Silvermoon Guardians

I was once the man known as Alexander Wolfwood, paladin and defender of the Light, brother to the honorable and brave young Selenia Wolfwood. After our father "died", my mother and the two of us left Lordaeron for Kalimdor, a strange and unknown land during the Third War. The three of us joined forces with Jaina Proudmore and the other refugee survivors of the accursed Plague that overtook the northern areas of the Eastern Kingdoms. It was there that we met the renegade Orc Thrall and his followers, the Night Elves led by Tyrande Whisperwind, and the mysterious Prophet who we would find out was none other than Medivh, the last of the guardians.

It was during the battle at the summit of Mt. Hyjal that things started to take a turn for both the worst and the weird. Whilst Archimonde and his nefarious minions of the Burning Legion marched up the slope of the sacred mountain to gain control of the World Tree, I began to hear whispers...whispers of a long-lost person that I had so loved and looked up to as a child. It was the voice of my father, thought dead trying to keep the rebellious Orcs held in captivity after the end of the Second War. "It must've been my imagination, brought forth by the fierce battle being fought all around me," I thought as I continued to hear the compelling whisperings in my mind: "Leave the battle. Desert your comrades and head north to the freezing wasteland of Northrend. Seek your destiny there and become more powerful than you can ever imagine. Seek out retribution and redemption by slaying the true killer of your father."

I tried to fight off the urge to just abandon the battle that those on all sides were striving so desperately to fight, but in the end the sweet whisperings broke my spirit and, during the climactic battle where the tree was torn asunder by Malfurion Stormrage, I slowly and quietly retreated south when I eventually came across the newly formed town of Ratchet, just to the south of Orgrimmar. Finding a sufficiently greedy goblin airship captain to ferry me to the frozen north, I embarked on my quest: to confront and defeat the Lich King, whom I believed to be the source of all of my woes.

Arriving in what is now known as the Borean Tundra, I trudged towards Icecrown Citadel, seeking the seat of the Lich King's power, ever being goaded on by my father. Thinking myself mad, I followed his advice, plummeting even further into his master's icy grasp. Finally arriving before the Frozen Throne I gazed upon the visage of the man formerly known as Arthas, a great and noble paladin and son of the late king of Lordaeron. It was at that moment I knew that I was a slave to the mind-bending powers of the most fearsome being on the face of Azeroth, but it was too late. My father appeared before me in the flesh and that was when I knew what my destiny was: to become one of the Lich King's death knights, carrying on in my father's place.

Over time, I did my new master's bidding, becoming ever more evil and decrepit to the point where I no longer knew who I was. I was just a tool, giant hammer smashing down the Lich King's enemies. I eventually found myself in what would become the Eastern Plaguelands, fighting against both the Argent Dawn and the insane Scarlet Crusade, trying to wipe out or corrupt the few remaining members of the Alliance that had stayed behind to fight the Scourge.

As I fought my foes, I would slowly come to regain my grip on sanity, or at least of who I once was. Trying to fight the Lich King, I strive to free myself from his icy grip and fight off my current master. I hope to reconcile with my long-lost sister and mother and to redeem myself by fighting against the true evil that continues to spread across Azeroth to this day. May I be successful in my endeavour.