Though the heroes of the Sunguard have walked away from their battles with heavier wounds in their hearts than in their flesh, the same can not be said for the foot soldiers who serve below the crimson banner; each battle has taken a great toll on those who march into death at the orders of their crimson-coated commanders, and their wounded ranks have filled the Dawnmender Infirmary and exhausted many of the Mender’s supplies.
With the ships from Quel’thalas now sitting on the bottom of the sea, the Dawnmender’s supplies grow thin; potion, bandage, elixir, antidote, all things practical are now run-low, and the effects of a shortened supply trove are in full effect. As such, a letter - in several copies - is penned and posted in the newly erected infirmary, hung above the most common supply locals and peppered elsewhere as to not escape the Dawnmender’s astute eyes.
Dawnmenders,
Not doubt you are all bright-eyed enough to note that our supplies grow wan; what we started this deployment with grows closer to spent, and with our expected shipment of supplies now swimming with the fishes, and no notion of when the next ships will reach us - or if they will reach us at all, given that pirates and other sea-bound beasts still pose a threat to our supply lines - we must be particular with what we have left.
Wherever you can spend the effort and energy to mend via magical means, please do so; save what practical mending methods we have for when ought else won’t work, or for our menders who rely most heavily on practical methods in lieu of weaker magical proficiency. Please, for the sake of our patients and our continued ability to serve and sustain ourselves until our next shipment arrives, I beg compliance with this order; an order backed by the Oracle herself.
If assistance is required in this transition, please, don’t hesitate to call upon your Dawnwards; Dawnward Novastorm, Dawnbrook and myself (Dawnsworn) will be on-hand at all times to assist in any capacity required.
[[ Back-dated to the week of my event Fallow Fields and Hallowed Hearths, when Caeliri reclaimed the estate of Hallowhearth! ]]
Night sighed over the gardens of Hallowhearth, cool and calming, casting the unwieldy stones in soft shades of violet. The manor was still staffless, its mistress too mired in grief to make headway on the tasks required of her. For days now, Caeliri had been bound by the hearth, splayed out on the floor in a heap of gangly limbs and cinder-touched hair, staring at the light that flickered within the fireplace. It had only been Liadove’s insistent attention that forced her to her feet and out into the garden, twice a day now, until she got her head on straight.
Caeliri walked the empty halls and let the loneliness seep into her skin, and for the life of her could find no love for all that she had earned. A hopelessness ate at her, chewed its way through heart and head, and she felt so… ungrateful for it.
There were men and women who struggled to make ends meet, to put bread and watery stew into the rumbling bellies of their children, who toiled and tried to dig themselves out from beneath poverty’s crushing wheel, and here she was, swathed in comfort, cloistered in stone halls and she couldn’t find a single fleck of joyfulness.
Not when Grace roosted in the hearth, so small she was barely visible among the snapping cinders.
She was featherless and slumbering, white-hot eyes glued shut and tiny body moving so minutely it was almost unseen. It made the hollow in her belly ache every time she laid eyes on her phoenix; her child. She was blessed -- a phoenix would always rise again, but it did not dull the pain of knowing that the companion who had bolstered her in her days of great depression had extinguished herself to save the young mender. Caeliri was meant to protect Grace, to assure she would grow strong and proud, and though she had another chance… she’d failed once, and the pain of her failure was visceral and deep.
She could not turn her mind from what she had lost; the child that flourished once inside of her, the babe that was never to be, and the shadows of the dark days that followed the Winter of Woe were again slithering across the surface of her mind. Caeliri had thought herself done with them, their malevolence banished for good; but always, they found a way to writhe up from the corners of her mind and seize it greedily.
The solitude of Hallowhearth afforded her one great boon; here, where there were no prying eyes, she could let her wounds weep through her skin, until they found their fill.
At the garden’s heart, where the great fountain sat, she stood, sword in hand.
Unburdened by her armor, she held her sword aloft, and watched it glimmer in the moon’s pale glow. It’s edges blazed bright silver, and as she swept it through the air she watched it’s arc, imagining a trail left in it’s wake.
She should have been stronger.
Caeliri stepped through the motions Emberward Starstriker had taught her, weight shifted up on her toes, legs primed and ready to spring and step from the imagined enemies that stood before her. A dance, he said - one phrase amongst a myriad of words meant to bolster and belittle, until he found the right wound to strike to embolden her. Just like his blade, his words struck true; amidst the words he wove around her worried head, he ferreted out the phrase that ripped her heart asunder.
You’re letting them all down, you’re failing them.
Anger flared inside of her, and Caeliri struck her arm forward, into the belly of an imagined beast -- she overextended, though, and felt pain spear through her shoulder. With a sharp, pained sound, she drew her arm back, raising her free hand to grasp at muscle and bone and massage it, gently.
I can tell you don’t want to hurt anyone…
But that didn’t matter, did it? She could recall, with startling clarity, when the Archon - her Lord and Master - was possessed by the spirit of Sir Sylarion, when she’d raised arms against him, when her blade had glanced by his side; even as she sought to lay him low and free him of the spectre’s grasp, she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. That desire had directed her aim, made her turn her blade just a fraction of an inch, enough to dart past the gap in his armor where she knew her sword could slip beneath and find gaps to gouge and gash him.
Her prize had been pain; Caeliri could still feel the ghost of his strike pulse through her lip, and as she ran her tongue over the closing gash, she realized it was swollen still. It wasn’t the first time a man had backhanded her - the split rested atop an old scar, where the Preacher had struck her before. That, too, had been an attempt to help gone horribly wrong. At least, when the Archon struck her, it wasn’t really him. Apologies poured from his lips in a waterfall of guilt, and she held no ill-will for the man who had lifted her up from the ashes of a ruined life and given her a chance to be something more.
She couldn’t shake the feeling, though - if she had struck true, would the poltergeist have been banished swifter, would her phoenix have been spared?
Drawing in a sharp breath, Caeliri continued with the steps she’d learned, aware, in part, this practice made little sense without a partner to pair against; she could not step and counterstep against a fragment of her own mind.
You know more than you think you do.
She’d been a soldier for the better part of three years, now - and if she was good at nothing else, it was parroting the behaviors of people around her, to learn. Here and there, she’d absorbed much needed knowledge - how to hold a sword, how to stand, how to strike - from friends and lovers and strangers alike, and she’d survived her fair share of battles; it was cobbling those disparate lessons into something tangible, something she could harness to her own desires, that was difficult. Still, Caeliri grappled with the necessity of levying arms and plying harm to others to assure a violent future never came to pass. To her, it was counterintuitive, that violence could beget peace, and though her heart still railed against the idea by turns, she knew… she knew it was a necessity.
A sigh shivered through her slim body, and the pain in her shoulder at last made her arm fall. At her side, her sword - forged by the Forgemaster, Vulthaen Voidsunder, as part of her ascension to Kintaris of the Dawnspire - glistened on in the moonlight, impassive and unchanged, it’s edges white-hot against the dark night.
For tonight night, her energy was spent - tomorrow, she would resume, and continue to war with the knowledge that she, one day, would lay a creature - or person, perhaps - low for the sake of her family, her friends, her kin. Laying her sword along the fountain’s edge, Caeliri turned on her heel, hair swirling in a storm of silken lock around her bony shoulders, and started back inside, returning to the nest of quilts and pillows laid before the fireplace, where her vigil over Grace would resume.
Laid on the Oracle’s desk at first light, the waiver bore the delicate, swirling script Caeliri had trained into her in Northrend. Attached were two notes; one for the Oracle, regarding the Mysterious Infection, another a copy of a letter sent to the High Confessor herself.
I, Caeliri Dawnsworn, hereby accept the outcome of involvement with the Mysterious Infection sweeping soldiers of the Kirin Tor. Whatever fate befalls me, Light bless, I will take to it readily, with no hate in my heart and no blame on the Kirin Tor, or those who I contracted the illness from. If quarantine is required, I request that my phoenix, Grace, be placed in the care of Lirelle Dawnbrook until I am well - if Lirelle Dawnbrook is joining me in quarantine, then Grace’s care should be passed on to Lord Vaelrin Firestorm, Ranger-Captain of the Sunguard.
Should I fall ill, and no other treatment has been devised, I request no fel-based treatment be used on my person until I teeter on the brink of death. Then, and only then, with loud, clear consent may these treatments be used - if I am unconscious or otherwise unable to speak for myself, I default the choice of my treatment to the aforementioned Ranger-Captain; his word is as binding as my own, and where I am unable to speak for myself, I wish his word to be heeded.
Elsewise, should I contract this disease, I consent to testing other, experimental treatments for the illness - as above, should the worst befall me as result, I accept the consequences. I would ask that all testing of new methodologies be defaulted to me, to save our patients the potential suffering involved in experimentation.
Caeliri Dawnsworn, Dawnward of the Sunguard
The second letter, penned with passion, was lengthier and laced through with a rage that was rare for the bright young mender;
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.
Twilight teemed in the tops of olive trees, pressing past the glare of waning sunlight on the horizon to overthrow the sky. The rhythmic scratch of pen on paper was joined by the crackle of cinders and sharp snaps of too-thin twigs popping in the fire pit. Grace was coddled down deep in the flames, her golden light flaring at Elleynah’s request to aid in heating the pot that hovered above her. Arm aching from the effort of false punches thrown, Caeliri’s script suffered as she wrote, the letters too loose and looping and worse for every copy made.
She lifted her eyes from the paper, shaking out her bandage-wrapped fingers, feeling the sting of still-lingering burns on her skin; they made her grimace, briefly, but as Elleynah twisted to titter something over a freckled shoulder the younger mender smiled, unwilling to let the pain shine through. As ever, the Lifespeaker crouched by the fire, eyes never wandering far from the steaming stew, plying her proclivity for herbs in other avenues. Phoenix fire danced in Elleynah’s short-shorn curls, turning them hot and bright against the seething shadows of dusk, and Caeliri could not help but lose herself in the looping locks, watching the light shiver and swirl. Foolish, she thought, any man who failed to see her beauty - for all her moral starching, Elleynah was a woman still, with high walls and barbed fences, but they were worth scaling. If her own heart weren’t worried and sick with other interests, Caeliri might have considered--
Her eyes shot away across their makeshift camp, settling on the familiar furred rump of Elleynah’s Cub. Their companion's ceasefire ended explosively two nights ago in impish claws and retributive flames, and now Grace and Cub were soured to each other’s presence and by turns trying to torment and avoid the other. Now, Cub circled the fire where Grace hunkered down, watching the phoenix with ethereal eyes full of mischief. He was brave and fool-hardy where Elleynah was steadfast and wise, but even he knew better than to leap into phoenix fire for the sake of playfulness.
With a giggle, Caeliri returned to her writing, intent to get the letters out today—
Dawnmenders,
Thank you all for your attendance and attentiveness the other day at our impromptu meeting - I know many of you have taken to the Broken Isles once more to see to the tasks Sunward Stormsummer and I assigned, and I trust they’ll be seen to swiftly. All of your responses to the Dawnmender Showcase have been received and noted, and I have compiled a list of patients for each person who wished to present; a copy of this letter will be delivered to both mender and patient, and I trust that each of you will meet with your selected volunteer to discuss what wounds you’ll be inflicting upon them the night of the showcase for the sake of demonstrating your abilities. PLEASE, NO LASTING OR MAJOR WOUNDS. Make absolutely sure to receive consent from your partner for the evening ahead of time, and if you are so inclined, please document it for us as well.
We’ll be meeting in Suramar - my Dawnmender Guardians have found a place nearby the landing point of Meredil where we can host our event for the evening without intrusion or impending danger. Those of you afraid to travel by foot have little to fear - with the assistance of our friends inclined to the darker arts, summons will bring you to us safely.
If you have any questions to the degree which you may wound your volunteer, please, please, please, please seek me out before you break any bones or sever any limbs.
Light guide you,
Dawnward Dawnsworn
Attached to every letter is the following list, menders marked in the left hand column while their patients followed suit on the right;
This list is also the order in which you will present, keep this in mind when making preparations! Your presentations should last no longer than 15 minutes at most!
Posted on the book ends of every bookshelf in the Ivory Spire, on every floor, and in the infirmary - lest it not be seen - is a notice.
Suncasters,
Though my presences as your Dawnmender Liaison has been lacking as of late due to lasting injury received during our last campaign, I write to you all with a fond reminder that I am both here and at your disposal, when you wish it. Furthermore, now that my health permits to me to attend to more of my duties than before, I write to extrapolate on the rules and regulations for mending discussed at the last meeting.
With war once more knocking hastily at our doors, I beg of you all to be not only mindful of youth health, but also remember that your wellnesses assures a stronger front to shield your fellows from harm. Your ability to stand firm against the onslaught of the Legion affects their ability as well; whatever your reason for your oath, we are all bound to one another in blood and arms, and we must be aware that any gap in our defenses leaves us vulnerable as a whole.
Those of you with friends among the Pathfinders are sure to be familiar with the Three Marks systems put in place by Dawnward Stormsummer, and perhaps the offenses that will earn you one of these dreadful marks. For those unfamiliar, any three marks earned in the span of a single stint in the infirmary or during the healing of a singular injury will result in your misconduct, with a detailed account of the offense, being delivered to the Greenseer, the Scion, and the Grand Arcanist. By permission of the Grand Arcanist herself, this system will be applicable to the Suncasters, effectively immediately, and unto infinity.
Whether or not I will be well enough to stand beside you on the Broken Isles remains unclear; know that in my stead, a mender will be empowered with all of my authority and ability as your liaison, and that both Dawnward Stormsummer and Dawnward Greythorn will be joining you. So that we are all clear about the expectations for conduct in regards to care and stays in the infirmary, I have compiled a list of punishable offenses gleaned from Dawnward Stormsummer’s list. Note there are specifications altered due to the specialized nature of the Suncaster’s vast array of magical aptitude.
Reckless behavior, resulting in extended healing time or compounded injuries (direct orders from superiors notwithstanding)
Failure to carryout follow up if so ordered by a mender
* To make it abundantly clear; if you are a practitioner of darker arts who requires injury, pain, or blood to fuel your magic, this is a permissible act, providing you do not cripple yourself in the effort. Similarly, outside of triage situations and active combat, if you have a magical sensitivity to a school of healing magic, you are within your right to request another mender for assistance; we will do our best to accommodate as we can, but know that we are limited in our ability to manifest menders from thin air.
** These offenses are grounds for immediate Officer intervention, regardless of strikes accumulated prior to the incident.
Ultimately, I have no right to offer punishment greater than marks and notices; whatever fate befalls you due to noncompliance with these posted orders will be decided by the Scion and Grand Arcanist. If there is any need for clarity on what is expected of you during your mending, feel free to seek me out; I am always happy to explain.
