The Waxwardens of Honeybell

The Waxwardens of Honeybell form the rural heart of the Abbot Council of Alderlight, a humble sub-faction devoted to keeping the Light alive not through doctrine or ritual, but through honest labor and shared bread. Centered in Thimblewell among the flowered meadows and golden hives of Honeybell Fields, the Waxwardens are farmers, beekeepers, and artisans who see holiness in the rhythm of work — the tilling of soil, the tending of hives, and the making of candles that burn in both chapel and cottage alike. Where the Abbey speaks of faith in lofty verse, the Waxwardens live it quietly, believing that devotion should be seen in the calloused hand, not merely the recited prayer. They call themselves “keepers of the humble flame”, and their motto — whispered before each harvest — is “The Light is in the wax, not the wick.”

The order is led by Prior Ellian Meadowmoss, a squirrel-kin of middle years whose calm, weathered presence commands respect far beyond his soft-spoken nature. Once a novice under High Abbot Cael Thornwright, Ellian chose to serve the fields rather than the cloister, believing that the Light was never meant to shine behind walls. His close friend and unofficial second is Matron Cella Brindle, an otter-kin candlewright and healer who oversees the Apiary Shrine, ensuring that every candle sent to Alderlight Abbey is pure and prayer-bound. Together they guide the Waxwardens with gentle autonomy, honoring the Abbey’s authority but following their own pace and wisdom.

While loyal to the Abbot Council, the Waxwardens’ goals often diverge. They favor mercy over discipline, work over worship, and see beauty in imperfection — a doctrine Cael considers dangerously lax. They resist the Abbey’s push to formalize their prayers, arguing that light burns truest when it is tended by many hands. Though this tension has never sparked open conflict, it simmers beneath every shared meal and exchanged letter. To the Abbey, the Waxwardens are stubbornly rustic; to the people of Mosswood, they are the living proof that faith can still grow in open fields. And when the Abbey bells falter, it is the Waxwardens’ candles — born of bees, wax, and patience — that keep Mosswood’s nights aglow.