To Whom it May Concern
A chill spread through the air of Dalaran; while not uncommon, this wind carried with it the tears and sorrow of many. The looming horror of Icecrown Citadel seemed to loom closer than usual in the horizon while the citizens of Dalaran and heroes alike began their morning routine. Through the sparkling gleam of the city, the sun shined slightly dimmer… and even though the magic in the air was once again free from the calamity of the blue dragonflight’s grasp something didn’t settle quite right.
A lone figure with bearing the robes of Silvermoon magii solemnly left the Violet Citadel with something bundled in what looked liked the infamous cloak of the Illidari Council in his arms. The figure, clad in the royal red and gold of the sin’dorei, kept his hood low and trodded his way towards the Sunreaver’s domain of the city in search of a lone paladin. As he found his way into the Horde’s domain of the city the elf began to search for the paladin through taverns and training rooms… until he found him at bay working out a new pair of drums of war for a young troll berserker. The magii eyed him cautiously.
“Mi’lord Frater; the Argent Crusader?” he asked nervously. The elve’s eyes twitched nervously and uncomfortably as the elder paladin eyed him up and down. The elder’s eyes locked on the bundle under the mage’s robes and locked his eyes with the younger elve’s. Words didn’t escape from his mouth as a sudden trail of freezing air drifted through the city. From within his robe, the elf reached for a small scroll and handed it to the paladin. Frater reached for it and slowly unbound it as a lone tauren warrior slowly walked over cautiously.
In the enchanted text, the words read themselves aloud in a voice all too familiar…
Well Frater… you always said I bit off more than I could chew. I guess you were right… I should’ve… never gone alone into the citadel. I gave them a hell of a fight… everyone… in Silvermoon would be proud… even if you never cared for the bazaar… but… they can’t… save me. The ebon… blade… the… crusade… we… made our move…. he… was… there. The scourge.. might.. have cut me… but they… will never…. take my… soul. I’m sor–ry.. I was so rash… I sh-*cough*-ld’ve told… you…. please… I’m… sorry. When… you… get…. I…. be… gone. Keep… Tempest… yours… sorry…
The Magii looked at Frater and saw the stone resolve in his eyes, blinded by what seemed to be tears. He handed over the cape and watched miraculously as he unbound the Tempest of Chaos and wield it nearly naturally in his hands. In a cry of loss, he shouted to the sky and struck the chill wind with the blade, as if to strike at the heart of evil itself. Over his shoulder, he saw the tauren grab his axe and roar in pain. More came forward… forsaken, trolls and even a lone dwarf… and in the midst of the frozen morning, they all howled in pain. From the distance you could see two elven death knights in Silvermoon garb say a prayer to the dead. The Sunreaver’s Sanctum poured with emotion… The scourge would pay. Neythas was dead.
…
It’s been an amazing few years of my life and I’m going to miss everyone. Much love to all of my friends whom I’ve ever made in the game.
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