Gavinthor

Gavinrad now sported not just his trusty physical hammer, but another, crackling with raw thunder, condensed from the very power of the storm and held aloft in his left hand.

Walking out of the altar, Gavinrad radiated an aura that could curdle milk and stop a charging kodo dead in its tracks. With every thunderous step, the very earth beneath his boots fractured and spat crackling arcs of pure lightning. Pebbles leaped from the ground, defying gravity for a fleeting moment before Gavinrad's uncontrolled storm reduced them to atomized dust.

At this point, Gavinrad was strutting like a peacock, radiating enough raw power to make a Pit Lord nervously check his demonic undies.

Even if someone had told Duke that Gavinrad the Dire was the real boss behind the scenes, Duke would have swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

Unfortunately, Gavinrad, bless his cotton socks, blew his own cover with a single, perfectly Gavinrad-esque question.

It was as if the universe's cruel joke about peak performance, or perhaps the "three-second rule" for looking cool, had just kicked in.

Gavinrad asked, with the intellectual depth of a particularly dense rock, "Um, Boss Duke, quick question, totally hypothetical, but... will I accidentally deep-fry my future spouse on our wedding night?"

The Windrunner sisters were so flabbergasted they nearly tumbled out of their perch in the ancient oak, choking on their own laughter and disbelief.

Duke massaged his temples with the patience of a saint dealing with a particularly dim-witted goblin. "You blithering oaf! Is it too much to ask for you to get a handle on your own power? And if, by some miracle, you do manage to short-circuit your beloved, just marry a female paladin! They're practically walking surge protectors!"

Duke, ever the master of the unspoken, left the latter half of his thought hanging in the air like a bad smell.

If you're truly such an idiot that you can't control your own power, then when you perform the nuptial blessings with your wife, make sure she's doused in Holy Light like a freshly laundered banner.

Oh, and by the Titans, Gavinrad, blurring the entire battlefield with uncontrolled lightning is just what we need in a skirmish. Top marks, truly.

Duke, having reached the end of his rope, simply waved a hand, dispatching Gavinrad to "observe" from a safe, non-electrocuted distance.

"Time is limited, folks! Which Windrunner wants to be the next to gain power? Gul'dan, that greasy-haired fiend, has already mucked up the rune stone's energy field. You've got roughly half a day, and then this ancient, potent energy, passed down through your high elf ancestors for millennia, will just... poof! Gone like a wisp in a hurricane!"

The four Windrunner sisters exchanged glances, frozen stiffer than a winter griffin.

Duke's next words, however, hit them like a bolt from the blue, shattering their composure.

"This isn't just any old pile of rocks, ladies! This is the Storm Altar! A nexus of ancient power, designed to awaken dormant abilities in those with the right spark! And it only hums with three elemental frequencies: the raw fury of thunder, the searing embrace of fire, and... the whisper of the wind!"

The power of the wind!

For a Windrunner, this wasn't just a temptation; it was a siren's call, a whisper of destiny they couldn't possibly ignore.

Once upon a time, the Windrunners prided themselves on being the sharpest arrows in the quiver. Their motto? "If it moves, we can pin it with one shot."

Unfortunately, the world had a nasty habit of throwing bigger, uglier, and significantly more bullet-proof monsters their way, shattering their neatly packaged beliefs.

A Death Knight who'd just shrug off an arrow to the brain like a bad hangover.

An ogre with two heads and three hearts.

Duke had painted a grim picture of Draenor, the Orcs' blasted homeworld, where monstrous behemoths called Gronn lorded over the ogres. These towering titans, often over ten meters tall, were mountains of muscle and raw, untamed might. And if Duke's gut feeling was right, these colossal brutes were about to become the Orcs' newest, most terrifying siege engines.

The thought of such a nightmare beast tearing through elven battle lines like a hot knife through butter sent shivers down their spines.

Self-improvement had just shot to the top of their 'to-do' list, right alongside 'don't get eaten by a Gronn'.

Plus, that's the power of the wind.

The innate power of a Windrunner.

Absolutely irresistible!

As the eldest sister and the ever-cautious pragmatist, Alleria stepped forward, her voice betraying a hint of trepidation. "Duke," she began, "is this... entirely safe?"

Duke let out a long-suffering sigh, as if explaining basic physics to a particularly dense gnomish apprentice. "These, Alleria," he patiently explained, "are the very powers bequeathed by your illustrious high elf ancestors. And yes, they've been thoroughly scrubbed clean by the Holy Light, so no nasty surprises."

Alleria, ever the brave one, nodded resolutely. "Alright," she declared, "I'll be the guinea pig. Once I've confirmed it won't turn me into a sentient dust bunny, you can all follow suit."

Alleria took her place in the altar's heart, and Duke, with a flourish that suggested he'd done this a time or two, began his incantation. Unlike Gavinrad's awakening, which had felt like a dragon's tantrum, there was no terrifying crackle of lightning or earth-shattering thunder. Instead, a gentle, almost playful whirlwind began to coil around Alleria.

It caressed her skin softly, like a mother's tender touch, whispering ancient lullabies into her very soul.

The sensation was pure bliss, a breeze so exquisitely comfortable it threatened to lull everyone present into a deep, contented slumber.

Everyone heard the sound of the wind.

"Hush, hush, hush..." it seemed to sigh, the very breath of the sky, the rhythmic pulse of the ancient earth.

Gently opening her arms, Alleria let her entire body bathe in the wind.

The wind, a living tapestry, wove through her, carrying the crisp scent of dew-kissed grass, the rich, earthy perfume of the soil, and the deep, unique aroma of the ancient woods.

As she listened to the wind's ancient song and embraced its silent teachings, Alleria drifted into a profound trance, as if intoxicated by the very essence of the elements. The altar's vibrant energy began to wane, and the three Windrunner sisters watched their eldest, who now sat limply, almost bonelessly, in the center of the stone, their hearts thrumming with a mixture of hope and gnawing anxiety.

Sylvanas, ever the firebrand and prone to dramatic outbursts, fixed Duke with an intense, unblinking stare.

Duke, ever the diplomat, flashed an 'OK' sign, then, remembering they were high elves and not, say, Stormwind merchants, quickly switched to a universally understood, enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Even though they were mostly relieved, the three Windrunner sisters still stared at their eldest sister nervously.

Suddenly, Alleria rose, her eyes still closed, a serene, almost ethereal expression on her face. She drew forth her longbow, its ancient wood gleaming, and with practiced grace, bent the limbs and pulled the string taut. But there was no arrow nocked.

Shooting with an empty string, while a fundamental exercise in archery, typically doesn't involve... well, shooting anything.

What in the blazes was their elder sister up to?

Alleria's next, utterly astounding action, however, provided the answer with a thunderclap.

She shot an arrow.

As she drew the bowstring back to a quivering, almost full-moon arc, the air around the altar erupted, swirling into a furious gale.

The very storm, a tempest of raw elemental power, seemed to bow to Alleria Windrunner's silent command, coalescing, twisting, and compressing into a single, shimmering arrow of pure wind in less time than it takes to blink.

This was no trick of the light, no mirage born of exhaustion. The three Windrunner sisters, their eyes wide as saucers, clearly saw the air where an arrow should have been, shimmer and distort, as if gazing through a heat haze. A phenomenon usually reserved for scorching desert plains or the fiery breath of a dragon.

Now, it appeared in Alleria's hands.

As her delicate, yet powerful fingers loosened, the bowstring twanged with a sharp, resonant snap.

However, there was no sound of arrows being shot.

No mortal eye could track the arrow's flight; it was a blur, a whisper, a phantom. Everyone simply stared, mouths agape, in the direction Alleria's bow had been aimed.

One agonizing second!

Two heart-stopping seconds!

Three eternity-stretching seconds!

Then, precisely as the third second ticked into existence, a violent, undeniable reaction erupted five hundred meters away.

A monstrous, crimson blossom exploded on a distant treetop, painting the leaves a shocking shade of red.

For humans, that has long exceeded the limit of vision. To the human eye, it is just a small dot.

Even for the keen-eyed Elf Rangers, it was a feat bordering on the impossible. Yet, the three Windrunner sisters saw every gruesome detail.

Unrivalled precision.

A powerful shot.

Five hundred meters out, the invisible arrow had found its mark, piercing the troll's chest with such force that the creature simply disintegrated, exploding into a shower of grotesque pieces from the sternum outwards.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a troll scout!

Spotting that sneaky green-skinned menace, practically camouflaged against the forest's backdrop from half a kilometer away, was already like finding a needle in a haystack.

But to hit it with a shot that was practically beyond the limits of visual range? That was just showing off!

Alleria finally opened her eyes, a warm, triumphant smile gracing her dignified features. "My sisters," she announced, her voice filled with newfound confidence, "I strongly suggest you all take a crack at finding out what you're truly capable of. The water's fine!"