Drabbles Goalore

Day 19: How does your character react when someone compliments them?

The work put into something as simple as a quill often went unremarked upon and unnoticed. Which was fine - he did the work to get pay, not praise. Everyone needed a quill; from a plain, undecorated feather, mass-produced in batches to meet minimal standards, to a fancy, individually crafted, feathery work of art. He had pride in them all, at some level. He knew that they were well made, with the skill of his kin long since passed along and mastered. But quills were too common to regularly bring him attention.

But on the rare occasions when they did...

“These are really nice quills you have here!” A smiling customer, looking over his table with excited green eyes.

“Thank you,” Kalyanar said gracefully, matching their smile with his own, genuine warmth shining through at the simple compliment.

Day 18: Write about an experience your character had when they lost track of time.

“Kalyanar, you coming down for lunch?”

“I’m working right now, Lori. I’ll come and get some leftovers later.”

-

“Kal, I’m putting the food away. Do you still want-”

“Later. Thank you.”

-

“Uncle Kal? Can you come play?”

“Sorry, Aen. I’m working today.”

“Oh…”

“Maybe later, sweetheart.”

-

“Kal! Dear? Are you coming down for dinner or not?”

“Sorry, Minna. I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’ve been ‘in the middle of something’ all day!”

“And I’ll be in the middle of something until I’m at the end of something. Thank you, though.”

-

“Aen, I already told you-”

“‘M just gonna sit.”

Kalyanar watched as the boy plopped himself down at the side of his work area, pillow in one hand and a small pile of books and toys clutched to his chest. Kalyanar squinted at the child, who gave him an innocent look.

“Are you going to be quiet?”

“Uh huh. Just wanna sit with you. Then we can play when you’re done.” Kalyanar managed a wane smile, sparing a moment to pat the boy on the head, before turning back to his quill and parchment.

- -

Kalyanar sat up, spine cracking. His hand was cramped, his eyes ached- and now that he was aware of it, his stomach gave a loud rumble of hunger than almost made him nauseous in its intensity. The room was dim, the natural light from outside long gone. He glanced from the scrolls and scrolls of parchment he had produced, back toward the window, where the moon was high in the sky. It was nearly midnight- he had been working all day.

Finally prying himself out of his chair, he nearly tripped over A’enlyndr, still parked next to his desk. The boy was asleep, propped up against a plush pillow, a picture book laying slumped and open in his lap. Kalyanar grimaced, feeling guilt writhe up like a snake in his empty belly.

“Aw, Aen…”

Taking up his cane in one hand, Kalyanar painfully bent down to scoop the boy up in the other. He made a sleepy sound, grumbling as he was jostled; thin arms wrapped trustingly tight around Kalyanar’s neck.

“...we gonna play now unca’ Kal?”

“I...Yeah. We can play. Right after we sleep.” And eat.

“...Promise?”

Day 17: Describe your character’s process of gearing up for battle– Do they put their armor on piece-by-piece? Do they speak to anybody? Do they speak to nobody? Do they say a prayer?

Iiloridan Sunshard was not a religious man, in the sense that many were.

His own prayers before knowingly walking into battle were to be spoken privately, if they were spoken aloud at all. He found other methods too showy, too loud; more a display for observers than a sacred rite. This was for himself, no one else.

...And if he were to get an answer from some higher power, he actually wanted to be able to hear it.

He called to no Naaru for protection as he geared up. A murmur to the Light - light of the sun, of Belore, of the Sunwell - of gratefulness and acceptance of his healing gifts.

His robes were thick, both in material and protective enchantments. White and gold and blue, for Light and healing and the mana that was required to sustain his connection to them both within his body. A runestone, hidden in in a pouch stayed alongside him; a mark of favor of the val’kyr.

A silent whisper to his old ally of Shadow, for aid; a nod to the formless ravens born of it that trailed in his wake, ever watchful.

A delicate layer of chainmail lay under the fine cloth, draped over soft but sturdy leather that kept it from chafing. He was no fool, seeking to rely on cloth alone, no matter how enchanted it was. He had worn leather and hidden chain for far too long. As always, his knives remained close at hand. One in each boot, and one tucked up each sleeve. The shadow ravens approved.

Finally, Fae’quindel was looked over; the metal polished and leather grip oiled; the orb at her heart recharged with mana for the long fight ahead. She was his primary conduit; a tool that eased his sometimes tenuous grip upon the Light. Only then, geared and armed, was he even close to ready to face the risks ahead.

Day 16: What is something your character has learned lately?

There are many challenges and concessions, both large and small, that come with hosting those without sight in one's home.

...

Most immediately, that it is best to just leave the floor plan alone.

Day 15: Write about the middle of something - anything.

“ ‘-And her bosoms, like soft downy pillows of feathers-’ ” There was a snicker, “ ‘heaved, blushing all of the colors of the dawn-’. The entire dawn? That sounds like a skin condition,” Kalyanar laughed, glancing his companion on the window seat. Avie’s own color was high, smiles taking the place of the frequent sadness that had dominated her face over the recent weeks. That more than anything else encouraged him to continue.

“ ‘But the stranger persisted, wrapping arms around the young tavern wench, so flustered and innocent like a new lamb. “No, we mustn't,”’ ” Kalyanar continued, taking on a falsetto for the woman’s voice that had Avie break into snorts she attempted to muffle with a pillow. “ “If my brothers catch you here, it will surely come to violence over my maidenly virtue! But how can I resist your raw, dangerous masculinity? And is- is that a sword in your pants?” ” 

Avie cackled at the faux-incredulousness in his tone, and Kalyanar nearly dropped the book, running a hand over his own laughter-flushed face. It was a long moment before he could continue, fumbling for the pages. 

“ ‘He was pressed close to her - far too close, the heat of his spicy male scent overwhelming her delicate scenes. The dark and handsome and rugged stranger spoke up, his raw male voice like a growling den of furbolg.’ ”

Then he shifted his voice again, far below his own usual male tones, though his words continued to break with snickers. “ “It is a sword- and you my dear, will be it’s sheath tonight-” ” 

It was too much; they both broke into laughter, falling against one another as they attempted to catch their breath.

“What is that supposed to be? Why do you even have this book?”

“It’s a human novel. With notoriously bad reviews. What do you expect?”

“Something better than this!”

“Do you want me to stop?” Kalyanar asked, quirking up a brow. Avie shook her head, swatting blindly at him with her pillow.

“Don’t you dare!” 

Day 14: What is one piece of advice you would leave a child to carry with them for the rest of their life?

Iiloridan stood impassively by as his daughter screamed.

She was not in pain. She did not fear. Instead, she screamed in anger, in fury, in a full-on temper tantrum rage that, had it been on a field of conflict, would have done her departed mother proud.

Instead, Iiloridan only frowned, allowing Bel’alah to burn through the red haze in her vision on a makeshift target dummy. The gangling girl, all long limbs and growing height and furious moods coming with the onset of puberty, was swinging at the wooden log with both arms, her entire weight in every motion. Each blow sent wood chips splintering, from both the target and her homemade wooden sword, bits flying through the air haphazardly. He wasn’t even certain what had set her off this time, but it was far better that she was letting it all out rather than keeping it burning on the inside.

Or far worse, letting it out on her younger siblings.

The simple wood sword broke with a crack; the tip flying overhead into the trees with her next overhead arc. The two more blows cracked it further, the shaft of the ‘blade’ breaking from the haft. With another scream, Bel’alah threw it aside, moving without hesitation to start swinging at the wood with her bare fists. That was when Iiloridan stepped in; his own arms twisting around Bella’s before she could get more than two hits in, the motions of disarming and disabling a weaker foe without harming them still smooth despite the years of white cloth.

She fought back, blind in her fury, but for all that she would likely one day have her mother’s brute strength, her father was still stronger. He wrapped arms around her, pinning her close in a restraining hug as she screamed against his chest, before falling silent and half limp when his calls of her name broke through the crimson cloud. Iiloridan held her for long moments after, through his grip eased; she did not pull away, instead staining his shirt with angry tears.

Finally, when her breathing eased, Iiloridan knelt down, hands on her arms as he gazed up into her red and blotchy face.

“Bella. You know better. You know you have to own your rage. Control it, or it will always control you.”

He gestured down the the pretend sword, lying discarded on the ground in pieces. Bella’s green eyes followed his gaze, flinching when she realized with a calmer mind what had happened to her toy.

“Your mother had the same problem.”

Bella’s head jerked up at the rare mention of her minn’da, but Iiloridan continued unimpeded.

“She mastered it, with time and effort. It was hard. I know it’s so very hard, and you, my darling, ended up with the worst temper from the both of us. And I’m sorry for that.”

He reached up, peeling black locks that were stuck to Bella’s tear-sticky face, gently tucking her hair back behind her ears.

“Go on. Take a walk, cool down. Think about what I’ve said, and what just happened.”

Bella’s gaze was glued to the ground in a mixture of embarrassment and petulance, but she nodded without an arguement. Leaving the broken sword in the dirt, she headed for the trees, glancing back over her shoulder only once.

Heaving out a sigh, Iiloridan picked up the shattered pieces of wood, turning them over and over in his hands.

...Perhaps it was time to reconsider Avie’s offer of training for the girl.

Day 13: How does your character strive to be similar to, or different from, their parents? 

His father was soft and warm like rich, sunlit soil; everything about him was earthy, gentle, nurturing. Instead of a green thumb he had green that reached up to his elbow; Soryen Brightquill could make anything grow.

-

His earliest memory was of tears and comfort. Curious and wanting, Kalyanar reached forward, sap-sticky fingers clutching the bright flower tight, tugging sharply- only to cry out when thorns bit down. Tears threatening, Kalyanar turned wide blue eyes up up up to toward the sun; to his father, who scooped him skyward immediately. He clung, fingers pulling tight against bark-brown hair. “Hey there, easy. You’ll be alright.” Long, earth-stained fingers gently cleaned his hand, brushing blood and tears aside. “You have to be careful, sprout. Some plants can bite back.” “Wanted to pick a flower for you, ann’da!” “Aww, baby. I’ve already got all the flowers I could ever want right here.”

-

“Like this, son.” Long, earth-stained fingers gently scooped the dirt aside, placing knotted roots into the soil with care. He laughed, coaxing Kalyanar’s small hands to pat at the dirt once he had covered it back up again. “You have to tuck the plant in, sprout. The earth is it’s bed,” he said, grinning wide at the face Kalyanar made at his hands afterward, freckled nose wrinkling as he stuck out his tongue. “Ann’da! Yucky!” “It’s just dirt, spout.” A hand swiped a smear of mud along the boy’s wrinkled nose, laughing once more when Kalyanar let out squeal, burying his face in his father’s chest, furiously rubbing his face clean. “It’s alright. You’ll get used to it, son.”

-

And he did; the domain of growing things, of soil and leaf was his father's. How could he not root down and grow to love it the same way?

Day 12: In what ways is your character selfish?

Kalyanar has always been good at sharing.

Share with your cousins. There were so many of them when he was young, cousins and second cousins and aunts and uncles of a similar age; there was never any question of sharing. Sharing toys, sharing clothes, sharing food.

Share with your family. Over a dozen people lived in the same home; even more when the caravans arrived home, kin spilling out across the grounds, practically dangling from the rafters. Space and privacy was found at a premium. Sharing was a fact of life.

Share the stage. He had never been a glory hound, seeking to claim the spotlight alone. His partners in dance became family; his rivals on the stage, competitors for the lead, turned equals in bed.

It should have been easy. And for a long while, it was.

And then she smiles at him; sleeps with him; stays with him; calls him lover and darling and looks at him with such trust in her blinded eyes.

And Kalyanar finds he can no longer tolerate ‘sharing’.

Day 11: How does your character act when they others are afraid?

Iiloridan started awake, gasping in the dark and unsure what had awoken him at first. A crack of thunder answered part of that question quickly enough. A rare storm was passing overhead of the Court, casting flashes of light through the stained glass windows and droning against the roof and sides of the old home. It was loud. Breathing hard for a long moment, Iiloridan ran a hand over his face roughly before he tried to lay back down.

“...Ann’da? Please?” A softly sobbing voice reached his ears.

Eye going wide, Iiloridan rolled over and pulled back the veil from around his bed. At the entrance was his youngest son, small hands clutching tight at his stuffed hawkstrider, seaglass green eyes wet with tears.

“Aen. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“‘m scared,” the boy sniffled, immediately throwing himself forward, thin arms latching around his father’s neck. Iiloridan muted his grunt at the lunge, instead immediately wrapping arms around the skinny child and scooping him up onto the bed and into his lap as the tears began to come freely.

“It’s alright, son. Did the storm scare you?”

“Uh huh,” came the muffled reply, arms clenching tighter as another crack of thunder sounded in the distance. There was a whimper the boy could not entirely hold back. “...I heard something crash outside. It woke me up.” Iiloridan ran his hand soothingly over the child’s back.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise. It’s just a storm, and the sound was probably just a tree branch, but we can check on it together when the storm passes,” he said gently. His only answer was another whimper, hands tugging tight on his hair.

“You want to stay here with me tonight?”

“Please, ann’da?”

“Of course.” Carding fingers through A’enlyndr’s messy curls, Lori laid the child to rest next to himself, tucking them both in. Only then was he able to gently pry tiny fingers out of his own hair, and Aen curled up in a ball against his chest, hiding his face under Iiloridan’s chin. He shivered with every crack of lightning, and Iiloridan stayed awake, rubbing Aen’s back until he fell asleep once more.

Day 10: In what way is your character strong?

‘Though their heads may appear almost comically misscaled compared to the rest of their massive bodies, only a fool would mistake that for a small-minded intelligence. Felguards are not foolish or weak-willed. Dominating a felguard before it can attack is a challenge only for the experienced warlock to attempt--’

The warnings in the books did not do it justice.

The demon stepped out from the nether trailing motes of shadow, the very ground shuddering with its steps.

The top of its head easily passed eight feet high; the armor spines erupting from his shoulders made its height crest even further. Muscles bulging so in their strength that they were grotesque to look upon. A near-lipless mouth, edges of desiccated flesh curving upward into an anticipatory smirk.

“Who dares summon me?” Even the voice of the the fel guard quaked with malice. He paused when he caught sight of Kalyanar, forced to look down at the elf, small and frail compared to the demon’s great bulk, body weakened from years from ill-health and gratuitous fel magic. The blood elf met his gaze without flinching.

“You don’t get my name. But I know yours,” Kalyanar spoke in rough Eredun. The felguard scoffed; the war blade resting on his shoulder coming down to be grasped in both blocky hands with a metal clang.

“Small warlock. You think you can tame me?”

“I do. I know your name, Haazinul.”

Red eyes narrowed, but the demon didn’t even twitch. Then he laughed, tree-trunk thick arms splaying out wide.

“You thought simply knowing my name would grant you power over me? Think again, worm.”

Kalyanar’s fel gaze never drifted from the crimson eyes of the demon. The white-ink runes tattooed on his skin, looping around his arms and still fresh enough to leave the skin around them red and bruised, began to pulse, drawing upon the magic in his blood.

Finally, the demon jerked, eyes going wide as he felt their wills begin to clash. Without breaking their gaze, Kalyanar tilted up his chin, taunting. The felguard’s mind was oppressive and vast; ancient and canny with millennia of warbringing and destruction and wanton malice.

It was not strong enough.

“Haazinul.”

The name was heavier on Kalyanar's tongue the second time around. Feeling the warlock beginning to challenge his freedom, the felguard raised his massive war axe with a guttural bellow, breaking into a charge. The tattoos of binding; of summoning flared into painful color, channeling magic around Kalyanar’s arms. Shadow and fel and blood magic roared to life even as the blade bore down upon him.

“Haazinul!”

Everything stopped. The blade wrenched to a halt with a painful shudder of the felguard’s arms, the edge feet away from caving the warlock in twain.

Crimson eyes bled fire with impotent rage. Bulging muscles trembled, locked in place as the circle of binding glowed void-purple at his feet. Kalyanar stared up at him, livid green energy drifting from his eyes as his power peaked. He bared his fangs, lips stretching wide in a triumphant smirk.

“Kneel.”

Day 9: How does your character deal with weather away from Silvermoon? Do they prepare, or just assume they will find what they need? 

“Why didn’t you take the tent?” “You didn’t. Offer. It!” Kalyanar snarled, ears going back in the face of Iiloridan’s laughter. “I can’t believe a bear ate your fucking cheap-ass tent!” “It didn’t get eaten, it got torn to pieces- Shut up, Lori!” From his seat on the floor, the priest rolled onto his back, cackling. Kalyanar dropped into his chair in disgust, throwing a cushion toward Iiloridan’s face- which was batted away. “Here, if you’re going to turn into an adventurer-” “Like hell I’m going out there like that again!” “-we need to get you a stash of supplies of your own. So you don’t fuck up Avie’s tent next time,” Iiloridan grinned, teeth bared. “You mean the ‘cheap ass’ tent?” He snapped, only to be ignored as Iiloridan, still on the floor, reached over to a shelf, pulling down a well-stitched bag that shimmered in the light. “Here, look.” Iiloridan upended his bag. Despite the ease in which he hefted the fabric, far more fell out of the mouth than should have been able to fit inside. Ugh. Enchanters. Kalyanar watched in disgust as Iiloridan spread out a veritable cornucopia of supplies, every one of which could have come in handy during his trip into the icy mountainside with Avie. “Tent…” The bundle was massive- yet far more compact than it had any right to be, considering how huge Kalyanar knew the tent to be. “Double-walled, thick-based, all sides enchanted-” Kalyanar groaned. “Collapsible cots, to keep you away from the cold ground-” “I fucking hate you.” “Collapsible fire bowl, rope-” “Rope? What the hell, we weren’t mountain climbing.” “Have you ever fallen into a frozen fucking river before?” Iiloridan asked, tone suddenly gone snippy. He turned the rope over in his hands, before setting it aside, and Kalyanar’s nose wrinkled. “No…?” He said, pausing when his cousin only raised his brows pointedly in answer. “Wait, when the hell did you-” “I didn’t, no,” he corrected, stare gone chilly as his teasing tone vanished. “But without the rope...I would have come back alone.” Kalyanar winced, faux-anger fizzling. “But when do you think? I’ve been to Northrend twice. If you think I’m ever going near any icy hellhole ever again without every possible disaster covered, you’re wrong.”

Day 8: How does your character recover after battles?

He soaked for hours. When the hot water turned chilled he drained the bath and filled it again, so hot he could barely stand it. The epsom salts fizzled around his lean limbs, and he pilfered a few capfuls of the bath oils Avie had left behind- despite the now-familiar churn of grief. Even then, he carefully avoided the starlight rose, passing it over in favor of lavender instead. He was so gods-damned tired... Better, he supposedly was. Well enough to get booted out of the infirmary, but his bad leg was stiffer than ever, and his hip was even more fucked than before. ‘Still recovering’. ‘Physical therapy’. Kalyanar leaned back, head and half-soaked hair dangling off the side of the tub with a groan of disgust. More than once, he heard the sound of the children outside the door, calling hopefully for their uncle; followed by the sound of Minna gently ushering them away to leave him be. He and Iiloridan both had been away for weeks- they had missed the entirety of Winter’s Veil with the children. A flicker of guilt curled up. Once he was done, he would have to be sure to spend some time with them before he fell asleep; reassure them and plan their belated holiday celebrations. Kalyanar slumped down in the tub with a nod to himself, water up to his nose. Yes, he would get right on that- ...After five more minutes.

Day 4: Write about a phobia your character has. When and how did they discover they had this fear?

They pass through the market and the smell of cooking meat draws them near. The smiling butcher pulls a haunch down from it’s hook

-the chain rattles and clanks-

and Kalyanar jumps.

-

Their booth is set up near the blacksmiths this weekend. It smells of fire and char and metal. The constant hammering, clanging, pounding; the hissing of the quench do not bother him. But the faint

-rattle and clanks of the chains-

come forth from the din, intermittent and unexpectedly throughout the day. Kalyanar is shaking by the time he packs up for the evening.

-

The draft-striders claw impatiently at the ground as they are tacked and harnessed to the wagon. Walking cane left to the side to free his hands for the job, Kalyanar is slower than they like, and feather-scratches ease them but little after the long day. They set on their way with a jolt, the pair of birds snapping at one another. The tug chains

-rattle and clank and rattle and clank and rattle and fucking clank-

constantly down the cobblestones with every fussy motion from the striders and every turn of the cart. His nerves, worn over and shot throughout the day, shatter to pieces. Kalyanar nearly abandons the wagon in the middle of the road.

He stops the cart for an hour, no matter how the birds fuss, and wraps the chains in scraps of cloth once his limbs obey him again.

-

Kalyanar drops the wagon chains, still wrapped in road-fouled fabric, all but in Iiloridan’s lap, ears pulling back at the sound that climbs up his spine like nails.

Day 3: Name one thing your character has lied to themselves about. Why did they do this?

-I’ve lost everything-

Kalyanar only managed one, final glimpse of the wreckage before he was dragged to safety- their caravans upended, burning and crushed; their goods spilled out into the rubble, trampled by fleeing feet and marching corpses.

Bodies; familiar bodies, so very many familiar bodies; laying in the dirt. Laying in the blood-

“How many…Lori. Who else survived?”

“...just us.”

Day 2: Write about something presently in your character’s life that is “worth it”.

Iiloridan’s eye cracked open.

The glow of it was all but leached away, seafoam green gone dark and stormy in a testament to his mana-drained state. His view was blurry, pained, and thick with unnatural sleep; everything was tinged green green green for a long moment, and it lingered around the edges as proper sight and color returned.

-Something deep within ached, as light as an itch, but with all the urgency of a broken bone.

Where was he?  Even turning his head was agony, the painfully white room spinning with a lurch of dizziness. A flash of red and black-

Familiarity. Kalyanar was there - safe, alive - breathing softly, hunched in his stolen seat next to Iiloridan’s bed. His face was pinched at the scrunched, awkward position he had fallen asleep in, chest moving steadily, and Iiloridan’s relieved breath was so deep his ribs ached with it. A hand was held limply in his lap, fallen from his cousin’s grasp. A hand that led to another bed next to his own, with a too-still figure wreathed in red curls.

Avie…

Avie!

Day 1: Write a diary entry for your character, dated 10 years in the future.

The quill was ever swift in Kalyanar’s well-trained hand. Despite the slumbering child tucked in the crook of his other arm, red curls clenched tight in a tiny fist, the soft tap of the nib within the inkwell was the only thing to break the smooth rhythm of his script.

“I discovered an error in the accounting for the outbound shipments to the Southern docks this morning. A small thing, easily mistaken for simple miscalculation by a poorly-trained clerk, but something about it felt rather off, as it was not the first seemingly passable error I’ve noted coming from the same office. A little digging - with the Fenn by my side, of course - found another, and then another, and by lunch time I had the entire, poorly orchestrated scheme uncovered at my feet. The harbormaster, a minor Lord and one of the last holdouts from the time of Avie’s father, siphoning funds off the top and passing the costs on to the mainland. He tried to set his aids up take the fall, of course. Two of them are not even into their second decade, and were absolutely terrified by the entire debacle. But thankfully, for all that Vvalfel lacks in ferocity, his nose can sniff out lies like no other felhound I’ve yet tamed.”

“Avie, of course, was furious, her temper only worsened by her post-pregnancy aches and pains, and the unfortunate culprit has been left to my Lady’s increasingly not-so-tender mercies. Beginning the task of finding a new Harbormaster to take his place will have to be the work of tomorrow.”

“In far more pleasant news, a late supper with Minna only confirmed that Ahani continues to excel in her studies. It’s not just a father’s bias, has she has proven time and again; she is all but devouring her texts whole, and her leanings toward blood magic are becoming more noticeable. She hasn’t asked outright yet, but I suspect Minna wants to take Ahani under her wing properly, to prevent any unpleasant accidents - something I will have to broach with Avie at a later date. I personally would prefer for Ahani to receive a solid foundation in the more... steady, balanced basics Si’iohema practices before being taught too much by either of us. Avie’s methods are entirely too aggressive, and my own are far too risky for a girl not yet ten.”

“The babe came along with me during some of my investigations today; his first big outing with me alone, while his mother enjoyed picking up a sword again. The sea air seemed to do him good, and he is already beginning to smile and laugh. He is such a quiet, wide-eyed child-”

The quill left a streak of ink across the page, as if on cue, the ‘quiet’ child began to wail, abruptly awoken from his post-feeding nap. Kalyanar set the quill aside, a careless wave of his hand removing the spilled ink from the paper.

“...Well now, what is all this fuss about?” He cooed down at his youngest child, before tugging the tousled-haired infant up against his chest for a reassuring cuddle, journal quickly forgotten.