Partings
Sunstream heard the call in the early morning. It came from Littlefire – still the best long-distance telepath of the Evertree. Swift and Rayek were just retiring for their morning sleep when their son’s sending reached them.
**Mother... it’s time.**
The Palace flew to the Homeland within an hour. Swift travelled alone, save for her youngest daughter, Gypsy Moth. The other Wolfriders had already said their farewells earlier. It was not as if the summons was unexpected, after all.
Swift stepped out of the Palace into the twilight air. The Evertree loomed before her. She could remember – vaguely – the time when Redlance had first merged the great oak trees together into one living giant. Now the Holt spread across several dozen trees, while the Evertree itself had swelled to three times its original size. Great aerial roots as thick as tree trunks anchored the Evertree into the fertile soil. Living skyways connected the satellite trees to the central hub. Magic of generations of treeshapers hung in the air, making the branches glow with life. Swift could hear the soft murmurs of eights upon eights of elves, wolfblooded and pureblood, living in the aerial city. She smiled. Redlance’s vision of a Holt of Holts had been realized, and more.
Redlance...
Swift hesitated. She thought she had prepared herself. But now that she was here, she wondered if she could bear to see him.
“Mother?” Gypsy asked.
“Nothing, cub. Just... remembering.”
Gypsy reached for her mother’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Swift smiled wanly and squeezed back. Then they walked out of the Palace’s shadow, towards the great double doors of the Evertree.
Rainsong and Woodlock were waiting for them. The healer and her lifemate had changed much over the years. Their ash-blond hair had long since turned, first gray, then white. Fine lines spread outward from the corner of Rainsong’s eyes and lips, but she still had the same smile. Woodlock’s eyes seemed weary, and Swift noted a slight stoop to his shoulders. Still, for full-blooded Wolfriders in the middle of their fourth millennium, they were still hale and hearty.
“Chieftess,” Rainsong said, holding out her hands to Swift. Swift took them in hers, marvelling at how thin Rainsong’s fingers had become.
“My eyes see with joy,” Swift replied. “You both look well.”
“We look old to your eyes, I’m sure,” Woodlock said diplomatically.
“Scarcely older than I,” Swift corrected. Then she became grave. “How is Redlance?”
“He’s resting comfortably now,” Rainsong said. “His breathing is regular... but faint. I think the end will come sometime this night.”
Swift nodded. “And Spar and Wren... and the cublings?”
“All gathered close. Waiting like the rest of us. I have... offered him my help in choosing the time and manner of his passing, but...”
“But that is not the Way,” Swift finished for her. “And Redlance would keep to the Way to the very end.”
Rainsong nodded. “Come in. He’s been waiting for you.”
“I’ll... wait out here,” Gypsy Moth murmured.
“Please,” Woodlock gestured for her to enter. “He would love to see another familiar face.”
Gypsy Moth followed uncertainly behind Swift as they climbed the last set of steps to the old chief’s den. Rainsong pushed the hide curtain aside, and Gypsy Moth squinted into the gloom.
Redlance lay on his pallet of furs, his eyes half-closed. He had indeed weakened considerably since the last time the Great Holt Wolfriders had last visited their kin at the Evertree. His limbs had withered under the furs, leaving him slender as a Glider. His long hair, once a brilliant red, had turned snow-white, and save for the last lingering copper threads, one would never know it had been anything else. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which struggled to focus on the newcomers.
“Swift...” he whispered, and his voice was like dried leaves. “I’m glad you came.”
“How could I not?” Swift knelt at his bedside and took his cool hand in hers.
“Wish I could stay... longer...” Redlance said. “So much to do... chief’s work never done...”
“You’ve done your share, cousin. Let your cubs take over the burden.”
“Never... a burden really.... Not after those first few years....” He smiled faintly. “Took to it...”
“I never once regretted my choice,” Swift said.
“Nightfall...” Redlance whispered. Suddenly his eyes widened. “Nightfall!” he gasped frantically. “Where is she?”
“Shh...” Swift touched his shoulder when he tried to rise. “She’s gone on ahead, remember?”
Redlance blinked. At length the tension in his face eased. “Yes... I remember now. So many went ahead. The Tree is full of spirits.”
“They’re waiting for you to join them.”
Redlance smiled. “I am the spirit of Father Tree... just as it was before....” He drifted in his reverie for a moment, before narrowing his gaze at Gypsy Moth, who hung back in the shadows. “Venka?”
“No, Redlance. It’s my youngest, Gypsy Moth.”
“Of course... what was I thinking... Gypsy... born in the New Land... you never knew a Father Tree... did you?”
“Neither did Venka,” Swift reminded him gently.
“Rest now,” Rainsong interrupted. “You’ll tire yourself.”
“I’m tired enough... what’s a little more?” Redlance closed his eyes. “But it is hard to keep my eyes open...”
He closed his eyelids and lay still under his furs. Swift scrutinized his gently lined face. It seemed he had drifted away, but then he whispered, “Swift?”
“Yes, Redlance?”
“Do you think spirits dream?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope so... I’d miss my dreams.”
He sighed, and then he was fast asleep, his faint breath escaping his lips in a soft hiss. Swift counted the breaths one after the other. Rainsong was right. The end was drawing nearer.
**He’ll sleep for a while, now,** Rainsong sent.
Swift nodded. **Then I will go see some old friends. You’ll send to me if things change?**
**Of course.**
Swift turned to go, and Gypsy Moth fell into step behind her, positively eager to escape the confines of the den.
Swift stepped back into the evening air. The fireflies were dancing in the air. On a normal night the cubs would be running out, trying to catch the “little star cousins” while the wolves romped in the undergrowth. The forest would be filled with the voices of young Wolfriders who had never learned the defense of silence. There was no need of it now. No human ever came within three day’s hard ride of the Evertree. The peace between races had endured unchanging for over two millennia.
Would that change too, with the passing of Redlance?
“Gypsy, I think–” Swift turned to her daughter, only to hold her tongue at the sight of the tears streaking Gypsy Moth’s face.
“Gypsy?” Swift touched her shoulder. She had not expected such a reaction. Gypsy had barely known Redlance – growing up half a world away from the Evertree as she had. And it was not at if this was the first truly aged elf she had met.
“He doesn’t remember me...” she whispered.
“Redlance doesn’t know you that well–” Swift began rationally.
**Not Redlance!** Gypsy sent. **It’s Kimo!** She burst into tears and her shoulders crumpled forward. Swift hastened to embrace her as Gypsy sobbed on her shoulder.
**He doesn’t remember me half the time!** she continued. **He can’t even remember how to turn back into an elf. He just lies there in Dart’s den like an old wolf. He’s not that much younger than Redlance, is he?**
**No...**
**It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I’m his soul-sister and he can’t remember who I am! Every year his bones get stiffer and his sendings are harder to hear! He’s falling to pieces in front of me. Just like Redlance. Just like .... **
**Beasts?**
**We’re not beasts!** The force of her sending burned in Swift’s mind. **We’re elves! We’re not supposed to shrivel up like dead leaves! We’re supposed to live forever!**
Swift gently stroked her daughter’s hair. She had no answer for her. She knew she could speak of platitudes – of life continuing in another form, of trading flesh for the freedom of spirit. But neither words nor sendings could ease Gypsy’s aching heart. Swift remembered the pain well. It struck every elf at a different time – the aching awareness of mortality, and the cursed unfairness of it all. Like many her age, Swift had learned that lesson young. Even now the memory of her mother’s death was vivid; some hurts defied the passage of time, or the elusive Now of Wolf-thought. But for those born immortal like Gypsy Moth, the lesson could lie unlearned for many years.
“You should return to the Great Holt,” Swift said at length. “I’m sorry I asked you to come.”
“I’ll be all right,” Gypsy said, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. Already her father’s stoicism was reasserting itself. “I... I think I’ll go find Wren and Mink. It’s been too long since I saw them last.”
Swift gave Gypsy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She knew full well her daughter would take her time going to visit with the Evertree’s heir apparent. She’d stop under every tree and brood over the injustice of it. Just like her father, Swift thought with a wry smile. After three thousand years lifemated to Rayek, she had long given up trying to argue with that particular quirk of character.
Leaving Gypsy at the doors of the Evertree, Swift strode down the familiar paths and game trails. Strange how little the forest floor had changed, even as the tree houses grew larger with each new generation.
The weeping willow continued to guard over the winding brook. It had been One-Eye’s idea to return Clearbrook to the earth under her favorite tree. As had become tradition in the Evertree, Redlance had opened a fissure in the tree’s roots, and they had laid Clearbrook’s empty shell in the warm earth. In the old days Wolfrider remains were scattered across the entire forest by the whims of nature – just as elves were once scattered across the World of Two Moons. Now when a Wolfrider died, his body was drawn into the wooden flesh of the Evertree’s great root structure. In death, Wolfriders gave life to the Holt.
Swift bent down and caressed the soft leaves of ivy that bloomed at the willow’s base. Strange, sometimes she could remember Clearbrook’s face and features perfectly. Other days she had to struggle to summon an image in the Scroll of Colors. She supposed it was understandable – even for an elf who did not live by the Now. The elder had been dead for nearly three hundred years now.
Swift tried to envision the similiar howls for the other departed, but she could not recall the exact location of their graves. Perhaps as is should be. The dead were always anonymous.
She remembered the howl for Nightfall clearly enough. Ten years was not enough time to erase that painful day. Redlance had aged with such grace that even after over three thousand years winters, he was as hale as old Longbranch had been. But with Nightfall’s death he had withered away, a plant cut off from the sun. Only his dedication to the tribe had kept him from disappearing into the forest to join her then and there.
Gypsy was right. It wasn’t fair. Swift was two years older than Nightfall. But she remained young and vibrant, while Nightfall had grown weary and crippled with age.
Swift reminded herself over and over that Nightfall had made the choice to embrace her wolf blood, as all the Eldertribe had. It still left her heartsick. She could never quite shake the feeling that mortality was a disease that ought to be cured, not nurtured.
Yours is not the only way, she told herself.
“I’ll let this world decide when I will shed my skin,” Nightfall had said when her daughter Spar had pleaded, in tears, for her to accept a last-minute healing.
“Why?” Spar had snapped. “Why make yourself powerless when you can choose life over death?”
“I have power...” Nightfall had whispered as her breathing began to falter. “I choose death as a wolf to life as an immortal... and it is my choice, Spar... no one else’s.”
Spar had cursed her mother in grief. She had called it high-nosed pride –the wolf-blooded counting themselves superior to the immortals. “Proud enough to die, and rot!” she had spat. “Are you happy now, Mother? Have you proved yourself?”
Redlance might have been able to temper his daughter’s grief. But he hadn’t the strength. A rift had broken between them, even now it was not truly healed. Only Redlance’s final decline could bring Spar back to the Evertree, Swift doubted she would return once the chief was gone.
There were only a handful of wolfbloods left now. The Way of Swift’s ancestors was dying as surely as these last survivors of the old era.
“It’s finished,” Strongbow had whispered in Swift’s ear as he lay on his pallet of furs. “All things must end in their time...”
“Nothing ends,” Swift had reassured him. “It only changes form.”
“Nothing endures,” Strongbow contradicted softly. “We were fools to believe ‘the Way’ would be different. It is finished. Let it die. Hope... what takes its place will be a worthy offspring.” He had smiled then, a touch of the old wryness returning. “I don’t envy you...”
Swift smiled through the tears that were beginning to mist over her vision. He had had the last word after all.
She gazed up at the trellises and suspension bridges overhead. What would become of the Evertree Holt when the last of the original Wolfriders passed away? In her lifetime she had witnessed the birth of so many new cultures: Mardu’s Plainsrunners, Teir’s Wild Hunt, Haken’s Oasis, and her own Great Holt. Each one had survived early birthing pains to become something new and wonderful. Yet in each transformation, something was lost forever.
She suddenly felt very old. She suddenly felt a yearning for blissful stagnation. To rest. To be changeless. To never worry about tomorrow.
The wolves were howling, warming up for the evening hunt. Some things at least, remained constant.
“The wolves do not envy us,” Swift whispered softly.
Her wanderings eventually brought her back to the Holt, and the Howlpainter’s Tree. No one else was about, and she met no youngsters on her hike up the spiral stairs to the center of the elfin library.
Great lengths of tanned hides, stitched together into long banners, hung from the walls, chronicling the history of the tribe in beautiful painted symbols. Other hides were rolled into neat scrolls and tucked into crevices hollowed into the walls. Swift could only frown at the complex whorl of brushstrokes that blossomed over the ancient hides. While she had long since learned to read the writings of trolls and pirate elves, she had never entirely grasped the lyric eccentricities of the Howlpainter’s art.
Littlefire was hard at work on a new hide – a deerskin stretched out over a frame and already half-covered with brushstrokes. Pots of colours sat all around the Howlpainter. The exact shade of the symbols was just as important to the meaning as the angle of the brushstrokes. She watched as Littlefire carefully washed one brush, then dried it, twisted the ends of the bristles into just the right shape, and selected a green hue for the next set of words.
“Howlpainter,” Swift said at length, breaking the spell of silence.
Littlefire started. Even after all this time, he was easily surprised. He quickly recovered before he could drop the pot of paint, then stood and wiped his ink-stained hands on his trousers.
“Chieftess!” his face lit up in a clumsy smile. “How are you?”
“Well enough. I see you’ve been busy.”
“Never enough days to keep track of all the memories. We’ve been dreaming for days trying to catch the words for this new hide.”
“What’s the howl of this one?”
Littlefire moved to stand in front of the canvas. “It’s a surprise,” he said. “For Wren.”
That would explain the looping designs Swift took for vines and birds in flight.
“I’m sure Wren will appreciate it.”
“Hope so. I thought it’s too soon, but Kit thinks he’ll like it.”
“How is Kit? Is she about?”
“Always, Chieftess,” the Glider replied, his voice subtly heightened in pitch. “Where else would I be?”
“Forgive me, I misspoke,” Swift said with a rueful smile. “I suppose I should have asked if you were awake.”
“You think I’d trust Littlefire with the hides by himself?” A light giggle, entirely unsuited to the tall Glider. “No, we always work as a team.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Swift said. “I suppose I just haven’t been by enough. Woodlock and Rainsong take it in stride, I’m sure.”
“Better than Father ever did,” Kit laughed. “But I think he could never quite adapt to looking up at his daughter.”
“To say nothing enough of his daughter’s new skin,” Swift quipped.
“Skin is just skin,” Littlefire said a little defensively, and this time it was Littlefire’s voice, the familiar shy mumble of the reclusive Glider.
An instant later he seemed to answer himself, now in the higher-pitched chirp of his lifemate. “Would you be so casual if I had jumped into Father’s skin instead?”
Littlefire blushed, and managed to mumble, “Why would you do that?”
Swift smothered a smile beneath her hand. Of all the elves on the World of Two Moons, only Littlefire would accept so great a change in his life with such disinterest.
Moonshade had been the first of the Eldertribe to succumb to mortality. Falling from a tree, she had punctured her lungs with a broken rib, and Rainsong had not reached her soon enough. It was tragic, but it was not entirely unexpected. Moonshade was among the eldest of the elves – too old to be tree-walking safely. It was the natural order of things, for the elders to give way to their offspring. No one had imagined that death would strike next among the Holt’s children.
Nightfall had risen at twilight as usual, to find Littlefire sitting quietly by the brook, his head hung in thought. She thought nothing of it. Neither did Redlance, when he arose a few minutes later. Littlefire’s stepdaughter Mink was a continent away in Oasis visiting her lifemate’s family, and with Kit nowhere in sight, no one felt entirely comfortable disturbing the brooding Glider.
It was Rainsong who had finally knelt down at Littlefire’s side and asked him if something was wrong. His reply had chilled her very blood.
“Kit’s broken.”
He said the words in a curious tone, without emotion. When Rainsong pressed him again, he furrowed his brow and repeated the cryptic phrase. “Something happened. Her body... it’s broken.”
Too late Strongbow joined them. Hearing Littlefire’s words, he seized the Glider and yanked him to the ground. **Speak sense! Where is Kit? What’s happened to her?**
Normally Littlefire reacted to abruptness with panic and anger. Instead he simply shrugged Strongbow off him. Straightening to his full height, he towered over the Wolfrider.
“I told you! Her body broke! It couldn’t hold her anymore.”
Strongbow’s face drained of all colour. “W-where is she?” he whispered hoarsely.
Littlefire shrugged and indicated the Evertree. Strongbow and Rainsong turned and ran for Kit’s den.
They found her lying on her sleep furs, her skin cold as ice. Rainsong dropped to her side and probed with her healer’s senses. But nothing could be done. As Littlefire had said, her body was broken. A heart attack in her sleep. Her skin was still smooth, her hair dark and full. But her heart had weakened with advancing age, and it had ceased to beat sometime in the midafternoon.
Strongbow could not bear it. He had suffered through the death of his lifemate. He had resigned himself to his old age and inevitable death. But to lose his daughter – scarcely middle-aged even by Wolfrider standards – was too cruel a blow.
Half-mad with grief and rage, he stormed out in search of Littlefire. He fell on the Glider with all the fury of a wolf and began to beat him. It took Redlance and One-Eye together to subdue him.
“Monster!” Strongbow raved at Littlefire. “Cursed Glider! How can you stand there! She’s dead! Tayr is dead!”
Littlefire only cowered, massaging his bruises.
**She’s gone!** Strongbow found the strength to send. **And you don’t even care!**
Littlefire winced at the force of his sending. “What are you talking about? She’s not gone. She’s right here. Her body broke, that’s all. It couldn’t hold her anymore.”
“Littlefire,” Nightfall said patiently. “We know Kit will always be with us in spirit...”
“I just said that. She’s right here. Why is he so angry with me?”
“But you do understand we will never see her again... in the flesh?”
“Of course!” Littlefire snapped in frustration. “I keep saying – her body broke! It couldn’t hold her, so she needed to go into a new one. It’s so simple – why can’t you see?”
“He’s mad!” Strongbow hissed.
“Wait...” Redlance said softly. “Littlefire, what do you mean, she needed to go into a new body?”
“I think you’re confused,” Nightfall continued. “The High Ones may have shaped new shells for their spirits, but Wolfriders do not.”
Littlefire looked over his assembled tribemates as if they had lost their minds. “She didn’t make a new body. She just went into mine.”
Strongbow stared at the Glider. “She’s... in you?”
“I just said that!” He tapped the side of his head for emphasis. “She’s right here. Will everyone please stop shouting now? She’s trying to talk to me and I can’t hear her.”
Nightfall and Redlance averted their eyes. Rainsong bit her lip. Grief was surely confusing Littlefire. Perhaps he could just sense the edge of her lingering spirit and he misunderstood the sensation. Certainly Littlefire’s perceptions were a little skewed even at the best of times.
But Strongbow slowly got to his feet and approached the Glider. Even as Littlefire drew back apprehensively, Strongbow stared deep into his eyes.
**Daughter?**
Littlefire winced, closing his eyes. And Strongbow felt something. Years later he still could never quite explain it, not even in sending. As best he could describe it, it seemed as if Kit was standing in front of him when Littlefire stood. She smiled at him and she nodded. And then she faded away, and Littlefire returned.
“Did you hear her?” Littlefire asked.
Strongbow nodded, fresh tears welling in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks.
“Well, don’t do that again. Not yet. I’m still trying to figure this out.” Littlefire shook his head. “It’s hard... we need a while.”
The story of Kit’s death and resurrection was now known across the entire world, and immortalized in her howling hides. Swift still remembered how disorienting those first years had been. But for Rayek, who had once carried the souls of the Blue Mountains Gliders, no one could begin to understand Littlefire’s position. Even Rayek had never been able to communicate with the Gliders, beyond the most instinctive level. But as time passed and Littlefire immersed himself in meditation, a sort of symbosis emerged. Perhaps it was the fact that the lifemates had always preferred “going-out” together to a more physical sort of joining that had allowed Kit to so easily share her lifemate’s body. Perhaps she was simply the first elf to ever consider the possibility. Either way, the two souls now coexisted comfortably in the same body. Out of habit, the body was always thought of as Littlefire’s, though in truth the shell belonged to them both equally. Kit and Littlefire still spoke in separate voices, though Swift imagined it was more out of a courtesy to their friends, who could still not entirely reconcile two souls speaking with the same voice. And despite a few lighthearted jests about “Kitfire” – very few were able to conceive that the two personalities might in fact be transforming into one soul. In fact, the only elf to accept the entire bonding without so much as batted eyelash was Kit’s daughter Mink.
“What was it like, to die?” Swift asked Kit now.
If Kit was at all surprised at the abrupt turn the conversation had taken, she did not show it. “Strange,” she said. “I was asleep... I was dreaming with Littlefire. And then I felt a little bump, like the faintest ground-quake. And then I opened my eyes... and I saw myself lying there. First I thought I was still dreaming. It took me the longest time to realize I was seeing out through Littlefire’s eyes. I was lucky, I suppose,” she added after some thought. “It all happened so quickly.”
“I’ve had some time to think about death lately,” Swift murmured. “Dying more than death, perhaps.”
“The death of the Way?”
Swift nodded.
Kit shrugged. “I doubt there was ever one Way to begin with. It changed with each new chief – each new Wolfrider born into the tribe.”
“Has Mink ever spoken of giving up the wolfblood?”
Kit shook her head. “But she is young still. Though... I suppose no younger than I was, when I died.”
“After Redlance, and Woodlock and Rainsong... Mink will be the last full-blooded Wolfrider.”
“The dead don’t go anywhere, you know.”
“I know... but most don’t make their presence as widely known as you. And for we living... it’s harder for us to acknowledge the world we cannot see. It’s hard... to imagine that in another eight eights times eight... the wolf-blooded ones will be gone.”
“The wolves will endure. So will the Wolfriders.”
“I know. And it’s silly of me to mourn something I never truly embraced. Still...”
“One year ends, and another begins. But you’re still allowed to miss the old year, you know.”
Swift smiled. “Was that Kit or Littlefire there?”
“A bit of both.”
The wooden floor shivered under them. Swift stumbled to catch her footing. Littlefire effortlessly floated a finger’s span above the floor.
“Ground-quake?”
“Tree-quake,” Littlefire said, distractedly. “It’s getting close.”
The Evertree was trembling from leaf to root as Swift hurried into Redlance’s den. The immediate family was already there. Wren and Spar knelt by the old chief’s side, while Mink and her two cubs – cubs, Swift called them, though Longfeather and Sunstill were grown elves with children of their own – hung back at a respectful distance. Spar was weeping angry tears as she had when Nightfall died. Wren was dry-eyed as he bent his head closer to catch Redlance’s last words.
Another tremor struck the tree. The walls of the den were becoming almost fluid as they shivered in time with Redlance’s erratic heartbeat.
Redlance reached out his hand to take Wren’s. But the wizened hand fell back to the bed helplessly. A final shaky breath escaped him, and his entire body tensed. Then tree began to shake again. Wren and Spar staggered to their feet as the wood rose up around the bed, swallowing Redlance and his furs. The tree lovingly drew the body into itself, and then the wooden floor re-solidified underfoot with one final tremble.
The wolves began to howl. Swift closed her eyes against her burning tears.
Spar remembered her duty. She wiped her salt-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, then tore a leather thong from her feathered gauntlet. Before her son quite knew what was happening, she caught up a lock of his hair and bound at the crown of his head.
“You truly are a Wolfrider now,” she told Wren as she inspected the chief’s lock. Then her face crumpled with pain and she tried to turn away. Wren caught her in his arms and held her against his chest as she sobbed. Mink stroked Sunstill’s hair while Longfeather broke past his mother and sister in search of fresh air.
Outside, the entire tribe was gathering for a howl. They were elves of all ages and races – some Wolfriders by birth, others by lifemating, others still by some personal choice. Some hovered in the air, while others sat on branches, or one the ground with their bond-beasts – not all of them wolves. One cub – too young to understand the significance of the night’s howl – snuggled next to a brown bear twice her size. Longfeather had reunited with his mate and children, and was now stroking his hunting falcon protectively, his expression pensive.
**Are you ready?** Swift asked Wren.
**Is any new chief?**
Swift smiled. **Not the good ones.** She hesitated a moment, then asked: **What did he say, at the end?**
Wren met his chief’s gaze with moss-green eyes that suddenly reminded her so much of his grandfather. “He said: ‘I’m all right.’”
Swift nodded. She looked over the assembled tribe, waiting eagerly to hear Wren speak.
“We’re all right,” she whispered.
Elfquest copyright 2014 Warp Graphics, Inc. Elfquest, its logos, characters, situations, all related indicia, and their distinctive likenesses are trademarks of Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Some dialogue taken from Elfquest comics. All such dialogue copyright 2014 Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Alternaverse characters and insanity copyright 2014 Jane Senese and Erin Roberts