He blinked, the first time he had done so in several minutes.
The landscape around him abruptly turned emerald green with hints of a soft blue, and the misty air seemed to wrap around the staggering figure like a thick blanket. Many of the distinctive markings vanished, making the cartographer’s surroundings look like a drawing only half-completed. Yet, despite this remarkable change, Lucan stumbled along without interest.
He blinked again. Around him, the land returned to a normal hue… but details had changed. It was no longer the region through which he had been journeying. True, there were still trees, but in the distance there now arose a settlement that had not been there before. Moreover, the scent of the sea now wafted past his nose, though it went as unnoticed as the dour shadow over the entire landscape.
Lucan passed a stone marker, one with script that would have proven illegible to him, had he even noticed writing at all. But that script would have been very legible to a night elf and in reading it, they would have known exactly where they were about to arrive.
Auberdine…
A colder, harsher wind confronted Broll and the tauren as they wended their way to where Hamuul said the convocation was to meet. Both druids bent their heads down, thrusting against that wind as if it were an enemy. Hamuul made no remark, but the tauren did unleash a grunt at one point that seemed to echo the night elf’s growing disquiet.
A great rustling of leaves arose. Curious, Broll glanced up.
The druid froze. His eyes widened in horror.
Teldrassil stood changed. The great branches above were filled with leaves, yes, but many had abruptly turned dried and wrinkled, while others now grew black and curled. All of them, even those that were still green, were covered with sharp thorns.
Broll heard Hamuul’s voice, but it was as if the tauren were miles away. The leaves continued to twist and blacken and now the fruits the great giant bore were changing, too. Among gnarling branches there sprouted round, deathly pale berries the size of his head and even larger and from them emitted a stench like decay. No druid — no night elf — would have dared dine on such offerings even if starvation were the only other choice.
The horrific metamorphosis left nothing untouched. Teldrassil’s bark had cracked in many places and through those cracks could be seen pulsating veins of black sap. The sap emerged first as a dribble, then steady streams. Tiny vermin sprang forth over the World Tree, millipedes and other creatures crawling in and out of the trunk in numbers that suggested even greater corruption within.
“No …” murmured Broll. “No …”
A darkness spread from Teldrassil, quickly expanding beyond the two druids. Although the night elf did not turn to watch its growth, he immediately knew that it had already stretched far beyond Teldrassil’s physical reach all the way to the mainland, infecting the lands there with the giant’s disease.
Then a sound erupted, like that of heavy rain. Tearing his gaze from the befouled trunk, Broll looked again to the crown.
What he had taken for rain proved instead an even more violent rustling of the leaves. The branches were swinging back and forth, shifting with such force as if seeking to free themselves of the sinister leaves.
And they were succeeding. Thousands of macabre leaves began to fall. It was indeed raining, though the drops were not made of water.
The falling leaves had also transformed. They became small, black and emerald creatures vaguely shaped like night elves, but with legs like beasts and backs bent like tauren. They were but dread silhouettes, with no distinct features to their narrow heads but wicked, curled horns. Emitting nerve-fraying hisses, they plummeted in endless streams toward the two druids —
“Broll Bearmantle, are you all right?”
Startled, the night elf staggered back. But when he regained his composure and opened his eyes, he found that the World Tree had returned to its normal state. The branches were still and the leaves were again attached and lush green.
Hamuul leaned close, the tauren’s expression all concern. Broll belatedly nodded, and when a horn sounded, he was gratefully spared from trying to either understand or explain what had just happened.
“We need to move on,” Broll urged. “The convocation is about to begin.”
The tauren blinked and followed the night elf. A few moments later the two came into sight of the area where Fandral had decided to call the gathering.
There were more druids than Broll had seen at any other recent convocation and still others continued to arrive from the opposite direction. Two in particular immediately caught his eye. A dour young female stood speaking with a male who, though outwardly confident and indeed radiating much power, constantly clenched his hands as if anxious about something. Elerethe Renferal and Naralex were partners in regret, even if the reasons for each were different. Elerethe had sought to save the flora and fauna of Alterac Valley during the last war between the Alliance and the Horde, but had been unable to prevent the carnage caused by not only two fighting armies, but an orc shaman. After the war, she had sworn to restore the valley. Several years later she was still trying.
Naralex had been the victim of greater ambitions, seeking to bring life back to a place long without it. Accompanied by a small group of like-minded companions, he had walked into the desolate Barrens and had, with cunning spellwork, managed to bring forth enough water from deep, deep below to the parched realm to create a handful of small oases. But then something malevolent had seized control of not only his work, but also an unsuspecting Naralex and many of his companions. The trapped had then become corrupted… twisted, evil versions of themselves with no desire other than to spread the darkness. Naralex himself had slipped into madness, then sanity, then madness, and on and on, finding rescue only through the unexpected aid of a party of adventurers.
Unfortunately, while his mind was again more or less whole, Naralex could recall no clue as to what had taken him and the others. As for the Barrens, although they were at present quiet, on the orders of Fandral neither he nor any other druid had as of yet returned there. The archdruid saw no point in risking lives and energies for a place that the Great Sundering at the end of the War of the Ancients had made into a desert. As Fandral saw it, even arid lands had their place in the purpose of Azeroth.
Their gazes and those of several others fixed upon the newcomers… and reminded Broll yet more of his shame. The further a druid became attuned to nature and his calling, the more chance that his eyes took on the golden glow of Azeroth’s life.
Great druids were marked so.
But Broll Bearmantle’s eyes remained silver with only a slight blue glow to them that thus far appeared to mean very, very little.
Shaking off his frustration, Broll started toward the pair, but then a second horn blared. The assembled druids turned as one toward the direction of the sound. A single druid with a green band on his left forearm lowered a goat’s horn, then faced Teldrassil.
The ridged bark upon which the trumpeter focused rippled. Broll shuddered, momentarily recalling his bizarre vision. Then the bark cleaved, opening up a gap large enough for a night elf to enter…
or, in this case, from which to step forth.
The druids bowed their heads in respect as Fandral Staghelm strode out among them with the bearing of one fully in command of all about him. His eyes gleamed gold as he nodded to many of those gathered. Fandral was clad more simply than most of the night elf druids, his upper torso covered only at the shoulders by protective wooden armor shaped somewhat like the heads of beasts, even down to their glaring eyes. His hands were covered in protective, open-fingered, woven gloves that extended all the way to the elbow, where the wooden ends flared out.