Destiny's Collar

[Alakon]

Authors ramble: Hey guys! This story has turned out to be almost a novelette, and is roughly halfway through the storyline.
I actually began writing this story like a couple of years ago, but only finished the first chapter. The first chapter is directly just churned out of I believe my 16 or 17 year old head, but the rest which I have come back to actually finish, was written with overall objectives in mind.
So, just so you know, this story is basically just an exercise in actually finishing a story plot.
So tell me what you think! I'll post chapter by chapter to give myself a chance to have a fair chunk more of the story written by the time I get to it.
By the way, I don't have the strength to go through the entire story (again) to italicise all words that should be italicised. It simply is far too exhausting lol. Hopefully it won't detract too greatly.

Please be brutal, please be harsh, I openly and gladly accept any and all criticism, "I'm a large semi-muscular man", and I can take it! I want to improve, and am struggling to attack all weak points.

So without further ado, I give to you...

Chapter One

It was night, dark cast its shadowy pall over Ashenvale, while Elune illuminated the tapestry of stars, her eye was bright and luminous as she watched over the land.
And the eye of Elune saw the strange events unfolding beneath her, far away into the dim recesses of Ashenvale, a chase was taking place.

Labouring for breath, Bal’sharel staggered on; he weaved drunkenly from side to side, stumbling over roots and stones, driven by a stark terror that consumed him.
“By the spirits! They’ll hound me to the very roots of the World Tree!” he coughed wretchedly, and glanced fearfully behind him. Ashenvale was his forest, his home, and he was a Kaldorei by birth and training, he should be at ease within his own realm.
But his instinct and skill were abandoning him, a chase that had begun at the break of dawn taxed him beyond all reason.

He grasped his staff with a strength that was slipping away from him.

He struggled to keep moving, but his foot betrayed him, and he tripped, stumbling into the soft earth.
This was it, he knew. This was the moment, what they had been waiting for. In contrast to his exhausted body, his mind was clear. He could feel the soft blades of grass brushing against his cheek, feel the faint beginnings of a breeze stirring through the forest, gently shaking leaves from their lofty perches, to settle to the ground.

I shall meet death. But not as a slave.

Bal’sharel closed his eyes and sighed. And as he sighed, his spirit left him, borne on the gentle breeze. Silence reigned.

After a time, silence gave way to a new sound, not the sounds of insects, or of birds in the trees, but the slow methodical padding, of a predator born. And a faint smell, wafting sluggishly in the air, unidentifiable, but nonetheless, disturbing.
Then something moved, a slight sense of motion, and a shadow that dwelt in the shelter of a tree was suddenly not a shadow. It paused for a moment beside the still form of the nightelf, and after a moment, melted away, accompanied by that strange smell.

Many moons passed before the body of the nightelf was found, and the man who did, hurried quickly from that place, sensing an evil hand in the nightelf’s death.



“The meaning of your words elude me, dae’Khael” the Elder confessed, his eyebrows sagging down in a uniquely Kaldorei fashion.
“I too, am at a loss, Elder. But Bal’sharel was among our greatest faen telael, even before he left us to seek solace in the forest. In these past years, his skill in the wild can have only increased.” Varhael face was a mask of deep concern and worry, the young Kaldorei was dae’Khael, and as a leader of their warriors, his responsibilities were heavy.

“Young Varhael” the Elder’s face was now creased in a kindly expression.
“Faen telael are greatly attached to the forests of our homeland; and after all the benefits that they enjoy through its nature, they often seek to give back what they may. Sometimes they give up their life, so that they might join the wisps of our ancestors in protecting the forests they so treasure.”
What the Elder said was true, although all the Kaldorei held special affinity with their native forest, faen telael were dedicated to it, of all the people, only the Druids held closer bonds, and they possessed great power because of it.

“Still I am troubled Elder, and I fear that my nights will suffer for it.” The dae’Khael said somberly. “My scout related that he felt a great unease, and upon hearing his tale, I too, was gripped with a strange chill. I think this event is touched by the spirits.”
The Elder was quiet for a moment, his ancient eyes lost in thought; Varhael imagined he could feel the stirrings of spirits about the Elder, murmuring their visions to him. Varhael smiled at his imagination, it was for their ability for communion with the spirits that made them Elders, men whom you could turn to for wisdom from the spirits. If Varhael truly could perceive the spirits, he would never have been allowed to squander his talent as a mere dae’Khael.

The Elder looked at Varhael, gazing piercingly into his eyes, and seemed troubled as to what he was about to say.
“I…cannot say what it is you have stumbled across young Varhael, but it beyond my ability to decipher.” The Elder abruptly rose from his seat, a seat that seemed to have grown up around his bulk to ease his ancient limbs over the many years, as if he was as much a part of the tree as one of its seeds. He loomed above Varhael, for although being ancient in years, he had lost none of his vitality and vigour.
“The spirits are restless, they stir among us now.” the Elder said, his gaze on the surrounding forest. Varhael nodded, trees seem to rustle and leaves shook, but there was no breeze. The Elder looked at him solemnly, and seemed to make a decision.
“Young Varhael, I believe that your question merits an answer. And I fear only one can answer it truly.” The Elder was attention was once again borne by spirits to lofty places, and his hand slowly closed into a powerful fist.
“Yes. You must seek out the greatest of the elders, and find an answer for us.”
Varhael was momentarily perplexed, and seemed to ponder this statement for a while.
“Elder, of all our people, you have always stood highest among the elders. I do not understand you.” Varhael said carefully, he sensed that he was on somewhat touchy ground. But the Elder merely chuckled, and waved expansively over the faerie lights of their city, borne in the lofty branches of Teldrassil.
“Though it taxes my pride sorely to admit it Varhael, I do not occupy so noble a seat. Though I am greatly proud that you assume so nonetheless. No, the greatest of us, dwells within the forest, separated from us much in the manner of Bal’sharel.” The Elder sat back down heavily, his face shadowed from Elune, and seemed etched in sadness.
“Be cautious when seeking the Eldae out, however.” He said, his head bowed as if pressed down by some weight.
“Why do you caution me thus?” Varhael asked, his face registering his surprise.
“The Eldae had a charge. When the three great dragons drew upon their magics and brought forth Nordrassil, Crown of the Heavens, and bound it to the force of the Well of Eternity, and with the realm we know as the Emerald Dream, they made a pact. They made a pact with the great Arch Druid, Malfurion Stormrage himself to keep the Well safe and out of the hands of their enemies.
But Malfurion and all the druids also swore that they would selflessly govern the land, and guide the cords that bind all life, through the Emerald Dream.
Centuries at a time, they lost themselves in the endless pathways of that mystical other place, in which all spirits, mortals and indeed, life itself, is connected.
But so profoundly were they lost to it’s call, that the World Tree itself suffered for their inattention, and Malfurion was forced to call upon another to soothe it’s neglected spirit.
He called upon Inurae, priestess of the woods, and guide for the darker spirits. In that day, Inurae sacrificed herself, to preserve this world that we know. She became the Eldae, Voice of Eternity, and she forged bonds with Nordrassil stronger than any chains, stronger than mithril, or ties of blood, or passion of love. She was Inurae no longer, her spirit was one with the World Tree.’
‘As such, she was subject to the terrible agony of its violation more profoundly than any other on this world. I fear that in the aftermath of these terrible times, she has suffered the most of all the people. She has not been well of late, I fear.” The Elder said wearily.
Varhael was shocked, like the rest of his brethren he had felt the tremors when the World Tree was attacked, and when the dreaded titan Archimonde, in the demons lust for power, tried to take the power for himself, he was torn asunder by wrathful spirits.
That day was a force in the minds of all the Kaldorei who survived it; Varhael looked upon the event with his on eyes, but his mind was incapable of accepting it, and his memory remained sketchy, intermittent thoughts and images briefly surfacing between bouts of unconsciousness. Those nightelves whom fate had left behind, scattered by the orc forces, who professed to have seen it happen, even though they were countless miles away. So strong was this bond that the nightelves shared with the World Tree, that it rippled through their minds all over the continent.
How much worse then, could it have been upon the Eldae?
Varhael looked at the Elder, and something indefinable rose up within him.
“Where do I find this Eldae?”

Dreams again. Always Dreams. In the still of the night they would seek her out, stealing along the shadows of her doubts, creeping in the hush of her thoughts. The spirits that illuminated the night sky weaved strands of threads through the window onto her face, and she tried to wake at the touch of the light, but they held her fast. And weaved a tapestry of chaos within her mind.
No! Make it stop!
Thought and images fluttered in a landscape vast and unreal, and shifting form of water and chaos. And everywhere, an ethereal emerald light.
No. Emerald… emerald light. The thoughts, and voices. Spirits, they’re not mine!
A voice did whisper to her, a form seem to briefly coalesce out of the formless waves and ripples. Burning souls, fire, flame… they gibbered, rent stone, thundered skies, burning…
No more! She screamed silently. No… MORE! And the tapestry was broken.
She bolted upright, clutching the thin blanket to her, scattering the fragments of an unwanted destiny before her.

She slipped out of the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the wood that lived beneath her. She shivered as a vagrant breeze stirred through the open window. She padded softly to the window and closed it.
Stepping out into the air, underneath the scrutiny of the spirits was the last thing she wanted, but her feet seemed to have a will of their own.
She stepped outside, and instantly forgot her dream. The city was beautiful at night, the artisans and culturalists of the Kel’dorei had a gift for beauty, reflected the works they wrought. Faintly gleaming crystals hung from houses and tree limbs, tinkling softly as the light caught in them and shone. A shrouded statue of Elune adorned the Hunter’s Hall, and she seemed alive in the splendor of the night, glowing with a natural magic. The soft glows, and faeries lights make the city a truly wondrous sight.
Already she was calm, and at peace.

She tilted her face up to the eye of Elune, and decided that she would not fear her gaze this night. Although she was not aware of it, she was not alone, someone watched her, without malice, but in appreciation of those lavender features glowing radiantly under the light of Elune.
“Niala?” the voice came tentatively. She turned quickly, her breath catching, until she saw who it was.
“Varhael! What brings you to my humble abode?” she asked with a smile on her lips.
But he did not smile back, but regarded her strangely.
“Varhael, what is wrong? Your face is far too bleak for my liking.” She said, eying him suspiciously.
“I… just wanted to say goodbye” he said all in a rush.
“Goodbye? Where is it that you think you are going?” she asked him, quirking an expressive eyebrow.
“On an errand. Not far. I just thought for some reason that I should tell you.”
“For Elune’s tranquility, why did you do that for? You made it sound like you planned to migrate to Lordaeron” she said exasperated.
“Just wanted to see if you cared” he grinned. She rolled her eyes. However he had managed to be given the honor and responsibility of the city’s defence at his young age was beyond her. She had known Varhael since they were children, and she had never met a more foolish, and carefree man as he. But the return of the Legion had left their scars on everybody; she knew what hers were, but his remained a mystery. From time to time, he seemed possessed of a desperate urgency, and on every occasion nearly got himself killed. It looked like this could be another of those times.
Niala would never admit it to the man, but she worried.

Varhael approached her, stepping out clearly in the light, although to anyone but a Nightelf he would have been shrouded in darkness.
“Niala” he was abruptly serious again “Be… be careful.”
“What troubles you Varhael?” she asked, eyes searching his.
“I… cannot explain it, but I fear that times ahead will be turbulent. And that you will be at the heart of it.” He went to turn away, then paused for a moment.
“Goodbye” he whispered. And the chill in Niala’s heart warned her that this would be the last time she would hear his words, try as she might, she could not convince herself otherwise. Her thoughts were turbulent as he turned away, and faded into the darkness.

And hers were not the only eyes that watched him go. Far above, in the loftiest branches of Teldrassil, fathomless eyes turned towards the solitary nightelf that wandered deep into its domain.

* * *

The sun rose, and with it brought the promise of a new day, of warmth and brightness.
It shed its red halo as it climbed laboriously into the sky, and its sunlight filtered through the light clouds that adorned the sky like lace on a curtain.
Fingers of warmth probed into Garan’s room, sweeping gloriously in a blaze of cheerful anticipation, for of all the human’s that dwelled in the remote village of Ahn Strugard, he greeted the sun with the most relish.
But the sun found his bed already empty and unmade, the boy was not there! Ah. He was over in the fields again.
Garan smiled as the warmth of the rising sun cast it comforting blanket over him, warming his chilled body as he lay flat on the ground, peering anxiously into a hole.
His brother was not far away, but unlike Garan, he was standing with folded arms, with a clear look of impatience on his face.
“Well? I thought you said you found something here? Why couldn’t you just flaming tell me what it is instead of dragging me out here; if father finds us-“ Duran began, and Garan knew that he was about to launch into one of his tirades.

“Ssssh!” he forestalled him, “look!” he beckoned his unimpressed brother closer to the hole that he had found. It was scarce big enough to put his arm in, but it had occupied Garans attention for weeks. And Duran was beginning to regret wondering why.
Obediently he came closer, and knelt to look in the hole.
“There! Do you see it?” Garan whispered excitedly. Duran peered in the dark hole for a moment, before giving a grunt of disgust and starting to push himself up. Then he stopped. And suddenly splayed himself in front of the hole much like Garan and stared, all ire forgotten.
“You see it don’t you?” Garan whispered, Duran merely looked at him. “I knew it! I told you something was there!”

Yes, deep into the hole that Garan had discovered, something was there. A faint glow of deep purple suffused the end of the tiny hole. When Garan first seen it, accidentally losing his good knife down this hole, it looked like a crystal of some kind. Now it looked like a ragged splash of colour, pulsing like a living thing.
And beyond it, in some inexplicable fashion, Garan could feel his gaze being drawn a vast unimaginable distance beyond that ragged hole. And a universe exploded around him.
Looming shapes rose up around him, bright lights, like stars swirled around him; it confused the senses, but he felt an overwhelming pressure of presence, and of immensity-
“Garan!” a voice broke into his trance, he felt himself break back to the present. Duran was shaking him, a worried look creasing his face. “What?” Garan demanded irritably, but Duran could see the scared look on his face.
“Ah, nothing… lets just get out of here before-” his words trailed off as they felt a slight tremor beneath their feet. The two lads glanced around, unsure, as the tremor continued, and grew.
The two boys were flung to the ground as the earth shook, and suddenly the hole tore open, like the maw of some evil creature, and shapes erupted from it. The shapes flitted across the ground like shadows, and one passed over Garan. He flinched, as ethereal claws trailed over his face, and shivered with uncontrollable fear as the hole continued to disgorge those nameless creatures.
A creature seemed to hover over a breathless Duran as well, but did not molest him, it paused a moment then soared after its brethren.
Then, it was over. Duran lurched to his feet, shaking, unwilling to credit his eyes. But there was the evidence before him, the hole was torn apart in the black things hasty departure.

Garan was shaking, but he too slowly climbed to his feet. The sun overhead seemed suddenly chilly, and unfriendly. He looked at the hole, that evil eruption of earth, and he was drawn to it.
He took a step towards it, determination on his youthful face.
“Garan… what are you doing?” Duran asked hoarsely, his throat clogged with fear and confusion. Garan ignored him and drew closer, and peered inside.
The glow was still there. And so was the crystal. Now it was easily defined, in the darkness, it glowed with the warmth of life. Without thinking Garan reach down for it, and as his hand closed about it, he felt a brief flare of heat against his palm. And that was all.
“Garan?” he stood up at the sound of his name. “Can we go now?” Duran was obviously frightened, his natural assertiveness dampened. Strangely, all that Garan felt was curiosity. But he nodded, and the two boys departed hastily for home, where doubtless their father would discipline them for sneaking out without telling him. And soon the event would be mostly forgotten.
But they were now in peril, for they were touched by shadow, and it would darken both of their destinies.

* * *

The rising sun did nothing to dispel the gloom that pervaded this part of the forest. Varhael was starting to have doubts about the accuracy of the Elder’s directions. Indeed it was forbidden to pass here, as it was supposedly the resting place of the restless, and dangerous for the unprepared. A restriction that the Elder felt no longer applied.
It had taken him the rest of the night to reach this point, and with the dawn, came the fog. It rose out of the ground like a disembodied wraith, and within minutes it was so thick as to obscure sight beyond ten paces.
Huge sentinel shapes suddenly loomed out at Varhael as he moved quickly through, the trees frowning down on him ominously. Their bulk seemed to push through the fog like warships through the sea, the fog wreathing around them like flailing spirits.
Quite suddenly, the fog seemed to drop away, revealing a deep depression in the earth, large enough to hold a village. But it was not a village that occupied the clearing.
It was a Temple.
It squatted in the direct centre, like some dark brooding thing; and Varhael knew that it was a temple dedicated to no deity of the Kaldorei.
He gazed upon the temple for some time, studying the half collapsed structure, it leaned drunkenly to one side, sinking deeply into the earth, and it seemed to peer up at him crookedly.
He keenly felt the need to be armed, but it would be an unfulfilled need, for tradition demanded that all warriors were to be present at Darnassus during the Mourning, in honour of all those nightelves that had perished, defenceless, during the demon scourging.
Therefore, if Varhael were to leave, during this time, he would do so, no longer as a warrior. He descended, armed only with the fortitude of courage, and armoured with determination. They were thin protection against mad spirits and blighted creatures.
The front of the temple was dominated by an evil visage of malice and destruction, and its hollow gaze followed Varhael as he descended. He was beginning to feel uneasy as he stepped carefully, he was seized with the strange conviction that if he were to fall, he would not rise again. A strange notion.
He looked up, and was startled to see the temple looming up over him, like some evil spider, coming up on him unawares.
And that evil mask, those hollow eyes seemed to be peering directly into Varhael’s unprotected mind, that it was a temple dedicated to some evil was obvious. But the featureless face failed to illuminate which evil it was.
More than ever, he wished for his traditional Kha blade, if he were to enter the domain of the damned, he would prefer to do it armed with more than courage.
He stepped through the twisted stone doors, and he immediately perceived that they sagged from more than mere age.
The interior did little to sway his opinion, the light was dim, the sun peering weakly through cracks in the ancient roof, and through gaps in the walls. And it was strange, that even Varhael’s keen vision failed him here. He could perceive his surroundings, but it was strangely muted, as if this temple defied illumination. The fog was also present here, light wisps of it swirled across his vision as he entered, glowing in the faint light of the sun.
He could see however that the temple had sunk quite deeply into the earth, forming an unnatural cave that extended downwards a fair bit beyond the rear wall, ending in a mass of twisted roots and vines, or so it appeared.
“Welcome.”
Varhael whipped around to confront the voice with his blade, several seconds before he realised he possessed none.
“Stay thy hand. My mistress would not see you harmed.”
His eyes widened slightly as the fog seemed to move around him sluggishly, then drift quickly into the shadowed corner by the entrance, and shudder strangely.
The fog drifted towards him, and as it did, coalesced into the shape of a woman, a Kaldorei woman. Her ethereal white form glowed with a soft light, and her formal robes seemed to ripple slightly though there was no breeze. She smiled at him with sightless eyes.
“You are brave nu’hadorei duor, to tread where it is forbidden.”
She seemed to trace some strange pattern in the air with her fingers as she spoke, and her robe rippled fiercely.
He frowned, nu’hadorei duor was an old honorific, roughly meaning ‘child of nature’, or perhaps ‘Druid’s child’. But it was metaphorical only, as all Kaldorei were children of the forest, and his own parents were simple hunters, although widely respected for their skill with blade and bow.
“Are… you the Eldae?” he asked tentatively. Her ghostly lips formed a smile.
“But perceptive, you are not,” she said. For anyone but a ghost, Varhael would have thought, teasingly.
“But, you are strangely fortunate, my mistress does not lightly tolerate the presence of her former kin” she told him. He regarded the apparition steadily for a moment; spirits were the domain of the elders, but even with his scant experience he felt no fear before one.
“Then my fortune is equally matched by your foolhardiness, appearing to me thus” he said evenly, eyes steady and bright.
Silence held the temple in a firm grasp for several moments, and Varhael felt as if the silence were a wave poised on the brink of crashing down to scour everything before it. Then the ghost smiled again, and the feeling diminished and washed away harmlessly.
“Perhaps not so unperceptive after all” she murmured, her words like ripples on a breeze.
“Then hearken to me closely, brave one” she intoned, “and heed me close. My mistress bade that I warn you, of great peril to you and your kin.”
“I did not come here for your omens, spirit, nor prophecies. I am not a fool to accept either without first knowing the price. I wish only for an answer to my question” he said boldly, many tales had been told of the foolish wanderer who had accepted the omens freely offered by the spirits, and perished for it.
“You… deceive yourself” a voice whispered, seemingly from no direction at all. Varhael turned around, startled, but he saw no one there. He turned back to the spirit, who gazed back with unseeing eyes.
She smiled that ethereal smile, and extended a hand towards the cave, inviting him to go. Then she stepped back into the shadows, and dissipated in a waft of fog.
“You seek omens to resolve your past, prophecies to blind your future. Truth to bind your lies closely” the voice croaked, a withered aged voice, the winds of times scouring furrows and crags into an already ancient voice. And it was defining, taking on direction.
He did not reply, but he felt an instants chill, the voice teased at the imagination, senseless words that seemed to hold some hidden truth.
“Come into my domain dae’Khael”. Said the spider to the fly. Varhael was not a timid man, no dae’Khael could be, but he began to have some serious doubts at that point.
But doubts or no, the Elder had confirmed that there could be something to Bal’sharel’s death, and it was Varhael’s responsibility to find out. Still didn’t make his spine any less cold.
There was only one direction to go. He stepped downwards, towards the dim cave, shrouded in vines and mystery, and as he neared he could feel the prickle of an unearthly gaze upon him. He paused for a moment.
“Closer…” the voice crooned, and amazingly, it was the voice of an aged woman! He should not have been surprised, he knew the Eldae was a priestess, but he had trouble equating that horrible whisper with a Kaldorei woman.
He drew closer, and did not stop until he reached the darkened entrance. He brushed aside a tangled web of vines and stepped in. He stopped in confusion, there was no one here. The only thing that occupied this cave was a tangled mass of thick roots that erupted from the cave ceiling, and a tangle of vines, crusted by blackened earth.
Then it moved.
“Elune’s tranquillity!” he breathed in awe and horror.
“Hardly that” it said dryly.

*

He had once heard the saying, that the world might be but a dream in the mind of a slumbering God. If that was true, Varhael prayed he never met the god who had dreamed this monstrosity. It certainly was not Elune. The dark god Sargeras himself would not have.
It was once female, that much could be ascertained from the pulsing ruin of twisted half flesh; the creature was more wood than flesh, but enough similarity remained that even Varhael, a battle hardened warrior that had seen and survived combat both mortal and immortal, was repelled.

The cavern was not small, but faced with this abomination that sprawled over the earthen walls, vines and roots twitching like so many tentacles, engulfing Varhael in its twisted embrace, he felt small and trapped. A fly in a spider’s web.
Knotted wood slowly creaked together above darkened hollows; that monstrous face, devoid of any resemblance to the race it once belonged to, frowned heavily at Varhael.
Blighted Mourning, I could use a Kha blade about now, if only to stop my hand from shaking.

It spoke.

“Varhael, son of Banheral’dan. What torments do you bring me?” that voice, if it had been unnerving when it first sounded into the musty, humid air, now it bordered on terrifying. It crawled into the back of his mind, borne on a malevolent whisper, and wove webs of trembling strands, tingling at his thoughts, catching them like insects for prey.
Varhael tried not to flinch, as the darkness around him heaved and writhed, as the roots and vines slid together in an aggravated hiss.
“No torments, Eldae. Only questions” he found his voice at last, speaking carefully.
He was shocked at that misshapen skull of corrupted nature thrust forward, leering malevolently, the faint light creating weird shadows on its features.
“Quessstions!” it hissed through rotting lips, and drew back mercifully out of clear sight, apparently absorbed in thought. The silence stretched out, and Varhael was painfully aware of its scrutiny.

“Are you able to answer my question?” Varhael asked, trying to mask his impatience.
The air was filled with the sound of dry laughter, dry and brittle as leaves in a fire, and that mass of vines rippled obscenely.
“That would seem self evident” it chuckled in a very natural fashion, but Varhael found its remark anything but evident.
“How is it that you know me?” he asked the question burning in his mind ever since he was first greeted as dae’Khael. The Eldae did not laugh, but he could feel the amusement of it, rolling off in waves.
“It would be foolish of me to claim to be the Eldae, if I could not even fathom something so elemental as your name. Whatever else I have become boy, I am still that, at least.”
It rumbled with displeasure, for a brief moment sounding quite sane.

“But that is not the reason you came, is it Varhael?” it whispered sibilantly, its face a blank mask.
“No. I have need of your wisdom Eldae” he said earnestly, trying to quell the rising feeling of strangeness in his gut.
“Indeed? No torments, you claim, yet here the lie is revealed. Have a seat young dae’Khael, regale me your troubles” the voice lilted and dipped, warbling between a conspiratorial whisper, and a deep unsatisfied rumble.
There was a groaning and creaking, and suddenly the earth erupted almost under Varhael’s feet, as massive growths roared out into the cavern air. The thick roots stood poised for a moment, like massive snakes ready to strike, then they lashed out at each other, and they wove around each other, new shoots seemed to explode from them as they did, and the whole tangle of life finally settled down, forming a rough chair for Varhael. He sat down with some understandable trepidation, but the woven vines and shoots formed a dry comfortable seat like sling that he rested quite comfortably in. Yet he was greatly aware of the life and awareness that pulsed through the roots, the limbs of the Eldae herself.
“A few days ago, one of my hunters came across the body of one of our faen telael in the forest; I am concerned that it may portend some trouble for our beleaguered nation” he said, and hollows watched him expressionlessly as he spoke, noting his strong posture, and commanding presence even as he rested as his ease, he seemed ready to spring, like a nightstalker beneath the moon. A strong man for one so young, his beardless face thrust forward as if proud of announcing the glaring lack.

The creature drew breath, and it’s breath was the hiss of a thousand snakes, and the roar of wind, raw and textured like ancient wood exposed to the air.
“The corruption of the demon’s ilk has spread far over this land, it’s shadowy pall over all the creatures that survived their searing flames. And in doing so has left scars that shall not heal for all eternity.’
It seemed to pause, lost in memories, memories ancient, borne in the air of this cavern, and memories fresh, and blinding in their pain and fire. Varhael could almost see them weave their sad tapestry in the half light.
‘The World Tree recovers, it is true, but the pact that sustained the Children of the Moon is no more; the binding of life that had been yours for so long, gone. You know of what I speak.” That head creaked down to peer at him, in an uncomfortably normal fashion.
“Our immortality” Varhael nodded, it was not something of which the Kaldorei were happy to speak of. “Our greatest leader, the Arch Druid Malfurion destroyed the great demon Archimonde, but in doing so, we were compelled to give up our immortality so that he might be struck down.”
“Yesss, and that rancour stirs still within the souls of the Kaldorei” it boomed, a proclamation of failure and tragedy. Varhael looked at the Eldae, this time without hesitation, and met its hollow gaze squarely.
“Is it your counsel then, that the death of Bal’sharel is merely a natural phenomenon of the mortality we now bear?” he asked harshly, his voice roughened by the words he did not wish to hear, even though it might be gladder news that the alternative.
The Eldae did not answer him, and shadows seemed to darkened its visage.
Roots suddenly twisted and shifted against his back, and Varhael stood on his feet before his seat disappeared beneath his backside; it was a clear sign, the Eldae had withdrawn its hospitality.
“Please, great Eldae” he beseeched, “I have come here in great anguish to discern whether the times of chaos have left us, or if it was merely prelude to greater times of trouble ahead?” His face was now a mask of pain, evoking fears and half imagined horrors in his mind.
“Your anguish… is naught beside the raging winds that you have brought with you” it hissed, prodded by its own hurt to answer. Varhael could only stare in amazement at its strange pronouncement.
“The fires of your footfalls, and the searing banshees of your voice, are torments that my twisted soul cannot bear. I have endured you past all endurance, now leave my presence!” it roared with the force of the forest, of things wild and powerful, but Varhael did not relent.
“This is what the spirit spoke of, your torment, my presence brings you pain, it is why you abhor the company of your own race” he stood before it, confronted by a mass of writhing tentacles, yet undaunted.
“Answer my question Eldae, and I shall remove my presence from your sight” he said, and he bowed his head in a moments thought before speaking, “your power is great Eldae, you speak to the spirits of the air and the earth, and they heed your words. Eldae, counsel me, do I have cause to fear?”
The Eldae roared an unearthly cry, its multitude of corrupted limbs flying out in a rage, the cavern shook under the force of its fury. Varhael stood his ground.
“Small var’kesh” it cursed with the bitterness of undying torment “I do indeed speak with the spirits of the air, and they do shriek songs of pain to herald you, I speak with the spirits of the earth, and they do quake and groan to speak of the ruinous ground upon which you tread.’
‘Heed me dae’Khael, and be warned! Your path will led you to lands distant and treacherous, where creatures roam, of greed and malice, and there you will face death.
And in so doing, the Children of the Moon shall be no more!”
The air around him did shriek then, a whirlwind of terror and foreboding, blending with his own cry of denial, and the ground trembled beneath him ominously.
“Tell me what I must do!” he roared into the maelstrom, beyond the edge of his vision he saw flickers of moving earth and roots, in turmoil.
“Seek your destiny in the corrupted lands of fallen souls. There… death shall claim your spirit, and forge the chains that will break it” that voice was terrible in its rising torment, a huge black wave that threatened to blot out the sky.
“What! That is madness!” he shouted brazenly into the black wind of its fury.
“Go!” the voice could be denied no more, Varhael turned and fled, as the earth rose up around him to crush the life from him, massive roots twisted and crashed through the earthen walls, pulsing like living things; Varhael stumbled crazily through dust and rock, earth shaking from the roof to disorient him, and for a fearful instant he felt that he had turned around and was plunging back towards that monstrosity!
But he emerged from the cavern, like a fish exploding from the waters, and plunged through a thick fog, it congealed around him, grasping as his limbs, and thickening around his throat to choke him.

The shrieking spirits of the Temple, released from their immortal restraints, howled around him, chasing him, gleefully harrying him with malicious claws and eyes.
For a brief second he closed his eyes, but against the black of his thoughts a vision came to him, a sharp image of that spirit that posed as one of the Kaldorei, even though it had not the form or substance of a wisp. It seemed to mouth a single word. Farewell.
Then he opened his eyes again, and saw the bright silhouette of the entrance, glowing with the promise of escape.

But the force of the spirits assault multiplied ten fold and he knew he could not make it.
He tried anyway, struggling again the terrible pressure of the evil temple’s inhabitants, their soul burned eyes following him, that fog weighing heavily on his limbs.
His vision dimmed, he could not breathe, and finally, he collapsed, that vision of escape wavering in his unsteady vision. Blackness took him.

It seemed to last but an instant, and his sight returned to him, he immediately rolled over, and coughed violently, weeds and muck came out of his wretched mouth, and his body heaved as he retched.
“Not the most graceful wakening I’ve seen, old man” an voice grumbled merrily, “but in your case probably the best you could do”. Varhael half turned to see the owner of the voice, and collapsed with a wet splash. He was half submerged in swamp water, which could mean only one thing, he was back outside!
He looked up, and a kindly creased old face peered anxiously down on him, almost completely dominated by an enormous bushy beard. If not for his height, Varhael would have thought him a peculiar dwarf.

“You’re human” he coughed wetly, and half rose in the effort, his clothes now sodden with muck. The human man seemed taken back by the obvious statement.
“Aye, and you are Kaldorei, old man, but I won’t hold that against you” the old man grasped Varhael by his forearm and hauled him to his feet with a strength surprising for his age and frail frame.
Varhael stood up carefully, the sunlight lanced into his eyes, and he had to avert his gaze for a moment, but was quickly appreciative of the warmth it gave to his chilled body, Kaldorei were gifted with a greater natural endurance for such things than most mortal races, but the chill was still discomforting.

The old man stood before him, a strange sight to be seen here in Ashenvale forest, he was clad in a shapeless cloth that draped him shoulder to knees, almost like a ragged old brown robe.
“Why do you call me old man? Even among your people I would be considered a youth. You yourself seem far older than I,” Varhael said, perhaps not too tactfully, shielding his eyes as he peered curiously at the old man. The old man puffed up indignantly, like a fowl in mating season.
“Me? Why, I am in the prime of youth! I am merely well seasoned!” the old man proclaimed, gesticulating to emphasise his point.
Varhael could find no ready answer to that, so tried a different tack.
“I myself am a youth, you can see for yourself that your beard is greater than mine, which I do not possess,” and Varhael was gripped by another coughing fit, he pressed down on his knees heavily, trying to disgorge the swill in his lungs.
“Aye” the old man said, giving Varhael a swift pound on the back, “but it is not our years which tell of our age, it is the things that we experience; and I’m sure that you’ll agree, the Kaldorei are very, very old indeed.”
Varhael looked into the old man’s twinkling blue eyes, and was astonished to see that those merry depths held the reflection of wisdom and knowledge far beyond what his foolish exterior would imply.

“But come now” the old man said “let us not speak of such things, or people will think us both truly old, and not worthy of conversation.” The old man gripped Varhael’s shoulder as they turned to walked back up the incline. “If it pleases you, I will call you boy, and you may call me sir” he grinned merrily, scratching the bald dome of his head bemusedly.
“It is well that you leave that foul place behind, it is not a place for good and virtuous folk like us” Varhael stopped to look at the human.
“You know of the temples origins?” he asked, glancing back at the ruin, and looked away again quickly. The old man surprised him with a laugh.
“Aye, an unholy place from the time of Aszhara’s madness. Me and my daughter venture there often, my daughter to stare at ancient relics, and I, to find her. It was fortunate for you that this was one such time” the old man wheezed.
“Daughter?” was all Varhael could find to say, and the old man flashed him a brilliant white smile.
“Aye, daughter, my sole claim to pride that I have. She’s managing to grow up into a fine young girl, if I say so myself, despite my influence.”
Varhael noticed for the first time, a cautious little mop of red head with two large tremulous green eyes, peeking around the old man’s brown rags, clutching it tightly as if it might fly away at any moment and expose her.
“If a bit shy” the old man said, patting that mop reassuringly. Varhael gave the small human child a curt nod.
“Old man, your company is welcome, as you have doubtless preserved my life, but I must hurry to consult with my Elder” Varhael said, as politely as he could. The human shook his head slightly, and muttered something under his breath to the child, then turned back to Varhael with a mourning look.
“Didn’t I tell you to call me sir! But I will be forgiving and walk with you a ways; obviously your hearing as well as your eyesight is failing you in your old age, a common occurrence in the elderly, so I’ve heard” the human informed him solemnly, squinting at him short-sightedly.

Varhael could not think what to make of this strange old man, but was not loathe having his company, so gave him an accepting nod; the old man fell in beside him and he began to walk, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
“If we are to keep each other company, perhaps you would be so kind to tell me your name boy?” the old man asked him, as his daughter trailed behind him. Varhael tried to guess at her age, but human children were difficult to judge, Varhael decided that she was perhaps ten winters old.
“I am Varhael, dae’Khael to my people” he announced proudly, instinctively grabbing the nonexistent handle of his Kha blade.
“That must be nice” the old man said absently, “I am Albaron.”

* * *

Albaron, despite his peculiar human name was indeed good company. He claimed that he was a historian and scholar, which was why they ventured in such a desolate part of the forest, or why they were in Ashenvale at all.
Albaron parted company with Varhael not long after, but the thoughts that he was left with were fascinating. The scholar had spoken of many things, and the depth of his knowledge concerning the ancient temples that Aszhara erected to honour the Dark God Sargeras, was nothing short of astounding.

Varhael pondered these thoughts as he made his way back through the forest, making his way towards home by simple natural instinct, emerging from the depressing murkiness of the deep forests into more refreshing surrounds.
So engrossed was he, that he failed to realise that the normal sounds of forest life were missing. No birds sang, or flew through the forest chasing sunbeams, no animals scurried in the underbrush.
So enamoured with his own thoughts, that he failed to notice what waited ahead until it was too late.

“Nightelf!” it bellowed, and Varhael looked up. The scene froze in his mind, there was a small clearing, a human bent over a sleeping pile, looking up in astonishment. A burly orc, sweat glistening on its massive jaw, tendons on it’s neck straining out as it roared, and already armoured for battle. A horse stamped nervously, and its eyes rolled wildly, unaccustomed to the smell of Orcs. Another human, buckling on a shield, his eyes registering no apparent surprise.
Ribbons of golden sunlight floating in the air, illuminating clouds of dust that swirled, almost obscuring the last human, raising a nocked bow.
Varhael threw himself aside, as the arrow sped through the air, Varhael could feel the brush of its passage as it narrowly missed him, and buried itself in a tree beyond.
He hit the ground rolling, and darted behind another tree with the agility only a Kaldorei dae’Khael commanded.
The thunder of heavy feet slamming on the ground echoed the beat of Varhael’s heart, and not for the first time cursed the Mourning which prevented him bearing arms.
Orcs and humans, what madness was this?
There was the crunch of a foot on leaves and twigs, and Varhael leapt into blinding action. He launched himself from the cover of the tree, directly at the human, he seized the un-armoured man by the shirt and used his weight to roll him down. There was a sullen thwack and an arrow protruded from the unfortunate man’s chest.
Varhael used the momentum to propel the already dead man into the charging orc, it’s eyes red with blood fury. The body hit it solidly, staggering its charge, but it raged blindly forward. Varhael had a split second to register the mighty behemoth raising it’s cruel axe, before he could roll under the blow.
The orc missed heavily, and gave a sullen grunt as Varhael’s feet slammed into its midriff even as he rolled; off balance and confused, it didn’t react as Varhael darted back into the brush.
“Cursed partok!” it roared it’s frustration, and charged after him.

Varhael fled. With his Kha blade, he was easily the match of any creature; but unarmed, the brutish orc could cut him down where he stood. And that archer would riddle his body with arrows if given the chance.
What were Orcs and humans doing together in Ashenvale forest? The two were mortal enemies! And humans were allies of the Kaldorei!
Varhael kept ahead of the orc’s clumsy headlong charge easily, the orc crashed through brush and bush like they were enemies to be crushed, whereas Varhael merely slipped through them with the ease of one forest born.
Varhael looked back to see the orc thrashing his way through like a maddened bull, though he hardly needed to keep an eye on the orc as he could gauge its position simply by ear.
He caught a brief glimpse of a human to his right, and a flicker to his left, they were trying to head him off. Varhael spared a thought for the professionalism of these men, within moments of the encounter they were already reacting as a unit.
If only it was still dark, Varhael wished vainly, he could lose them easily; but that was of no moment, he merely had to make do.

He heard the brief thunder of hooves, and knew that one had the presence of mind to mount the horse, Varhael’s chances of escape considerably lessened.
Suddenly inspiration seized him, or rather, came to him in the form of a large tree, with low branches. The forest was thick with brush, so it was a simple matter for Varhael to lose the orc behind, and find cover behind the large tree.
The sounds of the two humans were there, his keen ears picking out their individual sounds easily. They were not within line of sight; doubtless they were relying on the orc to herd him, which was their mistake. Humans should have known better, for catching Kaldorei was like chasing wisps, if you did not hold it tight within your hands, it would slip away. And none were more skilled in evasion than Kaldorei.
Varhael nimbly leapt up the accommodating tree, barely taking time to grab onto a branch, resting his weight barely an instant upon one before leaping to the next. Within scant seconds, Varhael was comfortably sitting on a curved branch high above their unsuspecting heads.
And now the hunters were the hunted. Varhael could find the reason for this madness, why the humans would turn against their allies, and join arms with their former adversaries.
He observed the orc continue on for almost a minute before it realised it had lost its prey, it bellow was full of rage and frustration. Its cry brought its two human companions running.

Varhael now had the leisure to study the odd group closely, noting details that he missed before. The Orc’s massive chest was heaving, but not from exertion, rage still battled fiercely in its veins, virtue of its ancestral heritage. Long dark matted hair twisted into warrior braids swung from it’s unadorned head as it looked about fiercely. Muscles knotted and rippled along it’s massive sweating arms, and it was clad in heavy armour over the torso, leaving its arms exposed. Varhael doubted if an ordinary man could hack through that muscle in any case. It still held the axe as if still intending to use it, and the baleful look it directed at the two humans that made their way towards it did not bode well.

“What has happened Ordus, where is he?” demanded the small man with the bow, a sharp angular man, with a prominent nose under his dark raven hair, his quick furtive movements putting Varhael in mind of a small raven bird.
“It would seem our elusive prey has managed to slip through our worthy friends fingers” the man upon the horse said blandly, sheathing a long pale sword back into his scabbard. He, like the other human, was virtually unarmoured save for the buckler that Varhael had seen him put on, but while his companion was a small person, he was not.
Nearly as tall as the massive orc, though not as thick in body, he was an impressive sight; and his comfortable posture on the horse seemed to indicate one accustomed to it. A knight then, or perhaps a warrior born of nobility.
“Do not call me friend, human” the grizzled orc spat through broken teeth, “if not for our mutual cause, I would gut you here and leave you for the crows”.
“I would have granted you the same favour, Orc, if you had guts to spill” the small bird like man sneered. A roar erupted from the Orc’s lips, and hefted his axe to crush the small man; the archer, suddenly possessed with a healthy sense of self preservation backed away, stumbling to the ground in fear.
“Enough!” the rider commanded, interposing his horse between the orc and his cowering prey. “If that nightelf manages to reach Darnassus before we do, our commanders will do us all the honors.”
Quelled, the tempestuous orc hooked his axe through a belt loop in a gesture of compliance, but as the human turned his horse aside, Ordus glared all manners of painful deaths at the now fearful human on the ground.
“Your time will come human” the orc growled, and spat on the flinching man.
“Ordus!” came the shout, and the orc contemptuously turned away, and followed the man on horseback. After a few moments, the archer got to his feet and hurried after, his face harbouring something dangerous as he stared at the Orc’s back.
Varhael followed them.


Niala was troubled. It was a sensation she was well used to, but she could not pin down a specific reason. Trouble seemed to come to her with no more reason or pattern than the wanderings of the wind.

It was a time of Mourning, perhaps there laid the reason. A pall of quiet sorrow had fallen over the forest, perhaps the trees too, wept for that day where so many lives were lost.
She was not the only one to feel this strange discord; many of the town’s inhabitants had emerged from their homes, with looks of pensiveness on their face.

The previous week had been spent almost as a celebration, as families from far abroad came, and many joyous reunions were celebrated under the bright moon.
Of course, not all were able to make the trip in time, but they would observe the tradition in their own fashion, simply by not bearing arms during the Mourning.

The Mourning was a tradition embedded into their culture now, and as such, all warriors were bound by honour, to be present in their home, but only the ael’khan, as the sworn protectors of the Kaldorei, were bound to serve in tradition. The rest, would simply be here to acknowledge the Mourning, and to share in the remembrance. No-one but the ael’khan would bear arms. They would stand guard at the town’s borders to stand vigilant; as a sign of sorrow, that they had not been so vigilant when the demons emerged into Kalimdor, and many lives had been lost thus.

As today and the night were to be spent in remembrance of the fallen, many of the Kaldorei had little to do. They were a nation of warriors, even those who followed peaceful trades were still fierce warriors from a war still fresh in their minds. Every male and female that stood in Teldrassil’s protective shade, had survived the terrible war, and no-one had the luxury of peaceful pursuits at that time.


Although tonight was the Mourning, the families would remain here with loved ones until Elune’s eye had fully closed, before venturing forth again.
The ael’khan, or ‘sworn to the blade’, were an elite group of warriors under the leadership of the various dae’Khael, there were five such leaders… four, now that Varhael had left. A most inauspicious time to be absent.
Of them all, Varhael was the youngest, and his selection by the Elders had caused much stir. Usually if a crisis necessitated the selection of a new warrior leader, a dae’Khael was selected for his prowess, and his years of experience. Varhael had the ability true, but he had barely achieved his full growth.
But the Elder’s decision was not one to be questioned, and thus Varhael had undertaken the responsibility with some pride, and in truth most of the Kaldorei did not envy him the responsibility, and were more than willing to congratulate him.
Still, there were some with whom his selction had rankled, men made bitter by loss for the most part; and Varhael had not yet the chance to prove to them that he was worthy.
He had become the fifth dae’Khael shortly after the events at Mount Hyjal.

Niala turned to look over her shoulder where the ael’khan stood, at the towns centre, where they were visible to all. They stood silently, gazing silently ahead of them, the four dae’Khael with them.
They had been standing there since dawn; they would stand there until the Elders communed in council, and then came forth to begin the ceremony. Upon which they would then take up their stations.

At first Niala had contemplated the dark forest in solitude; usually the forest merely held her affections, as a home, and a familiar place. Now it seemed to harbour dark secrets, shrouding unpleasant truths beneath it’s protective canopy.
Teldrassil and the town it bore in its branches, soared far above the ancient trees of Ashenvale, and it seemed to Niala that anything could be moving down there, unobserved.
Niala felt the prickle of eyes upon her.
Then she noticed that she had been joined in her ruminations by others, Kaldorei, young and old, druids and huntresses, all stood at the edge, contemplating the strange stillness beyond.
She felt more than saw a massive presence drawing up beside her, and she turned to see her aged friend and counsellor.

“Elder” she smiled, “what brings you away from your council?”

The Elder looked down on her, and she felt immensely comforted by his solid presence.
Long had this Elder been here to bring comfort and wisdom to his people, his life dedicated to the counsel of others. And in this aftermath, where so many events of strife and confusion abound in the lands, the alliance that had bound the races together in a common unity falling apart like rotten wood; his counsel was sorely needed.
When her mother was lost to her in the attack upon Mount Hyjal, she had been desolate, she had been the only guardian Niala had ever known in her short years; and the comfort and shared grief of the hunter-sisters were a hollow comfort when they had their own to mourn.
But upon that same day, when the people of the Kaldorei were stunned by the events that shook the world, the Elder had seen her torment, and had given her a solace with words that no other could.

Elders were not Druids, they did not possess the raw power over nature that the others had, but they were wise beyond all others, their wisdom brought to them by the spirits of the woods, and ancestors of old.

Thus had Niala been comforted, the Elder had brought to her the words and thoughts of her mother, and she was caught in a rapture of communion that lasted for many hours.
Her mother, the only parent she had ever known, had been lost to her with the attack upon Mount Hyjal; and from that terrible day, she had been taken under the wing of the foremost Elder. Nothing obvious, but she was always aware of his continued presence, and his concern for her; he could not know, but he had been the calming influence in her life when she had been most volatile.

“Much the same as you, I would imagine, Niala. A strange disquiet does trouble our calm serenity here in Darnassus” he rumbled through his massive beard.

“I have had troubled dreams of late, Elder” she confessed to him, looking back out towards the shadow darkened forest. The sky above Darnassus was darkened with clouds, sluggish black things that had not been there the previous night. The sudden onslaught of the weather seemed to surprise many who stood out on the deck with Niala.

“That I know, dear child” the Elder affirmed quietly, “your dreams have been causing you much anxiety”, his own gaze grew distant, as if discerning something deep within the forest that no-one else could see.
“Varhael. You are anxious for him?” it was more a statement than a question, and Niala simply nodded.

“I am uneasy. His parting words with me were confused. I fear that something may befall him” her complete trust in the Elder compelling her to confide in him.
The breeze ruffled his beard like a great mane, and the Elder seemed to be considering something.

Somewhere, a blacksmith had begun his day, pounding away in his forge, the ringing of steel clearly audible. Some huntresses, preferring to hunt during daylight hours, were already ready and provisioned, slipping out into the shadows, they would be back soon.
The Mourning forbid arms, but the weapons of hunting were considered to be tools rather than weapons, so the tradition was still observed.

There were hushed murmurings as a pair of Kaldorei walked softly past them, worried whispers that carried to Niala’s sharp ears. One dark and bulky, with brawny arms and implacable features marking him out as a powerful warrior. The woman was slender and graceful, her movements as light as air, but she too commanded a presence that spoke of a hardened character, that had survived both loss and war.
They murmured of times past, and memories old, the male was distant as he spoke of a time, when he and his brethren had been trapped within the ancient cavern beneath the earth, bound in the form of an unreasoning animal. A Druid of the Claw then.
For a Druid to be unsettled did nothing to quiet Niala’s fears.

Not far beyond them, sitting on an elegant wooden bench that seemed to have grown right into its current shape, sat two faen telael. These two hunters of the wild, wise in years, and experienced, were calmly discussing the strange quiet over the forest as they inspected their equipment.
Faen telael was not precisely a name or a role, faen telael meant precisely only that they were ‘wedded to the forest’. They were hunters that had displayed an unusual connection to the creatures of the wild, and the forces of nature.
Although all Kaldorei possessed this to one degree or another, the faen telael felt it so strongly that they were considered one step below Druids, an important step to be sure, but a short one nonetheless. They were the Kaldorei’s chief method of gaining information, and they were relied upon to track animal movements through the forest, as well as anything that might be troubling the delicate balance that existed.

Finally, the Elder turned towards Niala.
“Your young friend is nothing if not enterprising, I do not doubt that he is more than capable of the task he has taken upon himself” he stroked his long beard musingly.
Niala looked at him sharply, “what task do you speak of?”
The Elder smiled in grim amusement.
“He was greatly concerned at the unfortunate passing of one of our faen telael, and was afraid that it might pose some un-conceived danger to our kind’ the Elder said, and his eyes reflected some inner thought, but Niala could not perceive what it was.
“Bal’sharel?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“Yes” he said, in some surprise “how do you know of this?” he asked, with a touch of amusement. Niala smiled in return.
“Rumours oft fly as freely as birds on the wing. The breeze carries them where it wills. The hunter who discovered the body confided in his mate. And there are few as free of tongue as she. The temple is rife with speculation.”
The Elder grunted at this.
“I would think that the priestess’ of Elune would devote more of their time speculating on their duties, rather than the ill-considered ramblings of a foolish acolyte” he rumbled with displeasure, his great eyebrows settling down like two dark thunderclouds.
“That is unkind Elder. You can hardly blame her for speaking her concerns. It is well that that he confided with her, and well that Elune had blessed us with the wisdom of the priestesses. If it was merely left up to the druids, and the speed of the Elder’s councils, little would be accomplished, and everyone would be left to wallow in their ignorance. Or did you forget whom it was that was left to safeguard our lands, while the males of our people slumbered?”
She said fiercely, eyes flashing. The Elder chuckled and held up his hands in surrender.
“Enough beloved daughter” he said formally “it is well for you that I am fond of you. Such indignities would ne’er be tolerated” he laughed good naturedly.
“Oh?” she arched an eyebrow “would you then form a council to deliberate over my indecent behaviour? Have care then, that I do not grow old and die before you can pass judgement upon me” she said, lightly mocking.
“Greatly do I fear the day when Elune seeks to place you as High Priestess, Niala, all of our men shall have to seek refuge in the forest, and return to the desolation of our youth to escape your harsh denunciations.”
They both laughed cheerfully at that, and a few of those who came out to watch the trees looked at them, wondering what they could find amusing in a morning as bleak as this.
For a time both of them merely stood there, revelling in the breeze that stirred the leaves of their lofty perch.
Sudden giggling caught at her attention, and her eye wandered over to the source of the muted merriment. She looked up, high into the top branches of Teldrassil, and there she could see the tiny forms of children.
Simply the sight of them brought a smile to her lips. Children were rare among the Kaldorei. Not all men had sought the Emerald Dream, some few remained behind, as hunters and warriors were ill suited to the task that awaited them in the dream.
However these men numbered few, and the need for children was small in a society where everyone was immortal.
She had been one of few children, perhaps a dozen children all told, among the people. Her mother was a fierce warrior, with a spirit free and independent. Of her father she knew not, her mother never spoke of him, but the role of a father in the raising of daughters were minimal, so Niala never felt the loss.
However, circumstances change, and they had to change with it,. With the re-emergence of the druids, many mates were reunited, and suddenly the forest abound with the laughter of children.
Perhaps half a dozen small younglings crowded a small branch, peering excitedly down at the forest, trying to see what it was that all the adults were looking at. They could not be more than four or five years old each, but children of the Kaldorei were at much at a home in the trees and branches as they were upon the ground.
One of the children pretended to fall off the branch only to catch himself by his hands, to the shrieking peals of laughter from the others. Pleased at the reaction he got the small boy continued to show off hanging by his legs or diving off the branch to another.
When the human merchants and traders arrived to do business, they often brought their family and children with them now, the children would be quickly swept off by the Kaldorei younglings, and the parents would be left bemused at the tiny horde of children that suddenly appeared to play with these new children.
Niala was amused to see that the younglings of her people were not so very different from the children of the humans. Though those few differences seemed to be the source of great merriment, human children were often fascinated at the younglings ears, for their own were short and stunted. For their part, the Kaldorei children would rub the human’s faces with a purple root and fasten leaves to their ears.
The town would often be subject to a small parade of comical looking nightelves with long floppy ears that flapped crazily in the breeze and huge white eyes staring out of dark faces.
Suddenly, the children stopped their merry laughing, and were very quiet, overcome with simultaneous awe. Their faces were bathed in a soft radiance as a radiant glow seemed to emerge from the very wood.
“Elder” Niala said softly, as she viewed this very rare event.
The Elder followed her gaze, and saw the object of her astonishment, and nodded sagely.
“We have been blessed this morning”, he said simply.
The wisp drifted down, a haze of bright moon light, it shone an ethereal blue and green as it slowly floated down, in no great hurry.
It stopped as it reached the children, and then it moved forward, bathing them in its aura.
They giggled as it caressed their faces with gentle light, its feathery touch tickling their cheeks.
Others too had noticed it, and their worries suddenly dropped away in this wondrous sight, Kaldorei stopped to point it out to their companions, and many paused in their work as they noticed the spirit hovering among the branches, quiet, unassuming.
So very few of these spirits were left. Wisps were friendly spirits, and Niala had often thought that it was with these wisps that the Elders communed; but for one to manifest itself now was a great occurrence.
“It is sad that there are so few of them left now” Niala said quietly, “we have relied upon them so long, and they have always enjoyed a peaceful harmony with our race; it is distressing to see so few. Will they ever recover do you think?” She directed the question at the Elder, who returned her look with a carefully composed mask. He seemed to be concealing a deep emotion within himself, that he did not want Niala privy to. He sighed heavily.
“Sometimes I forget how young you are Niala, near as young as your friend Varhael.”
“I doubt if anyone has ever been as young as he is” she denied it with a toss of her head.
He chuckled softly.
“You have served within the Temple for how long now? A year? Two?”
“Two” she said firmly.
“And has the High Priestess Tyrande never disclosed the nature of the Wisps to you?”
“It is not a subject she enjoys. Spirits are more the province of the druids and Elders than the Priestess. She devotes much of her time to the stars, and to Elune.”
The Elder nodded slowly.
“That is as may be, but she has sorely neglected your education with her distaste for uncomfortable subjects” he said, suddenly very firm, and he held Niala’s gaze directly.
“Niala. The Kaldorei, and the wisps, share strong bonds, not because of our ties to the World Tree, but because… we are as one.”
“What?”
“The wisps, our people, all are Kaldorei”

Niala’s world reeled, the Elder’s words struck deep and true.
“How can that be? They are spirits, and we are corporeal” she asked dazedly.
“Wisps, are the spirits of our ancestors Niala. When one of us dies, through accident or design, our spirits are not lost, but instead we become part of the spirit world. So that we might never be without the wisdom of those who perished before us.”
Understanding burst in upon Niala like a flood.
“Then that means that…”
“Yes. When the demon Archimonde sought the power of the Well of Eternity, the force that rose up against him were not merely the spirits of the forest; it was our ancestors and fallen comrades that rose up to destroy him. They gave the ultimate sacrifice, giving up their existence in order that the threat to our world might be abated.
We mourn more than the loss of able warriors and hunters today, we mourn those who chose oblivion over life, so that we might have a chance for survival.”
Niala could not comprehend so vast a commitment, it staggered the mind to think that those spirits, who might have alone enjoyed immortality, would not only give that up, but any hope of life or rebirth.
Tears came to her eyes. Her mother might have even been among them.
“Elder” she said hesitantly, with a slight catch to her throat.
“Yes, daughter” he said gently.
“That would not be Bal’sharel there, then?” she asked hesitantly.
“No” he replied softly, “she is the spirit of Shan’dai Shadowmoon. She died defending the sacred waters of the wells from demon hounds, shortly before the assault.”
“Then, she did not perish with the rest of the wisps?” she asked, a little surprised.
“No. She did not emerge as a spirit until many moons after. Not all are lost Niala. Some few do remain, and thanks be to Elune that it is so.”
Niala felt a wave of relief wash over her, though it was selfish of her, she was glad that perhaps her mother did not die also, maybe she wandered the forest even now.
“Do you always know?” she asked. He understood instantly to what she as referring to.
“Yes. My gift is as a fierce owl upon my shoulder. It gives me great insight, and I see far with it, but always its talons dig into me, a painful reminder of loss and sacrifice.”
She desperately wished to ask him about the spirit of her mother, but the shame of her attachment to a bond long severed prevented her. No true Kaldorei would ask such a question.
“Enough questions for now, Niala. You have much to think about. And today is one for reflection” he told her, his face calm and very wise. She nodded regretfully as she saw the halo of the wisp, apparently satisfied, drifted back towards the tree, and briefly winked before it disappeared. The bark glowed with a magical light for a few moments before it too, faded back into the normal brown.

The Elder turned as if to go, but suddenly he stopped and gave her a startled look.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Something, is amiss in the forest” he said, his heavy eyebrows drawing together in a dark frown.
She started to say something, then stopped, she knew that the men had stronger connection with the woods than did the woman. Woman were the warriors and hunters, they identified with their hunter goddess Elune, and with the fierce animals of the wild. While the men identified with the forces of nature, which is why many men were called to be Druids and Keepers, and Elders for the people. She did not doubt the Elder’s premonition on the matter. Everywhere in the village, men, hunters and druids, and even women turned towards the southern forest as if all gripped with the same premonition. Something was happening.

Then somewhere, within those woods, the drums began their song of war.

 

[I)eadnerzhul]

Well, I only was able to read up to the three stars, but let me tell you- it was descriptive, so it gets a merit from me. My only fuss was that I felt I wasn't able to get what was going on at some points. All in all, it was very well written. Bravo.