An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Azshara had forced Tyrande to watch; but even if she hadn’t, Tyrande would not have looked away from the destruction of her people and her city. They deserved to have her bear witness, even if they couldn’t know that she was. They deserved that respect, and they deserved the compassion of her breaking heart.
She was right in the middle of the action, Azshara’s illusion spell putting her right into the middle of the fighting. Her eyes and throat burned from the smoke, and the sounds of her people dying too loud in her ears. Dark violet blood stained the streets and the temples, the markets and the homes.
But they fought. Goddess did they fight. Tooth and nail and claw, feral and vicious; and for every inch of Kaldrassil the Naga took they paid for it in blood and bone and sinew. One priestess tore a Naga’s throat out with her teeth, and clawed at the next as though she were a Nightsaber in Kaldorei form, before an arrow struck her in the shoulder. She barely wavered, picking up a fallen trident and attacking in a blind rage. Another arrow slowed her down as she impaled an unfortunate Naga sorceress. The priestess staggered up the street, eyes flashing. Three more arrows to her chest, a third to her back.