Silvertip Mountain under thunder’s bruised and snarling sky

there was something primordial that beckoned him to the mountain. little did he know, but the blood that flowed through him – that blood that he shared with his father – had been born of the great rugged stone. when he had left the plateau, the boy had felt a fleeting hint of guilt for leaving the wolves behind. he knew liri would worry that he was leaving. illidan did not plan to be gone for long; he just needed to get away to breathe.

the young feral had raced through the stretch of fading green, feeling the brisk wind beat against his coat. though he did not know the harsh chill of a winter storm, something in him knew that it was coming. it wouldn't be long before they would be surrounded in a blanket of white. the prey would be harder to find then, but he was not aware of the trials that came with colder weather.

once he reached the bottom of the mountain, illidan cast his muzzle upward and gazed at the looming rocky feature that seemed to sprout from the earth itself. he was impressed by the magnitude of it. of all the natural formations that he had been privy to, the mountains lured him in ways he could not explain.