Jaina Proudmoore mumbled a thankful goodbye to the last of the pitifully few who had remained with her in the rain. Only Pained was left with her now. She should go back. There ws so much left to do. So many things that needed to be seen to. But Jaina could not bring herself to move. Not yet.
You only got to bury your father once.
Out in the rain she could spy the pitiful remnants of Kul Tiras’ first fleet, readying their sails to limp home. No recognition. No salute. A Lord Admiral lay dead before their eyes and the fleet offered no salute.
They considered themselves in hostile waters still. And in hostile waters a fleet did not offer salutes.
They would be safe, those that remained. And Theramoore was safe and in her hands once again. And the Horde was safe from the persecution of an Alliance fleet at least.
And Jaina had no father.
She shook when she reached down to loop the silvery pendant in the shape of an anchor around Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore’s sword that marked his grave, like so many others along this dreary stretch of rocks and sand. She shook so terribly that she dropped the pendant in the sand.
Jaina bent down when a steady hand over her arm stopped her.
”My Lady. Who will carry the memory of your father if not his eldest child?”
”Memory.” Jaina whispered, numb and distant.
Blood, betrayal, infamy. What memory?
”If he was not more than how he ended you would not grieve as you do, My Lady.” Pained had edged closer to Jaina, who was shaking worse than ever now, clearly concerned with whether she could stay upright. Which she could not. Jaina gracelessly fell to her knees and slumped forward. She unconsciously dug her hands into the sand, wanting to grasp something concrete and steady while the world spun before her and her breaths came quicker and quicker and quicker.
She would very likely have fallen over had it not been for Pained.
Slowly, Jaina’s breathing calmed down again and she blinked when she found her vision blurry. There was wet sand all over her robes. Something shiny glittered in the misty air before her. She clumsily put her hand over it and grabbed it.
”Your father’s legacy is rightfully yours, My Lady. For good or ill.” Pained gently closed Jaina’s hand over the silvery anchor.
”Remember him as a proud warrior. That’s what Rexxar asked me to. Asked all of us to.”
”Remember him as the man he was. How else could you learn how to do better?” Very gently, Pained put her arm around Jainas shoulders and put her cloak in order. ”Please, come inside with me, My Lady.”
***
The last echoes of the Lich Kings control were fading from Alinas thoughts as her ethereal claws tore apart the throat of the last acolyte of the Cult of the Damned. Her misty form floated towards the grotesque wagon-like contraption they had guarded and her ethereal arms tore off the lid off the iron coffin she knew contained the right body.
Her body.
I had begun a day or so ago with the mindless ghouls that guarded the small patrol. Their primitive and single minded bloodlust broke them free of their masters shaking powers absent thoughts of whether it could be a trick or a test, absent hesitation. The acolytes who were formally in command, by now very formally, ordered her to shoo them off with a Wail to take their fatal bickering tendencies somewhere else. Soon after the slow-witted by incomparably stronger abomination was sent away as well. Somehow the primitive humans seemed to think that her somewhat more intact mind would make her less of a danger. Did they expect her to harbour enough righteous fear of the Lich Kings wrath to keep herself in line? Did they confuse simple-mindedness with rebellious thoughts? Could their fanatical minds no longer distinguish between their own pathological obedience and their slaves forced servitude to their hated master?
She would never know and would never care. The acolytes died as they had lived, ugly stains of blight upon the ugly and stained blighted ground.
The cruel humour of the Lich King and his despicable prince of a death knight manifested itself in the petty idea of assigning the banshees to guard the coffins of their own bodies, forever beyond reach as the unbreakable force of their masters will shackled them, forever near enough to be a constant reminder of what they had been and all that was denied them. Life. Afterlife. Rest. Freedom.
Still ever distrusted by the prince, Alina and other banshees were mostly dispersed around Lordaeron these days to hunt down whatever renegade remnants of Lordaerons human population that might be lingering in the cursed woods and highlands. To that end they had abominations with them to drag along the crude contraptions known as meat wagons that doubled as catapults and storage for whatever bodies they may collect to bring back to the necromancers in the capital and other strongholds, to be raised as new undead minions or thrown to the ghouls.
No longer.
Alina surged down and into her body. It was not like possessing a living creature, there was no soul to battle and destroy, no alien physiology to get used to. This was familiar, this was sliding into a well worn set of armour and coat, moulded to her shape from years of use. This was…her.
But she was empty.
The forest did not call to her. The power of the Sunwell did not sing in her blood. Those were the first things she noticed, as whatever fleeting hope she may have maintained of experiencing the opposite crumpled and died inside of her. She could hear the faint calls of what wretched birds still remained in the Lordaeron woods, but it was only sound now. No more, no less. She knew somehow that no bird or beast would ever trust her implicitly again. The trees were just obstacles now, with shade and darkness underneath. Darkness that did almost nothing to impede her vision now, she also noted.
Her skin was white as snow, still and lifeless like a statue. She raised her arm and flexed her hand. She could move, she could feel her fingers coming together to form a fist. It all felt…dull. Dampened. As if all her senses were muffled like sounds coming from behind a wall or from far away. She ran one of her nails across her arm. She felt it, but still hardly didn’t. She raised her arm to her mouth and bit down, her fangs almost breaking the skin. Yes, there was pain to be felt, but at the same time she did not feel it. She…registered pain but did not feel the fear and discomfort it would have brought earlier. When she had been…alive. Been…herself. Perhaps the most accurate way to describe it was that she simply did not care about the pain she now felt.
Honestly, what was left to care about? She was dead.
She was not a withered or rotting corpse though. Her body looked, in shape if not in colour, more or less like before as far as she could tell, and she reckoned she was at least as strong and enduring as in life. Probably more, without the need for breath or food or water to sustain her and with fewer vulnerable body parts she needed to depend on. Although, would she need to drink? A living body needed water, and lots of it, did a dead one need to keep itself from dehydrating? She guessed she would find out sooner or later.
Alina was aware of a presence of darkness and shadow just out of her vision, always behind her wherever she turned. She knew that it was part of her, like your hair blowing freely in the wind behind you was part of you. She reached back with her mind, something like as if her mind had been her arms, and pulled the shadow forward and around her like a cloak. Darkness boiled and bubbled around her, smoking and writhing like cool flames. She knew without trying that it would hide her in anything but strong sunlight. She could move inside it without being hindered but it took up a part of her concentration to keep herself wrapped in this flowing cloak.
That would have been interesting. For someone that cared.
She focused on her shadows again, but instead of pulling at them she let herself sink back into them. It was not a step back, more akin to letting yourself fall backwards into the water of a lake a dark night. Her shadows were cold and fleeting and weightless and so was she. She wanted to move forward and glided forward like a mist. Her eyesight was the same but her hearing had dulled and what little remained of her smell and, she would presume, taste was now gone.
Her banshee form.
She did not glide, but flew up, ever higher, into the pale light of the sun above the drying and withered treetops. The sun felt…wrong on her skin. Not burning her, but not warming her either. Not welcoming her like it would have when she was alive and thrived under it like all the high elves did. Belore had turned away from her. Or looked right through her. A banshee was a creature of the dark.
Alina lowered to the ground. She mentally took a step forward, out of the embrace of shadow and darkness, and took a step forward in her…physical form? Corporeal form? In her own body that she now possessed and inhabited but which hardly felt like herself in anymore. A heart that had not beat for almost a year. Necromantic energy that flowed through her veins instead of blood, or flowed through her body in veins and patterns of its own. Her tattered clothing was still on her, she had unconsciously brought it with her in her banshee form she realised. She willed her right leg to sink back into the shadows. It was hard to keep part of her corporeal and part of her not, it required a great deal of focus and balance. She raised her shadowy, smoking part that was her right leg out of her right boot, and then back inside and let it become corporeal again.
That…certainly opened up for some unconventional military tactics if nothing else. But Alina couldn’t summon anything but dulled indifference about her realisations.
There was a step behind her, a step intended to be heard.
”Alina.”
Alina turned around.
Tall, regal and very obviously dead, her former Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner stepped forward fully into her view without a second glance at the gory surroundings. Her eyes shone red like Alina suspected her own perhaps did as well now.
”I am pleased to see you too have freed yourself, Alina. Am I correct in assuming it is something that happened only recently?”
Alina would have raised an eyebrow in life. Now she only cast the slightest glance at the carnage around her which spoke for itself. Sylvanas did not display any surprise at either Alinas answer or her disinterested manner of answering.
”There are more of us, former Scourge who have reclaimed our own will. We are not many, but I suspect there are others to be found now as the cursed prince has departed these lands. I and some of our sisters tracked his movements towards the coast after I failed to end him. For that failure I must beg the forgiveness of all of you, for the second time. I had him on the ground with a poisoned arrow but his pet lich intervened when I wasted time gloating and Arthas escaped me and is sailing for Northrend as we speak. It is possible that the Lich Kings control over Lordaeron could have weakened further now with the greater distance to Frostmourne, or perhaps to Arthas himself…”
Memories flooded into Alina faster than what was left of her conscious self could even hope to keep up with and sort through in a controlled way. She was barely registering what Sylvanas was saying any more.
Arthas.
In a blink she was standing in Quel’Thalas with her ranger squad months ago and hearing the first reports of his undead army crossing the border.
In another she was back hearing the first report of rangers who were not coming back.
She was running, retreating from outposts that were going up in flames and undead monstrosities desecrating her forest.
She was loosing arrows as fast as she ever had against gargoyles filling up the sky, wounded rangers hobbling ahead to join exhausted refugees fleeing towards the first gate.
She was crushed under the weight of a fallen gargoyle that dropped out of the sky and broke her leg.
She stared into the gaping maw and claws of the ghoul that jumped for her throat before all became pain and darkness.
She saw the welcoming warmth of a sunny forest far away as something cold and sinister held her back and pulled her away from it, back to a wretched existence of only slavery and grief.
She opened eyes that no longer had eyelids and looked into the leering face of the former prince of Lordaeron wielding the cursed blade that now had chained her to the Lich Kings will.
She watched powerless as the undead she was now part of tore apart her capitol of Silvermoon.
She struggled in vain, unable to resist the command to give chase to the fleeing families making for the harbour where no ships were left afloat, or the outer gates that had already fallen to the undead.
She tried to shout to them to hide and get away from her, but all that came out was a banshees Wail that caused all who heard it to fall to the ground in agony, those closest never to rise again.
She heard the mocking laughter of Arthas echoing through her mind no matter how loud the cries of terror from her people grew. Her former people.
Alina fell to the ground and felt herself slipping into her banshee form, shadows flickering and smoking like flames around her, and she let out an ear piercing Wail. She Wailed and Wailed until her drained spirit could manage no more and she fell down into her corporeal form again, absent-mindedly noting that it was apparently the easier one to maintain when her focus or anger ran out.
Alinas legs gave out but Sylvanas was there and caught her and Alina collapsed into her arms. She spoke in a strange language that Alina knew without thinking was called Gutterspeak and that she understood without even trying.
”You are not alone anymore, Dark Ranger.”
***
The flash of light had been brief. But it was there.
Dark Ranger Cyndia Hawkspear peeked out across the clearing from her hiding place in a drying pine. There had been movement on the other side, she was sure of it. It was something just out of her eye, in the rustling of the branches that differed from the way the other trees swayed in the wind. She whistled quietly, only perceptible for someone with matching elven hearing wok new exactly what to listen for. She could spot Kalira looking up at her. Cyndias hands moved in the rangers sign language and pointed towards the trees she had been watching.
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Movement – Trees – Hidden – Advance to investigate.
Kalira signed back.
Affirmative. Friend or foe?
Cyndia shrugged, whereupon Kalira rolled her eyes. Not everything in their sign language had to be needlessly complicated.
She saw Kalira and two more rangers advance. Cyndia focused on the opposing treeline. If something happened, she and the other two left hidden would have to keep the enemy distracted enough for the three below to fall back.
This time the scouting party did not have to go far. Out into the clearing, blinking in the light and looking around looking slightly disoriented, marched two…dwarves? There was little that fazed Cyndia nowadays but she had to admit that she did blink. Twice.
One of them had brown and blonde hair and beard, the other pitch black. They wore practical travelling clothes, with some light armour squeezed in here and there, and absolutely gigantic backpacks. Ridiculous dwarves. Always overly proud of how much ore they could carry on their backs and how long they could work their smithies and whatever. So long as they got to gulp down ludicrous amounts of their abhorrent ale.
Kalira was stepping into their sight, the others quickly following with theirs bows drawn and ears laid back.
The reaction was…not quite what they had expected.
”Runar, look around…” the black-haired dwarf begun. His companion looked up at the undead rangers and their three nocked arrows pointing at them, rolled his eyes toward the sky and closed them, and let out the most exasperated sigh Cyndia had heard in years.
”Oh, for the love of…” the brown-haired dwarf muttered as he ran his fingers over his forehead in a gesture of utter boredom. ”Yes, us dwarves breathe so loud you could have shot us in the dark and so on! We know!”
Cyndia could see the small tilting of her squadmates ears as they hesitated, as taken aback as she was by the absurd greeting.
”Runar…” the black-haired dwarf said very pointedly.
”Alright, alright…” the other acquiesced and looked down for a moment before taking a breath and gathering himself. ”Greetings and well met. We are Runar and Halvdan, emissaries of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. We seek the realm of Midgard.”
They spoke Common, Cyndia noted. That much about them made sense at least.
Kalira was not to be trifled with.
”Keep your hands where we can see them and make no sudden move! Who are you? What are you doing here?”
”We are Runar and Halvdan, diplomatic envoys and in search of the realm of Midgard as previously stated. What we are doing here is currently rather self-explanatory I would say.” Runar answered and glanced at the arrows of the three rangers. ”Though as far as we can tell we only just arrived wherever ’here’ is, and would be deeply grateful if you could assist us with clarifying that, my lady.” he added with a flourishing bow, a feat that surely few but dwarves would have managed with such a burden.
Cyndia could practically see Kalira raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
”You mean to tell us that you have no idea where you are?”
”Completely clueless, my lady. I mean of course my ladies.” the dwarf Runar nodded to all three, falling into a smooth and businesslike demeanour with astonishing ease.
”This is Lordaeron, the land of the Dark Lady Sylvanas.”
”And…not in Midgard I assume?”
”Azeroth.”
”I see... Irrespective of our current location, may we inquire of the fair ladies name?”
”I am Kalira. Consider yourselves in the custody of the Dark Rangers. We will bring you before the Dark Lady.”
”Nice start…” the dwarf Halvdan grumbled under his breath.
***
Their captives were not acting as expected, Cyndia quietly considered as they approached the Undercity, as their capitol was starting to be called more and more. They were not unafraid of the rangers - she could spot the tension in their postures and wary looks - but they were making a damn good effort not to show it. If anything, they acted as if they were clinging to their feeble stories of being envoys from some far away reach of Khaz Modan or wherever that so called Lonely Mountain might lay. Cyndia had never been particularly interested in the geography of distant places.
Cyndia was content with remaining in the background and observe Kalira handling the barrage of questions thrown at her by the undeterred dwarves. Cyndia had almost expected her to shut them up a long time ago but perhaps Kalira had more patience than she had given her credit for, or perhaps the lieutenant wanted to impress them with her self-control. Kalira was an overbearing drillmaster at times when it came to stealth and patience during scouting missions.
Maybe Kalira viewed it all as some sort of game, or training exercise? Sooner or later the apparently dense pair of dwarves would have to drop their pretence of not recognizing the rangers for what they were. Maybe Kalira was just playing along until then to pick up as much information as she could for Sylvanas.
”Lordaeron, is it an elven kingdom? Or state, or realm if that is the more accurate term?”
Kalira stiffened slightly.
”It is not. Lordaeron was a human kingdom before the Scourge claimed it. The Dark Lady now rules what is left of the realm.”
”Ah. Perhaps I spoke in haste.” the dwarf continued undeterred. ”Would I be correct to assume that you are in fact elves? They are a race of pointy-eared people from back home that are quite alike you in appearance and, hrm, demeanour, and I may have jumped to the conclusion that since we share a common language our respective realms may share certain terminology as well.”
Cyndias ears peeked up as Kalira answered in a hard voice.
”No, we are not elves. Not anymore.”
”Pardon my apparently quite boundless ignorance, but then what are you now?”
”Forsaken.” Kalira replied, and the bitterness that radiated from the simple statement told all who heard her that the inquiry was over.
***
The capitol had seen little care since the infighting and subsequent ravaging in the early days of Arthas rebellion, or rather betrayal. While the main host of the Scourge had rapidly advanced north towards Quel’Thalas and then south to Dalaran the leftovers and later the demons of the Burning Legions had all but completed the destruction of almost all of Lordaerons larger settlements. It did not mean that every single building was ground to stone and dust – neither the mindless undead nor the demons bothered much with ruins so long as their living victims could not find shelter in them – but there was practically nothing whole left. Towers stood hollow and crumbling, walls had more holes and jagged tears in them than there was surface. The very streets had been torn up by clawed and hoofed feet too large and too vicious to be meant for the road building craft of puny mortals.
Both the remnants of Lordaerons armies, the dreadlords formerly commanding the Scourge and later Arthas had used the city as a base of operations and nominally capitol, even if they had neither the need or the inclination to restore it to its former state. Realising the utility of at the very least a secure location for storing more personal and important valuables as well as keeping the studies of the Scourges necromancers going, Arthas had ordered the complete opposite and had his minions dig and delve deeper underneath instead. Expanding on the already vast net of sewers and tunnels in existence, they had been constructing a subterranean mirror image of the broken city above. In this rare instance, the Dark Lady had been of the same mind as their hated enemy and continued the expansion and fortification below.
This was the Undercity, the Forsaken capitol and only remotely safe place for their people.
Cyndia didn’t particularly like it.
Ignoring the fact that the canals ran thick with disgusting sludge that even the Forsaken were better of not knowing what it was, turning the atmosphere of the place into at beast unhealthy for the living and repelling to even someone with her own dulled sense of smell, or the absolutely bleak and lifeless look and feeling of the surroundings that they all seemed to wallow in, in their morbid collective embrace of all that was dark and gloomy. Ignoring the impracticality of climbing stairs and, indeed, often mere ladders to get to almost wherever you were going.
The place felt so insanely cramped.
Cyndia was a ranger. She belonged in the forest, dark ranger or not, and withered and dried as the forest here may be it was still her place. She could still find the quietude of cloudy nights comforting even if she were dead, and she could float around the treetops as a banshee in the moonlight and not need to be disturbed or reminded of what she had been. Or done. She did not belong in corridors were the walls seemed to edge inwards to smother those who walked them, or among the huffle and chaos of overly crowded walkways and street corners. She wondered sometimes if it had always been like this or if it was just the Undercity. She couldn’t be sure. Silvermoon and all other elven of note cities were all tall spires, gardens and airy bridges and wide, impressive and immaculately kept streets. Elven architecture wasn’t designed to appear shut or closed in any way that could be avoided – it was a small miracle her people had at all incorporated doors in their dwellings! Nothing could be further from this overgrown sewer-turned-catacombs they now resided in.
To Cyndias secret relief Kalira were not leading them towards any of the new entrances downstairs but along the old surface boulevard towards the Lordaeron Keep. The massive structure still stood tall despite the decrepit state o fits walls and still very visible scorch marks and piles of debris. Not even demons could tear down metres-thick walls without making an effort they were disinclined to. For all their clumsiness in the wilds and their lacking wisdom and artfulness, human and dwarven fortifications were no joke.
The Keep was one of the few places that had a visible guard force standing out in the open, in a twisted or perhaps pitiful parody of the guards of the murdered King Terenas’ court. They were forsaken in the best armour they could scrounge up, former human footmen and officers that had remained when the main Scourge body marched onward or had been Raised more recently. Death Guards and Dread Guards and whatever, Cyndia had paid little attention to the designations that had been springing up lately. They were loyal and did their part so she would offer them her grudging respect for that at least. They were more heavily equipped than her so she would not count on them to keep up in the forest she would but expect them to hold their line long enough in the open for her to do her work from the sides. That was that, in Cyndias opinion.
And like the Dark Rangers, they were far too few. No amount of repetitively, well, grave titles would change that.
The main gates of Lordaeron Keep led quickly to the throne room, a majestic circular hall lined with pointed arches over the adjoining corridors, four on each side apart form the larger one from the gates, with the throne directly opposite. It stood on a round dais with four wide steps, overlooking the floor where most of a once majestic mosaic depicting Lordaeron heraldry and astronomical symbols still spoke of the grandeur of the fallen kingdom. The sun had once shone through a window in the middle of the roof but now it was mostly gone and dust piled along the walls, even dry leaves that the wind had carried inside. Despite the large openings above, the shadows grew long and the place had an air of emptiness and hollowness.
But of course, not quite empty.
”The Banshee Queen.” Kalira simply said. ”Dark Lady.” she added for her own part, and saluted the woman on the throne. The queen nodded back.
She did not display a shred of regal poise or stature, instead leaning back at one armrest sprawled across the doubtlessly uncomfortable stone seat with its fading decorations. Her eyes gleamed red like the other rangers, for she was without doubt an elf ranger herself, having the same lean build and arms that had been shaped by the endless pulling of her bowstring. Her armour resembled that of the rangers apart from being a little heavier and dyed dark red rather than black. An intimidating bow, seemingly made mainly of the vertebrae of some huge creature, rested against the throne along with a well-stocked quiver. The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and the light fade away when she rose and descended the few steps leading up to the throne. While being quite tall by herself, the queen seemed somehow to tower even more over everyone in the room than her height would account for. Her voice had a strange echoing character when she spoke, at once both slightly hoarse as well as deep and melodic.
”Greetings. I am Sylvanas Windrunner.”
----------------------------------------
Who is who?
Arthas Menethil: The fallen prince of Lordaeron, turned death knight under the former Lich King and lately Lich King himself after merging with the imprisoned spirit of his predecessor. Wielder of the immensely powerful, as well as immensely cursed, sword Frostmourne with the ability to capture souls and raise the dead. Leader of the vast enslaved undead armies known as the Scourge, responsible for devastating Lordaeron, Dalaran and Quel’Thalas. Currently residing in Northrend
Runar: A dwarf diplomat with unconventional manners and methods. Known for displaying immaculate politeness as well as corrosive disdain depending on the situation. The inseparable colleague of the notorious rogue of a spy, Halvdan.
Halvdan: A dwarf spy as fond of complex schemes as he is unimpressed with complex spying equipment. Prefers to let diplomatic party members distract the opposing party while he concocts a magnificent master plan from behind the scenes. The ever-present retainer of the infamous diplomat, Runar.
Voo/Ratatosk/Rattletusk: A squirrel that has teamed up with the dwarves. An expert scout and ambassador whose eyes are the bane of every barmaid's resolve.
Theramoore: A city on a rocky island by the east coast of Kalimdor founded by the expeditionary force and exiles from the eastern kingdoms led across the sea by Jaina Proudmoore. After the Third War Jainas father, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, arrived at Theramoore with a fleet aiming to continue the old war against the orcs and killing them indiscriminately. Unable to reason with him, Jaina choose to stand aside and let the orc Warchief Thrall and the Horde attack Theramoore and kill her father after promising Jaina to spare his soldiers if possible. Theramoore is nominally a part of the Alliance but maintains peaceful relations with the bordering Horde territories.
Jaina Proudmoore: Accomplished archmage and in practice ruler of Theramoore. Snatched up from her studies in Dalaran by the events of the Third War, Jaina led the expedition of Alliance forces and exiles to Kalimdor. She allied with the Horde and Night Elves against the demonic Burning Legion and became a personal friend of Thrall and the night elves Priestess of the Moon Tyrande Whisperwind. She was at one time engaged to Arthas Menethil and also worked with him to investigate the plague in Lordaeron, but turned her back on his brutal tactics to contain it at the town of Stratholme. Branded as a traitor by her family and home nation of Kul Tiras, Jaina maintains the trust of Theramoores people and respect and gratitude of Thrall. At heart she remains one of the stronger voices for peace in Azeroth and fascinated by foreign peoples and lands, but mourns her father and blames herself for failing to stop him as well as Arthas.
Pained: A night elf serving as Jaina Proudmoores bodyguard. Originally assigned by Tyrande Whisperwind, she seems to care more about Jainas wellbeing than her duty requires of her.
Oddricht Mekkatorque-Jansen: The gnome Master Carpenter of Theramoore. Holds a lot of influence among the citys craftsmen and is dedicated to improving it. He detests waste of resources and likes overly long and detailed briefings and Theramoorian candied cherries.
Dalaran: A city ruled by the Kirin Tor mages in southern Lordaeron. Formally part of the Alliance but in practice fairly independet and with a strong desire to be neutral ground for mages wherever they are from.
Rhonin Redhair: An adventurous mage who is a member of the Kirin Tor council. Lives in Dalaran with his wife Vereesa Windrunner. Thinks the Kirin Tor somewhat boring at times.
Vereesa Windrunner: A ranger captain of Quel’Thalas, residing in Dalaran along with her husband Rhonin Redhair. Little sister to Sylvanas and Alleria Windrunner and has in practice been the adopted mother of her nephew Arator. Nicknamed Little Moon by her sisters.
The Forsaken: The independent undead who have broken free from the Lich Kings control and banded together in a fledgling nation. Comprised mainly of undead humans of Lordaeron and elves of Quel’Thalas slain and raised by the armies of Arthas Menethil, the Forsaken control the former capitol of Lordaeron, now known as the Undercity, and part of the surrounding countryside.
Sylvanas Windrunner: Dark Lady and Banshee Queen, ruler of the Forsaken. Driven by lust for vengeance against Arthas Menethil and care for the Forsaken, she bothers with little else and cares nothing for herself. Formerly the revered Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas, she is now despised for her actions under the Lich Kings control or feared for being undead. Constantly haunted by guilt and grief, she remains no less iron-willed and determined. She was the first of the Forsaken to break free from the Lich Kings control and appears to, if such a term is allowed, possess extraordinary banshee powers along with undimished skills as ranger and tactician. Nicknamed Lady Moon by her sisters Alleria and Vereesa.
Davey Bonecarver: Davey Bones for short. Captain of the Forsaken navys finest, and so far only, ship.
Haley Quinnivere Bonecarver: Haley Bones, as she will remind everyone it is, is the daughter and lookout of captain Davey Bones. So far the only Forsaken who has treated Jaina Proudmoore with indifference.
Dark rangers: Former elven rangers of Quel’Thalas, these undead are among the most powerful and physically intact of the Forsaken. Some are banshees in possession of their preserved former bodies, some are inherently corporeal undead elves known as darkfallen. Their individual abilities vary but all are expert archers and scouts. Like their living colleagues, most are female. Their smallest unit is a squadron, a raiding party of three pairs of rangers, that form companies of fifty or double strength companies of a hundred in pitched battles.
Areiel: A seasoned dark ranger captain with a practical mind and pragmatic outlook. Seems less affected by undeath than most, or is just too stubborn to let it stop her from getting on with her duties. She is Sylvanas' former mentor, with a weakness for refreshing directness and annoying puns. One of the darkfallen rangers.
Amora's squadron:
Amora Eagleye: A dark ranger lieutenant with friendly manners and a reputation for traning newly arrived rangers with good results.
Alina: A recently acquired dark ranger who does not take her undeath well. The mere mention of the wrong death knight is usually enough to send her into a rage. One of the banshee rangers.
Mira Shadewither: One of the 'Mirrah's', close ranging partners and tough allies for all their friends.
Marrah: The othe rhalf of the 'Mirrah's'.
Kalira's squadron:
Kalira: A no-nonsense dark ranger lieutenant. A harsh drillmaster in Cyndias opinion. One of the darkfallen rangers.
Cyndia Hawkspear: A somewhat sarcastic dark ranger who dislikes confined spaces. She appears to handle undeath reasonably so long as she can have her moments alone outside. One of the banshee rangers.
Velonara: One of the youngest rangers in life. A foul-mouthed brat at times but also deeply devoted to Sylvanas despite or perhaps because of being Raised by her. One of the darkfallen rangers.
Lenara: The middle dark ranger of the 'Naras'.
Nara Pathstrider: The third of the 'Naras'. The loss of an eye has not slowed her visibly.
Sylvanas' squadron:
Anya Eversong: A quiet dark ranger lieutenant. Appears to know Sylvanas exceedingly well and is highly trusted by her, despite a reputation for sometimes exceedingly unbecoming conduct. One of the banshee rangers.
Lyana: A reasonably civil dark ranger adept at tailoring and first aid. She used to stich the rangers' cloaks after stitching them up and dress them up after dressing their wounds. She likes spiders and is perhaps a little obsessed with them in the way some humans would call nerdy.
Clea Deathstrider: A dark ranger who can only speak in whispers but seems to enjoy closeness in any case. Feels uncomfortable at sea. Thrives in the warmth of the living.
Kitala Starshadow: A dark ranger with a teasing disposition and expressive features and ears, one of them half which is a great source of discomfort for her. Never the less she does enjoy when someone she trusts touches her ears.