A chill ran up and down her spine. She knew where she was but still sought in vain to deny it.
Then another priestess of Elune stepped into view. Tyrande knew her by name as well as by her thinner, unlined face. Merende.
Far younger than the high priestess, but a well-respected acolyte of the Mother Moon.
A second priestess followed Merende, this one also known to their leader. That priestess was followed by a third. All wore somber expressions and kept their heads bowed. They were clad in simple silver robes with hoods. The plain garments were worn in respect to their surroundings, for these priestesses were not among their own kind, but rather in a domain under the watch of the druids.
Indeed, this was the barrow den — a home, so to speak — of one of their kind.
And even as Tyrande thought this, her view shifted, following not by her choice the gazes of the troubled priestesses. A body, laid flat on a mat of woven grass, a faint, silver light — Elune’s light — draping over the still form. Her heartbeat quickened at this solemn sight, even though from the past she should have long been used to it.
Even in repose, his proud visage bore the marks of time and effort even more than hers. His long, green hair had been set by the priestesses so that it lay atop his chest, where it seemed to meld with his lush, lengthy beard. He had a thick, angled brow that made him appear serious, contemplative.
He was clad more elaborately than most druids — a choice not his own but determined by his great station. Massive armor with jutting thorns protected the shoulders, while matching guards did so for the forearms and shins. Although made of wood respectfully harvested from dead trees, the spell-crafted armor was more durable and resilient than metal. The sleeveless robe stretched down all the way to his sandaled feet and bore on the sides of the legs the color and pattern of draping leaves. Near the bottom, a layer of blue marked by what seemed to be crescent moons perhaps gave some bit of honor to Elune.
Malfurion Stormrage stared up at the ceiling, his golden orbs vacant.
Tyrande drank in the sight of him, her lover. Her legs felt weak as she studied him — how could a being so bright and bursting with spirit be rendered utterly lifeless and hopelessly lost? She smiled weakly as she gazed at Malfurion, who looked so regal, so distinguished. As noble as the male night elf looked, ever one aspect about him demanded foremost attention. Sprouting from his forehead and thrusting forward were two proud antlers. More than two feet in length, they were no defect of birth, but rather the gift and the mark of Cenarius. Few there were of the druids who bore the four-legged, hooved demigod’s blessing and of that few, the first and greatest was he who lay here.
Tyrande had not been taken aback when first the antlers had begun to grow. She had only seen them as recognition of the greatness she had always known existed in Malfurion.
“Malfurion…” she whispered to the body, though no one there, especially him, could hear her at all. “Oh, my Malfurion… why did you have to leave me again?”
She watched as her followers knelt beside the still body and placed their hands over his head and chest. Tyrande knew what they were doing, for she had given the orders herself.
Only through the blessings of the Mother Moon did Malfurion Stormrage still survive. Her faithful kept the archdruid’s body alive and healthy, hoping against hope for the day when Malfurion would stir again. Hoping against hope that his dreamform would return from wherever it had become lost in the Emerald Dream…
The high priestess wanted desperately to leave. Of what purpose was there in Elune revealing this scene? All it did was stir up more anxiety, more terrible reminders. She couldn’t stand to see him like that, lost to her… perhaps forever.
Malfurion’s tenders stepped back. They looked somber. They had been at this task day after day and knew their duties well.
The archdruid’s skin suddenly darkened.
The three priestesses gave no reaction to this transformation, almost as if they could not see it. Tyrande, on the other hand, leapt to Malfurion’s side, paying no attention to the fact that her body glided through those of her followers as if they were but a mist. All that mattered was her beloved’s horrific transformation.
And as she watched, helpless and unable even to touch him, the archdruid’s body continued its macabre change. As his flesh darkened, it also crusted over, like the bark of a tree. His legs and arms grew gnarled. Jagged, ebony leaves sprouted throughout his hair and beard, quickly overwhelming both. At the same time, the leaves began slowly waving back and forth, as if a wind from somewhere far beyond this underground place blew upon them.
The golden orbs paled back to the silver of their birth, then, more horribly, they sank in, turning into black pits.
The rhythmic fluttering of the leaves seized the high priestess’s attention from the awful eyes, although she at first could not say why. There was a familiar movement to the fluttering. And then a faint sound accompanied the movement, a steady, pulsating beat that swelled in intensity as it filled her ears.
A heartbeat.
She glanced around wildly — it was as though the other priestesses could not hear it. It became louder and stronger still.
The sound became deafening; the leaves flickered in concert, and then…
The beat began to slow. Only by a minuscule rate at first, but it was slowing, as if the wind were ceasing to blow.
And as if a heart were gradually beginning to still…
Panicked, Tyrande thrust a hand toward Malfurion-The barrow den vanished. Darkness and a stark silence greeted the high priestess. She discovered that her eyes were shut.
With a gasp, she opened her eyes and adjusted to Elune’s glow, finding herself once more seated in the temple. Haidene’s statue stood poised over her. All was as she recalled it and Tyrande knew that what she had experienced had taken place in perhaps the space of a single short breath.
But her own situation did not concern her in the least. Only the vision mattered. She had received only a handful of such gifts from her mistress over the centuries and all of them had been messages of great import. Yet this one… this one was the most troubling of all.
Despite the best efforts and tremendous vigilance of his tenders, it was now clear that Malfurion was dying.
The storm crow’s wide, powerful wings beat hard as the avian neared the vicinity of the island. Woodland brown with tinges of silver gray at the edges of its feathers, it was large, even for one of its kind. A sloping silver crest crowned its head and twin tufts of like-colored feathers hung from both sides of its skull, giving it an almost elder, scholarly look. Deep silver eyes peered out from under the brow, drinking in everything.
Although a thick mist enshrouded the night sky, the storm crow soared through the air with a swiftness that suggested familiarity with its surroundings. Lightning flashed some distance further out at sea, and the bird took advantage of the momentary illumination to search for some sign of the island.
Suddenly, the lone traveler was forced to brace itself against an oddly cold gust of wind that seemed determined to drive him back, as if warning that only a fool would continue on. But continue the storm crow did, struggling hard against the icy current. It sensed that it was very near its goal.
And, in fact, as if curtains parting, the mists finally gave way. The island came into view at last, dwarfed beneath that for which it was both known and named. From a distance, those who beheld the great sight for the first time might have thought they were viewing some grand mountain with sides markedly perpendicular and rising so high that the clouds themselves were forced to gaze up at its majesty. But if they were able to peer up during daylight and weather far more agreeable than that through which the storm crow flew, they would discover that it was not a mountain at all — or even, perhaps, some great edifice built by hand — but was, in fact, a thing yet more remarkable.
It was a tree.
It filled most of the island, no small patch of ground. In the tree’s very roots lay th
e port village — called Rut’theran by the night elves who inhabited it. It was clear the island existed purely to house the leviathan for which it was named and for which all knew it.
This was the home of Teldrassil… the second World Tree.
Ten thousand years earlier the original World Tree, Nordrassil, had been raised up on Mount Hyjal after the destruction of the night elves’ original fount of power, the Well of Eternity. Set atop the second Well created through Illidan’s duplicity, Nordrassil had served two purposes. Not only had it been designed to keep others from abusing the magic of the new Well, but also to prevent the second fount’s power from growing too great overtime. Blessed by three of the great Dragon Aspects — Alexstrasza the Life-Binder, Nozdormu the Timeless One, and Ysera the Dreamer — the vast tree had not only watched over Azeroth but been bound to the night elves’ immortality and power.
But less than a decade ago venerable Nordrassil had suffered terrible damage during the titanic struggle against the same demons — the Burning Legion — whose initial invasion had first caused its raising. Its weakened state had left the night elves bereft of much of their vaunted power and, worse, their very immortality.
And though Nordrassil’s roots were slowly regrowing, that immortality had not yet returned.
And so eventually the druids — their apprehensions put at ease by their new leader, Fandral — had raised up Teldrassil, its successor.
The storm crow banked as the tree continued to spread before its gaze. If Teldrassil was not quite as overwhelming as its predecessor had been at its greatest majesty, none could deny that the new World Tree was a wonder of the world, a phenomenal nurturing of nature through the world of Azeroth’s own magic as wielded by the druids. The width and breadth of Teldrassil’s trunk were vaster than some lands. Yet, incredible as that was, it compared little to its massive, green crown, which seemed to spread along the horizon forever.
Something briefly caught the avian’s attention, and it cocked its head slightly to observe it. Within the huge boughs, the storm crow sighted movement among what appeared to be not only one stone structure, but several. Indeed, protruding above the branches were the tops of several buildings.
As the flyer soared on, other smaller settlements whirred by.
Even a lake momentarily glimmered among the leaves, so wide and furrowed were the gargantuan branches. And well ahead there jutted the tip of a mountain.
The storm crow approached the higher branches. There it glimpsed another wonder atop the highest of the great boughs.
From that shadowed wonder came illumination not only in the form of torchlight, but also what appeared to be bits of living moonlight.
The magnificent city of Darnassus, capital of the tree-dwelling race, beckoned. Even from a distance, it was clear that Darnassus rivaled fabled places such as the humans’ Stormwind City or the orcs’ Orgrimmar.
The World Tree collected enough dew to create and feed many rivers, streams, and lakes among its boughs — one of the last so wide that part of Darnassus had been itself raised up on it. The night elves further manipulated the waters here to maintain the splendor of the Temple Gardens and the stunning waterway coursing through their city. Further north and on the other side of the water, the druids had set up their own sanctum, the woodlandshrouded Cenarion Enclave.
But the bird veered away, not just from Darnassus, but from the rest of the incredible cities nestled atop the crown. Inviting though the sight was, the storm crow’s destination was far below.
The huge avian dropped until only a dozen yards or so from the dirt, then, with innate ability, arched its wings to slow its descent. It extended its talons out as it prepared to land.
Just before the storm crow touched ground, it swelled in size, in only a single breath growing to a height greater than any human. Its legs and talons shifted form, the former becoming thicker and longer and the latter now turning into feet that were sandaled. At the same time, each of the wings melded and stretched and fingers blossomed. The feathers vanished, replaced by thick hair of forest green that was bound tight in the back and flowed down in the front in a lush beard that extended to what was now a cloaked chest.
The beak had receded into the face, becoming a separate and stillprominent nose and a broad mouth bent into what was almost a perpetual frown. Ebony feathers had given way to flesh of a dark violet hue that marked the shapeshifter as of the race that lived in this land and above it.
Broll Bearmantle, being a night elf, looked much akin to most druids. True, he was brawnier and seemed much more like a warrior than the others. His less-than-peaceful, troubled existence gave him fuller, more weathered features, but he still passed among his fellow druids as close kin to any of them.
He peered around. There were no immediate signs of other druids, though he sensed them near. That suited him. He had wanted a moment of solitude before joining the others.
There were many thoughts swirling around his head, most of them concerning his shan’do, his teacher. Each time Broll came back to Teldrassil, the broad-shouldered night elf thought of his shan’do, knowing that without him, he would not be who he was — even if Broll considered himself a sorry excuse for a druid. In fact… none of those gathering for this sudden convocation, not even Fandral, would be here at all if not for the legendary Malfurion Stormrage.
Malfurion had not merely been their leader; he had been the first of Azeroth’s mortal druids, trained in his calling by the demigod Cenarius himself. The woodland deity had seen in the then-young night elf a unique quality, a unique link to the world, and had nurtured it. And before Malfurion’s mystical training had even been completed, he was thrust into that first titanic struggle against the demons and his own traitorous kind… including the night elves’ very queen, Azshara, and her treacherous advisor, Xavius. If not for Malfurion’s efforts, so many believed, Azeroth itself would surely have ceased to exist.
The tales of his extraordinary feats stretched through time.
Malfurion had sacrificed the considerable centuries of his life for the sake of his world and his people over and over. When others had fallen, he had taken up their battles and added them to his own.
For a master of the ways of nature, Malfurion had also become a champion in war.
Yet, most recently, with lasting peace once more perhaps possible, Malfurion had reorganized his fellow druids and tried to set them on their original, destined path. The past was the past; the future a fascinating enigma to be quietly and calmly explored.
Indeed, Malfurion had said they were better off as they were now — without their immortality — for that forced them to become more a part of the vibrant life of Azeroth rather than some staid, unchanging element merely observing the passage of time…
“Malfurion …” he muttered. But for two others in his life, no one had affected Broll like his shan’do. He owed a great deal to Malfurion… and yet, he, like the rest, felt helpless to do anything to save the archdruid from his dreadful fate.
Broll blinked, returning to the moment. He had sensed another coming up behind him. Even before turning, the night elf knew who it had to be. The scent alone marked this one particular druid.
“The blessing of the forest upon you, Broll Bearmantle,” rumbled the newcomer. “I felt you near. I had hoped to see you.”
Broll nodded. While he hadn’t expected to see the newcomer, he was glad for it. “Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem… you made swift passage from Thunder Bluff.”
Where Broll looked akin to his fellow druids, his new companion did not. The torso of the newcomer somewhat resembled that of a night elf or a human, albeit one even broader of shoulder than the powerfully built Broll. Unlike the other druids, he was clad in the loose, tanned garments of his tribe. Two long, red straps fastened his leather shoulder armor to his red-stained leather kilt. Striped bands of red, gold, and blue adorned each forearm near the wrist.
But what marked Hamuul as different, not only from Broll but the rest of the night e
lves was that he was a tauren. Thick, cloven hooves carried his massive body, and his head resembled that of a bull — as was characteristic of the tauren race, though none ever said so to their faces without risking life and limb. He had a great snout in which he wore a ceremonial ring, and long horns that curved to the side first before thrusting outward.
Hamuul stood over eight feet tall, even with the characteristic humpback of his kind. His fine, gray-brown fur tended more toward gray these days than when Broll had first met the tauren. Hamuul also wore two thick braids, also graying, that hung down over his chest. He had come late to the druidic calling, brought to it in great part, naturally, by Malfurion Stormrage’s encouragement. The tauren had been the first of his race to join the ranks in almost twenty generations, and although there were now more, none was as accomplished as him.
“The journey was uneventful, if oddly quiet,” the tauren remarked. His light green eyes narrowed under the thick brow ridge, as if he wanted to add something but chose not to.
The night elf nodded, his thoughts briefly turning to how he himself would be received by the others. So much had been expected from Broll, so much since birth… and all of it stemming from a singular feature that he shared with Malfurion, a singular feature that, to Broll, was also the ever-present sign of his lacking.
The antlers thrusting out of his temples were nearly two feet long, and if they were not quite as impressive as those that adorned the famed archdruid, they were certainly something arresting to behold. They had marked Broll even as an infant, the then-tiny nubs seen as a sign of future distinction. Even as a child, he had been told that one day — someday — he would be the stuff of legends.
But where others had seen the antlers as a gift of the gods, Broll had quickly come to consider them a bane. And in his eyes, his life had thus far proven him all too correct.
Of what use had they been, after all, when he had needed aid at the most critical moment of his life? When Broll had stood facing an onslaught of demons and undead under the vile mastery of the pit lord Azgalor, it had seemed that at last all the predictions might have borne truth. Wielding the Idol of Remulos, his druidic powers had expanded. The enemy had been pushed back while Broll’s comrades had made use of his sacrifice to pull back toward the main army.
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