Week #1 will happen February 15-20!
Week #2 will happen May 31-June 6!
Week #3 will happen August 16-22!
Week #4 will happen November TBD!
Choose one or both words of the day from the pinned prompt (it will be posted the first day of each challenge), then write at least one drabble, story, poem, or anything else and tag this tumblr!
-You can write more than one story per day!
-The word(s) itself doesn’t need to be used, it’s just a general topic to write about!
-Don't feel like you need to write every day!
-Late stories always welcome!
-You do not have to be in the WoW fandom to participate!
Ran by:
Dicenne, Khaeris and Fiorenze
Side blog of:
turning-through-the-never
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Behind a large magnifying glass, the dutiful eye of the robot’s owner inspected his creation. A deep fault line ran down the side of the cast iron pot of M.E.S.H.I.; a sign of years of heavy use cooking all manner of delicious meals and incredible stories. Ruzzell pulled away from the tinker station with a sentimental sigh and rubbed the warm surface of his stove. A weak but grateful waggle of his toggle and gauges tried to reassure his master that everything was well despite the damage.
“Heh, you’re lookin’ a little beat up these days too, huh? Yeah… we’ve shared some fun times with some good people over the years, eh M.E.S.H.I.?”
Picking up the cherished bot named after the spirit of cooking and adventure, he set the little pot-that-could down onto the floor and let him waddle away merrily down toward the hall back to the kitchen for the evening. Dirii yelps as the magical servant scurries past her hooves; a curious flare of her nose and trail of her golden eyes as she watches in wonder before returning back to her beloved with some tea and biscuits.
“Woah, that was your little helper from your cooking adventures, right?”
She sets down the tray with extreme caution, as if to be overly careful not to make another embarrassing mishap involving food again. A large thumb pressed too hard into the cookies, causing a few to snap; an acceptable loss considering her mishaps many months before. Ruzzell gets up from his desk and pulls up an especially large silk cushion for his partner and reaches up to help steady her arm as she sat down.
“That’s right babe. I’m not sure how many seasons are left in the little guy, but he keeps on helping with everything he’s got!”
Looking down to the tray, he notices some of the biscuits have been crushed or crumbled into pieces. Picking up a broken star and a shattered heart up from the tray, Dirii takes notice and her ears drooped sadly at her own clumsiness. Her boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind one bit, holding the cookies up with a bright grin before taking a crunchy bite.
“These turned out perfect Dirii! Thank you so much for making these babe!”
Instantly, all those doubts and perceived reckoning over her fumbling dissipated like so many crumbs into the tea he washed down her treats with. She stifled a cry of happiness from his acceptance of her, good and bad, and scooted closer to him to nuzzle and lick his head.
“You such a sweetie, Ruzz. You’re always so nice to me, even when I mess up~”
Glancing up to his exceedingly tall girlfriend, he beamed cheerfully past his weariness and bumped shoulders with her.
“You’re way too hard on yourself Dirii. You have so much talent and creativity. I don’t think ya give yourself enough credit. You’re really great, and kind, and sweet~”
His honied words were more than enough to make her put down her snacks to pick him up in her arms for a big hug and multiple kisses all over his face. Laughter broke out in the cozy den between the two as he lost count of how many times she blessed him with her sweet lips upon his face before finally calming down and putting the small goblin back on his cushion. Looking up to that treasure of a goofball he gladly called his gal, Ruzzell saw in her an unending well of love and wonder. To him, she was extraordinary and uniquely beautiful; a gentle soul with a warm heart and an even warmer smile.
And it was that smile that he would do anything to protect and keep her smiling.
"Okay," Kaleh'a murmured, his turquoise eyes firm, sharp, glaring, practically, up at the bird faced mount, who just quizzically tilted her head and looked down at him. "Today is the day. THE day! You hear me?" His tail flicked back and forth, twitchy as the blonde lion tuft at the end puffed as he pointed his finger up at the Chocobo he had raised from a chick. "It is your reckoning! The day you learn to wear a saddle!"
Chic'let decided to try and bite his finger in answer.
He yowled in shock, jerking his hand back before sharp beak met flesh and bone, angrily waving his hands up in the air. "That is not - how dare you - what is with you and my fingers and tail!?" He let out a huff, grumbling as his ears wiggled atop his head in agitation. Turning his back on the rambunctious bird, easily twice his size, Kaleh'a turned his attention to the leather saddle that sat languidly over a fallen tree trunk, leaning down to grab a strap and hoist it up over his shoulder. The thing was surprisingly light, which he still marvelled at. Although, if the trainer he had worked with for years was right, it was so she could fly. With him on her.
That would be a sight to see. Him flying! On a Chocobo no less. But that required him getting the saddle on the damn bird! Turning back towards Chic'let, he found her foraging for a snack in the underbrush, oblivious to his thoughts and...presenting the perfect side profile.
His tail froze, his ears perking up, a tremor shooting down to the tuft at the end as he felt his muscles tense. It was a perfect opportunity, she was right there, distracted and calm, giving him the perfect chance to creep forward, nice and slow, until he was right beside her and...
The saddle went up, tossed perfectly to land on her back, like he was a master at it. And it would have landed, perfectly, on her back, if she hadn't bolted. She didn't just bolt anywhere, though, she turned and bolted through him. Head still down, clawed toes digging into the loamy undergrowth, and sending the slight Miqo'te flying.
Kaleh'a had the brief mental clarity of "wow I'm an idiot," followed immediately by "this is going to hurt," before he slammed into a thick tree trunk parallel to the ground in just the right way to send his consciousness spiraling into darkness.
The first signs of life was the feeling of motion. Rocking back and forth motion that had his dangling head and arms swaying. The groan that slipped from his lips was involuntary, his eyes fluttering open and trying to make sense of what he was seeing, because from what he could tell the sky had turned into yellow feathers... No, wait, that was his bird's underbelly. Yep, there were her feet, moving along at a leisurely pace, flattening little plants under them. Which meant he was upside down. On her back.
Saddleless.
He groaned again, and got a happy chirp from his mount as he patted her side, muttering out, "Not what I meant...but I'll take it."
The black envelope bears the red seal of a raven. Just seeing it makes her grit her teeth, giving her a tic in her jaw as she rips it open, tossing something from inside it. It clatters to the floor, rolling slightly away before hitting the edge of her side table and coming to a stop.
She breathes deeply through her nose, catching a scent coming off the paper, though she can’t put her finger on just what it is. Her eyes scan the card inside, the words written in heavy gold-scripted ink.
ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔟𝔞𝔠k.
𝔘𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔦𝔫 𝔟𝔶 𝔯𝔲𝔟𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔱.
ℑ𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬 ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔐𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔯.
𝔏𝔞𝔡𝔶 ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡
After reading the letter, she looks around until she spots where the coin has landed on the ground. She leans down and picks it up, the metal cool to the touch. It looks like something from a treasure chest, something a pirate would have, gold and black with a raven upon one side. She flips it over; a five-pointed star is on the opposite side.
She tossed the coin onto her desk and the envelope into the trash. Without delay, she prepares for the encounter, grabbing several daggers, though she doubts Santana’s guards will let her keep any weapons she brings. Except, of course, herself. And even that is debatable.
Was she crazy to even think about going to Ravenwood Manor? Should she demand somewhere else for them to meet? Somewhere she wouldn’t be at a disadvantage?
The answer to all those questions is yes.
But the letter had said Santana has something she would want back. She wouldn’t have tempted her with such words if whatever she had wasn’t important. Even if this were to draw her into a trap, she couldn’t risk not finding out what the woman had that she thought would be so important to her.
Perhaps she is talking about her grandson. Maybe she wants to call a truce. Obviously, she knows she isn’t dead. Was she angry when she realized Melanthios hadn’t finished the job? Was she punishing him for his failure?
She pauses, taking a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before she would let it out nice and slow to try to calm her racing thoughts. The heaviest on knowing that she most likely is going to her death.
A part of her wants to reach out to her sister, even her friend Alarisan. But she doesn’t want to put them in danger. This is her problem to solve alone. Elutia knows this mission is suicide, but she also knows that sooner or later she and Santana are bound to come face to face. Of that she has no doubt.
She purses her lips together and lets her eyes fall closed before she makes her way toward her desk and pulls out a couple of parchments and a pen. She begins to write, having to stop a few times to wipe the tears from her face, her hand beginning to shake as she realizes this could be her only goodbye.
Once satisfied. She folds the parchment and tapes it shut, scrawling her sister’s name on the outside. She knows that if something happens to her, then Eclesia would come looking and would find the letter.
She stands and looks around the room, wondering if she will ever see it again, or her sister, or any of her friends. A part of her feels like the answer is no. Like all these months have been leading up to this moment. Even the voices in her mind seemed to have quietened, which actually made her feel more dread, not less.
Finally, she is ready to depart. She grabs the coin off her desk and rubs her thumb over it a few times, feeling a sudden wrenching sensation like she is being snatched through nothingness, and then she finds herself in a garden a huge manor standing before her which she knows without a doubt is Ravenwood manor.
My back crunched as it hit the dirt, crackling scattered twigs and egg shell. I wheezed through the hay and sawdust, fine sand blurring the sky above from the flurry of stomping talons. With my ears ringing, I felt each charging thump rather than heard it–like a fist pounding upon a door. I could have mistaken it for my quickened pulse were it not for the muffled caws of Justice on Fire drawing near.
The cockerel had flung me with a butt of his red feather crested head, a punishment for my hubris: for attempting to tame a force of nature.
The bird was of a warsteed pedigree, bred and hatched at the request of Lord Pereon Mournvalor. Papa said a devil must have hacked its way through the eggshell to replace the chick with something otherworldly and evil. He said all that with a laugh, of course, but then the beast broke his leg.
Mother was conducting a holy service in the city the day it happened and my own Light was barely developed enough to mend paper cuts. I cursed my age and my inexperience as he held my hand, soothing me with soft, tight words as his mind screamed with agony. By the time a healer was found and brought to the ranch, it was too late for the bones to knit cleanly within his torn thigh.
That’s why I had stolen away to the pasture before the final turn-in that day. Lord Mournvalor was expecting a joust worthy bird by the end of summer and my Papa was prepared to go back to the field, hardly healed, to lunge Justice into submission the following morning.
I couldn’t let him get hurt again.
Mother told me that my clairvoyance was a gift, though I always had a hard time believing her. Knowing every unspoken disappointment from my parents or unkind thoughts from my sisters seemed more a curse than anything else–one that kept me hidden in my room more often than not, lost in silent books. But, I had noticed that the deeper I attempted to listen to one person’s thoughts, it would make them shiver and itch, as though they had walked through a cobweb.
If I were to listen harder, could I change what they thought? How they felt?
Unfortunately, Justice turned out to not be a proper test subject. The fury I touched was thick in the air, but whatever thoughts inhabited the bird’s brain were inaccessible, unintelligible. He bore me to ground, stomping and pecking around me as though I were a serpent that needed killing. I curled in on myself, shaking.
Seven inch talons, sharp as freshly whet kitchen knives, tore at the soil. One mighty foot found my shoulder. Justice pressed his weight down as I squirmed, crying out from the pain.
“Hey! Hey-hey!”
The bird spun above me, quick to change his target. Across the yard stood Jerralynn, each arm bent at the elbow and flared out to make herself appear larger to the fuming hawkstrider. She came armed with a lunge whip, the sight of which sent Justice into a rage as he charged her, full tilt.
“Run!” Jerra bellowed as she wound up her arm. “Over the fence! Quickly!”
The whip cracked the air like crunching wood as I barreled over the fence in a panting heap. There was a heavy thump as Jerra toppled to the ground beside me, but she was quicker to her senses and her feet, rolling me over beneath her so she could meet my eyes.
“What the fuck, Hester?!”
Jerralynn never cursed. Not only that, Jerralynn never cried. Frightening happenstance was always met with bravado and bullying with brute force. She was my shield against the young lady and gentlemen riders who came to the ranch for lessons with their noses held high and sing-song mockery for me.
And yet here she was now, her tears pelting my face like rain.
“You could have died!”
Then, she struck me with her right fist across my cheek.
Adrenaline left my fingertips cold. I hardly reacted, stunned like a bird that hit a window, before her left fist boxed my ear. The blows were wild and, because of my “gift”, I was keenly aware that Jerra herself didn’t understand why she had resorted to violence. It spurred more tears, a confusing expulsion of rage and relief and a suffocating welling of guilt that took my own breath away.
Look what you made me do!
“I didn’t–!” I started to protest, even though Mother told me I must stop anticipating what others would say to me as an unbecoming trait of my abilities.
But Jerralynn was passed words, racking sobs instead escaping her lips as her fists continued to pound down on my guarding arms.
I’m supposed to keep you safe! Mother said so! Because you’re weak–
I latched on to the thought.
Jerralynn froze and as I lowered my arms to look up at her, I found a vacant set of golden windows hovering above and, even more alarmingly, I saw my own terrified, dirt smudged face below. Two hearts thundered in my ears; my own frantic pitter-patter and from my sister, I heard a stampede.
“Why… why are you hitting me?” I asked.
I was so scared!
“B-but… you’re fearless, Jerra.” I imagined I was squeezing her fear in my small hands, trying to snap it like wood splinters. “Remember? Never bested by beast or bird.”
We could have lost you!
“But you didn’t, see?” My fingers clenched around the air, as though it would help strengthen the grip of my mind around hers. “I-I’m alright!”
I’m supposed to protect you! You can’t take care of yourself–
“I… I can!” I protested, my hands now tight fists. I began to strangle the very notion so hard, blood oozed from Jerralynn’s nose. “I can and I will–!”
The door shattered into a hundred blackened splinters.
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(where we last left off...)
Hesterlynn’s eyes paled at the rolling waves.
Her prayer faltered on her lips as she looked over the expanse of the limitless horizon. Before fathomless depths and endless space, she became acutely aware of her size; tiny and insignificant.
“This is...” she began.
When the door slammed shut behind her, she didn’t dare look back.
“...heresy.”
Her father’s kindly chuckle reverberated in her head, turning her stomach. “Heresy is not native to your world, Little One. It is a contrivance meant to govern the weak, the same as the phantom god to which you cling.”
The cleric clenched her fists. The blade of light in her right hand flickered meekly, shortening with each raised doubt.
“N-no–!” she protested. “The Light guides my steps and–”
“Indeed,” the voice agreed, hushing her softly. “Make no mistake, your Light is greater than you know, Little One… but it is within, not without.”
An indicating finger was raised towards the glimmer in her hand, now no longer than a paring knife. “Your misplaced faith makes you weak.”
The blade winked out from her fingertips.
“I… I won’t go quietly–!” she insisted with a raising of her twiggy arms and dainty fists. It warranted another reverberating chuckle in her head, weakening her knees with nausea.
“What purpose would there be in destroying one of Our blessed children?”
“I… am not--”
“Oh, but you are, Little One!” The voice insisted with a sour sort of kindness. “We watch over all those who carry Our gift–”
“This curse--”
“Oh, child,” the voice sighed like the wind, mimicking her father in the throes of deep disappointment. Tears sprang to Hesterlynn’s eyes, unbidden. “You curse yourself by treating your power as a crushing stone. Such was neither Our nor your Mother’s intention.”
“Mother…” the confessor swallowed against her parched tongue. “Why would she…? What did she pay you?”
“Nothing she did not part with willingly," the voice promised, extending its hands as black ink continued to pour from the ruptured book behind it. The pool of liquid followed cracks in the marble, filling out so rapidly that it dripped into the sea, touching the water with murky black. Everywhere it spilled, creatures roiled beneath the waves, shiny black scales exposed each time the surface broke.
"But you entered this door not to learn of your mother's secrets, did you? No, no. One day you will know her heart, but what brought you to Us was the mind of the one you cannot read: the Unknowing One."
“...Cory–” Hesterlynn realized.
An unmoving smile stretched uncomfortably upon the effigy of her father, its black marble eyes melting within the sockets. “Our proposition is thus, Little One: You will give Us a memory of your gift at its zenith, and We will show you the side of the Unknowing One that he never reveals."
A long pause followed, one where the cleric chewed fitfully on her bottom lip. “What if I refuse?”
“Then you remain ignorant of the one you will not trust.”
“But I–” Hesterlynn jumped to defend Corwin Bloodrose, but the lie shriveled in her mouth before she could commit it as an oath.
It was true. Her first impression had been sour: he spoke hopefully of his father's demise, eager to line his own pockets. He left that night with her cousin beneath his arm while her newly wedded husband hadn't brought himself to call him a friend.
To her sister, he was a murderer that escaped justice.
She always knew a criminal from an innocent man, regardless of the verdict. She could read it in their thoughts.
Except for his, and yet, she wanted so desperately to believe every word he said. But how could she? Unless...
“..very well,” she relented at last.
Her eyelids fell and her mind opened: An infinitesimal thing in the consuming abyss.
Time stopped then rolled backwards, flitting across her consciousness in flickering images. She shuddered against a cold touch inside her head, as though manipulating fingers were carelessly turning the pages of a flipbook animation. She vaguely wondered if this uncomfortable feeling was the same in the minds she touched.
It was disorienting to see her hand lift from the handle, walking backwards down the manor hall. Warm arms enveloped her in a dim prison cell, staving off the damp as the prison walls melted before her eyes. The blood oozed back into Jerralynn’s nose as her sword rose to Cory’s throat.
Faster and faster, their dance together beneath the painted stars of the observatory flashed past before she could relish the memory of his warm hands and confident feet. Just as quickly, she was stepping backwards from the grand entryway of his home.
Time continued racing backwards not in hours but days, then weeks speeding on to years until her figure shrunk down to a small, terrified girl no older than ten summers.
Amorthon heard her long before he saw her. Not her voice, but her footsteps.
One of the few skills she still struggled to master was the art of keeping her footsteps light. Not that it would be that much longer before she managed to get a handle on that as well.
He appreciated knowing exactly where she was simply by listening for a moment.
His wife called him overprotective. He just considered it being careful - particularly given how things had been as of late.
A moment passed and he loosed the arrow he'd had drawn before glancing back over his shoulder, lowering the bow before offering it out to her. "Should be just about right for you now - you said it was too easy of a draw last time, right?"
To her credit (and his amusement) Razilee didn't…bounce…exactly, she did rock back on her heels and eye the bow in his hand excitedly. "Really? You're sure it's ready?"
"I'm sure. Tried it out a few different times already. Can't have you going out hunting with me if you don't have a proper bow, now can we? Give it a try just to make sure, and I can adjust it as needed."
Here she did bounce, springing forward to hug her father around his midsection before taking the offered bow and scrambling off to gather a few practice arrows.
Amorthon watched, fighting back the quiet sigh as he felt Savage move up and nudge his hip.
He could recall, with vivid clarity, holding that same little girl who was so eager to run into the woods and explore when she was mere hours hold and vowing to do whatever was needed to protect her, to see that her every need was taken care of. And excluding her mother, he could think of no one else that he treasured in nearly the same way.
A hand reached down and gently rubbed behind one of Savage's ears as he heard an excited squeal, looking up to see Razilee pointing at one of the targets - a bullseye.
He knew she wasn't going to need him forever…he just hoped she'd need him a little longer.
DWC August 2026 - Day 2 - Treasure/Reckoning - Khaeris
She sat on the floor and opened her box of treasures. Over the years, it had become a bit of a ritual for her. Sometimes it felt heavy. And sometimes it was simple and sweetly nostalgic.
One hand lifted her glass of rum and the other fanned out the papers to find one for tonight.
The patterned box she kept them in was a bit battered these days. She’d find something new soon, perhaps. Khaeris was not precious with the containers and had swapped the packet from a tea tin a year or two ago. Before that it had been in an old cigar box she had liked. Years prior they’d lived in a T&R truffles box. The scents mingled and added something to the memories, she had decided. Khaeris smiled with the rum on her tongue and softness in her eyes. Tonight wasn’t one of the heavy times.
She found the one she’d been looking for and read the very short letter in only moments. Khaeris knew this one by heart. A letter written by a moderately wobbly hand that betrayed the inebriation of the sender. Never mind that he admitted it readily in the body of text itself. She grinned, dimples flaring, and traced Pollux’s drunk signature.
Khaeris kept few sentimentalities, even if there was a steady march of knicknacks in and out of her life. Baubles that sparkled made homes in windows for suncatchers for a season. Dried flowers hung upside down next to the door until their colors no longer pleased her. Cast off jewelry littered flat surfaces and brightly colored buttons waited for projects. Half drunk teacups peeked from behind a half dozen books that were just as abandoned and just as scattered. Their apartment never lacked for life, but Khaeris liked to think it was a richness of spirit, rather than in objects.
She flipped through a few other letters--all from Pollux this go around, it seemed only fair since this instance of the ritual was due to his recent deployment. She had learned how to reckon with her loneliness and the insecurities of his absences. She would always miss him. Always worry about him when he was gone. She would always have her moments of doubt, of terror, of anger, and of love. This wasn’t the life she might have desired, if you had asked her about her dream future, but it was the life she had chosen. And would chose again.
The apartment was quiet. But it wouldn’t always be.
"Transformations are fine, sturdy magic. But beware — while you'll come to no harm in them, your body will still remember the damage."
Fiorenze's night had been sleepless to say the least. She hadn't necessarily forgotten Yserina's first lesson, but she had disregarded it frequently enough with no great issue. Until now. Intrinsically she knew there was nothing there to heal. Her skin was pristine even if it felt like it every nerve ending across her shoulders, back and scalp were on fire. There were no puncture wounds from sharp, fanged teeth piercing through muscle and sinew. What bruises had bloomed across her body were from before and after the tactical shift into something greater and more ferocious than her elven frame could ever be.
She didn't regret this painful reckoning. It was something worth bearing, and thinking the pun did make her smile a little in the waning hours of the dawn's gloaming. Her friends and Crew companions were safe, and those that needed it were being cared for. She'd look a little insane if she tromped over to the tents and asked for something for the pain considering how fine she looked. Moving from her cot was also not high up on the agenda considering how awful it felt to even shift slightly.
Her comm lit up before the sun rose, the soft notes of a piano heralded a message from her little sister, Pyraelia: "Don't pick up any cursed treasure this time."
The immediate flash of annoyance was quickly stifled by another wave of abstract agony. It wasn't like she hadn't earned that warning. Still, her eyes flicked over to a little round, spiral shell that sat pretty on the top of her traveling trunk. It had been a bartered bit from a mysterious gentleman in a well tailored suit and fine black hat, traded for the flowers she'd given him.
It kept showing up in rooms she hadn't put it in, to the degree that she was starting to wonder if her memory was failing. It's not like it had grown legs and followed her around; she had to have been placing it in her pocket and moving it, right? But now it was here, and she certainly hadn't packed it.
That wasn't a curse like the cursed shit on the island was cursed, right??
She shot back a quick, "I'm flicking you off with all the love in my heart. Thank you for the reminder."
Soon the breakfast bell would ring and she'd have to figure out how to get herself to the coffee cauldron in a way that didn't betray how bad she felt. It was fine to be sore after a battle like that, most people would be, but image was everything — especially here, surrounded by so many skilled fighters.
Pyraelia left a little picture of a purple heart, which was something Fio treasured more than her little sister would understand considering how tense the last decade had been between them at various turns.
She sat up and regretted the way her breath punched out of her lungs in a gasp she should've had better control over and forced herself to a stand that felt anything but stable. It wasn't a long walk to the traveling trunk, but she made it and scooped the spooky shell up so she could lift the trunk lid and throw it back inside.
It was going to be back on top again later. She knew that. It was the principal of the thing, and at least now she was mobile. A cold shower would help, and she knew there were plenty of distractions in work around the camp that needed to be done before sunrise to sink her thoughts into. Fiorenze took a steadying breath and recited a common mantra to herself as she worked her way into her day clothes.
Reply to @lillandyrshadowglade (previous replies linked under story)
The blood that called to his own had him entranced this close. His heavy lashes laid soft on her suggestion, half his face curling with a devil's smile.
"Tshhhhh." he cooed. "What a depressing suggestion. I'm already dying to tear into your throat and I can't kiss you now either? Wicked." he criticized in distaste, offended.
With an appraisal of a tilted gaze, eyes caressing over her features, he accessed his challenge from a physical perspective. "Hmmm." he frowned. "I may have a real problem here. Because if I'm right, I'll want to keep and value that friendship. But I'm not sure I can handle the torture of it from not kissing you. Leashed by my own desire. It would put me in an intolerable disadvantage." he sighed lightly. "One I won't do on an empty stomach. Let's get dinner and we'll talk about it. I know the place."
They began to walk and he lit a cigarette and handed it to her without asking for them to share. His arm wasn't offered as they headed down the winding city canal glittering with moonlight. They were only a few strides on the cobblestone before Leonardo stopped abruptly, looking over the water. Vampire eyes glittered with searching as his arm slipped around her shoulder.
"Do you see it?" he whispered close to her ear.
On the shimmering surface was a ghostly gondola with a solitary occupant of the same, both wavering in and out of view with the eerie light. Leonardo realized she may not be as accustomed to spirits and their various levels of staining time and existence to the living. His thumb brushed and squeezed her shoulder in assurance protectively.
"It can't hurt us." he hissed in another whisper quickly. "That's Lennok the Sorry" he grinned. "If you knew what he was sorry for, you'd feel less bad for his suffering." he assured with a critical bite.
"Still… it's kind of poetic he's looking for the wife he drowned for eternity. Hmmm. Fitting though. It's the start of a good punishment." he took back the cigarette gathering too much ash between her fingers with a slight of his.
The hand around her moved them on, like seeing ghosts was not enough to interest. He never rested or draped his hand like an ape but held his arm to cradle her shoulder lightly like a shield, symbolically possessive and romantic while caressing and hovering. Meanwhile, his mouth ran with casual banter.
"Since you're a brave and clever girl we're going to a vampire lounge tonight. One of the exclusive ones." he teased with a widened mockery of his eyes like nothing could please him. "You can pay for a good bite and lick but…" he clicked his tongue, face twisting, "I like my blood to race a little harder from wanting it." His gaze flickered over to her while he grinned in confession.
"Couples are best. I have a thing for men watching me feed on their wives." he shrugged, unashamed as he smoked. Compulsively he pet her again with the hand once on her shoulder, slow and soft. "It would be wonderful if you could make that easier for me because to be honest…" his face swept over her, "my heart's just not into the game tonight while I'm around you. But if you were there… to help inspire me…" he paused with a naughty flirt, sweeping her hair back in specific attentions, "I'd return the favor. Anything you want. Anything. I'll kill someone. Steal anything. Say anything. I'd be all yours. But not for eternity. I have plans." he teased.
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In a room full of blood red and shining gold regalia, Jaeness stood alone in white, indigo, and silver — a downgrade from the more ostentatious gold and violet of her former uniform, she thought. Under any other circumstances, she’d have been — at best — arrested on sight. At the head of the room stood a young but severe-looking blonde, undoubtedly Magister Sunhawk. He was accompanied by soldiers, a Spellbreaker looming behind him.
“Miss Brightwater, welcome back to Quel’Thalas,” the Magister acknowledged her entrance, voice and lips both pressed into a thin, hard line.
“It's Darkwater now, sir,” she replied bluntly. She’d made the change years ago, but as far as any official records were concerned, she was no more Jaeness Darkwater than she was Marissandra Silverleaf.
“Understood,” he acceded with a fleeting but unsubtle grimace. “Miss Darkwater is here on behalf of the Riftwalkers, at the behest of Magister Umbric, to assist this unit in securing a foothold behind enemy lines. This is part of a larger operation to secure Magister’s Terrace,” he addressed the rest of the room before turning hard eyes back to her. “To that end, Miss Darkwater, you will report to my Spellbreaker, Rynathil Embershade, until such time as you are released from duty.”
“Sir,” she nodded to Rynathil, spoken appropriately but with inappropriate intent. She could already feel heat creeping up her collar, pursued by the memory of his shoulders beneath the winged pauldrons he wore now — the tone and curvature of the muscle, the way it felt beneath her hands while he fucked her so hard she forgot her own name (but not his).
He’d been briefed before this meeting, she was certain, and knew more about her now than she’d ever intended to share: her name, her age, where she was from, who her parents were, when and why she was exiled. She wasn’t ashamed of any of it, but if it had been up to her, none of it would have been for him to know. Alas.
For his part, Rynathil was clearly in his element, alive in a way she had never seen at the Phoenixsong estate. He had warm eyes and a bright smile for the Lady of the House, sure, but Jaeness had always gotten the sense that he wasn’t fully present. Even inside her, breath hot against her ear, he was somewhere else, fucking someone else — something she understood completely but couldn’t help but take personally. Here, now, there was more to his calm, collected demeanor than just competence and commitment to his work. There was… a spark.
“Riftwalker,” he answered. It was a matter-of-fact acknowledgement, void of emotional weight. He was imposing: insufferably tall, even without his headgear, and his armor only made him broader. The Spellbreaker regalia was a marriage of cloth and plate that was more intimidating than practical: elaborate in its design, meant to conjure the image of the phoenix that symbolized their people, and rich in color and quality. In truth, it didn’t need to be practical. Spellbreakers were so well trained they could fight unarmed in the nude and come out on top every time.
Focus, Jaeness.
Jaeness was no mage — she was a rogue by almost any account — but she was worthless in a fight without magic all the same. She relied heavily on enchantments, glamour, spatial rifts and shadow manipulation — tricks Rynathil could take from her in a heartbeat. This attraction was almost certainly cause for a thorough self-examination she had no intention of performing.
Her briefing continued without regard for her inner turmoil. Rynathil, Sunhawk’s pawn in the same way she was Umbric’s, was in command of a small, temporary unit of Sunfury troops assembled specifically for this mission. She was being employed as a specialist in the entities and magic they would face, though she suspected her presence had more to do with politics than anything else. A Spellbreaker didn’t need a Void specialist — to him, magic was magic — but their splintered people now shared a goal, and that demanded cooperation.
“I am called elsewhere. You depart for Quel’Danas in two hours. Make ready,” the Magister instructed.
“Sir,” Rynathil replied, and the others echoed, herself included.
She did not belong here. She was not a Riftwalker by choice. She was one of Magister Umbric’s most devoted students, once — but when Umbric pledged the Ren’dorei to the Alliance, she left: left Telogrus Rift, left her comrades, left him. Any time one of her cohorts managed to track her down, attempted to bring her to heel, she lashed out. Only now did she wear the inverted phoenix above her heart, and only for the sake of Quel’Thalas. When this was done — and she was very much determined to survive it — she’d fuck right off again.
The Red Rook had been closed for the evening, leaving the shop unusually quiet. Taric had gone upstairs some time ago, leaving Pickles to wander between the familiar shelves and perches without anyone around to tell him to stop chewing things he wasn't supposed to. Eventually, the bird settled near the open window, listening to the distant sounds of Booty Bay settling into the night.
Without really thinking about it, Pickles began to whistle a song he hadn't sung in a very long time. He had learned it from Melidoria, Taric’s mother, when Taric was still a young elf and she was working in the shop long before he had taken over. She used to sing it while preparing potions, and Pickles would try to imitate her from his perch.
He remembered those days with remarkable clarity. He remembered Melidoria laughing whenever he got the melody wrong, and the way she would encourage him to keep trying until he finally got it right. He remembered Taric sitting nearby, sometimes helping his mother and sometimes simply watching her work, and Pickles had been there through all of it.
The song had not been heard in years, but Pickles remembered every note. Taric had grown from that quiet, young elf into the man who now ran the shop, traveled across oceans, collected scars, and repeatedly allowed lightning to strike him. Somehow, through all those years, Pickles had remained right there beside him, despite having long since outlived what any ordinary cockatiel should have.
Pickles was halfway through the melody when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Taric appeared at the bottom and immediately stopped when he heard the song, his expression changing as recognition settled in. He didn't say anything at first, simply standing there and listening as Pickles continued.
When the song ended, Taric quietly asked, "How do you remember that?"
Pickles tilted his head because the question seemed ridiculous. Of course he remembered it. Melidoria had sung that song hundreds of times, perhaps more, and Pickles had no reason to forget something he had once heard so often.
"I haven't heard that in years," Taric murmured. He crossed the room and sat beside Pickles, looking toward the empty counter where Melidoria had once spent so many hours working. There was sadness in his expression, but there was warmth there too, something that made Pickles stay close.
Taric eventually held out his arm, and Pickles hopped onto it before settling against his shoulder. He gently scratched beneath the bird's beak and quietly said, "She used to sing that all the time." Pickles gave a soft chirp before beginning the melody again, this time while Taric rested his cheek against his feathers.
For a while, they simply stayed there together while the sounds of the sea drifted through the open window. Pickles remembered Melidoria, remembered Taric as a child, and remembered all the years that had come afterward. He had kept those memories safe for a very long time, and he would continue to treasure them for as long as he was around to remember.
The song was old, but it had not been forgotten.
Perhaps, one day, Pickles would be the only one left who remembered it.
(( DWC august 2026, Day 2, Reckoning/Treasure, @daily-writing-challenge CW: none ))
Another battlefield, another pile of crates that everyone else was too tired to move. Ghorren grunted as he hauled the supplies from the cache over to the wagons destined for the teams in the Vaults. A few amani warriors, recovering from poisoned wounds and on light duty aided where they could, but much of the job was being done by him, to their grumbling resentment. Ghorren wondered idly how many of them shared Zul'jan's obsession with restoring the glory of their empire. Still, he was used to grumbling side glances from the other tribes.
"Hey, you!" a voice called to him, and Ghorren turned to see a powerfully built Amani approaching him. "Yeah, you, Zandalari! I need something to hit, join me in the sparring arena!"
Ghorren scowled. Manners were not something the amani were known for generally, and this was par for the course. Still though, he recognized Dak'zor from the Witherbark, and decided that having such a troll frustrated and angry when he led his warriors wasn't going to help matters. "Very well, when we're done you'll know the proper way to make such a request of a son of Zandalar," he answered, picking up his heavy blade and slinging it over his back.
Dak'zor grinned. "We'll see how well your easy living and soft gold armor serve you, eh?" The two men walked over to a cleared space in the camp, simple stakes connected by rope designating the sparring circle. Dak'zor sank his axe into a stump, and stepped over the rope, cracking his neck and knuckles. "No weapons, I need to punch something."
Ghorren nodded, setting his blade down on the stump. "You just want me to knock you out, or did you want to talk something through?"
Dak'zor answered with a lunge, advancing quickly and throwing several quick jabs, the kind meant to test an unknown foe. Ghorren dropped into a defensive posture, deflecting and batting the jabs away with his arms before shoving back with a shoulder. Distance achieved, the two trolls circled each other.
"All dis trouble. All dese snakes. All my dead people. All thanks to Zul'jan. Again" Dak'zor snarled, closing and trying to get under Ghorren's guard. He was big, but Ghorren was taller and had longer limbs, letting him take a hit and then wrap his arms around Dak'zor's left arm, hauling him down into the dirt, letting him roll away.
"And he's beyond your reach." Ghorren raised his arms, his intent to grapple clear. Dak'zor rolled to his feet, then launched at Ghorren, hitting him dead center and forcing him to the edge of the ring.
"Now, and when dis is done!" Dak'zor continued, planting himself, and hauling backwards, lifting Ghorren up and slamming him down behind in the dirt. Ghorren cursed as he rolled away, struggling to his feet after the suplex. Dak'zor stood and turned, rage in his eyes. "He'll hide behind de Hash'ey when dis is done and she'll let him."
Realization hit Ghorren like a bolt of lightning. The grumbling among the amani wasn't fear. It was frustration. Zul'jan had his followers, true, but there were just as many who hated him. Who saw Zul'jarra treat him with kindness and hope, as her little brother, and grew resentful. And what Dak'zor needed right now was a villain he could beat, since Zul'jan would likely remain outside his reach.
Well, he knew how to play a bad guy. He stood to his full height and sneered, reaching up and cracking his neck. "So he will. And you will let him. Because you forest trolls are weak."
"Ha!" Dak'zor retorted. "Dis from the Horde's newest lackeys!" He slammed into Ghorren, throwing several punches to the Zandalari's chest, before Ghorren caught his fists.
"The same horde that broke Zul'jin, and the Drakkari, and the Prophet. We shall guide them as we once guided you degenerates." Ghorren snarled, pushing Dak'zor back, clamping down on the amani's fists and twisting, seeking to physically dominate his foe. "Because we aren't just stronger than you! We are smarter as well!" Ghorren bellowed, well aware of the watching crowd. Good. Time to end it. Ghorren pushed again, bringing his feet together in a momentary moment of foolishness, and Dak'zor did not disappoint. With a roar, he pulled hard, taking Ghorren fully off balance and bringing his knee up into the zandalari's chest. This freed Ghorren's grip on his fists, and he brought them together and down on Ghorren's upper back, slamming him into the dirt, before pinning him down, pulling an arm back.
"YOU LOSE!" he roared in triumph, as Ghorren struggled, before relaxing and patting the dirt in surrender. The muttering of the crowd turned please, and a few cheers rose up before Dak'zor yelled at them to get back to work. Ghorren rolled over on his back, wincing at the soreness in his muscles. They would heal in minutes, but pain was pain. Dak'zor looked down at him for a moment, letting the adrenaline wear off, before huffing and offering his hand. "You fight good for a preening island dweller."
Ghorren took the hand and let himself be hauled up. "And you fight well for a dirt eating tree jumper," he grinned. "Got what you need?"
Dak'zor huffed. "Yes. in more ways den one. Thanks for playing along, de hash'ura said you were a smart one."
Ghorren nodded. "Happy to help keep things from getting worse. You aren't wrong." Dak'zor raised an eyebrow. "Your chieftain can't keep protecting Zul'jan. He comes out of this alive, he's going to be facing a reckoning, and her too if she tries to protect him.
Dak'zor sighed. "You got dat right, cousin. I don't envy the Hash'ey trying to walk this tight balance. Zul'jan's got a lot more who hate him than love him dese days, especially since most of the latter got killed by de Twilight's Blade. I'm just gonna do what's right for my people, and hope she figures it out."
Ghorren nodded. "May we starve Bwonsamdi on this day." he intoned, holding his hand up. Dak'zor pressed his palm against it.
"And in the days to come. Let me know if you want to offer up more morale boosts in those days, yeah?" Dak'zor said, grinning as he retrieved his axes.
Ghorren chuckled. "You want another one like that, you can pay. Otherwise, I'm putting you down proper next time."
"Looking foward to it, cousin!" Dak'zor said, turning away and heading back to the main camp.
DWC Day One - August 16th 2026 | Overhwhelmed/Soak
Part of the Midnight Mercenary Prompt 2
Kai moves around the camp designated for the medics and non-combatant crew, listening as their conversations blend together. She found it easy to engage in those conversations. Despite being so far from home and away from their families, everyone regarded each other as an extension of their own family. It was simple for her to adjust to each new location with the crew; although the work involved long hours. She found peace in it.
Tension was palpable in the air around them. Until recently, she had been unaware of the history between the Sin’dorei and Amani trolls. Nevertheless, most of the crew members got along well with them, working side by side. She found them interesting, taking time to speak to them, learning about their history.
It wasn't long after they sat down that alarm sounds began to blare. Seconds later, everyone was on their feet, rushing toward the edge of the steps leading deeper into the Vaults. Ryland's voice reached her, prompting her to glance over her shoulder, where she spotted Nahi and the other menders. "What happened?" he asks. Soon, Nahi's voice called back to him, "Our crew..."
Knowing exactly what she needed to do, she began helping to transport the wounded to the Foothold, staying out of the medics' way as they quickly tended to their care after the casualties were handed over. She watched in horror as swarms of creatures she had never seen before rushed toward the caravan, where fighters like Dice, Fio, Stellan, and the rest of the crew, along with the Commander, were engaged.
The sound of wood breaking and snapping makes her head jerk toward the wagon, where one of the wheels has collapsed and now lies broken on the road. As time seems to stand still, Kai focuses on rushing down to help the wounded near the foothold, while also summoning frost bolts and walls of ice to support those defending the caravan. Meanwhile, Dice braces the wagon, and she assumes it’s Sol who is working to replace or repair the broken wheel.
Everyone followed the orders given to them, moving and working together alongside the Amani, even those who had only moments before regarded them with uneasiness and distrust. It never ceases to amaze her to see everyone collaborating like this, time after time. She watched as Commander Del’shula not only fought alongside the others but also maintained control and issued orders.
Out of the corner of her vision, she took notice of a few other familiar faces she knew, ones she knew were part of the same crew Ryland was in. Despite everything happening, when Ry’s voice reaches her over all the commotion, "He came in like a wrecking buuuuulllll!" , a soft chuckle comes from her throat as she watches the massive tauren Brute plow through the mobs. She may not know all their names, but it still brought peace to her troubled thoughts as they fought alongside Dice, Fio and the others.
It was also then that she took quick notice of a serpent-seer, who suddenly raised its hands from across the battlefield and within moments she knew it was directing the attack at them. But Dice was already moving to step in between, even though so much of the venom had eaten away at his armor. Within seconds she had summoned an ice barrier around Dice, hearing the satisfying sound of the venom hitting it and not Dice. As he smiles his thanks, she smiles in return.
Soon they were able to get the caravan the rest of the way to the foothold, where all of those wounded on the wagons were brought up to join the other wounded. She offered help where she could, fetching anything the medics needed, checking on the wounded, giving them words of encouragement. It was not until she saw Dice up close, just how badly his armor had been eaten away at, and she had to swallow the sudden fear and worry that ate away at her. Though it was clear in her eyes.
Once he reassured both her and Rynga that he was fine, and Rynga was tending to him, she looked around. So many others had been hit by that venom too, their armor and clothing burned, some even had massive amounts of skin and muscles exposed, their cries of pain filling her ears. She may not have the medical training that Rynga, Nahi and Nara had, but she could at least offer some help.
And this is what she would do well into the evening hours.
Vixannya stood alone in her studio long after midnight, surrounded by half-finished canvases and sketches that had been accumulating for months. She moved from one easel to another, studying the faces she had already committed to art: killers from different eras, different walks of life, some infamous and others known only to a handful of people. A few had willingly sat for her, while others had refused entirely, leaving her with nothing but a silhouette or the impression of a figure beneath a hood. She had always enjoyed walking the line between fascination and discomfort, but this collection had begun to feel like something more.
She stopped before the covered canvas in the corner of the room and slowly pulled the cloth away. Her father's portrait, The Chameleon, stared back at her without a face, only the suggestion of a man through posture, clothing, and presence. She had painted him differently from the others, less like a criminal and more like a question, because she knew there was no simple answer to what made someone a monster. The painting had been sitting there for months, waiting for her to decide whether she was actually willing to show it.
She finally smiled to herself and reached for the notebook sitting on her desk. Beneath several pages of scattered ideas, she wrote the title in large letters: Monsters Among Us. It felt appropriate, and she could already imagine the arguments it would start once the invitations went out. Vixannya had never been particularly interested in making people comfortable with her work, and this exhibition promised to be her most personal reckoning yet.
The decision came easily after that, she would spend the next few months expanding the collection. She would seek out more subjects and document them as honestly as she could, whether they offered their faces or forced her to paint around their anonymity. Some would undoubtedly object, others would be eager for the attention, and a select few would probably treasure the opportunity to have themselves immortalized by an artist of her reputation. She would let them all wonder exactly where she drew the line.
Her gallery in Silvermoon would host the exhibition the following year, complete with the usual red carpet, elaborate illusions, and an opening night designed to make the city's elite forget they had ever pretended to be respectable. The paintings would be arranged so that visitors were forced to confront the people before they could judge them, with no convenient separation between infamous killers and those whose names had never appeared in a history book. Vixannya would stand at the entrance in whatever dramatic creation her designer produced for her, smiling politely while photographers asked the inevitable questions. She already knew the answer to the most important one.
“Why monsters?”
She would simply smile. “Because people are always more interested in darkness than they are willing to admit.”
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Lillandyr flinched at the spontaneous, earnestly delivered affection. She had become soil so dry it was hydrophobic, rejecting the much needed rain. It had become spiked armor. She didn’t need love. She didn’t need to be held. She didn’t need anyone. Because she wasn’t weak. She was a nasty little rat who would do whatever she had to to get the boot off her neck and if you started craving the boot’s affection then you were a fucking idiot.
For a moment, just the span of a handful of excited heartbeats, Leonardo would see her. A mountain of hurt under the smirking mask. An angry, terrified girl who just wanted someone to know her. A soft vulnerability made possible by praise and his boyish enthusiasm delivered with a kiss and gentle pets. It broke open an ironclad heart.
Until he ruined it, of course.
Like the pall of winter’s last gasp over crocus, he wilted her bloom and her expression shuttered behind vanity and smug confidence at the mention of hunger. She had been, briefly, so enamored and charmed, she hadn’t wanted to bring the magistrate to be a third wheel. She’d wanted a fucking real kiss under the bridge in the moonlit garden. But she couldn’t have that.
Friends.
Friends didn’t look at her like that and once again, some ruddy mysterious undead man made her feel embarrassed stung pride for wanting something more. Apparently, she was food and what was worse was how she felt her cheeks get hot at the prospect of being…useful. That her hurt and mild humiliation had to twist erotically in her gut.
She wanted to snarl in his face like a fox with her leg in a trap. Lillandyr wanted to bite him first, sink her teeth tight in that bleeding heart of his until he hurt worse than she did. But then he’d know. He’d know he wounded her a little. He’d scent the trail of blood in the water and she’d nurse another broken heart.
Instead of biting him, she leaned in, giving him a view of what he restrained himself from. “Friends?” She said, voice edged in smoky mockery. “Tell you what. Let’s make a wager. A game of it. If you can go an entire night without kidding me…I’ll be your very best friend.” She leaned back and lit a smoke. “Forever,” she said on the exhale.
“Now,” she said with an impatient huff, “abduct me already.”
An unsigned letter sealed with a strange emblem of a lily blooming into a lantern, awaiting Coreth Crimsonmoon's attention on his desk some morning soon:
"Moonlit daggers in the dark,
Crimson sky in haloed crescent like a crown,
A Red King swathed in wine and loss.
Tears forsaken in favor of the blood spilt in vengance.
In Justice.
In Anger.
You wear your overturned moon, and mourn…
No king should out live his heirs,
No Father should have to bury his children…
Yet in your cloak of scarlet you remain.
Instruments of war your artform in their destruction,
Each triumph hard won and too late.
Do you see salvation in the hope of those who create?
Is the fire that burns still leaving you cold?
In the ruins of a kingdom you made your gilded cage…
Is it company you seek?
Another prince to take your place until his hands bear stains?
Until the tide and weight of a Kingdom you built…
Instead becomes a crimson tide drawn in by the waning rule?
To your Foes you are always a reckoning,
To Those you treasure you think yourself a curse…
To The son dressed in violet starlight blooms… you are a stranger.
Lord of Crimson, and blood soaked Moonlight…
Crescent crown a burden on your shoulders veils of regret.
There was a moment, your heart knew music…
There was a step where your stride knew dance….
There was a breath where you spoke poetry…
There is a truth of you in the being brought to life by your love.
He's just not what you exspected…
He is your Salvation, your masterpiece, All the things you fought for.
Let him see the truth you've thought too reckless,
Too tainted…
Too passionate…
Too honest.
Because I see you Lord of crimson…
And I am not afraid, I merely wish to understand."
