Hello, Bloodsail! With the possibility of Classic TBC on the horizon, I thought I might get a head start and begin preparing for the arrival of the Sin’dorei to Warcraft. I will be posting parts of stories weekly surrounding elves retaking their lands as they would be during the vanilla period. Should we get Classic TBC, these stories will become the background for < The Dawnfury Accord >, a heavy-RP Sin’dorei-centric guild. If you are interested in becoming an officer for this hypothetical guild, or just deeply interested in the Sin’dorei and are looking forward to roleplaying one when TBC launches, send me a message on discord at Baradin#3237. Thanks and remember, the reckoning is at hand!
Chapter 1 - Preparations
“The Lynx is a beautiful creature. Entirely endemic to Quel’thalas and intrinsically linked to our people”. The words echoed through the halls of the Farstrider Retreat; a tall, slender elf of lithe build behind them. “They are like us in many regards. Nimble, quick of mind and brutal when needed. But the lynx is also patient - it stalks its prey and awaits the moment with savage fervour. You farstriders have much to learn from the Elfwoods, much to learn from its fauna as well”. The elf paused to carefully eye the gathered, each clad in leathers verdant green and brown. One elf would stand out to him. He looked exceedingly young; even for this group, and reminded him, at least in part, of himself. The younger elf met his gaze, and the elder softened his expression, perhaps a moment of reflection.
But only a moment. “Tonight you must be the lynx. You must strike out with brutal ferocity, be the ghost of the woods. Be the animal that they learn to fear, but do not forget the lynx’s final lesson. Patience will keep you alive in the Blackened Woods. Anar’alah belore.”
The gathered rangers scattered and the elder elf soon thereafter found himself entirely alone. There was a certain serenity to that moment. The ambience of the forest and the distant whispers of the Elrendar Falls softly wandering into the lodge. He sat himself down on the retreat’s north-facing landing and eyed the wondrous Silvermoon before him. The untouched golden districts of the eternal city reached up to the heavens. The arcane towers were daggers to the scattered clouds, and the Sunfury Spire appeared unharmed by time.
But it was a short-lived moment of tranquillity. In plain view, too, an ugly mark of death and decay. It lingered; unwanted, a cursed memory not willing to fade—a path of destruction, now half a decade old yet unhealed. Even from the lodge, he could make out their shambling figures. Just remnants of Arthas’ invasion, but they were enough to keep the elves on their toes. And then that cool ambience was sliced by the knife of a laboured cry, farstriders announcing another wave of those marauders. They sounded tired, he thought. “We are all so tired,” he quietly sighed.
“Captain Viranis Goldenmourn.” The new title sounded so foreign to him. The great purging of Quel’thalas had left Silvermoon with so little rangers that dire advancements had to be made. Viranis learned quickly that the rank was simply an object of civility. It would be his skill and mind that would keep him alive.
“Tonight you will be travelling into the Blackened Woods, and with you your contingent of farstriders.” Viranis nodded, now fully dressed in leathers of brown and quiet red.
“You will strike out at a cultist’s encampment along the Elrendar and north of Suncrown. You will strike with impunity and leave none standing”. Viranis nodded again, this time pinning his hands behind his back.
“Very well, make Silvermoon proud tonight, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Ranger-General. I shall.”