Mannoroth. That was a name Tyrande had hoped to never hear again. A name that even now strikes fear into her heart. Not because of the being that it belonged to, though Mannoroth was certainly worthy of fear… but because of the greater whole that he represented.
What she’d told Shandris was true. They had sacrificed much to push the Legion from their world. To think that they might be returning after all this time horrified the High Priestess of Elune. Tyrande could only hope that Mannoroth was the end of it… but deep down inside, she knew better. That was why she’d had to send Shandris back to Cenarius and these orcs. To prepare. Meanwhile, she would prepare in her own way.
Technically, she could commune with Elune anywhere. She was the Moon Goddess’ Chosen after all, her High Priestess, first among her devoted. But there was no denying that praying at a Moon Well increased her connection to her Goddess by quite a bit. And so Tyrande makes her way towards Astranaar’s Moon Well, smiling softly and giving nods to those who see her along the way. She’s stopped once or twice of course, and quickly takes care of the business presented to her before finally arriving at her destination.
Leading their people has never been what Tyrande would call easy… but it’s always been worth it. That said, as she drops to her knees at the side of the Moon Well and lowers her head, she knows she will not be disturbed again until she’s done. None of her people would dare to interrupt when she was communing with the Goddess of the Moon herself.
Reaching out, Tyrande exhales slowly, letting the air expel from her lungs as she opens herself fully to her Goddess. She almost immediately feels Elune reaching back and Tyrande smiles as she feels awash in the Moon’s glow. There’s no doubt in her mind that she is currently kneeling at the center of a brightly glowing moonbeam, though her eyes remain shut and she remains shut-off from the world around her.
In this state, Tyrande asks what her Goddess has for her. It’s not quite speaking… not on this level. It’s more of an exchange of feelings and thoughts, of expectations and desires. Tyrande pushes forth her concern and worry over everything Shandris told her, knowing full well that Elune will understand immediately. The Moon Goddess watches over her chosen people, after all.
That said, the response that Tyrande gets is a… troubling one. She feels a sense of urgency and of worry come back along her connection to her Goddess. Elune is trying to warn her, prodding her with an impression of the encroaching darkness she’s already aware of. Tyrande’s lips thin out as her Goddess confirms what Cenarius suspected. Mannoroth was not the end. He was only the beginning. He was the tip of a spear that had been coming for them for ten thousand years.
Letting out an explosive breath, Tyrande marshals herself, forcing a state of calm. It would not do to panic here and now. It would do neither herself nor her people any good if she were to give in to despair or fear. They hadn’t fought the Legion off once before only to capitulate to them the second time around. If the demons were returning… then they needed to be ready.
Tyrande smiles softly when she feels Elune push back feelings of confidence, of love and adoration. The Moon Goddess bolsters her determination and resolve, further fortifying it as Tyrande’s shoulders square up, her back straightening. Still her eyes remain shut. Still she remains in communion. After all, she has more questions.
What of the orcs, she not-asks? What of Broxigar’s people, who have arrived now at this time and place? When Shandris had first told Tyrande of seeing so many of Broxigar’s people, she had been astounded. But she had to admit, she’d also been a little worried. And that worry had only grown when Shandris mentioned that the orcs had been ready to cut down their trees before a fatal duel for leadership had ensued.
While it relieved Tyrande that they had not harmed a single tree in Ashenvale so far, it still disturbed her that they were even willing to. And ultimately… she was forced to admit that Broxigar, as amazing a warrior and savage a fighter as he was… was just one being. Broxigar the Red had been an honorable sort. But also prideful. He had been strong… but also rather bloodthirsty.
In the end, he had proven to be their greatest ally, driven to fight at their sides against the Legion. He had sacrificed everything for them, and Tyrande would never forget him even if ten thousand years meant that most of her people had.
At the same time though, could his people be trusted? One orc had fought to save Azeroth from the Legion. But a thousand orcs could want any number of things and cause untold harm to her people and their forests. For now, this singular band of orcs had apparently fallen under the control of a druid and together with Cenarius, Shandris, and her Sentinels, they’d defeated Mannoroth. But what about the others?
All of this worry, all of this concern, Tyrande pushes forth towards Elune. Her thoughts and feelings are laid bare to the Goddess of the Moon, and she waits patiently for Elune to absorb them before responding. Finally, she receives something in return. A strange sense of… possibility.
Tyrande can’t help but hum as she feels a strangely positive feeling from Elune regarding the orcs. It is not absolute trust, not by a long shot… but what she interprets from Elune is that the orcs represent change. And it doesn’t have to be a bad change.
Ten thousand years. Back at the end of the War of the Ancients, one could argue that Tyrande’s people had changed dramatically. The Highborne had ceased to exist. So had most of Kalimdor. The continent had been shattered in the Sundering, leaving what was left of their people clinging to what land remained. What they called Kalimdor today was only a remnant of what once was.
And yet, while their people had dramatically changed from what they were before the Sundering and the Well of Eternity’s destruction, they hadn’t changed much in the time since. For ten millennia, their people had mostly been stagnant, with their druids spending the majority of their time in the Emerald Dream, and the rest of them tending to their forests.
Immortality would do that, Tyrande supposed. If you lived forever, then you tended not to need to change too much. And yet, that was exactly what Elune was suggesting would happen now. Change was coming and the orcs, while not the only part of it, were a big determinator of that change. If Tyrande had to try and put Elune’s meaning into words, then she would say that the Moon Goddess believed the orcs had the ability to change Tyrande’s people for the better… so long as everything worked out.
… Tyrande needs more than that if she’s going to make her next move. So she pushes for more, bringing up the orc druid in particular that Shandris had mentioned. The new Chieftain of this Warsong Clan, this… Rognak. Who was he? What did he have to do with all of this?
Stolen novel; please report.
Elune’s response this time is damn near blinding, and Tyrande still has her eyes closed. A gasp leaves the High Priestess’ lips as she gets the impression that Rognak is important somehow. Very important. She doesn’t quite understand everything that the Moon Goddess is trying to tell her… only that it seems like Elune wants her to trust herself and her allies. Both old and new.
Obviously she wants more than that, but before she can reach for more, she’s forced out of the communion, eyes snapping open as the beam of moonlight shining down on her suddenly cuts off.
“High Priestess! High Priestess, save us!”
The sheer anguish in the cries coming from her people see Tyrande snapping to her feet and spinning around. With wide eyes, she stares in horror at the scene before her. Astranaar is under attack. By the dead. Animals and Night Elves alike shamble forward, corpses moving unnaturally across the bridge into the Night Elf Village. The Sentinels are fighting them of course, but for every undead that they cut down, two more take its place, forcing them steadily back.
The strange reports, the mention of dead things lurking in the woods, of people going missing… all of it has led to this. Someone has created an army out of sight and then unleashed it upon the peaceful village of Astranaar. No, not someone. Back behind the shambling wall of the dead, Tyrande sees them. Demons. Satyr and other types. Laughing uproariously, as if her people’s pain and agony and anguish is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.
Righteous fury wells up inside of Tyrande, and she lets out a scream as she pulls forth her bow and an arrow of pure starlight. Sighting her shot, the High Priestess fires and watches as the radiant arrow flies through, burying itself in the throat of one of the Satyr… and then exploding, taking him and a few of his fellows with it.
A multitude of eyes turn in Tyrande’s direction at that, both the hopeful gazes of her people and the hateful looks of their enemies. Tyrande, meanwhile, assesses the situation in just a moment and knows immediately that this battle is already lost.
“FALL BACK! Retreat to the West! Sentinels at the front, hold them off! Sentinels at the back, evacuate the civilians!”
Her orders, hastily given as they are, are followed immediately. Tyrande alternates between supporting her sisters on the front lines and helping those behind her escape across the Western Bridge. Luckily, the demons in charge of this invasion force are none too bright. If they had surrounded Astranaar on all sides before attacking, Tyrande and her people would have been trapped with nowhere to escape to.
Instead, they’ve attacked only from the East, leaving the Western Road clear for the time being. That’s about the only piece of good news, however. As the civilians and the Sentinels escorting them flee to the West, Tyrande is forced to watch as more and more of her kind fall to the undead and the demons in charge of them. Eventually, the last civilian is gone and they’re able to flee… but for how long?
These forests are their home, and Tyrande and her Sentinels know them like the back of their hand. However, the demons employ felhounds, monstrous creatures that do not waver or falter once they catch the scent of their prey. Early on in the ensuing retreat, Tyrande holds out hope that with the civilians evacuated in one direction, she and her remaining Sentinels can escape in the other direction and manage to eventually give their pursuers the slip.
… But it’s not meant to be. Every time they stop to rest, every single moment where they might catch their breath, they find themselves hounded and hunted. The demons and undead nip at their heels, and Tyrande watches as one by one, her sisters fall around her. Women that she has known for thousands of years, Sentinels who have fought bravely against threats to their forests time and time again. They are slain and in some cases, added to the undead that pursue them.
This is an old horror, but also a new horror. And Tyrande feels her heart ache with pain each and every time she must fire a radiant arrow into the pale, torn-up face of one of her sisters risen into undeath.
Eventually… eventually, their journey comes to an end. The demons have managed to corral them without Tyrande even realizing it, and they run up against the rocky cliff-faces of the Stonetalon Mountains along Ashenvale’s Southern Border. By then, it’s just Tyrande and two of her Sentinels left… but even then, her sisters are killed while she is left alive. Just in time for a face right out of her greatest nightmares to make itself known.
“It is as I told you, Lord Archimonde. These Night Elves have only grown weak and feeble in the last ten thousand years. With the Scourge to act as fodder, our victory is assured even with Mannoroth’s defeat.”
Archimonde the Defiler. Right-Hand to Sargeras himself. Ten thousand years ago, it was he who led the invasion of Azeroth. It was he who convinced Queen Azshara to surrender their world for power. And now he was… here. Again. To Tyrande’s everlasting horror.
“How? How have you returned to our world, Archimonde?”
Looking down at her, the Demon Lord smiles a sickeningly wicked smile. His eyes dance with malice and evil, promising a world of pain and torment is headed her way. In those eyes, Tyrande sees her own defilement and corruption. They will turn her against her people. They will turn her into their slave.
“Did you think we had forgotten you? Did you think that one measly setback would keep us away forever? The Legion has returned. Rejoice, for you will be remade into a herald of our coming destruction. This time, your troublesome little race, pathetic as you have become, will not be able to stop us.”
With an almost contemptuous wave of his hand, Archimonde directs his Doom Guards forward.
“Take her.”
He could have killed her with that wave of his hand. Such was his power. Instead, he means for them to take her alive. Tyrande won’t let that happen, but before she contemplates suicide, she has one final trick up her sleeve. It is still the middle of the night with Elune’s glory shining overhead. And as much as the Moon Goddess brings plenty to light… she also casts many shadows with her brightness.
In an instant, Tyrande dips into those shadows, disappearing from view as she sucks in a breath and doesn’t dare let it out.
There’s a moment where the demons all stare at where she just was… and then, amazingly enough, Archimonde snarls.
“Fools! You let her get away!”
He immediately backhands one of the Doom Guards, killing the hulking demon on the spot.
“Find her! FIND HER NOW!”
And with that, they leave. Somehow never realizing that Tyrande remains exactly where she was before, only hidden from sight and all other senses. As powerful as the Burning Legion might be… Tyrande’s Goddess was just as powerful. By Elune’s Grace, she was hidden.
Only once the demons and undead have all disappeared does Tyrande appear once more. Letting out an explosive breath, she shakes her head and turns on her heel… only to hesitate, her lips coming together in a thin line.
Before her, the path diverges. Not physically, but in her mind. She has two choices now and unfortunately she does not have the time to give her options the consideration they deserve or second guess herself once she’s made her decision.
Her first instinct is to gather her sisters and immediately make for her beloved. Malfurion Stormrage sleeps far north of here in a Barrow Den, and nearby is the Horn of Cenarius. If she sounds it, he and the other druids will awaken.
However, it is not her place. It’s in the name, after all. The Horn of Cenarius is for Cenarius and Cenarius alone. The Demigod should be the one to use it, to wake the druids and bring them to this new war. More than that, Cenarius was with Shandris and the orcs, their new allies in this fight against the Legion. Tyrande longed to go to Malfurion immediately… but her responsibility was to her people.
Reaching Cenarius, Shandris and this Rognak was paramount. Elune herself had made it clear to Tyrande how important the orcs were going to be in the battles to come. Once she’d gathered what she could of the Sentinels spread throughout Ashenvale and met up with the Lord of the Forest and the mortals he was shepherding… then they could go North together and awaken Malfurion and the druids.
With a sharp nod to herself, Tyrande turns East and begins carefully making her way through the woods, her head constantly on a swivel. She has her objective. She will not stray from it.