#anokirin

Silvermoon City Inn was packed, all it’s patrons crowded on the bottom floor, where the wind had been successfully blocked off at either entrance. Fires burned in every brazier, bathing the bar in an orange glow that betrayed reality; there was still an ever present chill wafting down from the upper floors, which had been entirely abandoned. The room was packed with rum-blurred figures, little more than smudges of color that Caeliri could not fully fathom.

Exactly as she wanted it.

Caeliri was three deep in a tankard of rum, something cheap that tasted of clove and seared the inside of her nostrils with every sip - or had. Her ability to taste the swill had been burned away, along with any ounce of caring. She was seeking the numb oblivion of intoxication, scrambling behind it to shield herself from the slough of sorrow that crept ever closer.

They were dead.

Lirelle.

Sederis.

They were

    g            o                     n                             e.

The Archon’s words had sent her to her knees.

Her heart had been clenched for the headsman’s blow, and these loses had blindsided her.

H O W ?

How could they fall? For all of Sederis’ devotion to death, he was battle-hardened and resilient, always prepared. And Lirelle, Light above, she burned with the intensity of the Sun itself, with ten-fold the determination of any one Caeliri had ever met.

How could they be gone?

There were presents sitting in her tent for them, wrapped and ready - as they had been for months - for delivery.

An armored belt for Lirelle, with leather loops for hitching blades and pouches for plants or bugs or whatever else she might find on her journeys and desire to keep, and a handful of crude, nude sketches of the Ranger-Captain in lieu of the promised painting he’d never delivered on.  

An overflowing bag of dried meats for Sederis from every corner of Azeroth, from every kind of creature, something practical and delectable all at once. She’d never really known what to get him for Winter’s Veil.

Caeliri had been unable to unwrap them, unable to get rid of them, unable to disturb the undelivered gifts. So she’d left them where they lay, with several other gifts that would never be delivered, and committed herself to the duties demanded of her.

Once, she might have been proud of how well she’d severed her Self from her Station, how she’d faced the familiar horrors of the infirmary - the scent of blood and perforated bowels, the weeping, the death knells of those would not make it through the night, the glassy, pleading eyes of those she could not save - without a thought spared to the aching chasm in her chest, but this was no time for pleasure, no time for pride. She was only ever a step ahead of the pain, only able to keep it snapping at her heels, never gaining any real distance from it.

Across the bar laughter wrung out, loud and bright and barking, and Caeliri’s attention pulled across the dancing colors of the inn towards the sound. Across the bar, someone threw their head back, golden hair fanning freely with the motion, catching in the fire’s glow and erupting with gilded light, and Caeliri’s world was

             S                      H                               A                                      T                                              T                                                    E                                                           R                                                                 E                                                                       D      

        into a thousand, screaming points of light, a hundred, million erupting stars.

It burned.

Caeliri pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, hard, hoping to quell the whirling of her vision and the popping lights that flashed in the darkness. At last the blazing settled, the burning ebbed, and she pulled her hand from her face and creaked her eyes open.

Across the table from her sat Sederis, head half-bowed towards an overflowing plate, hastily shoveling food into his face, faster than Elleynah could dole it out.

Caeliri’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. When it struck ground, it erupted with such intensity that the vibrations rung out in every inch of her body, in her fingers, in her toes, in the tips of her ears. Cold crept painfully through her chest and her rum-bloated stomach began to churn.

The other mender reached out to grab a handful of scarlet hair just before he hoovered it into his mouth, tucking it behind one long, scar-dabbled ear before moving onto to the next plate with a half-hidden, wholly-fond roll of her eyes. Beside him Lirelle snapped her head back up, golden hair swishing forward over her shoulders as she pointed an accusing finger at Arrenir, across the table and one chair down. Smooth laughter was the only response, and the gentle clink of a fork brushing a plate.

Lirelle slammed an open palm on the table, sending all their silverware leaping off the polished mahogany, and it was Vaelrin’s turn to cast his head back and let loose a thundering laugh as fury creased Lirelle’s features. Elleynah’s freckled hand shot out to steady a glass that almost tipped, saving Arrenir’s plate from being doused in pale champagne, and Sederis - his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk - laughed, and gagged, and for all his war-hewn reflexes could not lift a hand fast enough to keep from spitting half-chewed food across the table on to her plate.

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me That I live and you are gone

She was supposed to squeal, supposed to reach out and shove her plate across the table, relenting her meal to Sederis now that his half-chewed food was floating in her stew, and Elleynah was supposed to rush off towards the kitchen, and Lirelle was supposed to follow her, demanding the ginger-witch sit her ass down and eat and let her get Caeliri another dish.

Arrenir was supposed to offer her his plate, safe from Sederis-spit and spilled champagne both.

Vaelrin was supposed to take a smug drag from his cigar and waft cinnamon-rich smoke over the table.

But Caeliri did not move.

She did not squeal.

She did not shove her plate away.

She sat, statuesque, and let the memory move around as the tears swelled up in her vision, until there were nothing but colorful smears shifting in her vision.

Someone was calling her name.

Someone was pulling on the tether of her attention.

Someone tried to draw her from the phantom faces, and she did not want to go. Caeliri blinked hard, letting the tears stampede down her rosy cheeks, waiting for her vision to clear and the room to right itself.

"Dawnsworn.” Her name was murky and a thousand miles away.

Lirelle was pushing Elleynah back through the doorway, shoving her towards the seat she’d not yet occupied, and Elleynah was digging her heels in, freckled face flushed at the admonishments Lirelle peppered over her.

“Dawnsworn.”

Stop it.

Vaelrin’s hand subtly snuck up on to her knee, giving the bony protrusion a secretive squeeze.

“Dawnsworn.”

Go away. Leave me be.

Arrenir was swapping plates with her, and Sederis was muttering apologies from behind his hand as he tried to choke down the last of his food.

A hand fell on her shoulder, shaking her with enough might to wobble her entire torso, and she looked up at the offending force, at the face that had torn her from her dream delusion.

Anokirin Sunstalker was hovering over her, not that she could actually see him. His face was a blur of colors bent by firelight, only identifiable by his voice. “Dawnsworn. Are you deaf, girl? How many deep are you?”

Caeliri pulled her eyes from the barely-familiar man, shrugging her slim shoulder out of his grasp, glancing back to the empty chair across from her.

“Another storm is brewing in the south. We need to leave by daybreak if we’re going to make it to the Ridges. You gonna be okay?”

No. “Yes, I’ll be okay to ride.”

The answer was sufficient. 

Anokirin haunted her no longer, the heat of his frame dying as he moved away, leaving Caeliri to her rum, to her vacant table, and to the empty chairs she’d arranged around herself in a facsimile of a family dinner.

Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more.

They’d been fighting for weeks now, debating the merits of joining the fight, of who to fight, of how long to fight, of how to fight, of what to fight, and where they would go.  They’d been fighting to figure out a defense, of where they would make a stand if the war came to them, who would be expected to remain, how they would pay for it.  They could last the winter, true, but only if they were unhindered and their stockhouses left undisturbed.  If a fight came to their doors…

Elder Vylbrike of Dustwood had the floor.  

“My fellow Elders, this has gone on for two weeks now with no end in sight.  Can we at least come to some kind of agreement with regards to fielding a force? At the very least, it needs to be done.  Arrow Sunstalker, a veteran from many battles and campaigns, some from before a few of you were born, has already volunteered to lead them-”

“You mean the man that failed us after the Fall?! The man that let the dancing dead claim the forests of the north?” Elder Sinkela raised her voice, cutting through the venerable man’s words.

“The man that put down any attempts we made to be free from the yoke of the Redarrows? That bastard can Burn before he takes control of any army of the Ridges!” Elder Toricas sprang from his seat, fists balled.  

Vylbrike’s tone raised to that of thunder, shocking in it’s sudden volume.  

“Who else would you have lead?”

The room fell silent at that.  

“I’ll wait until someone makes a better suggestion.”

An ethereal song shattered the tension-burdened air, burying the beat of wings that burst through the doorway.

With self-made ceremony, a bird of golden flame - wingspan wide and proud as a falcon and tail a trail of oranges and pinks that would put any peacock to shame - swept into the room, showering cinders upon the council as it circled the room, before diving into the roaring hearth at the heart of the chamber. The phoenix roosted in the fire pit as a Queen might upon her throne, proud and preening, and entirely uninterested in the prattling elves.

Assuring her feathers were orderly arranged was more important than anything these men and women had to say.

“Apologies for the interruption, esteemed Elders,” the voice that followed was burgeoning with warmth and cheer and entirely too mouse-like and youthful. “I misjudged the snowfall, and was delayed.”

The hard, short heel of her boot click-clacked against the floor, her strides made long by lanky legs, but otherwise even-paced. Her gait betrayed no rush; she would not allow herself to seem anxious or shaken or ill-fit in this half-empty room. Halfway across the room she swept back her snow-dappled hood, allowing the wealth of cinder-kissed hair that sprouted from her head to tumble free.

“I hope I have missed nothing of import,” she chirped, approaching one of the empty, high-backed chairs - a chair her Uncle should have occupied (at least, she hoped she’d gotten the right one; she had asked Anokirin six times to remind her which was the chair designated for her family, and pressed him to draw a shoddy diagram of the council room so she would not err in her approach), had he not been a prisoner of war - and gripping the seat’s edge.

The council was silent.

Below the crackle of fire footfalls echoed in Caeliri’s wake, her escorts, Anokirin and Zaerise, trailing behind her with some delay. The Witch paused at the edge of the chamber, unwilling to move in further, unwanting of the attention that might befall her, but Anokirin followed Caeliri to the raised seat she hovered by.

The Redarrow seat.

Wide-eyes and open jaws gawked at the phoenix preening in their fire, flames licking higher as they displaced around the throne Grace had claimed.  Elder Vakosi was the first to move, milky eyes turning to watch the child as she debated her place.  

“I’m sorry, little girl, but- Who are you?”

Little girl. Oh, that rankled - but her face did not betray the flicker of frustration in her breast. Caeliri smiled on, warm and waiting for the wave of conversation that would follow.

“And what are you doing here? This is a council meeting, and unless you have business with the council I’ll have to ask you to please-”  

Elder Sinkela raised a hand, silencing her fellow.  

“The better question: Who have you brought before us, Anokirin? Why do you interrupt us?” The old man smirked, a smile peeking out despite his age weather-beaten features doing their best to hide it.  His look to Caeliri was near impish, like an old soldier who knew this was against protocol but knew he could get away with it.  

“Why don’t you tell them why you are here, Ma’am?”

His use of the honorific raised more than a few eyebrows around the council room.

Unhooking the small, phoenix-shaped clasped that held her crimson cloak close around her shoulders, Caeliri offered the barebones council before her an effervescent smile. “Oh, that seems a touch rude, Anokirin - I had hoped for introductions before we dove straight into business.”

Tossing her cloak over the arm of the chair, Caeliri kept her eyes away from the seat itself and addressed the gathered elders. “Anokirin has kindly apprised me of your names, Elder Sinkela, Elder Vylbrike, so we’re halfway through with introductions.” Gesturing to herself, the young woman’s smile only grew, to the point that it seemed likely that her cheeks were aching. “My name is Caeliri Dawnsworn, Kin’taris of the Dawnspire, Dawnward of the Sunguard, and daughter of Tannisal Redarrow.”

A range of reactions swept through the assembled council after the initial shock of hearing this newcomer’s name.  Elder Vylbrike blinked in surprise, quickly hiding it behind a warm smile.  Toricas regarded her warily, fists unballing even as he narrowed his eyes at her.  Elders Narab’in and Alutikal turned to murmur softly with each other from their far position across the firepit, while Elder Ruklia crossed her bracered arms over her ceremonial breastplate with a huff.  

Senkila was the first to speak, now sitting with both hands stop her walking cane.  “Even if he has told you our names, he knows our protocols and customs.  So why did you break them, Anokirin?”  

With a short bow, he took a step forward down to the floor of the chamber.  “Esteemed elders, my sincerest apologies for this break in decorum.  Ithranicus has been captured during his attempt to assist Lord Firestorm at Havenblaze and awaits certain execution at the hands of the Invader.  I sought out the next hereditary heir, and bade her to come here.”

He made a second bow, both hands sweeping in a gesture to Caeliri, “This is her; I have verified her lineage to be true.  I thought that the Council would wish to know this information as soon as possible and would desire to greet her and include on her on any decisions going forward, hence our interruption.”  He stepped back up, taking a position behind her and to the left.  

“Very well,” Elder Vakosi said from her position to Caeliri’s right, nodding her head in assent, “I am Elder Vakosi Everdew, of Dustwood.”

Each elder followed suit, the ritual practiced and fluid.  “Elder Toricas Greenspring, Blue River.”

“Elder Zeten Dusksprinter, Hope Hill.”  He seemed no older than Caeliri, fidgeting nervously.  

“Field’s Landing, Narab’in Riverrun.”   The fellow next to him spoke up, looking to be at least fifty years his senior.  “Elder Narab’in Riverrun.  Our apologies, Lady Dawnsworn, he was elected only a few months ago,” The man bowed, milk-white silk robes flowing smoothly with the motion, “I am Elder Alutikal Summerbreeze of Palehill, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The next to speak gave Alutikal an irritated sigh, critical eyes turning from the man back to Caeliri, “Elder Ruklia Yellowbirch, of Ashglen.”

At the back of the room, Zaerise shrunk into herself at the introduction of Elder Ruklia - golden eyes lowered to the wood floors below.

“Peace, Elder Ruklia,” Elder Vylbrike spoke softly, befitting a man of his age, “I am Elder Vylbrike, from Darklake.  Welcome, Lady Caeliri.”

A woman in muted blues and greens spoke next, voice quiet in the cavernous space and barely audible above the crackle of the fire. “Elder Casica Keenluck, from Thin River.”

The only elder with a genuine looking smile followed her, a well-built man with a booming deep voice.  “Elder Methalak Runeshade, from Green River.  Yes, I know, many rivers.  You’ll learn to keep them straight,”

“I should hope so,” Caeliri chirped, “it would not do for a Redarrow not to know the names of the rivers that feed her lands.” The ancestral name was heavy on her tongue, and she did not like the taste of it.

Last to speak was Elder Senkila, to Caeliri’s immediate left.  “And I am Elder Senkila, of Sparrow’s Creek.  We welcome you and your Flame to our fire, Caeliri of the Dawnspire.”  

Each of them fell silent, the pop and snap of the fire filling the silence between them.  

Caeliri did not like any of this.

This seat, this chamber, this council.

These things may have been owed to her by blood, but Caeliri did not believe in the right of blood.

She believed in what she earned, with dedication, with service, with wit, with faith, with what all the merit that she herself had mustered brought her, and she had earned none of this.

You... probably feel like you have to, huh? To make up for Redarrow being out of the fray....

Ithanar’s prophetic words had bothered her the night he spoke them, but now they wrung like cowbells in her ears.

Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, but you'll do it anyway.

Her grip loosened on the edge of the seat, and she rounded the chair to stand before it. Was this what it was like for Sederis when he faced his council? Was this how Lirelle addressed her Crows?

You don't forget this.

Grace twisted in the firepit, turning one white-hot eye on her caretaker.

She was waiting. That single, starbright eye stared Caeliri down with an intensity normally reserved for a predator sighting it’s prey, but that was not the tenor of Grace’s mood - Caeliri knew the phoenix well enough to know that.

She was eager.

You don't forget any of what we've done. You can't, and that's why you do what you do.

Slowly, Caeliri eased herself into the chair, ears twitching as the leather creaked beneath her slight frame.

It felt wrong, but she would not let her face betray that.

“Forgive my massive ears, but I heard about half of what was said as I was coming up the hall. I believe you were discussing the merit of mounting a force, and who might be best to lead your armies.” Her sea-green eyes swept the room, alighting on each elder in turn. “I should still like to hear your suggestions, as well as add my own name to pool of candidates.”

A guffawing laugh came from Elder Methalak as he took his seat, trailing off into sporadic chuckling.  “Oh I like her.  She’s got a sense of humour.  Veskar never had that, not when it came to council business.  Just for that, I say give her command.  You can’t fight a war if you can’t crack a smile once in a while, and she can do that.”  

Caeliri turned her beaming smile on Elder Methalak, a reward for his own good humor.

A few irritated glances were thrown his way, passing quickly enough as they returned to the business at hand.  

“We agree that remaining here is doing little more than waiting like sheep for the slaughter; You likely overheard that part.  The finer details are…” Elder Senkila glanced around the room, giving each of her peers a tired look in kind, “eluding us.  Some wish for the force to remain strictly in the south, defending the Ridges directly.  They do not like the idea of these soldiers being pulled across Quel’thelas to fight in a war far away from our own borders, nor of losing their autonomy.  Others have pushed for supporting the Thalassian military’s goals, realizing that alone we will fall against the numbers this upstart king-”

Anokirin interrupted from his position behind Caeliri, a hard edge to his words, “He is not a king, Elder Senkila.  He is an Invader, nothing more.”  

Her brow narrowed as she continued, “This Invader is a direct threat to us, and unlike some of our northern neighbors we do not have a stronghold to hide behind.  We lack sturdy walls, relying on the open plains and harsh winter to be enough of a deterrent against attack.”  

The silence around the room spoke to the Elder’s confidence in those defenses.  

“I understand your hesitance,” Caeliri offered, holding out a hand to the flames - without missing a beat, Grace’s flaming wings unfurled, sending light and shadow waltzing through the room as she fluttered over to Caeliri’s waiting forearm. “Archon Truefeather may have won Sunsail, but his gambit ultimately failed - we did not take Sunstrider Isle, and though we dealt the Alliance forces a great blow, we lost much more than they did.”

They lost - Lirelle’s sharp, shrill laughter, and her bladed wit.

They lost - Sederis’ stalwart commitment to the cause and his enduring spirit.

They lost -- Caeliri took a breath, and calmed the quivering of her heart.

“The Thalassian military lacks the momentum to take Quel’danas, and they will have little choice but to retreat and reconsider their priorities. Here in the south, we have not only Merik Morningstar to contend with, but the Amani trolls. They may have been pushed back from the Blacksun gate, but the Lord Paramount of the Emberlight was wounded gravely in the fight, and his wife has been taken prisoner by the Alliance.”

Caeliri allowed the dreadful reality to settle over them like a funeral shroud before she continued, “Whatever else he may be, Merik Morningstar is a man, not a monster. He may have swept the south so far, but there still exists a chance that he may be maneuvered against the Amani, if tongues are bitten and time is bided. Make no mistake, I have no love for this Would-be King; he has aligned my lover’s neck with the headsman’s block as surely as he has Ithranicus’ and the Lady Blackwood’s, and any hope I may have had for acceptance of his rule has been severed.” She kept speaking, unwilling to yet cede the floor to any spark of vengeful anger, and uprising rage that she would consider even the most tenuous alliance with an invader who claimed himself a King, “It hurts my heart to suggest it, but we may also have the leverage to force Archon Truefeather to come South and assure that these lands, as well as the others, hold. He needs soldiers, he needs Commanders, and though I am oathsworn to serve him until my final breath, he has no right to forces of the Ridges. If we will it, we can force his hand. It is not a course of action I would take lightly, holding our assistance as a prize to be won, to act as if we stand only for ourselves, or to make it seem we will be fine without the aid of the Thalassian military; it is a delicate needle to thread, but I believe I have a steady enough hand to see it done, should that be our chosen course.”

“Let there be no mistake,” she was quickly running out of steam, the measured pace of her voice beginning to hasten just-so, “we must join with the main host, or ally with the smaller battalions that act under the Archon’s command - there is no reality in which we endure alone. But nothing need be as cut and dry as blind allegiance.”

Crackling fire and a cooing phoenix filled the momentary silence, broken by Elder Toricas.  

“You must understand, Caeliri of the Dawnspire, we have never truly recovered from the Fall and the Burning that came after it.  Vast portions of the south are still uninhabitable, and many of us hold what little we have left very close to our hearts.  For some, it is all we have left.  Putting our faith in your Archon, that he will keep his word and prevent us from being completely snuffed out, is a large leap of faith,” He looked to Elder Narab’in and Elder Zeten, trepidation and worry in each, “One that we do not wish to make lightly.  What assurance can you give us that our people will survive?”

“The lands I govern in the North did not fully recover from the Legion’s onslaught, either, and now their fields are barren, and their half-made homes snow-laden. Many of them have retreated to the Dawnspire Citadel to seek shelter, and those who have not have conscripted themselves to service, to try and save what little they have left.”

Caeliri lifted her opposite hand to smooth over Grace’s crackling crestfeathers, seeking the warmth and assurance her companion always gave.

“You are not alone in this - your fears, your hard-won faith. All of Quel’thalas suffers together. The only assurance I can give is that we are sin’dorei; we endure. That is what we do, what we have always done. I may be too young to remember the Fall, I may not have lived through the losses that you have, esteemed Elders, but I have suffered losses of my own, and in the mire of suffering, where light was lost and hope a distant dream, all that pulled me through was the knowledge that endurance is the only true birth right of our people. But endurance does not come without effort, and right now your efforts must be put towards ensuring there lands left to live on when this war reaches its bloody end.”

“Listen to her, Elder Toricas.  There are no guarantees in this,” Methalak spoke, rumbling bass voice bereft of the humour from earlier, “Just like there were no guarantees after the Fall.  I’ve been in these boots before, during the Burning.  There won’t be winners; just people who have lost less than others.  She can’t assure you that you won’t lose more, no one can.”

A gauntleted hand was raised by Ruklia, a request to be given the floor.  Methalak nodded, taking a step backwards to sit in the high-backed stone chair.  

“While I take issue with the presence of the Redarrows, the girl does speak the truth.  Perseverance is the only thing we truly have.  You acknowledge that we need to act, Elder Toricas.  Yet you wish for it to be bloodless action, action without risk.  What is truly holding you back? What would be your solution to the problem?”

All eyes turned to the elder, including those that he had looked to as allies.  The weight of the question, of the decision at hand, fell heavy on the room and the people within it.  

“I echo the desire for bloodless action; I have already tried and failed to seek a diplomatic end to this conflict,” Caeliri offered, interjecting her thoughts where they may not have been welcome, “and I will continue to try and follow the route of peace, regardless of how untrodden or uneven that path may be. You must believe me when I say that I have no stomach for war or violence, and that I will do all that is within my power to stem the flow of blood that threatens to drown our land, but I have accepted that that hallmarks of war are not avoidable in full. I hope knowing such can bring you some measure of peace, Elder Toricas.”

The lone elder took a step backwards, hands reaching for the comforting solid stone.  Like a man defeated, he sat back fully in the high-backed chair, the tension from his body gone.  

“I withdraw my opposition, on one condition: My brother goes with you, Caeliri of the Dawnspire, as an advisor and as a member of the people you now represent.  He can hold his own in a fight as well.  Is this acceptable?”  

“It is. I should very much like to have an advisor on hand - especially when I am still a stranger to your lands and long-standing traditions. He will be a great boon to me.”

Smile unwavering, Caeliri cast her eyes around the circle of elders once more. “Is there any other opposition to the mobilization of the armies of the Ridges?”

A round of shaken heads and further silence cemented that, for the first time in two weeks, they were in agreement.  The fire crackled away, burning down to cooling embers.  

Elder Senkila stepped forward, down to the outer ring and only a few feet from the center firepit.  “Our sons and daughters are yours to lead, Caeliri of the Dawnspire and Commander Anokirin, along with the future of our people.  Hold them close; Guide them well.”

“Ha hah, she’ll do fine! She has the Fire traveling with her, and myself and Elder Ruklia will make sure she is well acquainted with the elves she’ll be leading.  It’ll be like fighting those Gilded folk to the north all over again, except this time they wear blue instead of that prissy purple and yellow.  Remember that, Ruklia?”  

Methalak stepped away from his place at the council, measured pace taking him steadily to the exit.  Elder Ruklia followed shortly after him, eyes rolling and a sigh already leaving her as he spoke.  In the dying firelight, her ceremonial bronzed plate seemed to dance against the darkness that lingered at the edges of the chamber.  A brief glare was spared for Zaerise as she left, as if she couldn’t look away from the white-haired, diminutive woman fast enough.  

“Please shut up, Methalak.  We have a war to prepare for.”  

[[ Caeliri Dawnsworn will be joining the Thalssian Military as a Commander on Turn 3!

Special thanks to @jonathan-nevermore-smith for writing with me, and for inviting me in to his personal story and allowing me to take part. @makotokino for her spoopy witch. @captainswingbeard for RP quotes.