I have been dead for some time now.
It is at least fifteen years since the Elfgates fell. Fifteen years since I was slain defending my homeland. Fifteen years since I was reanimated.
I am tempted here to wax poetic, but the simple fact of the matter is that I am immortal. I have died, and every time returned. I have consumed the souls of armies, left a trail of destruction in my path, and saved nearly as many lives as I ended, perhaps even more. Skyshatter swells with souls. I think more clearly now than ever I did before. I do not suffer insults, I do not grow weary. In my idle hours, I only think and plan and learn.
In my time as Dawnbreaker, I came in to possession of one piece of knowledge that no one, not even the Sin'dorei, not even my own undead kin, is ready to accept: The Light is like any other magic. It is not a god. It is powerful, yes, but limited like all magic by the vessels that carry it. It falters. It breaks. But, it is not alive. It obeys the properties that are expected of it, behaving like a benevolent or judgmental god only so long as it is expected to do so. I have no proof of this fact save for experience, but it is something worth exploring at a later time.
. . .
The world is different now than it was when Eriene and I found eachother in Outland. It is a place slowly beginning to concern itself with balance. Yet, the more this occurs, the more it rises up in rebellion against itself. I believe the winds of change are blowing from Pandaria. I sense death on the horizon, like a chariot driver carrying the sun across the sky.
I am determined to sit back and watch, and perhaps reap the harvest of souls where such a harvest is in my path. There are, however, other preparations I must make.
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Xynrael Frostbane stood in silence at the edge of the Court of the Sun, his hands folded neatly at his sides. The eternal spring of Eversong wood brushed his cloak and hood with a soft wind that sent both billowing, but his form, accustomed to stillness, remained otherwise undisturbed by the tiny breeze.
There, from his vantage point, he watched, eyes scanning the crowds: Magisters, hurrying after their way or tarrying to speak to supporters and allies, whether current or prospective. Blood Knights, marching in pairs, to and from varying destinations, and occasionally a squadron or two on their way to the Isle of Thunder. These would occasionally look him over one by one as they passed, and dismiss him just as quickly.
Occasionally, a pretty young thing in a revealing outfit, usually far too revealing for her age, would wander past, breasts bouncing and hips swaying. Some would give him a wide berth, others close distance far too comfortably and remain, attempting in some fashion or another to gain his attention. Neither one nor the other garnished his attention, and soon, like the Blood Knights, they carried on.
Then, he saw it. His quarry. His prey. A figure in the garb of a priest wandering past, one with the look of an intellectual and radiating the sort of energy he required. Beneath his hood, Xynrael smiled a faint smile and advanced, clearly but not very loudly addressing the priest in his rumbling, echoing voice.
"Begging your pardon, I am Xynrael Frostbane. I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something..."
