Spoilers ahead for Shadows Rising in what is now part three in this series of threads from me. Hopefully it is the last.
I don't have any real analysis on this, to be honest, I just thought Horde players might be interested in Thrall's thoughts on the matter of Teldrassil and Tyrande.
“Not going to eat that?” Yukha leaned against his carved shaman’s staff, twirling his gray beard thoughtfully.
“Have you come to steal my supper or do your job, Yukha?”
The shaman smiled, but it didn’t reach the wrinkles at his eyes. “Old friend, your missive reached Nordrassil and I carry with me the reply. The Night Warrior bids you come on one condition.”
Thrall shifted, even less hungry than before. “And? Spit it out.”
“She says you must bring what is owed.”
Frowning, Thrall scratched his chin. “What else did she say?”
“Nothing.” Yukha shrugged and reached for the haunch of boar growing cold on the table, tearing off a piece of charred skin and eating it. “She claimed you would know what that meant.”
“I see. And how does she seem?”
Emboldened by Thrall’s disinterest, Yukha tore off a larger piece of boar meat. “Her rage has not lessened, if that is what you mean.”
Of course not. Were it me, my rage would simmer for a thousand years.
You must bring what is owed.
Thrall was no fool. Surely Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage desired some gesture, some remuneration for the war crimes visited upon Teldrassil. Even in Nagrand, even cut off from his connection to the powers of a shaman, he had felt the moment the world shifted and the wrath of Sylvanas Windrunner set the kaldorei capital ablaze. It was quiet, it was distant, but he heard a collective cry, and for a brief, terrifying moment he tasted smoke on the air where none had been before.
What did he owe?
How did he answer that? He had not been part of the Horde war that led to the atrocity and that, perhaps, was why Tyrande and Malfurion were willing to meet with him at all. Innocence in one specific crime felt like a weak shield. But perhaps he had more. He gazed over the raised plateaus and flying banners of Orgrimmar and imagined it aflame, imagined the city that had been the source of so much life and joy and war and pain reduced to smoldering rubble. What would he want if such a thing were to happen? What would he need?
What possible balm could soothe a wound so impossibly deep?
Thrall collected himself before saying something rash. He looked into Tyrande’s eyes once more, into the hypnotizing aura of darkness in the never-cool embers of her eyes. That moment in Nagrand returned to him, when he tasted smoke and sensed a far-off pain. That pain was not so far off for her, it was constant and as potent as the day Teldrassil burned. They had once stood together, he, Tyrande, and Malfurion, all three of them defending Nordrassil. That tree they had managed to save, but now the crime of its sister burning must be answered. They had even witnessed his marriage to his wife, Aggra, there in the shade of Nordrassil’s venerable branches, though that seemed many lifetimes ago now. Perhaps Tyrande’s rage had obliterated those memories altogether.
“Do not look at me with those gloating eyes!” Sira shouted, poking her glaive toward the nightborne. “Nathanos! Nathanos? No…No, I will not be abandoned again, not now. My goddess…No! I will not submit! You have accomplished nothing! Do you hear me? Nothi—”
The blunt end of Thrall’s axe cracked into her helmet, silencing her. Sira crumpled to the ground, her glaives clattering to the stones, her helmet slipping off her head and rolling away. Thrall broke through the crowd of Zandalari and stopped the helm with the toe of his boot.
“Bind her tightly,” he told the trolls. “I know exactly what to do with her.”
They sailed into Stormwind Harbor four days later, with the feast food dwindling as steadily as Shaw’s patience. He kept dawdling in the brig, checking every hour or so to make sure their prize was still there.
It was.
Another unexpected and generous gift from the Horde. The only catch, outlined to him by the tremendously tall orc warrior Thrall, was this: The prize must be delivered exactly as he instructed, to exactly whom he instructed, with the note he had entrusted to Shaw unopened.
Thrall was not the sort one quarreled with in person. Shaw agreed to all stipulations—he could hardly refuse, given his circumstances—and boarded the craft sailing east.
“What is so urgent?” Anduin interjected, striding onto the boat.
“It is better if I simply show you. Come.”
Mathias led them below, shooing the crew out of the hold, making certain they were all of them alone before opening the brig. The small, lowceilinged cabin holding the brig was lit only by two meager candles, hardly enough light to see by. The door banged open. A figure slumped in the shadows, bound.
Jaina Proudmoore squinted, leaning forward and opening a gout of flame with her hand, the glow of the fire landing on the battered, gagged face of Sira Moonwarden.
“Sira,” Jaina whispered. Her eyes flew to his. “The Horde gave her to you?”
“No strings attached,” Mathias told her.
Anduin gently moved Jaina aside, squaring himself before the prisoner. She could have burned him alive with the hatred in her eyes.
“There are always strings,” Anduin said. “Even if you cannot see them.”
“Thrall wanted her delivered to Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage, along with this letter.” Mathias drew the sealed missive from his coat and handed it to the king.
Anduin blinked with confusion. “That is…oddly generous of him.”
“I agree,” Mathias replied.
“It will be done.” Anduin tucked the message under one arm, returning his attention to Sira.
“She is through there. Nobody will disturb you.”
Tyrande Whisperwind alighted the portal on silent feet, plunged at once into the damp, unforgiving cold of the Stormwind Stockades. She glanced to her left at the kaldorei mage who had offered to give her a portal from Nordrassil to the Eastern Kingdoms. Anduin’s message of invitation had arrived, along with the sealed note from Thrall.
Come with all haste to Stormwind, Anduin wrote. I have in my possession a gift from the Horde. It is meant only for you and awaits you in the Stockades.
The winding, hollow halls of the prison seemed engineered to send the cries of lonely prisoners from one wing to the other. Tyrande shivered, reminded of a different sort of howl and fury, the screams of the burning carried on hot, ashen winds. The prisoner raised her head at the squeak of the iron door.
Sira Moonwarden’s crimson eyes flared fire-bright in the gloom. No such brightness came from Tyrande’s eyes, though if the blackened pits there could twinkle and dance, they would. Her prize. Thrall’s gift.
This is not what was owed, he wrote. But I hope it is a start.
“A start,” Tyrande murmured.
