"Calling for a Healer"

Log Date:
	8/3/03

Log Cast:
	Larias, Ynderra, Savith, Strongbow, Pike (spoofed), Skot (spoofed),
Redlance (spoofed), Yun (spoofed), Dewshine (spoofed)

Log Intro:
	[OOC Notes: Larias and Strongbow both mentioned OOC during this
scene that their descriptions were out of date, as Larias was no longer 
pregnant and Strongbow no longer chief of Lostholt when this was roleplayed.
I kept the descs in for reference anyway.]
	Ever since coming back from Sorrow's End seasons ago, Ynderra of 
Lostholt has been a shaken healer. For many seasons before her return to 
her tribe, she has lingered in Sorrow's End to assist in the watch kept on
the mad Firstborn Doreel and upon a she-elf he'd shaped to his will, both
in body and mind: Oriolle, who seemed almost as mad as the Firstborn. Derra
has had intensely personal reasons to want to be on trying to deal with 
Doreel--this is, after all, the same Firstborn who'd once captured Rillwhisper
and Strongbow, and who later captured Strongbow's son Dart.
	And Trouble, the child of Ynderra's own twin sister Myriel.
	The loss of Trouble has never healed in Myriel's heart, and the 
absence of her sister from the Holt ever since young Trouble's death has never
quite healed in Ynderra's heart, either.
	And so, presented with an opportunity to discover once and for all
whether Doreel is as evil as Winnowill or just merely insane, Ynderra joined
her efforts to those of Savah, Djhala, Kiralee, Rillwhisper, and others in
Sorrow's End to try to reassemble a sane mind from the shattered fragments of
Doreel's psyche. But it went badly--Doreel very nearly broke Ynderra's own
soul in the strength of his pain.
	Ever since, Ynderra has been uncharacteristically shy at Lostholt,
even reclusive, barely letting her presence register for anyone in the tribe
besides her mother Tyleet. Her infectious good nature has been muted, and 
she's only been seen once by Mathryn of the Cat Elves, one of the visitors 
who has been hanging about the Holt for some time. But she cannot deny that
she _is_ a healer, and one of some power--and so, when the Holt calls, Ynderra
must answer... even when it means she's about to discover Strongbow having
clashed with visitors yet again. And visitors who, for that matter, are 
Gliders....

----------
East Bank of the Silver Run River
The lands of the Abode surround you.
At the rivers edge, a pool has formed, sheltered by huge rocks on the west 
  side, allowing the water there to collect and empty out somewhat at odd 
  intervals. Here it seems a good place for the washing out of leathers, 
  bathing of bodies and general relaxing, though the waters you find are 
  chilled. There is smooth white sand, surprisingly, under your feet and you 
  find yourself smiling at this pleasant place. There are a few trees 
  scattered over the beach, providing shade as well patches of cleared ground. 
  The bank here begins tapering off into thick woods, limbs covered with gaily 
  colored leaves as the holt prepares for the season of DeathSleep. Dead and 
  dying shrubs and undergrowth encroaches all around as the bank blends with 
  and eventually becomes the forest. Tiny bugs zip around at ankle height, and 
  occasionally a fish leaps out to snatch at one of them. It is a cool autumn 
  evening. You hear hushed noises as the holt slowly comes to life as elves 
  and wolves awaken from their daytime slumber.
Contents:
Strongbow
Larias(#382PJUce$0)
Savith(#9699PJXce$0)
Obvious exits:
Pool<P>  Into the Woods<E>  Along the River<S>

His talon whip? Larias chuckles shaking her head. Ooo, movement not good for 
  her shoulder. Another groan squeezes through tightly pressed lips. A private 
  thought passing to Savith, its better than trying to speak.

Ynderra is not the best sender in the world. But then again, one doesn't have 
  to be in a Holt with Strongbow. With his sending ringing in her skull, the 
  daughter of Tyleet comes riding hard up from the south, black curls flying 
  loose as she tries to close in on the place from which the archer's call had 
  come. As her wolf-friend bears her into range she casts a worried blue 
  glance ahead -- and only mostly for whomever might be in trouble. There's 
  just a hint of uncertainty in her otherwise forthright eyes, and maybe even 
  a little shock that _she_ has been called rather than Leetah...
But at any rate, she is _here_. And a Wolfrider's nose and ears can't help but 
  catch her coming.

Savith grins in his arms, and glances up at the sound of a wolf running near. 
  Ah, the healer.

Strongbow
        Like the arrows he unerringly shoots, Strongbow stands tall and 
  straight, slender and elegantly-shaped as any bow he has used over his many 
  turns. An elder in the tribe, Strongbow still has many, many turns before he 
  begins to succumb to venerable age. Mahogany hair crowns his head, full and 
  wild, not quite reaching the middle of his back. By the rare light of the 
  daystar and the more common light of the moon, it seems to glow a dark red, 
  but in the pitch black of a starless night, it is a deep rich auburn, 
  bordering on burgundy. Held back by a soft strip of leather from his eyes, 
  the top is also pulled back in a somewhat short chief's lock...newly tied 
  in. The rest is left to fall unbound. Light brown eyes, heavily slanted 
  above high cheekbones are rumored to be the sharpest of any elf's. His skin 
  is fair as any Wolfrider's might be, there once might have been a sprinking 
  of freckles on his face, but age and so little time spent under the 
  daystar's watch has caused them to fade to near oblivion. Everything about 
  this elf is all sharpness and sinew, including his features. Angles and 
  lines, the closest he comes to softness is the fact that the point of his 
  chin has been obscured by ruddy face-fur. A fairly recent development in his 
  appearance, his face-fur has grown in as a sort of goatee, with a thin line 
  continuing along the line of his jaw.
        Everything about the elf is utilitarian...nothing is to get in the way 
  of his archery. His clothes are simple, tight-fitting brown tunic trimmed in 
  gold and green leaf-like patterns, snug fiting leggings, and high boots that 
  rise above his knees. Simple bracers support his wrists, tooled and lovingly 
  dyed by his lifemate who knows his style as well as she knows her own.
Carrying:
Quiver
Longbow
Wisp

Larias
        When feet are planted firmly on the floor, the height of this she-elf 
  is great (5'8"), a strong sign of her age and lineage. Lightly tanned skin 
  holds the warm glow of health commonly associated with pregnancy. Hair so 
  pale a blonde, as to nearly be white, is pulled back at her temples keep the 
  hair from her face. The rest of her hair is left freely hanging, wavy and 
  rich in texture, it pools at her feet. Rich icy blue eyes are amplified by 
  the shade of her dress, with the signs of crows feet at the edges - another 
  testament t her age. Her cheekbones are high and pronounced, giving her face 
  a sleek, though slightly angular look. Around her neck, on a thin piece of 
  sinew, she wears a simple, though elegantly shaped pendant. A diamond, 
  shaped to reflect even the smallest amount of light, surrounded by gold 
  shaped into the emblem of Sorrows End - the pendant shows no sign of being 
  anything other than perfection, a masterpiece by the magic user who created 
  it.
        With ancient features amplified by pregnancy and the gown of an expert 
  seamstress, Larias makes a striking elf. Her form is not so thin or lithe as 
  most gliders, instead, she has about as athletic a build as you could 
  imagine for a glider. A strength in arms and eyes which belies her delicate 
  heritage and dress.In shades of deepest blue, the dress she wears is very, 
  very simple. There is no differentiation between the bodice and the skirts, 
  though it's obviously been made with care, stitched with white and silver 
  thread. The front is slit and laced - to allow for the inevitable breast 
  growth of pregnancy, and there are lengthy slits on either side reaching to 
  about mid-thigh. Worn over her arms and across her back is a sleeved shawl 
  of soft, pale gray. The material is slightly heavier than the dress, though 
  still delicately soft, and reaching to the mid-back. The sleeves of the 
  shawl widen as they reach the hands, and around the cuffs are white and 
  silver wolves, chasing each other's tails. There is also a long strip of the 
  silken blue fabric, carefully hemmed and decorated with a howling wolf at 
  either end, to tie the dress at the waist as desired.
        The inevitable expanding and rounding of the belly has begun. Larias, 
  now over a turn and a half into her pregnancy is showing quite prominently.
Carrying:
Sun-Pendant
Worn Out Bag

Savith
         Tall and as slender as a reed, this elf holds himself with a grace 
  born of one who's feet rarely touch the ground. Over that lean body, a dark 
  near-black blue leather suit, soft and yielding, can be seen, the chest of 
  which drops into a V, down to his upper abdomin, exposing skin that is 
  returning to its creamy paleness after turns in the daystar. The suit is 
  long sleeved, and every hem, where skin meets cloth, a trim of dark 
  silver-grey feathers rest. These feathers make up the entirity of his soft 
  soled boots, and match the feathers tracing his shoulders, resting on them, 
  which then flare up to wings which sweep and frame his face.
         His face, long and handsome, and also showing signs of life away from 
  the Mountain's protection, holds deep green, upward slanting eyes whose 
  colors seem to shift randomly. Though long and thin, his face lacks any 
  harsh angles, his high cheekbones but a gentle curve. His nose is thin, 
  turning up slightly, while fine silvery-brown eyebrows sit over his eyes. 
  His lips are neither full nor thin. 
        Framing that lean face, is a soft cascade of audburn curls. The soft 
  brown locks seem to gleefully wiggle their way free of a bun on the top of 
  his head: a Chosen's bun.
         At his right hip, attached to a carefully hidden loop of reenforced 
  leather, is a silvery talonwhip.
Carrying:
Talonwhip

Ynderra(#1290PQace$0)
This is an elfin maiden of unremarkable height, and a slim and lithely curved 
  build. Her hair is curly and raven-black, and pulled back from her face into 
  a braid that reaches down to the small of her back and frequently bounces 
  when she moves about. Loose curls too short to be held in the braid wisp 
  about her face. High cheekbones give that face a delicately sculpted look, 
  and a lupine slant to her smoky, dark blue eyes. When she speaks, it's in a 
  high, clear soprano.
For the Deathsleep season, she is clad in snugly fitting leathers: a trim 
  jacket of red and brown dappled leather over a short-sleeved half-tunic of a 
  deep, dark red that leaves her midriff exposed, breeches of a lighter 
  reddish-gold with grey fox fur trim at the waist, and calf-height soft grey 
  boots.

Strongbow looks over. Yes, you, Ynderra. There's goo reason for it. These 
  foolish gliders have bothered her enough. He nods to the healer then to 
  Larias first, who is a pincushion, having an arrow and spear stick in her.

Indeed, Larias is an elvin pincushion. Shes sprawled in a heap at Strongbow's 
  feet, cheek to the dirt. For the most part she is unmoving, as moving brings 
  about more agony than its worth. She has one of Strongbow's arrows in her 
  shoulder, a spear of Yun's in her thigh, and on that same leg, another 
  grazing wound from someone else's arrow. The set to her jaw is tight, but a 
  faintly amused smirk plays on her features as well - at least someone can 
  see the humor in this situation, no?

"Ohmigosh--" Never the most elegant or refined of elves -- especially around 
  Strongbow, in the last many seasons -- Derra knees her wolf-friend to a 
  skidding halt and scrambles nimbly off, hastening over. Her chest heaves 
  with the exertion of the ride, so she jumps to sending and to no one in 
  particular: ** Ohhhhmigosh, what happened... no, don't tell me-- ** Several 
  possibilities present themselves, none of them good, especially since she 
  knows Strongbow's arrows when she sees them. ** Um! ** She crouches down by 
  Larias, also knowing a Glider when she sees one and not entirely certain how 
  she'll be received, but that's almost irrelevant. The pain of the wound that 
  screams for healing is the vital thing, and Ynderra reaches out unsurely, 
  hands kindling golden-green. ** May I? **

Ceratinly they can. Savith lays still. His injuries are far less severe. Just 
  many NASTY gashes across his back from the rock into which he was 
  dive-bombed into.

Pale blue eyes open, teeth gritted tight, Larias turns her head to eye the one 
  now hovering over her. Hmm? Not the same healer which helped in the birthing 
  of her son. Pain shooting through her arm, Larias doesn't take long to 
  acquiesce, just the lightest hint of amusement at this hopeless situation 
  filtering into the mental voice, ** I certainly wouldn't mind... **

Strongbow nods to the rest standing here, Pike and Skot. With Larias being 
  healed, they can relax a touch. But stay on your guard, his wordless send 
  demands. Even relaxes the grip on his bow, eyes turning accussingly to 
  Savith. Freakin' Chosen.

No, not the usual healer that one sees in action around Lostholt -- especially 
  after her last run-in with a mad Firstborn who very nearly turned her own 
  power against her. And which power Ynderra has been reluctant about using, 
  ever since.
But the little black-haired healer tries not to think about that, most days. 
  And when her Holt calls -- she is still a healer. And so she bobs her head 
  to Larias swiftly, offering a guileless and earnest assurance of ** This 
  won't hurt a bit ** as she puts one small hand to the spear that has pierced 
  her and the other to the wounded flesh.
Magic flows... of two different kinds. One to better coax the spear to slide 
  free of Larias' body, the other to smooth away the pain of its passing and 
  mend the hole it leaves.

Savith snickers softly at something, but stays still. His guards have not 
  lessened.

Certainly not, for Redlance, Skot, Yun, and Dewshine all guard the Chosen, 
  laying face down on the ground. (Yun spoofed by permission, only to guard 
  Savith and leave when no longer needed.)

As the healing begins, Larias's eyes close once more. How many times is she 
  going to feel the gentle touch of a healer while she stays here in LostHolt? 
  Silently she hopes it won't need to happen again.

She'd barely noticed the others all surrounding the Gliders, especially her 
  grandsire... but until the task at hand is done, 'Derra avoids meeting 
  anyone else's eyes. A bit of an embarrassed flush darkens her dainty face, 
  almost as if she is stricken with acute shyness to be using her gifts before 
  several pairs of eyes... but then, the actual flow of magic doesn't seem to 
  suffer for it. She is not Leetah, but there is undeniable strength in the 
  flow of light from her hands; the spear is effortlessly shaped free of 
  Larias' flesh, and a few moments after the place where it had been becomes 
  unmarred and whole. Next she transfers her attention to the arrow; once 
  more, the dual magic flows. And 'Derra tucks her lip under her teeth, brow 
  furrowing in intense concentration as she works.

Strongbow watches the healer work. He's still, though the fire in his eyes 
  gives away his angered sending at someone.

Savith breathes easier as Larias is healed, sending to her still.

Larias flexes the muscles of her leg as the healing of it is completed, ah, 
  still pain where the arrow grazed her, but that is liveable. She is careful 
  though, not to move to much though, with the healer now working at her 
  shoulder - no need to spook the locals, she's done that well enough as it is.

The Lostholt healer risks a glance up at the taller she-elf's face so as to 
  gauge comfort... and perhaps Ynderra senses that lingering hurt, for eight 
  fingertips like tiny motes of warm sunshine settle against that arrow wound 
  and send soothing heat through skin and muscle, till the arrow rises up and 
  out and falls away as though of its own accord. Ynderra ignores it, now that 
  she's got it loose. ** Hold on, almost done! ** she pipes. Her sending is as 
  warm as her magic, a palpable counterpoint to the furious archer. Oh, Derra 
  knows all too well the trials Gliders have caused her tribe... but hey. 
  She's healing, here! No place in the middle of her green-golden sphere of 
  light for the troubles between tribes.

Larias can't but help to smile at the warm, infectious, bubbly nature of the 
  healer now working to smooth the wounds she earned in anger. She moves her 
  arm slowly, yes yes, much better without the arrow in it indeed. Her hand 
  brushes some hair and dirt away from her mouth and nose. Silent, she waits 
  for the healer to complete her work - oh but what then. The fight may be 
  over, but there will be repercussions, won't there? *gulp*

Repercussions are Strongbow's department -- or, um, Cutter's. Sometimes even 
  Rillwhisper's. Anybody in the Holt who is, at any rate, possessed of the 
  stuff that goes into the crafting of a pack leader... in which category 
  Ynderra does not qualify. _Her_ department is healing, and aye, though 
  there's uncertainty in her eyes, it does not douse her inherent brightness 
  of spirit. She gives Larias the best smile she can muster as she finishes 
  and pulls carefully back, her attention shifting now to Savith.

Savith has laid still, like a good boy. (Someone give the glider a cookie!) 
  His shifted slightly, resting his chin on his hands. With Larias healed, he 
  seems less discomforted, though that back of his... He'll need a new 
  uniform, that's certain. A faint quirk of a brow is given the healer as he 
  waits, two swords, a spear, and an arrow still aimed at him.

Strongbow crouches to Larias as the healing is done, and glares at her. 
  **Count yourself I am not still chief. You would have been out as soon at 
  that pup of yours was born.** His send is cold, but honest. Forthright and 
  uncaring about the adult gliders. **But Cutter is chief, and he'll deal with 
  you. Until then, know that I will be watching. And next time, I won't aim 
  for a shoulder.**

Weapons aimed at him is better than weapons stuck into him; it makes Ynderra's 
  job easier. At the archer's bristling sending Ynderra flinches ever so 
  slightly, but otherwise shows no other reaction as she pours her power over 
  the gashes in Savith's flesh. They begin to seamlessly vanish underneath 
  that blanket of light... and in moments they are whole, leaving only a 
  residual ache behind which vanishes in turn.

Larias pushes herself into an upright position, her own garb pretty much shot 
  now that she's been shot in the shoulder, stabbed in the leg, and nicked in 
  the leg as well. As the powerful send of the archer settles about her, 
  Larias nods, knowing full well that by all rights they should be kicked out 
  and soon, for the sake of the harmony of this tribe. The only thing she can 
  think to do, is assure the archer, as best she can, ** If I have any say in 
  the matter, there will be no next time. ** At least, she genuinely hopes 
  there won't, and she'll do all in her power to make sure there isn't.

Savith's breathing relaxes as do tense muscles. Oh, but high ones, what a 
  difference the touch makes! So unlike Winnowill, he catches him a bit off 
  guard, but eases him as well. Just... wow. But though as Larias was healed 
  the guards let up, they do no such thing for Savith. Whent he healing is 
  complete, he lifts his head, hair falling in his face. In a motion 
  completely foreign between Chosen and wolfrider, he sends, **Thank you.**

Strongbow stands, and glares at Savith. Thank you. Please. Strongbow sneers, 
  then nods the rest away, but orders a doble watch until Cutter gets here and 
  sorts this out. With that, he fades into the shadows of the forest to watch, 
  leaving behind one last send for Savith, **And the same goes for you.**

Derra blinks, then flashes Savith a pleased, startled, and larger smile. ** 
  You're welcome! ** comes her reply, bubbling up like a stream. But she snaps 
  a nervous glance after the archer nevertheless, and even as she finishes 
  with Savith's healing she stands up cautiously and eases away, not wanting 
  to do anything to upset the others whose weapons are still drawn. Redlance 
  glances her way, compassion and pride in his big green eyes, and even though 
  Ynderra flicks him a smile as well it does not stop her from stepping back 
  to her wolf-friend and remounting... and slipping away into the woods as 
  quickly as she had come, blushing as she goes.

[End log.]