At this time of morning, Nighthaven was usually still. Fairly late for those of nocturnal leanings, and those who mingle in the day had yet to rouse. The only disturbance in the glade’s perpetual twilight was a large, and ambling grey yak, who could not decide whether grazing or sleeping was more important. The creature’s presence here was a mystery with two possible solutions. His aimless wandering could have mean the absence of one, as he would have been by the druid’s side. Though how he lingered so close to the town itself suggested it might be the arrival of someone entirely different…
Though the yak was not the only one who stirred. Not so many miles away, a great owl stretched his wings over the ridges and peaks that separated the druid haven from the towering Hyjal. It was as he had done almost every night prior. His keen eyes drank in the faint moonlight with earnest. They flit over flames that flickered, honing on their form. Every detail was etched into his mind.
The land here was wounded. The burn still ached, and he could feel it within himself. It was as if the layer of new skin had formed, but it left the wound sore, and tight. Every silent flap of his large wings drew him closer to the Spire, and with every beat the pain began to nag. He felt it in his chest, beginning to sear. The druid breathed, and closed his eyes. The wind beneath him was soothing, and he cooed to it softly, as if to ease the scorched earth beneath him. It listened, and was grateful.
The moment the owl opened his eyes once more, they locked on a surge of flame. In that moment, their minds became one in a link that was so unintentional it was shocking. And the shock was enough for the bird to falter, and the flame to flicker in great surprise. The flame was a cat. A fire cat, and it was looking right at him. Though the face became one with which he was familiar, but had not seen in some time. It was contorted in rage. No… Pain.
D’Arsano felt his heart burn. It burned with an agonizing feeling of betrayal and rage, a pain that became physical. The thin air housed the screech that came from his beak, and followed as he fell from the sky. As he spiraled downward, feathers left in ash. His talons outstretched, to break his fall. The druid rolled, his form reverting as he tumbled across the cold, hard ground of the mountains below.
Smoke rose from his body, and his chest burned. Instinctively he pressed his hand to it, and the heat of his skin singed his fingertips. With a cry, he pulled away, and stared at his palm with great confusion. There was no wound, no burn, nothing. Not on his hand or is chest. The smoke and steam began to fade, and the burning began to ebb. D’Arsano heaved as he fought to regain his breath. It was only then he noticed the sweat that had coated his body.
The connection had been broken the moment he hit the ground, however its effect proved to be lasting. And it only served to remind him that he wouldn’t be able to, and that he couldn’t save everything… or everyone
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