Log Date: 9/5/96
Log Cast:
	Evergreen of Needlebrook Holt, and memory visions of Pacer and
Thicket
Log Intro:
	Evergreen of Needlebrook Holt has been troubled for some time over
the continuing depression of his lifemate, the chieftess Onyx. He has,
with her in this state, almost become surrogate chief of the tribe, which
goes against the grain for one more inclined to tell tales than lead elves.
Hoping to find some way of bolstering her spirits by bringing her fresh
game, as well as needing a breather away from the Holt himself, Evergreen
goes on a hunt, west out of Needlebrook territory....

----------
Troubled, by the glaze of his eyes and the lack of traces of a smile, 
  Evergreen pays little attention to the direction his mount chooses to carry 
  him in. He rides awkwardly, even when absent of mind, as if he chooses to do 
  it only rarely. When his wolf-friend halts to dig his nose into the ground, 
  the elf dismounts and takes a few steps one way, then another, then frowns, 
  watching his packmate, uncomprehending.

Evergreen lands easily on the ground by Challenge, giving him a friendly pat 
  on the back.
Evergreen has arrived.

Challenge shivers fur back into place.

Newgreen, in this air. Rich, freshened with the scent of young green growing 
  things. It's still far enough away from the human village that there are no 
  recent signs of the Tall Ones here... for that matter, no recent signs of 
  the passage of elves, either. All of these things linger on the periphery of 
  Wolfrider senses, waiting to be acknowledged, or not.

Evergreen(#3919POXce)
        Narrow silver-grey eyes smile calmly out from within a wide, 
  sharp-chinned face, the bones of which are softened by increasing downy 
  facefur along the line of the jaw. Evergreen's hair, like the down on his 
  face and body, is stormcloud grey. It is shaggy and tousled on top, and a 
  thick rope of it is braided down his back, tied with leather dyed the stain 
  of old blood and a stiff, black feather. He wears a weatherbeaten leather 
  tunic, open in front to a soft tied belt below his navel; over each shoulder 
  of the snug vest-cut shirt, a roughly star-shaped stain of the same color as 
  the thong in his hair carves definition into his stance, reflected in some 
  new peace in his face. The ragged ends of the tunic split open over his 
  narrow hips and trim thighs, blending into his deep brown doeskin breeches. 
  Where that leather tucks into his high, soft boots, the slightest pale spots 
  show: the deer that provided the pelt was a young one.
        A small sheath--more rightly a pouch--hangs from one boot-top, showing 
  most of the handle of a weary bone knife. About his left wrist, braided 
  black fur is tied as a bracelet; its mate upon his right wrist is 
  silver-grizzled brown. His steps are quiet, his short, sturdy bow often with 
  its drab arrows at his side.

Challenge(#10032Mpq)
Dark eyes gleam in the face of this dusky brown, extremely present wolf. Tall 
  and slim, a young wolf, Challenge sports a bright silver patch stretching 
  over his head and down his neck between his ears. He struts a little, proud, 
  confident.

Letting one hand drift gently over the fur of the wolf at his side, Evergreen 
  rolls his shoulders, braid slinking over his back, shining in the light. ** 
  ... ** The elf sends, to his wolf, to himself, and frowns down at the faint 
  remnant of some small beast's scat that Challenge finds so interesting. 
  After that moment of consternation, he gives up and inhales the day, nose 
  twitching for an animated instant. Clouded eyes clear to silver and light as 
  the elf grins, all trace of the concerned glaze he rode here with washing 
  away.

Scents. Animal, plant... growing things that hide under leaves and rocks, 
  sheltering from the Daystar's light. The wood is alive today, enough to lose 
  oneself in, to hunt, or run, or whatever stirs the blood.

The wolf gives up interest in the remnant in the soil and lifts his own nose, 
  stalking away from the elf in feigned, or perhaps accurate, disinterest. The 
  wind ruffles wolf fur and rough-cut fine elf hair alike as each partner 
  makes his own path, steadily and slowly away from the other. Evergreen 
  pauses among tiny rock-mountain flowers and crawling leaves growing thin on 
  the ground to look out over the lake and take in a relished breath. With 
  less than a send toward the woods his packmate has decided to explore, he 
  starts a slow stride along the faint path, aimless.

Color is everywhere: blossoms in myriad pale shades like tiny bits taken from 
  the Daystar's setting. Countless shades of green, delicate ones for the 
  newest leaves, darker for the older. Browns and mottled greys for the bark 
  of the trees who guard the path that circles the water. Blue for the water 
  itself... and, once, a glimpse of blue at the base of a tree.

One finger draws the line of the bow's string along his shoulder and chest, 
  coaxing its wood down onto his forearm, where he carries it at unconcerned 
  half-ready. The taleteller's eyes narrow smilingly in day, and he takes a 
  few steps off the path to stalk along in the shade of the wood. Vision more 
  trustworthy in shadow, the elf's eyes glitter clear once more and focus, bit 
  by bit, on the spots of color. Something about the blossoms reflects sad in 
  his eyes for a moment, but as he slowly wanders from one patch to the next, 
  following the flowers like a trail, sadness is forgotten for the sake of the 
  time at hand.

More flashes of flower-shades; delicate yellows and pinks and oranges. They 
  dot the leaves' continued expanse of green, providing interest to the 
  wandering gaze. But there, again, at the base of another tree, is blue -- 
  just a glint of it, and not bloom-shaped, at least to a lightly skimming 
  regard.

One step, then another, from yellow to white to orange blossoms. The elf 
  pauses to select a flower and pinch it from its companions. Straightening, 
  Evergreen looks into the blossom, eyes focusing on it, into it, then past 
  it. The blossom is dropped, forgotten, as his eyes light upon the blue 
  splots within the cradle of tree roots, soil and shadow.

Blue more clearly and directly regarded becomes a streak of that shade, 
  branching across the capped surface of something nestled between an oak 
  tree's roots, a something otherwise so dark a shade of brown as to be almost 
  black.

A few more focused steps take the elf to the shadow of the oak. He sends 
  faintly, perhaps toward the wolf, a fast image of root-grubs and earth-fruit 
  fungus, laziness and unwillingness to hunt more difficult prey. That much 
  done, his attention returns to the things at his feet. He crouches, reaching 
  out to run a finger over the blue streak on a full cap.

A strange shade of blue, for something growing from the earth -- at least, 
  something that isn't a flower. But on the near-black mushroom, it's oddly 
  vibrant, and closer inspection shows that the blue occasionally flicks to 
  grey, to grey-blue, to silver, with shorter sparks of darker blue on the 
  edges of the streaks. There are even occasional dots of indigo in the black, 
  where the streaks pause to whirl round in tiny circles before veering off 
  across the rest of the mushrooms.

A soft vocalization, a 'hmph' of curiousity, escapes the taleteller's throat. 
  He leans down, squinting pleasedly at the mushroom he's chosen to stroke, 
  letting that one finger curl over its cap and under, then letting go to push 
  fingers down into the leaves nestled around it. Searching by touch for the 
  dark stem he assumes must be there, he lets his bow drop from his other hand 
  to the ground.

For all its odd shade, it is clearly a mushroom, and easily plucked up from 
  its bed of roots and soil. Its surface is firm but slightly yielding to the 
  touch... and once plucked, it can be seen that the shade thought to be 
  dark-brown-near-black _is_ actually black. A soft shade of it, if black can 
  be said to have shades; it's the black of the sky between stars, just on the 
  edge of the moons-light. Black, but holding its own light.

Sitting abruptly, crosslegged, with the blued black wonder between his 
  fingertips, Evergreen stares at the little specks on the cap's surface. 
  Rolling it between his fingers to crush some of its scent from its stem, he 
  lifts it to his nose to take a slightly twitching sniff.

Wait. It smells like a mushroom, aye, but... there's something Other to that 
  scent. Something strangely familiar, yet too intangible to label as anything 
  more than not-mushroom.

Nose atwitch with the odd smell, he looks up into the oak's leaves, 
  thoughtful, trying to place the not-mushroom smell in memory. He turns the 
  offending fungus over in his fingers, snapping off a small arc of the cap 
  and dropping it into the palm of his other hand. That bit, he lifts and 
  tosses into his mouth, chewing with care not to swallow -- not yet.

It's... strangely familiar; why can't you place it? The scent lingers just on 
  the tip of your memory, and sharpens, somewhat, at the brief taste of the 
  fragment -- what taste there is, for it's almost nonexistent.

With a shrug, he swallows and looks back down at the mushroom in his hand. 
  Harmless, it's been, so far; and so close to recollection of the meaning of 
  its odd scent... Perhaps making a snack of the little growths will help. 
  Evergreen lifts the mushroom to nibble around the edge of the cap, turning 
  to let his gaze search the wood for other patches than the two he's seen.

Barely any taste at all, really -- but the scent lingering on the edge of your 
  consciousness closes in, hovering, almost as though it were a cloud about to 
  drift down across your skin. Perhaps it's that that encourages you to pick 
  out one more patch of that odd, dusky blue, two trees over.

The elf gets to his feet. He'd intended, of course, not to disrupt more than 
  one patch, but one mushroom missing from this one can't hurt it, and maybe 
  that one over there won't mind. He driftingly walks to the next tree, and 
  the one beyond it, staring down at the new patch of night and blue speckling 
  streaking stars, munching thoughtfully down the stem of the taste-test 
  mushroom. Dropping its soiled beady base, he kneels, then sits back, 
  reaching out to select one of -these- mushrooms.

_These_ are the same, more of the blue-streaked black; as you go to them, the 
  scent settles in your consciousness, unobtrusively, as if it belongs on you. 
  No wonder it's familiar... that blend of elf and wolf that makes a Wolfrider.

This Wolfrider's face brightens, smile spreading into silvery features, eyes 
  alight. Of course. He plucks a mushroom. Turning to lean into the tree 
  trunk, patch of chosen snack food at his side, he lifts the new treaure to 
  his mouth and takes an unconcerned bite, welcoming the near-scent and 
  not-quite-taste of wood and hunt and howl.

... Hunts... yes. If you close you eyes, it's easy to imagine yourself hunting, 
  tracking along hidden paths, with easy skill. You can feel your own 
  movements, dimly, and you can take pride in your steady, sharp-footed 
  stride. You always know where to put your feet, to make the least sound...

Eyes closing as the free hand slips down to pluck another mushroom from the 
  blue-sparkle patch at his side, Evergreen breathes in the scent of wood, 
  real and imaginary, of sky and soil and the trace of prey. He pops the end 
  of the second mushroom into his mouth and chews, a sure smile keen on his 
  face as his fingertips roll the third mushroom in their grasp.

... The scent settled onto your skin seems to seep _into_ it... and lowly, the 
  world shifts around you. The sky darkens... the trees blur a little, then 
  resolve into conifers, a clearly different word. The odors of deer linger in 
  the air. And you... you stand shrouded in shadow, grinning into the night, 
  watching Big Moon come up over the horizon. A fine night, this... a fine 
  night to hunt and howl...

It takes him by surprise at first, the familiar shifting of perspective that 
  normally comes only when called, only when berries and bidding bring 
  memories and stories that he can tell to himself as though it were he living 
  it, that he can share as though he was there to see the truth. The change is 
  familiar, yes, but the vessel is not. He swallows, both sitting in the oak's 
  shadow and standing in the riselight of the greater moon; in the oak wood, 
  the third mushroom lies idle in still hand. The elf breathes, welcoming a 
  new tale, a new being, a new Now.

... The vision plays out before you... _around_ you, as though you actually 
  experience the events... but still there is a layer of distance, a corner of 
  your mind that retains your own awareness. You can watch yourself in 
  uncaring pleasure tilt your head back and let loose a ringing howl, a noise 
  that soars out in a clear baritone and which calls up in reply the howl of a 
  single wolf.

Sound. Ears perk, wolflike, in the oak wood. In the reserved part of his mind 
  -- the part from which he narrates, familiar and comfortable though 
  strangely empty without fire, companions, and berry haze to warm it -- the 
  elf is breathless, anticipatory. New stories never come this way, or rarely, 
  only in sleep and feverdreams; this is truer somehow. He pushes for a moment 
  to be one with the vision and, realising the uselessness of that, relaxes 
  into it, waiting for it to take him and go, hunting perhaps, or where ever 
  else his other-self, story-self in the moonlight, chooses to go.

... The wolf comes, shortly after the howl of greeting. She is big-boned, and pale 
  grey, moving almost like a shape of mist in the darkness. But you wrap your 
  lean long arms around her neck and nuzzle her in rough affection... then 
  climb upon her, and ride, for the pleasure of riding. Glimpses of phantom 
  trees flit across your consciouness... stronger, though, is the feel of your 
  wolf's fur against your thighs, and the wind of your passage blowing your 
  hair back from your face. But as you ride, the images fade somehow, 
  beginning to lose substance just as eventually, you draw to a halt near a 
  waterfall...

A she-wolf as a bond. It rings true with the storyteller, with a hollow echo 
  of wistful gladness, celebration of one gone, in that corner of himself 
  that's yet his own. The fading is rending, no matter how strange the fur, 
  the idea of riding for riding's sake; shoulders tensing, he tries to hold 
  on, to sharpen the image as he has images hazed by dreamberries. 
  Dreamberries -- ah. He thinks of his form and lifts the third mushroom to 
  his teeth, thinking: waterfall, she-wolf-bondmate. The sensation of wind in 
  the throat, of the fur of the wolf. It's not a complete story yet; chewing, 
  he presses for the tale.

... The images sharpen, then, before they fade entirely from your consciousness... 
  and then you are back at the waterfall. A charming place, this... but you 
  and your bond are not the only ones there. There is another scent in the 
  air... and a shadow in the trees across the pool. For a reason you cannot 
  define, you suddenly freeze there on the edge of the water, staring off into 
  that stand of trees. What...?

He finds another mushroom with absent fingers, mind wholly watching and living 
  through that frozen one by the falls. He almost sends the ** ? ** that 
  echoes through his skull, but holds it, unwilling to disturb the scenario 
  unfolding in his head, around himself. He 'looks,' eyes sharp, through those 
  in the vision, waiting and acting as one.

... The scene sharpens as you -- the outer you -- eat another of the black and 
  blue shrooms. You can sense, then, something stirring in your blood, a call 
  strangely in harmony with that of the wild night, and strangely different 
  all the same. You _do_ send, then, a query -- and it is answered by a figure 
  that appears briefly in the trees. A face, thin, austere, eyes wary... and 
  it is the eyes that captivate your gaze. Even in the darkness, you can feel 
  their weight on you -- _she_ sees you just as well as you see her. And you 
  are transfixed.

Breath catches in the taleteller's throat. Forgetting any sense of the corner 
  that is 'his,' he watches and lives at once, as if it is how it has always 
  been. The story, for the moment, forgotten to be any such thing, the elf 
  gazes back through eyes open and, elsewhere, closed, waiting in all senses 
  now.

... Then, something else crystallizes in the inner air. _Vess_. It pierces you as 
  though the elf across the pool has lodged a spear into your breast, and even 
  as you feel it strike, she gasps... whirls, and flees into the brush.
... Your bond does not understand; she whines, as, heart in your throat, you 
  stumble into the pool, crying out. But your wolf is forgotten, at least for 
  now, for all that occupies your consciousness is _Vess_... and the figure 
  that has fled into the shadows.

His heart races and collides with the spreading ache of the sudden wound. He 
  manages a swallow, one way or the other. The part of him in the corner, 
  though yet separate all but having forgotten Evergreen in favor of being the 
  outer corner of the one in this scene, urges 
  chase...understanding...anything.

... Chase. Yes. Without your ordering it, your legs move, propelling you through 
  the water and up to the path _she_ took. You begin to track, all the while 
  sending in hopeful desperation. Time blurs, as you pursue...
... And before you realize it, the images begin to drain out of you, off of you, 
  as though you had just come out of a rainstorm and the remaining droplets 
  trickle now down off your skin.

** ....! ** A low rumble escapes his throat and, realising himself, he grabs 
  impatiently for the mushrooms at his side. He catches up a pair and chews 
  down hard on one, holding the other near in reserve; forcing his mind to 
  relax out of fire back into night, grasping at the haze of time and a very 
  different form of hunt.

... Your legs wobble. You have never run so far, so hard, and at last you 
  collapse...
... Where has she gone? And what by the moons has happened to you, that this 
  sudden yearning has set your blood aflame? That _was_ another elf, wasn't 
  it...? You haven't seen one since the passing of your sire and dam... but 
  that _had_ to be an elf, you're sure of it! ...

This, too, is all too easy to feel. Ages since his mother was last seen...but 
  Evergreen did not get such a greeting from the next elf he saw. No part of 
  self hidden from the tale, and willing no part of the tale to be hidden from 
  him, he moans in his mind: where _is_ she?

... The vision spins. Or is it your head? The next thing you know, you are 
  searching, urgently, with your worried wolf-friend tracking after you, to 
  find some trace of the elusive one's scent. She is warier than any prey you 
  have ever tracked... yet, you _know_ she is there, even when you cannot 
  catch her scent. You _know_, because the pulse in your blood that calls you 
  to her does not lessen. _Vess_. _Vess_.

An unguided hand draws the next mushroom to the mouth of the elf in the oak 
  wood, and drops to search for and pluck another. ** Vess, ** escapes a 
  thought, ever so gently from the mind in the oak wood to the mind in the 
  corner, the one lost in watching and living the vision. The elf's form 
  shivers and, thoughtlessly, chews, tracking the tale and the elusive, 
  uncommon prey.

... You rise... and begin hours, days of this, the most urgent hunt you have 
  ever been on. Unthinkingly, sensing her presence with each breath you draw 
  in, you sing to her, and send to her, trying to broadcast openness and 
  longing with every fiber of your being. But you grow weaker. Your ability to 
  keep to the hunt begins to waver...

If this elf could help it, not so. But all the urgency and energy of the 
  watcher and rider feels futile; he forces relaxation, unaware of anything 
  beyond the story-Now, the truth of the ache in his legs, his chest, the 
  weariness in his mind. The thought a shadow now, nothing near a send, that 
  one strange syllable holds him to the tale -- and the mushroom, were he with 
  himself enough to notice the easy rhythm of the body in the oak wood.

... Somehow, you force yourself to rise, and begin to build a final, desperate 
  sending... and song... to call her. Your mother taught you to sing, taught 
  you how to choose words to match to the rise and fall of your voice, but 
  here and now you cannot remember a whit of the art your dam relayed. It 
  occurs to you only to send, and sing, need and your willingness to embrace 
  it... and its cause. And the plea for its cause to do the same...

Song is something remembered to the mother's side, yes, but not to 
  himself...until now. He embraces it, embraces anything that might call her 
  to him. He strains, listening for her answering cry, howl or send, for any 
  part of her that he can grasp. Ears in the oak wood perk, the form they are 
  part of slumped comfortably against the trunk of the tree, enveloped in the 
  vision.

... At last. You do not remember running, but you must have, for you are 
  breathless... and you have caught up with a staggering figure trying to 
  coneal herself in the trees. You reach out, desperately, to make her whirl 
  -- she struggles. But her eyes meet yours. And you realize... that you 
  already knew... that her eyes were the color of leaves lying on earth, brown 
  and green and flecked with gold... and in them, blazes _Vess_. You know, 
  too, even as you drown in those eyes, that _she_ knows you, just as clearly: 
  you are...

Breath catches. Not now, not so close -- to knowing, to understanding -- 
  seeing it but never feeling it isn't enough. The elf in the wood gathers 
  anothe mushroom, uncaring for dirt or leaves that come with it, and chews 
  with the rhythm generally granted dreamberries. Captured in those eyes of 
  newgreen and summer melded, in the moment of touch and breath and struggle 
  and not-struggle, he waits, timeless.

... She is Vess... and you are... Aron. The knowledge of it kindles in your 
  breast, the core and heart of the fire that has been inflaming your blood 
  for the past eight of days. You send, pleadingly, and at last, as frightened 
  as a deer emerging from the thicket, she sends assent. Your heart leaps...

And your head begins to swim. The vision blurs, making the Othernow and the 
  true one flow together in your sight.
Afraid to feel such joy, fear that she will turn and run again, escape his 
  grasp at any time -- and knowing she can't, or won't, or not for long, no 
  more than he can chase her for long -- he catches breath, form forgotten and 
  at once remembered as it swallows halfchewed mushroom in sudden 
  recollection: the need to breathe. Mind whole, without the storyteller's 
  corner, and still, he waits, a send escaping one way or another: ** Vess. ** 
  For so long the only thought of this one here...lost, he waits again, 
  waiting for...clarity? Her answer?

... Your head spins anew, and your vision begins to dim, as a heavy weariness 
  suffuses your limbs. Too much of the 'shrooms?

He's not sure if he knows. Maybe. It's not too strange to be tired...and the 
  trunk of the tree, the gentle soft shady space amongst its roots, is 
  inviting to the body leaning against it.

... Your eyes close, as though of their own accord. As the languor engulfs you, 
  dropping you into a surprisingly gentle slumber, a ghost of a thought 
  remains: she is Vess.... you are Aron....
... You dream, then... though whether it's your own mind's making of the 
  images, or remnants from the mushrooms, cannot be said. But tantalizing 
  flashes flicker across your sleeping mind. A glimpse of your hand, big but 
  well-proportioned, grasping a crude spear. The scent of your wolf's fur as 
  you sleep curled into her side. And, most deeply, _Vess_, glittering in your 
  blood and your mind...

And in her eyes. Whether it be skycloud eyes that regard the 
  autumngold-newgreen gaze of that elusive, present Vess, or whether it be 
  Aron's sharp eyes matters little... Evergreen-memories meld, stories of the 
  joining of spirits that birthed him and others before him, his own 
  recollection of watching it happen within his own adopted folk... his 
  running scared from his one narrow brush with it, fear -- why fear? Running 
  away becomes recollection of running _to,_ the chase for the pulsing thought 
  everpresent, _Vess._ He can nearly see her, doing odd non-Vess things now, 
  then someone else, golden-brown of skin and sharp of word, fleeing through 
  the trees in a very wrong way for her form. Dreams fade to vision, 
  near-waking: arms he knows and does not know about a mate he knows and does 
  not know, and cannot see or hear. Silent and dark, robbed of sensation but 
  for the motionless warmth of her flesh against his own. The elf's form moves 
  softly against the cradling roots of the tree, the rustling leaves beneath, 
  and is still once more, dreamsights faded to naught.

You wake, at last, feeling slightly insubstantial of form for some reason... 
  but clearheaded enough, you think...

Good...good. Eyes flicker open, gaze casting over the leaves of the forest 
  floor. Good to be clearheaded again. Nose twitches, scenting.

The forest of oak... not the forest of conifers. But when did you wind up 
  lying down? And when did the Daystar change its angle in the sky?

Rising to his feet, Evergreen stretches. What dreams...what...a sure smile 
  brightens his face, clearing sleep-haze from his eyes. A send, thrown out to 
  the wolf still wandering the wood, doesn't quite reach words. He collects 
  his satchel and checks his knife...wait, something's missing. Ah! He stalks 
  two trees over and collects his bow from the ground. Straightening to settle 
  the bow on his shoulder, he pauses, a blue streak catching the corner of his 
  eye. He turns to the tree where his bow was left. Only took one from that 
  patch...a couple more wouldn't hurt it, right? He stoops, selecting two 
  mushrooms with precision, and stows them in his satchel with a bemused, 
  somewhat awed shake of his head. That much done, he steps off, feet sure and 
  quietly crunching the leaves beneath, after the wolf and the hunt, eyes 
  still aglint with the echo of his smile.

[End log.]