Darnassus was like nothing Haiendrion had ever imagined.

It was vast, it was full, it was loud. It was everything the night elves were not. Oh, they had settlements, to be sure, large towns and villages, but Darnassus was something wholly unheard of before its time.

A night elf city seemed almost a contradiction in terms. Walking its cobbled paths, Haiendrion felt as if his people had sold out their culture. It was mildly terrifying. Tall buildings, bustling shops – even an auction house! The night elves had adopted the currency of the goblins (one that now spanned the realm), trading bits of metal for goods and services. It seemed like such a nonsensical practice to him. He expected such ridiculousness from goblins. But to see his own brothers and sisters trading it forced him to stifle his guffaws.

Night elves were creatures of the forest – feral, wild, untamed. That so many of them were now content to live in this city, beautiful as it was, signaled to him the death of a long, long age. But he had to keep his lamentations to himself, for he traveled alone.

Bandalar was dead. The Keepers of the Grove were regarded by his people as demigods, who blessed the night elves with their divine presence. When one died, it was a matter taken very seriously. Eilassyn had approached the Circle of Ancients with complaints that Bandalar’s mad quest had cost him not only his own life but the life of her sister dryad Thelnylla. She surmised that they were fumbling about in the dark, unsure of what they were even battling, or what they expected to gain.

Haiendrion’s account was subject to some scrutiny. The elder druids were taken aback that Norgannon’s Tear had been used for a potion to be imbibed by a mere neophyte, and doubted that he lacked the clarity and discipline to discern what truly unfolded within the Dream.

The Nightmare, the Circle admitted, was a palpable threat, but they concluded that Bandalar had been pursuing a dead end, and ordered the quest dissolved. Eilassyn returned to Forest Song, and Norrund traveled south. Haiendrion was told that if he wished to return to his studies under Maldryn, he had left for Stormwind as part of a project to establish a moonwell there.

Haiendrion did not leave for the East. He wasn’t willing to let Thelnylla and Bandalar die in vain.

He checked the parchment in his hand to no avail. An address was such a foreign concept to him, which had forced him to check the hanging signs for the Sentinel Bunkhouse. Among the more annoying facets of Darnassus was that most of the text on these signs was in Common, the language of the humans, as it was much more widely known than the Darnassian of the night elves. While Haiendrion could speak Common enough to have a conversation, he couldn’t read it very well.

After two hours of wandering the treetop city, he began to lose hope of finding it on his own. He was hoping to keep a low profile, and so was limiting his contact with others to only the barest of essentials. He didn’t know what the Circle of Ancients would do if they found out he was still pursuing Bandalar’s crusade, and he wished to risk nothing. But he was at the end of his rope, and daybreak was upon him.

Haiendrion approached one of the tall sentinels standing guard throughout the city. In an effort to mimic the aesthetics of their new allies, the posted sentinels stood bolt upright, their glaives uniformly at their sides. This one was of dark complexion, nearly as dark as Haiendrion, and her wild green hair framed her face like a thicket of thorns.

“Ishnu alah,” he greeted.

“Elune adorei, friend,” she replied with a professional nod.

“Might you direct me to the Sentinel bunker in the city?”

The sentinel raised an eyebrow, and with the subtlest hint of a smirk, eyed him up and down. “Looking to enlist?”

Haiendrion shifted his tunic uncomfortably. “Not quite. I seek one in their number.”

“Oh? Who?”

Haiendrion paused, carefully. “I would prefer not to say.”

The sentinel’s grin widened. “It is not far, actually. Follow this road past the inn. You shall know it by the many rickshaws outside. The barracks are on the upper floor of the building right next to it.”

Haiendrion’s spirits lightened, slightly. “Thank you, friend.” He turned and walked along the path, his feet still unused to the feel of cobbled stone.

“Not at all,” she replied with a coy nod. She added, raising her voice so he could hear her as he departed. “A word of warning: we Sentinels are vigorous lovers! Mind you are not broken in half!”

Haiendrion’s cheeks flushed a deep violet and he quickened his pace.

Though the night elves were, appropriately, nocturnal, their allies were largely not. The inn was recognizable by, if nothing else, the plethora of mounts tied to the lashing posts outside. A young elven boy was tending them idly. He nodded a friendly greeting to Haiendrion as he passed, which the novice returned. Beyond the inn was an open concept building, where Haiendrion spotted several sentinels undressing, settling in for dawn, on the second and upper levels. There was a bridge across the road which connected to a ramp on the building there. Several rope ladders were suspended from the upper floor on his side of the street. Sitting next to the nearest was a tall, lean night elf, in full sentinel armour, a metal helm made in the likeness of owl feathers fastened to her turquoise hair, tied in a long tail that draped about her neck. On her arm was a large hawk owl, to whom she was feeding chunks of sugared walnuts.

“Ishnu alah,” he called.

The sentinel turned, pausing with the candy, and the owl chirped impatiently. The sentinel rolled her eyes and handed him the piece still in her hand. “Can I assist you?”

“I have business with one of the sentinels,” said Haiendrion. “Could I ascend to the barracks to seek her out?”

The sentinel stood up straighter. The owl chirped for more, but she raised her arm sharply. “That’s all for tonight. Away!” The owl lifted off with a flap of his wings, chirped one last time, and then flew off into the city. The sentinel returned her attention to Haiendrion. “Visits are restricted to working hours. My sisters need their rest, and I’m afraid I can’t allow them to be disturbed.”

Haiendrion sighed. “Sentinel, if you permit me, dawn is not yet upon us, and by the sound of it, the sentinels have not quite settled in yet. I’ve come a long way, and time is of the essence.”

“Warden,” she corrected gently. “If you wish to address me by rank. I am Warden Ravella. And I am afraid I can make no exceptions. If you were to give me a message for her I could deliver it myself. Perhaps she could come out to meet you. Who is it you seek?”

Haiendrion hesitated. “With no ill respect, Warden Ravella, I do not have that liberty. I wish to keep my presence and actions here as... discrete as possible.”

Ravella removed the heavy falconer’s gauntlet from her and shrugged. “With no ill respect, friend, if time is of the essence, you shall have to trust somebody. I hear in your voice and see in your eyes that this is no flippant matter you pursue here tonight, and truly, I will help you however I can. But as you feel bound to your duty I am bound to mine, and I cannot allow you free access to these barracks.”

Haiendrion glanced up the ladder before turning back to Ravella. “I seek Thyn’tel Bladeweaver. Tell her it regards her former partner, Vertiga Valerunner.”

Ravella waved at him to stop. “I know Thyn’tel, she’s not here.”

Before she could continue, Haiendrion heaved a disheartened sigh. “Then I came all this way for nothing...”

“No no no, she’s in Darnassus, just not at this bunkhouse.” She paused.  “You’ve... you’re not familiar with her, are you?”

Haiendrion hesitated. “She does not know me, no. But I am close to an old friend of hers. How could you tell?”

“Well, she’s one of the district commanders in Darnassus. Most citizens in the city know of her, or would know where she could be found.”

His quest wasn’t unfurling quite as he had foreseen. “I see... where would that be?”

“She commands the guardians of the city gates that lead to the rest of Teldrassil. Since Darnassus began receiving such large numbers of our diurnal allies, the commanders have shifted to working during the day, so you’re likely to find her just coming on duty now.”

Haiendrion smiled. Finally, some luck. “You have my many thanks, Warden Ravella. If there is any way I can repay you for your kindness...”

Ravella laughed quietly. “I am a Sentinel. Service is its own reward.”

Haiendrion nodded. “That, Warden, I understand.”

The gatehouse of Darnassus was just as imposing as the rest of the city, but perhaps moreso by the full garrison of sentinels patrolling. By the time Haiendrion had reached it, the sky blazed golden above the trees of Teldrassil to the east. Looking out into the new World Tree, Haiendrion saw what he had come to expect from night elves: expansive forests, a few huts here and there, and the closest thing to a road they had was a path heavily trodden by sabre cats.

The sentinels at the gatehouse seemed to look out into the forest and see the same thing, for here there was no rigid standing at attention, and even though they were just coming on shift, during the day, no less, they looked much more in their element than had any of the other city guards he had passed during his journey there. A pair of them laughed uproariously at each other as he approached them, one, Haiendrion guessed, having just told the other an amusing story. They were still wiping the tears from their eyes when they greeted him.

“Ishnu alah,” said the shorter of the two, between staggered giggles.

“Elune adorei, Sisters,” he returned with a nod. “I have business with Thyn’tel Bladeweaver. Is she in?”

The shorter shook her head. “No, she’s out on her opening patrol.”

The other tapped her on the shoulder. “I saw her come back some minutes ago.”

“Ah. Is she expecting you?” asked the first.

“No,” Haiendrion replied quickly, “is this a problem?”

The sentinel shrugged, and turned, pointing upwards. “Her office is at the top of the gatehouse. If she does not wish to see you, then I suppose we’ll know soon enough.”

Haiendrion nodded and climbed the steps up the gatehouse. As he ascended, his altitude allowed him a better view of both the forests before him and the city behind him. The marble columns of Darnassus gleamed in the sunlight, and what was visible of the lake in the centre of the city glittered most brilliantly. It was all very magnificent, but it was not a magnificence of the night elves. The forests of Teldrassil, meanwhile, filtered the sunlight into a warm, shadowy mauve. The sounds that came from there were not the shouts and chatter and clamour of civilization, but serene birdsongs, winds through leaves, water over stones.

Were there truly elves who felt more at home in Darnassus than out in the wilds?

Haiendrion passed several pairs of sentinels on his way up the gatehouse, but the doorway at the very top was unguarded. He knocked on the empty doorframe as he rounded the corner.

Two sentinels were conversing. The taller of the two, her pink face decorated with slim, sharp, violet facepaint, turned to him and held up a hand. “Just a moment, please,” then returned to her colleague. They spoke in hushed tones a few minutes more, and then the other departed with a quick salute.

As she passed Haiendrion, he stood up straight and bowed slightly. “Ishnu alah, Sentinel Bladeweaver.”

“And you...” she paused.

“Haiendrion,” he volunteered, stepping forward.

Thyn’tel’s office was wide and open. A flag bearing the crest of the Sentinels was on one wall, and a low table set with a tea set was beneath it. On her desk was a large map of Teldrassil, and a globe of Azeroth. Behind her, there was no wall, but merely a low rail, and the lush forest beyond.

“Ishnu del dieb, Haiendrion,” Thyn’tel reaches across her desk and shook his hand. “I do not see many elves your age out and about during the day, even during these...” she searched for a word, “trying times. What brings you before me?”

Haiendrion paused, not sure how to carry on. “I’ve been sent to see you. I was told that you would know what to do when I found you.”

Thyn’tel frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name Haiendrion before. Who was it that sent you?”

“Vertiga Valerunner.”

Thyn’tel snapped her head to him, her eyes burning with sudden rage. “I have no knowledge of this sick joke, but I assure you we hold the sisters we lose in battle in the highest regard. Time has not changed that, and will never change that.” Haiendrion tried to speak, but she pointed past him, out the door. “Take steps to ensure that I never see you again. This is your only warning.”

Haiendrion held up his hands. “Bladeweaver, please! I don’t know what happened to her. That’s why I’ve come. Please, just let me explain! If you still wish to throw me from your city, then so be it. I’ll not set foot in Teldrassil again.” He grew more resolute. “But I’ve come too far and lost too much to simply be turned away by a harsh tongue.”

Thyn’tel remained pointing, closed lips pursed over clenched teeth, for a moment, before she dropped her arm. “Speak. And speak quickly.”

“Sentinel, for some time my dreams have been haunted by a woman battling an army of shadows. The Keeper Bandalar suspected that this was a vision of some portent, and I was sedated and put into the Emerald Dream to discern it. I found this woman, and I fought alongside her, for a time, against a mad dryad called Sindrathel - a servant of a growing Nightmare within the Dream. The warrior told me her name was Vertiga Valerunner, and she told me of you, and asked me to seek you out. But the creatures pressed harder, and drove me away. I was lucky to escape at all, and only with the help of a green dragon whelp.”

Thyn’tel turned away from him. She folded her arms across her chest, and stared out into Teldrassil.

Haiendrion stood looking at the back of her head in silence for several minutes. “Sentinel?”

She took a deep breath through her nose, then turned with a sigh. “Have a seat.” She held her arm out to the table at the other end of the room. Haiendrion walked over and sat down on one of the rugs laid out beside it, his back supported by a sturdy cushion. Thyn’tel, however, remained where she was.

“Is any of this making sense to you, Bladeweaver?” Haiendrion ventured quietly.

She did not reply, at first, but finally she walked over, and, unslinging the glaive strapped to her back, sat down across from him. It was then that he noticed tears had streaked the meticulous facepaint.

“Perhaps,” she answered. She shook her head. “I heard news of Bandalar’s death, but not the cause. Are you and Vertiga at the centre of this?”

He nodded. “Sindrathel’s agents attacked him while he watched over me. We also lost the dryad Thelnylla, one of Bandalar’s attendants, on an earlier portion of the quest.”

Thyn’tel wiped the tears from her face, and coughed. “I had thought we had put this to rest long ago. If what you say is true, then... Gods, I abandoned Vertiga to her fate. If what you say is true, then she has been locked in that hell for nearly a thousand years.”

Haiendrion watched her intently. “What happened?”

Ashenvale was much different, then.

The veil the druids had placed on the northlands of Kalimdor made the daytime feel like twilight. The nights were lush with invigorating starlight, and the winds from the north carried no foul scent of corruption. The Long Vigil was a long, lonely time for the Sentinels, but when Elune’s iridescent smile graced the night skies, we felt hope raise in our tired hearts.

I was a huntress, then. Threats to the World Tree were frequent, but usually minor. Satyrs, mostly. The furbolgs were, then, our staunch allies, not enthralled in the madness that now claims them. Cenarius’ fair children, and even the demigod himself, were common - if wondrous - sights. I was joined by my frostsabre companion, Shy’vaxin, and my hawk owl, Talonsage. We patrolled around one of the moonwells west of Dor’danil. It was destroyed in the war with the orcs, but back then, there were no orcs there. We’d not even heard of them before. Gods, it was such a different world, then.

But I was different, then, too.

I had been part of a larger standing force in Astranaar, but was transferred to the east and paired with Vertiga Valerunner. It took some adjusting for both of us, and for the first few months we were at each other’s throats half the time. But soon we found our rhythm, and discovered our skills quite complementary of each others’. She was amongst the first archers to be trained by the Keepers to ride hippogryphs into battle. Hers was a fiesty hippogryph called Grapplewind. I can’t say I ever got along with him but they had a rapport with each other most hippogryph riders only dream of. Our generals knew it, too. They offered her promotion after promotion over the Long Vigil. She would never accept them, though. Not if it meant abandoning the front lines, where she thrived. We were a great team; our little family. Vertiga would scout from the air and Talonsage would relay messages between us. I would enter battle from the ground and Vertiga harassed our foes with air support. Of course with only the two of us, we could only handle small numbers. Larger threats required us to send for reinforcements, but we were effective. And happy.

I wish I could forget the last night I saw her.

Shy’vaxin had been injured the week earlier; her tendon had been ripped when we crossed paths with a wandering bear. A priestess had largely repaired it, but Shy’vaxin’s leg was still quite tender, so we had to take it slow. Vertiga did most of the legwork, so to speak, while Shy’vaxin and I largely stayed on the trodden paths and waited for reports from her. It had been a quiet night, until Talonsage returned to me. The small scroll fastened to his leg could only hold so much, so cryptic messages were to be expected. This one read: “Meet in southern rise. Be careful.”

Shy’vaxin wasn’t too happy having to enter into the more mountainous terrain, but I knew Vertiga wouldn’t have sent for me if it didn’t deserve our attention.

It took about twice as long with Shy’vaxin’s bad leg to reach the southern rise of Ashenvale. We met there occasionally to scout out the terrain, as the plateaus were useful vantage points accessible to both of us. When I reached a clearing that afforded such an option, it wasn’t long before Vertiga descended.

Grapplewing’s feathers were a stunning blue. Vertiga bounded off with a grunt when he was still five feet from the ground. I had seen hippogryphs frequently enough, and of course Grapplewind himself on a regular basis, but he never failed to amaze me with his austere grace.

Vertiga greeted me with a pleasant nod before getting down to business. She unclipped her spyglass from her belt and extended it.

“I noticed some strange activity at the Ravenoak moonwell,” she reported. “I’m not completely sure what to make of it.”

Shy’vaxin had been understandably difficult on the ride up so I was in something of a foul mood. “Couldn’t you have taken a closer look yourself?” I said as I took the spyglass from her.

“I tried,” she replied. “But when I went to set down, Grapplewind started going into a frenzy.”

While this was unusual, I was still irritable. “I went hours out of my way because Grapplewind’s feeling temperamental,” I mused.

Vertiga rolled her eyes. “Just take a look.”

I looked through the spyglass and searched about for a moment until I came upon the Ravenoak moonwell, immediately recognizable by the statue of Aviana built to overshadow it. The statue was unusual for depictions of the goddess. Usually her wings are extended, her face fully visible, but in the case of this particular sculpting, her wings were cloaked about her body, and a deep hood hid her face completely. The first thing I noticed was that the statue had toppled over, and laid broken in three large pieces on the ground.

“This isn’t about the broken statue...” I almost warned her.

“No, Thyn’tel,” said Vertiga flatly. “The well itself.”

I looked again and saw that the well, which usually shone a pale blue, was now a dull green. The water level was down, and what looked like roots or vines appeared to be growing out of it, latched onto the stonework that surrounded the well.

“That is odd,” I forgot my impatience and looked around the well for anything else.

“Is the dryad still there?” asked Vertiga.

“Dryad?” I looked up at her. “Well, perhaps it’s some ritual of the Keepers.”

“No, this dryad looked... strange,” said Vertiga. “I’d never seen one like her, before.”

“Wait, perhaps...” I saw a dark, thick figure enter the scene. It was obscured by some of the trees, but after a moment it revealed itself. “A satyr!”

I stood upright, handing the spyglass back to Vertiga. She took it, her eyes wide, and peered through. “Well, now there’s no question there’s something amiss there.”

“If it’s just the one satyr we shouldn’t have any trouble with him,” I reasoned. “Though this dryad...”

“Maybe it was a trick of the light,” said Vertiga with a shrug. “I only saw her through the spyglass, though I could have sworn she was there. But dryads working with satyrs?”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it, before,” I said. “Perhaps he bewitched her, somehow?”

“But dryads are immune to magic,” Vertiga countered. “It should be impossible.”

She nodded. “We should get moving. If this is some sort of ritual time may be of the essence.” She glanced, hesitating, at Shy’vaxin, who was licking the bandage about her leg. “Perhaps you should ride with me. Shy’vaxin can join us at her own pace, and would move quicker without a rider, anyway.”

I sighed. I never liked riding Grapplewind but Vertiga was right. Shy’vaxin would’ve taken hours to make it there with me, and if the satyr had some spell in the making, we couldn’t risk giving him time to complete it.

I agreed with a nod. “Shy’vaxin!” I called to her, and she immediately looked up. “Follow us to the Ravenoak moonwell. I’ll ride with Vertiga. Make all haste!”

Shy’vaxin immediately arose and began running, with a slight limp, down into the forests.

Vertiga helped me onto Grapplewind, who grunted an annoyed squawk, and then she climbed on in front of me. I unslung by shield from my back and hooked it onto Grapplewind’s saddle, then put my arms around Vertiga’s midsection and hugged her close. She made sure her glaives were secure in their sheathes on the saddle, then flicked her reins.

Grapplewind made a running dash to the edge of the plateau and vaulted into the air just as we reached the edge. Vertiga’s hair fanned about my face, and I felt a stray lock between my teeth like a grain of sand. I pressed my cheek to her back, against her cloak, and watched the treetops whip past us.

The Ravenoak moonwell was one of the more remote moonwells in the area. There were no paths to or from it, and few sisters ever worshipped there. It was used, if at all, by the dryads and Keepers instead. It rested in a clearing in an otherwise dense region of the forest. By the time we reached it, the satyr had gone. Grapplewind circled the clearing.

“We should wait for him,” Vertiga muttered. “We don’t want to walk into a surprise attack.”

I was eager to descend, however. “Shouldn’t we try to disrupt the ritual, somehow?”

Suddenly, Vertiga shot out her arm, pointing. “Look! The dryad!”

Following her gaze, I saw a dark figure enter the clearing from the forest. From the distance we were at, and with the shadows of the forest and the green glow from the tainted well, it was impossible to truly discern what she looked like. But I immediately thought she looked... unnatural.

She looked up at us, and appeared to wave her javelin above her head.

“Is she signalling us?” I asked.

Vertiga nodded. “Perhaps she was pursuing the satyr as well, and defeated him while we were approaching.”

As I looked down, my eyes went wide. “Fall back!”

“What?”

She noticed it too late. Vertiga drew a sharp breath, grabbed the reins and wrenched them to the left. Grapplewind turned, but the javelin the dryad had thrown at us sliced through his wing, and my leg. We both cried out. We began to lose altitude fast, and at the shock, I had loosened my grip on Vertiga. Grapplewind struck a tree on the edge of the clearing, snapping branches as we fell, tearing both of us from the saddle and each other. The earth was damp, which cushioned my fall a little, but only a little.

I immediately tried to regain myself, but as I sat up, I saw the dryad gallop up to Grapplewind. He tried to fend her off with his good wing as he scrambled to his feet, but she was too quick for him. She raised her spear high and impaled him through the neck. He let out a hoarse, horrific death knell as he writhed for a moment, before falling limp.

“You monster!” Vertiga sprang to her feet and rushed the dryad as she tried to pull her spear from Grapplewind’s body. Vertiga caught her about her elven torso and both of them fell to the ground. Vertiga stood up first, and was about to attack her again when the satyr burst from the forest and tackled her.

I got a good look at the dryad as she struggled to right herself. She looked like... I don’t even know. Like a simulacrum of rot and disease. The leaves on her hair were dark, withered and limp, slick to her skull. Her skin was a sickly green, the vines about her body were dry and brittle, and her eyes shone, crazy and desperate.

I got up and took the glaive from off my back, but as I stood, the wound in my leg exploded in pain, and I faltered, falling again to one knee. It allowed the dryad time to reach Grapplewind. She tugged on her spear, then put her forelegs on the beast for leverage, finally pulling it free.

She spoke then, and it was unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. It’s the kind of things that could only be invented in nightmares. It had no place in the waking world.

“Contain them, Acherix, while I finish my work,” she commanded, and wheeled about, trotting back towards the moonwell. Looking again, I saw that the green light from beneath its surface had intensified, and the plants growing out of it - leafless, bulbous vines - were slowly snaking out from the well.

“As you command, Sindrathel,” the satyr growled.

I managed to get to my feet again, and limped over to Grapplewind’s corpse. I set my glaive aside, unsheathed Vertiga’s warblades from their holsters, and turned.

“Vertiga!” I shouted, and threw them over to her. They landed one the ground a few yards from her. She reached out, grabbed one of them, and swung it at Acherix.

The satyr avoided it, but it put him off balance, and allowed Vertiga to push him off of her. Once that was done, she rolled over to take up her other warblade. Acherix took the large ax from off his back, held it in both hands, and menaced Vertiga with it.

Sindrathel had immersed herself in the well, the water up to her waist, and she waved her spear over the surface, drops of Grapplewind’s blood dripping into it, and muttering an incantation.

I took my shield up from the saddle and began to approach the moonwell, bracing myself for the pain with every step. Acherix and Vertiga had engaged each other, but Acherix was keeping her largely on the defensive, allowing him to control the fight.

I reared back, and flung my glaive at Sindrathel. The deadly triad of blades spun through the air, but the dryad sidestepped just in time. It ricocheted off the edge of the well and sailed back, allowing me to catch it once more.

Sindrathel glared at me, and continued her motions. “Acherix! Deal with this one, as well!”

The satyr landed a heavy blow against Vertiga, and though she caught it on her blades, it knocked her back a pace, allowing him to turn and run for me.

Vertiga gave chase.

I raised my shield and braced myself for the attack, but I knew with my leg wounded as it was, I wouldn’t be able to take a blow without it giving out entirely. Sure enough, when he swung at my midsection, I caught it on my shield, but the impact forced me to my knee with a yelp.

Vertiga ignored us both and charged Sindrathel with a howl of rage. The dryad stuck out her spear, hoping to catch Vertiga on her approach, but she swatted the spear aside and leapt at her, catching Sindrathel’s neck in her elbow, and pulling her down into the moonwell with a splash.

At the sound, Acherix looked over to them. “Mistress?” he called. It wasn’t an opportunity I was apt to pass up. With a defiant cry, I swung my glaive at him, and cut two swathes across his chest. He roared and gurgled, put his hands to the wound, and backed away from me. I limped towards the moonwell.

Sindrathel and Vertiga were fighting in the waste-deep, undulating pool, each motion stirring the waters further.

The dryad shrieked. It was a terrifying sound. “You’ll ruin everything, you short-sighted ignorants!” She thrust her spear forward. Vertiga parried it away. Sindrathel reared up in the pool and batted at Vertiga with her forelegs, kicking her in the chest. Vertiga fell back into the water, and Sindrathel reared about.

“Acherix, to me!”

I looked behind, to the satyr. He was holding his gashes, bleeding openly. He would die, eventually, but his wounds could be easily tended to. He hesitated at my gaze, then turned and ran off into the forest.

“Acherix!” Sindrathel shrieked, but the satyr made no response and no move to aid her. “Acherix! Our work is not done!”

Vertiga burst up from the surface of the moonwell, and leapt onto Sindrathel’s cervine back. She was without her blades, having lost them in the pool, but she grappled Sindrathel’s neck from behind. “Oh yes it is!”

Sindrathel cried out and tried to wrest Vertiga’s arms from about her neck and bucking her off.

Now at the edge of the moonwell, I beheld the slow, snaking vines issuing from within. I began to hack at them with my glaive. The vines shuddered at my strikes, and bled a thick, black-brown ichor that smelled of ancient putresence, more of rotten flesh than plant. When I cut through the vine all the way, the stump writhed about, and withdrew into the well’s murky waters.

I glanced at Vertiga and Sindrathel as I moved on to the next vine. Sindrathel saw what I was doing, and she renewed her struggle. With more certainty, I assaulted the next vine, then the next. As I continued, the waters began to churn more and more violently. Sindrathel managed to slide the butt end of her spear up through Vertiga’s arms, then levered her off, breaking Vertiga’s grasp, and bucked her back into the water. Sindrathel waded as quickly as she could to me.

Sindrathel raised her spear, and was about to strike me down when, with a screech, a mass of angry feathers descended upon her. Talonsage dove for her face, clawing away fervently. I continued my work on the vines, assured now that they were integral to Sindrathel’s schemes. Sindrathel let out a cry, and skewered Talonsage through the breast, then turned the weapon on me.

Vertiga saved me once more. She tackled Sindrathel and knocked her into the pool just as I finished hacking away at the final vine. The moment I cut through, the waters of the moonwell exploded in fury, and began spinning in a violent whirlpool. I looked into the waters and saw a reflection of everything. Of the sky, of the forest, but everything was a... a dark mirror of itself. The trees were yellowed and withered, the sky was full of noxious clouds, and where Vertiga and I should have stood, there were dark, shifting shadows. I peered into mine, and... it was as if I saw everything flawed and weak throughout me consuming my whole. I cannot explain it in words alone. All I can say is that it was the most terrifying vision I ever beheld - and it haunts my most secret nightmares to this day.

Vertiga had arisen, and she sensed, as I did, the darkness beneath the surface of the moonwell. She fought the whirlpool, trying to reach the edge. I leaned forward, and reached out my hand to her. I was... afraid to enter. For a time after I told myself that it was the injury to my leg that prevented me but in truth I could have gone in. But that image - that false reflection of myself - it had disturbed me, had shaken me. I was afraid I would lose myself to it if I entered the well.

Vertiga reached out her hand to mine. I felt her fingertips dancing about my own.

Sindrathel burst from the surface. She reared up on her hind legs, and swung out her spear, batting me across the face with the butt end, and bringing it around to throttle Vertiga from behind. I was knocked from the edge of the well to the ground.

“You’ve cost me everything, you meddlesome beast!” Sindrathel hissed into Vertiga’s ear, as the swirling pool reached its tumult. “You shall share my fate!”

With that, the mad dryad threw herself beneath the surface, and took Vertiga with her. I scrambled to my feet, and ran to the edge of the pool as fast as my game leg could carry me. But just as I reached the edge, and caught a sparse glimpse of my shadowed self once again, the pool flashed a bright, acid green and exploded. I closed my eyes, and was thrown back as water and sludge splashed across my face.

All was quiet, then. Not even the birds and bugs had remained. I stood, and saw nothing but a few stray wisps of smoke rising from an empty moonwell.

Thyn’tel wiped another tear from her face. “Shy’vaxin found me about a half hour later, nearly dead from exhaustion. She took me back to Dor’danil, where the druids tended me. They investigated the moonwell once I told them what had happened. They told me that Sindrathel had been in the retinue of Califax, the Keeper of the Grove who joined the Watchers in the Barrow Deeps. She had left his side to wander the Emerald Dream, and had never returned. The Dream is vast, though, so they had thought nothing of it. After looking over the well, they still didn’t know what had happened. Why she had been so corrupted nor what she was trying to do. We searched the forest for Acherix for some time but we never found him. Sindrathel was presumed dead.” She sighed. “So was Vertiga.”

Hainedrion bowed his head.

“The druids had no leads, there was no trace of either of them... If there had been... If I had had any reason to think she was still alive, somewhere, I would have never stopped searching for her.”

“You couldn’t have known...” said Haiendrion quietly.

“Then why did you?” asked Thyn’tel. “I dreamed of that night for centuries after. Maybe she was trying to tell me something and I... I just didn’t know how to listen.”

Haiendrion was silent.

Thyn’tel stood. “But that doesn’t matter, now. Not if we have a chance to save her. We can take this to the Cenarion Enclave, and they’re sure to...”

“The Circle of Ancients shut this down,” Haiendrion interjected, shaking his head. “After Bandalar’s death, his retinue brought our quest before them. They commanded I put a stop to it.”

Thyn’tel’s eyes went wide. “That’s preposterous! Did you tell them all you told me?”

“And more,” he nodded. “They deemed we had lost too much already with nothing to show for it, and that an account of a novice’s journeys through the Emerald Dream could not be trusted.”

“Did they launch their own investigation?” asked Thyn’tel.

“I’m not sure. It didn’t sound like it.”

Thyn’tel grunted with frustration and kicked a cushion against the wall. “Elune damn that Fandral! He pays no heed to problems that don’t suit him. Particularly when dragons are involved.”

“I’ve been operating outside their authority since they ordered me to stop.They think I’ve travelled to the East to return to my first shan’do. I kept as low a profile as I could once I came to Darnassus. I don’t know if they’ll take steps to put me in line if they found out, but... it was a risk I couldn’t take.”

Thyn’tel nodded. “That was most prudent.” She paced back and forth.

“I don’t know what else to do, though,” Haiendrion admitted. “I thought perhaps you would. I should add that any help you give me will likely put you in poor standing with the Circle of Ancients.”

Thyn’tel waved the comment aside flippantly, crossing her arms. “My first instinct is to return to Dor’danil, to see if they know anything. But the druids turned up nothing a thousand years ago, and word would surely get back to the Circle of our movements. We could renew our search for Acherix, perhaps interrogate him, if he still lives.”

“He doesn’t,” Haiendrion shook his head. “He attacked us atop Mazthoril. He killed Thelnylla, and I killed him.”

Thyn’tel paused, raising an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

Haiendrion sighed. “Terrifying.”

“Are there any sympathizers of Bandalar? Friends of his you encountered while you studied with him?”

The druid shook his head. “I wasn’t with him for very long, and his retinue resent me for my part in his demise. We could ask throughout the Keepers but the Circle would be sure to get wind.”

“Then there’s only one thing to do,” said Thyn’tel. “We’ll have to make contact with the green dragonflight.”

“An easy enough task to speak of,” said Haiendrion, “but the greens have become quite aloof, of late. And until the business between Fandral and Remulos is resolved...”

“What about the whelp?” asked Thyn’tel. “You mentioned you encountered one in the Emerald Dream.”

“Yes; Oneiriaz,” Haiendrion nodded. “It was he who first reached out to Bandalar, posing as his father Emeriss. He led him to me. He led me down from the peak of Mazthoril and held Sindrathel off as I escaped. He’s saved me, twice. But the last one may have cost him his life.”

“All we can do, then, is hope and pray that it hasn’t.” Thyn’tel turned, and walked back to her desk, and opened one of her logbooks.

Haiendrion hoisted himself to his feet. “I do, obviously. But how would that help us reach Vertiga?”

“It might not,” Thyn’tel admitted. “But it’s a place to start from.” She plucked her thin quill from its ink and began to scribble something down on a blank page. “How quickly can you leave the city?” she asked, returning the quill and tearing the page from her logbook.

Haiendrion gestured to the rucksack about his back. “I have everything I came with.”

“Good,” said Thyn’tel, folding the letter and sealing it with wax. “We’ve got a lot to do.”