The return to "civilization".

Feranthel Shadowtear dusted his clothing off as he descended from the gryphon's back on the parapet in Stormwind. Or what was left of it, really. several tears strode in long, lazy lines over his shoulders, chest and legs, all of them carefully stitched back in order to maintain the cloth-peice's integrity. Several patches had been applied as well on numerous places. At the sight of them his mind soared back to the moments which he had spent fighting the creatures that were the cause of his unruly appearance.

After the council of the Cenarion circle had summoned him and various other druids, he was initially surprised at the sight of the shamans of the earthen ring that had joined them, even though this was Moonglade, a place where no hostilities between the horde and the alliance must ever exist.

The reason for the summoning was soon clarified. The insect swarms in the desert of Silithus were once again in uproar, their numbers increasing dangerously fast.
Of course Feranthel was inclined to volunteer instinctively, and him with a selection of others were sent on an expedition.

It was there, in that place of sand, sweat and blood, that the war against the silithids stretched on. Every day there were duties to be fullfilled, be it digging a trench for the latrines, or dispatching a silithid nest with a team, he had taken all his chores with pride and involvement. The acid-spitting and stinger-slashing insects of the swarm had fought with tooth and claw, so to speak, and those were the origins of where his clothing had to be repaired when dissolved or torn. The aspect of this fight that had made it even more tenacious, was that due to the intense heat, fur-bearing creatures were not attracted to the area, thus shapeshifting into the current forms he knew had become out of the question.

Ultimately, he wondered if his thick pelt he possessed in ursine form would have saved him from his nearly lethal wound, and he painfully scratched the still-slighly yellow pustule that bore two miniscule black marks. In fact, during the extermination of a nest, when he and his team were inspecting a hatching room, he had just for a moment kneeled beside a few egg specimens that he had not recognized from any of his books before. Naturally he had been unaware of the looming danger, in the form of a new species of silithid, one that looked vaguely spider-like and had dropped onto him from above. It had instantly bitten him on the neck before him having his chance to smother the insect on his turn. Within seconds the world swirled and fell into darkness, and the noise of his body hitting the floor alarmed his companions that something had gone wrong. This was all he remembered.

He woke up later in a caretaker's house, in Feathermoon stronghold, and for the first time he had admired the "gift" that he had received as to save his life. The left forearm and left hand were completely covered in what fist seemed as brown mud or scales. Upon closer inspection it proved to be, against all expectations, bark! He experimentally had stretched and tightened his hand to confirm that it made creaky wood-like sounds, like the ancient guardians of Darnassus did. He had seen how duids of impressive power sometimes could turn themselves into living wood on rare occasions, but this was not of his willing or in his power for that matter.

He had been imformed later, after he had calmed down of his stupor, that the small spider-like silithid was a newly-appeared species, that possesses an incredibly strong venom for its size, and tends to ambush invaders of the hive, in an attempt to poison them. It had been named the "rogue spider" for the occasion. He had found the name fitting. His companions had lifted his unconscious body from the ground, and had sent him to Feathermoon, in hope to save him as all attempts to cure him had been futile. He had arrived shaking, pale, gasping for breath, and with a strong fever, and was left to the care of the village's best healers as soon as possible. Even though not in his senses, he had been a strong fighter, his body had fought the poison with a might which was quite impressive for his kin, but sadly it was not enough.

Eventually, when his life had been hanging ironically "on a silken thread", the healer was left little choice but to apply the one thing she knew would save him, but equally curse him for life. She bonded him with a bracer made of Ironwood. The poor Night elf widow had tried to save Feranthel, and since he apparently bore a strong resemblance to her husband that had died in the third war, she wanted to save him no matter what, even if this meant using such a dangerous artifact.

Ironwood was a rare type of magical tree that was sometimes cultivated for its unique capabilities. Even though it took millenia to cultivate one tree, it was equally or even harder than tempered steel, and when a root or branch had taken shape in a certain way, it was incredibly difficult to break it or even bend it. Even if you managed to bend it, the wood would stay in that position, as if it was as malleable as iron. These properties made it a desirable crafting material for many, unfortunatly most of the ironwood forests were placed in current felwood, and got burned down, even if the bark is highly resistant to fire. They just weren't shielded against the fel fire taint.

Once the bracer had been prepared with special carved runes, it had been applied to his wrist and it was activated magically. Slowly the bracer had grown over his forearm, wrist and hand. Digging is roots in his flesh and replacing bones with itself. It had been a painful process, and even though he was unconscious during the whole happening, his inner self could feel the pain in his left arm.

The bonded Ironwood had given him among others, several beneficial traits, that he still has to figure out (since this type of bonding artifacts have been given up on since a long time). He does know the wood enhances his bond with nature, gifting him with faster tissue regeneration, which enabled him to neutralize the poison in his body and save himself, but he did not know what other miracles this new left arm would bring him, and he observed carefully the runes on the back of his hand and wrist which were inscribed deeply.

...

Feranthel snapped back into current reality, and he used his wooden arm to shield himself from the high midday sun, aware that some citizens were stopping around him and staring at his unusual limb. He yawned. The only thing he wanted now was a good night's sleep.