Eleeria Silverwing

General

The Warband's troops were a sight to behold.

A motley cast and riot of colors, slim Sin'dorei marched alongside Highmountain. Forsaken cavalry, mounted on their undead steeds, rubbed elbows with the Shal'dorei on their manasabers. Eleeria watched them approach from her position on the watchtower of the Crossroads, only the sense of Weleria's stolid form behind her keeping her from being immensely nervous.

"How do I face them?" Her voice was soft enough only for Weleria to hear; of course she was nervous. Though Lormeus said that she did not have to fill Ysrathil's shoes, it was hard to imagine herself standing up and replacing the powerhouse of a woman. Ysra had been a force of nature. Eleeria found it hard to be so forceful; being a foot shorter than her former General and former lover didn't help either, as much as she wished it did. It was hard not to feel diminutive in every way when the two were placed side by side in the mind's eye. Compared to an inferno, a pointed tip of the Horde’s spear burning brightly with love for her work, Eleeria's own magic felt so kind, so gentle. Her personality was large, but she had never been a person to bubble over and scream with a rage that could incite fear in the bravest of men. She could summon that flame of anger when necessary, but so too could she heal and mend with gentle motions -- an action that came more and more readily to her every day. It was enough of a second nature to make her worry they would not trust her. How could she ever live up to the legend of a lover who had a book written about her glorious deeds, for Belore’s sake?

"You're fine, Ellie." Weleria's voice was neutral, but forceful. "Do what you do best."

Eleeria rolled her shoulders, spine stiffening. Her features sharpened, golden eyes scanning out over the Warband's troops once more. She felt the weight of her responsibility lay on her shoulders like a familiar mantle at this point -- the weight had simply grown larger. How could she ask these people to die for the Horde? For her? If she made a mistake, it would be them that paid. Her mind turned briefly to that conversation with Ysrathil on the beach of Stranglethorn, the two of them warm from the sun and sharing a bottle of rum as they sat in the sand. Ysrathil had already captivated her at that point, though she only recognized it now. She did not remember how they had gotten to the point, but now, that long conversation about duty and leadership seemed like such a terrible omen it was nearly humorous.

“One day, when you’re asked to be in charge of so many lives, you’ll understand how important it is to be held accountable to them.” Eleeria remembered Ysrathil both in the flashes of passion shared between them and in the moments when Ysra had not been paying attention -- the way she threw herself head first into planning, spreading paper across her desk as if space could grant her the clearest picture of the war from a bird’s eye view. The hours she had spent carrying the dead back from the Stormsong pass, refusing to leave until every last Horde soldier had been brought back to be buried or cremated with honor. Ysra writing in her journal, Ysra’s bright grin as she spoke of her family dog, her parents, Weleria--

Eleeria took a breath, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, and moved away from the window and down the stairs, out onto the field to face the army. She passed from the shade of the watchtower into the blistering Barrens sunlight, her well-loved armor shining in the midday light, the facets of her warhammer glowing crimson in Belore’s gaze.

Step out of the shadows, Eleeria Silverwing, and lead.

The thought that Ysrathil would want it gave strength to her voice, as hundreds of eyes turned their attention on the small Sin’dorei wrapped in crimson and black.

“Blackheart Warband!” The ensuing roar of the Horde brought a smile to Eleeria’s lips, and she waited for the tumultuous noise to come to its end before speaking again. She could feel Weleria behind her, a gentle support; Eleeria did not think she needed it now, though it was appreciated. The strength of the crowd carried her words forward with insistence.

“You are here today because we are to siege Northwatch, and take back the Barrens for the Horde! I know that many of you may have never placed my name to my face before. And some of you I know are doubting the ability of a healer to lead a war effort.” As her eyes scanned the formations, many of the guilty looks in the eyes of the soldiers told her she had guessed correctly. The liquid fire in her veins flared at the thought of being considered weak -- but unlike the woman who had stood here before her, she could not allow her temper to rule. It was important, to Eleeria, to keep it firmly under control unless she was unleashing justice on the battlefield. To present the image of a confident healer, one had to master their emotions; how could anyone trust a healer prone to outburst and instability?

So instead, she merely paused for a moment, a breath taking that fire down to smoldering embers, before continuing. “So I am here to ask of your medics, your search and rescue teams, your counselors and menders-- who keeps the Warband going when all other hope seems lost?”

“The Phoenix Corps!” There -- she’d know that voice anywhere. Though it was echoed by menders down the ranks, the first voice and the loudest belonged to a tall Zandalari tucked into the ranks of the first Cohort. He raised his fist weapons into the air, lightning sparkling at the tips of those curved claws. Ama’ji grinned at her, and Eleeria returned the sentiment, speaking again with emphasis.

“Who banishes the clutches of death and brings you back to your wives, husbands, and children!”

“The Phoenix Corps!” More menders took up the call, and even those foot soldiers who had been personally helped by the many menders of the Warband called out the words in a crest of support.

“And who will never leave you to face the Alliance alone? Who has your back to ensure you can keep fighting!?”

“THE PHOENIX CORPS!” Eleeria gave the proud menders who were cheering and yelling their time to exult. She knew well the stress that healing could put on someone’s shoulders. It was nice, to see all of those menders she’d come to know over the past several months proud of their work and glowing with support.

“So I would ask you to question that gentleness you think all healers carry. And I will tell you straight -- I am not General Dawnsteel.” She moved through the army as she spoke, letting the men and woman take her measure. Though they towered over her in many cases, they moved aside at the measure of her march. Eleeria knew on some level that she could move a mountain with the force of her personality -- her stare was direct, meeting the eyes of people much taller than she and willing them to shift so she could step through. “I am not a woman of fury. I know many of you looked up to her for that -- and hells, I did as well. But I will tell you what I am, and that is a healer -- and a damned good one, if I do say so myself!” Chuckles went up through the army, and she continued. “So I can promise you -- all of you -- that I will be there beside you every step of the way. I will heal you when you’re injured, and offer advice when you are doubting -- and we will siege Northwatch together. I will not stop until we have routed the Alliance and conquered the entirety of the Barrens for the Horde!”

The noise was overwhelming. Eleeria grinned as the soldiers broke into chants and cries in their own tongues and in orcish. Weapons raised to the air, the shimmer of arcane, light, and even fel arcing into the sky in a display of shameless fervor.

“Blackheart, we go to war!” Her cry broke through the din, inciting more cries of excitement. Moving back to Weleria and the saddled Vanir brought to her by a stable hand, she mounted her faithful charger and patted his flank. With a last glance to the army behind her, and the swell of pride for their accomplishments and future work tight in her chest, Eleeria turned -- leading the Warlord’s army south, the thrum of soldiers at her heels.