Noon, the gully, on watch. (Attn: Whistler)
The tribe settled down again, either returning to sleep or just resting. Lightstone reached into his pack and pulled out one of his treasures, a small globe of ice quartz that was so clear, it could turn light into rainbows when properly facing the sun. He started rolling the globe between his palms, then slowly rocked it from hand to hand,
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"The spear flew from her fingers as the great stag rose on his hind hooves, ready to leap from the clearing. The sharp stone spearhead struck deep, but not in heart-flesh that would have killed the stag instantly. Heaving a bitter sigh, the silver-haired huntress hidden in the bushes took chase again, cursing inwardly. She followed the beast deeper into the forest, not needing to keep it in sight, or exhaust herself by keeping pace; she could track it by blood-scent," the rockshaper began, voice low and thoughtful, almost dreamy. "Burdened by his impressive antlers and her spear, the stag kept to the open paths, and the huntress could have let him run himself to death, but it was not her way to let prey die of bloodloss and exhaustion.
"The danger now was that the blood would draw the attention of some other predator, one that might get to the stag first, and that did not need a weapon to make the kill. She could have called for aid, but another elf would have seen her poorly-placed spear and mocked her skill.
"She pressed on, beyond the hunt's boundary, head held high and mind tingling with the scent of blood. There were sounds on her left, and a breeze brought brought wolf-smell; a stray true-wolf, whose friendship could not be relied upon."
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"Gulping air, she ran faster and shed her pride to send an image of the trail to the minds of her huntmates. Perhaps the lone one caught her thoughts; it happened that way, sometimes, when the hunt had blood in its nostrils and the true-wolves were close by. No matter; it had dropped back and the huntress ran alone, fixing the area in her mind so she could find her way back when it was over.
"Her breath was fire, but it was worse for the stag. She heard it crash in the underbrush and found the strength to sprint the last distance. Knife drawn, she threw herself on the fallen, gasping beast and ended its misery. It had begun to cool before her breath came easily again and she levered herself up on her elbows.
"And into her father's blazing yellow stare."
Lightstone's words were suddenly given weight by his unexpected, open sending; the images were blurred, but there was Rahnee and Timmorn, as remembered by the tribe for ages, staring at each other.
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The story was becoming exciting, and the sent image made her tingle all over, thrilled.
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"'She wolf,' she replied, daring to sit on her haunches as the fire in his eyes ebbed back. She was not the highest among his children, and the hunt reminded her of it. Names were for the ones who mattered, the ones who had earned them, and of late, there had been very few of Timmorn's first-born like herself who had names. The hunt had mated within itself and back to their yellow-eyed ancestors. They'd become peerless killers and regarded the first-born as failures; strength and success were what counted within the hunt, and it did not matter that their offspring were often misborn and did not survive their milk-days."
Lightstone's tone was sadder as he said that, perhaps bothered by the fact so many cubs had initially died, and perhaps partly disturbed by the hunt's ways. "The crossbred hunters lived longer than true-wolves, and scorned the space with whom they shared space and food. The others, the elves, had grown wary, seeming content to take only what the hunt wished to give." Here he looked at his lifemate, who was still sleeping next to Silent, holding him close. The tribe well knew Heartstorm was related to those who had possessed too much wolf blood, but even in her fierceness, she had been less scornful of those unable to fight; she had simply ignored them. "But she was first-born; her mother was one of the others," the rockshaper continued. "It showed in her her eyes, her hands and her teeth, but mostly it showed in her loneliness; neither hunt nor other." His eyes lingered on Silent for a moment before returning to Whistler. **How are you known to your mother?** he sent, again imitating Timmorn.
"The silver hair shook and fell over her face, hiding her shame. 'Murrel?' she whispered her mother's name, and met those topaz eyes. 'I am she-wolf to her as well. They do not love us, Father,' his daughter told him, challenging him as no one in the hunt or elsewhere did. 'They need us, but they do not love us. They would rather have the true-wolves as pets than listen to our songs.'
"Timmorn squatted beside her, as close as he'd ever been to this particular child of his. She noticed the white hairs mingled through the coarse, tawny hair that covered far more than his scalp. So he felt it too, the pull of the wolf-blood that made the hunt forever from the others who, though they often died, did not need to die."
**It has gone wrong.** "His hand closed over hers, making the mind images stronger and filled with sadness." **Timmain's sacrifice -my mother's sacrifice- is being lost.** "Timmain. That was a name that could draw the hunt and others closer together in the moonlight. Or it had, once; not in her short lifetime."
Lightstone's eyes grew distant again as he tried to recall what Timmain had looked like. It seemed every Wolfrider of Cat's knew what the beautiful shapeshifter had looked like, memories passed down in sending, but time blurred the images. He thought he found the memory and shared it with Whistler, the elegant, silver-haired elf of pale skin and yellow-gold eyes, and a mysterious smile.
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But still...Lightstone sharing the long passed down memory of Timmain made her close her eyes to savour it. She had been beautiful.
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