“Mark my words, Brenn!  On the Harvest Moon, your house shall fall!” she has called.

Then the taunting letters stopped.  The glimpses of the shaman around Feathermoon Stronghold ceased, as mysteriously as they had begun.  Life even began to return to normal.  And then the bottom fell out.  Veleris Viggul, Chamberlain and anchorstone for Thalanaar for many long years, died suddenly after a brief illness.

Garret stood at the head of the funeral procession, at the head of his wife’s grave, and said words that summed the feeling of loss that all Thalanaari felt.

If you should go before me, dear, walk slowly
Down the ways of death, well-worn and wide,
For I would want to overtake you quickly
And seek the journey’s ending by your side.

I would be so forlorn not to catch up to you
Down some shining highroad when I came;
Walk slowly, dear, and often look behind you
And pause to hear if someone…me…is calling your name.

Walk slowly, love…so I can catch up…

 

Empty

Empty.

Empty…

These words echoed in Malorith’s mind.

These words carved into it, seared themselves into his brain. He couldn’t stop thinking it. He had thought it before. Before all of this had happened; he had thought this when the Inn was destroyed.

But this was no Inn, no hollowed out pub in the middle of nowhere, where monsters and lowlifes called home. No, this was not that at all, it was so much more; to Malorith and to everyone else.

Why did it have to end this way?

Why…

Malkiir and Sekornoth had left. Vanished before his eyes and yet… he couldn’t accept that the thing he had fought so hard over had come true. It was like the fulfillment of one of his two wishes was an alien experience. In a way, it was.

Malorith was used to things going against him. He figured that with the problems gone he could make that other wish come true. That train of thought vanished when he returned to Feathermoon, and found that “wish” waiting for him.

He had entered the countryside about as quickly as he had left. The infection flourishing in his left arm had died. His eyes were now an orange flame instead of a blue. Sekornoth, his weapon for many years, was gone, replaced by a -massive- claymore.  His original rune blade “Anguish” was now strapped along his backside.

The sword was, as stated before, massive. It was a miracle he could hold it before fel took his right arm. It had a broad center, three lines down the middle, coming together at the point to form a triangle. The hand guard was carved out of the bones of human fingers. The hilt was wrapped in a black cloth, likely leather, which was tattered and worn. The edges were in many was as horrific as the man’s actions. They were razor sharp, beyond that, with teeth sticking out along the edges for added damage.

His old weapon looked nearly brand new. However, he still regretted the departure of his newer weapon. He even missed Sekornoth, maybe even Malkiir.

What happened at the Bleeding Rat had shaken him to the bone. His left eye had been blinded by a horizontal sword slash. There was a split down the center of the flames emitting from said eye. No matter how much the world threw at him, the flames in his eyes never quit.

His right arm was the same, but with less Fel surrounding it, hardly any at all. His armor was different though. It was new, slimmer, but somehow offered more protection. His sides and under arms were covered, but his shoulder plates were smaller. Of course his right side was larger, but with less weight. However made this new suit of armor knew what they were doing.

Instead of ebbing off fel energy, it bled unholy. The shadows melded into his new found equipment, and he blended into them. Even Anguish did, and his new set of throwing knives, and, his most welcome addition, his new combat knife; almost identical to the last.

He wasn’t happy, he wasn’t even relaxed. More like patient, he knew that his final goal rested before him, and that Renix couldn’t hide with Laysa dead. He just needed to get back to Feathermoon, he needed to see Illora, to see the Brenns, but there would be no such thing.

When he came out of the tree line he stood there. He stood perfectly still for a very long time, eyes hardly moving. He unstrapped Anguish, removed his new helm, got on his knees, and screamed behind clenched teeth.

Empty.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

He wandered the halls of the once glorious Feathermoon with tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t sob, didn’t weep, and just had tears pour down him like a wound that knew only to bleed.

The halls were silent; it seemed even echoes did not belong in the halls. That the slightest notion of anything other than silence would destroy this terrifying beauty that had crept over the world Malorith once call home. It was like Turus Thalannar never even existed.

The walls were dark, but not with shadow, just plain dark. Something had taken every trace of life out Feathermoon, and now a warrior, nay, a death knight, was representing what had been lost. A soldier of the damned stood in the midst of a lifelessness that out shadowed his own.

The smell was unlike anything in the sane world. It was like clean death. Where there was nothing to create a smell, not a bodily fluid, emotion, food, nothing at all to create any sensation. This alone created it’s own “clean” smell, where nothing survived, and nothing proved so. Unlike the smells of battle, Malorith did not revel in this, he cowered in it. He wished every moment could be taken away.

He once said Feathermoon was cursed, maybe it was, but now it was so barren not even a curse could inhabit it. Empty…

It was still stuck in his head.

Hours passed

It seemed like days to the knight. Sitting in the once bustling living room the man with perfect posture still streamed out tears. It was the proximity of the shadows that brought his right arm to life. When it did a memory of Malkiir appeared, the Shadow Figures stood before him at a moment’s notice.

Like all other encounters, the woman and two little girls stared down at him. When Malorith looked up his tears stopped. He cleared his throat, readying himself for this obstacle that had seemingly appeared out of thin air.

“I don’t know what you are…” He spook slowly, creakingly. “And… I’m not sure if you know… what -I- am.” He stuttered slight, swallowing a lump in his throat. “And I know that you… have been living with a jailor for the past ten years now, but…” The death knight looked up at his wife and children. “He’s gone now.”

The figures, instead of tilting their heads, took a step forward. Malorith looked back down. “They both are…” Malorith clenched his fists hard, looking at his right arm, letting out a soft sob. “I. Am. So sorry for what I’ve done.” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to steady himself. “For all the pain I’ve brought to you all. To this place. I don’t know if this is my fault, but for whatever is I as your forgiveness.”

The warrior stood then, still looking to the ground. “I don’t know you, but Mordrain did, and… I never knew him, but you did. So I hope…” Malorith couldn’t believe he had just used that word. “That this is what he would want…” He let out a sigh, it was shaky, but he seemed sure of himself. “If you have come for my life take it. I would be honored to repent at such a time.” He looked up to the mass of shaded figures. Suddenly one of the little girls approached him. It’s steps made no sound.

The figure reached the devastated death knight, placed a single hand on his knee, and for the slightest of moments the shadow lifted from her face, and Malorith could see his daughter. He could see his beautiful little girl, the one that forgave him; and with that they all disappeared.

Not such a bad thing being empty…

A Week Passed

It was early in the morning when everything leading up to the telling of this tale happened.

Malorith had been sleeping on the stairs for a week, he had repaired Feathermoon, placed all of the reinforced structures he wanted, all the new windows, door hinges, everything he dreamed the place of being. The fact that no one knew of it all never even occurred to him, and it never does, the only thing that did was how pointless all the extra labor is.

The day of importance, which is really the whole point of this whole story, happened on the morning of the eighth day, not the seventh. The sun was rising along the tree line, and in the center of it all was a half elf.

A hunted man, a traitor, a coward, a liar, a cheater, a betrayer, a half elf non-the-less. When Malorith opened his eyes to see his enemy standing below him at the foot of the steps, armor glistening with rays of the sun, he thought it was god. The strangest thing happened though. Malorith remained seated, he remained calm, he felt no urge to kill, no reason to lunge at his foe. He just sat there, looking into his eyes.

“Hello Renix…” The first words he had said to the man since death, the first words he had said in a week. Who would’ve thought?

“Good morning Malorith…” The man retorted. He was his build, his height, his size, his weight. For a half elf he was a giant. For a wanted man he looked remarkably like those who wanted. It was like a mirror.

The two titans said nothing, nor would they for three days.

Malorith got up slowly, he had his new set of armor on, and his new sword was in hand. Renix took plenty of steps back. The half elf’s armor was heavy, like Malorith’s, but instead of a claymore, he wielded a tower shield and broadsword. Their designs were a mix of human and elfish metal work; with just enough sturdiness to make it human, and just enough flair to make it an elf’s.

Then when Malorith got to the bottom of the stairs, they just stared at each other. Maybe they were measuring each other up? Maybe they just couldn’t really process all that had happened in the last thirteen years, and how it had been leading up to this. Thirteen years of this, now boiled down to just ten minutes of walking, talking, and now, staring.

There was no “first move”. The combatants moved in unison. Struck each other the same way too.

They fought for three days.

You would think three days would be long, if not longer, for an entire city to be taken. Three day could have been filled with meaningful talks, walks in the park, living life like a memory so you take in all the details. Three days could have been filling with laughter and song, dance and love. Three days could have been so much more.

Instead, three days were spent over a blood feud that started nearly twenty years ago, and carried out thirteen years ago. Three days spent of blood shed should have made any many collapses; but it just wasn’t enough for the two titans. It wasn’t enough for Malorith, or Renix. So they fought, not bothering to pace themselves, tooth and nail until their bodies collapsed. Like everything else, they fell at the exact same time.

It was Renix who was able to lift himself from the muck and grim of Feathermoon’s courtyard. He sat down and looked at Malorith, mouth slightly open, knees pulled up halfway to his chest, arms resting on each side. Neither one had helms, both had long hair. Malorith’s was pure silver, Renix’ was a dark blonde, almost reddish color. Malorith’s eyes were balls of fire, his were regular eyes. For being so remarkably similar, they were so distinguished in their own way.

When Malorith came to he sat like his foe. The just stared into each other’s eyes, the out towards the now-setting sun. Malorith was panting just like Renix, and although they were both capable, it was Renix who broke the silence.

“You know something Mordrain?” Malorith didn’t even care he had been called that, Renix knew it too. He continued. “My entire life I’ve been living in fear of you.” The half elf made a silent shake of his head. “My entire life I’ve been running, hiding, doing downright horrid things… because of you.” The elf adjusted slightly, Malorith just stared at him. “When really it’s because of me.” The half elf blinked, so did the death knight.

“For thirteen years you hunted me.” Renix finally looked back to his bloodied opponent. “For thirteen years I’ve prepared for this. For thirteen years you trained to face me. Thirteen years leading up to this.” Renix let out a sigh. “And you know what?” The elf looked dead into Malorith’s stare.

“Not a damned thing’s changed.”

Renix looked away. Malorith remained silent. Renix just went on. “I hate myself. For every. Single. Thing. I’ve done, I hate myself.” Renix nodded silently. “But, I don’t regret any of it…. because I got this far.” He nodded once more. “Now I’m here, in this dead land because of some “curse” a shaman fore-told about or some such.”

The elf looked to the sun set. “Now I’m here to make it all up. Now I’m here to let it all out.”

Renix turned to his lifelong foe. “I’m here to ask for -your- forgiveness.”

Malorith just stared at him for what seemed like another three days; Renix stared right back.

It took the cawing of crows who surely thought the two figures were dead to break the silence. Malorith didn’t have to clear his throat this time. He stood up and looked down at the half elf, then looked up to the tree line. He removed his right glove and held it before him.

“Do you see now…? What he did to me?” The death knight bowed down closer, the flames of his sight still calm. “Do you see what -they- did to me?” His voice was calm, with just enough chill to freeze hell over twice.

Malorith turned away, he just wondered around his foe. “They forged me… Into… Into…” He had to stammer, he just could get it all out. “This…” That was the only thing that came to mind. “How much?” He roared. “How much did Laysa pay you?!”

Renix bit his lower lip and nodded. “Five hundred.”

Malorith stood there with his eyes wide and mouth open. “You killed my friends, you killed me, for five hundred pieces?!” Malorith surged over to him, picking him up by the collar. “You shit! Do you remember them, huh?! I do! They let me see, they let it unfold, I know EVERYTHING!”

All Renix could do was close his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?! You think “sorry” will make up for twenty years?! ALL THIS?! I’ve given up –everything- to find you; everything to kill you!!” Malorith then dropped his foe, he flopped to the ground quickly, and he made no sound.

“But now with them gone…. I am…” The death knight looked to the ground, his life flashing before him. He didn’t know why.

“Lost, hopeless, and now… homeless once more.” The death knight stared at his open palms as if doing so would bring his friends back. “But what hurts me the most…” His palms collapsed into tight fists “Is that their disappearance will remain a mystery… just like the Inn.”

“Malorith?” The knight simply looked up to his lifelong enemy. He didn’t even respond. “Was this supposed to be the place?” Renix sounded sincere.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he did.

“Was this the place for you to finally settle down? Was this the place you were to call home?” Malorith listened but waited for him to go on. “Was Illora the one too?” It did not shock him that the half elf knew of her. He nodded and started to pace.

“Yes, no, I don’t know. I’ve never settled into much, but… These people…” He couldn’t find the right words for Thalannar. “Yes, this was going to be the place.”

Renix blinked, this came as somewhat of a surprise. He stood and announced. “Then I’m going to help you.”

Malorith stared into him. “No… no you’re not.” He shook his head once.

“Mordrain listen to me…” Renix started, and when he did he was sure Malorith would kill him on the spot , but he pressed on. “I need to do this. I can’t live with this conflict any longer, I know where they are. He told me.”

Malorith’s eyes widened, he was talking about Maladiir, that meant something about time, that meant Malorith was clueless, but that also meant Renix was serious.

“How does he know? How do you know?” Malorith struggled for answers.

Renix smiled. “Because he knows who the Windcaller is. So do I, and so I’ve chosen to help you, to give you your life back, your home.” Renix looked to the ground. “I know it won’t make up for anything, but it will give me peace.” Renix nodded. He looked up to Malorith who seemed to relax.

“They are lost in another… place. In this place the house of Turus Thalannar never existed, hell… even I don’t know how different it is here then there.” Renix approached Malorith. “Maybe you’re still alive over there, maybe you never got that arm, or anything with me over there… I don’t know Malorith. But that’s where they are, and if you ever want to see them again, that’s where you’re going.”

Malorith didn’t hesitate; he quickly nodded and just whispered. “How?”

Renix smiled and took a few steps back. “I knew you wouldn’t refuse, so I had Maladiir whip up an opening for you right about… now.”

“What are you talking abou-“ And in a flash, Malorith was gone. Off to this other side of things, off to find those he cared for.

Renix just stood there. “When you come back, and I know you will, we’ll finish this once and for all.”

“Good luck Mordrain. You’ll need it.”

Three nights passed

Thalanaar mounted the battlements, and prepared to ride.  Those who still could, rode toward the Caverns of Time, toward one last chance, but the Windseeker’s task was done. The shadows of the war raging on the other side grew more and more distant, as the future of the Thalanaari grew more and more faint.

The harvest moon had been the date the Windseeker had threatened she would end Thalanaar, and now that end had come. “Keep fighting!” the time warden shouted over the rising hum of magical energy surrounding the timeway.

Rallan lay on his side near the portal, while Nyatra struggled toward him.

As Jurojin reached the edge of the portal, he turned to look back at them. Nyatra had knelt to place a hand on his chest. Her eyes were wide as she rose to look at the fellow paladin… and shake her head.

Jurojin threw himself into the timeway, spitting a curse, and as the few remaining Thalanaari fought long and hard into the night, it was a battle they were never meant to win. Crestfall was one of the last, but at the end he knelt by the portal, holding a dead mountain lion close to him, the hunter’s first and only companion during the whole of his life. And then the light went out.

Everything was dark, it wasn’t completely black but it was dim. Through her eyelids, the druid could see a pulsating green glow that brightened until it revealed Feralas’ Feathermoon; tinted with an emerald hue. There were no sentinels, however curiously there were the ancients that stood there in the norm.

The trees swayed but against no breeze and in the distance stood a female kaldorei figure, stuck in what appeared to be a loop of channeling. Great ornamented horns swooped from the top of her head to graceful tips with an armored green bodice akin to the red one of her sister.

‘Ysera…’The druid thought, and with all her might stood upon her four feline legs and bolted to the figure.

But Schedezar wasn’t moving. To her, she was bolting after an uncatchable figure that kept moving; but to those who looked upon her from inside the Dream, saw a white cat asleep on the forest floor.

‘Why have I been brought back here?! I served my time to you long ago, surely it has not come to pass once more!’ Schedezar screamed, still chasing the figure in her mind; but nobody heard it.

Ysera’s form twisted and morphed into something resembling a high elf, with brown hair swept up in a high pony-tail and also braided down his shoulders.

The figure’s right shoulder was covered in a tattoo, with it’s left dawning a gold dragon-headed spaulder and vestments that looked to be made of golden feathers or scales.

The being turned slightly, the light catching the tattoo that creeped upon his face and his pale-blue eyes pierced the landscape before her; and at that moment she realized that the verdant atmosphere faded and the ground was smooth as glass.

Through her closed eyes she saw the Ancients of War and Lore burning blue, although that did not stop their valiant defense as what remained of the Sentinel force prepared to fall back to the Ruins of Feathermoon; only to be frozen in the water.

The golden figure held up his hand, and the scene paused. He walked slowly to a figure engaging the Moonclaw Warriors and leaned in intently to that figure’s weapon, scanning every inch tip-to-hilt of it and even prodding at the electrical orb that was suspended inside it before returning to his vantage point and gesturing for it to continue.

The action picked back up again, like it was a movie being paused for a brief moment before played again, and the figure he examined impaled one of the Worgen before her weapon devoured it in a cyclone that spread to the rest of the Moonclaw.

The massacre went on, blue fire being thrown down from above and the devastating cyclones spreading from victim to victim. The bodies of the fallen Sentinels and Worgen were raised in a shambled and drooling form, and were eager to consume those which used to be their sisters.

The being paused the scene again, and walked right up to Schedezar. Unknown to her, her posture had entirely changed.

The feline’s mouth was agape and snarling, her tail frizzed and standing tall with her shoulders hunched. Behind her, a swarm of treants were departing toward their directed target. He picked at her fur, and thumbed the amulet around her neck before kneeling and staring straight into her face, and tilting his head. Satisfied, the gold-clad man returned to watch before pausing again to re-investigate the attacker.

This time, he looked at everything she wore and noticed that there was a new blade equipped alongside the first, it was Quel’serrar. His eyes narrowed and he snorted before examining the lone blade holstered on her hip, for it was the sister to Quel’serrar.

Upon realizing it, he roared in anger – mumbling something that Schedezar could only pick up a few words from.

“Prismatic blades” and “Kalecgos was right” were all the druid caught, before an ice bomb’s detonation made her mentally ‘close her eyes’ and tuned her surroundings out for a brief second.

When she tuned back in, everything was dim but not dark – and a verdant fog overtook the silent, still and pristine Feathermoon.

No trace of what would be called the Feathermoon Massacre.

 

The Wyrmrest Accord

Tyventhal woke covered in thin sheets of sweat, and looked toward the door to his small quarters in the Lariss Pavilion. ‘At last!’ he thought, rolling himself from his bed and looking out across the small, shattered hall that he had seen in his dream bustling with life. ‘At last, I can leave this place… My exile is… at an end.’

 

What Was, What Is

Gwydion woke in his rooms in the Northshire Abbey. The battle was far away. He saw a young acolyte standing by the door, and asked, “How long?”

The acolyte’s head tilted slightly, a question forming at his lips.

“How long have I been out?” Gwydion asked again, growing slightly annoyed.

The acolyte smiled, trying not to laugh. “You’ve been asleep more than your allotted six candles, for certain,” he provided as an answer. “Your morning breakfast is in the main hall, and there are fresh robes for you here on the door.” With that, the acolyte was gone.

‘Fresh robes?’ he thought to himself, incredulous. ‘My robes were destroyed in the battle? But I feel… fine…’ His eyes had traveled to his hands. Younger. Stronger. Absent were the burns he had earned in his early days as a young Lord of Thalanaar.

He reached up and felt his chest. Gone. The scar that Veleris had given him…

Veleris.

He rolled out of the bed and dressed quickly, marched into the commons and past the breakfast table. The acolytes eating their morning meal stopped as he strode through. They looked to one another, and as Gwydion walked into the superior’s library two of them rose with shocked looks on their faces. One of them followed him, while another left the room.

Gwydion was already into the third cabinet filled with files when the superior and two guards entered. “This room is not open to acolytes,” he said in a gruff voice. “Explain yourself.”

It had been a long time since Gwydion had been scolded like a petulant child. But there was a righteous anger in the priest’s voice, and Gwydion paused. “I am Lord Gwydion Brenn, Lord Thalanaar,” he said, “and I have been in this room many times.”

The guards looked to one another, and the priest took a step forward, confused. “Who?”

Bile rose in Gwydion’s throat. He hadn’t found Veleris’ files, the papers she had been submitting for years. He hadn’t found his own, either. “She’s not here… I’m not here.” He sat down, the papers falling about him.

The priest waved the guards away and knelt next to Gwydion. “What is it, son?” he asked. “Why have you done this?”

Gwydion looked up. “The Keepers of Time,” he replied quietly. “We… we failed.”

Acolytes and Sentinels

Two days later, Gwydion was well enough to leave the Abbey. ‘Well enough,’ he thought to himself, frowning. ‘In other words, they don’t think I’m crazy.’ He walked out the door, and nearly collided with Marshal McBride. The young warrior was collecting signatures for the Stormwind Guard. There were fires in the vineyard, and orcs prowling the fields.

Gwydion thought briefly of Jadelyn, of Veleris, of everyone, and sent a prayer on the winds that they would remember him, and signed up. He signed his name, simply, Gwydion Brenn.

When Jadelyn woke, the air around her was different. She opened her eyes and found herself in a hard cot and not in the warm bed she shared with her husband.

She got up quickly and nearly ran to the door. Teldrasill… She was back in the Shadow Glen.

She felt her face, the lines or worry on her brow were gone, the scars that marred her arms gone.
She lifted her sleeve and saw a familiar mark, that of the sentinels still etched into her pale white skin.

She looked around and saw a white tiger cat at the foot of the bed she’d found herself in and the cat lifted its head.

“Althea!” Jade called the cat, she rose slowly, yawned and then lumbered towards Jadelyn and pushed her head into the elf’s hand. Jade wrapped her arms about the cats neck and held her close.

In this world, Althea still lived, she was not a spirit.

Jadelyn went about her duties for the next several days, trying to learn all she could about this place. At the end of it she was tired. She missed her home, she wanted Gwydion.

That is when a remarkable thing happened, on the horizon appeared a graying human, robed and running towards her.

“Gwydion?!” She called, her heart caught up in her throat for the mere seconds it took for him to collide with her.

The pair held each other for what seems like hours, maybe even days but in the end when they finally stopped to look each other in the eyes Gwydion looked at her with question in his eyes.

“Auvreyal” She answered simply and took his hand.

“How many made it?” She asked, he just shook his head and frowned.

“We’ll find them.” Jade said softly as the mounted the hill to head for Dolanaar.

 

Druids and Darkness

One man. That was all it took.

During the Third War, the Thalanaari trained a young man who left to become a Knight of Stormwind. This man once got into a quarrel with a mage, who the young man killed. Sentanced to life inprisonment in the Stockades, he was doomed to remain there for the rest of his days.

But without the Thalanaari, this man never recieved his training and never became a knight. He never fought and killed that mage. That mage delved into necromancy and caught the attention of Kel’thuzad himself. That mage eventually became a Lich.

That Lich created an army of the Undead. One such death knight he commanded was dispatched to the Eastern Plaguelands where a group of druids were studying the plague, hoping to find a cure. That death knight and several others attacked and killed the druids in their sleep. One of the druids was none other than Lunox Duskstorm.

Ressurected as a Death Knight shortly before the most recent opening of the Dark Portal, Lunox never joined the Cenarion Expedition or the Guardians of Hyjal. He never sustained injuries fighting in the Firelands. His druidic powers ceased to be and thus his antlers never grew. And of course, he never met the Thalanaari because they never existed.

Lunox walked over to the mailbox outside the Pig and Whistle tavern. His body, aged by undeath was a pale, grotesque shade of the bright pink it used to be. His hair was a foul green, with only strands of the vibrant colour it had once been. He was built, solid muscle having built up from the heavy armor he wore for years.

It had been five years since he was turned. Two in the Lich King’s service and three as a free man. He reached to grab the letter he had just recieved. He took it from the mailbox and looked it over. It was wrapped in a strange cloth, with a symbol on it he had never seen: A green maple leaf.

To the druid Lunox Duskstorm,
It is good to see that you are here as well.
Something strange had happened, and it is difficult to explain.
Find us.

Attached to the letter was a map of Kalimdor, with a star drawn by hand on Feralas, only to be crossed out and redrawn, larger, where Darnassus should be.

“Druid?” Lunox sneered. “Not for five years now.” Nevertheless, he was curious about who the senders of this letter were and why they seemed to know him. Furrowing his brow, he called his deathcharger and set out for the Docks.

 

Farseer’s Dream

It was cold. Very cold. Kateri didn’t remember her bed ever being cold.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes for a moment until the blur finally gave way to clear sight, but what she saw unnerved her. She was at the crash site of one of the escape pods of the Exodar.

She had awakened here long ago, on the old hard metal of the craft, confused and dazed, but she remembered nearly everything.

The Windseeker. Veleris’ funeral. Peace. Running to the Caverns of Time, fighting…falling. She looked around, frantic, where were the others? Where was Jakkar?

Kateri shot to her hooves and looked at the man that was there to usher those that would awaken down to the others, Kateri asked him so many questions, but the man seemed confused as to her rantings, so she left him.

Kateri searched all of the Crash SIte, searching everywhere for her lost son, but there was no sign of him; there was nothing. Panicked, Kateri closed her eyes and listened, asking the Elements for guidance, but they did not answer her, at least, not right away. This confused her, and so she quickly looked on her person…her totems were gone. Her hands shot to her neck…her Farseer tattoo wasn’t there.

And then it hit her. She was fully conscious but in her past. She hadn’t married Darion Shadowblade, he hadn’t died, that hadn’t caused her to throw herself into her studies, her studies never made her a Farseer, being a Farseer never got her into the Argent Crusade…and that never led her to adopting Jakkar.

Kateri fell to her knees, she quietly sobbed for her son, who was in the wastes of Northrend, living the life of a squire…and not the life of a loved son, comfortable and warm and happy. She sat and sobbed for a long moment, until the sorrow turned to resolve. She stood and marched down the rugged trails of Azuremyst, and caught a Hippogrph to Darnassus.

“They have to be here…” She reasoned, and searched the city high and low for her lost companions, and with a silent prayer of hope…her son.

 

Daphne Cavalry, Orphaned

Her father and mother were both killed when she was just a child. The attack on Moonbrook from the orc invasion decimated their town and left her hopelessly abandoned. It was truely the worst day of her life….

She was taken in by her neighbors. The Hagins were very kind, and they had a son, Ajaxx, who was close to her age, but still quite older. They became like siblings. He, always trying to watch out after her, she being the annoying tag along that was always around when he didn’t want to watch after her. Over the years, they became neigh inseperable, but she still missed her own family, and with her old house so close by, the wounds still hurt.

It was when she was twelve years old that Ajaxx propositioned her with an idea.

“It’s time ta get out of this two-horse town.” He said, he chest raised and a fire in his eyes. “I’m destined for greater things, Daph, and I ain’t gunna stop till everyone knows who I am.”

She laughed, but contined to nod and wait for him to continue. “Eva hear of the Ravenholdts? Crime syndicate all the way up north, as far as you can get from Moonbrook, I reck’on. I’m gunna start a new life with them as a master theif. Feared by all. Ma and Pa said they’d let me go if’n I want.

‘Too many bloody sons and daughters on this damned farm anyway’, they said. I’m old enough now, if’n you thinkin of comin too, I reck’on they’d let ya.” Daphne was overjoyed, she hugged him tight and agreed. After getting permission from their parents, the next day they were off.

Ajaxx traveled the same path he was meant to. He arrived at Ravenholdt Manor, accepted thier offer to steal from the King of Gilneas. But when the girl Celestine walked by as he devised his plan, she saw him… and Daphne… and kept walking.

When Daphne and Ajaxx decided to remain in Gilneas, their love for one another grew as they needed each other to survive. Ajaxx turned sixteen, he asked Daphne to Marry him, and she accepted tearfully. Ajaxx left to tell their family as the Wall near completion… and they never saw each other again.

Ajaxx was killed outside of Elwynn Forest. Colfax had been the one to capture him in another place, but as the Marshal is dead… some soldiers are more ruthless than others.

Daphne remained inside Greymane Wall, receiving the curse, fighting the Scourge, and receiving the ‘cure’. She felt once again orphaned as she sat outside the Howling Oak in Darnassus. Though these were her people for the last several years… she missed her fiance` and wanted to know of his whereabouts. She spotted a man that looked like he could be from the Eastren Kingdoms.

Among the Gilneans, he was dressed differently and spoke with a different accent. She felt bad interrupting the conversation he was having with a lovely night elf, but she felt she had to ask someone. She tapped on the Acolyte’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, but are ye from the Eastern Kingdoms? My name is Daphne Calvary,” she curtsies, “And I wanted ta know if you know someone by the name of Ajaxx Hagin? I know it may be a longshot, but… he is my fiance`, you see. And I havn’t seen him in many years.”

 

And as the Time Wardens watched, history moved forward, again.