Eleeria Silverwing

Eleeria folded the tabard and sat it on her bed in front of her crossed legs. Fingers caressed the loving stitching -- the red and black of the phoenix motif was brilliant, spelled against blood and wear. She still smiled at the gift Ethalarian had given her -- it was her cherished armor, worn almost every day at this point. She loved the fierce crimson, the sacrifice it stood for; she loved the way Ethalarian spoke of the Order, how impassioned he could be at times was inspiring. She sighed, pulling the fabric into her lap to brush her hand over it again.

Though Ethalarian spoke of the Order with glowing praise, it was always for what it was -- not what it is, she reminded herself idly. Now it seemed less about spearheading an era of...

I went home and buried myself in the mundane routine of the Blood Knights. Paperwork, training, repeat. Letting people fold me into a routine, dictate my schedule. I have never been particularly keen on living by someone else’s rules -- but in the end I find it easiest to forget my emotions when I don’t have time to contemplate them. So I bury myself. Let them replace Eleeria with some well-mannered soldier, as I have done in the past so well and so fluidly; it eases the ache, the paranoia. My food journal starts to fill again: from nothing to a few things, and finally to real meals. I am not ready to talk about my feelings, so I cook them instead: stew, pasta, meats and pies all come tumbling out of my kitchen and in turn, into my...

The dream has changed.

In my dream, I am dancing. It's the midsummer fire festival, and Silvermoon and its noble court are alive with reds, oranges, golds -- as usual and yet, there's something extra in it. Some extra shine in the eyes of those who move past me. The music -- in my dreams I am not tone deaf. In my dreams, the music is impossibly fast and beautiful: a whirlwind of sounds and I can hear the colors. The golden leaves of Eversong; the crackling whip of red, everburning flame. The Fire Festival belongs to everyone, of course, but the Sin'dorei celebrate it best. My dress is always, always crimson: dark, like merlot. Nearly black -- but when the ever-present fires illuminate the fabric, it bursts with fiery flashes of...

After sending that letter to Vensala, after the Shadow Assembly and the nonsense that is Tellarian, I decide to finally take Aldarra’s offer of a place to reside in Suel’thalas. It is, quite frankly, what I am sure more optimistic people would call a project. I personally call it a hovel.Not that I mind, really. I have lived in worse, after all, and a little dirt and a few bugs do not scare me. After securing the cracks in the windows against the rain and patching up the holes in the walls and floors of this hovel of a place, I move in my most important possessions first: my cats.

They love it, of course. Smudge and Smear run rampant in the small home, meows bouncing off the walls. It reminds me of a human’s architectural...

I may have stowed away for awhile. Well, not really. More like: I may have gone to Shanks and asked for more lessons in sailing.

I am -- quite frankly -- tired of all the dour attitudes. I lied to Lilliana, of course; I have no concrete idea how to fix this, any of this, other than to do one specific thing. I have locked my anger away for years. But the Light, if I follow it, always leads back to one place. Unlocking the box has consequences -- memories flashing before my eyes and of course, I was never Eldriana to begin with; how could I have been so foolish as to think otherwise? The rest of it is inconsequential, to me, to Eleeria -- I discard those feelings of unease and unrest and decide I have no more need for them. I will be...

Light’s Hope was..uncomfortable.

Watching Lilliana, you would never think that she must be hurting. Her face is nearly serene -- if the stares that she gets from those who do not know her (and there are many who do know her, and very well, and question not) bother her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she seems to glide through the space as if she owns it still. It dawns on me that I never asked her where she was stationed, back before she became a demon hunter. It is possible she could have been stationed here for a time; perhaps Suel’thalas, only a stone’s throw away, was near enough that this place weighed constantly on her mind. I cannot guess at what she’s thinking. She assumes I didn’t see her sadness -- as well as she tried...

I went to Haera.

Her family has always had the gift of divination on her mother's side, and she carries a pouch of those cards -- the ones the Witch used to use. Slightly different in picture but similar in meaning. They are meant to aid the diviner in scrying the future. Some sort of innate connection to the Weave. Or something. I'm not sure what it actually is; Haera describes it as reaching out a hand to tug at the threads of fate and see what resonates. Divination is not her primary concern, but she inherited the gift from her mother.

She said the cards were not happy as soon as she drew them, attempting to put them away. She said I shouldn't look; it would only bring me unhappiness. She could put them away and I would never be the...

There is something about all this -- these changes. So many people asking me to let the past go. Be someone you weren't, become someone new. Change, Eleeria! That seems to be the theme of the new year, if anyone counts these years any more. Change.

Ethalarian told me I don't need to look back anymore. I am not an assassin any longer. I’m a proud Knight-Initiate. Hyrall told me the same thing -- prettier words, but the same meaning. I am released from this, from my past, from all of it. I am Chosen, I’m no longer a simple assassin, I am something different. Better. A predator. But it's not that simple. I can't release myself from several hundred years of training. Not all at once -- maybe not ever. I can call myself a blood knight...