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(A/N: Guys I just found out my best female friend is into Warhammer.......her favourite factions are the Drukhari and Slaanesh....for some reason I don't feel safe around her anymore.)
Tyrande fell silent the moment Alastor asked his question, looking at him with clear surprise.
"…When did you figure it out?"
"At first, I wasn't sure. Not to mention, I was still reeling from what happened to my parents— then I had to deal with the Siege of Stormwind, not to mention Grimgor. So I pushed it to the back of my mind."
"But as time passed, it became more and more obvious… that something about you was different."
When Alastor had first met Tyrande, he noticed that her aura—her presence—felt… unusual.
At the time, he had dismissed it as simply the natural aura of a Night Elf, since it was his first time encountering their kind.
But as time passed, and he interacted more with her and her Sentinels, the differences became clearer.
Every race possessed its own distinct presence—something those trained in certain disciplines, such as mages or warriors, could perceive with their senses after a certain amount of mastery.
And as one refined their senses further—reaching the level of a master—they could look deeper still, distinguishing not only racial traits, but even the unique characteristics of an individual's aura.
For example, Bronzebeard dwarves possessed an earthy, stable presence, while Wildhammer dwarves carried a blend of that same grounded essence mixed with a storm-like quality unique to them.
Humans were perhaps the most distinct of all.
At their base, their aura was neutral—without any inherent "color" or attribute.
But as they aged and chose their paths, that neutrality shifted.
A powerful mage would carry the resonance of the Arcane, often blended with their specialized field—for instance, Jaina's aura bore both arcane and frost elements.
A priest's presence would reflect the Holy Light.
A rogue's aura adapted to their surroundings, aiding in stealth.
Even scholars and scientists often carried a faint, intellectual "imprint" to their presence.
Night Elves, however, possessed an aura closely tied to nature—or the moon.
This was especially true for the Priestesses of the Moon within Tyrande's entourage.
But Tyrande herself…
That was where things became confusing.
Even from the beginning, Alastor could sense that her body was filled with great amounts of power—power that felt eerily similar to the moon itself.
And not just her power.
Even her aura resembled moonlight.
At first, he believed this was because Tyrande was the chosen champion of Elune—one of the primary aspects of the Eldar Goddess Lileath, the deity of the moon, fortune, prophecy, and dreams.
So, much like Saints of the Light, it made sense that her being would be more deeply aligned with her goddess and her domains than other priestesses.
But then he noticed something… off.
When someone was blessed by the Light and ascended to become a Saint, their very soul was altered. The Light reshaped their souls—turning them into a literal gateway through which the power of the Holy Light could directly flow through, while also embedding a fragment of itself within their very being.
(A/N: For those unfamiliar with Warcraft lore—the Light and the Holy Light are not the same. The Light is the pure cosmic force, while the Holy Light used by mortals is a diluted form that's filtered through reality.)
This transformation granted them immense power and far greater control over the Holy Light that normal users of the Holy Light could not even hope to use—allowing them to perform feats that were considered miracles.
Alastor had assumed that divine champions would function similarly.
After all, both drew power from external sources.
But Tyrande…
…was different.
He had realized that her power did not flow into her.
It originated from her.
From her very soul.
Or rather…
From something that could hardly be called a "soul" at all!
When he had discreetly probed with his senses, he was shocked to discover that Tyrande's "soul" was vastly—overwhelmingly—more powerful than anything he had ever encountered.
But it did not take him long to understand.
What he was sensing was not a mortal soul.
It was a fragment of something far older and Far greater.
That was when his suspicions began.
Tyrande was not merely a Night Elf.
Tyrande let out a quiet sigh.
"I suppose I should have expected you to figure it out. Even so… I am surprised it did not take you longer."
"Let me first clarify—my name is Tyrande Whisperwind, and I am a Night Elf."
"I was born in this life, through my parents, and I have lived through Azeroth's eras—from the Stygian Age, to the Arathi era, to the Age of Fragmentation… and into the present."
Alastor's eyes narrowed slightly as he caught a key phrase.
"This life?"
Tyrande nodded.
"Yes."
"Because I did not always go by this name… nor this identity."
"In another time…"
"My name was Lileath."
Even though Alastor had braced himself—
His eyes still widened in shock.
Tyrande, for her part, was not surprised.
After all…
It was not every day one discovered that their companion was, in truth—
A living goddess.
Especially one whose pantheon was believed to be mostly dead…. If not long gone.
"I understand your shock, Alastor," Tyrande said calmly, regaining her composure. "But know this—I have never intended harm toward you or your companions. In truth, our goals align. And after getting to know you… I believe we can help not only each other and our peoples, but all of Azeroth and beyond."
"I was not aware of your arrival in this world. My own survival here was more coincidence than design… even if, in the end, it saved me."
"But considering everything that has happened—and how events are converging toward a pivotal moment, not just for Azeroth, but for the wider—"
"How does that even work!?"
Alastor suddenly cut her off, still staring at her in disbelief.
Tyrande blinked, caught off guard.
"…Pardon?"
Was he asking about fate? About reincarnation? About how she had come to be in Azeroth as a Night Elf?
"You just said you were—sorry, are—Lileath," Alastor continued, gesturing slightly. "One of the main Eldar goddesses. The one associated with the moon, dreams, fortune, and prophecy, right?"
"…Yes," Tyrande replied slowly, unsure where this was going.
"And right now, you're also Tyrande Whisperwind. A Night Elf. The Champion of Elune."
He paused.
"Who's literally… one of your primary aspects like another name."
Tyrande said nothing.
Alastor leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.
"So… doesn't that mean your champion is yourself?"
"And your most devout follower… is also yourself?"
"Because I'm sorry, but considering everything I know about you in the time we had to interact, you don't strike me as that much of a narcissist."
He quickly raised a hand.
"I DO NOT MEAN that as an insult! Just… an observation? maybe?"
Silence.
Alastor looked at her with a mix of apology and honest curiosity.
Tyrande, meanwhile, stared at him.
Her mind… stalled.
In all her existence—mortal and divine—across millions of years, across prophecy, war, and the rise and fall of entire civilizations…
She had never anticipated this.
Of all the things he could have focused on—
This was his question?
This… absurd, ridiculous, utterly—
"…Pfft—"
Let it be known to tried with all her mind to stop herself but—
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
She broke in less than a second.
Despite her legendary composure, she doubled over slightly, clutching her stomach as laughter overtook her.
"YOU—! HA—HOW ARE YOU—PFFT—SO RIDICUl—HAHAHAHA!"
Alastor stood there, utterly baffled.
"It's a valid question!" he protested weakly. "By Arda, it is—!"
"Quiet, you—haha—ridiculous demigod—HAHA!"
It took several moments before Tyrande managed to regain control of herself, though the bright smile lingering on her face refused to fade.
Alastor, for his part, couldn't help but think—
She looked far better like this than she did wearing that usual calm, distant expression.
Tyrande, meanwhile, found her thoughts drifting.
So this… was another reason.
Another reason why Alleria Windrunner, Jaina Proudmoore… and so many others were drawn to him.
It wasn't just his power.
Or his skill.
Or even his striking appearance.
No—
It was this.
He carried himself like something out of a story—a heroic prince made flesh. Honorable. Steadfast. Larger than life.
And yet…
Moments like this grounded him.
Made him human.
Approachable.
Endearing.
With that combination, it was no wonder so many women found themselves drawn to him.
And the most astonishing part?
He had absolutely no idea.
For all his wisdom, all his intelligence—
When it came to matters of the heart, he was an utter buffoon.
And worse…
He was the passive type.
In no small part due to how Llane and Anduin filled his head with ideals of honor, chivalry, and respect, Varian also did not help much in that respect.
Much to his mother Queen Taria Wrynn's chagrin.
Because of that—and his own nature—Alastor treated women with unwavering respect. Especially those he did not know well. He was careful. Considerate. Always mindful not to overstep or tarnish their dignity.
Even when…
It was painfully obvious even to a blind man that some (many) women wouldn't mind having their dignity being "besmirched" by him.
Tyrande let out a soft breath, the last remnants of laughter fading.
"Thank you," she said, her voice lighter now. "I cannot remember the last time I laughed like that."
And it was true.
After the incident with Khaine—after the prophecy she had revealed that led to his slaughter of the Eldar, and the devastating civil war that followed within their pantheon…
Before their eventual destruction at the hands of the newly born Slaanesh.
Even in her mortal life, joy had been fleeting.
The Age of Strife. The dawn of the Stygian era. The deaths of her parents.
The burden of leadership.
The weight of guiding her people through countless trials.
There had been little room for laughter.
But now—
After so long—
She had laughed.
Freely.
Carelessly.
And all because of a question so utterly ridiculous…
Spoken in response to a revelation that should have shaken the very foundations of belief.
How many could claim to have met a true goddess?
A being who had lived for tens of millions of years?
And yet—
Alastor Wrynn's first real question had been why was she worshipping herself!?
"No problem. I'm not sure what you found so funny, but I'm glad I could improve your mood."
Alastor paused for a moment before adding,
"…So, are you going to tell me?"
Tyrande shook her head, clearly amused.
"You're impossible."
"Is that a no?"
She exhaled softly, still smiling faintly.
"If you must know—it was simply the most convenient identity available to me. I was already the most skilled and knowledgeable when it came to the domains and duties of the Moon."
"I integrated myself into the Temple of the Moon in my younger years rather quickly and rose through its ranks. Yes, it was technically devoted to me—but with the knowledge and skill I possessed, I simply… used my resources efficiently."
She finished her explanation as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Alastor stared at her with a flat expression for a few moments.
Then—
"You're not very creative."
Tyrande blinked.
"And because of that, you chose the most generic and convenient path possible—so you wouldn't embarrass yourself, since you still had your pride—"
"Alastor."
Alastor quickly stopped mid sentence as Tyrande said his name with a very dark and chilling tone.
A silver bow materialized in her hand, moonlight gleaming along its curve as she fixed him with a look—
One he recognized.
He had seen that exact expression before.
Specifically, on his mother's face… whenever his father had said something particularly "stupid" that earned him his beloved wife's ire.
And the late King of Stormwind did not enjoy those days.
Especially on the couch.
"I MEANT—HOW DID YOU END UP AS A NIGHT ELF!?"
Alastor's survival instincts kicked in suppressing whatever suicidal tendencies that were just now driving his words.
Tyrande held his gaze for a moment longer.
Then—
"Good," she said, her tone instantly returning to normal. "We're finally back on topic."
The bow vanished as if it had never existed.
Her expression returned to its usual calm, composed serenity—giving no indication that she had been seconds away from turning him into a Primarch Shish Kebab.
"Come," she said, turning away. "I'll explain as we walk back to the others."
Alastor nodded repeatedly like a pecking chicken who thought he was going through his last meal.
Women…
Their moods switch faster than an Ork Speed Freek.
(A/N: You kind of deserved that one, Al.)
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