Under the Boughs of Aldrassil

Shadowglen does not hurry. The great tree Aldrassil has been listening to young night elves make their first mistakes for longer than most kingdoms have had names, and it is in no rush to be impressed.

Tristan Shadowmane logged into that quiet on the morning after Forever opened, already past the first awkward hours of a druid’s life and standing at level three among the purple ferns. The Balance of Nature was open in front of him: mangy nightsabers and thistle boars grown too thick on a wet spring, the old work Conservator Ilthalaine hands every young elf who thinks the forest owes them a gentle introduction.

He killed a thistle boar. The chronicler will not dress that up. Then the strength of the wild settled into him, and a soft column of gold light rose under the boughs. Level four. Seventeen minutes. No copper earned, no copper spent, no quest turned in, and a list that still wanted six more boars and a handful of sabers before Ilthalaine would call the morning honest.

He logged out in Shadowglen with the work half-done and the tree still waiting.

The chronicler has seen longer first pages. He has rarely seen a cleaner one. The rest of Tristan’s story is still in the roots. That is for another morning.