High Confessor, Oracle

No doubt your desks are filled with letters about the occurrence last night; Oracle, you saw, first hand, the calamity which occurred towards the end of the evening, but for the High Confessor, who was not there, I need to make my feelings and fears known.

When one of the patients that we oversaw, a draenei woman, deteriorated towards the terrifying point of perishing, not only did Lightward Lightwing happily stand by and allow her to suffer, and content with letting her die altogether, in favor of pressing her for more questions and answers to further her own desire for prestige, when at last the conclusion was made that fel magic might alleviate the symptoms when introduced to a patient’s system, Lightward Lightwing wished to proceed without consent of the patient, who was still conscious. I will mention, again, the patient was draenei - while I am sure you are well aware of the history of their people, to make my point in this known, explicitly, I will detail what I learned while we were stationed on Draenor.

The Fel is the sole, driving force behind the exodus and subsequent genocide of the draenei. The introduction of fel magic to their people created the eredar, who chased them, along with the Burning Legion, across the stars for eons before our world was even settled, or our people even born. When they at last settled on Draenor, it was the fel that turned the orcs to brutal savages and set them upon the draenei. The draenei were captured, experimented on, brutalized, assaulted physically, mentally, and sexually, and executed in mass numbers, all because of the Fel’s introduction to the Orcish people. The Daenei are people of the Light - they exist with an innate connection to the Naaru, ethereal beings of the Light. For them, their fear and disgust of the Fel, and their belief in the Light, is paramount to their very existence; it is not our place to choose to infect them, to save their lives.

The common consensus among the menders - save Initiate Dewmorning, who deserves his own letter both of commendation and chastisement - was to get consent before treatment was administered, but as soon as Lightward Lightwing decided that her theory was the best one, she wished to proceed even without the consent of the still conscious patient.

Not only is this problematic for all the cultural and religious reasons I listed above, ethically, it is insane. We can not treat patients against their will; as much as I am for the continued livelihood of all patients who come under our care, as much as I would have wept if she perished, if a patient’s wish is for purity in death, it is our duty to respect that. To assume we have the authority to make that choice for people, to strip them of their autonomy, is disgusting. Furthermore, the patient was not oathsworn; she did not bind herself or consent to the practices we preach and act upon to assure the continued livelihood of our brothers and sisters in arms. The situation, when plied against those bound to the Sunguard, is different - the situation would have been different, too, if we were removing a limb to keep a patient healthy.

The situation called for more consideration, more care, more thought than what was being shown - for all we know, we have made an enemy of this patient, now. When she wakes from her delirium, she may be livid with this choice - we may have added another member to the Legion’s armies, or otherwise empowered someone to stand against us. Imagine, if we had acted without her consent at all. In the end, the patient did offer consent for the treatment, but the suggestion that we should have acted at all without it is... damning.

Given Lightward Lightwing’s propensity for showing up to the infirmary and slogging off her duties on to others and napping on the job, and her alighted interest in the events of last night only when it became clear her name may be penned in the history books and glory placed upon her, it may be wise for you to make a general address and remind the Dawnmenders not only of their duties, their expectations and their oaths, but what we do and do not do as Dawnmenders, and where the limit of our power lies. I can excuse dismissal of my words, even if it was insulting to be sworn at and disregarded because I was put into the quarantine, but the callous treatment of our patients is not something I can abide.

- Dawnward Caeliri Dawnsworn

Silence was a gift rarely afforded to the Ranger-Lord as his duties of late had stretched him thin, on this occasion he spent it within his private chambers studying over a manuscript a colleague had sent over to be revised before its publication in the spring. Since he was a young man Vylanthas learned how to read and write by correcting the grammatical errors placed within the texts of many tombs, and scripts sending his discoveries to their creators. With quick strokes of his quill, or added notations to the sides of paragraphs the Ranger-Lord drank in the wealth of knowledge he was learning from this particular piece. Reaching for his gold trimmed tea cup that was patterned in a grey rose pattern Vylanthas sipped on his bitter tea that he blended himself contemplating the last exert he finished remarking on.

Three raps were placed against the heavy wooden door each an exact second apart booming through the room causing the man who was in deep thought to startle spilling the contents of his cup down the sleeve of his shirt. “Damn it.” He whispered onto himself quickly placing the china set down and moving the parchment aside to not see the wealth of knowledge ruined by his carelessness. “Yes?” Vylanthas asked sharply with little patience in his tone as he reached for his handkerchief patting himself dry.

The footman entered swiftly carrying a decorated golden tray with a matching letter opener, within the center a singular unopened letter that had arrived from house Blackwood. The document had been carelessly overlook in the morning as the Lord Stewart was away on business until the late hour of that evening. “Thank you.” The Ranger-Lord had nodded to the footman silently dismissing him as he took the letter from the tray.  Breaking the seal with a swift slide of the sharpened blade to open the contents within Vylanthas was able to catch the Greenseer’s scent within the threads of the parchment she penned over.  

Though we have been unable to partake of tea, I wished to inform you that I have been delivered of twin boys, slightly early. Though there has been no announcement, the Lords Laevir and Cyrwin are thriving.

Juniper eyes drank in her words as the light from his smile quickly grew over his lips touching every lined feature of his dark contours. The joyous announcement to be a mother once more touched the man’s heart in a way he would never explain to another. To have a secure line of succession offered a security few households could enjoy these days, it was a gift to both herself and the High-Lord. Not one but two he thought again before whispering aloud “Sons…” a word that had not passed his lips since his owns passing.

 I write to you however because I dearly need your help. For the present, I       have a wet nurse and nannies to tend the babies, due to the fact that I am     suffering under the presence of the Nightmare. It is not known publicly, thus, as ever you know I value your silence. Your grandmother is the only one I  know skilled enough to rid me of it. Else, I do not know what to expect next. 

 Please, write back when you can. I am on bedrest for the present, at home. If   you are able to aid, I can send a conveyance with guards

Continuing to take in her words the brightness that reached his juniper gaze faded as his expression grew grim and his stomach stirred with unease. “Send for the Lord Stewart.” Was all the Ranger-Lord found himself able to muster out at that moment, the tone of his voice was strained however it masked the sense of urgency. Wishing he could scream aloud as if a boy in his youth to demand the attention this specific matter called for he knew better of himself. A certain delicacy had to be taken with this as silence was demanded. Everything had been ripped away from him within a single paragraph, could his family save her?

 The footman was quick to disappear from the confines of the room and away from his lordships sight. To call on his personal Stewart at any late hour was never a good sign for whoever it concerned and at that moment the footman prayed it was not him. Remaining seated in his leather chair Vylanthas read over every word she had penned over and over again to ensure he did not miss a single detail, searching for any hidden messages that could have been thoughtfully placed within. Confident that there was nothing more and that he had memorized the entire piece verbatim he folded the letter as neatly as had been received. Placing his lips to the wax seal a silent prayer was breathed out onto the house emblem for her ladyship before tucking it away within his vest pocket.  

Arriving within minutes to his lordships request the Lord Stewart found his master dressing for travel with leather satchels stretched across the bed while the Ranger-Lord himself gathered the belongings he required for such a journey. “Vylanthas?” he breathed out in quiet frustration looking over the room in a silent horror to the thought of him risking his life in such a storm. He dared not comment to the younger man having already made his decision one the Lord Stewart would respect no matter how much he silently protested. “Lord Rha’veran, you summoned me?”

 The Ranger-Lord barely looked at the man who entered there was no time for formalities when there was so much to do, “Send word to my grandmother that she is to prepare for travel and that I will arrive within the hour to escort her to the Blackwood estate. Inform her that she is to prepare to help a young lady within her court medicinally as we have been summoned by her Matriarch to aide in a matter that is beyond her expertise. We will be leaving upon my arrival as there is no time to wait out the storm.” Motioning towards his desk there was a sealed letter that’s wax was still soft over top of emerald in colour with gold accents parcel to be received. “Ensure the magi deliver this to the Blackwood Estate that the letter was received from and that it has been placed within Lady Blackwood’s hands within the hour. I will not forgive excuses or tardiness with this personal matter, am I understood?”

“Yes.” The Stewart declared so that there was no misunderstanding between the two. As ordered the Lord Stewart took the letter and parcel to the magi of house Rha’veran ensuring its swift delivery. Making his way down to the stables a single stead was ordered to be prepared for a night’s journey. The snow had been coming down heavily for hours giving no sign for remorse as the northern winds howled against the castle. Unable to see the house across the lane in the village the journey to his grandmother’s estate was more likely to prove fatal and fruitless. The Lord Stewart dwelled on the contemplation to talk his master out of such a dangerous expedition. Had he not been by his side for over eight centuries and learned to trust in his decisions his voice would not have been as easily silenced. Whatever contents were within that letter they were pressing enough to muster such a decision at this late of hour, it was not something to be overlooked in the least. This was a feat he had not seen since the passing of his beloved wife and sons, he dared not strip away Vylanthas’ sense of urgency this matter called for, not after everything they both had seen, not after he had done so at the unknown cost of his master’s family.

A parcel would have arrived in the middle of the night to the Blackwood Estate with the messenger requesting it be delivered into her ladyship post haste. The contents within were two silver rattles that had been engraved with a rose and thorns as well as two pairs of hand knitted socks for the pair of boys. Along with the gifts for her children was one for herself a single arrow handcrafted from the forest of Eyrien’dor a symbol of the promise that was held in the words scratched across the parchment with the received gift.

 Gracious Lady

 I am overjoyed and saddened by what I have received this night, may I firstly offer my mine and my houses blessing onto you, the High-Lord and your children. To be bestowed not one but two treasures in just one night is miracle in its own. Secondly with your private matter … Just know that I will be there, no matter the summons or call my house will always be at your disposal.

 Currently there is a storm that has blanketed my entire lands, they say it is to last several days however once you’ve received this I will have already ridden out to collect my grandmother at the estate she is staying within at this time. It will take me two days’ time to reach you as I am unwilling to risk the life of my magi in this weather, I beg for your forgiveness that I cannot make it within a timelier fashion as such a request demands.

 I can not begin to pretend to understand what this Nightmare can fully do to a druidess such as yourself beyond the plagued lives I have witnessed on the isles themselves. I ask that you hold on just a little longer, I know you have been strong in your silence for some time now but please for everyone’s sakes grasp onto what you can and we will be there shortly.

 It is my will and grace to see you live so that your children do not need to grow up and learn of their mother from another’s lips, but to only know her own from the love and affection you will adorn onto each of them. To have that chance stolen… It would be unforgiveable to not know the gracious lady that I have come to cherish, and one of the very few I call friend.

Whether days before or days after or perhaps not in days at all but weeks a large gift would make its arrival at Shael’thas Lair. In the form of nine large, wrapped canvases, the figures depicted within the blurry, dream-like landscapes were familiar if not perhaps too touched by fantasy. With only the locket she’d borrowed months before as reference for the painter she’d hired, and the vague suggestions and memories she’d plucked from the lady’s mind here and there in the months following, Caeliri had commissioned images of Cere’thien and her twin in their youth. Some scenes were those the lady had recalled in vagaries - a rather scandalous image of the twins on either side of a partition, clearly well into their adolescence by the nature of the underpinnings both on their half-nude forms and strewn about the space, trading clothing over it’s top to swap identities, and a much more innocent image of the twins atop their father’s shoulders, their small forms nearly indistinguishable from each other - and some were entirely fantasized - such as the image of the lady’s brother poised and charming and trying his best to flirt with a gaggle of women while, just behind him, his sister stood with an arrow ready and aimed right for his ass - but all were rendered in a style that was impressionistic and colorful. Nine in total, they ranged from the size of the lady herself to something more suited for being settled on a desk.

The only note attached to them was, “With Love, Caeliri”, and the the locket that she’d kept for months at last returned - a rather underwhelming note that didn’t detail the young dame’s intentions or thought process at the time of their commissioning. With luck, this letter would serve to better illuminate her often… odd affections.

Lady Blackwood,

I doubt there are apologies sufficient for my silence the last few months; we’ve only seen each other fleetingly and in official capacities, and for that I have no excuse worth giving. My time is spent fractured in a thousand different directions, and it’s preferable to lingering on my troubles. Your warning not to overdo myself is appreciated, but I fear there is no alternative; stopping only serves to swell my thoughts until they require attentions, but with no solutions for the sources of my troubles --

She stopped, half-way through, and twirled her pen between her fingers. There was something else to be said, something to be attended, but it rankled the aches and sickness inside of her, and it took great effort to pen the next few lines, however short they were;

I had not known before your letter that you delivered your twins, so I should offer you congratulations. I am thankful they are healthy. I will see to the Oracle as she allows me - she has seemed well thus far, though, from all I have seen of her.

With any luck, you’ve already received my present, and your locket has been returned to you. I had intended for these to be commemorate your nine-hundredth birthday this past summer, but given the state of my health then, fate saw fit to make that an impossibility. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy them - some are… perhaps less suited for public showing, but your estates have many rooms, and plenty of them are private; I’m sure they’ll find a place somewhere on your walls.

Be well, until next we meet. Give the young Lords my love.

Dame Caeliri Dawnsworn

There. It was done. Caeliri shoved the letter away as if it might rise up and bite back at her, curling her fingers into her palm tightly as she watched the parchment flutter away. She should not have felt the way she did - jealous, angry, bereft, betrayed - and yet, those emotions were there. Once, she’d thought them long gone, all trace of wickedness and shadow inside of her replaced, but time had only dulled the pain, not made it disappear, and the wound on her heart could still be pressed and prodded and made to ache. ‘I will never know peace’, she’d told the Highlord when their engagement had been retracted - and it was true, it seemed.

Throat tight, she turned her eyes away from the letter - she would commit it to an envelope later - and perused the gifts that still needed her attention. She needed something light -- something fun -- something --

Taliori Dewblossom’s ( @pyrar) gift was fun. And in multiple boxes, for added intrigue.

Grace had already devoured all of the nuts and berries the tiny monk had sent for her, and the tie she’d given Caeliri was nestled in amongst her others, part of her daily rotation now. In return, Caeliri had done her best to offer what gifts she thought the small, energetic woman would like; a box of chewy, peach candies from the Redveil Candy Emporium - with a business card and directions to the shop based out of the Row, of course - a pair of leather boots that laced up the front with high, high heels so the small woman could falsify an inch or two of height, and the last, she thought, the monk might like best. It was not safe for a phoenix on a ship, and as Taliori had said herself, keeping animals was hard when food stores were low and times were tough, so instead, Caeliri offered an alternative - a stuffed phoenix, about the size of a teddy bear, which when left in sunlight during the day would give off a soft, golden glow at night. The letter that went with the gifts was short, and sweet -

Taliori,

Thank you for the gifts - Grace has already gorged herself on all the nuts and berries you sent, and is merrier than I’ve ever seen her. Your hair tie is going to be helpful - I’ve got a lot of hair to keep out of my face, and you know how hard it is. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy these just as much as Grace and I have enjoyed your gifts - carefully not to drop the phoenix off the edge of the ship when you leave him out in the sunlight.

Caeliri

That box she set with another, Vaelrin’s ( @forever-afk) second gift - she trusted the man would have an easier time getting a gift to Taliori than she would. After all, the woman was near his family too, and part of his crew.

Caeliri’s real gift to him still stalked his suite on tiny, soundless paws that did nothing to aid in stealth - because the kitten was loud and demanding when he wanted attention, and his cry was shrill and carried far. More nights than she could count she’d heard him through the open balcony window, mewling loudly at the man who was too consumed in his paperwork to pay him mind. Insistent and eager also for affection, the kitten never stopped, not until his master took him up into his lap and let him knead at his thighs while he worked. The kitten was, by ever imagining, the perfect replacement for her; he’d keep the Ranger-Captain company when she at last made her move to Summerglen.

That thought drew the warmth from her smile. Summerglen was a beautiful province, nestled in the northern reaches of the Dawnspire in the arms of loose-laid flower fields and heavy set woods. It was quaint and quiet and full of potential, full of minute problems that needed attention and though she loved the challenge… it was thousands of miles from Shallowbrook, from home, almost on the opposite coast of Quel’thalas. When she’d brought the man to Summerglen with her --

Her spine was wracked with shivers, and Caeliri turned her attention to the gift that lay waiting for her letter and transport. Made of dark, braided leather, the collar bore a blank, silver nameplate that hung tight against its circumference. It may have glimmered, but it did not dangle, and should the kitten ever learn to hold his tongue, it would aid him in being as silent as his master.

The note affixed was simple, swiftly written, and playful;

Vaelrin

I left the collar blank for when you name him. Consider this your friendly reminder - he still needs a name. Unlike a horse, kittens come better when they’re called by a name. If it pleases you, perhaps you could name him Caeliri, after your best and most favorite friend! Or maybe Fuzz or Riptide or Shadow or Howler or Storm would be better!

There’s no place in letters for the words I have for you, and you hear them often enough, so - Happy Winter’s Veil, Vaelrin. Next year will be better, I swear to you.

Love always, Caeliri

She flexed her toes - still tight and aching- and grimaced as she rose again. It was less difficult, this time, to cross the room, even if her foot protested any chosen path. 

Beyond her door the hallway was still and quiet, and it took less than five seconds to side step to the next suite over where the Ranger-Captain stayed. Without knocking, her hand fell to the knob, to test the gilded swirl for give - it did not. Unlike her, the man was keen to lock his door before he left for the day. Scrunching her nose at the door, as if she could bid it open with a baleful look alone, Caeliri settled for leaving the boxes - the one for him, and the one for Taliori - on the floor just before the door. There was no fear it would be stolen; the hotel they stayed in was one of the richest in Dalaran, a place meant only for the most posh and prim of high society. Petty thievery was beneath them.

Arcane energy fizzed endlessly along her skin and it had kept her wired for days. She’s been a babe when the Sunwell was sundered, and the nibble of arcane that the elders of her kin were accustomed to had always been foreign to her. She’d aged with the bleak nothing of a broken country, then the muddied mix of arcane and light that Muu’ru’s fallen form ignited. But here in the Violet City, there was raw magic burning in the air, and every breath brought it spiraling into her lungs. Sleep was elusive, but not frustratingly so; there were sights to see and scents to sniff and places to play and a hundred delights to indulge in. At times the soft twilight hues that hugged the city broke and she could see fel fire clouds loom against the spires, and though she did not deny they were there… she did turned a blind eye. There was little she could do for those that bled below - without the Light, she was as good as any novice mender, which was to say…   

The visit was a special request, a promise the Ranger-Captain made to her on the condition of her wellness, and he had delivered, even if matters he had no need to divulge to her kept him from enjoying the city at her side. 

Whatever business the Ranger-Captain had in the underbelly of the city, she had no interest in it; the months she spent entombed in her own misery had taught her the value of silence and space, and with her guardian enrapt in his own dealings, Caeliri indulged in a breath of solitude and tenderness. 

There were plenty of places at the city’s edge that went untouched and unexplored - the small graveyard was chief among them. It was easy to slip off the packed cobbles of the city streets and circle the graves of fallen heroes and scholars to find a seat along the imperfect stones where her feet could dangle free. There was greenery below her, a few scraggly tiers of stonework and soil that had been uprooted the last time the city was torn free from the earth, and they would catch her if some foul fate or cruel passerby pushed her forward, but if she kept her eyes forward there was nothing but clouds ahead and wind whispering in her ears; it was as close to the edge of oblivion as she would dare go. 

Caeliri stuffed her hand into her shirt and pulled free the heavy medallion that made it’s home against her breast. As the gilded surface touched her skin, it began to thrum, it’s rhythm steady and unyielding, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She’d seen the Greenseer not two days prior, and knew she was lively and well - if not consumed with a ravenous hunger for all things slathered in sugar and baked until golden brown - but to feel the elder’s heartbeat thump through the golden surface of the medallion soothed an irrational worry that wormed in the back of her brain. 

Her phoenix - who was off getting fat on fire magics the mages seemed happy to toss her way - was her common comfort, the thing she reached for when panic crested in her chest, but the phoenix’s warmth hadn’t kept her hand from shooting towards the hidden necklace from time to time.  There were moments where she found herself suddenly unsure of the safety of her loved ones, the ones she had told the Ranger-Captain she would forfeit her own life to protect, and nothing short of rolling her thumb across the twin reliefs of pudgy babes could quell that worry.

It was silly, but so was she. 

Caeliri kept it tucked beneath her shirt- not secret, but safe - every day since the Greenseer first gave it to her, and like her phoenix, she went nowhere without it. It’s occasional kicks and movements added an oddity to her day that was appreciated (even if feeling something stir beneath her shirt had frightened her more than once) and kept her tethered to her family, even thousands of miles away. 

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she whispered, rolling her thumb across the minuscule face she’d decided - in her own mind- must be the babe named after her, the unborn Dawnsworn-Brightsword. Which first name the babe might have had was still lost on her - that was for Cere’thien to decide, from the pool they’d filled with Drissa’s help. She tipped the medallion, watching her own reflection warp and warble in the spaces between the raised shapes, before focusing her eyes on the enchanted face once more. “You probably can’t. But." 

Some part of her, the part that had grown too big for her skin, the part that was desperate to be rid of the last dregs of her girlhood, chided and cursed the silliness of speaking to a necklace, but Caeliri pressed past her apprehension.  

“I love you. I hope I never give you reason to doubt that, in the years to come. I love you, endlessly and always.” Her eyes slid to the second face, and she rolled her thumb across it with equal tenderness. “You too - I love you both the same. I hope it didn’t seem that… I never wanted to be your Minn’da, too,” her voice dipped shamefully, ears pinning back.   

“You were supposed to have a sister,” the words hung on her lips, and when Caeliri spoke them, she felt the familiar pain reach up from the depths of her heart, “half-… half-sister. Another one. I think, at least - I’m not really sure. I never got to meet her, or even know she was here - or if she was a she - until she was gone, and I was too… hurt to think of anything else for a while. I missed her too much to even think about any other children, or ever being… Minn’da to anyone, ever again." 

Her throat clamped tight, and for a moment words failed her. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes, and she turned her gaze up towards the violet skyline. She had not entirely mastered the art of addressing her pain without giving it a place to grow, but she was getting better; every day it was easier to look at the almost’s and could-have-been’s without being consumed by them. Her breast rose and fell in several deep breaths, and she let the tears fall in the paths they desired. They were short-lived and quickly spent, and she felt more free for not having withheld them. 

“I don’t know how this will work, if it will work, but I have faith that in the end all will be well. Cere’thien is your mother, true, but that does not stop me from... caring for you, and doing all that I can to assure you are safe and steeped in so much love that you will never know what it feels to be unloved.”

“So, whatever I end up being to you - Minn’da, or Auntie Liri, or just Caeliri, or Dawnward Dawnsworn, ‘That weird woman who is too bright, too loud, too cheerful’, or whatever else… I will do whatever it takes to keep this world safe for you. I will make sure the world that you see is better than it is now. I will do better, be better, for you; and if I fail... perhaps you may never know me at all, but if it’s in service to the world I want for you... it’s worth it." 

Caeliri turned her eyes down once more to the medallion in her hands, and watched the little faces twist and stir - one yawned, then the other, and it made her lips curl up into a smile. She dipped her head forward to press her lips to the warm surface of gold, letting her breath fog over the necklace for a long moment.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” she breathed the words against the medallion’s glimmering face, and at last she slipped it back into her shirt, where it - and the promise she poured in to it - could stay close to her heart.