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200 years before the birth of Haidene

It was years before the world of elves had begun. In a dark cave upon the shelf of
Mount Hyjal, where all manner of plant life still held absolute sway over the
environment; there sat a creature whose hulking mass and shadowy form seemed to
almost meld in with the darkness around it. Nestled safe in the arms of this
monstrous creature, an infantile version of itself wrapped in thick leaves. The babe
looked up towards its apparent guardian, eyes opening from a sweet slumber and
was greeted with a great grin from the brutish looking thing. With a grunt
resembling laughter, and the slurs of a dead Zandali dialect, the Dark Troll rose from
it’s haunches and carried the child towards the mouth of the cave, then presented
her to the light of the moon.

‘Bless her life, that she revel long in your daylight!’ Proclaimed the Troll, with babe
held aloft. Then throwing the little one into the air before catching her once more, to
make her secure in her mother’s arms again. The child let out an impish giggle,
excited by the sudden adventure into the air. An exchange of smiles, and the troll
wandered back into it’s den.

100 years before the Destruction of the Royal Library

A tall slender night elf took hold of a dusty tome, lifting it towards her lips and
blowing free the dust that had been imprisoned across it’s cover for the last century.
Her clothing seemed regal, a large billowing robe that overset her shoulders and
draped down past her elbows. A humungous golden livery rested on her chest,
emblazoned with the titles and statutes of the Queen Azshara. She was standing in a
large athenaeum, adorned with the symbols of royalty. The floor was a polished
marble, the curtains a deep purple with silver trim, and all around the woman were
immense tables with highly detailed mosaics painting their surface. All seemed to be
so powerful and impressive, save for the woman and the dusty tome in her hands.
As she flicked across the pages, she seemed entranced by the motion. Her eyes were
hungry for what spells and excitements the book contained, made all the more
obvious by her solitude in this place. Former solitude, that is.

“Another from the forgotten sections, Dyserapha? Will you be restoring this one, as
well?” said another night elf. His entrance came with the creaking of an old oaken
door and the quiet step of soft leather shoes on marble floors. This one was a man,
taller than she and far more muscular. He was dressed in a similar garb to her,
though without a title adorning his upper body. His voice was rasped, as if parched.
“You cherish these books as if they were your own family, don’t you?”
“Magister Promethon,” The woman dipped her head in a show of respect for the
mage before continuing, “These books are much like my family, they are the last
living vestibules of their legacy. I should not wish them forgotten so swiftly by the
cruel hand of time.” Dyserapha said, brushing her hand over the tome before closing
it shut to fully look and listen to Promethon.

“I see the Royal Librarian was not chosen without reason. You do good work here,
Dyserapha. Are you well enough to speak? I am told that you have been suffering
lately, something about a fever?” Said the broad magister.
“I’m quite alright. No more than a mild cough, brought on by the change of seasons.”
Dyserapha smiled, “What is it you wished to speak to me about?”
“I should like to discuss the Stormrage boys that were born several centuries ago, if
that is a welcomed topic by you?”
“The Stormrage boys? Furion and… Illidan, yes?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Promethon said, slowly resting himself down in a nearby chair and
wafting his hand in the air, summoning two cups and a pot of fresh tea. He began to
prepare a cup for Dyserapha, whilst she took her own seat and put the book in her
hands to rest upon the tableside. “Do you recall what I said when they were born?
About their eyes?” Promethon said.
“Of course, you said it was a symbol of his great destiny, that he would likely become
a highly powerful individual.”
“That I did,” Promethon uttered quietly as he gave the first cup to Dyserapha and
poured his own shortly after.

“I begin to believe that this is no longer the case, you see the boy has been trying for
years now to compete with his brother Malfurion, and failing quite badly. Both of
them seek to become the first ‘druid’, the followers of Cenarius but Malfurion clearly
holds greater talent for the magic.”
“You think you were mistaken?” Dyserapha teased, sipping the tea with a smirk.
“Not mistaken. I believe that perhaps his powers are simply laying dormant. That he
needs a push to awaken them, a catalyst if you like.”
“That could be possible. That is after all, how our kind came to be. At least according
to this tome.” Dyserapha lifted the book she held earlier; “It details how our kind
slept at the foot of the Goddess and how she graced us with new forms.”
“What odd fortune I have then that you should be reading of this topic…
Apprentice.” The large male remarked with a grin.
“Odd fortune, indeed. I will see if I can find anything that might be useful to you. But
you should know better than to try and pursue this, really. He’s only one boy.”
“True… But you know of my goals, I wish to see what comes next.”
“It is likely nothing more than what you imagine. Let us be honest, there is nothing
to truly suggest that we will ever change from these forms.” Dyserapha said.
“Well… In any case, I am glad we are able to speak once again. It has been far too
long.” As the aged Highborne spoke, he smiled widely to the Librarian. The two then
continued to speak of more meandering matters, without much concern for the
previous topic. The thoughts of Illidan slithered away, the conversation as quickly
forgotten as the number of bread loaves that men consume through their lifetime.

50 years before the birth of Haidene

Under the light of the moon, a massive figure waded it’s way through the waters
approaching the falls. Despite the heavy pull of the currents, it seemed to meander
without care due to it’s size. Reaching the opposite bank, it rested down upon it’s aft
before overlooking the distant edge. Off and away, where the mountain and the
stream gave way to a view of countless stars. And then it stared. Without much
movement at all, it sang quietly in the old tongue and remarked upon the sight as
she did so. With the faintest shifting of her hand, reaching to the floor and cupping
the grass; the creature leaned her head forth in a bow.

The Dark Troll rose off her haunches once again, stepping through the water and
standing in the direct current. She made a careful path closer to the falls, eventually
feeling the full dragging force of the waters behind her; just waiting for her to lose
her footing and cast her from the mountain.

She slipped! Only to catch herself, grinding her teeth to her tusks and shaking
herself for the foolish mistake. She resisted still, despite the roars and the spits of
the water all around her. The troll looked to her hands, then back to the stars.
“But I wonder…” She said gently, breaking the song.

And then, the mother let herself fall. She opened her arms and dropped into the pull
of the stream. To fall away from the place of her birth, becoming one with the waters
and casting herself from the mountain.

675 Years after the Destruction of the Royal

Library
The forest felt sickly. The air of Ashenvale was hot and humid at this time of year. It
was as though the trees themselves were sweating, with moisture dripping from
every vine that found itself clinging to the skin of it’s host. The lakes and streams
caused a cacophonous noise that rung through the ears of every animal nearby. One
animal in particular was hunched by the water, in a makeshift tent of wolf hide and
bramble rope. Dyserapha, once the Royal Librarian of Zin-Azshari, now bereft of the
slightest of creature comforts. Her eyes were sunken; her previously pristine white
hair now a diminishing grey and her long elven ears drooped down low. She wore a
brown shawl that did little to defend her from the elements. Around her, a multitude
of tiny rabbits were hiding amidst her belongings, keeping themselves out of the
sight of the many predators roaming the forest.

Dyserapha’s dulling silver eyes were fixated on the river passing her by in deep
thought. Her thoughts swam along the water, drifting in an endless reverie for the
days when she was comfortable, when she was clean. Most of all, she missed her
library.
“Outside those walls of papyrus and ink, there was a world unkind to those like me. I
was not born for the vicious cycle of nature, not bred for hunting with the pack. I… I
am not a Kaldorei, I am Highborne. Mine was the legacy of magic, and the refinement
of knowledge. That’s what you told me, Teacher. But for all my skills as a magician,
for all my intellect… It all ended in such fire…” Her voiceless thoughts continued in
circles, all becoming central on that one image, “In such fire…” she spoke aloud,
alone.

With those words came a soft roaring noise from underneath the shawl Dyserapha
wore, and with a subtle movement from her shoulders her palms were revealed. A
flame sprouted from her hands, starting some at the wrists, the fingers and the tips
of the digits. She toyed with it, allowed it to drift from hand to hand as she revolved
it in her grasp. The elf’s dull eyes became slightly more resplendent with the spell,
following the motion of the flames. Slowly, she created a concentrated ball of fire
and held it in-between her palms.
“You were wrong. I was not born to hide, Promethon.” Dyserapha spoke in
frustration, clenching her hand around the fire and choking it. The flames practically
leapt from the cracks in her grip, trying to escape madly as if it were a living
creature. “I will not suffer it. I will take it back… I will take it all back. All of what you
took from me....”

Dyserapha’s voice became obsessive, and she stood upright; casting off the shawl.
Her body unveiled, it was only protected from the crest of her chest to the edge of
her ribcage. The only other item she adorned was a ruined skirt of purple and gold
that had long since faded from lack of care, with the symbol of her people upon it’s
sheet. She moved towards the river, her left hand still torturing the poor sparks of
fire that struggled to persist in her grasp. “You used me, Promethon!” Every word
Dyserapha spoke was filled with venom and hatred, a deluded sense of reality taking
hold of her thoughts as tears of frustration dragged their way across her cheeks. “I
will show you such spells that would make you proud… I will show you…”

The words spoken came with new intent. The flames in her hand turned into a
virulent, sickly green. They screamed, steam coming up from around them as
Dyserapha took control of them fully and held the flames aloft in both hands. The
rabbits that earlier had chosen to hide within her presence now bolted, preferring to
take their chances with the wolves than the unnatural fires before them. Her eyes
took on the same colour, turning from dull silver to a violently unnatural green. The
blaze overtook her body and erupted around her. The soft, wet grass beneath her
feet vanished in a wave of entropic flame that scorched the water out of the land and
devoured it. Dyserapha’s form was a silhouette in a sea of fel fires, and her voice
distorted in a demonic manner when she spoke the final words of her dark
soliloquy, “I will show you such fires…”

A branch snapped nearby, and Dyserapha turned on the spot; extending her hand
out towards the source of the noise in the nearby tree, coated in it’s sweating bark. A
horned creature with cloven hooves came stumbling into view, his eyes full of fear
and realization.
“NO!” He screamed out in Darnassian as the emerald inferno leapt towards him and
enveloped his body. The satyr screamed as he was eaten alive by the living flames,
his hellish red fur turning to charcoal in the second he was spotted. Dropping out of
the tree and falling to the ground, he groaned and wretched as he was slowly and
brutally melted. His last thoughts of how long the elf had known of his presence, and
how she had been readied at all times. He outreached a hand of desperation and
tried to crawl away, but by the time his fingers managed to curl together; the rest of
his body had already turned into ash.

“I will show you all such fires.”