Shadow and Flame; it covered the battlefield. Bodies littered the ground, and the waters of the Sunwell were corrupted. Kael’thas came to destroy the Sunwell, so it’s impurity would not corrupt his people. Yet, it would all be for naught in the end.
Dorenduil was taken back to Silvermoon City, and brought to healers. As he was laid out in bed, unable to move, he saw what happened to his once great people, falling into the withdrawal of the loss of the Sunwell. It wouldn’t be long before many began searching for the power of other magical artifacts to sustain their hunger. Among them, was Istalindir. But, he could not stand what he had become, and refused to return to Silvermoon. He scavaged around for magic crystals to sate his needs, but eventually, he merely wandered into Northern Lordaeron, and wouldn’t return for years. Astalder awoke before the survivors began bringing the wounded back. He arose from the battlefield, with one thing on his mind. He wandered to the south, through the southern lands of Quel’thalas, slaying any Troll in his path as he made his way into Northern Lordaeron. Along the mountainous coast, he collapsed, and remained there for years, till another call brought him back. When he awoke the second time, he would find himself within the floating citadel known as Acherus.
A few years would pass, as a war waged in the south between the Undead following Arthas’ command, and the Humans of Lordaeron. The Scourge tore Lordaeron apart, forcing the humans to flee to the lands to the south, though many holed up in remote places the Scourge didn’t extend their reach too. Kael’thas employed the help of Illidan to fight against Arthas, and stop him from reaching the Frozen Throne. Consorting with demons was no better then the Scourge, and Dorenduil felt sickened by this. All his family was gone, as far as he knew, and so with nothing left to keep him in Silvermoon, he rose from his healing bed, took whatever medical supplies he’d need, and rode off from Silvermoon. He had no destination, and simply wandered, looking for nothing, and not needing anything. He took up residence anywhere he could find some comfort, and kept himself on the move. He would venture first to the southern regions of Quel’thalas, and Northern Lordaeron, fighting back Scourge anywhere he could. Injury was a regular thing, but it didn’t matter to him how injured he’d get. At the end of every day, he would bandage himself up, and every morning, he would again head out. Years would pass before he would garner the aide of anyone, not that he was even looking for help.
The Argent Dawn was founded in Stormwind City, but would in time gain members from all races and factions. He would eventually come to the aide of a few Paladin that had been cornered by some of the more aggressive of the Scourge. With finesse and ease, Dorenduil dispatched them, and received immediate praise, as well as rebuke. He was viewed as a Blood Elf, a term he had yet to hear. He was viewed as one who reaped the power of the light, and used it for his own purpose, instead of serving the light itself, and being granted it’s power. However, once they found out that he had studied under the great Uther the Lightbringer, all those notions vanished. He would find out about the Blood Knights in Silvermoon, and would become even further disgusted. He would employ his services to the Argent Dawn, and would eventually tour the world while on duty.
He would eventually return to see what had become of Silvermoon City. He was not surprised, nor pleased with the fascination; with the showyness of mastering the arcane, or the presence of demonic crystals. He would venture away from Silvermoon once more, accompanying Tirion Fordring on his endeavors, and taking residence at the Crusader’s Pinnacle in Icecrown.
Istalindir wandered the lands, searching for any form of magic to sate his hungers. He had become like the Wretched in Quel’thalas, only Istalindir had died. His hunger for magic was so strong it revived him, nad sent him on his hunt. Many Arcane beasts along his journies would fall victim to his hunger, and be reduced to arcane crystals and powder, and used to stem Istalindir’s hunger. Eventually, he would meet with Sylvannas, and would help in the revolution against the Scourge, allowing the Forsaken to splinter from the rest of the Scourge. For a while, Istalindir would live amongst the Forsaken, and hide from his people in the North. Of course, at the same time, those of his people did not associate much with the humans from the south.
After Kael’thas’s union with Illidan, and then later, Lady Vashj, Istalindir grew curious about the wellfare of his people. Adorning a concealing outfit, he wandered to the north, and looked for clues as to the state of his people. Of course, this trip would be postponed, as the first stop on this trip, was at the Thalassian Pass. There, he knelt at the side of the road, and laid flowers on the grave he dug up. After a day, he returned to his original trip, and went to Silvermoon. He had found his people straining through many of the same hardships he had been going through, and confided in himself that he must help. Remaining clothed in a manner to hide his appearance, he would go about, taming or killing the denizens of the Ley Lines, and bringing Arcane Crystals and Powders to his people, to help stem their hungers. When the crystals came home from Outland, Istalindir was shocked. At first, he was curious, but looking at one for some time he found himself ashamed, and repulsed. He turned from the crystal, and went back to his original plans, and continued to bring arcane crystals, powders, and essences to Silvermoon City.
Eventually, he would also reunite with his daughter, and he would tell her what happened. He would tell her he thought that she too had died, since he hadn’t heard from Dorenduil or Astalder since his return. The two caught up and put the past behind them, confiding in the fact that all they had was eachother. Despite such, he kept himself hidden from view, so others would not clump him in with the Wretched or the Scourge.
Eventually, Istalindir would return to the Kirin Tor, and aide his former fellow students in delving into Karazhan and raising Dalaran to Northrend. He would study once more within the libraries there, and learn some new facts, as he helped his daughter start her studies in the way of the Light, like her mother had once.
In the floating citadel known as Acherus, Astalder awoke once more. His eyes, hazed in fury, scanned about the place. Life was a memory long fleeted away. All that remained now was hate, anger, but … at who? He wasn’t sure who he felt this seething hatred for, but someone had to feel pain for it. He picked up his weapon, and headed down from the citadel to the lands below. Along with others at his side who seemed to hold the similar hatred, he tore a path of destruction to Tyr’s Hand. Frost Wyrm’s flew overhead, Black skinned, rotting horses carried other soldiers to the battlefield, ghouls dug themselves out of the earth, and bane hounds howled into the air. The Scarlet Crusade would surely never recover from this blow they were to be dealt. Even though the fight, all he saw was a haze of flashing steel, and splattering blood. At times, he didn’t even feel as if he were doing anything on his own.
When that haze subsided, he was on his knees before Light’s Hope Chapel, humans all around him, Tirion Fordring standing before a kneeling Darion Mograine. Arthas appeared behind Darion, only this time, in armor black as pitch. The anger returned, and he rose to his feet, lifting his weapon up, and ready to strike, when a sense of dread came over him. He couldn’t move, but why?
“A-POC-A-LYPSE!!!!” came Arthas’s cry.
“That day is not today…. Tirion!”
A swinging weapon, a flash of blinding light, and Astalder had to shield his eyes.
“What is this!?”
“Impossible… Next time, we won’t be on holy ground, Paladin.”
Again, a haze washed over him, and before he knew it, he stood before Thrall, Warchief of the Horde, and he looked around frantically once more. Why was he there? Why was he before the leader of the Horde? He was an Elf, not an Orc. Astalder vanished from Orgrimmar, and vanished from Kalimdor. He returned to Silvermoon to find that Kael’thas was dead, that demons had nearly taken over the Elven people, and that his home was in general, now what it used to be. He looked for any of his family, and could not find them.
In sorrow, he would return to his former home, to Goldenmist Village. He would journey upstairs to find his weeping bride. He kneeled beside the bed, and looked upon her form. He reached out to her, but of course, his armored hand passed through her transparent form. She didn’t falter, she weeped harder, muttering the name of her son over and over again. Anger would overtake him again, and he would change forever. He picked up his weapon, and headed to Northrend. He didn’t join forces with any group, for he was on his own mission. He tore his way from the Howling Fjord, with the Forsaken behind him. He struck down every Vry’kul he came across, making his way into the Grizzly Hills, and through Drak’Theron Keep into Zul’Drak. Once more, he dealt with Trolls, and cast them aside, before he could move into the Crystalsong Forest. From there, he passed into Icecrown, and set forth on his trip to take his revenge on Arthas. Within the Citadel, he aquired a new weapon that would become his signature, as it dripped with the icy fervor he exampled on his path of vengeance.