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Shadowlands Dialogue with Night Elf Spirits from the Burning of Teldrassil
04/9/2020 em 22:59
In Shadowlands, players can talk to spirits of some of the Night Elf NPCs who perished in the Burning of Teldrassil.
At BlizzCon 2019, we learned that due to the cycle of death breaking, the victims of the Burning of Teldrassil were stuck in the Maw instead of being judged by the Arbiter. This story continues in the Ardenweald covenant questline, as Ysera gives us several quests (
A queda da Teldrassil
De um lugar sombrio
) to rescue the Night Elf spirits from the Maw.
was one of the earliest questgivers Night Elf players encounter in Teldrassil, standing by Lake Al'Ameth. He is focused on healing Teldrassil and keeping the timberling population under control:
Have you ever seen such a glorious forest? The trees!
Thank you for getting me out of that awful place, so that I could see it with my own eyes.
was the very first NPC players encountered as a Night Elf in the starting zone.
For so long I helped guide young, ambitious elves find their path.
Now, I am at the beginning of my own adventure. I wonder, is this how they felt stepping into a new grove for the first time?
is a Druid from the Battle for Azeroth novella
. He was a skilled fighter and scout, defended the Falfarren River during the attack on Ashenvale. He met his demise at the hands of Saurfang, after a stealth attack on the Orc was illuminated by a Horde Mage.
Ferryn was also in a relationship with Delaryn Summermoon, the young replacement commander of Ashenvale who fought to the bitter end and told Sylvanas she could never kill hope. As Teldrassil burned, she was initially comforted by an image of Ferryn, which was later replaced by feelings of anger towards Elune.
Delaryn was later raised by Sylvanas during the Battle for Darkshore and served as Commander--it appears that Calia is trying to provide guidance for the Dark Rangers following Sylvanas' disappearance, but it's unclear what Delaryn thinks of the situation. Abandonment and anger are common feelings among the Night Elves, which led Tyrande to travel to Ardenweald in search of answers.
Thank you for bringing me back.
If you're planning to return to the Maw, could you keep an eye out for someone?
Her name is Delaryn.
Delaryn’s grief and guilt raged as fiercely as the fire. In a final touch of malice as unfathomable as her motives, Sylvanas Windrunner had turned Delaryn’s head so the dying kaldorei had a perfect view of the incineration of all she loved—all she had fought for, believed in, bled for. All she had lived for . . .and was about to die for.
The tree of life was now a deathtrap, and soon would be the site of the greatest mass incremation Azeroth had ever known.
“Close your eyes,” Ferryn said. He stretched out in front of her, trying to shield her from the inferno’s tortured brightness. But his ghostly form was translucent. He blurred, but did not block, the sight.
I cannot close my eyes. Though she couldn’t say it. She was long past speaking. Her breaths had numbers. I have to see this.
If there were any mercy, the excruciating sight would burn her eyes to blindness, but cruelly, that solace was denied her.
Her senses were at their peak, screaming. She shouldn’t be able to hear the crackling groans of the World Tree’s burning limbs, yet the sound mingled with the shrieks of those left on Darkshore.
With a strange perversity, Delaryn felt only coldness in the face of the scorching heat.
Death is cold, she thought. Even for those who burn.
Those whom I failed.
“Release your hatred and your fear,” Ferryn said, so softly, so gently. “You are past all of it now. Come with me.”
You are not real, Delaryn thought with both anger and anguish. You are only wistful shadows, promising peace.
There will be no peace. Not for me.
The ghostly form of the night elf druid disappeared—but of course, it had never been there.
is a character from the Battle for Azeroth novella
. She served as the commander of Ashenvale and had a fearsome reputation, but her harsh attitude led to mismanagement of her troops, leaving them easily ambushed by the Horde during War of the Thorns.
The war exacted a terrible toll on our people. More so than anyone else.
It cannot go unanswered.
I hope that you will stand with us when we finally have our vengeance.
Yesterday, Sentinel Vannara had said, pitching her voice softly, “I remember hearing someone say, ‘Anaris is as good as Shandris Feathermoon at shooting and as bad as a satyr at inspiring.’”
“Whoever said that was being generous,” Delaryn had retorted. While the title of commander of Ashenvale was definitely an honor, Delaryn had wondered why Anaris Windwood had never been sent to fight elsewhere. She had never gone to the Broken Shore to battle the Legion nor been sent into Horde territory at all. Even now, with all that was going on, she wasn’t being sent to Silithus. Why?
Delaryn now understood.
Commander Windwood certainly looked the part. She was one of the tallest, most physically powerful Sentinels Delaryn had ever encountered. She had purple hair and pale blue skin, but her most arresting feature was her face.
Night elf females commonly marked their faces when they had achieved a significant rite of passage. Stylized claw marks were a typical marking, but Anaris Windwood had no need for stylized scars. A troll’s raptor had attacked her and given her real scars instead. The gashes ran the length of her face, from just below her hairline to her chin. By the grace of Elune, the raptor had not gouged out an eye. Anaris had chosen not to have them healed. Rather, she embraced what she called the “true mark of the soul” with pride.
What Anaris lacked in physical beauty, she made up for in ferocity—and, Delaryn thought, in her attitude toward others.
Delaryn had made the mistake of staring at the puckered scars—the raptor’s best effort at separating Anaris Windwood’s head from her shoulders. Delaryn had heard the story, but it was startling—and unsettling—to see it for herself. Before she could hide her reaction, her eyes had widened, and she’d made a soft sound of sympathy. She wasn’t the only one to do so, judging by the way the commander’s gaze flitted from face to face.
Her mangled lip curled up in a sneer. “Fresh from Darnassus, eh?”
Delaryn and the others had exchanged glances, surprised at the tenor of their greeting. “For the moment, yes, but many of us have served elsewhere,” Delaryn had begun.
Anaris cut her off with an irritated gesture. “The archdruid has selected you, so you must be able to fight. No one becomes a Sentinel without shedding blood in battle.” Her tone expressed her clear opinion, though—that those who’d had duty in the comfort and beauty of Darnassus were lesser than those who had not. “You, Lieutenant Delaryn Summermoon. Looks like you are my second-in-command.”
“I have served with—”
“All that matters is that you now serve with me. You will obey me and keep those under you in line.” Anaris eyed them all.
was a Priest Trainer in the Temple of the Moon in Darnassus. She stayed behind, along with other priestess, to offer a final prayer during the Burning of Teldrassil.
Elune has not forgotten us. You, saving us, is proof of that.
I wonder if there is still a part for us to play, a duty to fulfill.
We must be patient.
was a Priest Trainer in the Temple of the Moon. She helped evacuate Darnassus and led the final prayer to Elune to ease the suffering of those trapped in the city.
When I closed my eyes, I thought the next face I would see was Elune's.
Thank you for not giving up on us.
The priestesses knew what to do. Astarii extended her arms to a mother and her young son, who were among the last to enter the temple. “Do not be afraid,” she said to the boy, who was mute and trembling. “Come here.” With one arm around the mother and the other around her boy, Astarii sank to the soaked earth.
The last three priestesses of Elune in Teldrassil prayed. They did not ask for healing or for rescue.
They asked for mercy.
And their goddess heard them as Astarii began to sing.
By the moons’ glow, listen.
Beside the river, listen.
Holding those you love, listen
To the cries of the dying,
To the whisper of the wind over the silent dead . . .
Sleep brushed Astarii’s mind, feather soft, honey sweet.
The pain disappeared. She let out a sigh. All around her, she heard similar sounds.
The fire was relentless. The smoke would kill them, and the flames would devour their flesh and even their bones. Only ash would remain. But they would feel nothing.
No pain in the Lady’s light, in the Lady’s love. Mother and child both slept, breathing gently despite the smoke. Her duty faithfully discharged, Astarii allowed her own eyelids to flutter closed.
There will be justice, one day, but eyes other than ours will behold it.
The last thing she heard was a cracking sound as she slipped into slumber.
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