When I was young, merely a fledgling who sought to learn the ways of Shadowsong, I did not know what I fought for.

In Kalimdor, there was peace; our blades were rarely needed, our knives unsung, for our people knew only prosperity. Those who had threatened the sanctity of these lands were chained within the depths of their prison barrows, rotting in the squalor of their own sin.
I wished to protect my people; that is what I believed I fought for. Safety, order, honour, justice -- to seek those who had wronged us and right it for the good of my kind and all that followed. That is why I volunteered to join the Wardens beneath Shadowsong.

It was not easy to serve beneath her. Training was harsh, a cruel affair. We were accustomed to etiquette, but she demanded more. One wrong step, punishment. One wrong word, punishment. Making noise on the hunt, punishment. Showing mercy and hesitation, punishment. Whenever we fell, she demanded we rise. Those who stayed upon their knees were gone by the morrow, replaced by empty beds and memories. She told us not to cry for them. Their weakness saved them from dying needlessly in a role unfit for them; that only the strongest could truly protect the Kaldorei from those who seek to rot it from the core of its being; an insidious corruption filtering along the roots, tainting all it touched. Those who questioned were met with blank stares and steely silence, their determination wilting and breaking; their identity faltering, shedding and peeling until only the raw soul remained.

When we had nothing left, she took us and molded us as a potter does to clay. We were no longer Kaldorei, no longer one of our people. We would never stand among them as equals or share in the joys of their life. We became weapons. Tools at the whim of our kind, to protect and defend all that is sacred to our people -- and when a weapon is no longer required, it is shelved and stowed away until it is summoned again. It is so we turned from what we once were and became something more -- a purpose beyond ourselves, a purpose greater than a single sum. Where I once saw the light of Elune, I now saw the shadows that light cast. The night was once wondrous and mystical, yet now I learned to prowl among it as if a beast patrolling its domain. Where others hid in fear, we were told to stand in the darkness and dare it to try, for we were Wardens, and conquering the dark is our function.

I will not say I was a perfect student, nor a special one. Others excelled where I faltered, my own failures causing me to lag behind the others in their expertise. There were moments I felt broken, muscles aching with the strain and scars littering my flesh as if I were a ripped canvas, and I questioned why I even bothered to try. Was there a purpose to this agony, this torment? I often remember those feelings to this day, and they remind me of what it means to be a Warden -- we are taken to our limit, because only then, when we persevere and stand back up, we find our strength in the darkness of our hearts. My agony became anger, my torment a simmering fury. There was always a price to pay in this world, and that price would be paid in blood; mine, or their's.

In that clarity, that realization, I could feel it; the creeping shade that lingered in my mind and whispered when I was weak. That shade was my only companion, my only remaining shred of feeling. In the ancient Warden technique known as The Spirit, I felt that shade become one with my very being, if only for a split second, and in that shade I felt a single burning desire.

When I was young, merely a fledgling who sought to learn the ways of Shadowsong, I did not know what I fought for.
Now I know; I fight for Vengeance.