The Cenarion Circle did not look kindly on fishing in Lake Elune’ara. Even when Nighthaven had been the centre of night elven society, Elune’ara was regarded as sacred. Though casting a line into its unnervingly clear and tranquil waters would not singly remove Haiendrion from the Circle, it would certainly set him back a few months, if not years, in his training.

It was fairly harmless, he rationalized. The fish of Elune’ara were clever, and rarely strayed this close to the shore. If he ever did catch one, he threw it back. He did not fish here for food. He fished here for thought. For Haiendrion had much to think on.

The dreams of a druid are a fickle mistress. One must determine which are simply the sleeping mind’s forays into itself and which the visions of portent from the Emerald Dream. Maldryn, Haiendrion’s mentor, often dismissed his concerns.

“When the Dream speaks to you, my pupil, you will know,” he assured him.

But Haiendrion was unconvinced.

For years his dreams had been unrelenting. Screams, the serpent’s laugh, the burning embers of houses and huts, and gallons upon gallons of blood, turning the beach into amethyst and the water into wine. The shadow of ragged, leathery wings, sinister horns, and a deranged, blindfolded visage. The Demon Stormrage.

He knew what these visions were. These were mere echoes of his past. The worst night of his life, lodged at the back of his mind, where his subconscious could not help but taunt him with it. He thought nothing of them anymore. He would wake, sometimes he would cry, and then he would go back to sleep. It was an annoying, tedious ritual, but one he was willing to endure. The alternative – forgetting it – was not one he was prepared to entertain.

Lately, however, his dreams had been invaded. They would often start the same, but soon, the sounds, the sights, and the smells would change completely. It happened so subtly that he would not notice the difference until the new setting had completely overtaken the old.

A woman. Tall, lithe, sturdy, ruggedly beautiful. She spun a dance of destruction, with two glaives gripped tight in hands with bloodied knuckles, fighting shadowy figures who burst from nowhere. It mattered not how many she cut down, more would come.

“You cannot succeed,” a strange voice said, from somewhere behind Haiendrion’s perception. “This struggle will end only in death.”

He would search for the voice, and he knew she was just at the edge of his vision. He would smell the faint scent of rot, and then would wake.

He had never seen the woman before, nor heard the mysterious voice. Yet it was as real and as vivid of that night. He knew there was more to it than simply stray thoughts and memories, which was why he had come to the Moonglade, despite Maldryn’s objections.

But it was a tumultuous time in the Circle. Mere months after Malfurion Stormrage had been lost in the Emerald Dream, his successor, Fandral Staghelm, had put into action his plan to grow a second World Tree; a plan which he had presented to Malfurion and the Arch-Druid had rejected it.

The general night elven populace were overjoyed. Nordrassil’s destruction had been felt far and wide, and this new tree – Teldrassil – would hopefully restore their immortality and resume the age of night elf prosperity which had ground to a halt when the demons of the Burning Legion returned to Azeroth. However the Circle, save Fandral’s band of loyalists, were concerned about the Arch-Druid’s eagerness to violate his predecessor’s edicts, as well as his contempt for the newest druids to the circle, the tauren.

Haiendrion had made the pilgrimage here to seek the counsel of Remulos, Cenarius’ second son, who had unfortunately become Staghelm’s major opposition, and as such was embroiled in discussions with other Keepers of the Grove as well as the mortal druids. Staghelm was being especially difficult, refusing audience with Remulos, denouncing the tauren druids, and taking his followers to Teldrassil, save Mathrengyl Bearwalker, his second, who was trying very hard to smooth relations over with the Moonglade. The streets of Nighthaven were home even to whispers of civil war.

But Haiendrion was a patient man – what fisherman isn’t? – and he was willing to bide his time until this all blew over. When that happened, he would be first in line to speak to Remulos to figure out his dreams.

An impatient sigh escaped from nothing just beside him, making Haiendrion start. The lure jerked from the water, disturbing the surface of the lake.

Maldryn appeared out of thin air, an annoyed look on his face. Haiendrion returned the look. The discipline of hiding in the available darkness, known as “shadowmeld,” had been developed by the Sentinels during their Long Vigil, when most of the druids slept. Now that the druids were awake, the Sentinels had shared this discipline with them, and it had spread from there to the general populace. There was barely a night elf left in Azeroth who could not accomplish this trick of the light, with Elune’s blessing. As handy as it could be, Haiendrion was tired of being snuck up on.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Haiedrion, if you wanted to fish, you should’ve stayed in Astranaar,” Maldryn lectured.

Haiendrion sighed, and reeled in his line. “I’ve caught nothing.”

“It matters not, my pupil,” Maldryn reminded him. “Elune’ara is a sanctuary, where the aquatic wildlife should be free to live without fear of you bothering them.”

“But it’s an inland lake, Maldryn,” Haiendrion protested. “No estuaries, no rivers. The fish here were born here, will die here, and will not be joined by any foreigners. Shouldn’t they be privy to the same experience as their brethren?”

“You’re saying everything has a right to suffering?” Maldryn raised an eyebrow.

Haiendrion took the nightcrawler from his hook and threw it into the lake. “No, I’m saying these fish might appreciate the excitement. A little change of pace, is that too much to ask?”

Maldryn rolled his golden eyes. “Whatever you might think, ultimately all you need to know is that this is an exceptional place – sacred to both your people and your calling. Whether you agree with it or not, you must respect it.”

Haiendrion stood, brushing off his dry leather pants. “So, what’s the state of Nighthaven?”

Maldryn shook his head. “Denatharion left.”

“You jest.”

“Afraid not. He insulted one of the tauren women, Proudhorn, and Celes cracked him ‘cross the jaw. He threw up his arms and stormed off to Teldrassil.” He began to make his way to the road.

Haiendrion picked up his tackle box and followed. “I never would’ve guessed. Did you have any luck with Remulos?”

Maldryn snorted, and laughed. “Ha! He’s been in counsel for three days straight, now. Saturna turns away anyone before they have a chance to speak.” His tone grew more gentle, and he put a hand on Haiendrion’s shoulder. “I know I’ve said this many times since we arrived, but I truly think that it’s time we cut our losses and returned to Astranaar. Too long I’ve neglected my other students.”

“I do not require that you stay, Maldryn,” Haiendrion told him, which prompted a laugh from his teacher.

“And leave you to your own devices? I do have a reputation to protect, Haiendrion.”

They soon reached the road and began the trek west, around the lake.

“This is much more complicated than I originally anticipated,” Maldryn explained, “this isn’t like the fallout of the Shifting Sands, when you were but a child. That was dealt with in a matter of weeks. This could go on for months. Years, even. Fandral refuses to speak to Remulos unless he abandons Runetotem and the tauren, and of course Remulos will never do that. Nor could it have come at a worse time. The land needs healing. Not just here, but abroad. I hear stories from our dwarven allies of lands defiled beyond recognition. The gnomes talk of their ruined city, the humans have their haunted forests, and those damnable Venture goblins have capitalized on the disarray following Archimonde’s return. The Circle should be expanding its horizons, not engaging in these petty politics.”

“Have you discussed this with anyone?” asked Haiendrion.

Maldryn shrugged. “Starblaze sympathizes, and Theridran, the druid from the Barrow Deeps, suggested some… interesting initiatives, though it may be a step few are willing to take. But that’s beside the point. Some very important druids are here discussing some very important matters. I don’t know what else I can say to convince you that yours is a foolish quest here. I understand that you are a novice; that you haven’t experienced the Emerald Dream, but…”

“And I don’t know what else I can tell you, Maldryn,” Haiendrion interjected, “I just need some clarification. I need to figure out what it all means.”

“It means nothing, Novice,” Maldryn chided him lightly. “There would be no question in your mind if this was the Emerald Dream. It is a feeling of great interconnection, transcendence, and vast contentment. The kind of feeling for which the word ‘sublime’ was created. And my words cannot adequately convey the Dream. When you know it, you shall know it. That aside, there’s no nightmares in the Emerald Dream. A woman fighting shadows? Disembodied demonic voices? These are not the trappings of the Dream.”

“Even if it’s not the Dream, these are more than simply mundane dreams. And even if they’re not, I must know, for sure.”

On the road ahead, Haiendrion spotted a small party. In its midst was a Keeper of the Grove, whom Haiendrion had not seen before, towering above his attendants, a night elf and two dryads. They walked slowly but with purpose nonetheless.

Even having spent over a week in the Moonglade, the children of Cenarius were no less mesmerizing. They were a union of plant and animal, with the torso of night elves, the legs of deer, and their hair flowing manes of vines and leaves. From the Keeper’s head sprouted a massive pair of graceful, symmetrical antlers that made him ever more imposing, but his gentle face gave an aura of comfort and security. The dryads followed him reverently, but playful grins danced on their features.

“That is Bandalar,” said Maldryn softly, “one of the Stonetalon Keepers. Stay quiet.”

Cenarius was the demigod whom all druids universally honoured, and so his children were treated with great respect. Though Haiendrion often disregarded traditions he saw as outdated or impractical, this was not among them. He bowed his head, ducked behind Maldryn and tried to keep his body between the party’s line of sight and his tackle box.

Maldryn moved to the side of the road to allow them to pass, and Haiendrion followed in kind. As they neared them, Haiendrion could smell the sweet scents of the flowers in the dryad’s hair. They all smelled like morning on the first day of spring.

Maldryn stopped abruptly, and Haiendrion nearly bumped into him. He looked up to see that Bandalar and his entourage had halted in front of them.

Though startled, Maldryn saluted politely. “Ishnu-alah, Shan’do Bandalar.”

Bandalar nodded, and spoke with a voice that was powerful and old. “You are Maldryn, of the Astranaar druids, are you not?”

Maldryn blushed slightly, and bowed. “I am, Shan’do, and honoured that you know of me.”

“And is this, then, the Novice Haiendrion?” boomed the Keeper.

Maldryn started, then stepped aside. “It is. He is my student.”

Haiendrion gave Maldryn a furtive glance. Maldryn was a respected druid, but by no means famous throughout the Circle. It was odd, though not out of the question, for a Keeper of Bandalar’s standing to know who he was, but it was completely implausible for him to know a student like Haiendrion. He had accomplished nothing but the most generic of druidic trials, the same any other novice of two years would have done. Maldryn himself trained a half-dozen other students, some who, Haiendrion felt no shame in admitting, easily outshined him. Maldryn, it seemed, could not tame his curiosity.

“Pardon, Shan’do,” he proposed cautiously, “but how do you know of Haiendrion?”

Bandalar raised his gaze, and briefly met Haiendrion’s. “I have seen his face before. In a dream.”

Haiendrion shot Maldryn a look of both anxiety and victory. The druid was agape.

“Return with me to Nighthaven,” said Bandalar, turning back towards the village. “We have much to discuss.”

Bandalar spoke little to the two druids on their way back to Nighthaven. He brought them to a small house on the western edge of the town, where he bid them to sit on the balcony overlooking the town and lake beyond. It was nearly midnight, and the White Lady’s gibbous light turned the still surface of Elune’ara into a dark, glittering diamond. The sounds from the town, as this was its most active time, became a dull, ambient roar.

Bandalar joined them after a time, and one of his dryads – with frosty blue skin and dark hair the colour of blue pine – brought a platter of freshly cut heaven peaches and a decanter of chilled moonberry juice. She set them on the table and then stood by the door. Her scent (like underbrush in melting snow), and the refreshing scent of the peaches, put Haiendrion immediately at ease. Bandalar maneuvered his four legs until he was sitting on the wooden floor. Nevertheless, even from that position he still dwarfed the elves.

“No doubt you are both curious as to my summons, and so I shall tarry no longer,” Bandalar began. “I did not come to the Moonglade to discuss the new Arch-Druid. I was guided here by another for a different purpose. And I fear that it is a grave matter indeed.”

Maldryn tentatively took a slice of peach. “Who, Shan’do?” he asked before popping it in his mouth.

“Are you familiar with the name ‘Emeriss?’” Bandalar asked them.

The two night elves exchanged glances. “Tales, rumours…” said Maldryn with a shrug, “a woodland spirit, I believe. One, though, I have never encountered.”

Bandalar smiled. “Not quite, I’m afraid. Emeriss is a green dragon, one of Ysera’s most trusted lieutenants. It was he who brought me here. He who guided me to you. But know that I have spoken to many of the green dragonflight before now, and never have I had such an encounter. He was… erratic, and difficult to follow. It took me some time to decipher his messages. I believe he may be in danger, and I must know why he directed me to you.”

Maldryn shook his head. “Shan’do, I am dumbfounded. Honoured as I am to be…”

“No,” Bandalar shook his head and his leafy mane rustled, “your thero’shan, the novice Haiendrion.”

Maldryn looked to Haiendrion, and he looked from him to Bandalar, and even to the dryad by the door for any guidance. He could think of nothing to say and so said nothing.

“Neither of you came here for the discussions. What do you seek in the Moonglade?”

Haiendrion sat silently, waiting for Maldryn to explain, but his trainer prodded him with his elbow, urging him to speak. Haiendrion blurted out, suddenly. “Remulos. I seek audience with Remulos.”

Bandalar raised an eyebrow of vine. “To what end?”

“I have been… I have had a recurring dream which seems… unusual. I thought perhaps it held some portent which Remulos could make sense of.”

Bandalar’s face grew suddenly grave, and he leaned in closer. Haiendrion felt his breath – like a hot wind over a wheat field – on his cheeks. “Tell me of your dream, Novice.”

Haiendrion’s mouth felt dry, and he desperately wanted to drink some of the juice, but dared not delay his response. “I have had nightmares for some time, Shan’do. Memories of… a tragedy I was a part of. These I am accustomed to. But lately they have been interrupted by a new dream.

“I see a woman. Always the same woman, but I have never seen her before outside of this dream. She stands on a precipice, fighting many strange creatures. Dark, shapeless creatures, the likes of which I have never before witnessed And as she destroys them, more arrive to take their place. And there is a voice, a woman’s voice – another woman, I think – but it is strange and distorted, somehow. She urges this woman – the first woman – to give up her fight. I never see the second person; I never see who the voice belongs to. Sometimes I believe I am about to, and then awake.

“I do not believe this is a normal dream, Shan’do. Yet my mentors tell me that the Emerald Dream does not leave one in a feeling of unease and anxiety. I had hoped Remulos would shed some light on the matter.”

He waited a moment, then poured himself a glass of moonberry juice.

Bandalar raised his head, his antlers casting shadows upon his grim eyes. He nodded to the dryad, and she closed the door.

“What I am about to tell you both cannot be spoken of outside this room.” Bandalar put a gnarled, root-like finger to his chin, pensive. He got to his feet, and sighed. “There is another concern plaguing the Keepers of the Grove, I’m afraid. This business with the Arch-Druid Staghelm has distracted many of us from these matters but they cannot be ignored. We have kept this information from as many as we can, but it appears that soon, that will not be enough.

“The Emerald Dream, as you know, is a mirror of this world, but verdant beyond imagining. The Dream is connected to every thing that lives or ever has lived, and through it so we too are connected. It is a sublime paradise. However, there are times, when Kalimdor is in great tumult, that this paradise falters. When misery and sorrow grip so many lives, the Emerald Dream responds in kind. It creates a Nightmare.

“The first and greatest Nightmare came during the War of the Ancients. With the world shattered, so many dead, so much loss in the world, the agony of all life manifested in the Dream as the Nightmare. But with the help of the first night elf druids, and the new hope for a better world to follow, we managed to contain the Nightmare and eventually it dissolved into the rest of the Emerald Dream. Since then there have been several minor cases, and while they are easier to control, they are all devastating in their own manner.

“We believe, however, that a new Nightmare has been forming for some time, now, but it is strange and cunning, as if it has a consciousness all its own. Several Keepers have attempted to interact with it but it somehow eludes them. This has been going on for at least a century, and while disturbing, this Nightmare seemed minor and relatively harmless. But of late, there have been signs of trouble. The druid Naralex has ceased all communication with the Circle; the green dragons have been considerably more aloof than usual; and now Malfurion is lost within the Emerald Dream. Though some of my colleagues disagree, there is no doubt in my mind that this Nightmare is unlike any we have seen before, that it is somehow calculating and exact where the rest were chaotic and random.”

Bandalar, paused, sighed, and looked out the window at reflection of the White Lady, rippling ever so lightly in the waters of Elune’ara. “I fear that our traditional methods will not be enough to defeat it.”

Haiendrion glanced at Maldryn, sipping his juice quietly. Maldryn’s gaze, however, was locked on the statuesque Keeper of the Grove. He cleared his throat after a moment of silence.

“Begging pardon,” said Maldryn hesitantly, “but what has this to do with my student?”

Bandalar nodded apologetically and turned back to the druids. “I believe that Haiendrion’s visions hold some key to this Nightmare. I believe that this is why Emeriss directed me to him.” He put his one elven hand on Maldryn’s shoulder. “Maldryn, with your leave, I would remove Haiendrion from your tutelage. He can resume his studies under my and my entourage’s direction.”

Maldryn tried to speak several times before it finally took. “Of – of course, Shan’do. Far be it from me to stand in the way of my student. Of this opportunity, rather! Such an opportunity! If he approves, of course.”

“Oh,” Haiendrion blushed as Bandalar turned to him. He had rather hoped the decision would be made for him. “Oh, I’m not… there’s just much to be done in Astranaar, and…”

“Apologies, Thero’shan,” Bandalar put his wooden hand, with his tough root-like fingers, on Haiendrion’s shoulder, “but I’m afraid I shall have to insist. This is not a matter I can afford to leave to chance. I am bound to honour the authority your Shan’do has over you, but since he has relinquished it, I must assert my own.”

Maldryn bowed his approval. Haiendrion felt a little out in the cold. Though he was awestruck at the proposal of working under a Keeper of the Grove, he had hoped Maldryn would be more eager to keep him.

“Good then,” said Bandalar, his disposition lightening some. “Maldryn, you may leave the Moonglade at your earliest convenience, and until then, Thelnylla’s services are yours.” He was about to turn to Haiendrion, then quickly went back to Maldryn. “Actually, the druid Theridran expressed some interest in speaking with you earlier this evening. You should see him before you go.”

“Thank you, Shan’do Bandalar,” said Maldryn with a salute.

“As for you, my new Thero’shan,” said Bandalar with a smile, “we have much to do, and some preparations will be more… complicated than others.”

The Keeper of the Grove grew solemn, and his knobby hand crunched into a resolute fist. His gaze returned once more to the tranquil Moonglade.

“There are things, Haiendrion, that only you can do. I will show you how to do them.”