Pushing open the doors in front of her, Tyrande steps out of the passenger cabin hallway and onto the open deck of Elune’s Blessing, the Night Elf flagship of the Northrend Expeditionary Fleet that they’d put together on such short notice. She breathes in the fresh ocean air, taking a moment to bask in the sunlight streaming down from overhead.
Then, she turns and makes her way up the stairs to the upper deck where the ship’s helm can be found. If she’s going to be out on the deck of the ship, it’s better that she be as unobtrusive and out of the way as possible. After all, High Priestess of Elune and leader of the Night Elf people she might be… but a sailor she was not.
Part of being in charge was knowing when you shouldn’t BE in charge, and in this case Tyrande is all too happy to move to a railing on the upper deck of Elune’s Blessing, gracing the Captain of the vessel with a grateful smile as she arrives there.
“Good morning, Captain Galind.”
Galind Windsword turns her way for a moment, bowing his head respectfully in her direction before returning to steering their vessel. With Elune’s Blessing at the head of the fleet, he’s effectively steering all fifteen of the ships that are currently journeying with them to Northrend at the moment. Still, he’s an accomplished sailor and has no issue holding a quick conversation with her at the same time that his eyes are constantly scanning the horizon.
“Well met, Priestess Whisperwind. A pleasure to have your company on this fine morning. It’s a good day for sailing… I don’t foresee us having any issues with the weather, at least.”
Tyrande smiles, appreciating the information as well as his gruff tone. She knows that he doesn’t mean anything by it, of course. Though a spark of guilt does alight in her chest over her… presumptuous decision to declare they would be leaving from Auberdine within the week.
In hindsight, it was a wonder they’d even managed. A week was… not a lot of time, and only via some arcane help via Lady Jaina Proudmoore and her portals, along with some fast work growing some supplies from Cenarius, Rognak, and the other druids, had they been able to get everything and everyone together in only a week.
Well, technically they’d set out on the eighth day, but Tyrande wasn’t about to be nitpicky. No, not when she already felt bad for making everyone dance to her tune and fulfill her expectations in the first place.
Still, she hadn’t wanted to risk Shandris managing to talk her out of her decision. And believe her, the girl had damn well tried. It felt like every single day, the newly promoted General Feathermoon had managed to somehow find a moment to speak to Tyrande despite her new duties and responsibilities. Not that Tyrande would have minded getting the chance to speak to her adoptive daughter each day, but it grew rather irritating when Shandris turned every meeting into another conversation about how Tyrande should stay and she should be the one to go to Northrend.
In the end, they at least hadn’t parted ways on bad terms. Shandris might not have been happy she couldn’t convince Tyrande to change her mind, but they’d still hugged before the fleet had left Kalimdor. Ultimately, Tyrande knew she was right. Even if Shandris didn’t agree with her, this was the right move. Not just choosing to go with the Expedition, but also promoting Shandris to General in the first place.
The other Night Elf was right after all. They’d lost too many leaders. And while Tyrande knew the truth of Fandral Staghelm’s treachery thanks to a conversation with Cenarius, the fact remained that between his demise and Malfurion’s state, the Night Elf people were without an Archdruid to properly lead them.
Fortunately, Broll Bearmantle was up to the challenge, even if the Night Elf male didn’t think so. But of all of the living Night Elf Druids, he was not only the one most in touch with Nature… he was also touched by the Wild Gods themselves, being one of the handful of Night Elves who were naturally born with antlers in the image of their patron, Lord Cenarius.
But while Tyrande knew Broll would make an excellent Archdruid, she also knew that Shandris would be an excellent Sentinel General. The girl had even been talking about sending a scouting force down to Feralas before the fleet had departed, showing that she was already falling into her new role with a gusto that Tyrande couldn’t help but admire.
And of course… there was the personal element to all of this. Tyrande needed this. Whether it was for closure or simply good old fashioned revenge, she knew that she needed to be part of this mission.
On the one hand, the time since the Defiler’s defeat had been a time of celebration, rejuvenation, and growth for the peoples of Kalimdor, both old and new. Her people in particular had embraced their newfound mortality with a gusto that had both surprised and impressed Tyrande.
But she knew why that was… it was because they had found a solid example of how to live mortal in the form of their new friends and allies from the Horde and the humans of Theramore Isle. From the savage but honorable orcs, to the soft-spoken and good-natured tauren, to the ever inquisitive and thrill-seeking humans. All of these mortal races and more had given the Night Elf people examples of exactly what it meant to live on a time limit. To not have eternity.
Sure, some of Tyrande’s people had fallen into melancholy and despair at the loss of their immortality. More had entered depressive states over the loss of loved ones during the Legion’s Invasion of Kalimdor. Whether they were Sentinels killed in battle, civilians overrun by the Scourge sweeping through their forests, or druids slaughtered in their barrows, it was hard to find a Night Elf still alive who HADN’T lost someone in the conflict.
But they still had each other. They still had their people, and they still had their potential. And oh what that potential had managed to accomplish. Tyrande couldn’t help but be grateful that Fandral Staghelm’s proposal for a new World Tree in which they could settle atop its boughs had never come to fruition. His plan for this ‘Teldrassil’ had seemed sound on paper, but knowing now what he was plotting… well, technically they could have gone ahead with the initiative anyways once he and his Master’s plans were dealt with.
They hadn’t though, and Tyrande was all the happier for it. Because rather than their people being mostly sequestered in a tree off the coast of Kalimdor while their ancestral lands languished and some remained corrupted by the Legion and Scourge’s passing… they’d stayed on the mainland and were making something beautiful alongside the younger races of Kalimdor.
Indeed, there were already initiatives to combat the disgusting condition of the Felwood. And even whispers of an effort to go south and perhaps bring life back to the Barrens themselves. It was wonderful, truly it was. Back home in the Grand Temple to Elune that had been erected in Astranaar, no matter where Tyrande looked, she saw things that made her heart swell with pride in her chest.
And yet… and yet, despite how grand these last several months had been, Tyrande herself had never been lonelier. She had Shandris of course. Her adoptive daughter was ever close by, and in fact this little expedition would be the longest they’d been apart since the Legion’s Invasion. And of course, she still had Elune as well. Her Goddess was always with her, a comforting balm upon her wounded soul.
… But her soul was STILL wounded. Still damaged. There was a gash in her heart that would not heal. A festering injury upon her psyche that refused to scab over. Malfurion’s loss sat heavily with her even now. So did Illidan’s.
It was funny, in a not-so-funny sort of way. For ten thousand years, Illidan Stormrage had languished in his prison. Tyrande hadn’t visited him once. Maybe she should have, but after everything, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She feared what she would find. She feared what she might do if she came face to face with the man she’d once counted as friend.
And Malfurion… Malfurion had been in and out of the Dream damn near constantly, spending far more time IN the Dream tending to his responsibilities there than OUT. Tyrande had never begrudged him it. She’d put it out of her mind as much as possible. But… she had counted the years. Before his death, before he’d been so callously taken from her, Malfurion had spent the last three THOUSAND years in the Dream.
Even still… even still. They’d always both been alive, at least. They had not been permanently lost to her. Only… temporarily displaced. There was always the chance of a reconciliation between her and Illidan still. A possibility that he might see the error of his power-hungry ways and repent his callous disregard for their people’s safety. And of course, Tyrande had known that Malfurion would wake up one day and return to her side. He always did, eventually.
… Until he did not. Until he could no longer. Tyrande had always known the Stormrage Brothers were still out there… and now they weren’t.
She hasn’t spoken to Malfurion directly since their encounter before the Battle of Mount Hyjal. Cenarius had confided in her the circumstances of Fandral Staghelm’s defeat. How Malfurion’s presence had been instrumental in stopping the puppet and his damnable Nightmare Lord from disabling Cenarius and killing Rognak and Broll. Tyrande was happy to hear that it had all worked out, even if she was less than happy that she hadn’t been included in either the planning nor the mission itself until after the fact.
Regardless of her immense irritation over Cenarius’ decision to keep Fandral a purely ‘druid matter’, Tyrande had listened well when the Lord of the Forest had explained to her Malfurion’s final words before disappearing. How he believed that he would only have one more manifestation on Azeroth before he dissipated entirely. And how he had decided to save it for her.
The instant she’d heard that, Tyrande had demanded Cenarius pass on a message to her beloved for her. She’d told him that Malfurion was not to ‘use up’ his time just to visit her, and to not worry about her. That she was fine, and that what she wanted, more than anything, was for Malfurion to stay in the Dream and stay ‘alive’ as long as possible.
Yes, he might be lost to her… but so long as he lingered, Tyrande could hold onto the knowledge that he was still out there. They would never be together again, but they were both still fighting the same fight, still working towards the same goals. What little cold comfort that provided, anyways.
Cenarius had done as she’d asked and Malfurion had given his assent to her demands using his mentor as proxy. And so… Tyrande had had very little communication with her mate in these last several months, as busy as they and Cenarius, their go-between, all were with their respective projects. And sure, it wasn’t unusual for Tyrande to go months or even years without hearing from Malfurion. But the context had undeniably changed.
Tyrande needed this expedition. She needed to get away from the beautifully crafted Temple of Elune and all the expectations of her people. And she needed, more than anything, to put this monstrous Lich King to rest once and for all. Even now, right alongside the sorrow in her heart, Tyrande Whisperwind felt a cold, raw hatred and fury towards any and all undead. The Scourge were a blight upon this world, and she would see their master destroyed once and for all.
She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her vengeance would not be satisfied until the Lich King himself was dealt with. And so long as he and his demon masters were trying to hunt down the shards of that damnable Runeblade that slew Illidan, she knew her people would not be safe either. Yes, there were times to dig in and defend and times to take the fight to the enemy. This was one of the latter, most definitely.
Tyrande would-
Blinking, Tyrande is pulled out of her rather morbid inner thoughts by the sound of something aquatic and large. Looking back behind Elune’s Blessing, she watches as a massive orca with large spiked tusks coming off the sides of its mouth crests out of the water, doing a flip and then diving back beneath the surface. Behind it come even more orcas, along with a group of sea lions as well.
Tyrande finds herself unable to fight the smile that spreads across the face, as she notes the difference between the aquatic form that Rognak and his Warsong Druids have taken, and that of the Night Elf Druids who have come on this expedition. Though even when she compares Rognak and his fellow orcs, she finds that his aquatic form is the biggest of them all.
Leaning against the railing, Tyrande watches the druids of the Expeditionary Fleet play in the water, swimming back and forth and up and under the fifteen ships that are currently making their way to Northrend. She admires their carefree nature, wishing she herself could feel even an ounce of that. It would be lovely to just be able to turn into a fish and swim beneath the waves. Or even to be able to turn into a bird and just… fly away.
She’d never envied Malfurion or his fellow druids before his loss. She’d always been content with her place as Elune’s Chosen, as her High Priestess. And… she still was, don’t get her wrong. But she would be much more content, much more satisfied even, once the Lich King was dead.
Turning her gaze back towards the great expanse of water in front of them, Tyrande’s fingers grip down harder upon the wooden railing beneath her hands. Northrend awaited. And so did the Lich King and his demon allies. They might have defeated Archimonde and the Legion at Mount Hyjal, but as Detheroc’s attack on Nendis and Moonglade showed, the threat was not yet over.
Tyrande would not rest until their world was safe. In memory of Malfurion, in memory of Illidan… she would see it done. One way or another.
Pushing open the doors in front of her, Tyrande steps out of the passenger cabin hallway and onto the open deck of Elune’s Blessing, the Night Elf flagship of the Northrend Expeditionary Fleet that they’d put together on such short notice. She breathes in the fresh ocean air, taking a moment to bask in the sunlight streaming down from overhead.
Then, she turns and makes her way up the stairs to the upper deck where the ship’s helm can be found. If she’s going to be out on the deck of the ship, it’s better that she be as unobtrusive and out of the way as possible. After all, High Priestess of Elune and leader of the Night Elf people she might be… but a sailor she was not.
Part of being in charge was knowing when you shouldn’t BE in charge, and in this case Tyrande is all too happy to move to a railing on the upper deck of Elune’s Blessing, gracing the Captain of the vessel with a grateful smile as she arrives there.
“Good morning, Captain Galind.”
Galind Windsword turns her way for a moment, bowing his head respectfully in her direction before returning to steering their vessel. With Elune’s Blessing at the head of the fleet, he’s effectively steering all fifteen of the ships that are currently journeying with them to Northrend at the moment. Still, he’s an accomplished sailor and has no issue holding a quick conversation with her at the same time that his eyes are constantly scanning the horizon.
“Well met, Priestess Whisperwind. A pleasure to have your company on this fine morning. It’s a good day for sailing… I don’t foresee us having any issues with the weather, at least.”
Tyrande smiles, appreciating the information as well as his gruff tone. She knows that he doesn’t mean anything by it, of course. Though a spark of guilt does alight in her chest over her… presumptuous decision to declare they would be leaving from Auberdine within the week.
In hindsight, it was a wonder they’d even managed. A week was… not a lot of time, and only via some arcane help via Lady Jaina Proudmoore and her portals, along with some fast work growing some supplies from Cenarius, Rognak, and the other druids, had they been able to get everything and everyone together in only a week.
Well, technically they’d set out on the eighth day, but Tyrande wasn’t about to be nitpicky. No, not when she already felt bad for making everyone dance to her tune and fulfill her expectations in the first place.
Still, she hadn’t wanted to risk Shandris managing to talk her out of her decision. And believe her, the girl had damn well tried. It felt like every single day, the newly promoted General Feathermoon had managed to somehow find a moment to speak to Tyrande despite her new duties and responsibilities. Not that Tyrande would have minded getting the chance to speak to her adoptive daughter each day, but it grew rather irritating when Shandris turned every meeting into another conversation about how Tyrande should stay and she should be the one to go to Northrend.
In the end, they at least hadn’t parted ways on bad terms. Shandris might not have been happy she couldn’t convince Tyrande to change her mind, but they’d still hugged before the fleet had left Kalimdor. Ultimately, Tyrande knew she was right. Even if Shandris didn’t agree with her, this was the right move. Not just choosing to go with the Expedition, but also promoting Shandris to General in the first place.
The other Night Elf was right after all. They’d lost too many leaders. And while Tyrande knew the truth of Fandral Staghelm’s treachery thanks to a conversation with Cenarius, the fact remained that between his demise and Malfurion’s state, the Night Elf people were without an Archdruid to properly lead them.
Fortunately, Broll Bearmantle was up to the challenge, even if the Night Elf male didn’t think so. But of all of the living Night Elf Druids, he was not only the one most in touch with Nature… he was also touched by the Wild Gods themselves, being one of the handful of Night Elves who were naturally born with antlers in the image of their patron, Lord Cenarius.
But while Tyrande knew Broll would make an excellent Archdruid, she also knew that Shandris would be an excellent Sentinel General. The girl had even been talking about sending a scouting force down to Feralas before the fleet had departed, showing that she was already falling into her new role with a gusto that Tyrande couldn’t help but admire.
And of course… there was the personal element to all of this. Tyrande needed this. Whether it was for closure or simply good old fashioned revenge, she knew that she needed to be part of this mission.
On the one hand, the time since the Defiler’s defeat had been a time of celebration, rejuvenation, and growth for the peoples of Kalimdor, both old and new. Her people in particular had embraced their newfound mortality with a gusto that had both surprised and impressed Tyrande.
But she knew why that was… it was because they had found a solid example of how to live mortal in the form of their new friends and allies from the Horde and the humans of Theramore Isle. From the savage but honorable orcs, to the soft-spoken and good-natured tauren, to the ever inquisitive and thrill-seeking humans. All of these mortal races and more had given the Night Elf people examples of exactly what it meant to live on a time limit. To not have eternity.
Sure, some of Tyrande’s people had fallen into melancholy and despair at the loss of their immortality. More had entered depressive states over the loss of loved ones during the Legion’s Invasion of Kalimdor. Whether they were Sentinels killed in battle, civilians overrun by the Scourge sweeping through their forests, or druids slaughtered in their barrows, it was hard to find a Night Elf still alive who HADN’T lost someone in the conflict.
But they still had each other. They still had their people, and they still had their potential. And oh what that potential had managed to accomplish. Tyrande couldn’t help but be grateful that Fandral Staghelm’s proposal for a new World Tree in which they could settle atop its boughs had never come to fruition. His plan for this ‘Teldrassil’ had seemed sound on paper, but knowing now what he was plotting… well, technically they could have gone ahead with the initiative anyways once he and his Master’s plans were dealt with.
They hadn’t though, and Tyrande was all the happier for it. Because rather than their people being mostly sequestered in a tree off the coast of Kalimdor while their ancestral lands languished and some remained corrupted by the Legion and Scourge’s passing… they’d stayed on the mainland and were making something beautiful alongside the younger races of Kalimdor.
Indeed, there were already initiatives to combat the disgusting condition of the Felwood. And even whispers of an effort to go south and perhaps bring life back to the Barrens themselves. It was wonderful, truly it was. Back home in the Grand Temple to Elune that had been erected in Astranaar, no matter where Tyrande looked, she saw things that made her heart swell with pride in her chest.
And yet… and yet, despite how grand these last several months had been, Tyrande herself had never been lonelier. She had Shandris of course. Her adoptive daughter was ever close by, and in fact this little expedition would be the longest they’d been apart since the Legion’s Invasion. And of course, she still had Elune as well. Her Goddess was always with her, a comforting balm upon her wounded soul.
… But her soul was STILL wounded. Still damaged. There was a gash in her heart that would not heal. A festering injury upon her psyche that refused to scab over. Malfurion’s loss sat heavily with her even now. So did Illidan’s.
It was funny, in a not-so-funny sort of way. For ten thousand years, Illidan Stormrage had languished in his prison. Tyrande hadn’t visited him once. Maybe she should have, but after everything, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She feared what she would find. She feared what she might do if she came face to face with the man she’d once counted as friend.
And Malfurion… Malfurion had been in and out of the Dream damn near constantly, spending far more time IN the Dream tending to his responsibilities there than OUT. Tyrande had never begrudged him it. She’d put it out of her mind as much as possible. But… she had counted the years. Before his death, before he’d been so callously taken from her, Malfurion had spent the last three THOUSAND years in the Dream.
Even still… even still. They’d always both been alive, at least. They had not been permanently lost to her. Only… temporarily displaced. There was always the chance of a reconciliation between her and Illidan still. A possibility that he might see the error of his power-hungry ways and repent his callous disregard for their people’s safety. And of course, Tyrande had known that Malfurion would wake up one day and return to her side. He always did, eventually.
… Until he did not. Until he could no longer. Tyrande had always known the Stormrage Brothers were still out there… and now they weren’t.
She hasn’t spoken to Malfurion directly since their encounter before the Battle of Mount Hyjal. Cenarius had confided in her the circumstances of Fandral Staghelm’s defeat. How Malfurion’s presence had been instrumental in stopping the puppet and his damnable Nightmare Lord from disabling Cenarius and killing Rognak and Broll. Tyrande was happy to hear that it had all worked out, even if she was less than happy that she hadn’t been included in either the planning nor the mission itself until after the fact.
Regardless of her immense irritation over Cenarius’ decision to keep Fandral a purely ‘druid matter’, Tyrande had listened well when the Lord of the Forest had explained to her Malfurion’s final words before disappearing. How he believed that he would only have one more manifestation on Azeroth before he dissipated entirely. And how he had decided to save it for her.
The instant she’d heard that, Tyrande had demanded Cenarius pass on a message to her beloved for her. She’d told him that Malfurion was not to ‘use up’ his time just to visit her, and to not worry about her. That she was fine, and that what she wanted, more than anything, was for Malfurion to stay in the Dream and stay ‘alive’ as long as possible.
Yes, he might be lost to her… but so long as he lingered, Tyrande could hold onto the knowledge that he was still out there. They would never be together again, but they were both still fighting the same fight, still working towards the same goals. What little cold comfort that provided, anyways.
Cenarius had done as she’d asked and Malfurion had given his assent to her demands using his mentor as proxy. And so… Tyrande had had very little communication with her mate in these last several months, as busy as they and Cenarius, their go-between, all were with their respective projects. And sure, it wasn’t unusual for Tyrande to go months or even years without hearing from Malfurion. But the context had undeniably changed.
Tyrande needed this expedition. She needed to get away from the beautifully crafted Temple of Elune and all the expectations of her people. And she needed, more than anything, to put this monstrous Lich King to rest once and for all. Even now, right alongside the sorrow in her heart, Tyrande Whisperwind felt a cold, raw hatred and fury towards any and all undead. The Scourge were a blight upon this world, and she would see their master destroyed once and for all.
She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her vengeance would not be satisfied until the Lich King himself was dealt with. And so long as he and his demon masters were trying to hunt down the shards of that damnable Runeblade that slew Illidan, she knew her people would not be safe either. Yes, there were times to dig in and defend and times to take the fight to the enemy. This was one of the latter, most definitely.
Tyrande would-
Blinking, Tyrande is pulled out of her rather morbid inner thoughts by the sound of something aquatic and large. Looking back behind Elune’s Blessing, she watches as a massive orca with large spiked tusks coming off the sides of its mouth crests out of the water, doing a flip and then diving back beneath the surface. Behind it come even more orcas, along with a group of sea lions as well.
Tyrande finds herself unable to fight the smile that spreads across the face, as she notes the difference between the aquatic form that Rognak and his Warsong Druids have taken, and that of the Night Elf Druids who have come on this expedition. Though even when she compares Rognak and his fellow orcs, she finds that his aquatic form is the biggest of them all.
Leaning against the railing, Tyrande watches the druids of the Expeditionary Fleet play in the water, swimming back and forth and up and under the fifteen ships that are currently making their way to Northrend. She admires their carefree nature, wishing she herself could feel even an ounce of that. It would be lovely to just be able to turn into a fish and swim beneath the waves. Or even to be able to turn into a bird and just… fly away.
She’d never envied Malfurion or his fellow druids before his loss. She’d always been content with her place as Elune’s Chosen, as her High Priestess. And… she still was, don’t get her wrong. But she would be much more content, much more satisfied even, once the Lich King was dead.
Turning her gaze back towards the great expanse of water in front of them, Tyrande’s fingers grip down harder upon the wooden railing beneath her hands. Northrend awaited. And so did the Lich King and his demon allies. They might have defeated Archimonde and the Legion at Mount Hyjal, but as Detheroc’s attack on Nendis and Moonglade showed, the threat was not yet over.
Tyrande would not rest until their world was safe. In memory of Malfurion, in memory of Illidan… she would see it done. One way or another.
