deep in the depths of 
  stormclouds brewing on the horizon. And yet, these are warm, gentle, 
  extending from his fingertips into your head.

Trouble chews, and swallows, in infinite slowness. Her eyes remain half-open, 
  gazing distantly at the ancient, delicate face over her.

Doreel smiles, faintly, and though he looks down at you his gaze seems fixed 
  somewhere far, far away. His hands continue their gentle motions, magic 
  running in slow rivlets from his fingertips into your temples, appearing in 
  the mushroom fog as tiny streams of liquid gold that run in and pool 
  together.

Trouble, sixth mushroom slowly consumed, feels herself floating now, and in 
  dreamy wonder she watches the golden light flow. Entranced, she sends, 
  wordless, an appreciation of the lovely flowing light.

** You remember Vargo, don't you? ** As it is sent, the streams seem to pulse, 
  becoming slightly brighter with each mental syllable.

Trouble frowns slightly. Her thoughts swirl through the fog, thick enough now 
  that it is almost solid against her mind, enfolding, like a blanket. Vargo? 
  ** You said... you said he's gone... ** An image flickers behind her eyes, 
  the brown-skinned, violet-eyed one who left. Dart, the name whispers.

Acknowledgement ripples through the golden runnels, colouring the old one's 
  mental voice with what end up being numerous shades of blue, indigo, gold 
  and silver. ** That's Vargo. He's gone. **

Gone? She remembers that..... yes. And sadness ripples through her, somehow 
  dragging at her feet, pulling her down from the floating. With the sadness 
  comes confusion: not Dart? And pain, for she misses, him, sorely...

The gold reaches for the sadness, seeking to wash over it, drown it out as it 
  were. That's Vargo, something echoes back. Vargo, not Dart. Dart is the 
  memory, Vargo is the shroomfog dream. Or.. is Vargo the memory, and Dart the 
  dream?

She reels in bafflement, pulled between what she knows and what she thinks she 
  knows. Seeking reassurance, she reaches with effort through the fog, towards 
  the golden light. So difficult to move, to think... why?

The goldness remains, gentle and bright, rippling through everything and 
  bringing with it whispers of thought: what do you believe? Who is Vargo, and 
  who is Dart? And who are you?

She hovers there, perplexed. Memory _says_ Dart, and she offers the golden 
  light glimmers of memory, hazed by the shroomfog: Dart with his jack-wolf, 
  Dart among the elves of Sorrow's End, Dart climbing a tree to join her on 
  watch. She struggles to see if she remembers anything of 'Vargo', and lifts 
  a mental hand, trying to draw aside sparkling curtains of fog... only to 
  pause, confused, at the question of who _she_ is. Is she not... Trouble?

Images of Vargo well in, carried along on the golden flow like leaves cast 
  there by some tree farther upstream. Vargo tracking down berries; Vargo with 
  Doreel and the Mothered elf; Vargo sitting beneath a tree with you. Flickers 
  of light dance through the fog, not quite answering. Are you Trouble?

She... remembers Vargo? Fascinated, she hovers near these memories, finding 
  them new and strange... but they _are_ there. And they seem to feel like the 
  memories of Dart, with her at their vantage point. But... they do not go 
  with the memory of 'Trouble', and she reels, baffled. ** I... don't.. 
  know... who I am... **

As she sends, she reaches out at random, seeking more recollections: basic 
  ones, at the level of sight and scent and sound. The smell of the Holt 
  washed in an evening rain... Moonshade's leathers and the dyes she uses to 
  color them... and, in the back of her mind, a very old memory of the scent 
  of her mother, as a cub-self embraced Myriel's shoulder.

** We have to find out who you are, don't we? ** As if to counter those, more 
  leaves flow down the golden river, more flashes of memory to collect on the 
  foggy shores. These are the same, in some ways, familiar in that they are 
  there in your mind, reflecting the gold and blue-violet, and they feel 
  slightly of Doreel. This grove, green and alive in the crisp spring 
  sunshine; flowers blooming beneath the trees, growing in vines up their 
  trunks, exploding in riots of colour.

Yes. Find her name. Find out who she is. She needs a name; this she remembers, 
  clearly. Slowly, oh so slowly, she reaches to touch the leaves flowing along 
  the golden river, and walks slowly into it, wading.

Those leaves cling, adding their memories to yours, at least superficially. 
  The gold curls around you, much like the blue-violet did, only this time it 
  is much warmer, far thicker.

The maiden pauses in the river of golden light, fascinated, as she watches the 
  flowing stuff build up around her. She moves a leg, slowly, and shivers in 
  equally slow delight as its thick warmth trails through her.

Slow is the light, gentle and somehow eternal feeling. Inviting, it is, almost 
  beckoning you to lose yourself in it.. to give up the questions and accept 
  what it has to offer.

Enchanted, she kneels in the flow, trying to bathe her arms in it, to see if 
  the floating leaves indeed cling to her upper body as well as her legs. Such 
  marvelous warmth, and such a gentle glow. Soothed, her thoughts slow. And as 
  she might do by a real stream, she leans farther over, to try to lap 
  daintily at the light, to drink it in, to warm herself within as well as 
  without.

The stuff is like liquid sunshine, and as such, it does not cling to anything 
  not left within it, instead runs in lazy rivlets down into its bed. It is 
  warm as you drink, possibly reminding you somewhere of honeyed berries in 
  late summer, going straight to your fingertips and toes.

Her hands and feet are already a-tingle, and now, as the honey-light flows 
  down within them, she sways, gently falling over to yield herself up to the 
  flow. To float. So good, to float, and to be so warm! Unaware of anything 
  else, now, the maiden lets herself be surrounded by the light.

It's nice, isn't it? Warm and embracing, willing to take away everything and 
  replace it with this golden brilliance. It carries you, down, to the pool 
  the river collects into, passage slow and easy as the flow of time itself.

Wondrous, aye, to just be carried, safe and secure and warm... to not even 
  move her honey-heavy, honey-warm limbs. Into the pool she feels herself 
  flow, and in pliant response she opens her mouth a little, drinking at the 
  radiance that meets her.

Gold, blue, violet, all the colours meld into one glowing shade that pours 
  over you, the liquid wonderfully warm and protective.

** <rapture> ** She does not send more than that, does not remember that she 
  can. All is the light, the cocooning light. She sinks into it, letting it 
  finally close over her head, blocking out all else, even the blue-violet fog 
  and the sparkles of light in her blood, for these have been absorbed into 
  the surrounding flow of brilliance. Peacefully, she drifts, letting the 
  brightness move her as it will. To her name, perhaps. Her name...

Everything is contained in that light, yet it is blurred into shapelessness by 
  the radiance. It melts together, molten thought. Your name is there 
  somewhere, if you can find it.

Find...? Oh, but it is so difficult to move, when the honey-light clings to 
  her body. Difficult to drift through the heavy stuff. But a dimly remembered 
  need makes her finally do so, lifting an infinitely weighted hand to try to 
  make a path through the light. To look for her name.

Echoes of other thoughts flitter through the light, appearing as variations of 
  colour in the whole. Your name.. yes.. look for your name. It's here, isn't 
  it? Everything is here..

Everything is here, she repeats to herself, dreamily. She moves both her hands 
  through the light, swimming a little, shivering in pleasure at the continued 
  warmth buoying her up. She considers each echo and swirl that comes to her. 
  A name, there must be a name here, somewhere. She should have one.

Find it, then.. you'll have to find it, the light cannot help you, it can only 
  support you in its endless glow.

Slowly, she considers; slowly, she lifts her hands to herself, seeking the 
  leaf-fragments of memory that had been clinging to her. Gone? Taken onward 
  by the light? Perhaps. Perhaps if she follows the flow, she will find where 
  they went. Rousing a little -- perhaps because of conscious choice made, 
  rather than passive yielding -- she swims languidly along the current in the 
  pool of light, towards its far shore. The memories. There must be a name 
  there!

The leaves, if they are indeed leaves, have collected on what passes for the 
  far edge of the golden pool, speckles of brighter colours in the molten 
  light. One particularly large piece floats past you, this one green and 
  edged in silver, veined with purple and sprinkled with starlight. Could 
  this, maybe, possibly be a name? Is this what you seek?

It is lovely, whatever it is, and she lifts her honey-coated hands to grasp it 
  and draw it to her, to get a better look.

It hums, the silver traceries in the cool green pulsing with the sound, 
  perhaps fed by the light. When you touch it, it pulses still more brightly, 
  beckoning. Yes, this might actually be it. It's yours, if you want it. If 
  you can figure out how to claim it.

A name! Oh, High Ones, yes, she wants a name so badly that she barely knows 
  how to express it. Not certain whether this is it, that unsureness flows 
  away into the surrounding light as she grasps the silver-green leaf... and 
  clasps it in her light-bathed hands to her cheek.

Cool where everything else has been so warm, it is not at all unplesant as it 
  touches you. Not in the slightest. A name.. your name.. all you have to do 
  is let it in.. or maybe to let it out, as it may well have been part of you 
  this whole time.

Bliss wells up within her as the surety grows. She clasps it now to her lips, 
  as though she might drink it in with the radiance that blankets her.

The cool, soothing colour of the leaf, different as it is from the gold that 
  still flows about you, washes in, bringing with it a sense of solidity, of 
  truth. There.. there it is.. whispered in on the softness comes a new 
  colour. But it's not a colour, it's a name. Yes.. there. Niriah.

[End log.]