Sentenced to death by the Six. Ari'el stormed out of the cell he had been locked in. What was left of it anyway. How dare they! The two sorcerers guarding him lay dead, their bodies half mutated to resemble a furry animal, by the gaping hole that had once been the door to the cell. A loud shrill sound rippled through the air as Ari'el strode down the corridor.
Wards, an interesting safeguard Rhonin, but not enough! Already the mage could hear the clattering of steel boots as soldiers rushed blindly up the staircase. Pathetic fools, he thought. I don't have time to deal with all this. Glancing around, he noticed that the stained glass windows were not reinforced. A small blast of arcane sent flying towards the glass shattered the window, sending the tinkling shards towards the ground in a thousand deadly pieces. Clambering upon the sill, he leapt off and cast a minor levitation spell on himself. Falling slowly, Ari'el didn't fail to appreciate the serene beauty of Dalaran City – his home. Or at least it was.
Sticking with his plan, Ari'el quickly ducked into the nearest entrance into the underground catacombs. His target was the Vault, from there he could steal the fabled Aghanim's Scepter and lock himself in long enough to perform the reverse ritual. The reverse ritual was a secret the wizard had stumbled across in his younger days. Turning the last corner that led to the Vault, Ari'el stopped dead as he saw who the guards were. Impossible!
"Give yourself up old friend, your skills are great but you cannot possibly take out both of us," said the glowing form.
"Do you really think I would give up the only thing I have left Ezalor?" Ari'el sneered.
"There are things in this world, more horrible than a quick death," replied the Keeper.
"There are also branches of magic that the Magi here are afraid to tap. Imagine the possibilities Ezalor! I can do better than a quick death. I am done with the Kirin Tor!"
"Did you think that you are the only mage to ever walk down the path you plan to walk? A fate worse than death awaits you at the end! "
"No…that is a lie! I would know. I am not a blind fool! I have a guide!" countered the mage.
"What are you talking," The Keeper's face went pale and his eyes narrowed, "Kel'Thuzad! He's behind this isn't he?"
"I don't want to do this but you leave me no choice, old friend. Guarding this vault is my duty, my punishment for my lack of foresight in the War of the Magi. I won't let you make the same mistake I did Ari'el." Ezalor started to glow brighter as torrents of holy magic filled him.
Ari'el grinned and clasped his hands together. As predictable as always, old friend.
Quickly muttering the unique countercurse he had developed, clenching his left hand in a fist, the sheath of light surrounding the Keeper suddenly seemed to strangle him. Slowly lessening his hold, Ari'el finished his spell. He didn't want to kill him- he owed Ezalor that much for past friendship.
Turning his attention away from the Keeper of the Light, he found ignis Faatus, Ezalor's insperaable companion, feebly attempting to cast a fireball. Raising both hands, Ari'el felt the familiar surge of power as the Arcane filled him. Directing the flow of magic, Ari'el deftly wove a complicated spell he had used many times before. A shrill scream emanated from the glowing orb-like wisp. Its light began to grow blindingly bright before suddenly, it winked out. Ari'el grimaced. Ezalor would never forgive him.
Quickly retrieving the key from the unconscious body of Ezalor he unlocked the large doors and strode into the Vault of Dalaran.
Locking himself in, Ari'el grabbed the scepter and proceeded to cast. Channeling through the scepter, the aged wizard felt the familiar surge of power but this time it felt a little incomplete. The legendary scepter flashed red instead of its fabled blue. What is happening, could I have made a mistake?
Pain erupted from all over his body; it felt like he was being torn apart and pulled through a wormhole as a cold sinister voice echoed through his head.
FOOLISH MORTAL...YOU SERVE ME NOW!
Ten thousand miles to the North-West of Dalaran, deep within the tranquil Night Elven city of Darnassus stood an Ancient. Rooftrellen stood motionless, enjoying the crisp cool air of the morning after a full moon. His leaves rustled slightly in the morning breeze. Something big had happened, he could feel it. The echoes of powerful magic resonated from the north like giant tidal waves and for the first time since the War of the Ancients, Rooftrellen felt small and insignificant.
A low hum filled the air as runes of magic sprung to life around the structure next to the Treant Protector. Slowly rotating for several seconds, the bright blue runes suddenly converged at a point just beside Rooftrellen. There was a flash as the runes seemed to implode. Then the humming stopped and next to the building stood a Night Elf in light leather armor with a quiver on her back but no bow in hand. Instead she held a scroll.
Murmuring a greeting to the Ancient that resided in Darnassus, the elf ran swiftly towards the Temple of the Moon. Ignoring the greeting of the pair of Moon Guards at the entrance the elf dashed through the mazelike corridors of the Temple, narrowly avoiding a young priestess and entered the inner chambers of prayer and meditation.
The chamber was dimly lit, and the elf could only make out the outline of the figure in the chamber. The elf paused for a moment, partly for breath, but mostly hoping the priestess would begin the explanation of this disaster without prompt. However, the priestess remained motionless, her back to the elf seeming not to even be aware of the intruder. Before her lay the body of Malfurion Stormrage.
"By Elune, what is the meaning of this!" cried the elf, unable to take the silence any longer.
"Ishnu-alah Thero'shan. And what, I pray, may you be referring to?" came the softly spoken response.
"This!" the elf and unfurled the scroll that had been clutched tightly in her fist and started to read.
"The time has ended when we could quietly protect this world from both its enemies and itself. By the order of the General of the Sentinel the ranks of the Sentinel are now operating under Call-to-Arms. Regardless of race, all Watchers are hereby ordered to openly aid any living creature when possible. Any previous protocols that would shroud the Sentinel in secrecy is hereby void and not to be followed. Also the banner of the Sentinel is to be placed within all….need I say more?"
"Do you know where the majority of military might in Azeroth is at the moment Thero'shan?" asked the priestess quietly after a pause, her back still facing the newcomer.
"Recovering from the foolhardy crusade into the Out—" the elf started to reply.
"Nowhere," the priestess said flatly. "The Scourge has overrun Winterspring and Azshara in mere days. They are pressing into the forest of Ashenvale unopposed. How long do think the undead will swing west through Felwood and destroy the skeletal defense in Auberdine of Dark Shore to either invade Stormwind by sea or assault the Isles?"
"But surely—"
"Both the Alliance and the Horde will be hard pressed to move forces back into Azeroth quickly. There is no one left to defend Azeroth from this newly awakened threat in the North."
"But surely there is no need to taint an order nearly ten-thousand years old with other blood. Imagine the resentment amongst the current ranks. They are meant to be the elite!"
"Due to events in Outland, the relations between the Alliance and the Horde are worse than ever. Someone outside both factions must rally what was left behind to buy enough time for the mortal races to return to their homeland and defend it. How do you plan to do this if the Sentinel remains an elite Kaldorei military force?"
"How do I plan to what?"
"Have you ever been tired?" the Night Elf priestess changed the subject abruptly.
"What?"
"I am very tired Shandris. Sometimes I envy him," the priestess nodded towards the inert body of Malfurion Stormrage. "Sometimes duty forces us to walk a path the heart cannot follow. Yet sometimes fate is kind to those who wait. I think I will join him soon."
"Shan'do, what do you mean?"
The priestess stood suddenly and turned to place her hands lightly on the shoulders of the younger elf. One quick fluid motion that showed a grace the elf had always envied when training under the priestess.
"Tor ilisar'thera'nal! Shandris Feathermoon hereby succeeds me, Tyrannde Whisperwind, as the new General of the Sentinel. May you lead the Sentinel with wisdom and strength and be a powerful warder for Azeroth!"
Shandris reeled in shock. This wasn't supposed to happen, granted she had been training for this moment all her life but…this…this wasn't supposed to happen.
Not now. It was too soon.
"You can't just—" Shandris started to stammer.
"It's done! It has come to my knowledge that this threat in the North is not the biggest and soon we will be facing an even greater tragedy engineered by forces even older than the First War: One that will break this world. I must be in a position to help this world heal then and that position is not here."
"But who will take over the duties as High Priestess?"
"I will," interrupted a quiet voice from the doorway.
Cursing inwardly at herself for not noticing someone outside, Shandris wheeled around to find the younger priestess she had almost bumped into earlier.
"Shandris, I'd like you to meet Mirana Nightshade, the new High Priestess of the Moon. I believe you two will have much to talk about as you will be working closely together in the future. I'll leave you two to it. Ande'thoras-ethil!"
And before the eyes of her two young protégés, Tyrannde Whisperwind vanished.