A/N: massive kudos to my friend Dragonheart who knows enough WoW lore to be considered Nozdormu and has been checking all this stuff for timeline errors/general accuracy problems. Don't worry, I'm paying them with food.

Also, massive thanks to my one follower! And to everyone else who hasn't formally followed but is keeping up with this!
Please review if you enjoy! First reviewer gets a cookie (::)


Ten Thousand Years Later

Adariana still vividly remembered the only promise she had let herself make in the last ten millennia. She also vividly remembered every moment that had come before and after, from the very moment her eyes had opened. Once, people had commented on her memory, saying she had her father's gift for recollection and would surely also have his talent for magic. Those people were only half-right. And long dead.

She knew the final contorted faces of pain that every slaughtered satyr had made as her arrows found their unerring marks, knew the sticky warmth of demon's blood on her leather gloves as a succubus' still-beating heart forced the last of her blood from her body. She would never forget the haunted looks of orphaned children who had been forced to watch their parents consumed by eerie green fires or the keening scream as the world itself cried out at the Sundering.

She had bled, she had cried until her tears ran dry, she had stared her worst fears in the face. And with each butchered demon and each broken body of a child's tiny form the vow she had taken to an acquaintance became more and more important to keep. She would never, never, allow the fel to use her for its purposes. Not like it had used her father. Not like it had the quel'dorei.

The quel'dorei, not her people. Her people were the Kal'dorei. The descendants of the wise who had seen her father's madness for what it was. The brave who had risked everything to stand in the way of Queen Azshara. Those were her people. Nothing would ever change that. The sky could fall, the great World Tree Nordrassil could rot, but her people would always be the same people Malfurion and Tyrande called their people.

A lifetime of physical training served her well as she reached the summit of the staircase leading to Tyrande Whisperwind's office. Unsurprisingly, the violet haired form of Shandris Feathermoon was already at the door as well.

"Shandris." Adariana said with a warm smile. She was one of the familiar faces Adariana always looked forward to seeing, as a close friend to both her and her adoptive mother. The other elf looked her over for a moment, before laughing softly.

"Adariana! I hardly recognised you without a hood concealing your face. Where have you been? I have been waiting for you for nearly an hour." With the last statement, Shandris raised a long eyebrow. Adariana spent time in the wilds the way druids spent time in the Emerald Dream: absent for decades at a time and only returning to the world in the most dire of circumstances. Even amongst Night Elves, Adariana was easily distracted from meetings and formal duties by animals, plants, all things the lived and grew, and she was almost chronically late and preferred living on 'wilderness time' that is to say, that things would be done when they were done and not be accomplished by the hands of a clock.

Adariana shrugged. "I was doing some research in the city library. Must have lost track of time." In truth, she had spent the last three days pouring over every possible document regarding the fate of the satyrs. Everything she had read pointed that they should still be imprisoned, asleep, beneath the roots of Shaladrassil, and yet, she had battled through a gauntlet of satyr patrols ringing a particular area of Ashenvale. In and of itself, it was an ill omen, but coupled with Tyrande's sudden, urgent summons for her most trusted Ranger Generals, Adariana's instincts were rapidly winding themselves higher and higher into a state of paranoia, half-expecting anything from the corruption of the Emerald Dream to Sargeras emerging from the Well beneath Nordrassil.

Shandris merely raised her eyebrow higher. "You, Adariana Stormsinger, spending any more time than absolutely necessary amongst civilisation, and in the Library nonetheless? It's no wonder Tyrande is worried."

Adariana's mind had almost concocted the perfect retort when the office door swung open, revealing Tyrande's poised form. As always, the tall woman was elegantly clothed in white robes, her deep blue hair immaculately styled, the very image of Elune reflected in Her servant. By contrast, Adariana was all too aware that she had neglected to change from her travel-stained leathers and must smell like an unholy combination of satyr's blood, sweat, mud, and saber cat. Her muted teal hair was matted and littered with stray twigs and leaves, and it would just be easier to cut off her long ponytail, rather than try to combat the mass of snarls. Even Shandris painted a more presentable picture: cloak perfectly arranged, armour clean, ceremonial dagger at her hip, long hair elegantly braided.

"Generals. Please enter. We have urgent situations requiring our full attentions."

Sadly, the meeting was exactly what Adariana had expected. She wasn't the only Sentinel to have noticed the Satyrs, or the red-skinned brutes who seemed to be in their league. The furbolgs attempting to escape Ashenvale was tragic, but understood and expected. And she wasn't the only to have realised much of the plant and animal life had lost their vitality. But...what Shandris was saying...that Cenarius had been killed...seemed impossible. She had never seen the demigod, but had heard ample of him from the druids. Who would possibly want the demigod dead, and be powerful enough to accomplish such a feat? Apparently, the red barbarians were more of an organised threat than their first assessments had indicated.

"This new race, the orcs, are far more dangerous than anticipated." Tyrande said grimly, echoing Adariana's thoughts. "Shandris, take your group and eliminate them from our lands. Adariana, you will accompany me to Mount Hyjal. I fear that there may be more nefarious plots hiding in the shadows."

Tyrande saw the apprehension twist Adariana's perfect features. In the olden days, before the War, people spoke of Adariana as if she were the only woman to rival Lady Azshara's beauty, and Tyrande had thought them blubbering sycophants who only didn't wish to displease Lord Xavius by implying his eldest daughter didn't have something to compensate for her lack of magical talent. She had thought of them as such, until she had caught a glimpse of the midnight-purple-skinned, willowy woman with hair shining in tones of greyish blue. But then, as now, her first thought had been that it was a cold kind of beauty, like a carven statue, too flawless, too idealized, for her to be a real person.

"Tyrande, if I may, I think that our efforts should be focused on the orcs. Clearly, they are the greater threat at the moment." Shadris insisted.

Tyrande nodded. Yes, the orcs were the larger priority, but Adariana's reports of satyrs becoming more active worried her deeply. Few had dedicated themselves to hunting satyrs with the energy and fervor that Adariana had, and, if the slate blue-haired huntress said something was amiss, then something was very much wrong.

"The orcs are our priority, Shandris. I merely wish to satisfy my instincts that there is more to this than meets the eye. To this end, you will take your Shadowleaf sentinels and remove the orcs from our lands, by whatever means are necessary. I, Adariana, and a small group of sentinels will head to awaken the druids."

Shandris' face quickly fell as she realised the gravity of her mother's words. "Do you truly think the situation that dire?"

Tyrande nodded sadly. "Yes. I fear another war that will rip this world apart."