The sentinels of Ashenvale say that Mirana's arrows are sharper than a woodpecker's beak. Twenty years ago, when the goblin logging teams intruded, she led three hundred with thorn traps and squirrel scouts to trick armored trucks into sinking bogs. She still wears a faded wooden deer charm on her belt—gifted by the first treant she ever saved. New recruits fear her surprise midnight inspections the most. If anyone dares to burn a living tree for firewood, they'll be pillow duty for injured owlbears for three days. Lately, she's been teaching the younglings of the night how to write farewells in mushroom ink on their arrows: 'Save your tears. You'll need them for the scorched roots.'