#legionfall

[the-exobar]

I’ve heard of becoming one with your craft, but this is getting a little ridiculous. 

[caeliri]

Rising Tides, Crashing Skies

[[ This story takes place in January of this year, prior to the ending of the events surrounding the Symphony of Silvermoon!]]

Beyond the walls of Silvermoon the scattered seeds of chaos came into full bloom. Even in the Dawnspire, peace was evasive, and in the shadow of multi-colored banners of the houses that bent the knee to House Truefeather, unrest still haunted the stone-lined streets. Those who had not fled to the Evergrove to seek refuge within the Dreaming Gardens remained in the Citadel itself, settled in alleys and causeways less used, out of sight of the supposed King’s retinue, and unhappier for it; in the wake of unrest that rocked the capitol, less light was laid upon their plight, their lords and ladies heads were turned ever towards the crimson-stained streets of Silvermoon, waiting with baited breath for the tide to turn a thousand ways, each calamitous in its own way.

It was a crime Dame Caeliri Dawnsworn was guilty of herself.

In the aftermath of Baal’s attack on the Dawnspire, she’d forgone returning to the shattered remnants of Summerglen - heart too heavy to face the fel-ravaged ruins of a home once wreathed in sunlight and spring blossoms - and turned her eyes towards Silvermoon, and allies with more social sway and coin to aid her cause. Just like all of them, she’d been swept away in the flood waters of a citizenry divided and enraged. The crimson cobblestones of Silvermoon were bathed in blood, and for the first time in her short life she was aware of it, and she was frightened.

When Telchis called his bannerlords home to the Dawnspire to stand at his side and ready themselves for the days to come, she’d gone willingly away from the worry of the city, hoping that the rolling hills of Quel’thalas’ countryside might pry away the lingering fear and ease the tension that held her slim shoulders ever taut.

It had not.

The appearance of the Sun King’s retinue, in lieu with conversations had in the past week, only served to unnerve her further, and though she’d stood tall at Telchis’ side, drenched in the colors of a brilliant dawn - the colors of her fresh-forged lineage - stalwart and proud against the oppressive air that seemed to ensconce the throne room, the armor she’d encased herself in could not uproot the anxiety that thrummed through her veins. Though the meeting with the so-called-King’s retinue was short, throughout the tense moments she often found her sea-green eyes wandering to the place where Tyril Sunspear should have stood, clad in gold and sable, a statuesque figurehead of justice and honor, and to see his space filled - even by familiar faces - made her heart ache.

Released from the tense meeting with the Sun King’s courier, Caeliri picked her way through the rubble-wracked streets of the Dawnspire, plated boots picking a careful path in elsewise aimless wandering. She could have retreated to the infirmary, her home away from home, where she was Dawnward Dawnsworn, a skilled mender and a steady, hopeful, helping hand to those who had seen better days - but being in those hallowed halls required an attention to the weak and wounded that she could not give, and she would never stand to offer those who suffered less than her whole, undivided, unmuddled attention.

Instead, the upheaved streets gave her an avenue to attend her thoughts where there was little chance she would be bothered.

What would they do, if the Sun King came to demand the Lord of the Dawnspire and all his vassals take a knee and swear their allegiance?

What would she do - betray her oaths and take a stand, or fall in line to preserve her words, and sacrifice her beliefs for a promise made? Which was worse; to be an oathbreaker, or to compromise the beat of her heart and see injustice flourish due to inaction?

Parapets once proud and stalwart littered the lower reaches of the Citadel, destroying homes and business in their fall; an irony, perhaps, but one lost on the woman of twenty-one summers.

She had no faith in this would-be King or the future he seemed keen to forge; a future of isolation, cruelty and oppression that promised no deviation from the current course, where those in power spat pretty lies upon the citizenry to veil their own misdeeds. Caeliri did not believe this man whose blood bespoke some supposed right to rule would free them from corruption; the key to the shackles that bound the people of Quel’thalas would simply change hands, and never find use or offer freedom.

“HEY!”

Her head snapped up, sending a sea of cinder-colored hair right into her light of sight; in the space of time it took her to lift her hand and sweep it away, her path was blocked by a shoeless sin’dorei whose ruddy, freckled cheeks were flush a shade of scarlet that put the streets of Silvermoon to shame. His lips were pulled back in a near feral flash of teeth, and there was no kindness in their bearing.

Already her mind was wheeling, trying suss out what she’d done to offend the stranger who barred her path, and the words that left her lips were bright but hesitant, struggling out beneath the wave of frantic thought, “Can I… help you…”

“Yeah, you can help me -- by getting off your ass and getting to work,” the man snarled, drawing in air to force his chest to seem broader, his shoulders higher; they were of a height, Caeliri and this stranger, but he was thicker built - his only option to be imposing was to puff up like a peacock.

“I’m… sorry,” she ventured, caught off by the anger snapping on every syllable - but she didn’t get to finish.

“You’re sorry?” His words became harsher, honed down to a vicious, venomous edge, bitterness and mockery both shining through the sharpness,  “Doesn’t look like you’re sorry, galavanting around the city in all your fine clothes while we’re sitting in our own shit, starving.”

Caeliri’s lips moved wordlessly, eyes wide and blinking as she fumbled for words-

“Sorry doesn’t put food in our bellies or roofs over our heads.” There were eyes on them now, a dozen, perhaps more, from dirty faces on the roadside, perched atop downed parapets or crouched in the shadow of the ruined monoliths, exhaustion tugging at their eyelids. Their drooping lids, however, could hardly hamper the bitterness that swam in the blazing green sea of their gazes.

Her belly churned quite suddenly, every set of eyes upon her forming a craggy, sharp stone in her gut. They plunk, plunk, plunked into her belly, sending bile foaming up along her innards and Caeliri could feel herself shrinking back.

They were, all of them, refugees from Summerglen; they had come to the Citadel in panic and pain as Baal’s armies carved their dreadpath through the Dawnspire, and here they had remained, among the ruins of the capitol, eager for the remnants of their ruined lives. She recognized them not by the patterned vests and simple, bright clothing they wore, but by the loss that haunted the edges of their eyes, and the burning hot guilt she felt gush through her veins. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as the man carried on, all of his anger and helplessness and loss and grief boiling over on to her in a roaring wave she could not run from.

“Some fuckin’ Kin’taris. You abandoned us. You left us to die!”

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t meant to.

She was following orders- the Archon’s orders - to remain where she was stationed in the Citadel proper to fend off the oncoming assault. Summerglen should never have been a target of the demon’s warpath, it had seemed safe enough at the start, when Baal’s forces drove hard against the Evergrove and the Anchorage. She’d sent word to her soldiers to rally, to guard the borders, to evacuate the citizenry and they hadn’t left. They’d been too proud, too stubborn, too untested against the looming tide of violence; Summerglen had never seen war come to its shadowed vales, and like the lady who led them, they were blinded by their ignorance.

What more could she have done?

“Where the fuck have you been?! Not a person, not a single one, seeking their Kin’taris has heard a peep from you from since we came! You came sweeping down from your high tower like some fairy-fucking-tale princess, with all your pretty promises and platitudes, and then what?!”

Caeliri winced - hard. Her face contorted into a grimace, and her shoulders rose as if warding off an oncoming blow, but it had already been dealt. Pretty promises, platitudes, it was the same thought she had of the Sun-King and the noblesfolk of Quel’thalas, the very people she’d swore to oppose.

That was how this man saw her; that was how the people of Summerglen saw her.

Ice and fire took turns running rampant through her veins, the sickness in her gut seeming to fuel the flashes of disparate temperature as they raced from ear-tip to toe-tip, causing sweat to stipple on her lower back and scarlet shame to flare across her cheeks. Her eyes were eager for the ground, for the tips of her polished boots or the uneven stone below, but she held them even - and blessedly held the tears she felt begin to prickle behind her eyes at bay.

Caeliri had allied herself with the Reformers, stood against the Imperialists, gave her heart and soul to seeing the corruption of Quel’thalas at last be brought to heel, and those who abused the weak and disenfranchised pulled down from their high, lordly perches -- for what? What did that matter if her own people sat in stasis, surviving on the scraps of the Citadel’s generosity, eeking out a half-life in the shadows of their once-great capitol while she played hero halfway across the country?

“Then--” she interjected at last, though her voice was soft and meek, a mouse’s squealing against the man’s roaring rage, trying, desperately, to offer some defense, to make him understand her thoughts, her desires, her intentions, “--I joined my countrymen in assuring the nobility--”

“We’re your countrymen! You left us to suffer!”

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t meant to.

She had been ashamed, awashed in grief, for the lives lost, for the damage done, for all the dreams - hers and those of the townsfolk of Summerglen - that died the day Baal’s army diverted their path through the wood, keen on wreaking as much havoc and devastation as their wicked hearts desired. There had been nothing she could do -- she’d rode out to try and join the fray, but it was not a battle to be won.

It was a massacre.

And in the aftermath, when she passed into the smoldering vale to view the ruined remnants of her home -- she saw the bodies, broken, buried, bled, their blood swimming through the spaces between the cobbles, like crimson fingers reaching desperately through the veins of the city. She’d smelled the sulfur, the scorched skin, the burning hair, and seen the festering fissures carved into the earth. Agony was hot on the air still, the remnant sounds of spirits caught in their final moments echoing in her ears like a thousand nails drawn against slate.

“Do you even give a shit?”

A lump had long formed in her throat, a thousand words she wanted to spit back at him held at bay, balling around one another, over and over, until they were a tightly wound mass of writhing words and withheld sentiments. All of her defenses, all of her fear, all of her own perceptions, she held them behind her thinned lips, kept them captured and subdued, and forced a phrase up through the thicket in her throat, until it came hard and fast onto her tongue and leapt from her lips, steadfast and true; “What would you have me do?”

Silence swelled between them, tense and awkward, and the man who stood across from her clamped his mouth shut, both blonde brows diving down into deep furrows just above his fel-green eyes.

“...What?” The word was warbling on his tongue, steeped in uncertainty and confusion.

“I can not undo what has been done.” Drawing in a deep breath, Caeliri lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, staring the man down. She was aware of the glimmer that glinted in the sea-green spanse of her irises, but it was all she could do to hold the tears at bay; she could no more undo her expressiveness as she could unmake all her mistakes.

“I can not turn back the hands of time and stop Baal’s armies from marching on Summerglen - I can not ride out to the village and drag every man, woman and child from their home. I can not unspend the days I have spent making allies with men and women who have the means and the morals to put their gold to good use in efforts of restoration and revitalization. So tell me - what would you have me do?” There was a waft of anger at the edge of her voice, but the question was not mocking or cruel - it was frustrated, but earnest.

“I want you to do your job,” he spat back, bristling now that words were finally coming back his way.

“My job is to serve the people of Summerglen, the people of the Dawnspire, and the people of Quel’thalas -- tell me, what ails you most? What can I do, in this moment, to serve you?”

Her response caught him off-guard, left him standing there, his anger dampened - but not extinguished - and his face cycling through a spectrum of emotions that were hard to place. Another silence passed between them, interrupted by the swelling murmur of the attention they had drawn, but Caeliri was unrelenting; ever the first to speak, the first to strike down silence and fill the air with whatever words she could fathom, regardless of their needs or purpose, she held fast, waiting for his response.

“We just… want to go home,” he conceded at last, the heat in his voice reduced to a simmer, “we want to rebuild our lives, bury our dead, and just… pick up the pieces. Your soldiers won’t let anyone past the city gates.”

“Summerglen is …. Unsafe, still,” she ventured, voice even and calm, “but if that is your desire, I beg you wait a few weeks more -- once the village is safe… we will begin to rebuild. This I swear to you,” she lifted a hand, crossing it over her heart, and bent neatly at the waist into a deep bow the left her hair sweeping against the stones at their feet.

Rage reduced to a rumbling from a roar, the man sucked air in through his teeth, flicking his eyes away; when she rose up to her full height once more, his face was screwed up tightly, his shoulders tight and taut, and his hands wormed their way into his pockets. “Believe it when I see it,” was all he added, before skulking back to the others, whose attention slowly faded from their Kin’taris, returned to their own internal affairs.

Drawing in a deep, quaking breath, Caeliri turned from them, back up the path from whence she’d come, strides long and powerful and swift, eager to be away from the sharp bite of shame still snapping at her cheeks, and to put her promise into motion.

Returning to her rooms, in the Citadel, Caeliri slammed shut the door in her wake, moving with purpose to the small writing desk pressed against the wall below the window. The sound startled her phoenix from her reverie, making Grace swivel her head to scrutinize Caeliri with one glowing, white eye. The crest of feathers along her head rose up, curious and agitated all at once; she could feel the tense that twisted through Caeliri’s guts, and she did not like it.

More so, she did not like whoever made her mistress feel that way.

Caeliri slid her fingers over the upturned feathers, smoothing through the licking flames unburnt, smoothing and soothing the phoenix all at once. No more comfort was offered, though - her hands were quick to grab parchment and paper, pulling the pale sheet into the shaft of light the window let splay across the deep cherrywood desk. With a breath, she put pen to paper, and wrote:

“Citizens of the Dawnspire, Soldiers of the Sunguard, Once more I must beg you to aid me…”

All Things; Peace - pt. 1 All Things; Peace - pt. 2 Ruin Rising Tides, Crashing Skies A Cry for Help

[jessipalooza]

Victory

The crack of a whip. The rumble of thunder. The scream of a storm. The song of swords clashing. The slice of steel against flesh. The crunch of snow beneath a boot. The vicious crackle of fel fire.

It all runs together. Orgrimmar, Draenor, The White Widow, Northrend, The Dawnspire. 

The Bleeding Eye, The Legion, Garrosh, Karsteth—

Karsteth.

Karsteth.

She sucks in a breath. The mere thought of the man shakes her back to the present. She smells sulfur, sweat, and blood. There is screaming, there is cheering, there is crying.

The demon in front of her is naught but ash. The Illidari beside her looks despondent. Oathsworn around her try to make sense of what has happened. Some know. Some think they know. Some have no idea.

A knight becomes a phoenix and in a flash, both are gone. What remains is victory.

Victory?

The crack of a whip. The rumble of thunder. The scream of a storm. The song of swords clashing.

She looks to the Illidari beside her. She speaks quietly, privately: You are not dead. Not yet.

The slice of steel against flesh. The crunch of snow beneath a boot. The vicious crackle of fel fire.

She crosses the field of carnage. She shouts the order to tend to the wounded. She finds the Felmancer and takes his hand.

We are not dead. Not yet.

Aye. Victory.

@thesunguardmg | @she-wants-the-d20 | @pyrar for mentions

[theislesunfamily]

When the World Doesn’t End... (What Happens Then?)

The following is a small snapshot into Ithanar’s thought process following the events of our campaign finale last night. 

The world never ends the way you want it to.

Baal didn’t realize that lesson in time.

For everything he wanted, for all of the destruction and carnage he wished to carve…

It never ends on your terms.

I’ve never been one to… oh, what’s the phrase?

‘Toot my own horn’?

That’s it.

But I’ve seen my fair share of supposed ends, of averted annihilation.

It never goes the way anyone wants it to.

Which leaves us… with a question that’s probably harder to answer when we’re alive.

When the world doesn’t end…

What happens then?

A year ago, I intended to… go back to retirement after all of this.

If all of this actually happened.

The end of the world never goes the way you want it to.

So… what now?

Tanrae used to make a point of something, a saying she often repeated to us.

It didn’t matter if you were a brand damn new private on your first day, or a respected general on your last.

Quel’thalas…

It isn’t a place.

It’s our hopes and dreams.

Our fears, our dread, the ends to which we tend.

It’s a people.

With that in mind?

I’m not done.

Not yet.

Because… these people?

I’d call some of them friends.

Fel, some of them I’d even call family.

They’re my… kingdom.

To me, they are Quel’thalas. 

And I’m far from being done with protecting it. 

[sonofkhaz]

Something Ends, Something Begins

Dawn was a welcoming reprieve to the residents of the Dawnspire.

Muroco sat upon a fallen stone, resting his muscles. After the pyrrhic victory over Baal, the tauren had taken no respite. He had spent the entire night employing his strength to carry the wounded to safety, clear the rubble, and put out fires that ran rampant throughout the citadel.

It was also needed to bury the dead.

The battle and its aftermath had been long, harrowing ordeals. They didn’t rattle Muroco - violence and death were part and parcel of his life. The weeping and wailing of agony that took place afterwards had filled his ears as he toiled. Where he had lived, others had died. Even as his allies were cut down, and he was left face to face with Baal, he had lived.

And the realization of why he still lived dawned upon Muroco.

It had been just over a year that he gave his oath to Zalin Shadowsunder, finalizing his place in the Sunspears. In the course of a long year, he had traveled far and wide, fighting against bandits, the Alliance, the Nightborne, agents of the Old Gods, the Burning Legion, and other fell, deadly foes. He remembered the battle of Suramar. Orgrimmar. Thalassian Pass. Oakvale. He had grown stronger, mightier, with each battle.

But he didn’t create his success by himself.

As a child, his father, Hrumin, had beaten into him the notion that he must be strong to succeed in the world. It was a harsh lesson that taught him to be self-sufficient, to never rely on others for help, to never expect anyone to come to his aid. Even after his exile, Muroco wandered the world, alone, never establishing lasting friendships or alliances.

However, he was only alive because of the Blood Elves. The people whom he was once sworn to fight against.

Strong as he was, one warrior cannot stand against an entire army. The task is too great for a single individual. Every time he held the line, alone, his allies took great lengths to stand by him, even at the cost of their own safety.

Some of those allies did not make to see the rising sun.

And some were gone because they chose to help him live.

Muroco was not the type of tauren that grieved. He did not feel pain in his heart. And yet, he bowed his head. For once in his life, he prayed. He prayed that the souls who had saved him were saved in return. They were true warriors, all - and Muroco was proud of them.

They had won the war, but the fighting was far from over. Other threats would arise to threaten the Sunguard. Further still, others needed time to rest, time to rebuild, time to mourn. Until then, Muroco would act as the immovable shield protecting his new tribe - the only friends he ever had - from harm.

Muroco’s reputation as a savage, relentless killer had diminished, and in its place he was becoming known as a stalwart warrior, fearlessly leading the charge with Mammoth raised high.

It was a small price to pay for the peace it brought to him.

For just as iron sharpens iron, so too do friends strengthen each other.

[korammstonehoof]

Coming to Terms

“Stay on your guard, we can not lose you yet! I shall keep you on your feet!”

Koramm’s brow furrowed with focus as he called out to the elements, pleading for their aid. With a short sigh of relief, he felt the elements answer his summons, matter beginning to well up beneath the feet of the Lightward Thanidiel and the two Initiates, Zanaeva and Aeyns. All three had been brought low by the Skin Collector, and slowly, they each got to their feet once more.

The tauren moved cautiously away from Kala, the demon who had attempted to fell him not a few moments before. Her attacks were like shards of ice driving at his mind, threatening to drive him insane should he give her the chance. Even so, there was no truly safe place within the hall of the Phoenix Heart, with demons coming at them from all sides. As it was, with his back to the Phoenix Heart, a demon boxed him in on all sides.

Out of the corner of his eye, Koramm kept watch on the Doom Lord, Baal. Where before he had been across the room, he was slowly getting closer, each step shaking the ground around him. Even so, Koramm kept himself focused on healing those around him. If they fell, Ball wouldn’t be the only demon that Koramm would have to worry about.

A voice called out behind him, the words of the Archon drowned out by the ever present booming of Baal. Koramm turned, his face instantly filling with the sight of the Doom Lord standing just to his left, the demon’s hand raised high over his head.Before he could blink, Baal’s giant hand came crashing down, sharp claws slashing along Koramm’s body. The tauren collapsed, not a word was able to pass his lips as his head swam and the world faded to black.

***

Koramm’s eyes opened to a void. All around him strands of power surged, easily felt but invisible to the eye. The tauren floated in the blackness, even his own body not visible to him, as he tried to get his bearings. Somewhere, Koramm felt sharp shooting pain on his left arm, but it was as if it were a dream; distant, fleeting, and easily ignored. It was much simpler to float in the void, disconnected from reality, from the pain of the body, and the pain of the mind.

A fleeting image crossed his mind, filling the tauren with an overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction. Startled, Koramm looked around, seeing for the first time that he was not alone in the void. Off, in the distance, was a small earth elemental flecked with green stone, and beside it a rather tiny water elemental. Although Koramm could still not see himself, the strands of power continued to surge, now visible as flickering lines of red and orange, blown about by whips of grey. With some focus, the tauren seemed to move closer to the two small elementals.

“Emerite, Raidriss, what are you doing here? Where am I?”

Pictures of his body laying against the earth, his arm torn to shreds, as blood began to pool around him passed through Koramm’s head. “Oh. I’m dying.”

Distantly, even further off than the sharp shooting pain of his arm, Koramm felt the world shake. The pulsing red strands of energy grew brighter as the swirling gusts of grey faded. With a resigned sigh, Koramm sat between the two small elementals. Well, as much as he could sit without a body with which to do the action. Even so, it felt as if the elementals were right next to him, a comfort of sorts. “I can’t say that I thought I would go this soon, there was plenty more I had hoped to do with my life. At the very least, I wished that I would fully reforge my connection with all of the elements, and that my end would see me laid to rest back in Mulgore.”

A sharp spike of green flashed through the void around him before the red flared up once more, completely overpowering the green. “You never did tell me where I am. I mean, I’m dying, but this is certainly not what I expected to happen to me before my spirit passes on.”

No specific images passed through Koramm’s mind, but even so, the few glimpses he did get filled him with a sense of comfort. If he had had arms, the tauren would have set a hand on top of each elemental. “I do miss when you would talk to me in words, not just images. I can never know what you mean anymore!”

The two elementals each raised an arm, pointing to an area in front of Koramm. After a few moments, a single dreamleaf began to grow from the ‘ground’ of the void. As Koramm reached out to touch it, he saw his own hand come into focus once more. To his sides, the elementals disappeared, and all around him, the red strands of energy and the grey swirls faded once more to black.

“If this is how I am to meet my end, I hope that my sacrifice was not for nothing. I hope that we managed to hold the Legion, to stop their destruction of our home.”

Plucking a leaf from the plant, Koramm closed his eyes. @thesunguardmg

[ravenintheupdraft]

Journal of a Recovering Dead Woman, Part 2

Musical inspiration includes Now We Are Free and Sora Ni Utaeba

Thirty Days, Four Hours since incident: A Knight is Brave.  That is what our last rite was.  Cleanliness.  Honesty.  Mercy.  Bravery.  I haven’t put words to paper regarding that night, but I feel I have to now.  Sir Tyril, he the ink is illegible here, blotched and scratched out I wanted to be more than what I was.  I knew I could be more than just a weapon, a tool.  I wanted to be more, still want to be more.  He gave me a chance, an opportunity to rise above what the Scourge designed me to be.  To be clean of mind, body, and spirit.  To be honest with myself and others.  To show mercy to my enemies, but also to my allies and friends.  To be brave, no matter what the challenge.  

That last.  Bravery.  Ser Tyril brought us to the Phoenix’s Heart, a font of incredible power beneath the Dawnspire.  A miniature Sunwell, fused with the leylines of the land.  It was beautiful to behold, but I knew I was not welcome to stand near it.  Meters away I could feel it blister and burn me, it’s Light inimical to my existence.  Yet the command he gave was to step within it, and be born anew like the phoenix that blazons our banners.  The others followed it with some trepidation, the dragon stepping into it first, followed by Ashcaster and then my daughter, Caeliri.  Each stepped within it, burnt away in it’s fire before being constructed anew, gleaming and whole of body and spirit.  

At first I feared I could not complete the trial.  How could I? Stepping within the Heart would most certainly have meant my death.  Throughout all of my existence up to that point my life had followed very hard, very simple rules, the most important of which was: Do not encounter the Light.  It was my counter, the very literal Light against my Shadow.  To invite it was to invite suffering and pain like the kind I visited on others to survive.  Stepping within the Phoenix’s Heart was suicide.  

A Knight is Clean.

A Knight is Honest.

A Knight is Merciful.

A Knight is Brave.

…

A Knight is Brave.

And I am a Knight.  A Knight of the Broken Blade, A Knight of the Ebon Blade.  And if I were to do this, to commit myself to the Light in service of more than myself, A Kintaros.  A Knight of the Dawnspire.  A Knight of the Phoenix.  

There was no conceivable way that I would shirk from that responsibility.

So I stepped within it, knowing that I would die, and found my rebirth.  More than my rebirth, I found my salvation.  Whatever it did, I am not what I was before then.  I am changed, to something that even I do not recognize.  Whatever I am, I feel unshackled; I finally feel truly free.  Because Ser Tyril gave me a chance, I can truly be more than what I was.

And now he is dead, sacrificed to defeat the Legion.  He said he had a plan, and a part of me knew that it would involve his death, but I could not conceive of what it might be.  Nor that it would involve the Heart.  When he took the Windfury and flew to it’s center, I barely had time to call out to him.  I knew when he was burned within it, he would not return.  The Phoenix summoned from within the Heart had consumed him to live, consumed him for us to live.  

I am still processing this.  My heart misses him dearly, but I know he would not want me to dwell on him overly much.  He would want me to fulfill my oath, to stand by the declarations I made the night I was reforged.  That I would pledge my life, word, and honor to the defense of Quel’thelas, that I would be clean, honest, merciful, and brave.

I am still processing this.

Thirty Days, Ten Hours from incident: I cannot stop thinking about that moment, when Alazar rose from the Heart.  It was not Tyril, I know that.  But his rise gave me a feeling, something that I cannot really describe.  It was...warm.  Loving.  Like an embrace, but not.  I cannot...I need to think on this.

Thirty Days, Ten Hours, Six Minutes from incident:  The best way to put it is that I felt something.  

That is no more clear than before.  

Come on, Siildore, you can do better than that.

Thirty Days, Ten Hours, Fifteen Minutes from incident: It had to be the Light, but it was so...beautiful and warm.  Like holding my daughter in a hug, hearing her gush about a recent lover, the voice she makes when she holds frosty or silver.  A kiss shared with Feyrintha, leaning against her after making love, the smiles we share when we are alone.  My brother calling me Tannis or Siily, when I call him little Ithy right back.  The hug we shared when we first spoke to each other after learning about our connection.  It is in the way Faervell prods and plays, flirting just up to the line before Esme rolls her eyes and sighs.  It was a smile passed between Catriah and myself, the laugh I hear in Daxxle’s jokes, the ludicrous things he says about his factory.  The advice he gave me so long ago.  The tables we all used to sit around, laughing and talking for hours on end.  The drinks we shared at the Faire, when Zalin taught me to poison them so I could get drunk.  It was the fire that Caeliri made for me when I was paralyzed, the dawn we watched from her cottage window.  It is the way that Zalin looks at Elleynah, and the way she blushes and reddens when she looks back.  The announcement of Ellasha and Telchis’s child, and the rounds of congratulations and well-wishes that came after it.  When Feyrintha and I moved my things into our apartment, and we stood on the balcony, together, looking out into the city.  It was the way a mother carries her child, close to her breast and protected from the world; When Ith and I held hands as Tarianna advanced on us.  

When Caeliri was born, and I heard her first cries.  She was pressed into my arms, and I cried right along with her.

Thirty Days, Ten Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes after incident:  I keep trying to find a way to put into concrete terms what I felt, and nothing ever does it justice.  I cannot put it single terms, or even a very descriptive sentence.  How do you describe holding your daughter as she cries over her lost love? How can you put words to the simple act of holding a lover’s hands? I cannot…

Thirty Days, Ten Hours, Thirty-Four Minutes after incident: Love.  It was love, real...real love.  The Light is love, it is compassion, it is...real.  Not the facsimile emotions I felt from before.  It is...something.  I need to think a moment longer.

Thirty Days, Ten Hours, Fifty-Five Minutes after incident: It is clean.  It is honest.  It is merciful.  It is brave.  It is love.  That is all I can say the Light is.  It is the closest way I can describe it, what I felt.  What I feel now.  

I need to speak with Caeliri about this, with Elleynah.  They need to know.  

@dorksworn @stormandozone for mentions and medical records, @she-wants-the-d20 for Feyrintha mentions.  A lot of other people were name dropped, I’ll add them here: @cynfuldax @jessipalooza @pyrar @teamdoodledork (I think, I hope that’s Reynllin’s tumblr) @curiouslich

[caelindadewfall]

Aftermath

She’s become used to the sight of blood and gore. How could she not? But to see her comrades, her friends even, stolen away from her in the blink of an eye was something she would never be able to grow accustom too. She had watched them perish. So many lives snuffed out like candles in the wind. She imagines they had friends and families of their own that they would never see again. She wonders how they will feel when the news of what transpired reaches their ears. Will they feel sorrow? Or might they feel anger? She knows, of course, what they will feel. She’s experienced it herself on more than one occasion. It didn’t make her feel any better about it.

Her legs are weak, and her voice is hoarse. Her hands are blistered from gripping the haft of her spear so tightly. She trudges along her own path, seeing each body that had been sacrificed so that they might succeed as she wanders. She knew very few of them, and yet she felt the familiar throng of pain in her heart for all of them. They were nameless to her, but they did have names. She would try to learn each one. 

This didn’t feel like a victory. They had stopped the demonic invasion, and they had protected the Phoenix Heart, but the cost was higher than she had ever imagined. This wasn’t the kind of victory you heard about in the stories. She didn’t feel like a hero. She didn’t feel like some mighty warrior whose songs would be sung for ages. She feels humbled. 

She does not hold herself in company too long. Her wounds will heal in time, which is more than can be said for some. She is tired. Her legs, though weak, do not stop. They draw her towards home, off in the distance beneath some mighty oak barely left standing. She wants to be alone for now. She wants to rest. 

Maybe tomorrow she will smile again.