Log Date: 9/22/96 Log Cast: Thicket, Slate, Pacer/Evergreen, Silvermoon Log Intro: Worried that the elf she's hesitantly accepting as her lifemate Pacer might not come back from his impromptu hunting trip, Thicket has remained on anxious watch for him. Concerned in his turn by Thicket's uncharacteristic desperation, Slate lingers near her, tending to food and fire, and his own lifemate -- who is frightened of Thicket -- and their cub.... ---------- Thicket sits on a half-rotted log by the pool, arms wrapped about herself, and fixedly watching the woods. She's done little else beside this for some time, ever since the grey-eyed silver-haired elf claiming Pacer's name vanished off on his hunt. Slate comes out of his den, stretching in the cool morning air. Glancing around, he notices thicket sitting there, unmoving. **He will come back, Thicket...** he sends, letting her know he is there. Evergreen has arrived. Thicket barely notices Slate, or at least seems to barely notice him, as she stares determinedly at the path Pacer took. Slate sighs and goes about his business...hunting up breakfast. Time passes, and he returns with three ravvits, fat and furry. Down which path, at last, comes Pacer -- strange still, silver-haired and stormcloud-eyed -- one great skin, dappled with spots of cream against the roe red dun of deer hide, draped over his shoulder and folded. Expression bemused, he slips through the trees, approaching still, footsteps quiet -- and echoed, by smaller ones, more of them, in the brush. Thicket jerks her head up, catching her breath at the footsteps. At last, or at least so she hopes; she sniffs at the air, habitual wariness warring wtih the lump in her throat. Silvermoon has arrived. Silvermoon gasps Silvermoon dives back into Slate's Den, and a wimper can be hear from it. Silvermoon goes home. Silvermoon has left. Thicket, if she is aware of Slate's mate's emergence from their own den, doesn't seem to give any sign of it. Instead, she leaps to her feet, continuing to fixate on the footsteps coming through the trees. Pacer pauses to avoid being bowled over by Silvermoon's abrupt departure, then moves forward once more to, at last, clear the lowest branches and brush, stepping out onto the bank. He, too, scents, though not warily, eyes glimmering with pleasure at the familiar place and its familiar inhabitant. ** Thicket, ** he calls out, smile claiming its place on his features. Thicket, already on her feet, rushes to the returning one. Desperation begins to fade out of her features, replaced by a kind of open pleasure such as she's never allowed on her face in the past. And a bit of shyness, as well, as she checks herself just sort of throwing herself into her mate's new, strange arms. Grin broadening, Pacer closes that space with a step, reaching one hand out to stroke your shoulder, unforcefully welcoming an embrace. ** Told you I'd come back, ** he states, eyes asparkle, and doubles his other hand to touch the pelt on his shoulder, significantly. Thicket blinks once, twice, then steps to you, readily. _Her_ shoulder, it can immediately be noticed, is oddly clad -- wtih something she wasn't wearing when you left, before. But she doesn't mention the strange, new blue shirt she is wearing; Thicket simply wraps her arms around you, and hugs you fiercely. Perhaps the touch was notice of the strange fabric, or perhaps merely affection; there is no question of the emotion behind the strong squeeze he gives in return. Nuzzling your hair, your neck, your shoulder, taking in your scent with joy and grinning all the while, he sends, quietly, ** Water-bird feathers, too, and blueblossoms -- I think -- I almost remember as if color comes from that, for hides -- and it's softer than just hide -- ** He halts, a little excited by strange tasks he can only imagine he's remembered to do, or just invented, and silently shakes his head, braid slipping across the base of his neck. Thicket blinkblinks up at you, still with that shyness. She glances down at her shirt as though having forgotten she wears it, then plucks at it, restlessly. "Slate gave," she mutters. "Is... cloth. From another place." And there's more -- a strange, not-strange, scent, not unlike this odd Pacer himself, but animal too -- a sound in the brush, the whuffle of a beast's nose, and then silence. Pacer leans back, arms still about you, so as to look the material over. ** He did well...? Cloth, and hunt...? ** He nods faint approval, managing a grim look soon replaced by the great smile as his eyes lift from the blue material to your own green-on-earth gaze. Thicket jerks, startled, peering behind you at the other sounds and scents. "Is... strange, this cloth..." And again, she peers around your shoulder. Pacer tilts his head and turns it, gaze following your own. ** What? ** He turns back to look at you with a nod. ** It's soft...a little 'grabby,' ** he observes, a few fingers straying over it and plucking at the fabric over your back. ** Looks a little bright to hunt in. ** Thicket sends gruffly, clearly distracted away from the cloth-stuff now, ** Noise in bushes. ** Noise indeed, the whuffle again, and shaking branches. Wolf-smell, clearly now, with a trace of the new-Pacer smell, approaching -- and halting just clear of close enough to see, an invisible lupine presence in the brush. Thicket freezes, staring warily into the brush now. ** ? ** ** Ah, ** Pacer nods, frowning as well as his features allow, eyes clouding. ** Was tracked while hunting, ** he informs you, ** But I didn't think he followed... ** Thicket murmur-sends, bemusedly, ** Is... wolf? ** Slate comes out of his den, hands bloody from the ravvits... ** Yes. ** Pacer's grin returns, more faint, and his gaze flicks toward Slate. He unhooks one arm from around Thicket's back, stepping a bit aside to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, one arm below her shoulders over her back, fingers still idly plucking at the strange material. He pats the doeskin on his other shoulder, adding, ** I think he flushed the whitetail out for me. ** Slate comes out of his den, hands bloody from the ravvit he'd brought his lifemate and cub. Thicket blinks past Pacer at the shadow in the brush, then starts again at Slate's scent wafting through the clearing. "Hello Pacer...Hello Thicket..." slate says, nodding slightly at them both. Slate sends openly ** Flushed the whitetail? ** Pacer nods, patting the cream-dappled red-dun hide folded and draped over his shoulder. Thicket glances between the two males, still seeming slightly skittish, before she reaches to touch the hide Pacer has brought. "Wolf-friend," she mumbles, sounding wistful. A soft shaking of the bushes is followed by a gentle thump, a whuff, and silence, unmoving, still wolf-scented. Looking down at Thicket's hand on the doeskin, Pacer shakes his head. ** Not yet, ** he states, with a shrug. ** Just following. ** Slate looks around...**I hope Tracker and Starspray do not chase him off..** he sends, worredly. Then, noting the deerskin, he smiles. **that would make wonderful clothes for thicket...** Pacer nods, lifting his head to grin at Slate. ** I know, ** he states, pridelessly, a mere statement of fact. ** It's softer, too. ** "Pack," mutters Thicket, sounding vaguely troubled. Then she blinks at both her companions again, distracted anew by the discussion of clothing; her hands trail down along the cloth-stuff shirt, bemused. Pacer adds, ** Remembered...soak and stretch and scrape. ** He shrugs, and looks at Thicket once more. ** New breeches, ** he states, ** and a vest with blue-blossom marks. ** He runs fingertips over the star-shape dyed into the leathers that he's inherited along with the body he now wears, adding in a murmur, ** Like these. ** Slate nods...*Definately new breeches...** slate adds. **For some reason, I did not think to get some breeches from Sorrow's End...** Thicket blinks once or twice at Pacer, now, eyes going wide at his words. "You... know how?" she asks, gruffly. Pacer nods, brows peaking in curiousity. ** I ...learned...? ** he suggests, with a shrug. Slowly, dazedly, Thicket nods. "Al... alright," she manages. "Leathers." Slate nods...**Perhaps...** slate sends. **May I see the pelt, Pacer?** he asks, moving toward him. Pacer lifts the pelt from his shoulder, revealing, slung beneath it, a leather cord with a collection of different waterfowl feathers in shimmering blacks and greens, as well as some down, tied to it, and a pair of longbelly pelts. He holds the doeskin out to Slate, sparkle-eyed, smirking. Slate smiles, obviously impressed. he takes the skin, regarding it with a critical eye and murmurs...**Excellent fur...heavy...good for winter...** He looks up and smiles...**need any help making her clothes? Thicket's eyes go round at the bounty under the deer pelt. She takes a step back, then sinks slowly onto the rock by the pool side, as if seeking it to be steadied. Pacer crouches, reaching out to touch Thicket's cheek, gently. He sends back at Slate, ** I think I can manage... ** And, to Thicket, ** Dizzy...? ** Slate nods..."Allright..." he says, shivering at a chill breeze that whips through the clearing. Almost without thinking, he throws the fur over thicket's shoulders, fur in, to keep her warm. Thicket sniffs at the air; the wolf scent is still there. "So much... different," she murmurs. And she stares up at Pacer as she says this. Pacer turns a quick glance up at the other male, eyes flickering, a hint of forthcoming lightning within the stormclouds, and looks back at Thicket, eyes gentling once more. ** I know, ** he murmurs, not without multiple meanings. Slate remains silent...sitting at Thicket's feet deep in thought. Pacer looks back over at Slate, measuring him again, thoughtful. He rubs his hand across his mate's back, reassuring, then rises from his crouch to a stand, staring off toward the wolf-scent in the brush. It is to Slate, though, that he sends, a murmur just shy of being locked: ** How many winters here have you spent? You were gone -- ** His eyes flick to the den in which Slate's mate and cub reside, hidden. ** With mate. How long were you here before... ** Slate sends openly ** Eight turns...mabye more. ** Pacer's gaze fixes, now, on Slate himself. The number registers nothing on his face, and he observes aloud, ** Your pack...your mate is uncomfortable here. ** Thicket curls rough fingers around the hide on her shoulder. It _is_ cold out, and she huddles under the hide, scowling vaguely, as she mutters, "Arm dead long time. Slate come, after arm die." Slate stares back, grey eyes boring into the other elf. **She is getting used to it...We will leave as soon as the whitecold is over.** One arm rises to curl 'round Thicket, and its owner's silver gaze returns to her face. ** New den-furs, ** Pacer murmurs, considering. ** Bear-hide, or snow-cat...warm for winter, for Thicket. ** He smiles, hopeful, at his mate, eyes glimmering. Slate Watches all this impassivly. ** You and she, and the cub? ** Pacer's send, private, is slightly split -- as if some of his words don't want to be his own. **It all depends on what Silvermoon wants to do. We are not leaving until Newgreen... Is Thicket unsettled? Certainly the proximity of both these attentive males seems to affect her in some odd way. She mutters aloud to Slate, "Thank you." Then to Pacer, she returns her gaze, looking strangely helpless, confused. "Warm..." "Welcome." Slate replies, smiling at her. Pacer nods with a smile, running his fingertips over the doeskin, pleased; somehow, still distant. Pacer assents, still in private sending. ** And what do you think she will choose then, in newgreen? ** Shrugs noticably. **This I do not know. If she wishes to stay, we stay. If she wishes to go, we go.** Slate sends openly ** I will go when Thicket asks me to. ** Slate sends openly ** If she asks me to. ** Pacer nods, quiet, thoughtful, still smiling a little upon his mate. ** Better not to travel in whitecold, ** he at last agrees. Pacer ties off the locked sending -- or tries to, with a slight send of gratitude, pleased with all you've done for his mate. Something else remains, though, the sending not quite gone -- merely empty. Thicket looks up and frowns between you both, gruffly still. "I... travel when good, for cub, for young mother," she says at last. Slate concentrates on that emptiness...what could cause something like that in a send? Thicket huddles under the fur again, in apparent wonder; warmth is an alien concept to her, it would seem, and new hides even more so. The breeze blows again, causing Slate to move to his den and get a large bearskin and a burning log from inside. With the log, he starts a small blaze, a small source of heat that flickers merrily against the wind. Thicket lifts her gaze after a time to watch Slate at his activity, pondering all this, brow furrowed, nose slightly wrinkled as though she tests the scent of all this newness. You locksend to Evergreen, Thicket touches your mind, thoughts flavored with shy unease. Much newness, all this. New elves... Slate bringing new things. The cloth-stuff... the cub. Slate, too, you can see in her memory, took her to a place where elves live, strange elves with brown skin, who could call up power in their hands and heal dead limbs. Slate builds the fire close to Thicket's rock, so she is near the fire without having to move. Pacer absorbs that, concentrating a bit to do so. ** It's been...a long time... ** he observes in returned locksend to his mate, soaking up the pictures. ** Elves who made your strange-leathers? ** It is fragrant wood....smoke the scent of evergreens...thick and syrupy. Pacer watches the firebuilding, eyes greyly thoughtful. He rubs Thicket's back through the skin, quiet, sending a bit here and there. The emptiness remains, but becomes almost tangible in depth, in weight...distinct in its non-Pacerness. You locksend ** ** to Evergreen. Slate sits there, unmoving...exploring this emptiness as best he can...what is it? Send gentle and private, not in the least distracted now -- as if separated from distracting thoughts, from thickness in his head -- Pacer absorbs. His send, when he replies, is pleased: ** They made your arm live again. ** as if it might help, slate tries to "Send" to the emptiness...asking what it is...why it is there... Smile returning, sparkles coming back to his silver gaze, Pacer looks from the fire to Thicket, nodding gladfully. Thicket looks up at Pacer, slowly nodding. "Elves made arm live," she murmurs. The emptiness responds -- dimly, as if it's been beaten back into the shadows and become part of them. In it, though, is non-Pacer joy, gratitude at the contact from someone outside. Slate keeps that contact...knowing, somehow that this entity needs someone to talk to...to touch on the outside. **Who are you?** he asks, hoping for an answer... Slate sends openly ** Do you remember their names, Thicket? Ynderra and...Leetha? I think.. ** Thicket murmurs, quietly, "Not know names. Not remember. Too many elves, pack too big, in one place...." Thicket's gaze turns slightly distant. Pacer nods, leaning his head down to nuzzle Thicket's shoulder through doeskin and mothfabric. **Who are you?** Slate asks.. Gingerly, Thicket loops an arm around Pacer's lowered neck. She inhales, taking in the hunt-scents on him, as well as the body-scent she's stil not sure comforts her, and lifts tentative fingers to the other treasures draped over his shoulder. A moment's struggle to form words, or thoughts -- a powerful struggle, but not powerful enough. An image, the elf, Pacer, silverhaired and stormcloud-eyed, breaks through in answer -- not-Pacerness -- but no more with it. Grin lighting his face once more, Pacer turns his head to rest it upon his mate's shoulder, watching her hand. ** Trim-bits, for vest... ** Slate shakes his head...not sure of what to make of the send/not send. To the emptiness,he sends the picture gleaned from Thicket long ago...**This is pacer...** he sends. **The person sitting next to thicket is _not_ Pacer.** Thicket stares at the smaller hides, and at the feathers... and at the silver hair of the elf embracing her, apparently dazzled... though whether by the elf or by the finery he promises is difficult to say. She starts to speak, then sends instead, gruff uncertainty about the notion of herself wearing such things. Slate sends openly ** You would be beautiful, Thicket. ** Thicket's brow wrinkles, disbelievingly. Slate smiles and sends an image of thicket, imagined of course, dressed in fine leathers. Slate sends openly ** See? ** Pacer nods his agreement, eyes smirking (a touch wryly) up at Thicket, head yet on her shoulder, the angle putting odd flavours of 'cute' onto the strange face. ** Good colors to hunt, leather...not so bright... ** Silvermoon has arrived. Silvermoon gasps, seeing Thicket. Ignored now by the Pacerpresence, the empty send -- not so empty now, a presence defined by the corner of elfin mind in which it, cramped, resides -- agrees. A wave of not-Pacer-ness, and the image of the elf again, silverhaired. Slate is sitting by a fire, Thicket and Pacer(Evergreen. Long story) are sitting by him. At the gasp, Pacer looks up, lifting his head at last from Thicket's shoulder. He sends, as gently as he dares, a greeting to the elf coming forth from Slate's den. Thicket, as Silvermoon emerges anew, sits with an armful of silver-haired, silver-eyed elf before her, and a dappled hide over her shoulders. She looks down at Pacer's upturned face, her own gone oddly gentle... then, when he moves, she looks past him to Silvermoon. Silvermoon's eyes are large, as she clutches Winterblessing to her chest protectively. Slate sends openly ** Pacer, this is my lifemate, Silvermoon. ** Silvermoon backs away from Thicket slowly. Silvermoon shakes her head at a send. The silver-haired elf nods, smile dominating and lighting his face. ** Silvermoon, ** he sends, gently. ** Be welcome. Rest. ** Slate stands and goes to silvermoon....comforting her. Thicket stays where she is, sitting on the spray-dampened rock by the pool's edge. She clutches the fur on her shoulders a little closer, now; the gentled look slides out of her face, leaving her impassive, as Silvermoon flinches at her presence. The silverhaired image is sent again...asking...wanting a name... Slate hugs silvermoon gently...murmuring comforts to her and Winter... Pressure...crowded, cramped, and trying to be silent, trying to hide. The presence picks a moment, and strains recollection...names jumble around, Pacer, BluePelt, Pacer, Sleepsight, Pacer...Evergreen. Stronger, the presence selects that one: ** Evergreen. ** And, skittish, withdraws. Silvermoon shakes her head, then goes to sit back in the den...away from Thicket and Pacer. When slate tries to follow, a brief word or two can be caught, and he returns to the fire, skin around his shoulders. Thicket, watching Silvermoon withdraw, frowns to herself. Then barks lowly, perhaps only loud enough for Pacer to hear, "Not like this..." Slate sits by the fire, then stiffens as if information...or a confusing send, hits him. Almost unconciously, he mouths the word "Evergreen," his face curled into a thoughtful expression. Silently, he sends to the Non-Pacer/Evergreen, asking why... Slate says "She's just nervous, Thicket..." Slate tries to explain. Thicket scowls, apparently irritated, and she misses Slate's brief mouthing. "Not bite her." Slate says "I know..she does not, though. *chuckle* and you bit me, remember?" Slate shows the bite on his arm...vaguely thicket/mouth shaped. Pacer gets to his feet, looking concernedly after Silvermoon. ** Scared, ** he observes. Thicket scowls, yet. "Not go when I say go," she tells Slate, bluntly, "I bite." Slate nods...**Very.** Slate nods...rolling his sleeve back down. **sorry about that...** A chuckle, in his throat, from Pacer, and he steps off into the wood, sending over his shoulder, ** Get hunt-offer...Maybe she'll be less scared. ** As an afterthought, he unslings the longbelly pelts and feathers, and hangs them on a low bush; a moment later, his steps take him into the trees, disappearing. Thicket shifts, startling, as Pacer steps off. Her breath catches in her throat, and dismay flares up in her eyes. Slate watches him go...blinking unsure... Slate sends openly ** HEre and away...he holds no set pattern... ** Thicket turns, uneasily. Slate sends openly ** Thicket? Do you know an "Evergreen?" ** Slate gazes at her intently, weighing the words carefully... Thicket blinks, then finishes jerking her gaze away from the departed one. "No. Stay away from elves." Slate nods..."When he sends to you, do you notice an...emptiness inside?" Her brow furrowing anew, she stares at her former self-appointed guardian. When who send?" she barks, not understanding. Slate says "Pacer...when he sends...is there something *behind* the send...something different...something not-pacer?" Thicket's eyes narrow. "Is Pacer!" she snarls, beginning to sound alarmed. Slate says "Calm down, thicket...when he sends to me...there is an emptiness." Slate says "I don't know what it was....but it was joyful for the contact...and it called itself Evergreen.." [Dismayed by this implication that something is not right with Pacer's sending, Thicket angrily stalks off from Slate, putting herself in a good watch-spot to wait for her strangely changed mate's return.... end log.]