To tame a curse
The ground was like a muddied puddle underneath his feet. Atelniar's balance was tested, as he made his way through the dark forest at break-neck speed. Slopes and pits were hurdles the night elf could easily overcome, but the vicious presence haunting him never abated. Night had fallen upon Blackwald. One could barely see past an arm's distance. The rain continued to fall heavily, it reached beneath the roof of the forest. There was a strange silence in the air, except the heavy rain and the elf's quick feet.
After an extended period of playing cat and mice with the beast amidst the trees, the druid could no longer sense its presence. He began to feel safer, he slowed down and attempted to regain his composure. To panic would not be of any help to him, he was in the heart of a forest, and far off the beaten track. He presumed. The elf's feet were worn, and his legs trembled in the cold weather. He had to find a place to rest. A tall, peculiar tree stood on tilt by a steep slope. It would do. The elf slid across the ledge, at the top of the slope, and dug his back up against the bowels of the great tree. Atelniar closed his eyes, he regained his breath and took shelter from the downpour.
There was an indentation in the slope where the roots of the crooked tree sprawled freely. It was large enough for the grown night elf to take shelter from the rain without getting soaked and cold. It was black as coal, but had the shape of an oak. Its branches spread wide above his head, but they appeared lifeless as there was not a single leaf to be seen. Those dry, crooked branches groaned into the heavy night sky. The mood grew tense and made Atelniar restless. Noises that sometimes prickled his sensitive ears made him flinch. Blackwald was a sinister place, it felt as if a terrible curse lingered in its domain. The light of Elune did not reach him beneath the dark clouds and black trees.
It was then that he could hear the ominous crackling of dead branches. Footsteps? No, they were far too measured. The noises disappeared, but something kept Atelniar alert. A dark, savage presence. It was bloodlust. Not the kind of bloodlust that orcs bred, but a far purer and instinctive bloodlust. A terrible growl ripped through the air, it was very close. The beast that haunted him sniffed the air. It was attempting to get a hold of Atelniar's scent, but the elf gambled on staying still. He trusted that the rich fragrance of the black soil would mask most of his scent, as it had grown moist from the heavy rainfall. It seemed as if his luck held true, for soon the dangerous presence disappeared. He would not be safe until he left the border of the forest.
Atelniar was on edge through the dark night. His eyes constantly observed the foot of the slope beneath him, for he feared that he was being watched. His mind chased a thought. Shan'do had once taught him about the Ancients. One, in particular, that had gained the respect and awe of the younger generations. Goldrinn. A wolf god whose ferocity in battle was legendary, but Shan'do Stormcrow had told a very saddening tale. For while Goldrinn had protected the city of Eldre'Thalas and their kin, he was also shunned by Elune. The very tenacity and stubbornness that drove Goldrinn to such lengths was something the goddess judged him for. She did not judge him kindly, for she thought it misled his noble heart. Elune's judgement was said to make Goldrinn all the more indomitable.
Although it was primarily a tale of self-sacrifice, it also served as a lesson to the druid when he was younger. There was a time when Atelniar had learned of an aspect of druid teachings that were shunned by many. The pack form. A vicious form in which a druid took upon himself the ways of Goldrinn. Shan'do Stormcrow had lost his temper with the young druid when he realised that Atelniar wanted to explore those teachings. He had warned Atelniar that it was a form in which the druid would lose all control and become a liability to others. The older druid had drawn parallels to the orcs' bloodlust. It would enrage and empower the wielder, but also cloud one's ability to reason.
It was Atelniar's great hatred for the orcs that drove Shan'do Stormcrow's point home. When he had been younger, Atelniar often thought of himself as grander than his equals. The truth was that he was no better than those without an affinity for nature's vast powers. He had been granted a gift, but he had never earned it to begin with. Years of guidance under Vingor Stormcrow's experience had taught him so. It was a valuable lesson. Modesty. In order to master the art of druidism, one had to respect nature. It was a path that had taken Atelniar several years, but he still had much to learn.
The hours passed in waking silence for the night elf. His predicament and memories of the past kept him awake. He could hear branches groan in the dark, as the wind blew gently through the decaying forest. Paranoia was a great way to remain vigilant. Every damned sound made him flinch a little, although that was a thing he would never admit to, if he lived to tell the tale.
The dark night soon faded into dawn, although one could barely tell that the sun was rising. There was no twilight, just a pale fog. Atelniar could tell a rock from mud, but beyond that there wasn't much difference. He stepped out of the bowels of the tree that had kept him safe from the rain. The ground was slippery, a wrong step and he would fall on his back. Due to the fog, the elf could barely see past his own reach, the silhouette of a great tree loomed through the fog. It drew his attention towards it, the elf could not help but feel drawn towards it. Its silhouette seemed to cover a large section of the valley he was in. He could tell by the way the ground sloped downwards in the direction of the vast tree.
Atelniar treaded carefully on the moist earth, moving quickly through the fog that covered the entire valley. He approached the dark shape of the vast tree with a feeling of awe, but before the feeling was able to settle peacefully upon him, he was brought back to the cold reality that had loomed over him for some time. He was someone else's prey. An eerie growl sounded from behind him, the elf slowed down and looked silently over his shoulder. There it was. The great beast that had haunted him, it was terrifying to behold. Its jaws were filled with sharp teeth, canine teeth that would shred through elven skin in a heartbeat. It had managed to sneak up on him due to the dense fog.
The druid turned around, and he faced the great wolf-like creature. His eyes glowed fiercely as he observed the animal, he measured the beast calmly. Its eyes possessed a sinister glance that could make one's skin crawl uncomfortably. Its claws were digging into the muddied ground, which gave it a firm advantage on unstable ground. Before he could think of a plan of action, the savage creature lunged forwards, aiming for the elf's throat. Atelniar moved quickly, his body moved gracefully in a sideways roll. He grasped a dead branch from the ground and struck the creature flat in the side of his jaw, causing it to howl loudly as the elf knocked the wolf-like creature to the side with a fierce strike.
The beast snapped its jaw menacingly while regaining its posture on all fours. Atelniar had already thrown the heavy branch aside, and made his way towards the great tree in the center of the fog-filled valley. His elven feet carried him forwards with great speed, mud flew high in the wake of his tracks, but the beast closed in on him faster than any night elf could run. The druid mustered his power in desperation, morphing his body into a feline creature while running. His paws gained a better grip where his elven feet had failed him, which allowed the druid to dash towards the bowels of the great tree at great speed. The beast chasing him kept his pace, it was impossible to outrun the creature.
Upon reaching the dark bowels of the great tree, the druid turned about swiftly and lunged towards the wolf-like creature. The two creatures met in furry frenzy, their claws raked at each other and the druid was able to dodge the wolf-like being's terrible jaws. However, the great wolf flung the wounded druid underneath the bowels of the great tree, with a terrible strike from its large paw. Atelniar could not maintain his form any longer, he morphed back into an elf, his leather armor was tattered, and underneath the armor were terrible gashes which bled heavily from the beast's great claws.
It looked at its elven prey with renewed ferocity. Atelniar stumbled backwards on his tired feet, his body shivered as a result of his wounded state and the cold weather. He could feel the excitement of combat rushing through his veins, as he saw the dark figure of the wolf charging directly for him once more. Atelniar exhaled calmly, his gaze locked on the terrifying jaws that snapped at him in a menacing manner. His elven hands grasped the creature's neck, the druid's nails dug into the creature's fur, grasping it in a desperate struggle of life and death. With all the strength he possessed he was able to pin the wolf's head into the ground. The druid summoned a spell, with what reserves of energy remained in his mortal body, and placed a soothing spell upon the beast.
Those fierce eyes grew dim, as the wolf lost consciousness under the druid's spell. It's mind turned blank, and its aggressive nature was tamed for a while. Atelniar fell to the ground, his knees buried in the black soil. He gasped for his breath, struggling to remain conscious after exerting himself. He realised he could not hope to escape the beast with his wounds, but upon closer inspection it dawned upon the night elf what the creature might be. A worgen.
Atelniar noticed a pale glow further ahead in the darkness beneath the roots of the great tree. A light much different from sunlight. With what little strength remained in his mortal body, the elf raised back onto his feet. He began dragging the heavy worgen into the dark hollow underneath the great tree.
Tal'doren, also known as the Wild Home, was the name of that great tree. In the Emerald Dream its counterpart was named Daral'nir. It possessed the ability to calm enraged beings. It was where Malfurion Stormrage originally exiled the first worgen. The wary druid had remembered Vingor Stormcrow's lessons of the past, and so he had realised what the source of that pale glow might be.
There, at the center of the grove beneath Tal'doren, Atelniar found a moonwell. The druid dragged the unconscious worgen towards its edge. His knees caved in under his weight, as he reached the moonwell at last. The elf was entirely worn out from his wounds, and having to drag the heavy worgen. His eyes grew dim. His eyes looked upon the glimmering surface of the moonwell, as he lost consciousness and fell flat on his face in the black soil.
May your curse be broken; thus was his last waking thought before fatigue claimed. The grove was filled with a pale light as the moonwell seemed to come alive.