Quel'Thalas, a mighty magocratic realm founded by the High Elves, lies within Eversong Forest in the north of the Eastern Kingdoms.
Just as its name suggests, Eversong Forest is forever bathed in song and laughter.
Masters of the arcane, the High Elves draw on the limitless Sunwell and have woven a mighty ward around their homeland: the Ban'dinoriel.
The Ban'dinoriel barrier grants the High Elves a safe and comfortable life.
Since the Troll Wars ended more than two millennia ago, the Forest Trolls who once dominated the continent have never recovered.
Although the Amani trolls south of Eversong still launch the occasional raid, the weakened tribes can no longer truly threaten Quel'Thalas.
The long peace has led many High Elves to forget the cruelty of war.
"All enemies will be kept beyond the Ban'dinoriel; Eversong shall never fall!'
That was the proud declaration the current Sun King made to the Alliance envoy several years ago when he rejected their plea for an alliance.
Now those words slap Sun King Anasterian Sunstrider's aged face like a calloused hand.
South Eversong, once a forest of sunlit gold and crimson, is now scorched black by flame.
Green-skin brutes pour through the trees in a tide, destroying everything in sight.
The proud elven barrier has failed; the greenskins roar battle-cries and, at their overseers' commands, drive jubilantly northward.
These powerful green creatures are orcs, invaders from beyond Azeroth.
Six years have passed since the Dark Portal opened and the orcs entered Azeroth, and already they have ravaged the world.
One of the southern human kingdoms, the Kingdom of Stormwind, has fallen to their fury.
Unsatisfied, the orcs rested briefly and then marched north.
Every thinking soul in Azeroth can see their goal: to conquer the entire Eastern Kingdoms and crush all resistance.
Orc warlocks used fel energy to corrupt the runestones powering the Ban'dinoriel; the outer ring anchored by the Moon, Sun, and Morningstar Towers collapsed.
Instead of pausing to secure the south, the orcs race deeper toward Silvermoon City, the heart of Quel'Thalas.
Scattered elven bands still fight back in southern Eversong; the fiercest resistance comes from Farstrider Encampment on the banks of Lake Elrendar.
Farstrider Encampment lies off the main orc line of advance, in the eastern forest, long tasked with watching Zul'Aman, capital of the Forest Trolls.
The Farstriders are an ancient civic order of Quel'Thalas, founded by Talanas Windrunner, ancestor of the Windrunner Family.
True to their name, the Farstriders guard more than Quel'Thalas's borders; they watch over the world, defending the interests of all High Elves on Azeroth.
The orcs' assault on Quel'Thalas serves a larger plan.
They seek a swift decapitation strike to win the full support of the Forest Trolls, then crush humanity's final bastion—Lordaeron—with new allies at their side.
With the Ban'dinoriel breached, Warchief Orgrim himself leads the main host straight for Silvermoon, aiming to conquer Quel'Thalas in the shortest time.
Zul'jin, Amani chieftain allied with the orcs, urges a slower advance, using the Horde's might to devour Quel'Thalas piece by piece.
Orgrim rejects Zul'jin's counsel; the Horde cannot wait—they must pivot quickly and shatter the Alliance of human kingdoms.
The orc army thunders north, while those left in the south are mostly Amani trolls swarming out of Zul'Aman.
Clang! Clang!
Before Farstrider Encampment, the dull clash of metal rings out.
Outnumbered but elite, the Farstriders hold against several times their number of Amani trolls.
From prepared fortifications elven arrows bite deep into troll ranks; a few volleys leave the attackers, busy dismantling the works, bloodied.
Yet against such a Horde the barricades will fall—only a matter of time.
High Elves avoid frontal slogs; generations in the forest have taught them the perfect tactics for its embrace.
Thus the highly mobile ranger tradition was born.
In the past Farstrider rangers harried invaders with ease, hunting trolls through the woods.
Now the retreat shelters masses of refugees; should it fall they will perish.
Forced to stand and fight, the rangers abandon mobility and brace for a pitched battle.
"Hold the line! Our people are behind us—no retreat!'
"Mages, ready… cast!'
At the order of a golden-haired ranger-captain, the Retreat's few mages weave a spell.
A freezing storm erupts amid the Amani, icy shards spreading cold and wounds.
The captain's frown does not lift; he knows trolls heal fast.
"Ael'tharion, you're up. Watch yourselves—I don't want Alleria punching me next time we meet.'
"Hmph.'
A silver-haired elf with a close-cropped beard and ears a touch shorter than most snorts, heaves a great two-handed sword to his shoulder, and retorts.
"Worry about yourself, Halduron… I'm off!'
The blond commander is Halduron Brightwing, acting Ranger-General.
With many elites gone south under Alleria Windrunner to aid the Alliance, Farstriders left in Quel'Thalas are few; they can barely hold this haven, let alone counterattack.
Halduron pays the silver-haired elf no mind—insolence is nothing new from him.
Watching the sword-bearing elf and a handful of elven warriors charge the flank atop hawkstriders, Halduron murmurs, "Half-elf, show the trolls what an elven warrior can do.'
Many believe High Elves, frail of body, cannot field true warriors.
It is a misunderstanding.
The great bows rangers draw demand enormous strength; every longbowman is a powerhouse—proof enough of elven vigor.
High Elves do have warriors—just no organized warrior corps.
First reason: in tangled forest, heavy-armored fighters are easy targets for Amani who also know the woods.
Second… the lords of Silvermoon deem close-quarters brawling inelegant, unworthy of elven nobility.
In short, the elves could raise mighty warriors, yet Sun King and Silvermoon Convocation see no need.
The ranger corps is enough to defend Quel'Thalas.
"Hah!'
Ael'tharion's face blazed with excitement as he burst into the enemy ranks at full speed, his heavy greatsword sweeping sideways to cleave an unprepared troll head-hunter from left shoulder to hip.
Crimson blood spattered across Ael'tharion, yet he paid it no mind, licking the lingering blood from the corner of his mouth before immediately shifting his aim to the next foe.
Trolls, like High Elves, are native to Azeroth—one of the earliest intelligent races the world brought forth.
Naturally tall and long-limbed, trolls lack the bulging muscles and brute strength of orcs, but their physical attributes are evenly balanced; in single combat they are by no means inferior.
Ael'tharion had studied under renowned masters and been drilled since childhood, and his fighting spirit was fierce and fearless—yet he was still, in the end, a raw recruit.
Only after unexpectedly hacking down a troll did he truly grasp how troublesome this ancient race—entangled with the High Elves for millennia—could be.
Relying on their potent natural regeneration, trolls fear no wounds and will gladly take a hit if it lets them leave a mark on their foe.
A mere dozen warriors, riding the momentum of their hawkstriders, tore a gaping wound in the flank of the Amani troll formation, punching clean through their previously orderly lines.
But the strike team had also drawn the gaze of the Amani commanders.
In the throes of battle-fever, Ael'tharion was suddenly chilled; instinctively he pivoted left, whipping his bloodied blade back from the troll he had just slain.
Clang—clang!
The two impacts rang out almost together, and Ael'tharion, forced into a hasty guard, paled slightly.
His hawkstrider shrieked beneath him, nearly up-ended by the force.
Caught off-balance by the mighty blow, Ael'tharion's blood surged; he clenched his teeth to hold his stance, keeping his defense unbroken.
Pah!
He rudely spat blood that had seeped from his gums under the clench, straightened his hawkstrider, and regarded his assailant with grim eyes.
A powerfully built troll, back slightly hunched, tusks curving upward from the corners of his mouth, wore a vicious sneer.
On a battlefield where seconds count, Ael'tharion had no time to ask names—he remembered Halduron's orders.
"Once you've punched through, turn back at once; the rangers and mages will cover you.'
"Never linger—you're too few. Lose your momentum and you're dead.'
He gave the mighty troll one last look, forcibly quelling his own urge to fight.
"I'll settle this debt with you—soon.'
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh!
The covering fire Halduron had promised arrived on cue; the grinning troll had to deal first with the arrows raining from above.
Seizing the moment, Ael'tharion withdrew with the veteran warriors, circling back toward camp.
On the second-story platform of Farstrider Encampment the mages now entered the fray.
Because Ael'tharion's team had momentarily severed the link between the troll vanguard and rear, the separated forces wavered over whether to press on or pull back.
Halduron seized the chance, ordering every Farstrider to loose saturation volleys, inflicting maximum attrition on the troll living force.
The sudden rise in battlefield temperature made the troll warlord at the rear blanch; he recalled a nightmare legend long told among the Amani.
"Front ranks—pull back! The High Elves' great fire is coming!'
"Yes, Warlord Da'kala!'
Even as Da'kala barked the command, a storm of flame erupted from the earth beneath.
BOOM!
Trolls endure steel, but flame—persistent, burning flame—is their greatest weakness.
Twenty-eight centuries ago in the Troll Wars, a single colossal fire-storm had swallowed the combined host of Forest and Zandalari trolls; neither side had forgotten.
The Eversong Forest was, after all, the High Elves' home, and Halduron would never set it alight unless driven to extremity.
Yet there was no alternative: if the troll assault were not repelled, the refugees in camp would perish and the southern forest defenses would collapse.
FWOOM!
Tongues of fire shot skyward, igniting the dense woods and inflicting a second wave of agony on the Amani caught within.
Damn it!
Warlord Da'kala slammed a fist into the trunk beside him.
Before marching north with the orcs, Chieftain Zul'jin had entrusted him with the host, bidding him sweep all before him.
Yet Da'kala had never imagined a mere hundred Farstriders could halt his advance.
"Pull back for now. Let the wounded withdraw and recover.'
Troll regeneration is potent; short of dismemberment or a mortal blow, a brief rest restores them whole.
"Fetch the witch-doctor—those scorched by flame will need his salves.'
"Yes, sir!'
Watching the courier leave, Da'kala bared his tusks in fury at the elven strike team racing to rejoin their lines.
"Kuta!'
The twin-axe troll turned at the call; Da'kala pointed straight at Ael'tharion, leader of the squad.
"Kill that whelp. Let him grow and he'll be trouble.'
"Heh—no problem.'
Drawing a deep breath, the elite called Kuta leaned back, arms cocked high above his head.
HAAH!
Berserk Head-hunters are a rare troll breed, able to awaken their berserker blood, burning life-force to skyrocket every physical trait for a short time.
WHOOSH-WHOOSH!
The two half-moon axes flew one after another, aimed at Ael'tharion just as he emerged from the trees.
Halduron spotted the throw first, eyes widening as he roared a warning.
"Look out—axes incoming!'
Punching through enemy lines while outnumbered is grueling work, and against trolls—who shrug off pain and heal in heartbeats—the already-weary Ael'tharion was far from peak form.
With camp almost in sight he had unconsciously relaxed, reacting a fraction too late to the sudden strike.
Raw experience had been lacking; now it cost him.
At the last heartbeat, hair bristling, Ael'tharion barely managed to swing his blade horizontal.
CLANG!
The first axe knocked the hastily raised sword aside; the second, aimed at his head, was an instant from impact.
Between heartbeats, Ael'tharion used the rebound to throw himself backward.
SHRIEK!
The whirling edge skimmed his pauldron, shredding a few links and sparing him a split skull.
Yet the heavy axe still dealt grievous harm—his collarbone cracked under the blow.
Flung from his hawkstrider, Ael'tharion crashed through the air until a tree stopped him.
Ngh!
But pain only honed his defiance; stubborn by nature, he bared his teeth in fury at the disappointed Kuta.
TWANG!
Halduron scarcely aimed; an arcane shot leapt from his war-bow straight at Kuta.
Halduron Brightwing, second-in-command of the Farstriders, is famed across Quel'Thalas.
His arrow caught the now-exhausted Kuta flat-footed; only Da'kala's lightning parry spared the berserker a hole through the skull.
With a shared glance, Halduron and Da'kala—both unmoved by personal spite—wordlessly broke off the fight.
Clutching his shoulder, Ael'tharion swore under his breath: "Damn—let my guard drop at the last second.'
Halduron handed command to his deputy and strode over to Ael'tharion to check his injuries.
"Not bad—just a fracture. Let the priest patch it up and you'll be bouncing around again in a few days."
"Tch..."
Ael'tharion's face flushed. "Laugh if you want... I swear there won't be a next time."
Halduron chuckled and patted Ael'tharion's cropped hair. "Come on—my first battle at adulthood wasn't half as impressive as yours."
"If I had anyone else left, I wouldn't risk Alleria's wrath by sending a freshly-of-age recruit into the fight."
"Go on, rest up for a few days. This battle... is far from over."
Ael'tharion Deepshadow, a half-elf of mixed blood, belonged to a cadet branch of Silvermoon City's illustrious Deepshadow Family.
Ael'tharion had lived in Silvermoon as a child, but the city's atmosphere—poisoned by prejudice against his half-elf blood—grew increasingly intolerable for his father Julian.
When Ael'tharion was eight, Julian moved them to Deepshadow Manor in southern Eversong Forest.
High Elves are proud and insular; their attitude toward half-breeds can be imagined.
From childhood Ael'tharion endured countless scornful looks and fought as many fights.
To onlookers he was an unruly, boorish half-elf—a hedgehog ready to bristle at the slightest provocation.
Southern Eversong's folk were simpler and far less hostile to outsiders than the capital.
After settling at the manor Ael'tharion kept his old ways, offending many but also befriending those who cared nothing for his bloodline.
"Sss—"
The priestess deliberately pressed hard while bandaging him with Holy Light; Ael'tharion hissed through clenched teeth.
The pretty priestess with flaxen hair scolded, "Good that it hurts—maybe next time you won't be so careless."
Ael'tharion flexed his left arm, unconcerned; the priestess's ministrations had already dulled the pain.
"I slipped this once—next time I won't give the enemy an opening."
"Thanks, Liadrin."
Liadrin sighed. "Today's your coming-of-age; I'll spare you the lecture."
"Since you're benched, why not call Lirath for a drink?"
Ael'tharion grimaced. "Lirath... I'm afraid his sisters will blame me for corrupting him."
Lirath Windrunner, one of Ael'tharion's few friends and the youngest of the Windrunner siblings, had three celebrated elder sisters.
The eldest, Alleria, commanded the Farstriders and was a comrade and close friend of Ael'tharion's father Julian.
Since childhood Alleria had looked after Ael'tharion; the bond between the unrelated pair was close.
The second sister, Sylvanas, future Ranger-General, led High Elf ranger forces alongside her mother Lireza.
Ael'tharion saw little of her, but—sharing the stigma of mixed blood—got on well with Sylvanas's human apprentice Nathanos Marris.
The third, Vereesa, doted on Lirath most and served as his ranger mentor.
Normally mature and steady, Vereesa was strict during training.
Yet the moment Lirath faced danger she became a tigress, baring claws at anyone who threatened her little brother.
Only recently come of age, Lirath had yet to finish ranger training; matriarch Lireza forbade him from joining the corps.
The Horde's invasion had struck so suddenly that many elves were overrun before they could react, cleaving Eversong north from south.
Lirath had been living with Vereesa in the southwestern village of Windrunner Village; hearing that Farstrider Encampment sheltered refugees, the siblings led a handful of rangers to join them.
Desperate times demanded desperate measures—though Vereesa felt Lirath's training incomplete, survival came first.
While Ael'tharion hesitated over inviting Lirath to his coming-of-age celebration, Halduron's weary voice drifted in from outside.
"Priestess Liadrin, we are at war."
"The Farstriders may not be a formal army, but we have our rules. Save the drink for after the war—I'll owe Ael'tharion one."
To Halduron, the priestess—trapped south of the forest while on pilgrimage—was perfect save for the Silvermoon-bred love of indulgence he found irksome.
Liadrin merely shrugged. "You're the boss here—your call."
Many were wounded; without wasting time she greeted Halduron and turned to her next patient.
Exhaustion lined Halduron's face—every camp duty weighed on shoulders unaccustomed to such burdens.
Reading the worry in Halduron's eyes, Ael'tharion sobered. "That bad?"
Halduron rubbed his cheeks and forced a smile.
"Grim, yes—but not hopeless."
"Rest up. You'll need strength when you return to the fight. I've work to do."
"Oh—"
At the door Halduron glanced back, his smile now genuine.
"Happy birthday, Ael'tharion."
...Lying in the crude infirmary of Farstrider Encampment, Ael'tharion still heard the groans of the wounded and could not sleep.
Raised apart from typical High Elf society, he felt little attachment to Quel'Thalas; the proud realm could fall for all he cared.
He fought because he was born combative and refused to lose, and to protect his friends in the calamity—nothing more.
"Old man, when are you coming back?"
Julian Deepshadow had marched south with Farstrider commander Alleria to aid the Alliance; no word had returned.
The Horde had appeared so suddenly that Alliance commanders never expected them to bypass the front and strike Quel'Thalas, racking up victories against the elves.
"Hmph—arrogance is poison. Keep living in seclusion and Quel'Thalas will choke on it."
As Ael'tharion drifted toward sleep, a genderless voice echoed in his mind.
"Host has reached 18 years—system activating."
Before he could react, a flood of strange captions scrolled before his eyes.
Though he'd never seen the script, he understood every line.
FIRST!!
Yo move up, chat 👀, I wanna see this!
Okay okay—Warcraft live-action?? Those ears actually look real!!
Bruh why is the main elf a holy unc 💀💀💀 Where my pretty High Elf boys at??
Relax besties—I'm into rugged elf uncles slurp~
Ael'tharion: "?"
"What...what is this?"