The following are the archived plot events for the Rushwater elves. Archived events are organized by the RWH year and season in which they occured in story-type format. Significant events affecting elfin history resulting from these plot events are recorded in the Elf Historical Timeline.
1770 (Bloom Rest)
They flitted through her head behind lidded eyes, the memories, like songbirds in a dappled tree; colours, sensations, thoughts tickling at her mind. Most were old, hazy, but some were fresh and vibrant, but none were what she was searching for. Perhaps that was for the best; no new, raw memories should mean all was well.
Dreamberry's gaze returned, lighting softly on the cluster of old birch shavings resting in her open palm. They curled lazily around her fingers. Their sharp woody scent had long since passed, as had Rock's since leaving the holt following Wildstar's Recognition to Lonewolf. Left and not come back.
Stepping out from the confines of her den, Dreamberry breathed in the cool night air. While her own methods of tracking the wayward pair were not meeting her needs, she knew there were others in the holt doing likewise. Perhaps they would have found more luck of late than she.
"Dreamshadow?" Dreamberry's voice was barely a whisper outside the elder's den.
The leather flap was soon pushed aside and Dreamshadow's dark blue eyes met the howl keeper's large violet ones. A nod of understanding passed between the two women, as Dreamshadow silently beckoned the younger elf maid into her denning tree.
"Have you…?" Dreamberry's unfinished question hung heavy in the air.
Dreamshadow sighed in response. "No," she finally replied. When she saw the maiden's shoulders slump, she reached out a fine, pale hand in reassurance. "But neither have I felt their spirits in the void, and that bodes well for their overall well-being."
Dreamberry nodded slowly, taking in the dream reader's words. "Yes, you're right," she agreed, "I had just hoped for more."
"We all do," Dreamshadow murmured, enfolding Dreamberry in an understanding hug.
"Something is coming," he breathed. She could barely hear him at all. He did not look at her and she didn't trust herself to speak. She followed his gaze, increasingly apprehensive. She couldn't see anything, but the strange feeling in the air intensified. One of the wolves pressed into her back, and she scratched its ears distractedly. **Preystinger,** the wolf sent, as clearly as any elf. That startled her enough to draw her attention. She looked down into the wolf's eyes. Yes, Preystinger. She knew him. One of Halfkin's bonds.
**Remember,** the wolf sent again. Now she was sure she was dreaming. No wolf had ever advised her to remember anything. He rammed his broad, bony head into her side, then returned to his place in the circle. **Remember what?** she sent, curious what the dream wolf had to say.
There was no answer. She sent the question again, this time to all the wolves. They looked away, up the river, in the same direction that Calmspirit was looking.
The wind smelled of whitestripe.
**Father!** blazed an open sending from Beechnut. **Hurry, it's Preystinger and he's in a bad way! Hurry, hurry, hurry-**
There was the scent of blood mixed in the fetid stink of the wolf caves. Firemoss plunged into the darkness there, her sharp eyes catching the paler glimpse of elf skin in that darkness.
Beechnut had gotten herself bitten. The girl was being held back by Lionheart, whose bare hand was pressed against a bleeding gash across the girl's forearm. Halfkin was at Preystinger's side. The wolf was thrashing in violent seizures, hind legs and fore legs galloping in separate directions as his jaws gnashed frantically. Blood splashed from the beast's torn gums and tongue, and there was a widening pool of urine and sickly yellow feces spreading beneath the wolf's hips. Halfkin was helpless to ease his wolf-friend's agony as the beast thrash and moaned on the stone cave floor.
Firemoss grabbed Lionheart with one hand, and Beechnut with other, and pulled them both out of the caves, leaving Wolfstrider to go to Halfkin's aid. She tore off the leather headscarf she wore. "Sit," she ordered Beechnut. Both cubs sat, both looking pale with shock. Firemoss pushed aside Lionheart's hand to examine the girl's wound. The bite was deep. Firemoss wrapped her headscarf tightly around the wound, feeling suddenly faint herself. 'High Ones, please-' she breathed in silent prayer. 'Please, please, not the foaming sickness! Let Preystinger be sick with anything but that!'
Other tribe folk were arriving; a steady stream of them pouring off the plateau stairs. "Preystinger's gone mad," Lionheart said to the first arrivals.
Then Halfkin's voice echoed out of the caves in a keening, mournful howl. **Preystinger is dead,** the hunter's sending rang out. **My bond brother is dead.**
Wise Elk surveyed his fellow elders through the dim glow of candlelight. "Preystinger's dead and the rest of the pack is getting worse by the day. Halfkin's ill too, and Boldscout may be coming down with something also. This isn't den cough as we know it. This is something stronger - something more serious. Like the sickness that hit the tribe during Latethaw's time." The tanner's voice was ragged, tinted with a hint of sinister foreboding.
Harmony chimed in, "You're talking about that Bloom Rest Foxkit, Butterfly and Otter died, right? That's the last time I remember the wolves being this sick."
"And Swancall was carrying an unborn one, too. She lost the child, and almost bled to death doing it," Firemoss added mournfully.
"We've lost Preystinger already. One is too many," said Wise Elk firmly. "We won't lose any more, whatever it takes. Are we agreed?"
1769 (Storm Rage)
The pain of loss is slow to recede. Not that the world notices - the days and nights continue to come and go, the flowers bloom and die and the leaves blow in the wind as the seasons move forward. And upon that wind comes a familiar scent - one that hasn't been contained within the holt for nearly a turn's passing now. But like a shallow dip in the river bank, which drains and refills with the lapping of the water's edge, the void is filled once again with the return of one long gone. Gone in searching... Lionheart returns from his soul name search.
Breath caught in her throat, constricted from the near fatal scare only a heartbeat ago, then rushed out at the sudden impact of her chest slamming into his with resounding force. She clung to him, her nails digging into his upper arm unconsciously.
Dark hair tumbled out of place as he looked to her, her eyes wide with fright. At first she simply stared straight ahead, too shocked to do more. Then, slowly, her gaze drifted to focus on him. The blaring whiteness began to recede while the muted hues of her irises warmed and swirled, first a mossy grey-green and then a deeper blue. Starring into those eyes, the sensation of pain in his arm lessened and he forgot his white-knuckled grip upon her wrist.
Then a new awareness burst forth upon them both; like that of the sun suddenly exploding before one's face - painfully brilliant but no less beautiful in its profoundness. Warmth crept over their faces, stirring already fast-beating hearts into a further commotion. And then the yearning came, unbidden but relentless, like water seeping from a hidden well deep within. Vision narrowed until only the face of the other existed - but it was not enough, not now.
Her grip on his arm loosened and slowly she raised it to run a fine finger along the ridging of his cheek.
"You."
It was little more than a whisper, yet deafeningly loud against the background of silence that had seemed to fall upon the pair and the surrounding cliff top.
The daystar had long since risen, flooding a warmth of copper gold hues into the secluded denning tree. The couple inside lay entwined in each others' embrace, arms and legs woven comfortably together as if this had always been their way; fingers, feather-light, brushing soft skin in a slow and gentle caress. Yet despite the peacefulness of the moment, emotion continued to roil beneath the surface. So much had changed so immensely in such a small hand of days.
**There are those who must know.** The sending was gentle, despite its significance; laced with the images of her lovemate and soul sister.
The gentle caresses stopped suddenly as the comment was absorbed. Then, slowly, an answering nod. **I know.**
Abruptly feeling a chill, the young woman sat up, wrapping her arms around her shapely legs. How was she to break such news to those she cared the most for? Recognition was a blessing to their kind - the delightful feeling of wholeness when two souls joined completely and the promise of new life to come. But it seemed far too often it tore apart unions rather than creating them, as would be the case for her, she knew. How could she do that to them? To him?
**I need to go see Firemoss,** she sighed. **She has wisdom in this matter that perhaps will help me. Help us.**
Quickly pulling on her leathers, she slipped out the den entrance without further word, making her way furtively toward the eldest plant shaper's den.
Careful though her steps were, they were no surprise to one who had been laying in wait the past day and night. Soulful violet eyes shone with the hint of moisture in them as they tracked the shadow darting through the trees beyond.
"You can hide from the tribe - for a while - but not from me, my sister. I know the secret you carry," she whispered.
The howl flowed out from her pursed lips, echoing around the great trees and rocks of the holt proper and fading off into the distance. Spying the new holes in her tunic cuffs, she cursed her fidgeting fingers and waited for the others to arrive at the Elder Tree. The past hand of days had been both physically gratifying and emotionally draining and it wasn't over yet - not by a long shot.
Slowly the tribe drifted together, chatting with each other as they walked, a few of the wolves flopping down beside their elves and the cubs dashing in from the river's direction. The storms had yet to settle into the canyons and the tribe was happy. But it seemed a few faces were missing from the crowd and that thought ate at the Chieftess' stomach like a ravaged wolf. Her eyes flickered to Firemoss', meeting the elder's steady and supportive gaze and it helped to strengthen her resolve.
Commanding her people's attention, she began:"We've met many obstacles in recent turns - a great uprising between the humans, deaths at the hands of hatred that have continued to haunt us after their passing, the unknown whereabouts of some of our number," she paused to match individual faces with the events sounded aloud, growing silent after a time.
"But as always, the unseen guidance of the High Ones and the strength of our wolf brothers and the strength we find within ourselves has seen us through. Indeed, there is a new strength to be found amidst us and when the time comes, to be brought forth and nurtured."
Curious looks flitted about the gathering. Then slowly, a voice rose in askance: "New strength? What do you mean, Chieftess?"
Pushing back the lump in her throat, Wildstar continued. "Strength in numbers, strength in unity, strength in leadership when my time comes to pass. The strength of a new chief - to come. I-I have found my soul's other half."
Which was more deafening - the shocked silence or the exploding commotion - Wildstar wasn't sure but she was suddenly aware of her pounding heart.
"Who? Who?!"
Feeling bewildered, Wildstar's gaze slowly swept to the side, landing quietly upon a dark brown crown of hair. The crowd shuffled to the side, eager to see the one who had Recognized the Chieftess - their eyes fell on an uncomfortable Lonewolf.
1768 (Long Sun)
Not long ago when the dampness of new flood coated freshly greening leaves, young Lionheart set off from the holt in search of his inner self. Since then the blooms of long sun have begun to unfurl, showering the canyon and forest in an array of lively colours; yet the holt is somehow strangely quieter than usual. The long faces of cubs normally full of energy and adventure tailing the tribe's eldest youngster speak of boredom and missing their lifetime companion.
"Looks as though you lot could use a story," Dreamberry grins, as she comes upon the remaining cubs sprawled around the Elder Tree.
Small pointed ears perk at this comment and Clover guardedly asks, "What sort of story?"
Nestling into their midst, Dreamberry grins even more widely. "Why, a story of excitement and adventure; a great hunt, of course! In fact, it's the story of the very first Highbelt's Hunt - just like the one the hunters are preparing for now - and one of Lionheart's favourite tales!" Dreamberry winks mischievously as now eager faces lean in toward her in anticipation.
Elsewhere in the holt, as one tale of a famous hunt gone by begins to spin, another hunt is being prepared by the current Hunt Leader.
"There's a hand of fat males foraging around the lagoon by death-drop gorge and several more further along sun-comes-up where the thickets are thickest," Foxears reports to Snowspear and the rest of the Hunt.
"Excellent. Those around the lagoon should be easy to corral before being spit upon our spears," Snowspear nods in approval. Then to the tribe at large she sends an invitation for those not of the Hunt to join their ranks on this most special of hunts, **Anyone who wishes to run Highbelt's Hunt, ready your wolves and weapons for we ride out tomorrow eve!**
The wolves mill anxiously as their elfin riders gather by the Elder Tree, spear tips sharpened, quivers full of arrows and swords strapped to heavy belts. Snowspear nods in approval at the essembly, the traditional boar hunt recognizing the founding of their home one of her favourite activities.
**Foxears has found boar at the lagoon surrounding death-drop gorge and another pack in the thickets towards sun-comes-up. We'll go after those at the lagoon first and see how many we spear.**
Instructions given, the Hunt Leader hefts her spear onto her shoulder and pulls herself atop one of the unbonded wolves in the pack. They have not bonded, these two, but Snowspear prefers leading the Hunt on her own mount to riding double. Arching her silvery maned head back to gaze at the stars briefly before closing liquid green eyes, she howls to the sky, announcing the beginning of the hunt at hand.
The roar of the falls drowns out the brushing of grass and the huffing of wolves as the hunters slip easily among the trees surrounding the lagoon at death-drop gorge - an excellent cover under which to take surprised prey. Early morning mist rises off the lagoon water, obscurring usually keen noses to the whereabouts of their quarry. No matter, the trackers have found and pin-pointed the great boars they seek and though feeling a sense of blindness, the pack easily manuveres into position.
Muscles tense. Hands grip wood and metal shafts. Knees constrict upon furry barrels, poised to break free. Thunder rings ominously. No, it's the pounding of many hearts in unison.
Bushes rustle ahead. The wolves burst into action. The hunt begins.
Wind. Mist. Sunlight. Growl, yip. Huff, grunt. Thunk. Screech.
As the frenzy settles, the Hunt Leader surveys the group, nodding in approval at the three fat boars felled by her tribe mate's feet. The wolves casually begin to feed from one carcass as the Hunt prepares litters from saplings to drag the rest back to the holt and share.
Upon arrival they are greeted with great gusto. A small fire burns on the edge of the holt where Firemoss and Smokepath tend to it, setting up great clouds of smoke with which to preserve some of the meat. Cubs scamper forward, eager for tales from the hunters. Settling down with the kills around them, the tribe ravishes the good, warm meat.
Yet something is amiss. Suddenly looking around, Woodsmoke asks in a strained voice, "Where's Summerset?"
The joyous chatter and munching of mouths pauses in mid-action as eyes turn in response to the question. Scanning the heads of those gathered, the lack of bright red/gold hair is quickly apparent. Equally quick sends fly through the silent air now surrounding the holt, questing for the whereabouts of the tribe's weaver. But no answer comes.
"She was with us at the hunt," Snowspear states matter-of-factly before Wildstar can even turn in askance in the Hunt Leader's direction. An unnatural feeling of embarrassement washes over the Hunt Leader, her head whipping around to those in the Hunt - pale green eyes flashing from tracker to hunter, searching for for an answer with a cutting edge like a blade. Yet shrugs and confused glances followed by fidgeting are the only response she receives.
"Well don't just stand there gibbering like a wet treewee - get your wolves and start searching!" Snowspear barks with undeniable authority. Pulling herself upon a nearby wolf, she pauses only a heartbeat before Chieftess and Woodsmoke. **We'll find her,** she promises sternly before spurring her mount into action and scattering the Hunt into a rapid search party like so many pheasants in a storm.
"Nothing?" Wildstar whispers.
The lone, silver-haired figure in the Chieftess' den shakes her head slowly but the clenching of white knuckles into the shaft of her trusty spear belies the Hunt Leader's true emotions, which roil beneath an exhausted surface.
"What of Snapbone?"
Sighing, Snowspear replies, "Too much spray from the falls where we took the kills down - the wolves lost the scent and what few tracks we found pettered out. Neither sending nor howls have brought an answer."
The statement is met with a long silence; a hollowness that creeps over the two women, setting a heaviness across the shoulders and a leaden feeling in the pit of the stomach.
Finally spurring muscles cramped through stress, Wildstar moves toward the den entrance. "Woodsmoke will need to know," she says softly. "His daughter is lost."
1767 (New Flood)
The perpetual drizzle of rain eases off for a time but not before the Rushwater River has risen its usual course. Admit the surging waves a shadow slinks almost lazily, belying its strength but not its size. A low fin cuts through the white-tipped caps of foam periodically to reveal a smooth, silver skin nearly as broad as a wolf standing sideways.
The howl of wolf and elf mingle fluidly into the darkened night sky atop the plateau. The tribe has gathered together here at the wolf dens for an occasion far older than any of those present. One among them senses a calling, deep within his heart and woven into the very fiber of his being. Large blue eyes peer into the dimly lit birthing den while the dark silhouette of the alpha male watches on with pride and curiosity. The reaction is almost immediate, as a bundle of over-energetic red streaks out, tumbling head long into the raven-haired cub and knocking him onto his backside.
"Mother! Father! She's mine!" he giggles, in between copious slobbering puppy licks. "Look Lionheart! Now we can race together!"
Mother Moon's dawning fullness approaches as Wildstar howls to call the tribe together at the Elder Tree. She looks expectantly toward Duskwater, eldest of the elves and wisest in the ways of the rivers they call home.
"The Rushwater is full and flowing steadily, the flooding has eased and the fish run plentifully, Chieftess," he replies, knowing the unspoken question.
Nodding, Wildstar smiles at the response. "Then we shall celebrate that which the Rushwater gives us: life!" Turning to gaze at individual faces, she continues: "Hunters, sharpen your fishing spears; crafters, weaver your nets and baskets; cubs, gather skipping stones and sand - come the height of Mother Moon's brightness we descend to the river to feast!"
Two hands of days have passed and Mother Moon enters the first of her three-day fullness. As anticipated, the elves descend to the Rushwater River's streams and lagoons to feast and relax. Friendly competitions in stone skipping and sand sculpting are struck up. The cubs play in the shallows, chasing scooters and prying open clams in the hopes of finding the rare pearl. Those more adventurous climb the nearby rock faces to dive and four partners take to the waters to hunt the elusive elderfish!