For once, they had an actual plan. Their map of Kalimdor had shown a night elf outpost, New Thalanaar, right along their route, on the coast of the flooded Thousand Needles canyon. They’d stop there for the night, inform the night elves of Thalyss Greyoak’s passing, resupply again, and maybe hire a boat to take them across the water to Gadgetzan. Even Makasa thought it a good plan, nodding with satisfaction as Aram folded the map.

But as Wavestrider’s first mate, the odd and cheerful dwarf Durgan One-God, used to say, “We plan. The Life-Binder laughs.”

Now, two days later under a midmorning sun, our quartet stood on a hill overlooking New Thalanaar, having found the outpost under siege. Three contingents of warriors surrounded New Thalanaar on three sides—that is, every side but the side facing the waters of Thousand Needles. Elf sentries and archers manned New Thalanaar’s makeshift battlements, but no arrows were being loosed, at least not currently.

Hackle pointed at the raiders and said, “Grimtotem tribe. Tauren.”

Aram found this nearly incomprehensible. He thought of his friends, the night elf Thalyss Greyoak and the tauren Wuul Breezerider, and saw no reason why night elves and tauren shouldn’t get along famously. He said, “I know the kaldorei are Alliance, and the tauren are Horde, but—”

“Most tauren are Horde, yes,” Hackle said, “but Grimtotem hate Horde.”

“So the Grimtotem joined the Alliance?” Aram asked, more confused than ever.

“No,” Hackle said, sounding bored. Then he knelt down so he could scratch the back of his neck with his hind foot. Eventually, he stopped and added, “Grimtotem hate Alliance. And Grimtotem hate Horde. Grimtotem hate everyone. Grimtotem even hate tauren.”

“Well, that makes it all as clear as mud,” Aram said, frowning. But the frown faded quickly. The wheels were already turning. Without being conscious of it, he took a half step forward.

Makasa grabbed him by the collar, growling out, “Oh, no you don’t!”

“What?” Aram asked, only somewhat disingenuously.

“I can read your mind, brother. See it on your face. You’re thinking you united the gnolls and the yetis. Now, flush with that success, you think you can march down there and broker a peace between night elves and tauren.”

“Is that so impossible?”

“We’ll never know. Because I’m not letting you anywhere near either side, even if I have to hog-tie you to stop you.”

“But—”

“No.”

“You don’t even have any rope,” Aram said mopily.

“I’ll wrap my chain around your neck and drag you away behind me.”

Aram looked at both Murky and Hackle for support, only to find both nodding absently, as if Makasa’s proposal made indisputable sense.

“You will not risk your life and ours on a fool’s errand,” she continued evenly. “You cannot bring peace and palm-apples to all of Azeroth simply because you think that’s the way it ought to be.”

“You wouldn’t say that to our father.”

“Captain Thorne was an idealist. But he was never naïve. Not that naïve, anyway.”

“Makasa—”

“You forget. Malus is likely still after us, and we’ve already lost enough time. There are limits, Aramar, to what even a Thorne can accomplish.”

Aram was trying hard not to sulk as they walked west, some distance out of their way, in order to skirt the raid. They crested a hill and looked down on a very wide stream (or a very thin river) that they could see ran south around New Thalanaar before turning east to feed Thousand Needles just below the outpost. If they remained in the trees on the far side of the stream, they could avoid all the tauren and continue on to Gadgetzan.

But here, that meant fording the rushing water to get to the western side. Aram’s reluctance was palpable—and not caused by any lingering desire to bring peace and palm-apples to elves and tauren. Rather, the water itself made him nervous. In the last month, he had nearly drowned twice. Once, while attempting to swim ashore from the Wavestrider’s dinghy, and once when trying to rescue Murky from a stream (or river) much like this one. Aram felt he didn’t have good luck with water, but he said nothing. He figured he was being, well, silly.

Murky enthusiastically swam across on his back, holding his little spear out of the water, above the flow. Makasa, the tallest of them, followed, carrying the majority of their supplies, including Hackle’s war club, which he had reluctantly relinquished to her. The water was up past her knees, but she was always surefooted. Hackle nodded to Aram, who nodded back, smiling uncomfortably, and waded in. After three steps, the water was practically up to Aram’s waist, but he kept walking forward. The riverbed stones felt slippery under his boots, and once he nearly lost his footing before recovering. He swallowed hard and looked up. His eyes met Makasa’s, and he thought he could see her dawning realization that he was afraid.

She called out, “Take it slow, one step after another!”

He nodded to her and took it slow, one step after another. He glanced back over his shoulder. Hackle had followed Murky’s lead and was swimming—dog-paddling—across. He paused, treading water, waiting for Aram, who was now about halfway to the other side.

Suddenly, Aram thought of the sketchbook in the back pocket of his breeches, which was currently right at the waterline. It was wrapped in oilskin, which had always preserved it before, even when diving off the dinghy or rescuing Murky had completely submerged him. So he continued forward, feeling confident it would survive this, too.

But what of the acorn?!

The Seed of Thalyss was in a leather pouch tied to his belt. It, too, was wrapped in oilskin. But how well wrapped? Thalyss had used his dying breath to warn Aram not to let the fist-size magic acorn get wet. Now, Aram was dragging it through the water. He stopped and reached for the pouch. Then he stopped himself from doing that, too. The pouch was already damp. Either the oilskin was doing its job—or it was already too late. Checking on it now would only risk soaking a seed that was potentially still dry.

Makasa called out again, “One step at a time, Aram!”

He started forward with a new determination to get to the other side and onto dry land—where he could safely check the acorn—as soon as possible. And pretty much instantly, he slipped.

His right foot found no traction and was swept up by the current, the toe of his boot almost clearing the water. He fell backward. Hackle was right there and tried to grab Aram, but buoyed up by his clothes and with no purchase at all on the river-bed, Aram was quickly washed downstream out of Hackle’s reach.

The water was cold, but he’d been in colder. The stream was flowing fast, but he’d fought stronger currents. His head disappeared beneath the waterline a couple of times, but never for very long, and he was always able to surface quickly and grab a breath.

He’d been so afraid of this exact thing that when it wasn’t quite as bad as he’d imagined, he actually gained confidence. The river (or stream) was deeper here: he could no longer touch the bottom with his feet. But he felt certain he’d eventually be able to make it ashore without drowning, so he tried to swim.

He looked back and saw Hackle swimming after him, only ten yards or so behind. He looked toward shore and could see Makasa running alongside, ready to dive in. He couldn’t see Murky at all, and then suddenly, Murky emerged from beneath him. The murloc wrapped one thin but surprisingly strong arm around Aram’s chest and kicked with both webbed feet to propel them toward Makasa.

Within seconds they were stumbling up onto the sand. Hackle followed. Aram coughed a couple of times but mostly just felt embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. Then he thanked Murky and apologized again to all three of his companions.

Murky seemed truly glad to have helped Aram and thanked him—“Mmrgl, mmrgl!”—for providing the opportunity to be of use. Makasa actually patted the little murloc on his head: high praise indeed! She didn’t even wipe his slime off her hand until after his attention had shifted back to Aram.

Hackle shook himself from head to haunch, spraying water everywhere, including all over his three compatriots. It reminded Aram of his dog, Soot, after a swim in the Lakeshire quarry, and brought a smile to his face.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Makasa asked.

“I’m fine, I swear,” he said, while confirming that the compass was still around his neck. Then his thoughts returned to the Seed. He moved farther from the stream (or river) and reached for the soaking-wet pouch, still firmly tied to his belt. “I just want to make sure the acorn didn’t get wet.”

“Stop,” she said. “Your hands are wet.”

He tried to dry them on his breeches, but, of course, they were soaked through.

She grumbled something unintelligible and then turned around and removed the shield from her back. “Use the back of my tunic,” she said with enough distaste for him to notice.

He rubbed his palms and fingers on the dry material, then carefully, cautiously, untied the leather pouch. The crystal shard was there. And the oilskin-wrapped acorn. The oilskin seemed to have done its job. Water beaded on it and slid off as he lifted it up. Carefully, cautiously, he unwrapped the acorn. It was dry. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. All four of them exchanged a smile. Everything’s fine, Aram thought. I didn’t drown. The acorn didn’t get wet. This is just a minor inconvenience. That’s all.

He began to rewrap the Seed in its oilskin. Then somehow—somehow—it started to slip. He bobbled it, trying to hold on. Makasa, Hackle, and Murky all gasped. All four lunged to grab it, but all four missed. And the acorn fell … right toward a large puddle forming at the feet of the dripping-wet Aramar Thorne.

It landed in the shallow water with a visible and audible SPLASH!