You are the white wolf Sifr of Stonetalon. Six feet long (not measuring your tail) and two and a half feet tall, no other predators dare challenge a beast such as you. Legend amongst the few native denizens still remaining in the area. Stories tell of your uncanny intelligence and voracious appetite, a reputation you’ve carefully nurtured over the course of decades. You are the last of your kind, the rest of the semi-divine wolves, your kin, have been hunted to extinction by Tauren and Kaledorei hunters. You are approaching the end of your life.
It is a crisp clear night, and the druids have gathered around one of their ancient stone circles. They chant and cast spells, raising their hands and channeling the nature magic blessed to them by their devotion. You crouch nearby, watching their activities, they are creating something on an altar, and you cannot quite make out what it is. They stand together for hours, until the moon begins to hang low in the sky, finally they retire. Leaving their artifact guarded by a few acolytes. You can see it clearly now, an apple glowing with natures verdant green power.
