She left the city alone and in secret. If thousands of years of experience allowed her to merge with shadows well enough to avoid even the most trained eyes, it was nonetheless a hindrance to slip out of Stormwind unnoticed. Mages had their advantages, after all; a portal and she would be in Darkshore in the blink of an eye (but she was no mage, and none could know of what she intended to do; not until it was too late to stop her, in the least).
Tyrande had no fear of being wrong. ‘Twas hardly the first time she acted on own choice alone, seeking to do something others would be against. Not for the first time, she was motivated by a need to protect others that had always been hers; unlike past occurrences, however, a thirst for vengeance also willed her to move.
Each step taken was for her people; a people she never sought to lead, but was left to guide nonetheless. The High Priestess had never seen it as a blessing, nor even a great honor. Her leadership was a duty, not a right; one more responsibility given to her by the goddess she so faithfully served. That she never wished for it was no excuse for her failures, and those were many. If kaldorei lands were defiled by the Horde, she left them weakly guarded; if her people died, she had failed to save them.
But thinking back on what could have been done would not restore their lands or undo damage already done. Tyrande had failed, yes; and now she would make it right. If she had been powerless to stop the Horde, than it was time for Elune to grant her power fit for the tasks she wished accomplished. No matter the ritual was dangerous, or that its consequences were mostly unknown; no price would be too high, if it allowed her people to be saved. Her life, even her soul, were nothing; with all her people had lost, how could she hold back from sacrifice?
Fingers hold ancient pages carefully, fearful of ruining her only guide on what must be done to achieve her ends, eyes of moonlight silver reading their content times enough for her to memorize it by heart. Her journey is a lonely one; by herself in a boat destined to Kalimdor, Tyrande fears the results of the ritual for the first time. If she dies, like countless others who attempted it before, then her mission would have been a failure; her people would remain without protection and without justice, for she would have been unable to deliver it to them as she ought.
There are more selfish fears, as well. The secrecy required for her to not be stopped meant leaving to almost certain death, without saying her goodbyes. In the least, there should have been letters, but now it is much too late for that. Soon the boat will reach its destination, and there was nothing to write to them now.
Thoughts go to her beloved, first; Malfurion would have been more distrustful of the Night Warrior than she was, surely, thus he could not know of her plans. The Archdruid never shared of her relentless faith in the Moon goddess, if he still held her in high regard. He would seek to stop her, as he did when she freed Illidan of his imprisonment (would he have the reason once again?). Her heart had nothing but love for her husband, love like she held for no other; but her decisions were her own, always. Elune failed her, failed her people; Tyrande herself failed them. Both goddess and priestess had a reckoning to do, matters to settle. There was no other way to do this.
Shandris follows soon enough, but if Malfurion could not know because he would try to intervene, the Sentinel would instead wish to come along. Shandris was her daughter in all but blood; the only child she would ever had, Tyrande had accepted at last (more than she deserved, even). So brave and determined and loyal; how could she allow Shandris to be endangered like that, then? It was one thing to walk into near certain death for herself, something else entirely to risk lives other than her own. No; this was something she ought to do alone.
At a given point, even Illidan crosses her thoughts. For the first time, Tyrande believes she understands him somehow, if only in part. She can understand sacrifice made all those years ago, after she set him free; if becoming a demon was sole way to defeat those who threatened their people, so he did (no price would be too high, she thought again). If he was still flawed, if he had done choices she could not accept, this she understood. Wouldn’t she have done the same, were it the only way to save her people? How different would it be, to take a risk unknown in a ritual all had failed, only to become powerful enough to defend the kaldorei properly?
A sense of foreboding follows her the entirety of the journey. If death does not await her, Tyrande is certain the Night Warrior will never again be who the High Priestess is. Somehow, it gladdens her and it fills her with the sadness; it is freedom and grief, all at once.
Shore that receives her is so very familiar it is easy to forget it is now enemy territory, even if the Horde’s taint has already damaged it greatly. They ruin everything they touch; why even allow those monsters to roam this world for so long, when all they brought with them was destruction? Peace should never again be an option; not with them. For Tyrande Whisperwind, it already wasn’t.
The priestess watches flames consume her boat, her way back home (even then, regret does not reach her). She visits the now familiar tome containing the information on the Night Warrior ritual one last time; it is the first thing to be cast aside, and the easiest. Tyrande abandons her bow with great care and somewhat restless; it is her most trusted weapon, one that hasn’t left her side for millennia. Fingers trace its patterns for briefest of moments and, like that, it is left behind. She proceeds to remove Ash’alah’s bridle, as well as any piece of armor covering the frostsaber; it is what takes her the longest, but she does it with swift hands and gentle touch. Of all she has to leave behind, Ash’alah is one of the most difficult pieces; not for less, as they have been together ever since youth. She is Tyrande’s companion, very dear to her and very trusted; they are friends, partners, not at all pet and owner. But like she left her loved ones to do this, so she must leave behind Ash’alah.
Everything else is easy enough. There is a dark pleasure to be had in slaughtering enemies who walk her land as if it is their own, who plague forests and torture the living, who poison all that surrounds them; the dead should remain dead, and she has no remorse in giving them a final death. Soon enough, Tyrande reaches the Eye of Elune. Everything other than current objectives leaves her mind. She will do this, and she will become the Night Warrior; Elune cannot deny her. Where is Mother Moon, if not looking after her children?
She has given herself honestly and entirely to Elune for over ten thousand years; devoted herself to the goddess as she did to nothing else, to no one else. She has a right to be demanding instead of pleading, to be angry instead of understanding.
Elune! Your people loved you! Yet you watched, distant and aloof, as they died in torment!
That she is followed by comrades or that they seek to aid her complete the ritual is only barely registered at that moment; words aren’t lightly spoken, each cutting Tyrande herself as much as they mean to cut the deity they are thrown at. Likely, none of them understand the pain etched in priestess’ words, the resentment and anger that colors each phrase. How could she not be bitter? She, chosen by this goddess who so cruelly abandoned her children in their time of greatest need? How could she not resent? She, who was given responsibilities she did not sought, only to be abandoned when trying to fulfill them? How could she not be disappointed, when time and again she had placed her faith on Elune, guided other to do the same, believed the moon goddess with her entire heart?
What good was it that Elune answered her prayers, but not that of her other children? It was them that died in agony as Teldrassil burned, who fell in futile battle to protect their loved ones and their lands, who watched their people fall helplessly in the Horde’s trap. Elune should have aided them, those who truly and desperately needed her, not Tyrande.
If the goddess wouldn’t, the least the priestess could do was force her to listen.
To seek to do what Elune failed, and give her people compensation.
Now, I will serve you only if you grant me justice!
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