Christie Golden - Thrall - Twilight of the Aspects

Kirygosa could not tear her eyes away. “So this … thing … was the reason for everything you’ve done?” Her voice broke. “Bringing to life a monster who had no right to exist in the first place?”

“Come, now, Kirygosa!” chided the Twilight Father mockingly. “You should show more respect. You might prove to be very important in this task.”

Her eyes widened. “No … no more experiments. …”

He leaned closer to her, handing over the chain to the troll acolyte who hastened up. “You see, my dear,” he said gently, “the only one running out of time … is you.”

It was a long and arduous journey from the Maelstrom to Feralas. Thrall had emerged, as he had promised, to give Ysera his answer, only to find no sign of the green Dragon Aspect. He was at first bemused and irritated, then ashamed of his reaction: Ysera doubtless had many vital duties other than waiting on a simple shaman’s answer. He was charged with this duty, had accepted it, and would see it through—though he could have wished Ysera had thought to leave one of her great green dragons behind to speed the journey. She had not, so he did the best he could with wyvern, ship, and wolf.

Ysera had told him that Dreamer’s Rest was nestled against one of the great Twin Colossals. He rode along the overgrown road on his beloved, loyal frost wolf Snowsong, feeling the moist heat—so different from the temperate climes of Lordaeron where he had reached adulthood, and the dry heat of Orgrimmar—leach away at his energy.

He smelled and then saw the smoke from a long distance away, and urged his wolf on to greater speeds. The acrid stench was sharply at odds with the usual heavy, leafy scent of Feralas.

As he drew closer, Thrall felt his resentment and irritations at the task Ysera had given him melt away. These people, these druids, were in trouble. They needed help. And for whatever reasons the green Dragon Aspect had, she had wanted him to be the one to help them.

And so he would.

He rounded a turn, and the camp was suddenly there in front of him. Thrall came to an abrupt halt at what he beheld.

Carvings of owls … old ruins … a moonwell. …

“Night elves,” he 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 the Druids 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 believe that?” said Erina.

“I do,” said Desharin. Erina looked at him, surprised. “Thrall was ever known as a moderate, even as warchief. And now that he serves the Earthen Ring, perhaps he was indeed sent here.”

“By a dragon,” said Erina sarcastically. “Excuse me … not just any dragon, but Ysera of the Emerald Dream. And carrying the Doomhammer.”

“Who would wish to help druids more?” Desharin said. “And the Doomhammer is his, is it not? He may bear it wherever he wishes.” The Sentinel had no response to that, and turned to another who had approached. He, too, had long green hair that hung unbound, but also sported a short beard. His face looked weathered and wise, and he regarded Thrall thoughtfully.

“This is your camp, Telaron,” Erina said respectfully. “Tell us what you want us to do. He is an orc, and our enemy.”

“He is also a shaman, and therefore friend to the elements,” Telaron replied. “And the elements are so troubled that we cannot afford to deny them friends. We will put you to the test, Thrall of the Earthen Ring. Come.”

Thrall followed as Telaron led him up the sloping hills closer to the blazing fire. The trees near the camp had mercifully not yet caught, and Thrall could see that they had been doused liberally with water. All the smaller scrub bushes had been cleared; only the old growth remained.

His heart ached to behold it.

Many of the great trees were already too badly burned to rescue. Others were just igniting, but the fires, angry and raw, were now spreading rapidly. Thrall recalled the blaze that had swept through Orgrimmar, and swiftly took out his fire totem from his pouch. He stepped forward, pressing his bare feet firmly into the good earth, lifting his hands skyward. He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind and heart.