The drake swept through the air over Mount Hyjal, its red wings a stark contrast to the sea of green. A lone figure rode atop its back. Her mismatched gear hinted as to her being the veteran of numerous campaigns. Greaves and a breastplate bearing the stamp of the forges of Naxxramas, the Black Knight's pauldrons, a helm taken from a paladin driven insane, a sourgelord's greataxe. And over the armor, a faded and threadbare tabard of the long-defunct Argent Dawn.
She held her axe over her head, one-handed, defying them. As they came closer, she laughed. A terrible, inhuman laugh, fueled by fel energies, contemptuous, mocking, it chilled the very bones of the cultists. Shaken, they halted. A golden-white fire began to swirl around her, coursing along the length of her axe, scorching the ground around her, punching through the smoke toward the blue sky. Yet she remained unburned.
As the fire began to coalesce into the shape of a pair of outstretched wings on her back, the cultists began to feel real fear. No matter that they were numerous and she was but one. No matter that they had besiged Stormwind and Orgrimmar. No matter that they had taken control of the highlands. No matter that they were close to burning the world tree Nordrassil. Their time was passing, and they could sense it. The great axe began to drop for its first deadly swing, the fire shot out towards them, and now it was no longer a time for Twilight. Now it was a time for Wrath. Now it was a time for Judgement.
Now it was a time for Retribution.