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Authors: Richard A. Knaak
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He frowned, knowing it well. This was, of course, the grand abode of his queen. Even though he had at times made mention of what he believed to be her faults, Malfurion actually admired her more than most thought. Overall, she had done much good for her people, but on occasion he believed Azshara simply lost her focus. As with many other night elves, he suspected any problem there had to do in part with the Highborne, who administered the realm in her name.
The wrongness grew worse the nearer he floated down toward the palace. Malfurion’s eyes widened as he saw the reason. With the summoning of the vision of Zin-Azshari, he had also summoned a more immediate image of the Well. The black lake now swirled madly and what appeared to be monstrous strands of multicolored energy shot up from its depths. Powerful magic was being drawn from the Well into the highest tower, its only possible purpose the casting of a spell of impossible proportions.
The dark waters beyond the palace moved with such violence that to Malfurion they seemed to be boiling. The more those within the tower summoned the might of the Well, the more terrible the fury of the elements. Above, the storm-wracked heavens screamed and flashed. Some of the buildings near the edge of the Well threatened to be washed away.
What are they doing? Malfurion wondered, his own quest forgotten. Why do they continue even during weakness of day?
But “day” was only a term, now. Gone was the sun that dampened the night elves’ abilities. Even though evening had not yet come, it was as black as night above Zin-Azshari…no, even blacker. This was not natural and certainly not safe. What could those within be toying with?
He drifted over the walls, past stone-faced guards ignorant of his presence. Malfurion floated to the palace itself, but when he sought to enter, certain that his dream form would pass through something so simple as stone, the night elf discovered an impenetrable barrier.
Someone had encased the palace in protective spells so intricate, so powerful, that he could not pierce them. This only made Malfurion more curious, more determined. He swooped around the structure, rising again toward the tower in question. There had to be a way in. He had to see what madness was going on inside.
With one hand, he reached out to the array of protective spells, seeking the point that bound them all together, the point by which they could also be unbound—
And suddenly pain unimaginable wracked Malfurion. He screamed silently, no sound able to voice his agony. The image of the palace, of Zin-Azshari, vanished. He found himself in an emerald void, caught within a storm of pure magic. The elemental powers threatened to rip his dream form into a thousand pieces and scatter them in every direction.
But in the midst of the monstrous chaos, he suddenly heard the faint calling of a familiar voice.
Malfurion…my child…come back to me…Malfurion…you must return…
Vaguely the night elf recognized Cenarius’s desperate summons. He clung to it as a drowning person in the middle of the sea might cling to a tiny piece of driftwood. Malfurion felt the woodland deity’s mind reach out to him, guide him in the proper direction.
The pain began to lessen, but Malfurion was exhausted beyond measure. A part of him simply wanted to drift among the dreamers, his soul never returning to his flesh. Yet, he realized that to do so would mean his end and so he fought against the deadly desire.
And as the pain dwindled away, as Cenarius’s touch grew stronger, Malfurion sensed his own link to his mortal form. Eagerly he followed it, moving faster and faster through the Emerald Dream…
With a gasp…the young night elf awoke.
Unable to stop himself, Malfurion tumbled into the grass. Mighty yet still gentle hands picked him back up to a sitting position. Water dribbled into his mouth.
He opened his eyes and beheld Cenarius’s concerned visage. His mentor held Malfurion’s own
The wrongness grew worse the nearer he floated down toward the palace. Malfurion’s eyes widened as he saw the reason. With the summoning of the vision of Zin-Azshari, he had also summoned a more immediate image of the Well. The black lake now swirled madly and what appeared to be monstrous strands of multicolored energy shot up from its depths. Powerful magic was being drawn from the Well into the highest tower, its only possible purpose the casting of a spell of impossible proportions.
The dark waters beyond the palace moved with such violence that to Malfurion they seemed to be boiling. The more those within the tower summoned the might of the Well, the more terrible the fury of the elements. Above, the storm-wracked heavens screamed and flashed. Some of the buildings near the edge of the Well threatened to be washed away.
What are they doing? Malfurion wondered, his own quest forgotten. Why do they continue even during weakness of day?
But “day” was only a term, now. Gone was the sun that dampened the night elves’ abilities. Even though evening had not yet come, it was as black as night above Zin-Azshari…no, even blacker. This was not natural and certainly not safe. What could those within be toying with?
He drifted over the walls, past stone-faced guards ignorant of his presence. Malfurion floated to the palace itself, but when he sought to enter, certain that his dream form would pass through something so simple as stone, the night elf discovered an impenetrable barrier.
Someone had encased the palace in protective spells so intricate, so powerful, that he could not pierce them. This only made Malfurion more curious, more determined. He swooped around the structure, rising again toward the tower in question. There had to be a way in. He had to see what madness was going on inside.
With one hand, he reached out to the array of protective spells, seeking the point that bound them all together, the point by which they could also be unbound—
And suddenly pain unimaginable wracked Malfurion. He screamed silently, no sound able to voice his agony. The image of the palace, of Zin-Azshari, vanished. He found himself in an emerald void, caught within a storm of pure magic. The elemental powers threatened to rip his dream form into a thousand pieces and scatter them in every direction.
But in the midst of the monstrous chaos, he suddenly heard the faint calling of a familiar voice.
Malfurion…my child…come back to me…Malfurion…you must return…
Vaguely the night elf recognized Cenarius’s desperate summons. He clung to it as a drowning person in the middle of the sea might cling to a tiny piece of driftwood. Malfurion felt the woodland deity’s mind reach out to him, guide him in the proper direction.
The pain began to lessen, but Malfurion was exhausted beyond measure. A part of him simply wanted to drift among the dreamers, his soul never returning to his flesh. Yet, he realized that to do so would mean his end and so he fought against the deadly desire.
And as the pain dwindled away, as Cenarius’s touch grew stronger, Malfurion sensed his own link to his mortal form. Eagerly he followed it, moving faster and faster through the Emerald Dream…
With a gasp…the young night elf awoke.
Unable to stop himself, Malfurion tumbled into the grass. Mighty yet still gentle hands picked him back up to a sitting position. Water dribbled into his mouth.
He opened his eyes and beheld Cenarius’s concerned visage. His mentor held Malfurion’s own
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