I'm in Moonglade, except there are no elves.  Just Shu'Halo.  And the world is very green and we're up on a set of high bluffs overlooking the lake.  I see my cousins and my family, but they don't recognize me because my name is Rivermane now.  I'm no longer of their tribe and invisible.  Still I watch them, going to and fro; talking over fires, cooking, laughing, the children are playing.  Other tribes are here, and they wave to me from their work.

I'm also a shaman.  The bones and beads click together like music as I walk.  My totem feels heavy and sure against my back and every so often I can feel the weight of a youngling's hand pressing against the wood reassuringly as they pass.  It feels good, everything feels good.  And for the first time in my life I can hear the spirits speaking to me.  In the air, the breeze assures me of a chilly evening.  The earth tells me the forests below are healthy and growing strong.  The cooking fire says there is plenty of meat to eat and that no one is going hungry.  I sit by the pond and the water sings of foreign shores.

I am standing in a forest of old trees, thin and tall.  Their bark and their leaves are blue-grey, the color and the light suggests that dawn is approaching.  I can hear the sounds of the village waking up, brown furred younglings emerging from their tents to yawn white mist in the cold air.  The smell of charred fish, fire, leather, and smoke permeates everything besides the forest, though the scent is disjointed, as if I were only perceiving things with half of my mind.

No one in the village is near enough to see or hear me, so I stand quite alone at the wood, my hand pressed against the trunk of the nearest tree waiting for something to happen.  In the distance of the blue forest something flashes, a wink of color.  Pale pink begins to bleed into the sky.  Whatever it is, it's coming closer, crashing through the brush, and I know that to cry out would be foolishness.  As it comes closer, I can see the same puffs of white emerge from its mouth as those of the yawning children, fast and hard.  It is a bear.  Its fur is bright orange-red, like the deepest part of a sunset.  A black brand marks its shoulder, a black upturned crescent moon, but no full moon rests in its cradle.

I know that if I run, I can draw him away from the village.  I can see them, milling about to start the fires of the day, but they cannot see me.  He gives chase, leaps over fallen trees, ignores rocks and branches that hinder his path.  I look back every so often, captivated by the tunnel of sight that leads him straight to me despite how hard I am running.  Ahead, toward the direction of the sun coming up over the horizon is the river, still and still blue.  If I can make to the river, I know I'll be safe; there's a islet in the center, dividing the water.

I dive and begin swimming, my hooves feel heavy.  He is so close behind me now, I can hear him breathing, grunting, the sound of his paws crushing leaves.  I reach the islet and drag myself upward from the cold water.  I barely notice the temperature at all, except my heart is pounding in my ears and half of me which is dreaming is convinced that I will die from the stress.  As I stand, my legs stiffen, my arms stiffen, the soil seems to reach up and throw itself against me, like waves lapping the shore.  Little branches begin to sprout from me, leaves unraveling and growing like hands opening.  In no time at all, I realize, I have become a tree--my gray tree arms raised to the sky sporting yellow-green foliage.  My whole body takes its first breath, and I can feel all the tiny points of heat and light that arrive with the new morning. 

The bear cannot reach me now, because I have become part of the wood, and he cannot capture the wood.

Dreams.