It is a call, unimpeded by the road a person has walked, or the blood in their veins. It can be ignored, but it cannot be denied—those it seeks will hear it ringing in their ears no matter where they roam in the world. It beckons and welcomes, urging to its chosen like a mother's cry. “Come home,” it says. “Follow...listen...breathe...believe.” Its as if Creation itself woke from a long held slumber and opened the gates of an Eden to Azeroth.
To those heeding the voice in their soul, their feet carry them near, far, across soil and water and sand. Beyond crumbling mountains, in the shadow of a forest that seems old and worn...As if winter's first breath had arrived far too early...where it seems as if all is dying...But still the call urges them onward in the neverending twilight. The path is almost obscured, unpaved...worn to spongy, moldy earth by dozens of feet, hooves, and paws, but it ascends and doubles back, up the mountain face...and then the breeze comes, lifting the oppressive stench of rot and carrying it away. It carries with it promise, the rich scent of loam and green grass, even the gentle sounds of songbirds in the air.
An archway of wood, almost Kaldorei in design marks the entrance to the unusual caldera in the mountains. As soon as the threshold Is crossed, the magic of the sanctuary breathes upon the visitors. The darkness of the world is washed away, replaced by a cleansing of the spirit and body, a surge of life and vitality. Its like waking up to a new day, or falling into a waking Dream, following the path as it descends into a grove of tranquility. Everywhere there is life, so unlike the horrors of the outside world. Treants and elementals shuffle about, and children from many races scamper about in play--worgen pups, dragon whelps, human, elven, even draenei and troll youngsters paying no heed to the differences in their playmates. Over there, a group of adults sits in quite conversation by a moonwell, the old troll leaning on a staff of petrified wood as he converses with a human in the garb of a priest. A massive panther with midnight blue fur pauses to glance at the arrivals, the glowing amber gaze of a druid in feline shape filled with knowing. On the breeze comes the smell of cooking food, and a squirrel even has the audacity to rummage through pockets and pouches for food before skittering up a nearby tree. So unlike the rotten forest of death beyond its mountainous walls, this thriving sanctuary might have been transplanted from the heart of primordial Kalimdor.
Yet still the call is unanswered, driving feet towards the pale stoned platform at the end of the overgrown, mossy path, and the swirling vortex of emerald light seeming to grow right out of the trunk of a tree the size of a mountain. The eyes of the grove's denizens follow each move, observing, waiting, watchful.
TBC.... (Stupid posting limits.)