As he strides through the foothills, the Elder Prophet feels a strange tingling in his left arm down into his forepaw.

The tingling suddenly becomes a crushing pain which explodes in his chest, forcing him to his knees.


With one last rattling breath, Arrashaw tastes the last of his mortality and slumps to the ground.

From the woods emerge a host of forest creatures, and in the midst of their host, an ancient Sylvan spirit.

With tenderness she folds the Prophet's paws across his chest in noble repose and whispers a prayer.

The ghost of Arrashaw Darkpaw stands beside her, gazing down on his mortal flesh.

'I hope I made a difference in this world.' he intones. The spirit simply smiles and offers him her hand.

Paw and hand, they walk off into the woods, and Arrashaw finds the everlasting peace he deserves.

A mournful note of a horn echoes through the Redhorn, and the banners of the Fortress of Light are lowered to mid-staff.