Although a thick mist enshrouded the night sky, the storm crow soared through the air with a swiftness that suggested familiarity with its surroundings. Lightning flashed some distance further out at sea, and the bird took advantage of the momentary illumination to search for some sign of the island.

Suddenly, the lone traveler was forced to brace itself against an oddly cold gust of wind that seemed determined to drive him back, as if warning that only a fool would continue on. But continue the storm crow did, struggling hard against the icy current. It sensed that it was very near its goal.

And, in fact, as if curtains parting, the mists finally gave way. The island came into view at last, dwarfed beneath that for which it was both known and named. From a distance, those who beheld the great sight for the first time might have thought they were viewing some grand mountain with sides markedly perpendicular and rising so high that the clouds themselves were forced to gaze up at its majesty. But if they were able to peer up during daylight and weather far more agreeable than that through which the storm crow flew, they would discover that it was not a mountain at all — or even, perhaps, some great edifice built by hand — but was, in fact, a thing yet more remarkable.

It was a tree.

It filled most of the island, no small patch of ground. In the tree’s very roots lay the port village — called Rut’theran by the night elves who inhabited it. It was clear the island existed purely to house the leviathan for which it was named and for which all knew it.

This was the home of Teldrassil… the second World Tree.

Ten thousand years earlier the original World Tree, Nordrassil, had been raised up on Mount Hyjal after the destruction of the night elves’ original fount of power, the Well of Eternity. Set atop the second Well created through Illidan’s duplicity, Nordrassil had served two purposes. Not only had it been designed to keep others from abusing the magic of the new Well, but also to prevent the second fount’s power from growing too great overtime. Blessed by three of the great Dragon Aspects — Alexstrasza the Life-Binder, Nozdormu the Timeless One, and Ysera the Dreamer — the vast tree had not only watched over Azeroth but been bound to the night elves’ immortality and power.

But less than a decade ago venerable Nordrassil had suffered terrible damage during the titanic struggle against the same demons — the Burning Legion — whose initial invasion had first caused its raising. Its weakened state had left the night elves bereft of much of their vaunted power and, worse, their very immortality.

And though Nordrassil’s roots were slowly regrowing, that immortality had not yet returned.

And so eventually the druids — their apprehensions put at ease by their new leader, Fandral — had raised up Teldrassil, its successor.

The storm crow banked as the tree continued to spread before its gaze. If Teldrassil was not quite as overwhelming as its predecessor had been at its greatest majesty, none could deny that the new World Tree was a wonder of the world, a phenomenal nurturing of nature through the world of Azeroth’s own magic as wielded by the druids. The width and breadth of Teldrassil’s trunk were vaster than some lands. Yet, incredible as that was, it compared little to its massive, green crown, which seemed to spread along the horizon forever.

Something briefly caught the avian’s attention, and it cocked its head slightly to observe it. Within the huge boughs, the storm crow sighted movement among what appeared to be not only one stone structure, but several. Indeed, protruding above the branches were the tops of several buildings.

As the flyer soared on, other smaller settlements whirred by.

Even a lake momentarily glimmered among the leaves, so wide and furrowed were the gargantuan branches. And well ahead there jutted the tip of a mountain.

The storm crow approached the higher branches. There it glimpsed another wonder atop the highest of the great boughs.

From that shadowed wonder came illumination not only in the form of torchlight, but also what appeared to be bits of living moonlight.

The magnificent city of Darnassus, capital of the tree-dwelling race, beckoned. Even from a distance, it was clear that Darnassus rivaled fabled places such as the humans’ Stormwind City or the orcs’ Orgrimmar.

The World Tree collected enough dew to create and feed many rivers, streams, and lakes among its boughs — one of the last so wide that part of Darnassus had been itself raised up on it. The night elves further manipulated the waters here to maintain the splendor of the Temple Gardens and the stunning waterway coursing through their city. Further north and on the other side of the water, the druids had set up their own sanctum, the woodlandshrouded Cenarion Enclave.

But the bird veered away, not just from Darnassus, but from the rest of the incredible cities nestled atop the crown. Inviting though the sight was, the storm crow’s destination was far below.

The huge avian dropped until only a dozen yards or so from the dirt, then, with innate ability, arched its wings to slow its descent. It extended its talons out as it prepared to land.

Just before the storm crow touched ground, it swelled in size, in only a single breath growing to a height greater than any human. Its legs and talons shifted form, the former becoming thicker and longer and the latter now turning into feet that were sandaled. At the same time, each of the wings melded and stretched and fingers blossomed. The feathers vanished, replaced by thick hair of forest green that was bound tight in the back and flowed down in the front in a lush beard that extended to what was now a cloaked chest.

The beak had receded into the face, becoming a separate and stillprominent nose and a broad mouth bent into what was almost a perpetual frown. Ebony feathers had given way to flesh of a dark violet hue that marked the shapeshifter as of the race that lived in this land and above it.

Broll Bearmantle, being a night elf, looked much akin to most druids. True, he was brawnier and seemed much more like a warrior than the others. His less-than-peaceful, troubled existence gave him fuller, more weathered features, but he still passed among his fellow druids as close kin to any of them.

He peered around. There were no immediate signs of other druids, though he sensed them near. That suited him. He had wanted a moment of solitude before joining the others.

There were many thoughts swirling around his head, most of them concerning his shan’do, his teacher. Each time Broll came back to Teldrassil, the broad-shouldered night elf thought of his shan’do, knowing that without him, he would not be who he was — even if Broll considered himself a sorry excuse for a druid. In fact… none of those gathering for this sudden convocation, not even Fandral, would be here at all if not for the legendary Malfurion Stormrage.

Malfurion had not merely been their leader; he had been the first of Azeroth’s mortal druids, trained in his calling by the demigod Cenarius himself. The woodland deity had seen in the then-young night elf a unique quality, a unique link to the world, and had nurtured it. And before Malfurion’s mystical training had even been completed, he was thrust into that first titanic struggle against the demons and his own traitorous kind… including the night elves’ very queen, Azshara, and her treacherous advisor, Xavius. If not for Malfurion’s efforts, so many believed, Azeroth itself would surely have ceased to exist.

The tales of his extraordinary feats stretched through time.

Malfurion had sacrificed the considerable centuries of his life for the sake of his world and his people over and over. When others had fallen, he had taken up their battles and added them to his own.