AN: Okay, I lied. Quite a few of my race/class combo favorites ended up in this arc. Savagekin, Druid of the Nightmare, and Dragonsworn. Back to Tria for the next chapter!
Lydros cursed under his breath, watching the archway with a calculating eye. He should have known that the girl wouldn't listen to him, though he had thought she would certainly catch Kalthor and keep him in place. Anyone else who knew the dangers, who had grown up knowing how far corruption stretched in the world, would have listened. Brinella had, beneath the quiet manner and obedience, a heart that ached for others. He wondered where he had left his own behind.
Those who lived as long as the elves, those who delved into the annals of history, knew more than what most Kaldorei would tell. They had come to accept that the naga were born of them, as well as the satyr. Both races had once been like them, and it was their pride and folly that had created them. Lydros barely tolerated Kalthor and his fel-magic, knowing that they were only a younger race of his own. Youth brought inexperience and with it, mistakes. Though their races were now distanced completely, set on separate sides of a fence that few chose to cross, he found it hard to hate them as some others easily could.
Winnie, on the other hand, was quite avid about hating. The little woman was filled with frothing rage at anyone who wore the symbol of the Horde or associated with them. Sometimes, he felt the need to point out that her ferocity was quite similar to the reckless abandon of the orcs or trolls, but he held his tongue at those times. The last thing he wanted to do was turn her anger on him, no desire in him to meet the blunt edge of her mace yet again.
It was that anger that she held which made it impossible for her to accompany him into the grove. Worse still, that she had told no one who knew her about what lingered in her mind made it doubly dangerous. For Lydros, treading the grove had been done before and he only barely survived with the help of someone else on the inside. Someone else who could reach them through a common, known thread. There wouldn't be that for the woman.
He had thought that the grove had been wiped out. Looking at it, he could see the signs of effort made to do just that. Charred bark and burned leaves had been drawn back into the surrounding growth, like a burned hand beneath an enveloping sleeve. Places where the brush and trees had been hacked into now stood clear in his sight, but the place was still here. Still waiting and watching, calling to those who harbored hate and anger, sorrow and shame. Those were the easiest to feed on. Those were the easiest to destroy.
The druids revered the Emerald Dream. When the new Well of Eternity had been brought to light after the Sundering, Malfurion and three of the great Aspects created a pact to keep the second well away from the Burning Legion, so that there would never again be the chaos and destruction that they had just suffered. Alexstraza, leader of the Red Dragonflight, planted a single enchanted acorn in the Well. Powered by the potent magic that lay within, it grew quickly. It towered above them, and they called it Nordrassil.
This tree, an everlasting symbol to the night elves and what was hoped to heal the world over time, was blessed by Nozdormu. The Guardian of Time, he enchanted the tree so that as long as it stood, the Kaldorei would never age or die from sickness or disease.
It was Ysera's gift that the druids were most affected by. The mighty tree was linked to her realm, the ethereal plane of the Emerald Dream. It was in that realm that the druids slumbered for centuries on end, upholding a sacred bargain with the Dreamer herself. Alexstraza was the Life-Binder, but there were those who revered the green dragon in a different light. It was Ysera who regulated the flow of nature in her realm, shaping the very evolution of the world there. To some, she was the tangible goddess that Elune could never be.
The Emerald Dream was described as a blueprint, the place Azeroth could have been if intelligent life had not changed it. Fertile and lush, the place most people in crowded places dreamed of. In that case, they visited it often. Those who dreamed were welcome in Ysera's realm. Most never realized that they had tread such fantastic paths, the memories gone on their waking. It was those who forced their physical selves into the Dream who encountered trouble. The denizens of that magical place did not take kindly to such intrusion.
But even the most peaceful and guarded places could become twisted and tainted. Yes, there were those who revered the Emerald Dream. There were those who did not, as well. The ones who dreamed could touch upon a taint in the perfect realm of the Dream. Sometimes, this led only to a loss of self. Other times, it was far worse. Those driven mad by the corruption pushed nature from themselves and became twisted reflections of the druids they once had been.
Capable of spreading madness, they had grown in strength and number as people began to willingly follow in their paths. Divorced from the natural order, they no longer channeled the spirit of the bear or cat, did not swim as a seal or run as a cheetah. Instead, they took on the shape of nightmare and fear. The most powerful of all did not age as Lydros would. They merely... changed.
In these areas nearest to the Great Trees, seedlings of the towering Nordrassil, they were present. Easily forgotten, for few ever left the grove, and those who did had no desire to speak of what lingered there. Lydros knew how they felt. Lydros knew all too well the power of the druids of Nightmare. As long as even a small amount of Nightmare was left to fester in the Dream or to push out, so they would survive.
A rustling behind him turned his sight and mind from the arch. Lydros smiled, a very rare smile that spoke of both relief and pity. Three shapes slipped from the shadows that now spilled around them as day turned to night once more. Massive figures, even the smallest barely needing to tip her head back to view him in the eyes. Three druids, as feral as most would never think to believe. They rarely left these woods, he knew. If they did, they flew as one to find another forest to guard. Nature was their home.
Savagekin, comfortable as animal and dismissing the person they once were, were yet another branch of the druidic tree. Powerful and the most primal of the druids, they paid a steep price for their power, being forced to fight for their humanity every waking moment. For one of the three, this was a trial she could not complete without the other two.
The smallest was colored a silver-blue, her markings a silvery white like the other two. She was young, talented in the ways of the wild but too free-spirited to be chained under conventional training. The largest was a massive beast of white, his eyes a vibrant gold that searched the surroundings avidly. Twice the size of a riding saber, he was a formidable opponent. He had to be.
Between the two was a cat of the same color as twilight. Dark fur that hinted of violet in the sunlight, the only striking thing about her was the most damning. Outcast of the druidic fold, Rylien was Savagekin and Nightmare. Her skills went far beyond simple shapes, giving her the ability to shift into any animal she knew well. In the trees, he could spot the broad-winged raven who followed her as her companion. None of that helped her – it only made her more dangerous. Young and foolish at one point, Rylien had pushed her physical body into the Emerald Dream, and had stumbled into the Nightmare.
Her eyes were silver, shining with an underlay of ethereal green. The opacity of the green changed when her sanity changed, warning those who were near and dear when it was time to run. She was never apart from the two who flanked her; she would die by their own hands when she could not longer fight off her corruption. When the druids of Moonglade had turned their backs on her, she had devoted herself to Ysera and the Emerald Dream. Lydros never asked if her loyalty was answered; a scar on his back was his lasting reminder of the first – and last – time he had done so.
"She is inside." Rylien's voice was a breath on the wind as she changed, standing before him as the slender and muscle-ridden female that she had been before. "I do not know exactly where, and I do not know for how long she has been in there, yet she is. So too, are the three you seek."
"Three? Only two, and they both be daft brats that are better left where they put their fancy selves." Winnie's voice was ice from where she sat, glowering at the sleeping goblin that had stayed behind.
Lydros wished he had told her to keep quiet. Rylien's temper was quick to rise and flare, and it took years for her to let go of some slight that had been handed to her by a careless word or turn of phrase. As it was, he didn't like the look the corrupted druid shot the woman.
"That one would be best suited to stay here and guard the forest from... that." Rylien gestured to the slumbering goblin, her lips pulled in a sneer. "You know my tolerance for those who wound the forest, Lydros. That thing is only one of many who have taken axe and saw to the mighty trees we fight to protect. You should be ashamed for calling to me with one in my presence."
"I called you as a favor to the Circle, Rylien. You were there when I stumbled from the grove in Feralas. I need your aid with the ones who are inside there now, if it comes to that." His voice was a plea, and he was not ashamed of it. "Two of those in there fought for the Tree, and another has embraced nature as her calling. They are like you, if not in body then at least in spirit."
"Spirits are for shaman and witchdoctors, Lydros. I deal with neither of them when I can help it." Her eyes flashed and closed, pale fingers reaching for the white fur of her mate. He moved, standing beside her and releasing a deep growl. Terlon was not prone to talking to those he did not see fit to speak to, and Lydros had never heard his voice before. Nor had he heard the voice of the little one, but the three did not need voices to speak to each other, and it was clear that they were doing so now. Time passed, enough time for Winnie to shift impatiently, and finally Rylien spoke again. "I will not go in there. Even this close, I can feel the Nightmare call and try to catch me. You will be alone in this, until you find her."
Her tone and look softened, a sigh escaping her. "You know the truth of it all, Lydros. What is there is nothing more than illusion and lies, your nightmares come to life. Don't let them touch you, don't let them lead you astray. Be ready to kill if you must... there is nothing in there worth protecting."
"Except those I seek." He was glad his correction did not draw her ire. It only brought the flicker of an amused smile to her lips as she made to turn away.
"Indeed. Except those you seek. Pray to those you must that they are well and strong, Lydros. If they are not, you may have to kill them as well." She paused in her turning, her eyes spotting something in the grass near the dwarven woman. "Take that with you. The packs, goblin and dwarf will remain safe with us. That blade belongs with the one who holds it."
Lydros nodded, turning back and catching the weapon as it was tossed by Winnie. By the look on her face, she was not pleased with the prospect of staying behind with anyone, but she said nothing on it. Instead, she settled herself down to wait with arms folded over her chest and eyes set towards the sky. Their well-wishes were silent, but present all the same. With a low whistle to call Shade from where he rest, the hunter turned to walk through the arch and into the grove...
… He stepped exactly where he knew he would. Before him stretched the boughs of Nordrassil, the Well of Eternity glinting beneath it's roots from where he stood on a pathway that overlooked the small building that had been erected. A bridge was not far, and he had no need to look to know who it was that approached him in the same manner she had for several years in reality and in dreams.
She walked with the grace of a woman used to traveling silently and carefully, her dark hair unbound and flowing behind her in the breeze that brought the scent of flowers and water to his senses. Longswords glinted at her sides, light reflecting off of the polished metal and catching the poison that glazed over their surface. She was beauty and death incarnate, mixed and thrown at him from the shadows where they had first met in the woods. She was his only love; his Irial.
While his heart yearned to reach out to her, commanded that he embrace her as he had done so many times before, this time he turned his head away and walked down the path. Her voice filtered to him, soft and pleading, want stretched in the words in the same tones that had been taken when he had made her his as forcefully as the very beasts he watched over mated. Her love had been one that needed a firm grip and gentle words, so prone to becoming out of control in the heat of the moment.
They had loved so dearly, and she had looked as she did now when she came to him here. When she had told him that they would be together, that she accepted his desires to be mates for eternity. When she had told him of the child that grew within her. Lydros had known true joy that day on the path he now walked again. How fitting it was then, that the same place that had been witness to such joy was also the one that bore witness to such pain.
Irial had never been found after the fight for Nordrassil. Her laugh faded from his ears until it resided only here in his dreams, the one place he could be with her and their child for all eternity. They had tried to tempt him with such things before, but he had still been in pain then. He had still been mourning, still hoping that she was alive and well and here was the place that he would meet her again.
He didn't want to say the words he knew he must. Didn't want to refute the world that was so warm and welcoming, didn't want to stop her voice with his own. It turned his heart cold that they still tried to catch him with this dream that was also a nightmare. His steps passed the bridge, and he thought he heard anger in her voice. She still called for him, her tone wheedling and persuasive. That tone had been his downfall so many times, her eyes lighting with laughter as she got what she wanted every time she used it.
Halfway down the road, he finally turned to face her. She was no longer beautiful, as he knew she would not be. His Irial was gone, perhaps not dead at all but still simply not here. Years had passed, and he had grudgingly been forced to accept that she was not coming home. His bed would remain empty, his heart would remain cold. Now she stood before him, her body too thin to be that of hers. The illusion was fading, as much as he was loathe to let it go. "You are not Irial."
There was no sound but his own breath for a time, and then all faded from his sight. Hyjal ceased to exist, and with it went all images of his love. Now he was amidst the grove that he had entered, the grass thick beneath his feet and covered with a layer of ethereal fog. In the distance, he heard chittering. Something large moved through the trees, trees bedecked with gossamer webs that held bones strewn inside them. But his focus had gone elsewhere, to a figure that sat seemingly alone amidst a scattering of bones and foliage that had long since died.
Her eyes were closed, but they had long been as such. White hair spilled around her heart-shaped face to fall over her chest, and behind her it curled in the grass. If she stood, it would graze her bare ankles. Her body was clothed in garments of green, long robes of silk that were simple in design. She wore no jewelry or trinkets save for two that bore deep meaning for her. In her hair was a crescent moon hairpin, one long and fine chain that draped beneath it was curled around the back of her head and pinned opposite the ornament. The second was a pendant about her slender neck that held a tiny scale of her patron.
Nireesa was loyal to the green Dragonflight and their leader with the entirety of her body and soul. Once a beloved Priestess of Elune, she had shirked the possibility of being High Priestess and had accepted the offer of a dragon that she had long outlived. While most of those who served the flight were druids, Nireesa had dedicated herself after her mate had lost his mind within the Emerald Dream. Her skills were great, her desires pure... and so she had become Dragonsworn, and her attentions were devoted to these corrupted glens. As the eyes and ears of the Dreamer's flight, she had gained power that most of the younger races thirsted for.
She was not the only one he knew of. Years before, many had spoken to a Dragonsworn in the service of Nozdormu himself when the threats that lingered behind the walls of Ahn'Quiraj came to light once more. Ordinary people called as heroes to fight another war that had begun anew on those dry sands. It was interesting to see what the world never seemed to notice, especially since the flights had slowly begun to take more and more Dragonsworn. Nireesa simply happened to be the most powerful he could recall having much contact with.
"They are not here, child." Nireesa's voice came within his mind, overcoming the barriers he had thrown up to protect himself from the magic that the druids let linger here. "I have found only this one, and she is in need of my help more than they who passed by me not long ago." Her robes shifted, her seating changing and drawing his attention to the grass in front of her. "I was lucky to have found her. I did so only by hearing her cry for help, that I'm not certain she even knew she threw out. They have been lingering near, drawing out her torment to sate themselves. If I leave her, they will finish her and your journey will be for nothing."
Weeds and other fauna had begun to grow over the slender figure who rested with her head in the Dragonsworn's lap. Her hair was a stark contrast to the green, but it was all that could be seen easily. Her pale skin was tinged green in the light, though he had a nagging feeling that the twisted plants were attempting to find purchase on her body and use her for food. They would have that chance, if she died here. Lydros grunted in understanding; he was willing to bet that the slumbering woman was the one Kalthor had gone after, though she looked much different than she had those years ago at Hyjal. There would be better times to think on that.
"Indeed." Nireesa's lips pulled in a smile, her hands sliding along the jaw of the red-head while her head turned to look into the thickly wooded trees. "They passed by, caught in the Nightmare. This one did not make it far, driven by her emotions. She was easy prey for them, and has been here many days. If we can wake her, she can aid us in freeing the others. You will need that aid, child. Many times I have tried to clear this place of their taint, and I have failed. In the time I spent elsewhere, one of them has grown greatly in power. They call her Dreamwarper, and she is very close."
Though her eyes were closed and could not see him as he could see, Lydros knew she watched him as those of her patron flight did. It unsettled him, to be watched and not know where the eyes themselves pointed. "I have her weapon here," his hand reached back over his shoulder, tapping the hilt of the ornate two-hander. "I am far behind in practice, but I will do all that I can to defend you while you work. If it is needed."
"Good." The woman smiled again, her fingers brushing along the delicate features of the other. "Their domain is in madness and the mind. I will give you what protection I can, but I cannot attack. You must be my shield. Do not fall." There was a flutter behind her, and Lydros saw the shadow of wings spreading behind her to arc over the three of them. Incorporeal, they were the greatest gift to a Dragonsworn, and Nireesa's symbol to those who would attack of her own power. Only the most powerful were granted the gift of flight, so that they could take wing with their patron. Her body bent, pressing her forehead to the other woman's own and then went still but for the movement of her breath.
Lydros watched for a moment and then turned on his heel, meeting the renewed and angered chittering of vermin with a grin that could only be described as manic. "Come, twisted little things. I have business with you."