Ashen ground made rich soil for the pines of Hyjal to heal. The druids of the Circle sprouted trees that matured in weeks and now loomed tall and bold against the pathways of the twisting mountain. Yet despite their dark needles and the shadows they cast there was nothing ominous about them. This forest was a place of life, of regeneration, and it was lit generously by the bright and peaceful light of Elune.

At the peak of Winter Veil Harrowheart hadn’t expected to see so many other travelers here. Most people would be at home, he’d wagered. They’d be spending time with their own families, with the people that mattered most to them. Wouldn’t they?

Apparently not. He was here, after all, and by that same logic so were a dozen or more other worgen. Unexpected, to say the least. He’d had it in his mind that the shrine of Goldrinn would be a place of quiet majesty, a place for him and him alone to meet the spirit of the ghost wolf himself. This was supposed to be a place of life-shattering revelations! Of spiritual encounters! But here it was, only a simple marble statue of a wolf at whose paws sat heaps of offerings and a pack of the desperate.

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