Synopsis: An ongoing chronicle of the adventures of Alliandra, a human Paladin with a checkered past.

Warning/Disclaimer/Other Info: A World of Warcraft fanfic, with creative liberties taken to canon storylines and settings. If deviations from the norm disturb you, then I won't mind if you stop here. The game is owned by Blizzard, and no profit is made from this effort. Alli appears from time to time on Khadgar, a US PvE server.

Prologue
Library, Stormwind Keep
Stormwind City, Eastern Kingdoms

Three chimes of distant bells barely penetrate the silence of the Library as I sit in deep contemplation of the blank paper in front of me. The blankness of the paper seems to mock my frustration as I ponder just how to begin this tale of years, one that I know I must set to record before my passing from this world.

Why so morbid, you wonder? Though I am only barely fifty-four years in age, my life shows no sign of becoming any safer. The Alliance of Humans, Night Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Draenei still fights its seemingly never-ending struggle against the loose conference of Tauren, Orcs, Trolls, Undead and Blood Elves that calls itself the Horde, and I never know when it might be time for the Alliance Army to call one of its old war-horses up into action again.

For I have seen my fair share of action, and each day has taken its toll. See this long white streak in my hair, the one flaw? If you were to look a mite closer, you would see the beginnings of the scar that stretches from fore to aft along the crown of my skull from where that troll very nearly succeeded in claiming my scalp. Took a true work of the Light to save me from that little dent, and that is only one of the many reasons why you see me here armed with a pen instead of my mace, staring at this damned scrap of paper and wondering where and when to start…

Ah, I can hear Brother Milton clearing his throat at me. Milton Sheaf, the Librarian, is one of the few things that really haven't changed in this place. Milord Anduin Wrynn is no longer a boy-king, but a wise man as many have predicted. He has guided this city through many a tense spot, the experience of years evident in each command decision, but through it all Brother Milton has remained a solid, reassuring presence in the Keep's Library – even though the slightest noise above a cough will merit a firm ahem and The Look over the reading glasses he periodically wears.

He clears his throat again, as if I had not heard him the first time, then aims his measured gaze at the teenaged girl that has just come skittering into the library. She is at the stage of being all awkwardness and elbows, having nearly upended a chair and two stacks of books in her flight into the room, and now stands nervously awaiting my attention. "My lady?"

Now that is something I am not used to either. The same battle that nearly cost me my scalp was the same one that caused His Majesty to see fit to give me a title. A minor noble title, of course, but a title nonetheless. So now I must grow accustomed to the name of Lady Alliandra Lightfist, which is a stretch if I have ever heard one… but I woolgather again, as my friends and colleagues will spare no haste in agreeing that I am guilty of. "My lady, your class is waiting for you," the girl continues unsteadily, blushing and looking away as I fully notice her. She notes my brief abstract look of puzzlement and ventures, "Your Advanced Diplomacy class… or did you forget again?"

Blast and damn, she's right, I realize with a wince.I make a mental note to have a good talk with whoever it was that suggested that I teach that class, as it is one I am ill equipped for. After all, diplomacy is mainly tact and patience, and this is one Paladin who thinks that even the Wildhammer gryphons are just a tadge slow. "I'll be right along," I tell my student with a nod, effectively bidding her to vanish. "You will save my spot for me, won't you, Milton?"

The Look is replaced with a small, dry smile as the Librarian nods. "Of course, my lady."

I get up from my seat and push the chair in, and realize with a sigh that the page in front of me is still blank. Oh well. I suppose I shall just have to come back to this later…

-------

The sun is now setting over the high walls of Stormwind. My class has come and gone uneventfully, and I am now firmly ensconced in my chair back in the Library. Brother Milton only half-jokingly says that he should take up a collection from my students to have a small metal plate engraved with my name affixed to the chair so that everyone knows that it is my place.

As if they did not know already! I have occupied this seat many a pleasant hour since my return to Stormwind from the war fronts abroad, and now it is only the newest of acolytes that dares to sit here when I am absent. The lamp on the table gutters occasionally, casting eerie shadows here and there in the Library. For the briefest moment I feel a chill, as if I am seeing the forms of friends and enemies long gone. Damnit, Alli, you're woolgathering again, and it's getting late. At least decide on a title before you go to bed.

I sit for a while longer, looking down at the pen in my hand resting in the light grip of a hand callused by years of mace-wielding. As a well-rounded warrior of the Light, I have been trained in every form of weaponry available to me – with the exception of ranged weapons such as guns, bows, and crossbows, a proscription that still puzzles me even to this day – but the two-handed mace has long been my favorite. From the ogre sledge of Rahkzur to the hammer carried by the Tauren named Smite, from the blunt edge of death that was Mograine's Might to the Light-given form of Verigan's Fist, I have loved the feel of a good solid weapon in hand since I was first strong enough to lift one. In fact, my name of Lightfist was derived from my years of sacred service and the many hammers that I have used in defense of the Alliance… and my forging was not easy.

Ah-ha! There we have it. The title of this book of memories shall be:

The Forging of Lightfist

And now off to bed for me, if I am to rise in time for morning devotions as well as the assistance I promised in that skirmishing class.

One last note – before I forget –

This volume, however it may end, is dedicated to Kelthain. Follow in my footsteps but repeat not my mistakes.