Thanidiel stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen men in either direction. A row of glinting, near-blinding, gold in the sunlight; casted with periodic shadows of crimson and mellowed paint.

In normal circumstances, there ought to be some form of concern towards the thought of taking over another’s company in command. Here? There was no such thing. The people of both units were well-acquainted with one another and their Captains, for training skirmishes between the individual one-hundreds is a regular occurrence in the Dawnspire Training Ground whether on foot or horseback. Similarly, many of the soldiers around her harken back to those of the old Order; either attracted to the primordial names of Highdawn and Dawnstalker, or of similar mind to the resignations signed by the two former Knights.

In that light, the Phoenix Guard has no issue in seamlessly falling into step with the twenty-four to her flanks and the twenty-five ahead of them. Together, in the unspoken bond of blood and sweat that curls around all of their limbs in stringed performance, they move. Synchronised, all soldiers tighten their grips on their targe shields. United, all raise their spears with hands curled towards the butt of the weapons, causing the tools to jut out a near three yards in front of the simple formations.

Renalays stands a distance away, close to the large crowd of Kris citizens and other men-at-arms surrounding them. The Duskward can feel the subtle itch of her old comrade’s Shadow, ready to pluck her words from the winds and scatter them in snowing whispers that would reach the ears of every elf in observation. Thanidiel doubts it would be needed, but precautions are always useful things.

Even confined within her greathelm, her voice cracks over the field like the roll of traveling thunder. Decades of command have learned the fighter well in how to project clean from her diaphragm and cut through the din of warfare like the penetrating length of waving steel.

“The spear is the tool we have brought to you from the forests and quarries of the Dawnspire, for it is the most deadly you will find in any army!

It is a tool that emphasises victory in Unity, much like the Unity found today between the provinces of Kris and Dawnspire; south and north; the Blood shared between all Children of High Home. Your goal, when whatever prey comes at you whether it is Nightmare or bandit, will not be the slaying of what is in front of you. Your goal, when you’ve a spear in your hand and your comrades aside you, will be the support of the woman to your right; the man to your left.”

By now, all fifty sabatons march in the characteristic noise of plate sections clattering against leather and chain, the frenzied energy crashing against the grass below. Still in perfect bond, both lines spur into their faux combat.

In the midst of this controlled chaos, Thanidiel continues to boom over it all. Demonstrating the qualities of the spear in the context conveyed to the Kris people, her scanning vision catches the movement of a soldier preparing to stab towards a comrade two-men-down from her right. Raising her targe shield upward, and trusting in the fighters to her left, she extends in counter-assault.

“The root of all success is in the care of your fellows. Your daughters take your wheat to your market. Your sons harvest it. Your parents shelter you. Your friends repair your plows. Your governors provide you road and contract of sale. Your militia protects your fields. So too, does every soldier cooperate in everyone’s mutual safety to claim victory.”

Hefting her right shoulder outward, the arm, bent inward, extends outward in practiced motion. The lengthy spear held overheard stabs right for the woman who wished to ‘bleed’ her ally in this exercise. Crossing three yards diagonal, the weapon impacts its blunted head against the collar of the unfortunate woman with jarring force. Swiftly pulling back her arm, the Duskward observes the agreed-upon drop of the soldier onto the green earth (with some honesty noted there - that one will be examined for a broken bone later).

The showcase continues on, every person tasked with the protection and assistance of their left and right, in a flurried cacophony of spears knocking one another aside, thudding scrapes along the curve of shields, and the clatter of steel when weapons find home and push ‘enemies’ into the soil.

Eventually, the demonstration is whittled down to the participation of twenty-three soldiers, with the current Commander’s force outpacing the other row before them.

“Cease!”

Simultaneously, all spears are lowered and thrown into the empty span between the two lines. Every man and woman moves then in silent order to clasp their shields to their girdles and begin the work of uplifting the fallen and separating those genuinely hurt in the exercise. In the center of them, the Phoenix Guard pushes on.

“Thus, you see the power of the tools we will provide to every head here to keep. Its range, its power, and its versatility in defense and offense, is unmatched concerning what may be placed into anyone’s hands on the battlefield.

Consider this my gracious introduction. Now you have our expectation in the use of these tools displayed. Tomorrow will be a thorough mastery of the spear with the assistance of the soldiers aside you. You will bruise, you will bleed, and you will break. In that fashion, all volunteers present, you, Children of Iron, will be wrought into Steel.

For now? We will continue our focus on the lifeblood of victory; Unity. No one will fall behind. No one will exceed. No one will be forgotten.

You will observe this well in the coming days as every soldier beside you now will be at your aid, and you, theirs. You will learn to love your comrades, new and old, temporary or permanent, like siblings fed from the same milk and blood. That is how you will send any threats that come for Kris into the clasp of the earth - permanently.

In the spirit of Unity, command passes to Lightward Ethalarian Dawnstalker. He will introduce you, as I did, to another topic; how to form and move as one.

And he will further demonstrate how the success of combat relies not on individual strength or passion - but togetherness.”

With that, Thanidiel draws back into the crowd with a hand pulling her waterskin to her hoarse lips, and shifts into merely another face in the crowd.

It was at this point that Ethalarian stepped forward through the assembled mass of gleaming plate and towering spears until he stood at the head of the formation. Gone was his once signature scarlet and black now replaced by the warmer, brighter crimson and gold of the Sunguard. It was simple, for the most part, and far more reflective of his previous life- no ornate etching, nor expensive exotic metals, but layers of chainmail and partial plate overlapping a leather hauberk. His cuisses and greaves were much the same; simple yet sturdy leather and plate all reflective of his upbringing- and perhaps strategically chosen to appeal to the common folk of Kris.

“Greetings, my brothers and sisters. I thank you all for your attendance; it warms my heart to see communities come together in defense of one another.” The knight offers a wide, warm smile to each of those before him, his tone kindly and honeyed. These are no soldiers and he cannot dare to speak to them as such. Not yet. “My colleague-” he gestures to Thanidiel here “-has already demonstrated to you all the individual merits of the spear and the shield on an individual level.

As you’ve all observed, and as Duskward Highdawn has capably demonstrated, these are effective tools that allow you to safely engage your enemy from afar and to cover your brother’s flanks. An individual with a spear can keep at bay an enemy with less reach nigh indefinitely. However.”

At this point Etharian turns sharply about to face the formation behind him. “About, face!”

His voice echoes across the field like a cannon shot and immediately is answered by the rumble and clatter of armored troops wheeling about in a matter of moments. The Sunguard’s banners had caught the breeze and were flying high now in the afternoon sun above Kris as a second formation, a group of volunteers from the villagers, took up position to the left. As anticipated, the latter had little idea of what to do or how to do it but did their best to mimic the Sunguard formation anyway and packed together as tightly as they could. Admirable. Ethalarian gave a slight nod as he turned now toward a broad shouldered, raven haired elf at his left.

“Sergeant Heartwood, give the signal if you please.”

With a nod, the Sergeant’s chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath and raised a horn to his lips that sounded at an almost deafening volume that echoed for several seconds across the rolling hills. A few short moments later, a low rumble began to roll in toward Kris from just over the next rise that grew louder and louder with each passing second. Within a minute a dark blob appeared upon the rise and was quickly followed by a chorus of shouts and jeers as the Enemy for this grand demonstration appeared.

Ethalarian grinned a crooked grin as he gestured up toward the Enemy and turned his attention back toward the gathered townsfolk.

“The Enemy presents itself and is set to lend credence to this next lesson: taking the field are two groups, equal in number and armed much the same.”

Now his attention falls to the group of volunteer soldiers, each looking more pale than the next. They had not fallen apart yet, not begun to disperse or rethink what they’d gotten themselves into but flight had definitely crossed their minds.

“Before you are the Blood Knights from the Eleventh Regiment. They are hardened soldiers, veterans of a dozen wars over the course of the past twenty years. For this example, the Enemy has been instructed to show no mercy- to treat this battle as they would the real thing.”

One of the volunteers toward the front took a half-step back.

              His will was already faltering.

                           The rest would follow soon.

Excellent.

Again Ethalarian turned to Sergeant Heartwood and without a word the latter again sounded his horn. Without delay the dark blob upon the hill surged forward, pouring down from the as though an inkwell had been overturned and thundering toward both formations at a full gallop. Their approach was like a clap of thunder that never ended, a deafening rumble that became a roar which threatened to drown out everything else. As the ground began to shake beneath his feet, the Lightward turned his attention back to the man at the fore of the volunteer formation.

             Another step back.

                          Then another.

                                     Then a fourth.

                                                   Not long now.

Ethalarian glanced again toward the massive formation of cavalry now practically on top of both formations of infantry. The combined Phoenix Guard and Bloodsworn held strong, their lances and pikes planted firmly in the ground and held aloft at eye level, forcing their foe to wheel about and look for a better opening before trying again.

                      And then it happened.

The man at the front of the volunteer formation lost his nerve and broke, turning to flee as fast as his feet would carry him.

             Then another.

                                        Then another.

                                                                   Then another.

                                                                                              Then them all.

That was all it took to turn the roughly organized group of volunteer mass into a broken, routing mob and the Enemy did not pass up the opportunity to fall upon them with a merciless vigor...or would have, had this been a real battle. Instead the company split and enveloped the fleeing herd of volunteers as pack of starving wolves would circle their prey.

Grinning, the Lightward turned back now to the remainder of the assembled villagers and spoke over the now quieting din.

“As you can see, my brothers and sisters, it is not individual skill that wins the day on the field.” He held up a single finger in turn as he spoke the next three words. “Discipline. Unity. Coordination. Once my colleague has instructed you how to fight as an individual, I will teach you how to apply the lessons you have learned and forge you all into a single cohesive unit.

You will learn to think, breathe, move, and act as one whole. I will not lie to you; this will likely be the most difficult two weeks of your lives. Persevere, however, and I promise your town will be the safest it’s ever been with or without our presence.”

Ethalarian took a moment to survey the crowd now as the defeated made their way back to the group, heads hung low in shame. Good. That would save him the trouble of humbling them later.

“Duskward Highdawn.” He turned over his right shoulder to seek out Thanidiel amongst the otherwise faceless formation.

“I believe it’s time to begin.”

A Phoenix Guard breaks formation, near unidentifiable from any other of the golden-plated soldiers present - were it not for the distinct engravement of horses carved into the fore of the regiment’s symbolic greathelm.

The woman strides to Ethalarian’s side and clasps her grip along the chain sleeve of his midarm as the opposing hand steadies the butt of her spear into the grasses underneath.

“Aye - for Kris.” strikes out from her, shattering the ‘quiet.’

“For Kris,” echoes from one former Blood Knight to the other; like two artillery shots in succession.

The volunteers, hesitant, break the silence in only tiny bubbles in their mimicry of the cry. Natural to their training, the two Sunspear before them roar in correction, in unison:

“WHO DO YOU FIGHT FOR?”

Hiccups of “For Kris!” answer, building in rate that fails to satisfy their instructors until it becomes a wild cacophony that shakes the air.

“For Kris!”                          “For Kris!”                                  “For Kris!”

                         “For Kris!”                           “For Kris!”                         “For Kris!”

          “For Kris!”                       “For Kris!”

                                                                                      “For Kris!”

Then the assembled two-hundred of Bloodsworn and Phoenix Guard join in, and the sheer energy transfers from sky to a rumbling across the whole of the earth. The subtle hand of Kris’ new comrades causes development from chaotic shocks of noise to proper, deafening, unified, waves.

“For Kris!” “For Kris!” “For Kris!”

                      “For Kris!”                       “For Kris!”                       “For Kris!”

                                             “For Kris!”                                              “For Kris!”                                              “For Kris!”

                                                                   “For Kris!”                                                                    “For Kris!”                                                                   “For Kris!”

It takes only three hours into the night before the restlessness thudding through her breast overwhelms her desire for company; like a shaking fist snuffing out the fire’s wick against its palm. Both careful of her tender wounds, yet impulsive nonetheless, the former Blood Knight presses the heel of one bandaged hand against Bricini’s shoulder - and pushes.

She watches carefully as those glowing eyes pull open in the darkness, noting the fashion in which the other was faking her groggy tiredness. ‘Patiently’, Thanidiel allows that oh-so inconvenienced sigh to break through the Dawnmender’s lips, then cuts her off. Her words come in a slash of teeth - contrasting with the low quiet of their conversation earlier.

“What, Th–”

“Get the fuck off of me. I want a smoke.”

“...That’s too bad, I’m comfortable right here. Might even turn the lights back on and get back to reading now that you’ve woken me up.”

The Duskward emphasises such as she props herself up just a bit; her vision glancing down to the now-crumpled magazine spread along Thanidiel’s stomache, crushed when the doctor had grown bored and drowsy an hour’s half earlier. The light from the streets outside just barely catch the glossy surface.

“Hold on, let me clarify; that wasn’t a request. Get the fuck off of me, or I’ll shove you off–”

“No. No, you wouldn’t. Because you’re burned to shit. Because you could still very well tear up your wounds and bleed out. Because you wouldn’t dare to make yet even more work for your dearest mender - right, Than?”

“If you think I’m beyond killing myself and ruining your apartment furniture to make a point; you’re dead wrong.”

Bricini’s face takes on a flat, peevish, quality with her ears pinning just slightly back.

“And if you think I’m beyond finishing you off to rid myself of such a melodramatic headache; you’re dead wrong.”

“Get off.”

“I’m tired.”

“The bed is over there. It’s high time we moved from your shitty couch anyway.”

“It’s not shitty, you backcoun–”

The soldier heaves a deep sigh from her chest. The fatigue wears away any and all pretense of their harsh play. It shakes the air like something discordant, like a stone crashing along a blade’s edge and taking away whole slivers. The once-Blood Knight observes the ever-brief pause it summons before the Mender, as always, rolls over it with a tight, lopsided, grin.

“...well, you, and my couch, have been a good substitute for the bed. Regardless! Fine. I’ll be off, have fun brooding about your lost purpose or whatever is up your ass tonight.”

Bricini lingers, leaning forward to press her lips to the corner of the Lightward’s mouth. Thanidiel has a hard time deciphering if it were to stir another ember of annoyance with a continued presence or a genuine urge of affection. Perhaps it is both.

For once, it is unreturned. A gloom unlike any gloom that the elf has experienced in many years hangs over her. It buzzes in her blood, her muscles, her thoughts: it is like a black miasma settling over everything. She has it not in her to respond. The warmth she had possessed, just earlier this night, drained the whole of the well, leaving it droughted. There is no more stirring urge for the Duskward. The other finally slides off and saunters for sleep. Thanidiel, for some minutes, struggles to raise herself.

It is not the injuries: the quiet, constant, agony where acidic ichor seeped into her flesh. It is the heaviness. Every throb of blood that courses through her body contains malaise. She could suffocate in its weight. She only moves when her restless frustration boils back to the surface in the way hot magma erupts from the shiver of the suddenly snapping earth underneath.

From there, Thanidiel moves with as much of her frenetic energy as her wounds would rightfully allow. She slips over a long-sleeved shirt, something she had left here weeks ago over the back of a chair, over the bandages that enwrap her. A silent note is written down to take stock of what is her’s in the items strewn about the apartment. She spends too long on her boots - something mastered in its swiftness now made fumbling, interspersed with seconds of pause and weary, pained, breath. She exits. Or–

Or–

…

Bricini’s tabard hangs over the door knob. The red-black shine of the Blood Star glints. Something spills, then. It roars, it gushes, it rushes all along her. Frigid and biting, the way the ocean fills shattered hulls. It is reminiscent to the way her wounds burst and bled when she was putting herself into that fucking ceremonial armour for that farce - how it trickled and stuck into every crevice.

She reaches out with more force than she had ought to, feeling the scabwork on her arm pull painfully. The heavy commendation slams down with the fabric trailing behind it, cracking sharply against the ground underneath.

“Fucking hells, Than! Wh–”

The thud of the door locking into its frame muffles the rest of the other’s indignant husk. Thanidiel pauses then, and she tells herself it is more to breathe, that she found herself suffocated within that room like any fire when it is contained; certainly it is not the agony of protesting muscle.

She lurches against the nearby wall, staring out into the hallway. As usual - she senses Renalyas. The ward remains, then. In the shadows of the building, the Mark of the Inquisition is something felt than seen. It hangs over the air in a curious sense of alarm, like the eyes of predators glinting in and out of the darkness. Or perhaps its presence is much more incorporal and unfelt to the world, and the woman, who was once Hand to the dark organisation, is merely attuned to a familiar energy.

Thanidiel allows herself more moments of rest to think on that: that it remains. That Renalyas’ services have remained open to her old companion. She knows, truly, that it stems from the unspoken fondness held by the Inquisitor. Still, the thought itches that this is another way of keeping tabs from now on. The hound’s collar, so caked in Blood, had been snapped clean from her throat and replaced with a slithering noose, the woman feels.

Such a thought only doles out more weariness to press onto the Lightward’s shoulders. She pats at her trousers. She forgot to take her cigar tin on the way out. Fuck. She cants her head just a bit, to fix the bad eye back towards the apartment. The door is all a fuzzy, dark, blur against the white of the wall around it. She should have taken her eyepatch, too. The once-Knight is unsure if she will return later tonight, or at all.

...she doesn’t want to disturb Bricini’s night anymore than she already ha–

No, Bri doesn’t fucking care.

She’s projecting.

She cares. Uselessly. Unnecessarily.

She’s placing more weight, than ought to be put, into the earlier requests that her partner had murmured against her skin.

If she had done this, to have rejected their presence, to–...

Or–...

With–...

Bri isn’t V–...

Or R– ...

Or C–….

…

Bri isn’t… any of them.

…

Thanidiel will come back.

She just needs a walk to clear her head. She makes her way out of the complex and onto the City’s streets. She walks.

WHERE WALKS PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

Thanidiel is alone.

Not in the apartment; not in the City’s lights. She is alone somewhere dark, in the belly of this plagued city, the air pressing in and frigid with cold and sharp.

The chill numbs; she barely understands the compulsion that sends a hand outward towards a browline, dragging her to her knees.

Before her, an elf forsaken; the dead eyes of the Sin’dorei seem bright in the darkness.

There is the sense of acute, infinite loneliness; this disquiet goes on forever.

The dark is endless.

There is no more purpose in this elf.

All these things are dead.

The hand simply seals what has already been done.

The sickly sweet of rotted flesh is something that permeates more than a handful of the many nooks and crannies of the Murder Row. Little surprise thrums in Thanidiel’s breast; a mixture of warning and lack of care towards this District in particular makes it common place, for what would take an hour’s half to wipe away in the rest of the Capitol, to take much longer. With recent affairs, it is logical that this remnant of the Riot remains days after.

Such fact does not make it easier to push down the tidal waves of aggravation rolling in her gut. It does not ebb the ache tightening the muscles of her ribcage. It does not quell the sweltering disillusionment choking in the base of her throat.

Astute as always, Thanidiel had begun to conceptualise and learn well of the Capitol since her first winters: of its wickedness, of its depravity, of its disease, of its farce. She has always known. And she had always tolerated it like hound and prey-property of those above. She can no longer be so blindly obedient.

Where this had changed, she had struggled to pinpoint in earlier days. The work did not change. The duties she had sensed behind the appointment to the Watch: none of it was new. She knew. She knew the moment that Lightfury and Mace had approached her, that their goal was to awash the streets of Silvermoon in blood. She had razed estates, families, villages, provinces. What was a City’s culling, to several lifetimes over of dutiful reaving? Yet, it still caused grief to shake through her.

The night Elanya died was the first time Thanidiel had ever, truthfully, regretted her silence. She saw it, then. She saw it in Truefeather and Dawnstalker’s ignorance. She saw it in the Archon’s shock. She saw it in Autumnsong’s sorrow. She saw it in Lightfury’s hand, blazing with the Light as blood and melted flesh surged along his digits in outpour.

She had permitted it.

All of what had occurred.

She had permitted it as she has always permitted it; glancing the other way, allowing the story to be rewritten. Letting the shadows crawl and envelop what was truly there. She let the labels fall where they would from the Magisterium’s hands, wreathing what she had been.

Such permissiveness had brought sickness to her like bad air and bad grain, she realises now. A sickness that had always been there, like a plague wrought beneath scarring; flaring up like an ache on winter nights, then falling into dormancy with only a remnant feeling of what was there. The former Blood Knight feels as though this sickness had reached its apex, that something had rotted for too long in those old wounds, that it had burst through her blood.

That something had died.

Something, that had allowed the wolf to be masqueraded as a hound. The sword to be passed off for the kitchen’s knife. The Blood Knight Order is no Protector to Quel’Thalas. Neither was the Blood Watch. The City learned keenly of their truer roles as Headsmen. Killers. Butcherers.

She was not freed by her resignations. There is no redeeming qualities to be said on the matter, on her. She let Elanya die. She knew the woman would never leave the cells below the Hall of Blood alive the moment that little Phoenix flew from the Sunfury Spire, catching the eye of her and Lightfury that night.

The People lauded her as a hero for stepping away from the madness of it, and every warm smile and nod and ‘Lady Highdawn’ sunk into her heart like pins. There was nothing brave to it. Nothing heroic nor noble.

She walked away.

As she always does.

As she always has.

She just… didn’t want to do it herself. Personally.

What does passivity make of anyone, but as a useless bystander?

The letter from Captain Sunstorm came in just this morning, to the Infirmary itself where she had been. The word of the Archon Truefeather and his Uncle supplemented her extensive record of service. She had been accepted. Once her wounds had healed - it was off to basic all over again for her.

Thanidiel is more than unsure of how much she deserves such a thing. To distort reality once more. To allow the story to be retold. To continue to be retold. She is no defender, no hero. Nothing that constitutes a proper member of the Phoenix Guard.

So what is she?

…

...perhaps, the question is in the answer, as Ithanar might put it if she had asked him.

The Dragonsworn urged her to embrace this opportunity of rebirth; that all things burn and begin new. That the natural order relies in the deathly metamorphose of life from one form to the next. She would never admit it to the woman, but those words stuck to her breast and to her mind for days afterwards. Apparently, they still do.

Dawnstalker told her to find her own way, free of any of the bonds or shackles that have enwrapped her. Perhaps there was something envious there, in the perceived opportunity to do as such. He has never been one to see the nooses trail around the necks of others, so obscuring the shadows are.

Or, perhaps, she has never been one to notice when the restraints have all fallen away, so well she had once been trained.

The words of the Oracle revisit her, images swirling to the fore of her mind once more. The cavern. Ithanar, with the humour always at his lips. Bricini, wreathed in warmth. Varric, split apart. Cayvia, on her knees. Elanya, consorted in a scream. The Phoenix, dying. The hydra-beast; all things that sunder Quel’Thalas. The blood. The blood hanging from the exposed points of Varric’s ribs. The blood dripping from the blade through Cayvia’s body. The blood of the Phoenix. The blood coating the streets. The blood seeping from her bandages. The blood rolling in a fat, trickling, stream from Elleynah’s raw eye socket.  

“You bear chances now that none have yet seen; you, Breaker of Wheels. What was fate was overturned, violent in its death and birth. You are devoid of purpose, and must build. You must stand for this, with this choice made. You are interlocked into change.  Do not let the blindness of others blind you. Do not let the coldness you feel rot your feelings for what you once defended. Where you stand, change will come. Embrace, deny; it shall be. Be wise where you lay loyalty.”

So what is she?

…

Nothing. Empty. Lost. Devoid.

…

New.

Something to rebuild.

Truth rings to the bone on that: that Thanidiel Highdawn, as it stands, is nothing that constitutes a true member of the Phoenix Guard. She is no true defender. She is no true hero.

And what she was, detracts even further from the matter. The Lightward was the dark murmurs that would vacate entire streets when her banner hailed the sky, that would silence and darken homes when her footsteps would push towards residences. Over a century later, and still, she had heard the whispers of her moniker of Terror amongst the Order.

But there is room to change. The Wheel has been broken.

Embrace, deny; it shall be.

The sword had been driven through the Phoenix, and Thanidiel would see it reborn.

She would step into the new dawn shining before her.

The once-Knight takes in one last breath of the chilling night air. She, with as much quietness as she can muster, steps back into the apartment.

( Appearances - @jessipalooza @stormandozone Mentions - @rivendork @captainswingbeard @azriah @trained-trainwreck @felthier @erilihn)

First, they make to locate Knight-Lord Ethalarian Dawnstalker. Presented to him, is a sturdy, simple claymore at face-value. Deeper study proves the weapon to be a masterful reforging of the blade he had shattered in Thanidiel’s hands on the morning of their first spar. Blood-red mineral has been worked into the grey steel; staining it with the Order’s favoured colour. Unsheathed, a note spills from the oiled lynx-leather scabbard.

“Everything of Elven-make proves stronger when it is reborn.”

@trained-trainwreck

Second, they make for the main triaging center to locate Elleynah Stormsummer. To her, the Blood Knights supply a good set of iron horseshoes meant for long journeys and a square saddle-blanket of a well-padded wool quilt. For Brightdawn, of course. She earns lengthier words from Thanidiel,

“The Feast of Winter’s Veil was one of the most favoured holidays amongst us who lived in Quel’thalas’ most severe backcountry. In all of my years, I’ve yet to experience anything quite as endearing as soldiers warding away the bone-chill of the air, our stomaches half-full, and still managing to find camaraderie in the dark nights with what we could scavenge for one another - or hoard earlier in the year - in our winter migrations.

I find it only fit to maintain such military traditions when blackness seems to be a trend of Dawnspire winters.”

@stormandozone​

In the same vein, they make to locate Prisa Violette amongst the medical staff. In broken Common the transfer of an old book of Thalassian-Common translation predating the Second War to the Human is made. She manages to earn a note from Thanidiel, too.

“Stop listening to Bricini.”

@pyrar​

To Zalin, his gift of sharpening-stone for a favoured blade is countered with a tin of a dozen cigars of a unique blend - tobacco and bloodthistle rolled in silverleaf. No words are left for the Sentinel as their dedication to their work speaks enough on its own.

@curiouslich​

After that, the Knights seek out Ithanar. For the closer from whom the Lightward would call comrades, he is given… a shirt. It’s a good shirt. Comfortable in its fit and fabric for the large man. But, uh, the design has managed to -exactly- mimick Islesun’s favourite red-shirt. What kind of sick joke.

“Your last one is started to grow ragged like you.”

@captainswingbeard​

From Ithanar, they spring to Esheyn and provide to her a potted plant. Shimmering arcana guarantees the bonsai-specimen to last an eternity. The unique twisting form hints at a Suramarian origin although manipulation has turned its leaves crimson and its bark pale in a Thalassian twist.

“You have a better heart for these pretty things than I do. Take what would be wasted on me.”

@kinari​

Kyranyx, too, is found by Thanidiel’s Knights. To her, the soldiers endow a simple mantle of an orange lynx’s coat. The ruggedness hints that it was not bought - but a creature hunted down by the Lightward’s spear itself. Running one’s fingers through it, the undercoat shimmers in a paler shade of gold. 

@commander-ryther​

Lastly, they make for the outskirts of the Dawnspire, hunting down Kaltaia through the bold signals of her presence. To her… she is presented with a long length of Legion-forged chain; one of the dozens used to enwrap and take down the Ultimate Weapon early into the assault by Baal’s vanguard. The Construct’s red paint intermixed with Mo’arg blood still marrs the metal. No words, nor announcement, come from the Knights. They make their delivery swiftly and ride equally swift back to the Main Road. Another ‘gift’ reminiscent of the bloodied spear from Tyr’s Hand. 

@azriah​

The services of Thanidiel’s Blood Knights are dismissed for the time-being after that. However, one last gift is imparted by the woman. Awaiting in the mail of Bricini’s residence when she, too, eventually concludes her services to the Dawnspire for the time being, is a letter enclosed by the waxen seal of the Thalassian Magisterium.

To Doctor Bricini Lightwing,

Your research in the field of regenerative medicine has not gone unseen by the State. The potential in your work, as observed with your treatment of a Lazarus Redmorn and Thanidiel Highdawn, has been noted.

In light of the State’s Will and Desire to encourage the powerful innovations of its citizenry for the good of our Kingdom, you have been granted credit in the worth of three-thousand gold coins by the Magisterium.

This credit will be used solely in the pursuit of your research as relating to the medical-field. Should you continue to display excellence and potential of great service to our People, you may see more substantial reward. It is to be stressed that any fraudulent misuse is highly unadvised.

The same Hand that feeds you has the same potential to gouge out your cheeks in an instance.

Hand of Belore Renalays Bloodhallow of the Inquisition; Magistrix of Quel’thalas