Eleeria Silverwing

They Call Your Name

She had come to hate the Night Warriors.

Not necessarily because they were enemies on the opposite side of this war for existence. Rather, Eleeria hated them for their weapons, their brutality. She imagined that the healers of the Alliance felt the same way about her and her Order, but as she washed her hands off of blood and grime in an infirmary sink, she couldn’t help but feel resentment. Glancing at herself in the mirror — hair tightly pulled back for once, the sharp lines of her sleepless features starkly visible — she patted her cheeks gently to try perk herself up. “Fortify!”

It didn’t seem to do much — hard to pat away long hours spent healing the injured — but it brought a smile to otherwise severe features, lightening the mood.

“Champion, there’s another patient, and he says he wants to— oh, my apologies....” the undead elven woman stood a beat away, hands folded in front of her as she realized Eleeria was taking a moment to herself. The small elf glanced over, offering a tired smile. The moment was gone; she was not like to get another, with the screams of the dying surrounding her like a near constant thrum.

“No need to be sorry, Os’golde, what’s the trouble?”

“This patient says he wants to talk to you about something.” She glanced back towards the infirmary proper and Eleeria sighed, brushing off her dirtied tunic and tabard. She had long since given up full armor in the infirmary, but her Order tabard remained. It brought a sense of peace to those who understood it — she was not merely a priest or a paladin; she was a Blood Knight, the best Quel’thalas had to offer. She carried the Sunwell with her nigh visibly, which seemed to be a boon in times where the worst warriors struck where no light was to be found. Eleeria nodded to Os’golde and marched out of the medics’ rest area, heading towards the troll man who had asked to speak with her.

“Champion Silvahwing.” He was a younger man, forearms lost to the glaives of the night warriors — another reason for her to hate them, she thought. Eleeria smiled and checked his chart, noting the affirmative response to regenerative power on his physical. Thank the gods. “Stone Guard Ama’ji.” She did not even need to look at the name on the chart; she knew most of the healers like the back of her hand. The first cohort was Ysrathil’s labor of love — and so, by extension of Eleeria’s love for the passionate woman, she had taken it up to familiarize herself with the Cohort in a way she didn’t really need to. And then from there, the medics of the rest of her cohorts. It only seemed fair, really; all medics reported to the Phoenix Corps, and if she was to command them effectively it seemed proper to know their strengths and weaknesses.

“Seems you’ve got some regrowing to do.”

“Dat I do.” He chuckled, voice deep and clear. The injury had tired him, confined him to bed for a few weeks — but he had not lost his spirit. She could see the fire in his eyes as he leveled his gaze on her. “But ya be fine company dese few weeks. Ominous company, but fine company.”

“Ominous?” She took one of the seats next to his bed, pulling what remained of his arm into her hands. Warm light gathered in her fingertips as she checked for infection, cleansing the start of what appeared to be something nasty likely picked up on the transfer back to the hold. “I am not ominous.”

“De brightest light cast de darkest shadow.” He frowned, nodding a tusk towards her glowing fingers. “And de shadows, dey be talkin’ bout you.”

“I doubt that. They wouldn’t know my name.”

Eleeria frowned deeply, light scourging away what appeared to be the start of gangrene — encouraging Ama’ji’s natural regeneration rather than rot. He winced, shaking his head. “Dey do! Dat be da ting — dese spirits in Darkshore, dey be cryin’ out in anguish. And when I heal and I connect to dem — dey tell me many tings, but over and over here dey cry out: Silvahwing.” Eleeria glanced up, and they met eyes, the two of them sharing a long look. Finally, the troll turned his head, gazing away; Eleeria felt a shiver run down her spine, and she glanced back at the healing magic in her fingers, letting it dissipate.

"Only one Silvahwing I know on de Horde, right?" Ama'ji offered a small shrug. "It must be about you. But de spirits, dey've been done wrong; dark and cold, reachin' out with spectral fingers, can't find rest...what ghosts haunt you, Champion? Do you want to talk about it?"

Eleeria looked up at him suddenly, eyes widening. "No-- no, I'd rather not. Not right now." Taking a breath, she amended, "it's bad luck, to talk of ill tidings in a place of death."

Ama'ji nodded, offering a small smile. "Dat it be. Well, if you ever need to talk, ol' Ama'ji is around. For now though, ya might just want to make peace with those demons." He gently pulled his arms away from Eleeria, settling back down into the bed. "For now, I'm gonna sleep like de dead. But trust me -- I'll wake up tomorrow!" His joke did not fall flat; she chuckled, shaking her head as she stood.

"Thank you for telling me, Ama'ji. Rest well; the First Cohort needs you back sooner rather than later." Eleeria took a breath, moving back towards the sink in the mender's rest area. And yet -- this time, when she stared into the mirror, it was an anxious expression that stared back at her. Her fingers gripped the sink, the prosthetic hand's grip hard enough that the metal of the basin seemed to creak slightly under the pressure.

What sort of spirits know my name? And why?