Irthom

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253

DON'T FORGET - Art Fight 2026's theme reveal is Sunday, June 14th! The stream will start at 10:00am EDT (2:00pm UTC). The theme reveal animation will play at 4:00pm EDT (8:00pm UTC). You can watch the stream on our YouTube! See our stream schedule below:

2-3 PM UTC: Music & Hangout 3-4 PM UTC: Gartic Phone w/ Staff 4-6 PM UTC: Staff Drawpile & Music 6-7 PM UTC: Chat Designs an OC! 7-8 PM UTC: The Final Countdown! 8 PM UTC: THEME REVEAL!

Maths hadn’t been to Silvermoon in years. The first steps back inside the walls were a little disorienting. Things had changed. He had changed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. People glanced his way, but their eyes quickly moved on to his sister. He tried to keep his hackles down, but it was hard with the open hostility being shown to her.

Estira had a light hand on her warp stalker’s head, but her unfocused eyes roved the city paired with a dreamy expression. Whatever she saw reflected in the marble and stone of the city, Maths would never see. The Void’s incubation in her was much more prominent than his own. It made sense, she’d invited it with relief once she’d understood what was happening. Maths had simply followed his sister protectively. Habitually.

They walked slowly; Maths was on high alert for anyone threatening them with more than a glare and Estira was meandering, leading them on what Maths could only assume were her whims. Hopefully not whispers.

It made a long and uncomfortable walk for him.

They finally found the Embassy that Easy had told them about. The siblings registered and were approved to stay in the city with little fuss. A few rules and recommendations were given by rote, with no shock shown from their host as a passerby spat insults and sputum alike in their direction. The soft hum of an arcane barrier activated and protected them. The ren’dorei reading the scroll did not even flinch, did not even look toward the other elf. Estira’s gaze focused finally, pinning on the man, but she remained still and poised. Her ears twitched, though. Maths swallowed and pulled her gently the other way, toward an inn their attendant had told them was friendly.

This city had changed.

(Note: This reflection goes back to when the tree of Teldrassil burned. Around that same time, I lost my roleplay partner and dear friend of 10 years, who passed away too early. I wrapped up our roleplay with his characters sacrificing themselves for their mates. Seemed fitting. Thanks for reading.) Day Three DWC 6/2/26 Shock/Reflect

Elutia spent most of her time trying not to think about that day. The pain and grief of her home burning still made her ache even after all these years. However, it was what she had lost that day that all but suffocated her each time she thought of it, making her chest feel as if an immense weight was upon it and causing her not to breathe.

Today, however, for once she lets herself reflect, and though she still feels grief, it no longer consumes her. It no longer robs her of all the air in her lungs, or crushes her chest, or makes her wish it was her instead.

She closes her eyes, and the wind blows through her almost now dark-blue hair. Her hands grip the railing of the ship, The Righteous Venture, thinking back to all those years ago…

"This is for you."

Kyden barely had time to glance up before a bag was dropped onto his lap — done in a way meant to catch him off guard. He narrowed his eyes at his brother's retreating form before suspciously checking the contents of the bag.

"You didn't buy out any poor vendors this afternoon, did you?"

"Nope. Not this time anyway. No one pissed me off between this morning and this evening, so it was just enough to keep you from getting hangry. Works out better for both of us if you're well fed."

Raxwel grinned playfully as he settled down, leaning back against one of the nearby trees and pulling a flask from his jacket. "You know, we really should consider just getting a room at the inn, probably would be a little more comfortable…" His gaze turned towards his brother as he removed the cap of the flask. "You're overthinking. About what?"

"I'm not…"

Kyden trailed off with a sigh as the flask was lifted to Raxwel's lips. "…I was just thinking about what I'm doing."

"In regards to…?"

Kyden waved his hands around, motioning in the general area around him. "Just…as a whole." He flopped back onto his back, reaching up and scratching Finn's chin when the worg came over to sniff — making sure he was alright (and certainly not to see if he could see what was in the bag he was holding.)

( Minor trigger warning for mentions of violence and abuse ) @daily-writing-challenge The floorboards creaked like they were trying to wake the whole house. Ridley shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, rolling heel-to-toe the way he used to move through back alleys in Boralus when being quiet meant the difference between a heavy pocket and a broken jaw. Old habits, the kind that lived in muscle and bone long after the reasons for them had gone. He adjusted the bundle against his chest carefully, and kept walking the slow circuit from the window to the hearth and back again. Giddeon was four days old and had opinions about sleeping, loud ones. Not now, though. Now the boy had finally gone quiet, his damp little mouth pressed against Ridley's collarbone with one fist curled into the open collar of his shirt. The weight of him was almost nothing. A bag of flour weighed more. His pistol weighed more. Hell, Ridley's arm alone probably weighed more, and yet this scrap of warmth and breath and angry red skin had him moving through the dark like a man carrying a crate of Azerite—terrified to jar, to jostle, to breathe wrong. Sybil was fast asleep, finally. She'd wanted to keep the boy in the crook of her arm all night, murmuring those strange little half-rhymes she does when she's too tired to filter them: thin night, thin night, mind the light, mind the light. 

He'd kissed her forehead and pried the babe out of her grip the way you'd pry a bottle from a drunkard, slow and careful, as he reassured her. Sleep, love. I got 'im. I got 'im. 

Ridley stopped by the window, the glass cold near his cheek.

Westfall stretched out below the homestead in silver and black, the grass pale as ash under a fat autumn moon. The sea was a dark line at the horizon, restless and glinting where the moonlight caught the chop. He could hear it from here if the wind was right, and tonight it was. A low, rhythmic shush that sounded nothing like Boralus—there was no creak of rigging, no drunk singing, no slap of bilge against hull. Just open water and open sky and the dry rustle of wheat. Their homestead wasn't much, just a stone cottage with a patched roof, a chicken coop Ridley had built twice because the first one leaned, and a garden where Sybil grew things he couldn't name that smelled of rain and old bark. But the land was theirs and it was bought honestly, or as close to honestly as a man like him could manage. 

It was quiet here, quiet enough to make a man's thoughts too loud. 

Ridley shifted the baby's weight again and let himself look at his own reflection in the dark pane. His shaggy hair had fallen over one eye as always. His beard was untrimmed and his shirt rumpled from being slept in for three days running. He looked like a man who'd been dragged backwards through a hedge and then handed an infant. Which, near enough, was the truth of it. Ridley had never known what to do with peace. He understood noise, because to him noise made sense. Noise told you where trouble was coming from, like a bottle shattering in an alley, a woman shrieking three streets over, or boot steps behind you that were too measured to be drunk and too slow to be harmless. Merrick’s laugh booming through a room before someone else’s teeth hit the floor, gunpowder cracking in the damp air, coin clinking, men cursing, and the ugly wet sound of a knife finding somewhere soft. Peace was different, because peace had both space and time to it. Peace let a man hear the blood moving in his own ears and wonder what, exactly, had been left behind in him after all the shouting stopped. 

Merrick's face came to him unbidden, the way it always did in quiet moments. That was the bastard of it. Not the shouting, not the ugly words or the uglier blows—those he could handle, those were the language of Dampwick, the grammar of brothers who'd been built on the same broken foundation. What haunted Ridley was the look on Merrick's face the moment he'd understood that Ridley was actually leaving.

Not threatening.

Not posturing.

Leaving.

Betrayal, raw as a wound, and underneath it had been something worse—confusion. Like Merrick genuinely could not fathom that his brother, his brother, the boy he'd fed and taught and dragged through every gutter in Boralus for over two centuries, would choose someone else over him.

The split had not been clean.

Nothing with Merrick was ever clean. The fight started over Sybil because of a vision. She'd told him the deal in Freehold would go sideways, that the man he was meeting would bring iron instead of coin. Merrick heard the man will betray you and acted on it, he put a knife through the man's hand before the meeting even started, torched the arrangement, and lost the cargo and two contacts in one evening. When the dust settled it turned out the man had brought coin after all, the iron Sybil had seen was the Watch, three officers who'd been tailing the deal for weeks, Merrick didn't blame himself for misreading it, he never did, he blamed her.

The shouting had been bad, but the rest had been worse. Ridley remembered the exact moment his loyalty snapped, not bent, not frayed, but snapped—the sound Merrick's open hand made against Sybil's face, the way her head turned with the blow, the collar at her throat buzzing like a hornet. Ridley, who had spent his whole life standing at his brother's shoulder, stepped between them and said that was enough. The beating Merrick gave him was thorough, professional even. Merrick knew how to hurt a man without killing him, and he knew how to hurt Ridley specifically, because he knew every old break, every scar, every spot where the body remembered pain the most. His brother had cracked two of his ribs, split his eyebrow to the bone, and dislocated his left shoulder with a move he'd taught Ridley when Ridley was fifteen. But Ridley had gotten up. That was the part Merrick hadn't expected. Ridley always got up, because he'd been getting up his whole life every time something or someone knocked him down. But this time, he got up and he didn't come back to heel. 

Merrick had called after him. Not with rage, at first, but with something much worse. "Ridley. Rid. Come on, bruv. Where you gonna go, eh? Where you gonna go that ain't with me?" That facade of familial warmth fell apart quickly when Ridley hadn't stopped: "You're nothin' without me, you stupid bastard. You know that, right? You've always known that. You don't walk away from me, little brother.”

“Watch me.” The scar above Ridley's eyebrow itched sometimes, in the cold. He had others from that night—a white line along his forearm where he'd blocked a bottle, a burn on his back from where Merrick had unleashed a blast of arcane fire, and a crooked knuckle on his right hand from when he'd finally hit back and broken Merrick's nose. The first time in his life he'd ever raised a fist to his brother, and it had felt like cutting off his own arm. Some nights he still dreamed about Dampwick. Not the bad parts, or rather, not only the bad parts. He often dreamed of the early parts during those nights. Merrick boosting him up through a bakery window to steal day-old rolls, Merrick showing him how to tuck a blade flat against his wrist so it didn't print through his sleeve, Merrick sitting on the edge of his cot after their mother passed, not saying anything, just sitting there, hand on the back of Ridley's neck, heavy and warm. And now it all meant nothing, or it meant too much. It was hard to tell the difference on some nights. He exhaled through his nose, and Giddeon made a sound. A small wet mnnh against his chest, and Ridley's hand came up to cup the back of the boy's skull before he'd even thought about it, his palm swallowing the whole of it. He wondered if Giddeon would have magic. Real magic, not Ridley's patchwork rune carving and the jury-rigged traps and inscriptions he'd cobbled together because his blood wouldn't cooperate—but the arcane that had come easy to Merrick, liquid and obedient, proof of their Elven inheritance that Ridley had always reached for and never quite caught. Sybil's gift was something else entirely, older and wilder, tangled with antler and root. Between the two bloodlines, Giddeon might carry something. Or he might carry nothing. He might be like Ridley, reaching for a fire that he cannot light. 

Then I'll teach him runes, Ridley thought, with a stubbornness that felt like pressing a bruise. I'll teach him to shoot. I'll teach him to build. He won't need it to come easy. He'll have hands and a head and that'll be enough because I'll make bloody sure it's enough. 

Somewhere in the dark, a nightjar called. Westfall was louder at night than people expected, with crickets and frogs in the creek down the hill, and the occasional far-off bark of a coyote out in the dust plains. It wasn't the forest sounds Sybil grew up with, the deep dark forests of Drustvar that were full of rustling undergrowth and stag-calls. But she'd planted things from that home already. They had herbs along the windowsills, lavender by the front step, and a hawthorn sapling near the fence that she talked to when she thought Ridley wasn't listening, murmuring in that lilting half-rhyme of hers, blessings or prayers or whatever the old Drust words were that she carried like seeds in her pockets. The whole homestead smelled like her now—dried rosemary, wool, beeswax, and the faintly sweet earthiness of whatever she brewed in the kettle that wasn't quite tea.

Ridley still didn’t know if he'd earned all of this, and a part of him suspects he hasn’t and never will and that's a thing he was going to have to carry. But Sybil told him once, back when he'd said something close to that out loud, drunk on bad wine and ashamed of himself for being drunk. She had just touched his jaw and said, Earnin' is just doin' it again tomorrow, love. Just doin' it again tomorrow. That's the whole of it.

Shock - Brynhorn Fiske

This will be a connected, multi-character view into the early events of Stormblood in FFXIV. Spoilers will be put beneath the break when needed.

@daily-writing-challenge

TW: none

Spoilers: Beginning of Stormblood, and a big reveal related to Yda. You have been warned!

“We should approach them!”

It was everything the seasoned warrior could do to keep his mouth closed and the grind of his teeth to a minimum, his silver eyes flashing with anger as he rose to his full height and crossed his arm over his chest, a clear sign to anyone who knew him that he was displeased. But while Kaleh'a shrunk away, keeping to the corners of the meeting room after giving his report and downing two canteen of water, the young blonde dressed in red stares right back at him like she didn't have a hint of fear in her body. Or perhaps she lacked the sense to be afraid.

DWC 2026; Day 2 - Disturbance/Vibrant

Continued from here... @daily-writing-challenge

It had been calculated that it would take a solid three days to get where they were headed.

That was a total of seventy two hours of sailing morning and night. They had nearly seven hours left to sail before they would reach their destination. So far they had sailed through two storms and a bought of three hours which no winds were mustered by the oceans. For those three hours they the ship and it's inhabitants had been left stranded beneath a night sky.

Barely had the Madam gotten her sleep in, she'd spent every moment since stepping foot on this ship buried in the logistics to make this plan of Emily's a success, and subsequently prepare for the thorough search to launch upon landing.

She was always working on something. Desperate to keep her hands moving and mind focused on a task. Even now the brunette had found a way to busy herself.

Against her better judgement she had taken to the cargo hold of the ship with the intention to find the belly of the sizeable vessel. It was here that a group of gryphons are currently stalled, their heads covered in leather hoods to calm the beasts in enclosed spaces. She had remembered Emillie's answer as to which gryphon would be Susan's in this assault, a well bred retired war gryphon dubbed Static for her brindle pattern along her feline body. A mutation in the beast's genes had seen it born with this unusual pattern, but little did it affect her loyalty and bomb proof persona.

"I was told you'd been through quite abit, seen enough wars to justify never being ridden again. A well seasoned bird like that ought' to be able to handle this--," in one deft movement the Madam loosens the hood and releases the head of the gryphon. At once she herself is perceived with bright eyes, the beast observing Susan with the tray of cut up pieces of bloody meats before blinking around at her compatriots. The other gryphons had not stirred with this rustling going on nearby, nor do they seem to stir at the smell of fresh food.

The gryphon targeted by Susan in this exchange fixates the woman with another stare, this one seemingly patient in nature. As such Susan would collect bits of the gore, hand held out for the beast to make the next move.

"I figured what better way to establish ourselves to one another than over a meal?"

The calm timber to the woman's voice had settled any rising nerves in the gryphon. It tilts it's head, a clicking noise emitted from it's beak before this very mouth starts to nudge and nip at the meat in the woman's hand. The treat is scooped up before just as suddenly the beast is thrusting it's head back to make swallowing an easier effort.

For the next few moments they share in each other's company doing just this. Susan scoops another collection of meat for the gryphon to delicately gobble down. It was a mindless gesture, something Susan was able to lose herself in for a moment. Inevitably the weight of the choices leading to this moment in time would come baring down. Susan casts a wary glance around to ensure no aid or hands had entered the space before turning her full attention to the gryphon she continues to feed.

"You and I will be riding into an unknowable situation tomorrow. I figured it would be best I introduce myself before the day of," Susan almost starts to condemn herself for rambling aloud to the beast, but ultimately she continues. "I have unintentionally brought you and your kind into a war that none of you were responsible for. Alas... Your contributions are invaluable. Without it, I would be steps further from saving my daughter. Gods willing that is what we will be doing, with this amount of effort."

A silence fills the air between them as the beast eats eagerly, careful to not nip the woman's skin. Though the creature would

"I hope you wont judge me when I say I am... Nervous," she confesses. The words are spoken with a bitter undertone to them, as if remorseful to feel this way. She would pause in her feeing to eye the gryphon closely. There was an intensity to Susan's stare that stills the beast, it's eyes blinking in response to her. "As such I have only one request of you when the plan launches. Put your heart into it. Fly true, and do not falter no matter how the tides may churn."

Before Susan could admit to anything further, a disturbance to their peace and quiet in the form of Oakley Oswan occurs, this would startle the Madam and gryphon. The creaking of wood beneath his weight causes both heads to snap to attention, the charming golden irises of the Madam and the haughty blazing orange of the gryphon nearly shock him to the core when first noticing them.

He comes to a screeching halt with a bag of feed in his arms, eyes blown wide with the realization of seeing the gryphon not only staring back at him, but doing so with a calm expression to her eyes. At once the teen's blue eyes shoot over to meet Susan's indifferent golden stare. He frowns, but not out of displeasure for the Madam's presumably sullen mood...

More so, the indication that he had trampled into something bothered him. He was all too aware of the currency that Susan traded in and didn't want to be misunderstood as an eavesdropper.

"Apologies," he clears his throat. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything-?"

"Not at all," Susan quips in response, her tone matter of fact as she starts to feed the gryphon another handful of the bloody treat. "Just familiarizing myself with the gryphons your mother has collected for the assault."

Oakley hums in acknowledgement, but otherwise has resumed with his original reason for being in the cargo area with the birds of prey. Choring. The feed bag would be sliced open with his pocket knife before it's contents are measured and divided out amongst the collection of gryphon in the room.

With her personal bird of prey fed, she'd clean her hand before reapplying the hood to the gryphon's head, later offering to help Oakley in his chores only to be politely shutdown. This leaves her with only the work of cleaning the tray she carried the raw meat on, as well as wash her hands. As expected afternoon continues in this familiar silence for Susan. With only the sights of the open sea on all sides of their ship to pass her time with, Susan would be allowed the time needed to reflect and come to terms with what awaited her extraction team.

What if this was another dead end? A failed endeavor before it's even begun?

The only saving grace to being in her lonesome was the unfettered front row seat to the changing of the sky. From afternoon into evening, the sunlight would begin to wane the further it sank. The many colorful changes to the sky bring her to sigh in appreciation. The swath of purples and pinks bleeding into dark blues would cast against the deep blue waters. A perfect reflection would bestow itself unto it's viewer, the remaining sunlight glittering in bright sheen against the very top of the water's surface, leaving a lasting memory to all who'd look upon it.

@daily-writing-challenge

Day 4 of June DWC 6/3/26

(Warning: Adult situations, mention of drugs, magic, battle, slightly NSFW).

Bond

Ozzy and Tartt.

Tartt and Ozzy.

What can I say about us? Well, I can say a lot about us. We met in a nightclub under the Deeprun Tram, (A goblin knows her ways around Stormwind. I got connections). Spent all those nights being entranced and entertained by the man. And we’ve been inseparable ever since.

Every night that we spend in a lavish room is simply divine. We both tend to be a bit… naughty- Ozzy sometimes being the dominant one. I don’t mind it at all. The aura that I feel when he’s like this is simply pleasurable. A jolt of magic here, a puff of hookah smoke there. His touch is always something that tantalizes my skin. And I can’t help but be drawn to it every time; whether it’s for his tailoring skills or something devious.

But when I get dominant, it tends to be a bit more like an interrogation. Though the sounds that come out of him are music to my ears.

When we are together on the battlefield, that too is a bit of a date. And the date is slaughtering enemies- whether it’s cultists or creatures. Everything dies around us. I find it fascinating when I can hear him mutter a spell or two before firing a chaos bolt.

I love him so much and I protect him. The both of us protect each other against threats.

Day 3 Shock/Reflect 

“Oh, look darling. My pawn is on the move once again. The sands of Fate shift once more~” The ethereal’s voice giggled teasingly to his partner. 

“N-no! I simply... had dust on my lens was all. Anyone would have read those signs wrong!” The broker protested his loss. 

The holoboard before the two changed once more, a pawn morphine into a figure of a ship moving diagonally across the board. 

“He’s moving quite expeditiously this time! No doubt he’ll be delighted to see us once more!” 

The pawn comes to a stop at the edge of the board and then vanishes. On another level, the same figure appears and then morphs back into a humanoid form. Blocks illuminate and dim as the figurine moves towards a representation of a tent on the board. As the two symbols phase together, the flap of the canopy flies open. A small figure clad in atmospheric armor barges in, and a filtered voice erupts from the helmet. 

“You!” 

The rotund broker turns slightly on his floating cushion, barely addressing the guest. 

“Oh, if it isn’t everyone’s hero. You know you cost me twenty dinars on that last wage-” 

Ruzzell marches right up to the opulent entity, grips his robes and promptly punches his ornate faceplate off his shoulders! 

“Te’zpiel!” shrieked the ethereal in shock as his partner was assaulted. The goblin and broker tussled on the sandy ground as Zheshad wrestles weakly to pull the small man away. A contingent of Ren’dorei scouts arrives and help sort out the dispute. 

“Settle down everyone! What’s going on here?” says one of the elves. The goblin is pulled away with the dented faceplate still gripped in his gauntlet as he struggles, not finished with his fight. 

“That windbag almost got me and my friends killed back on K’aresh! And now they’re playin’ another sick game!” 

The scout manages to free the metal plate from Ruzzell’s grip and hands it back to the broker. Pale blue flames settle once more where the man’s head would be, though not without a large crack along the edge of his plate. 

“This little green beast assaulted me! Arrest him at once!” 

The Ren’dorei scoffed at the broker’s demand. 

“This isn’t Tazavesh. This is a forward base. We keep the peace and boot out any belligerents.” The woman rests her hand on the hilt of her spellblade, then turns to Ruzzell with a scowl. “Try that again and we’ll personally escort you out into the wastes.” The elf nods to her fellow scout and lets go of the two. Before heading out, the woman makes a parting remark, “Also, a helmet isn’t needed to breathe out here you know...” 

Glancing around, Ruzzell realizes that none of the other people in the camp are wearing any specialized gear. He’d been overly cautious in K’aresh and assumed that Voidstorm would have been the same. Removing his helmet, he let out a deep sigh. 

“Well... this is all very exciting! I had hoped this would be a more favorable reunion Mr. Goldgrin. After all, I helped set you back on your right path.” 

“You almost got me devoured by a Void monster!” Ruzzell flailed. 

“But you succeeded! As I anticipated! Clever of mind, swift of feet! I saw you lure M’azzon towards Dimensius; a marvelous play!” 

Biting his lip in anger, Te’zpiel finally rose to his metallic feet and hovered back to his partner’s side. 

“Yes... you are an ‘unpredictable’ pawn in our game” he said as he straightened out his robes and seated on his cushion once more. Pulling up a bowl of glowing fruits, he plucks a morsel and offers it to his guest. “Void date?” 

Ruzzell turns his nose at the offering; the broker shrugged and dropped the fruit into his fire, the sweet flesh vaporizing almost instantly. “Suit yourself.” 

“Why did you send me a letter to come here? Haven’t I amused you two weirdos enough?” 

Zheshad gasps and fans out his bandaged fingers across his breast in feigned offense. “Ah! Such venom! Should you not call yourself Goldfang instead?” The otherworldly indigo of the inner lights shifted behind those vaguely humanoid bindings on his face, as if to smirk deviously. “But in all honesty, my friend, we called upon you here because Fate once again is at play.” 

Eyes wild, Ruzzell huffs in bemusement. “What Fate? I already played out that ‘story’ of yours.” 

The ethereal raises a finger to interject. “You have played out but one Chapter in this story, Mr. Goldgrin.” 

“A Story that persists for you until the Final Chapter” the broker adds to the riddle. 

“Chapter? Story? You make this out like I’m some kinda character in a novel you’re writing.” 

Cocking his hooded head to the side, the Zheshad looks to his partner and then back to Ruzzell. “In a way, we all are actors in a grand play. Such is Fate. Intertwined. Stories written and rewritten. Sometimes even collaborating narratives together.” 

Blinking in confusion, the goblin clicks his tongue and waves his hand dismissively at the notion. 

“You guys been hittin’ the hookah too much. Better lay off that magic zaza and buggin’ me for anymore of your hokum crap.” 

As Ruzzell turns to leave the tent, Zheshad stops him on the way out. 

“Your past is already written, solid as stone. But your future is always shifting like so much countless sand. It is in the present that you can see the cobbles of the paths before you.” 

Zheshad’s words managed to strike Ruzzell in a way he was not expecting. The goblin’s expression softened in some understanding of the expression. 

“Just reflect on my musings, hmm?” The ethereal assured then let go of the man’s arm. The goblin said nothing in turn but gave a nod before walking towards the portal back to Silvermoon. 

(Art credit @lukelf)

Tycil did not move. She had been perched on the branch of an enormous tree that rose high above the pathways winding through Zul'Aman's forest. A lifetime of training kept her poised there, muscles relaxed; no body could hold tension for that long without betraying itself.

A small green lizard emerged from a knot in the wood and scampered along the branch. It paused beside her hand, flicking its tongue. Sensing no danger, it continued on. Tiny claws clicked softly against leather as it ran across her wrist, over her shoulder, and along the dark fabric covering her back. The creature crossed her neck, climbed over her black hair, and vanished into the foliage beyond.

A creek wound alongside it, fed by waterfalls higher in the mountains. Water rushed over smooth stones, carrying leaves and broken branches downstream. Dense vegetation crowded both banks. The humid air hummed with the sounds of insects, birds, and distant beasts, but Tycil ignored it all.

Across her lap rested two daggers. Their metal was nearly black, forged to betray no glimmer of light, even if the sun managed to pierce the canopy overhead. One blade sat comfortably in each hand, balanced and ready.

A faint rustle drifted through the undergrowth and Tycil's attention sharpened. Several moments later, a troll emerged from the greenery. She carried a staff across one shoulder and walked with the relaxed confidence of someone moving through familiar territory. Tycil watched her follow the path beside the creek,stopping near the water's edge just as she had every day for the past five days.

The troll crouched beside the creek and lowered a hand toward the water, preparing to wash her face. Her gaze drifted across the surface then he froze.Tycil saw the shock register as the water reflected eyes that faded from bright blue around the pupils to a deep, void-like purple at the edges of the iris. Fear flashed across the other woman’ features but it was too late.

Tycil moved, one moment she was part of the tree, the next she dropped from her perch. Air pushed her hood back past her hood as she descended, the  troll barely had time to begin turning before she slammed into him. Both daggers struck home, one burying itself into the left side of his neck, the other hilting as it slid through the space behind his collarbone.

The force of her descent drove him face-first into the muck at the creek's edge, a wet sucking sound escaped him as he choked on his blood. His hands clawed desperately toward his throat. Blood spilled between his fingers, dark against green skin. He struggled for breath, body convulsing as instinct fought against fatal wounds.

Tycil twisted both blades, the first severing his spine the other scraping against a rib as it tore into his lung. The troll's resistance vanished almost instantly. His body shuddered once, then went limp. The quick flash of death hadn't even disturbed the sounds of the forest around them, not acknowledging it more than it would have a falling leaf.

Tycil remained crouched over the corpse for several seconds, scanning the surrounding vegetation. Centuries had taught her caution, experience had taught her never to assume anyone was truly alone. 

Only when she was satisfied did she withdraw her blades.Blood dripped from the dark metal and she wiped them clean on the troll's clothing before sliding them into hidden sheaths.

Grasping the corpse by the arms and despite her slender frame, she possessed more than enough strength to drag the body into the creek. Water churned around exposed roots as she maneuvered it to float under one. Beneath the surface, movement caught her eye, the scavengers that hunted these waters had already sensed the meal she provided. 

A larger shape emerged from the depths, jaws snapped shut around the troll's arm before the creature vanished once more beneath the churning water. Tycil observed for a few moments longer. Nature was efficient, by morning, little would remain.

Another troll killed in Zul'Aman by her hand. She had lost count long ago, but the sense of satisfaction never faded, the only difference was that this one had belonged to the Twilight’s Blade.

"D'ya ever miss th' guy I used t'be?" Valou asked, voice unusually soft as he rearranged his tools, tail swaying and flicking lazily.

Bax slowly turned and stared at the back of the Illidari's curly-haired head in shock, the corner of his lip curled up in a rather nasty grimace.

"What kinda question is dat?" He grumbled out, the rough tone edged with irritation and confusion.

@daily-writing-challenge

Nobody escapes this sort of wake-up call: Early into the expedition, a good soldier died to shield us so that we could salvage a single dragon egg. Why she thought we were more important than her: Easy. She was a good soldier. Even I understood that much.

And all I could do was follow along, get additional protection for the long way to the others from our Voidwalker friend, be grateful, and let her die.

Sitting morosely in our next camp, egg and report delivered, I kept thinking, if I’d learned a single useful thing for anyone but myself, something like throwing up a shield or fighting on my own instead of delegating to other planes, she wouldn’t have had to die.

Along with her remains, once they’d salvage them, it was time to burn all remnants of an idea of myself as a military man or protector of any kind. I had protected exactly three people today: The spirit who lives with me, myself, and that unhatched dragon. In that order. There were things best not to admit outside of your own head.

Altherei’s gaze lingered at the growing mounds of paperwork on her desk, scattered in varying states of disarray. It spoke to the amount of work and stress she’d put on herself that they were nowhere near as organized as she would like. She knew what most were and where in the stacks to find what she needed. Grant applications, bond applications, flyers for events and more- it was all there. The outside was just a reflection of the clutter inside her mind. She knew it, too.

She needed air, and she pushed herself away from the table before the mere sight of it all overwhelmed her. 

She’d quietly known it for some time, but like so many other unpleasant things she told herself she just didn’t have time to think about, she pushed it aside. Except now, with the Summer Gala planning in full swing and with twice the workload and half the help.. Altherei didn’t arrive at the realization so much as crash into it abruptly. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t have seen it coming- she just didn’t want to.

The Reprieve had been struggling for months. Es’dai had been able to take it over for a time, but with her recent disappearance, Altherei had struggled to keep it afloat. While she was assured her fellow Speaker was alive and all right, her whereabouts remained unknown. Revlas could wash dishes, but that seemed about all he could- and would- do if he wasn’t permitted to put his feet on the table. Her growing concerns about their bratty baron-Advisor would have to wait until another day. Their conversation the night prior had drained her of all optimism, and the sinking reality was one she forced herself to push to the side. There were other things to deal with. He’d have to wait.

She was doing all she could to keep the Court afloat, but the weighty silence in Dawncourt’s hall pressed down heavily onto her shoulders. It lingered like an uncomfortable truth everyone in a room knew, but no one dared say aloud. She thought of Waylight Refuge. Waylight Outreach. Organizations before, attempts before to do the very same good she was trying to do now.

Always, it ended the same. Folded, disbanded, dissolved. Her lips pulled into a frown to think of it, and she shifted her weight in her chair as if changing position would free her from the discomfort of her thoughts.

Was she just.. bad at this? At running things that weren’t singular events? At leading organizations? Did she just not have what it took to gather a following- or was she not charismatic enough? Strong enough?

These and a thousand other questions piled in her mind one after the other, and she pulled her cardigan tighter across her shoulders before she realized she wasn’t actually cold. It was the unique chill that came with feeling horribly inadequate, worrying she wasn’t really cut out for anything but throwing fancy events, and fearing that she was staring down yet one more failure.

She didn’t want it to be. She wanted to succeed- she wanted the Court’s mission to succeed. But if she were to be brutally honest with herself, it meant acknowledging she would be, essentially, starting from ground zero. That there was no one to rely on- at least, not right now. That if success was what she really wanted.. she’d probably be at it alone until her friends either returned, or she found other like minds to bridge those gaps.

She could do it by herself. She had before. She could again. But she didn’t want to.