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Authors: Christie Golden
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muttered aloud. Ysera had only mentioned “druids.” She had apparently forgotten the small detail that this “Dreamer’s Rest” was not composed of tauren druids, but possibly—probably—hostile night elves. Was this some sort of a trap? He had been imprisoned by the Alliance before, hauled off as “cargo” and saved only by the unlikeliest of rescuers. He would not permit himself to be so used again.
Thrall dismounted and with a hand signal instructed Snowsong to wait. Slowly, carefully, he moved forward to get a better look. As Ysera had told him, Dreamer’s Rest was small indeed. It seemed to be deserted; perhaps the inhabitants were all off fighting the fire.
Ancestors knew, it was coming close enough. He could see several trees toward the far end of the camp, past a few dark-purple travel pavilions that had been erected. And again, as the Awakened had assured him, it was a small fringe of what looked to Thrall like a very old-growth grove indeed.
He could definitely sense the anger and anxiety in the elements here. It was almost buffeting, and his eyes watered at the smoke. If something wasn’t done soon …
He felt something sharp and hard on the back of his neck and stood completely still.
“Speak slowly, orc, and tell us why you have come to trouble theDruids of the Talon.” The voice was female, hard, and brooked no argument.
Thrall cursed himself. He had been too distracted by the elements’ pain, and he had been incautious. At least the elf was letting him speak.
“I was sent here to help you,” he said. “I am a shaman. Search my bag if you like; you will find my totems.”
A snort. “An orc, come to help night elves?”
“A shaman, come to help heal and calm an angry land,” he said. “I work with the Earthen Ring. Both Horde and Alliance are trying to find a way to save this world. Druids have a similar organization in the Cenarion Circle. In my pack, I have a pouch that carries my totems. Search if you like. All I ask is that you let me help.”
The hard pointed object was removed from pressing at his back, but Thrall was not foolish enough to strike. The elf would not be alone. He tensed as the Doomhammer, strapped to his back, was removed, but held himself in check. Hands rummaged through his pack and removed the pouch.
“Those are indeed totems,” said a male voice. “And he wears prayer beads. Turn around, orc.”
Thrall did, slowly. Two night elves regarded him. One was a Sentinel with green hair and violet skin. The other was male, clean-shaven, his green hair worn in a topknot. His skin was a rich, dark shade of purple and his eyes glowed a golden hue. Both were sweaty and soot-covered, obviously from trying to fight the blaze. Others now approached, looking cautious but curious.
The female was searching Thrall’s face, and then recognition came to her.
“Thrall,” she said, disbelieving. She looked at the Doomhammer lying on the earth, then back at him.
“Warchief of the Horde?” said another voice.
“No, not anymore, at least not according to rumor,” the female said. “We have heard that he disappeared—left his rank as warchief. Where he went, the Sentinels have not been told. I am Erina Willowborn, a Sentinel, and this is Desharin Greensong, one of the Druids of the Talon. I was part of a diplomatic entourage to Orgrimmar once.” Erina had been holding her glaive in a defensive posture; now she lowered it. “You are a very important personage, to come to our little camp. Who sent you?”
Thrall sighed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid mentioning the specifics of his task. “The rumors are true. I did leave, to help heal the damage caused to Azeroth by the Cataclysm. At the Maelstrom, working with other members of the Earthen Ring, I was found by Ysera the Awakened,” he said. “She told me of the plight of Dreamer’s Rest. That you had no shaman to help intercede with the troubled elements, and that you needed help.”
“You expect me to
Thrall dismounted and with a hand signal instructed Snowsong to wait. Slowly, carefully, he moved forward to get a better look. As Ysera had told him, Dreamer’s Rest was small indeed. It seemed to be deserted; perhaps the inhabitants were all off fighting the fire.
Ancestors knew, it was coming close enough. He could see several trees toward the far end of the camp, past a few dark-purple travel pavilions that had been erected. And again, as the Awakened had assured him, it was a small fringe of what looked to Thrall like a very old-growth grove indeed.
He could definitely sense the anger and anxiety in the elements here. It was almost buffeting, and his eyes watered at the smoke. If something wasn’t done soon …
He felt something sharp and hard on the back of his neck and stood completely still.
“Speak slowly, orc, and tell us why you have come to trouble theDruids of the Talon.” The voice was female, hard, and brooked no argument.
Thrall cursed himself. He had been too distracted by the elements’ pain, and he had been incautious. At least the elf was letting him speak.
“I was sent here to help you,” he said. “I am a shaman. Search my bag if you like; you will find my totems.”
A snort. “An orc, come to help night elves?”
“A shaman, come to help heal and calm an angry land,” he said. “I work with the Earthen Ring. Both Horde and Alliance are trying to find a way to save this world. Druids have a similar organization in the Cenarion Circle. In my pack, I have a pouch that carries my totems. Search if you like. All I ask is that you let me help.”
The hard pointed object was removed from pressing at his back, but Thrall was not foolish enough to strike. The elf would not be alone. He tensed as the Doomhammer, strapped to his back, was removed, but held himself in check. Hands rummaged through his pack and removed the pouch.
“Those are indeed totems,” said a male voice. “And he wears prayer beads. Turn around, orc.”
Thrall did, slowly. Two night elves regarded him. One was a Sentinel with green hair and violet skin. The other was male, clean-shaven, his green hair worn in a topknot. His skin was a rich, dark shade of purple and his eyes glowed a golden hue. Both were sweaty and soot-covered, obviously from trying to fight the blaze. Others now approached, looking cautious but curious.
The female was searching Thrall’s face, and then recognition came to her.
“Thrall,” she said, disbelieving. She looked at the Doomhammer lying on the earth, then back at him.
“Warchief of the Horde?” said another voice.
“No, not anymore, at least not according to rumor,” the female said. “We have heard that he disappeared—left his rank as warchief. Where he went, the Sentinels have not been told. I am Erina Willowborn, a Sentinel, and this is Desharin Greensong, one of the Druids of the Talon. I was part of a diplomatic entourage to Orgrimmar once.” Erina had been holding her glaive in a defensive posture; now she lowered it. “You are a very important personage, to come to our little camp. Who sent you?”
Thrall sighed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid mentioning the specifics of his task. “The rumors are true. I did leave, to help heal the damage caused to Azeroth by the Cataclysm. At the Maelstrom, working with other members of the Earthen Ring, I was found by Ysera the Awakened,” he said. “She told me of the plight of Dreamer’s Rest. That you had no shaman to help intercede with the troubled elements, and that you needed help.”
“You expect me to
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