Felador, the Hopeless

[nunyakuforkthis]

Felador, a soft-spoken night elf druid, was nurtured by the ancient trees of Ashenvale, where he immersed himself in the art of restoration. He found beauty in the cycles of life and death, the harmony of nature’s rhythm. But there were some moments that shook him beyond the tranquil life of a healer—moments that lingered like whispers in his heart, refusing to fade. One such moment was the day he saw Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, in all her unbreakable valor and grace.

Long before the calamities of the Third War, Felador had journeyed as an emissary to Lordaeron, tasked with studying the lands and leaders of the Eastern Kingdoms. There, in the company of humans and elves, his quiet fascination grew into a sense of awe when he beheld Sylvanas leading her rangers, the sun glinting off her armor as she moved with lethal precision. Her beauty, fierce and unyielding, was unlike the natural beauty of his homeland. In her, he saw something rare—a flame that burned both powerful and pure, a vision of strength that left him quietly breathless. He could only watch her from a distance, her path forever apart from his own, but her presence was like an ember pressed into his soul.

He returned to Kalimdor, determined to push his feelings away, but her image haunted him. When news of the Scourge’s onslaught upon Quel'Thalas reached him, Felador feared the worst. The eventual word of her death, twisted into a fate worse than oblivion, devastated him. Sylvanas, the bright and defiant leader, was now the Banshee Queen, a creature trapped between life and death, bound to the will of the Lich King. Felador felt a deep, wrenching sorrow; he mourned for the woman he had known only briefly, and for the purity now defiled.

Years later, he heard whispers of the Forsaken, the undead who had broken free from the Lich King’s grasp, led by none other than Sylvanas herself. His heart stirred at the thought that she had reclaimed her spirit. She was no longer the shining figure of his memory, yet she remained unbroken. Her path was dark, yet her strength endured—a strength that, to Felador, was still beautiful, even if now shrouded in shadow.

With no place in her world and no claim to her, Felador was content to watch her quietly, as a mere presence in the background of her life. Sometimes, he would take root in his tree form near the borders of the Plaguelands, standing silently for days, blending with the skeletal foliage as she led her people. His only desire was to glimpse her, to witness her resolve from afar, as a leaf might silently behold a storm.

He offered her no words, nor did he dare intrude upon her life; his admiration was a secret he would keep until the end. She was beyond him in every way—a force that neither needed nor wanted his presence. Felador knew his feelings would remain unrequited, yet he cherished this silent devotion, bearing it as an unseen sentinel of respect. His love for Sylvanas was hopeless and impossible, and yet it was his alone, a quiet reverence for the one he would follow from the shadows, a witness to her strength until the earth claimed him in final silence.