Log Date: 8/23/96
Log Cast:
	Strongbow, Rillwhisper
Log Intro:
	It's been some three or so turns of the seasons since Rillwhisper
and several others of her tribe last left Lostholt... and the last Strongbow
of Lostholt had seen of his soul-sister, she'd been hastening back to
Willowholt, driven by some undefined awareness that something was wrong in
her territory. Strongbow later sent to Willowholt at Ynderra's prompting,
only to discover that there had been death in that tribe, and that
Rillwhisper's brother Sweetleaf had been among the dead.
	Since then the archer has received no word from the Willowholt
chieftess, and at last, he draws himself together for another long-distance
sending to her....

----------
Calm, and present, as if alone and self-collected, the archer's mind slips a 
  dart through distance's fog. ** Rillwhisper. ** Behind it is greeting, 
  gentle joy from one soul to another it knows.

Distance, indeed. But not so great a one that it cannot be breached. A flash 
  of green, a flicker of light on water, and she is there -- sleeping, but 
  immediately stirring in response. No words, but there is surprise, and 
  solemn joy.

Immediately softer, at once pleased to have found you in a moment not busy or 
  distracted and yet worried at having wakened you, the archer returns the 
  glimmer in brown from where he keeps guard.

The chieftess's thoughts flicker in brief, bright effort to bridge the 
  distance to you.

Strongbow grasps on, pushing the bridge through by his own will to let you 
  have room to 'move.' ** Worry. ** It is gentle, and alone, for the archer 
  waits after that for you to be wakened fully, or to choose to sleep.

Readily, she 'reaches', finding the edge of your own sending and clasping it 
  to her, letting it buoy her in this contact. If the effort rouses her from 
  physical sleep she does not or cannot say, but her thoughts grow clearer, 
  regardless. Another flicker, this time of query: worry? Why?

The reply is instant -- the worry is not strong, only present. ** Time. ** 
  After an instant's hesitance, the reply expands: ** Missed you. Wondering 
  ...how the holt is. **

Fleeting impressions, like reflections glimpsed in a pool: a taller Old 
  Willow, unseasonably blossoming, all year round... many new hues of flowers, 
  of berries, of mushrooms... fewer wolves than there should be.

Absorbing reflections at the edge of the pool, Strongbow returns a few ripples 
  of his own -- the growth (lanky) of his wolf, and offering to return the 
  favor offered him when he, too, needed for a cub turns ago. Also rippling is 
  the presence of his son; the information is shadowed by fatherly concern and 
  archerly disapproval, though still affectionate. He discards them once sent 
  and refocuses. ** If it is well...I would visit. We would visit. ** With the 
  correction rides the swift glimpse of violet eyes.

Son? At Lostholt? Should leave, with son there? That thought is foremost in 
  the chieftess's answer, followed by open and honest welcome should both you 
  and the tanner choose to come to the Holt. Safe now. A threat, gone. Of 
  wolves she then sends at last... no wolf, yet, with her.

The archer's thoughts nod, considering, knowing before the send is complete 
  the space left in the chieftess' circle. ** Dart...might be more comfortable 
  without my eyes on him. ** It's as much as he says, but there's a twinkle of 
  near-laughter behind it. As his background thoughts continue, though, the 
  offer of the Lostholt wolves is strengthened, pointed. He lets the arrow lie 
  on the string, though, that you might avoid it if you choose.

Rillwhisper's send strains, to form words: ** Cubs? ** Wistfulness. Concern, 
  for more than just her.

Strongbow returns the concern. ** Leggy ones, from last newgreen, and more 
  this newgreen. ** Another flicker of amusement marks a sneaking suspicion 
  regarding his own mate's wolf's tendency to try to sneak in a litter here 
  and there without alpha permission, but it's withdrawn in a bit of 
  uncertainty.

A flurry of images. No-wolf-Woodhawk. No-wolf-Fhen. Old-wolf-Dawn. 
  Old-wolf-Trollkiller. No-wolf-Nightwisp. No-wolf-Rainfire.

And, mirrored in the thoughtpool, No-wolf-Rillwhisper. ** I will ask 
  Cutter...and Moonshade. **

Almost grumpily, she allows, no-wolf-Rillwhisper. But, no-worry-time. 
  Brother-gone. Holt-changed. Talek-sick.

The archer's thought nods once more, contemplatively. ** The ...Talek... sick? 
  Sick how? Silversong...? **

Sadness. Silversong-sadness, since Doreel-time. Fear-of-healing. 
  Talek-no-Brightfire, mind-addled, like time-in-Preserver-place. The images 
  flick to you with a sober heaviness, weighted, made harder for her to relay 
  them because of it.

Wincing at the flower-time memories and the other hallucination recollections 
  they bring, the archer forces himself forward, strengthening the bridge 
  beneath the pool. ** Need Leetah? Come to Lostholt, wolf-cubs, 
  healer-Leetah, healer-Ynderra. Maybe ...maybe Silversong...too? **

Rillwhisper's contact grows clearer, brings with it a sense of... strain. Of 
  solemness. Of hesitance. She pauses.

The archer gently probes, ** Holt changed... too soon to stray? **

** Trees taller. New plants. New shrooms. Always green. .... 
  Sweetleaf-in-plants. New smells. Feels-like-magic. **

** Is good? ** Hesitant, the archer strains for any indication of rightness or 
  wrongness, the place of so much magic fit into the Way.

And, a beat after that, ** Is easy, Talek-getting-lost. Scatter-head Talek. 
  Guard Talek. ** The chieftess's thoughts shiver. ** Always-spring. Flowers. 
  Many. Not-bad, but.... strange. **

The archer nods and, quietly, offers a query, the kind that he knows might be 
  better left unasked. ** Spring-always. Litter-birth season always... ** It 
  fades, its sender losing his will to carry the observation further, but 
  holding the connection strong.

Uncertainty. ** No new litters. No cubs. ** The word has double meanings. ** 
  Healer gone. Jasmael-mate gone..... ** A pause. More heavy solemness.

A slight ripple interrupts the bridge, which returns immediately, a touch 
  bemused. With your own send, though, the amusement halts. ** New-green 
  always for the wolves means never rut-time. **

The chieftess seems to pause, to blink, to nearly lose her grip on your 
  stronger, supportive mental hands. Magic harm to wolves? Another flicker, 
  then, as of weight to the shoulders, heavy, oppressive. A headache.

Holding tight, Strongbow offers his support, helplessly. ** Will come. Will 
  bring healers, if you need them. Will prepare journey-time to visit 
  Lostholt, wolves-healers-seasons, maybe. Rillwhisper -- ** The absurd (for 
  the archer) chatter halts, and he offers simple presence, joyless now, but 
  otherwise the same friendship of a soul that knows another.

A weak flicker, like breath caught in the throat, tears suppressed, 
  self-directed frustration. Tiredness. Apology.

Strongbow holds the apology, but doesn't acknoweledge any more of it than 
  that. ** Chieftess must be weak: you feel every change, every elf or wolf, 
  every tree. ** It's a celebration in his tone, a certainty. ** We will 
  visit. In time, when it is right, so will you. ** Another certainty, with no 
  sense of time attached. ** The Way will take in changes. ** The archer 
  pauses, that said, as if he's not quite sure he said it.
Strongbow picks up again, and, more himself, completes: ** Good or not ... I 
  can't guess. ** A mental frown. ** Wolves, Talek, Silversong, 
  newgreen-always. Healers for elves and wolves; healers for trees too. And 
  chiefs to heal tribe and way. ** He is silent for a long moment, so many 
  words said so many times without saying it "right" yet bothering him. ** You 
  should rest? **

A rough admission: ** Hard... will try. Woodhawk, Trollkiller help. **

With a 'squeeze' along the grip he holds upon you, the archer returns to 
  thoughts: Help here, too, and coming there soon to be better help, to know 
  how to help. He hides a shade of guilt, of fear, for having added to your 
  burden, but hides it badly and, belatedly, turns it to apology.

A flicker of a smile, like one corner of her mouth curving up. Exhaustion, but 
  pleased anticipation.

Strongbow's send is gentle, but firm. ** Find mate, find tribesmate, someone. 
  Sleep. ** A flicker of a memory slips through the connection: sleeping in 
  the mad one's grove, sickness burning in his head -- and, in sleep, the 
  occasional calming touch of the chieftess' greenpoolsafe send. ** Take care 
  of you. When I get there...** He fades a bit, as if startled.

Half-amused embarrassment. Not-cub. Not-Runnel.

Agreement. Not-cub, not-Runnel. But friend, and sibling at the level of that 
  greencoolwaterplace where cubs met.

A flare of startled, weary remembrance. Had she forgotten that inner meeting? 
  Hardly... but it's as if it'd been shoved to the back of her mind, obscured 
  by the needs of Now, of alpha-of-pack. Reminded, she wavers in the contact, 
  sending tasting of a sudden glitter of tears to green eyes.

Unflagging in his gentle grip, the archer holds the contact, nodding quiet 
  approval. Not-Runnel, but not only-chieftess either, he points out, only 
  half in words. ** Rillwhisper. ** A faint smile, and an image of the lanky 
  boy-elf who started there, and of the elder who ended the meeting, in his 
  own eyes still a bit too long in the limbs. An affirmation of being here -- 
  even when here is too many theres away to send.
A slight flicker, attention flagging for a breath...

She wearies, but clings tenaciously to the contact. Sleep, promised.

The archer squeezes the grip encouragingly. ** Rest. Time to be Rillwhisper. **

Rest. Tempting thought, that...

The archer holds tight again, more like cradling arms this time, then gently 
  lets the grip relax. ** Time to be Rillwhisper. To rest as Rillwhisper. With 
  mates, friends. **

Assent. Elder mate, here. Half-giddy amusement: Woodhawk, new leathers. 
  Different hair.

Chuckling softly, reassuringly: ** I'll have to see him. ** Another relaxation 
  of the grip, more encouragement to rest. Coolgreenpool place.

The contact slips: tired Rillwhisper. Released, she almost falls backwards, 
  but there's another presence there buoying her up, making the descent a 
  gentle one. A final flicker: pleasure-at-contact.

Echoed from the other end, and released.

[End log.]