Native, cloaked-and-cowled elves of amazonian heights have been sighted leaving scrolls across Kalimdor, and the content within each is the same as all others:
Children of the Stars. Long ago we were charged with safeguarding the land and its vast ecosystems. The burden of preserving the world’s balance demanded a long life, and so we were gifted with immortality. We monitored the balance, we observed many species rise and fall, all the way from glory to extinction, but as the ten thousand years neared their end, we grew stagnant and cold, no longer vibrant, we thought ourselves superior and outside the cycle.
Elune decreed we are taught a lesson.
Earth and Moon will claim what is theirs. They honored our sacrifice when we spent Nordrassil’s power to slay the Demon and banish his shadow. But when Nordrassil was depleted, our powers over nature waned, they were fading, soon we would be incapable of keeping our ancient oath or even fending off for ourselves.
Shan’do Stormrage has grown old and unwise, worn by time and by countless wars. It first showed in a strange and ominous decision he made; instead of help us find a different source than the depleted Nordrassil, he decided that Moonglade, Mount Hyjal and other places among our ancestral homelands must be ripped from our grasp and be given away to an indecisive organization of neutrals who were blinded by their own vision and its short-sighted motives. We lost domains, resources, power.
In our darkest hour, Fandral Staghelm lighted the way.
They called it a hunt for immortality. We began, in truth, a hunt for survival, and an attempt to selflessly continue our ancient duty. Staghelm’s sapling , Teldrassil, she who lives in our hearts, granted us the relief we needed, a compensation for the lands lost to the Cenarion goons; she granted us an unimaginably colossal amount of resources, territory, and a temporary new anchor that would maintain our powers over nature and access to the Dream, until we adapt to depending on ourselves instead, in time. Teldrassil granted us even more. Much more. Things that cannot be described by words, for not all feelings can be written.
And to compensate further for her husband’s mistake, Priestess Tyrande made another gambit, to ‘gain allies’, but in truth it was a disaster. She sold our people to the servitude of some Human king over the other end of the Great Sea. Soft, spoiled city elves were the fruit we reaped; they left behind our ways and wore the garb and colors of this ‘Alliance’, they followed strange virtues that allow the enemy endless chances of redemption. Many among us lost their way.
Fandral was the one who truly saved us, and we showed him gratitude by leaving him to rot beneath the barrow deeps of Hyjal instead of find a cure for his sickness, the black curse of Xavius that has been subtly planted into the fallen Archdruid. He has come to be known as a traitor, while we, in truth, were the traitors.
As the decade passed, Shan’do Stormrage’s guidance continued to wane. He no longer maintained the teachings of spiritual harmony between earth, sea and sky, leaving us to fall victim to the influence of many druids among our own; they were clouded and without a unified leader, and in their haze sought to balance between the ways of today, and the ways of the Highborne of old, and so a mutant path was born; to abandon the forces of nature, the essence of the verdant elements, and instead dabble in an strange, fruitless fusion of the Highborne’s arcane magic and our own natural energies.
By that time, Priestess Tyrande was all but swayed away into the wrong influence, giving her ear to the Humans’ orders and listening to their council. As our flags waved above the skies of Orgrimmar, she listened to the order she was given, and granted mercy to the Orcs, even allowing them to freely defile the natural ecosystem of Azshara by any means they desire. Recently, she has repeated the same mistake with the grizzled veteran who struck down our old Shan’do.
Elune decreed that we would be taught a lesson, but also that it’s time the cycle of life claimed us away. Such is the way of nature. Born of the soil, blessed by stars; now we nurture the soil, as our souls join the stars.
The time has come. The Blackmoon glares upon our enemies and us alike for the first time in many thousands of years; long ago the Blackmoon glared so that we may claim Kalimdor; now it glares so that Kalimdor claims us. Wield your glaives, stand by the dark moonwell of Bashal’Aran, meditate and say your final prayers, breath deeply and be at ease as the well fills you with dark reincarnation, then make your last stand with the rest of us.
Show the Horde that their Draenor savagery pales before that of the Night Elves, slay as many as you can, offer their heads to Elune, and fight with the fury of Earth and Moon to show the world that we restored our savagery during our final hour, that we die by the Way of the Glaive. The final hour of our race’s existence will be remembered as that of the Horde’s most terrible nightmare, and will be remembered by the world as those who died fighting, and when your wounds wear you down and you feel life is slipping away, stab your abdomens with your own glaives, that the Horde may be denied the glory they seek.
Embrace the cycle, embrace rebirth, and let your star-touched souls depart this world, for our oath has been fulfilled. Our watch, at long last, is over.
