My name is Daylanna Autumnkissed, Farstrider, Seeker and Champion of the Sin'dorei. I commit my tale to paper by dwindling magefire, knowing that death draws close for me. Yet I greet her with open arms and much relief, knowing that it will bring a fitting end to my story.
It is the story of a high elf, a commoner at that, who became a Farstrider before she was betrayed. It is the story of how she met the love of her life, a stoic troll druid with a brilliant smile and a desire to help people. It is the story of how she loved and lost him, lost everything. It is the story of how she endured even when he did not. It is my story. It has taken me this far. Now it will take me no further.
Here and now, my story will end in one of two ways. The afterlife, where I will be reunited with my lover once more, or oblivion where my mourning will no longer trouble me. The scourge have been pounding on my carefully crafted barricades for days now, and they have finally made it through. I have been driven to this final haven, a small bedroom on the upper floor, and even now I hear them moaning at the door. The structures are beginning to weaken, my rations stretching thin. I have enough bolts to fell an army, and a crossbow beneath my hand. My faithful lynx, Duskstrider, is pointed at the door. He is tensed, poised to attack and defend, go down in a blaze of glory. His red fur is coarse beneath my palm, his lithe body riddled with scars.
The scourge have taken everything from me. They destroyed my home, killed my family, tore the love of my life from me. Even my hair, once a lustrous copper, bleached to silver by hostile spells. It is no surprise that they now come for my life.
I am holed up in a human cottage, long abandoned now. Say what you like about the Alliance, they build things to last. A blood elf settlement would have held back the masses well, but I would have found myself confronted with no place to run once they destroyed the door.
Glory has never appealed to me. What use are honors if I am dead? But now it has come to it, there is a certain appeal to dragging as many horrors as I can into oblivion with me. A self sufficient vendetta, my blood paid for in full with theirs.
I wish my husband, Zazim, was here with me. He would hold me in these final moments, take me to his bed one last time as the magefire grows low. He would whisper sweet nothings in Zandali into my ear. He would tell me that it's okay to cry, that crying is a sign of the sadness going away.
But my husband is not here. He has not been here for a year, and he never will be again. I am a Farstrider now, not his beloved. Farstriders do not cry.
There is a bottle of nightshade on the desk next to me. The scourge will kill me. But they will not take me.
Not the way they took him.
