Richard A. Knaak: Stormrage

But trying to rule wisely for some one hundred and more centuries took its toll within, which was why the high priestess on occasion sought respite through meditation. Tyrande only asked an hour once in a while, surely no tremendous request of Elune. Here, bathed in the ever-present light of the Mother Moon, she was generally able to find her focus with little trouble. However, this time a sense of peace continued to evade her. Tyrande understood the reasons why but refused to give in to them. She focused deeper-Tyrande let out a gasp. The soft moonlight blazed, growing both blinding… and, for the first time ever, painful.

Her surroundings transformed. No longer did she sit in the security of the temple. Instead, the night elf stood in a darkened place whose earthen walls immediately marked it as a barrow den.

Details of the underground chamber illuminated for her as if the pages of a tome turning. Tyrande saw the pouches of herbs, the gathered feathers, teeth, and other objects from many of Azeroth’s fauna. There were markings, too, some of which were familiar to her while others remained incomprehensible.

A chill ran up and down her spine. She knew where she was but still sought in vain to deny it.

Then another priestess of Elune stepped into view. Tyrande knew her by name as well as by her thinner, unlined face. Merende.

Far younger than the high priestess, but a well-respected acolyte of the Mother Moon.

A second priestess followed Merende, this one also known to their leader. That priestess was followed by a third. All wore somber expressions and kept their heads bowed. They were clad in simple silver robes with hoods. The plain garments were worn in respect to their surroundings, for these priestesses were not among their own kind, but rather in a domain under the watch of the druids.

Indeed, this was the barrow den — a home, so to speak — of one of their kind.

And even as Tyrande thought this, her view shifted, following not by her choice the gazes of the troubled priestesses. A body, laid flat on a mat of woven grass, a faint, silver light — Elune’s light — draping over the still form. Her heartbeat quickened at this solemn sight, even though from the past she should have long been used to it.

Even in repose, his proud visage bore the marks of time and effort even more than hers. His long, green hair had been set by the priestesses so that it lay atop his chest, where it seemed to meld with his lush, lengthy beard. He had a thick, angled brow that made him appear serious, contemplative.

He was clad more elaborately than most druids — a choice not his own but determined by his great station. Massive armor with jutting thorns protected the shoulders, while matching guards did so for the forearms and shins. Although made of wood respectfully harvested from dead trees, the spell-crafted armor was more durable and resilient than metal. The sleeveless robe stretched down all the way to his sandaled feet and bore on the sides of the legs the color and pattern of draping leaves. Near the bottom, a layer of blue marked by what seemed to be crescent moons perhaps gave some bit of honor to Elune.

Malfurion Stormrage stared up at the ceiling, his golden orbs vacant.

Tyrande drank in the sight of him, her lover. Her legs felt weak as she studied him — how could a being so bright and bursting with spirit be rendered utterly lifeless and hopelessly lost? She smiled weakly as she gazed at Malfurion, who looked so regal, so distinguished. As noble as the male night elf looked, ever one aspect about him demanded foremost attention. Sprouting from his forehead and thrusting forward were two proud antlers. More than two feet in length, they were no defect of birth, but rather the gift and the mark of Cenarius. Few there were of the druids who bore the four-legged, hooved demigod’s blessing and of that few, the first and greatest was he who lay here.

Tyrande had not been taken aback when first the antlers had begun to grow. She had only seen them as recognition of the greatness she had always known existed in Malfurion.

“Malfurion…” she whispered to the body, though no one there, especially him, could hear her at all. “Oh, my Malfurion… why did you have to leave me again?”

She watched as her followers knelt beside the still body and placed their hands over his head and chest. Tyrande knew what they were doing, for she had given the orders herself.

Only through the blessings of the Mother Moon did Malfurion Stormrage still survive. Her faithful kept the archdruid’s body alive and healthy, hoping against hope for the day when Malfurion would stir again. Hoping against hope that his dreamform would return from wherever it had become lost in the Emerald Dream…

The high priestess wanted desperately to leave. Of what purpose was there in Elune revealing this scene? All it did was stir up more anxiety, more terrible reminders. She couldn’t stand to see him like that, lost to her… perhaps forever.

Malfurion’s tenders stepped back. They looked somber. They had been at this task day after day and knew their duties well.

The archdruid’s skin suddenly darkened.

The three priestesses gave no reaction to this transformation, almost as if they could not see it. Tyrande, on the other hand, leapt to Malfurion’s side, paying no attention to the fact that her body glided through those of her followers as if they were but a mist. All that mattered was her beloved’s horrific transformation.

And as she watched, helpless and unable even to touch him, the archdruid’s body continued its macabre change. As his flesh darkened, it also crusted over, like the bark of a tree. His legs and arms grew gnarled. Jagged, ebony leaves sprouted throughout his hair and beard, quickly overwhelming both. At the same time, the leaves began slowly waving back and forth, as if a wind from somewhere far beyond this underground place blew upon them.

The golden orbs paled back to the silver of their birth, then, more horribly, they sank in, turning into black pits.

The rhythmic fluttering of the leaves seized the high priestess’s attention from the awful eyes, although she at first could not say why. There was a familiar movement to the fluttering. And then a faint sound accompanied the movement, a steady, pulsating beat that swelled in intensity as it filled her ears.

A heartbeat.

She glanced around wildly — it was as though the other priestesses could not hear it. It became louder and stronger still.

The sound became deafening; the leaves flickered in concert, and then…

The beat began to slow. Only by a minuscule rate at first, but it was slowing, as if the wind were ceasing to blow.

And as if a heart were gradually beginning to still…

Panicked, Tyrande thrust a hand toward Malfurion-The barrow den vanished. Darkness and a stark silence greeted the high priestess. She discovered that her eyes were shut.

With a gasp, she opened her eyes and adjusted to Elune’s glow, finding herself once more seated in the temple. Haidene’s statue stood poised over her. All was as she recalled it and Tyrande knew that what she had experienced had taken place in perhaps the space of a single short breath.

But her own situation did not concern her in the least. Only the vision mattered. She had received only a handful of such gifts from her mistress over the centuries and all of them had been messages of great import. Yet this one… this one was the most troubling of all.

Despite the best efforts and tremendous vigilance of his tenders, it was now clear that Malfurion was dying.

The storm crow’s wide, powerful wings beat hard as the avian neared the vicinity of the island. Woodland brown with tinges of silver gray at the edges of its feathers, it was large, even for one of its kind. A sloping silver crest crowned its head and twin tufts of like-colored feathers hung from both sides of its skull, giving it an almost elder, scholarly look. Deep silver eyes peered out from under the brow, drinking in everything.