Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover

Name: Aerona
Age: Adult
Race: Worgen
Guild: the Errant

Gender: Woman
Pronouns: She/Her
Residence: Itinerant
Profession: Witch

Eyes: Teal
Height: 160cm
Complexion: Pale
Scars: Cheek, arm

Hair: Ash Blonde
Build: Shapely
Voice: Soft
Tattoos: None

Coy smiles and a dry wit cannot wholly disguise the distance in her eyes; oceans of aquamarine, their tides turned irrevocably toward faraway shores. A dreamlike woman beset by ennui, Aerona belongs to worlds of her own, but dwells scarce within the one shared by all.A roaming physician, witch, and self-proclaimed heir to the Old Ways of Gilneas, the woman can most aptly be described as enigmatic. The road she walks follows an inscrutable path, its course dictated by whims the Heresiarch is disinclined to share, though she is more prone to help than harm.

Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover

Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover

Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover

Written 18/12/24

It had been years since Aerona’s last return to Gilneas, let alone to the coven. Time had worn them both down; she was no longer the wide-eyed girl and it no longer bloomed in hues of deepest green. The lamb had returned home in the hopes of finding the wolves, but instead walked a thorny path of rotten brown to a grove that might have fallen silent entirely, if not for the mourning wail of the winter wind.

The witch sighed softly, a gentle exhale of breath that found itself lost beneath the gales. It was the Winter Solstice and yet there was nobody to share it with. No sisters to join in song and communion, no blazing fire upon the central pyre. No matron mother to lead their rituals and sacrifice. She missed their mother most of all; her soothing tones and comforting hand. Hers fangs on–

The Heresiarch shook her head to dismiss that final image, even as her hand crept up to wordlessly rub at a pale bicep.

It made sense, Aerona considered. The omens of what was to come and the memories of what had been. The whispers of stone and stream, of fen and glade. They had all grown louder with the passing of time and now she understood why: there was nobody else left. Just a hollow grove, a broken sisterhood, and… her.

A vague sense of regret gnawed at her chest–why had she fled the wolves, when she should have howled among them–before the witch put them to rest. Every path had a reason, every vessel its purpose, and her survival wasn’t by chance. Those were the matron’s teachings.

But the matron was gone and Aerona knew neither the where nor the why. The gods of the land–of the grove–had seen fit to give her only glimpses. The baying of wolves, a pained whine, and a challenge to the pack. The witch supposed that the matter of true importance was neither of those questions, it was the simple fact that every coven needed a maternal hand.

Hers were all that was left.

Once upon a time, the little white lamb had been the heir apparent. Maybe that still held true. Maybe that was why she lived to return now. As the thoughts began to swirl, a vortex of apprehension, the Heresiarch took to walking.

She knew the way, of course. Even after so long, Aerona knew this sequestered corner of the Headlands like the back of her hand. It had been the home that that cold building in Keel had never been. The song of the wilds had always called to her, just as those prisons of stone had repelled her.

It didn’t take long for her soundless steps to reach their destination. The cavern loomed ahead, its entrance veiled by a curtain of moss and ivy. It was where the matron mother had made her haven, where she guarded the grove’s core. It was a sacred place, ancient and ominous. But it was with dull resignation that the Heresiarch came to a stop. It was as she had feared.

There was no thrum of life within. No gentle thump, thump, thump of a heartbeat. That was why the glade was rotting away. Someone–something–had torn out its soul, ripping it bloodily from its resting bosom.

Another flash of memories–or were they portents, she couldn’t say–sent a jolt through the witch. The pack’s black wolf, fled into the dismal night. A culprit. But there was something more… an hourglass turned upon its side, the matron’s weight to bear. A life bound intrinsically to the grove’s stolen heart and with it: eternity.

She strode away. There was so much to do, more than she had feared. Not least the ascension rituals and the proper sacrifices. There had been a sisterhood once, to carry the burden in concert. Aerona would have to make do – with herself and her wiles, and with those she could trust, if there truly were any. The Heresiarch couldn’t remain here, but the crumbling glade needed a steward; someone to protect what she could not.

A moment of inspiration. The Gilnean crept a hand into one of her myriad pouches and produced an acorn. The potency of life waxed within it, bleeding comfortably into her bare palm. Hints of a smile pulled at the corners of Aerona’s lips, growing into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach those weary teal eyes.

She dropped to a knee and began to softly dig with her fingers. Every sisterhood started somewhere… and every mother needed a daughter. Every discovery had its fated meaning.

Written: 25/6/25

Since the return to her beginnings—that crumbling grove and its mouldering boughs—days had slipped into weeks and then months. Winter was but a memory followed by springtime and, finally, the stagnant warmth of a Gilnean summer. Tending the land and making those myriad preparations had become Aerona’s new, resumed normality; it was routine, each day bleeding inexorably into the next.

TThe dreams—the whispers—had been quietened of late. That typically meant that she was where she needed to be, without the arrival of fate’s next capricious chapter. Of course, newfound motherhood ensured that noise remained a stubborn companion.

“Matron! Look!”

And there it was, that familiar cacophony. The dryad bounded across mud and browned leaves toward her; the girl’s gait was inelegant and clumsy, as if prone to collapse at a moment’s notice—that had happened more than once already, in an all too fledgling life. Still, Aerona allowed the traces of a smile to curl the corners of her lips. Maternalism was a strange but not unpleasant new facet to her own story.

“Good evening, Elain,” she responded whilst turning to face the incoming storm of haphazard enthusiasm. The girl who was once an acorn had grown quickly, with the body of a woman grown—if not the bearing. Had it not been intended by the will of the weald, Aerona would have considered the birthing a mistake. An aberration born of tainted soil.

Elain stumbled as she drew near the witch, arms outstretched with something unappetising in her grasp. “Look what I found,” she beamed. “A maggot!”

Though she breathed out a fond sigh, the mother took a moment to consider her daughter once again. From what she understood of dryads—those wardens of the woods, the progeny of the Forest Lord—they were more deeply connected to the lifeforce of the wilds than any other. Consequently, it was no true surprise that Elain’s first breath had been ragged and wrong, and time had yet to remedy it.

Despite Aerona’s best efforts, she had succeeded only in stymying the degradation of the grove she called home—a fact which was reflected in her acorn’s maladjustment. The dryad was as afflicted as the soil in which she was planted; a dappled complexion marred with blood-brown splotches, a mane of leafy tresses like autumn’s dying leaves, and behaviours which would have disturbed the wise and worthy of Kalimdor’s great forests.

It had been a strange experience, finding Elain with half the carcass of a sparrow protruding from her mouth, feathers and blood the proof to a crime she still denied committing—like a child caught with their hand in the candy jar. She was becoming more wolf than doe. An intrinsic nature, tied to the state of the glade.

The witch shook her head slowly, before reaching out to brush her knuckles softly against the girl’s cheek; Elain leaned into it, a crooked smile the result of her victorious discovery. “Put it back where you found it, sapling. It’s not for playing with,” she instructed, before adding with a wink: “Nor for supper.”

Aerona was never quite certain what fine cuisine the dryad would attempt to sample next, so nipping it in the bud early was becoming a frequent refrain.

Elain wrinkled her nose unhappily, but eventually nodded—like most of her mannerisms it was several shades too exuberant, but the witch had grown to find it endearing. “Yes, matron. If I’m to be steward, I have to remember this.”

At least that particular lesson had sunk in. No routine was permanent and Aerona knew well that someday—likely soon—she would need to resume her wandering, for answers and absolution. If it weren’t fated, she might have been nervous about leaving her home in the inconsistent hands of her fawning daughter, but they both had their allotted tasks. The roles for which they were intended.

When Elain had departed—to return the larva or to devour it, she could not say—the witch resumed her daily occupation. Thus did she return to the bowels of the bough, the Matron’s shrine within the greystone cavern; as she passed through its curtain of moss, Aerona shed her soft flesh for the mantle of the beast. In those catacombs of construction—Dalaran, Stromgarde, and other such prisons—she never made use of the Blessing. But here, at home, it was beginning to feel right. The truest sense of self, even if a lamb wearing the wolf’s pelt felt like poor comedy. Kin would have laughed, she briefly considered before pushing the thought aside—that ghost of the past was an ache she tried to ignore.

Her senses sharpened, her soul embraced the earth. It connected her with this husk of home.

As Aerona drew near to the shrine, the seat of the Matron’s standing, her heightened smell savoured the scents of incense—of lavender and thyme, agrimony and vervain. But the longer she lingered, the more she began to comprehend beyond simply the mundanity of witchcraft. There was something she had gotten wrong; the heart of the grove had been torn away to leave it festering, but the soul… the soul still stirred, in torpor deep below.

She couldn’t be sure, but something—someone—slept beneath the boughs, beneath the grass and soil. Whether it was her role to serve or sever It, Aerona had yet to understand. But It was there, writhing in its bed of bones. The witch began to wonder, before the world around her warped.

Usually she slipped into the seeing of portents, like the gentle drift of the currents. This was abrupt, a shuddering from the here and now into the what would be. Like needles, the signs dug into her—a shattered sky and alien stars, woods of morbid hue, and on wound the winding road. Aerona staggered, clasping onto something she couldn’t see; cold and steady, an anchor at sea. A raven’s cry, sly laughter. Destinations and destined meetings both.

Immured within the cavern, she wasn’t certain how much time had passed, when the present gradually regained its primacy. There was no sunlight to track there, only the flickering of dying candles and fading of incense. Below, It resumed its sleep—but it had seen her and given her a nudge. Her path continued and her homebound sojourn was near its end.

Written: 12/5/26

The Eversong Woods had proven themselves as beautiful as the tales suggested; a land beset by an eternal autumn, with vast woodland of verdant grass and amber boughs. Under freer circumstances, Aerona could have walked its forest trails and resplendent streams for an eternity, but the witch was rarely brought anywhere without purpose… and a grander sight still awaited her.

They called it the Lightbloom, and it was the purpose of her intrusion into the elven heartlands. The name fit; she could feel it before she could see it, a deluge of life—untempered, violent in its growth—that had been accelerated beyond its limits by the Light. The witch had never had much interest in the holy before… but this was magnificent.

The closer she drew to its boundary, the more her back began to itch. Her stave, claimed from its previous wielder, that tumorous harpy, was suffused with shadows; and it clearly misliked this beacon of suffocating warmth. That told her she was on the right track. The staff had refused to answer her beckons and a new means of unlocking the strength it held within had become necessary. Or perhaps it had always been necessary; fate’s weave only ever unfolded at the proper time.

When Aerona stepped across the threshold, into the dense expanse of the Lightbloom, it was like… nothing she had yet experienced. It was like stepping into distilled and concentrated sunlight, bearing a warmth that filled her breast. There was energy here; there was possibility.

There was noise, too. Distant rumbles of enormous strides, rustling bushes of golden-eyed rodents, the beat of wings overhead. The songs of Quel’Thalas’ great oaks were little more than a whimper in comparison.

She wound her way through the foliage, fingertips trailing across branches and leaves to drink in the ambient energies. It was addictive, but the witch wasn’t to be distracted. Or not wholly distracted. Every step was taking her nearer to her purpose, and her senses sharpened by the moment; no omens or portents were to come now, not when the prize of their guidance was at hand.

Aerona found an abrupt end to the crowded thicket, coming out into a glade of felled trees and abandoned lumber.

Though, she decided rather quickly that abandoned wasn’t quite accurate. Corpses were strewn across the light-infused soil, soaking it in viscous red. Trolls rather than elves; she had heard vaguely tell of their lumber operations as she’d passed through the woods, and so it proved true. Most of their dead were loggers, their bodies carved with deep gouges that glowed gold, and from their flesh grew new, gilded life. It almost brought a smile to Aerona’s lips.

A heaving breath caught her attention thereafter; the great, aching sigh of a beast in its throes, straining to persist in its bloom. The witch rounded the large pile of felled trees, not yet cut into logs, and there it was.

The creature’s radiant wings were pierced and torn, possessing no longer the strength to fly. Its body and head had collapsed on the ground, shuddering occasionally from the myriad wounds that had brought it low. Its luminous gaze found her, and Aerona carefully wove her way forward. She dropped down to her knees at the beast’s flank for a closer inspection.

It was more flora than fauna, she realised; the green veins that sat just beneath the surface reminded her of leaves than flesh. The potency of life within it was palpable, even as it shivered toward its end.

“Hello, sweetheart…” she murmured softly, affectionately, as she reached out to stroke its leafy plumage with the backs of her fingers. All the while, Aerona’s free hand drew her dagger.

The child of the Lightbloom was still not long after, ushered unto its final rest… and its carapace carved open, as she took her prize; the beating core of the luminous avian.

The heart was almost too large for her to carry, even with both hands, but still the witch raised it up high. With her chin raised and her lips parted, her fingers dug into pulsing flesh and squeezed. Its ichor was amber like sap, gleaming in the morning light, and when it gushed down to her awaiting tongue it was sweet and thick as honey; she gulped deeply, letting it wash down her throat, staining her lips and chin.

Aerona swallowed, and it was like imbibing daylight; a heat spread throughout her body, to the very ends of her fingers and toes; it pooled and settled in her stomach, intoxicating; divine. The witch shuddered, eyes fluttering closed, focusing only on the sensation burning inside.

This, she decided. This would be perfect. But she would need help; allies at her back, if she was to infuse such resplendence into the staff.

Written: 26/6/26

Ever since taking the magicks of the Lightbloom unto herself, it was as though the world was painted in brighter hues; sights and sensations stirred her in ways that Aerona could scarce recall in years gone by. The energies welled within her, always aching for release; always craving proliferation. To a dedicant of the untamed wilderness—one imbued with the gift of Goldrinn, even—it was quickly becoming a test of resolve to keep those urges in check.

She lazed at the loamy banks of the Elrendar, pale fingers drifting through the shallows of the river; it was cool and crisp, a tether to the here and now. Perhaps it had been a mistake to return to Quel’Thalas so soon after the suffusion; proximity to the source, even as the Runestones restrained them, made it so that the Bloom called out to her, even if the words were muffled. But then again, Aerona did not make mistakes—it must have been a lesson, then, that she might better understand the scope of what she sought to accomplish.

But all the same, it spoke of a shift in her path; even as her companions on the road wound their way east in search of a missing friend, hers now bent south. Back to the Plaguelands—and beyond, no doubt. It had been sometime since her last visit to the grove after all, and even a heart such as hers could yearn for home.

There was a pang of guilt over slipping away in the night—it seemed that there were some she was fonder of than anticipated—but it passed quickly enough. The witch was quite certain that the wayward bear would be retrieved; she’d seen nothing in her dreams to suggest otherwise. They didn’t need her for that, and it was not in her nature to be bound too tightly to others.

With a gentle sigh, Aerona began raising to her feet. She stopped still only when catching a glimpse of her reflection upon the surface of the Elrendar. The teal of her eyes had once again bled into a golden glow—one more symptom of the Bloom’s hold. It would fade soon enough, ebbing as she put distance twixt herself and the wellspring from whence it came, but for now it stood clear as a reminder; as Fate was her master, so too must she master this growing light. Her face looked rather fetching with the change in shade regardless, she decided with a muted huff of self-amusement.

Upright once more, the witch shouldered her travelling pack and resumed her journey southward. It wouldn’t do to stay still overlong, and she still needed to find a suitable outlet for those nascent sensations.

Guidelines

My rules for roleplay are pretty simple: no real world bigotry, no writing partners under the age of eighteen, and communication is key. Player is LGBTQ+ and has a zero tolerance policy for phobes. As long as these and general roleplay etiquette are kept in mind, I will do my best to be open-minded about approaches and ideas thrown my way.

Themes

I have a preference for mature and dark/horror themes as well as characters with struggle, conflict, and depth. Lighthearted tones do have their place but I would be lying if I wasn't an avid enjoyer of roleplay that involves loss, trauma, and struggles with identity.

Lore

Generally speaking, I don't consider the lore to be sacrosanct, especially when the information we're given is limited. Drawing inspiration from elsewhere and filling in the gaps for ourselves is part of what I enjoy most as a roleplayer. As long as it doesn't directly contradict a stated fact or otherwise ignore the tone of the world, I will be at least willing to give it a chance.

Writing

Generally I prefer one-to-two paragraphs per post but I can easily match the pace of my partner. In-game I will be a touch more concise given the visual nature of the medium, whereas any Discord scenes have more room for being verbose and extra descriptive.

Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover

The Old Ways

Although she doesn’t always garb herself as such, Aerona is known to practice Gilnean witchcraft. The eccentric woman styles herself as the heir to the Old Ways, although she’s reluctant to say where she was taught – she certainly wasn’t a familiar face in the Blackwald.

Coastal Beginnings

The Treharnes of Keel Harbour were a respectable family of middle class denomination prior to the kingdom’s fall, with a seat on the town council and ownership of several Headlands mines. Aerona bears more than a passing resemblance to the only daughter of the household, Aisling.

Augur's Eyes

While some see the world as it is, Aerona claims to see what once was and what will be. The witch has a propensity for attaching herself to those who appear in dreams and omens; it’s difficult to say whether her attention is a blessing or curse, but her interest is hard to shake.

A Broken Home

In recent years the Gilnean was a known entity in the city of magic – or, more accurately, its shaded underbelly. For several years up until its destruction at the hands of the Harbinger, Aerona maintained a free clinic in the sewers beneath Dalaran.

Argent Dawn: Aerona, Fey, Wyrd, Rover