…
“Deathwing—”
Even as he blurted out the black dragon’s name, the globes exploded. Savage shards flew throughout the chamber, striking stone walls, limestone outcroppings, and, most of all, Krasus. The spell he cast to shield him from them proved useless and the force of the shards’ attack sent Krasus flying back against the stone chair.
Though he appeared mortal, his body was still more resilient than that of any elf or human. The stone cracked and both Krasus and the chair went tumbling. However, Krasus paid the collision little mind, the agony caused by the many shards embedded in him far worse.
Yet still he struggled to his feet and prepared a counterattack.
While not as powerful as an Aspect, Krasus was among the most versatile and cunning of his kind. Moreover, Deathwing had dared attack him in his sanctum, where a number of elements existed that would serve Alexstrasza’s consort.
But the moment he summoned the energies needed for his spell, the shards glowed bright. Shock ran through his body.
Those pieces that had struck elsewhere around the sanctum tore loose of their places. Registering this, a pained Krasus hunched over. His body began to swell and his arms and legs twisted, becoming more reptilian. From his back burst two leathery, vestigial wings that immediately began to grow.
Deathwing’s laughter filled the sanctum. Again the shards glowed. Krasus, midway through his transformation into Korialstrasz the red dragon, faltered.
The other shards reached him. However, instead of striking Krasus as the previous had, they began adhering to his body.
Krasus sought to burn them off, even shake them off, but to no avail.
Then, those in his flesh pressed hard. The dragon mage could not move. To his horror, he found that the shards were compressing him. They crushed him into a smaller and smaller thing, as if he had no bones, no substance.
And as the shards utterly encased him, Krasus found himself trapped not in a globe, but a golden disk.
His eyes widened. “No …”
A monstrous face peered at him from outside. The scarred, burnt visage of Deathwing. “Korialstrasz …”
In response, the dragon mage attacked his prison with all his magical might. Yet instead of weakening the disk, his efforts only made it glow brighter.
“Yes,” mocked Deathwing. “Feed my creation… it’s only fair…
you destroyed the last …”
Krasus shook his head. “This is not possible …”
“Oh, yes,” the black behemoth returned, his grin growing toothier. “You will feed my creation forever… you will be the heart of my new Demon Soul …”
The dread disk flared. Krasus shrieked from pain —
And then, for a brief moment, he saw himself — or rather, his true self, Korialstrasz — asleep in the mountain sanctum. Overwhelmed by the pain, the vision was gone in an instant, yet Krasus had a revelation. He had wondered how he could have so poorly expected this confrontation. More to the point, he doubted that Deathwing would re-create the foul artifact in such a manner.
Krasus knew the truth.
He was dreaming.
His real self was the sleeping dragon. He was caught in a nightmare such as he had never experienced.
With that knowledge, Krasus fought against what was happening. His prison was not real. Deathwing was not real. It was all illusion.
But nothing happened.
Deathwing laughed, his face contorted through the side of the disk. “I will conquer your queen and make her my mate! My children will rule the skies and Azeroth will be scorched to a cinder, eradicating the short-lived vermin you love so much!”
This is only a dream, a nightmare! Krasus insisted.A nightmare!
Yet, though he knew that, though he began to understand the reason for it, Krasus could not wake…
The hippogryphs waited uneasily near the shore, the winged beasts unfamiliar with the terrain here. They were used to flying to Auberdine, but the severity of the situation had meant the party needed to land close to the Moonglade.
One of the males — a frayfeather with rich blue and turquoise plumage — reared up on his equine hind legs. Named after the highlands from where they came, frayfeathers were excellent flyers. A priestess next to the hippogryph quickly murmured soothing sounds. The male dropped back down, the talons at the end of his avian forelegs digging into the ground. The antlered head — akin to that of a huge bird of prey — bent down to be petted.
The Sisters of Elune were alone, the druids having flown on ahead using their miraculous shapeshifting abilities. Tyrande had not pushed for them to wait, and she knew that Fandral had been eager to depart. That suited her needs.
She studied the Moonglade for a moment, then said to her everfaithful guards, “I wish to walk alone for a moment. Please wait here.”
They clearly did not care for her suggestion, but they obeyed.
Tyrande turned from them and headed back to the wooded area from which they had but recently emerged. She entered, savoring both the moonlit night and the calm of the forest.
Despite the serenity of her surroundings, the high priestess still found herself yearning for the peace of the temple. She had never felt comfortable as ruler of her people, especially in regard to decisions that could endanger others’ lives. Each life was precious to her. Yet she recalled how the night elves’ previous ruler had willingly let her people be slaughtered for her own glory. To Azshara, the people had simply existed to live or die at her whim.
“But I am not Azshara… I will never be Azshara …” the high priestess growled not for the first time to herself.
“You could never be her, mistress… you’re a far more worthy ruler.”
Tyrande turned, her frown growing. “‘More worthy?’ Her most devoted followers probably gave her similar praise, Shandris.”
The newcomer wore armor from the neck down, including a form-fitting breastplate, shoulder guards, and padded metal and leather leg guards running from her hips down to her matching boots. Most of her armor was of greenish hue, though trimmed with a violet that was akin to the skin color of most night elves.
“At least you earn that praise.” Shandris Feathermoon removed her gauntlets. She came unarmed to the high priestess, as was custom back in Darnassus… a custom that the general of the night elves’ army herself enforced with vigor. Her features were even sharper than those of most of her kind, and there was in her ever-narrowed eyes an almost zealous determination. Tyrande knew that zealous determination was all due to her, that Shandris Feathermoon in many ways felt she existed only to serve the high priestess.
Tyrande recalled the orphan whom she had saved during one of the Burning Legion’s horrific advances during that terrible war some ten thousand years past. The innocent, fearful eyes were so different now. Shandris had become the daughter Tyrande had never had… and like none she would have expected.
Shandris stretched her neck, which was protected by a leather and metal collar. Below her eyes, the jagged tattoos that marked an earlier rite of passage now seemed to mock Tyrande, for they added to the younger elf’s fearsome look. The high priestess had never wanted to turn the frightened young orphan into a war machine, but she had.
“We will not debate the issue, Shandris,” the high priestess remarked dourly, referring to her general’s lofty opinion of her.
“Good, because I’m right.” Although she paid her savior every respect, Shandris was the one person who also spoke plainly and bluntly to Tyrande. Changing the subject, the general asked, “I came separate and in secret to this place, as you commanded before you departed the island. Now, perhaps you can tell me why. I assume from our proximity to the Moonglade that it has something to do with the druids.” The younger night elf paced back and forth as she talked, in many ways her movements reminiscent of a nightsaber, one of the great toothed cats used as both ground transport and a heavy weapon by the Sentinels.