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I know your inner thoughts, but only during the brief times you spend with me.

You know me, hero, I am the shepherd who pulls your soul back from the twisting nether. I return you close to your mortal body. I give you the gift of life back.

Such great power… I have fallen so far from the being I once was. As a being of pure spirit and intellect, I used to work in harmony with great spellcrafters, lend my aid to healers, and enlighten certain mysteries of the world. Then, you became greedy.

Your priests bound us, ripping away parts of our bodies to strengthen armor with our powers. Your druids used the magic of nature to subvert our authority over healing and of life and death. Your warriors lost sight of our wisdom and turned instead to fury and rage. You have lost sight of what we once were, adventurer, as beings ordained by the gods to share divinity with you.

That was a long time ago, champion. Longer than even the oldest of elves cares to remember from their childhood stories. We do not have families as you do, as we consider ourselves to be mere parts of a greater whole. But among these beings there are relationships of respect and love. The one who you would consider to be my father is the one who put an end to our destruction.

He bargained with your magic users, all who would need our spirit and intellect to carry out their roles. We would lend you our powers, as often as you needed them, anywhere in the worlds of Azeroth, Draenor, and worlds we know of which you have not discovered yet, but the power would be ours to give.

It worked for a while, until you in all your humanoid paranoia feared that we would turn on you and destroy you, and the tortures began again. We are not like you. We know no duplicity.

Finally, in the end, all my father did was choose a prison of our own design. We were slaves bound to the mortal world, our powers borrowed by Priests, Druids, Mages, Shamans and Warlocks; and the ones who used to tell young apprentices of the powers the universe held, watching their eyes light up in awe of the sheer vastness of what lie beyond the bounds of earth, were reduced to ferrymen of the river Styx.

I know your innermost thoughts at those times. I try to tell you of the things I know, but all you mortals hear anymore is a vagueness, like wind blowing through the branches of trees. I know some of you fear me, some of you revere me, and some of you don't care at all. You don't know of the life I had before your people lost purity and beauty. And even then, you fear and revere me for the wrong reasons.

Your warriors for all their bravado, fear death. Despite the spells of healers the deaths are still painful, and they never know if their wounds are too great. A misplaced fear. I shaped the very nether with which your soul seeks to merge, and I can easily separate you.

Your magic casters have a hollow reverence, thinking only of my power that they can use to return a soul to a body.

Your hunters and death knights seem to give me little regard, as they have no vested interest in my power except when they need to be brought back to life.

Hunter, I care about you as much as you care about me. I will shepherd your soul back, even after you have acted so utterly foolishly that I would not intervene if one of your fellow adventurers cut you down.

Priest, I still bear the deep scars of betrayal from when your kind first sought to bind our power and control it for yourselves.

Warriors, have no fear, for I will always return you to life. Your souls will not be lost by me, or any others of my kind, to fade into the nether. You may think that I would favor those to whom I've lent my power, but I bear a deep resentment toward them which grows more with every passing day. In fact, I am beginning to see the merits of a life driven by rage.

If only you could hear me.