An old and established druid who gathered his house, hid himself deep in the earth, and avoided the War of the Ancients and the many following battles of his kin. Now, he and his banner have resurfaced, dark and barbed, designed to prick a thorn in the heel of the Alliance.
Following his rise, Yshanar has founded a connection of malignant forces of Azeroth, the Briarsong. They are a small collection of anarchists, cultists, and criminals set to rip the Alliance apart. In every corner of Azeroth, at every opportunity they seize, they employ every form of terrorism to every race of Azeroth.
Birth, youth, and death into grown self was as swiftly shed for Yshanar as it was for all elves. An eternity they were given, and it was in a furious moment they learned all there was to provide for themselves. As it was, purpose was deemed and follow at its first inception, and to a Shan'do was any brimming lad given who attuned to the dark and natural of Cenarius. From Malfurion to the rest of his capable kin, Yshanar fell unto sleep to Dream refining skills as he moved through life in the idealism of Azeroth. There, he took to the machinations of the land: what would teem and grow and flourish at its own free will. How each network connected itself to the other, around the entire expanse of Azeroth. Marvel turned to an arrest, and that worship was compulsive.
Despite this, he learned much in the Dream. He developed charm, and realized the importance of disarming with a silver tongue. He developed strong friendships with many of the fellow druids that walked the Dream, those who mirrored his exquisite fascination with the undeniable power the Dream was, itself.
The druids were awakened by the drums of war that sounded as the Burning Legion invaded Kalimdor and its shining capital city. Beautiful as Zin-Azshari was, Yshanar was ripped from the Dream of his life, his love, back into the turmoil of the disillusioned Azeroth. He refused. He fled the mountain and retreated himself north and east, where high hills kissed the tops of trees. Anyone who wished followed their charismatic leader, and they burrowed into the sides of the mounts and dug themselves into the dirt, hiding and fleeing from their kin's battle. Inside the dirt, they returned to their druidic practice. There, they communed with the snakes, who mastered the art of subtlety in survival. The elves studied how and when to strike, and when to evade, dodging every and all of the surface's battles, where they could sleep and thrive, re-entering the Dream and satisfying what had become craven desires.
Ten thousand years they slept, ignoring their brothers and sisters throughout the countless turmoils and conflicts the night elves endured. The Burning Legion, even humans and orcs, all were slept through, and all were nothing compared to the perfection of the Dream. However, their sleep was adulterated, and their inception to the Dream was forced. Infection was allowed to take root, and the Nightmare seeped slowly and steadily into the realm, darkening what is bright and green. Those ten thousand years of ignorance allowed the Nightmare to take a firm hold, to become part of all that virtuous nature.
Yshanar felt it with the attack on Nordrassil. The World Tree had been damaged severely, and left the elves without their immortality. Palefang, along with his followers, felt it stolen from them all the way in the Dream, and they woke themselves after so long. Much had changed since that ancient time, and what was once a poor representation of the world's potential was now an even poorer excuse for a home. Yshanar's reaction was as twisted as his mind had become over those many generations, and the choice was made swift to plunge Azeroth into a state of anarchy, of self-destruction, that would start from its precious Alliance, and branch outward.
Palefang and his followers founded Briarsong, supported under Darnassian nobility and druidic solitude. A calling card to the rest of the worst, an offer to plunge Azeroth into an utter nightmare.