On Kindness

Jovianne lightly tapped the podium to get the attention of the chattering class of novitiates. After quick twists on the stone benches they were settled. The priestess stood and gazed out at all of the young, fresh men and women wearing the same head-to-toe red robes. The same robes she once wore, she thought. She was filling in for the usual Senior priestess who would lead lecture for students today. The stone hall of the temple main were unforgivable to her naturally echoing voice. She did her best to speak softly, but with authority, pacing the pews as she did. Deep blue eyes caught and stared down any daydreaming ones.

"Nowhere in the Tenets does it say to be kind. Nowhere does it say to be nice...Can anyone tell me why?"

The skinny hand of a teacher's pet shoots up in the front row and Jovianne acknowledges her with a nod.

"Because we heal without prejudice?" The mousy-haired girl repeats, her answer straight out of the book, her eyes pleading for praise.

The priestess answers. "Not...quite." She travels the front of the podium some more. "It's because healers don't need those to do their job. Being sweet won't suture a knife wound. Compliments won't clear an airway."

Healing... research..charity...duty...worship. None of these ask kindness. Or even a smile. The acts themselves, perceived as 'good'- your delivery doesn't need to be. The only expression you need on the battlefield is Calm. As long as you are healing, you are serving the White Lady. Those organs bleeding up at you on the surgeon's table? They don't care if you're personable. I know plenty of senior healers with terrible attitudes, but damnit if they aren't the best at what they do. So why do so many of us try to be nice?

There are always unseen wounds and more healing to be done, long after the stitches are set. Some of you will work in the battlefield, where those people just saw their best friends die. Some of you will work here in the hospital, where there are mothers who will never hear their baby cry. Some of your patients have no family. Some of your patients lay comatose, with their family left to heal. Some in the mental ward will see you for weeks upon years, as you watch not the fleeting of a violent death, but the slow march of insanity, and when they can't even remember themselves they may still remember your name.

You are the angels in red they will hate or love to see. Whether you like it or not you are with them at their rock bottom, the hand that saves them from the fall. The only one tending to them, who might see them cry in the middle of the night- in this safe place full of people, they are still so alone and scared. Facing death and pain they may turn to you for answers, or fight you like an enemy.

And we heal them without prejudice...they may bite and kick and spit and shit and cry and we Heal them. Because to cast judgment on who deserves to be whole? Undermines our worship, our duty. What elevates us to the Divine, above the common healer, if not transcendence in Healing itself? We work to make whole, to purify the body and life force. The body has no morals.

All of this, you might see, is reason to be kind. In a Salandran way. To be kind, welcoming and accepting to all in this Temple, withholding judgment. To practice our neutrality some of us choose to leave our minds open even as we step outside the temple. Keep your opinions and your frowns, but leave your mind open.

Your patients may be persecuted. 'Evil.' Wounded flesh and wounded soul. Don't try to change them. No, you won't. Not that way. Don't try anything, at all. Just be there. Be there and save them. It IS enough. Silence is healing. At their lowest, you may be the last comfort they have. The last touch, last voice. Remind them that they are Enough for you.

When they have failed everyone else, even themselves, you can be kind: remind them they cannot fail you."

The sermon concludes, the students shuffle out, their din of murmurings rising. The temple being as public as it is, anyone coming or going might catch it, even as she repeats it a few more times in the week for the other novitiates and acolytes.

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On the next occasion, Hazamir stands outside the lecture hall's doors, just out of sight. Jovianne's voice easily reaches him and whenever she manages to control it, he mouths an echo and smirks.

Until ...


The young man steadies himself against the cool temple walls for a few minutes, blinking tears away.

He leaves just as the first listeners are about to stand up.

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Ralghok & Hazamir "The Weasel"

A shadow seemed to make themselves at home in the back of Jovianne's classroom once or twice in her first round of sermons, perhaps accompanied by a grim priest of Kelemvor. It had pinpricks for eyes, set deep in a hood. The figure of Caron, now often referred to as Penumbra, radiated a cold distance as he observed- probably keeping most of the young students or other visitors at bay. The darkness seemed to swirl around him, edging along a pale shoulder that was only half-covered by his black velvet cloak.

The tendrils of his mind seemed to take in those who listened, and perhaps he had even slipped by Hazamir and his tears. Either way, he did not interact much with anyone beyond a graceful dip of his head. Maybe the once lively bard barely had enough life to even say hello these days. Or maybe he simply didn't care enough to.

His attentions to Jovianne might make anyone worried wonder what he was up to...

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Thats the way it crumbles ... cookie-wise!

There is a quiet elf listening to the sermon, clad in black leather and silvery chainmail. His red hood is pulled down, resting at the nape of his neck together with a scarf of the same colour, revealing his raven black hair, long enough to reach his shoulders and amber eyes that seem to hang on the Ilmaterian priestess' every word.

As the crowd departs the elf stays, still watching the winged woman for a time before he approaches her. He speaks to her privately for a few moments, his words coming with some reticence.

The elf has to crane his head up to look at her, they exchange words with eachother for a moment before the shorter man leans up and presses a kiss to the Ilmaterian priestess' cheek, face lingering close to hers. After the brief moment of affection is done with, the elf then departs, drawing his hood up as he does so. His expression is now shrouded in the darkness of his hood.