Dathran rests his arms on the Altar, following the large "L" of Lordaeron with his fingers. It has been one year since he was last at this altar. He prayed, begged and cried out to the Light. His nation had fallen, his brethren dead or fled. It was here an oath was sworn to reform the order, and with the oath a vow pledged to reform it in a purer, and more deadly state. Lordaeron was to be retaken or razed to the ground. But the nation would be his either way.

Dathran closes his eyes, sighing deeply as he bans the sinful thought of becoming King out of his mind.

"Righteous Fire, Scarlet Fire...It shall be mine or it will burn!" Dathran's eyes widen as he notices he momentarily lost grip on his mind. He shakes his head, smiling.

"The scent of blossom shall once more be carried by the morning breeze of Lordaeron. A nation will not burn but be reborn. Who will lead it... only time can tell."
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