#augustday52025

The Eco-Dome was a technomancer marvel. Ve’nari’s investment was, obviously, substantial. Tinnaire could appreciate the wealth, in all its forms, that the environment took. It was on the cusp of lush. The smell of loam and the musk and the calls of a few creatures she couldn’t name surrounded her. It felt like a pocket of nature and it was growing by the hour as people scuttled around the area to nurture, study, and catalogue.

It was many things: beautiful, engaging, inspiring… But it wasn’t rustic.

She found herself wanting something wilder. Something rougher around the edges. Not so cultivated.

She wanted Jencir’s cabin, she realized. She ached for the wilderness and the isolation. For the comfort of familiar spaces and the stars she’d been taught so patiently. She wanted the Northrend wind and aurora.

She wanted her lover, of course, but it was more than that. Struggling to come to grips with the fel she’d called, she wanted the safety the cabin had come to mean to her over the years. The quiet muffling of words on snow--what did Ethereals know of snow?--and the vastness of night. Not this limbo of Not Day. She wanted to bathe in a wooden tub and to eat native food. To drink wine and admire the moons. To be seen, accepted, and forgiven, as she had been before.

Her friends had been injured or lost to her and she was feeling very alone in the days after the caravan had moved to the Dome. She was scared of what she might do. She could still feel it days later; the power seductive and so near on her tongue and curled around her bones. It has not even been much. She had not attacked with fel. Had not drunk deep as she had all those years ago, but still it persisted. It resisted release, like an oil over her arcane. Her eyes were noticeably brighter with it. She couldn’t hide it.

Everything about the fel was tenacious. Worst of all was how much she liked it.

@daily-writing-challenge

Day 5 Rustic/Attack

Fate was a strange thing. One day Ruzzell arrives in Orgrimmar on his way to Ratchet, the portal rooms hardly occupied. And just overnight, that same portal room is overcrowded with all manner of adventurers, fortune seekers, and suppliers coming in and out of Dornogal and Oribos. Word had broken out about the Ethereal homeworld of K'aresh and people from everywhere clammored to gain entry to the distant world either by way of Tazavesh. Ruzzell, by a stroke of enlightened realization, sought out the portal leading to Shattrath. By his recollection, Netherstorm had been a point of entry for the Ethereals fleeing the destruction of their homeworld by Dimensius. Surely there was a way back to that world by way of The Twisting Nether there. Surely...

"What do you mean my zeppelin can't make it through The Twisting Nether? I made it through that weird... Void... place thingy half a year ago! I even upgraded the cockpit to be hermetically sealed with extra oxygen tanks! I comissioned a Voidspace Depthsuit from the Area 52 engineers here! I even plotted out a starmap here to follow this... no wait... these mana jetstreams to lead me to K'aresh!"

Ruzzell was bewildered by Luckheed's disapproval.

""I'm sorry Ace, but it just ain't cut out for the conditions of The Great Dark Beyond! Sure, your zeppelin is fine for flying out here in Netherstorm, but that's because we still got atmosphere out here! And out in The Nether and K'aresh, there ain't no atmosphere to let your engines work."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out an annoyed groan to the veteran pilot.

"But ya don't understand. I NEED to get to K'aresh by any means! It's urgent that I get there and now!"

Luckheed lets out a sigh "Look, we've been at the X-52 for over a decade here. We've managed to even LEARN that the conditions beyond Netherstorm can only be traversed by experimental rocket technology, and even then, we haven't travelled beyond a few miles..."

The veteran pilot looks around the aging township of Area 52 and waves to his student to follow.

"If you really want to get to K'aresh, you're gonna have to buy one of these new 'Mana Skimmers' from The Consortium here."

Just outside the cracked stucco of the relatively safe walls of the town was a caravan of traders, merchants, and artificers setting up shop. Richly adorned tents covered a selection of heavily modified dirigibles with all manner of Ethereal tech attached to them, capable of the kind of flight needed to reach Thhe Twisting Nether. One rather svelt Ethereal notices the approaching goblins and sashays over with opportunistic vigor.

"Hello and welcome my friends! What can your humble merchant N'resh offer to you fine gentlemen?~" Oddly enough, Ethereals have much in common with Goblins. Profiting off of topical circumstances seemed to be a running theme for both races, and The Consortium had anticipated beforehand that others would try to reach K'aresh by way of Netherstorm.

"Uh, hi N'resh. I need one of your Mana Skimmers to help-"

"Help you find your way to our once beautiful homeworld of K'aresh? But of course my friend! We have several models available for your perusal! Come come, let me show you our features~"

Gliding along the ancient gravel of the roads outside, the trio find themselves amongst the multitude of aircrafts. N'resh waves his bandaged hand over the hull of an iridescent Mana Skimmer, his inner magenta glow illuminating the the reflective Void paint of the vessel.

"Long Range Emitter to detect and avoid obstacles at hyperdrive travel, Quad Khorium Gliders to swiftly navigate through mana currents, Nethergon Cannisters to provide additional fuel for extended flights, and my favorite option... a custom Void twilight paintjob, for that sleek and classy look while sailing through The Great Dark Beyond! All for an additional charge~"

Ruzzell already knew there was going to be a markup. Unphased by the upsell, he lets out a tired sigh and nods.

"Just gimme the damn contract to sign and let me get on with my day. I got a long flight here and if my starmap is correct, then-"

"Oh! May I see your chart my friend?" Ruzzell blinks and hands it to N'resh who audibly click an unseen tongue as he corrects the map. "My my, had you taken this route, you would have arrived in K'aresh in 63 years! An easy mistake to make, I know. They don't call it The TWISTING Nether for no reason, ha ha ha!" The merchant gave an overly haughty laugh as he handed Ruzzell both his corrected starmap and contract. "Now, if you'll sign here and here..."

The pilot quickly signs on the dotted line and hands it back to the Ethereal. A quick exchange of keys and a semi-formal goodbye to Luckheed and Ruzzell takes off to collect his gear from his weathered zeppelin. Loading up his new aircraft and donning his pressurized environmental suit, he lumbers heavily into the cockpit and seals the hatch. Some of the controls were familiar to him, though some new additions such as the guidance system were a welcomed change. Turning down the runway, Ruzzell engages his communicator to reach the air control tower.

"Kssh, Ruzzell, you are cleared for takeoff. Be careful out there Ace... We have no idea what kind of trip you're in for..."

The well wishes could have been less ominous. Thrusters engaged, mana-fuelled rockets burning bright, wheels unlocked, the aircraft takes off far faster than even his zeppelin could muster! A dust of ancient rock blows off behind him as the Mana Skimmer cracks out with a loud snap that rips through the sound barrier. Screaming through the sky like a shooting star, the pilot takes off on a daring flight high and above the magical lightning storm above head. In what felt like an eerily familiar setting from many months earlier, Ruzzell would find himself once more in the Netherstorm, flashes of void energy exploding and lighting up around him. In an instant, a wave of oxidizing static erupts around the hull of his aircraft and illuminates the surrounding clouds for a bright moment before all sources of outside light vanish. The sounds of the lightning, the air, the burning of the engines all goes away. Ruzzell finds himself speeding through infinite darkness once again. That terrible abyss he experienced in Netherstorm had come back to haunt him once again, only this time he was prepared. Thousands of stary eyes witnessed him silently sail through their domain once more. Far off in the distance, an immense twin set of stars winked in the direction of the miniscule craft that dared enter their domain. It's presence felt primal and ancient. Familiar. But Ruzzell had no time to panic. He was going fast. Too fast. Deathly fast. Faster than any of these beings could reach out and dare to touch his vessel. For minutes on end, the abyss laid out infront of him. And just as soon as he had entered this vast nothingness did he find another flash of violet light. Another crack of lightning and now the burn of mana and arcane residue ignites his Mana Skimmer as he shoots down through the long-destroyed space encompassing ancient K'aresh. The pilot becomes a shooting star once more, trailing from his entry near Manaforge Omega, past Eco-Dome Al'dani, and towards the enigmatic city of Tazavesh.

From down in an exotic cafe, a Broker and an Ethereal glance up to the shooting star with interest.

"I told you he would arrive in less than 63 years, Zheshad. I'll be taking that dinar now."

"Don't be so hasty Ta'zpiel. Many things can change still. Such is the nature of Fate."

“How much further?” She whined as her and her friend trekked through the wilderness. Delilah was not exactly the outdoorsy type of woman. Not like her friend Leo here, the ranger simply laughed. “You are such a baby when it comes to hiking you know that?” She scoffed and adjusted the small pack he had made her carry. Why she had even agreed to this little fishing trip was beyond her. She hated fishing, she hated camping of any sort. After her self isolation for the past few years she was happy to have been back in the city. “I’m just wondering how much further it will be before I can drown you, that’s all.” Another deep laugh came from him. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever befriended you. Then you bring me work and I remember.” She smirked at that. She often came to him to help her track target. The man was good at what he did, far better than her. With his help she’d tracked down several of the abusers that Lilith had asked her to help with. One of the businesses the woman ran on the side was one where victims, mostly those in horribly abusive situations, needed their abuser ‘taken care of’. Leo was more than happy to oblige to hunt them down as he had been in one himself long ago. Was it the right way to deal with things? Probably not, but it made her feel better to know that there was one less asshole out there who was going to harm someone. 

“Yup, that’s the only reason you are friends with me. Totally isn’t because of my winning personality, or how beautiful I am or anything.” He scoffed, stopping to turn and look at her. “You know if I even liked women I’d probably have slept with you by now. Because you are totally my type. Sadly, you just don’t have the right parts.” He teased as he pinched her cheek and she swatted at him. “Good to know if I had a dick I’d have someone willing to sleep with me. You’d be the only one.” She chuckled at her own self deprecating joke. Leo’s response was to shake his head. “We are almost there by the way, just about another mile or so.” Sighing she adjusted the pack again and kept moving. After a few more moments they came to a small clearing where there was a beautiful lake. 

“Wow… you weren’t kidding.” She breathed out as she stood there staring out at it. The sun made it sparkle and there was a soft breeze that blew strands of her raven black hair over her face. “I told you it would be worth it. Besides, fishing and liquor fixes everything, including pining hearts.” She gave a little snort and shook her head. “Says you.” He bumped her shoulder with hers nodding as she moved forward and sat everything he was carrying down. After a few hours and several bottles of drink passed between them she was laughing and they hadn’t even caught one fish yet. She supposed that Leo had been right, good company, fishing and liquor had been just what she needed to feel like someone in the world wanted her around.

Rustic/Attack

Selene Blackwood was not a subtle woman. A crimson waistcoat matched the taunt upon her brow, a tricorn boasting a plume so large it mocked good sense. Rumor claimed it was no feather at all but a quill—reserved solely for impressive contracts. No one in the Anchor & Ink had ever earned one, but Ozzie spun the tale on occasion. And Selene would only tip her brim with a ghastly laugh.

The daggers at her belt were shadowed by an absurd blunderbuss—The Hanged Man—cocked at her shoulder or propped at the table. But as the night wore on, the unnamed blades always seemed to find their way into the wood, quivering upright beside the cards.

Selene did not have friends. Only business. And yet a Ren’dorei was a curious sight. Few came to the Anchor, fewer still with a strange kris.

Her chair leaned back with a groan, studying this elf at the next table. Eyes wandered to the slit of their robe, a glowing dagger sheathed at the leg. Attention pinned to a map. For now.

“Ceremonial, or do it bite?”

Eluvianna turned, lips curving. “Both.”

Palms slammed to the table as Selene rose with a grin. “Aye…then it be needin’ a worthy introduction to match.”

She beckoned to the hearth. Beside it, a cracked shield hung from a single nail, the round painted with a checkerboard. The elf folded the parchment.

Selene drew her daggers. “Throwin’s one thing. But b’fore blade meets board—” a hand lifted, one resting atop her palm—“there’s a show.”

“Balance at the center. A nudge starts the performance.”

Eluvianna watched a thumb prod the edge into rotation. “You're chasing the momentum…” A tilt spun the steel faster, careening wildly as it caught the firelight. Finally, fingers closed around the grip, bringing the chaos to a halt.

Then with a cock of her arm she cracked it into the board—THUNK. The wood wobbled on its peg.

Selene stepped aside, nodding to the kris in Eluvianna’s hand.

“Always with a bit o’ flourish.”

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

Like music to sylvan ears, really. Zarynei found an immense, deep satisfaction in the striking of hammer to iron. To steel. To silver. To gold. It didn’t matter what the materials were. As of recent, she had the most intriguing project of melting down glass and porcelain, only to fashion it into some bizarre corset-like garment. She wasn’t going to be the one wearing it, but even when she finished it, let it cool, provided all of the golden details, it was…

Well. When she found considered that its owner was a Darkfallen—or something like it, she couldn’t really tell for sure—suddenly that made a hell of a lot more sense. Worldly comforts didn’t matter to folks like them, right? Not that she really wanted to find out. Either way, it was a project done and over with. She’d shipped it out days before feeling incredibly confident over its impeccable craftsmanship. 

Maybe she’d start making a name for herself by creating obscure works of art.

August 21 - Day 5 Rustic/Attack

The cool water in the Oasis' central pool hugged her ankles. There was no wind in the dome so it was fairly still, which meant it was easy enough to roll up the cotton twill of her 'lounge around camp' pants to keep them from getting wet.

Rynga wanted her to take it easy for at least a week. Talon had visited and made his case that it was best for her if she went back to Silvermoon. They were on a lean crew out here in the middle of nowhere on a husk of a planet, and their abilities to handle her worst injury—and sudden inability to communicate well—were not promising.

She had been warned that the potions for pain management were going to convince her that she could do more, but that was a lie and not to be trusted. Even pulling her floof of starry white curls up after a well needed shower had made her shoulder ache horribly, and it was hard to stay standing for too long at a time. But the Oasis called to her, so she was pushing it a little.

Back home she swam in the Elrendar almost every day. Being in the water was where she did her best thinking, and this was the first time she'd seen any on K'aresh. She didn't disagree with Talon. Even in the immediate hours where she felt she could make it work it had steadily grown more frustrating to be unable to ask for assistance or simply chat without needing something else to aid in the process. Plus she was having to be monitored, even on short walks like this, all the time. That was deeply tedious and not sustainable for the crew's success.

Not to mention there had been something else weighing on her mind since the Devourer attack—or really, a revelation she'd had during the Devourer attack.

Did she have a crush on Dicenne?

Not that it would be unusual, lots of people had a crush on Dicenne. She did get friend-crushes sometimes. Was this one of those, or was this a more formal Crush-crush? He did have a sort of rustic, romantic charm about him, and she had a couple bodice ripper novels where he'd modeled for the gentleman on the cover.

And if it WAS a Crush-crush, did that really matter? It's not like it would, or could, really go anywhere. She liked him as her friend without any of the extra complications. Even if extra complications could be really fun for a while. Potentially extremely sexy fun for a while. That was the danger zone, though. She'd followed that path before and it had only ended in heartache.

It didn't have to be anything she didn't want it to be. She was in control of how she managed her mess. …And the risk of her running her mouth and saying something that ruined anything was greatly diminished now. There was the opportunity to just be chill, enjoy the day-to-day and let whatever this was ride. Going home would certainly temper it a bit.

Her attention snapped to a pair of strange alien foxes that tumbled out of the brush across from her pensive spot in the pond. They chattered and chased each other, playing in the warm light provided by the dome that contained this unique terrarium. Arcane protecting nature, working in tandem together. Balanced.

Regardless of the crush-maybe-not-crush situation, the decision to head home and the greater threats facing this world and their world, it was hard not to feel hopeful in a place like this.

She liked that very much.

Dodge.

Dip.

Duck.

Each breath scraped Draeun’s throat raw as the stocky fighter swung again, the air trembling with the force of his fists. Draeun’s body twisted and bent with desperate precision, his lithe frame darting just beyond each brutal strike. He had speed. What he lacked was power.

“Come on!” the larger man bellowed, sweat pouring down his square jaw. His fists cracked like thunder through the air. “Hit me!”

The room tilted around Draeun. His head swam, every inhale jagged. They had been at it for hours—no water, no rest. The relentless cycle pressed him to the breaking point.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me!” The roar came a heartbeat before a fist connected. The blow struck Draeun’s face with bone-jarring force. His footing crumbled, and the floor rose up to meet him.

He laid there, dazed, as the hulking figure loomed overhead. A sigh heavy with disappointment cut the silence.

“You waste everything on dodging. You survive, yes. But you never win.” His voice was as sharp as the strike that had dropped Draeun. Hands planted on his hips, muscles slick with sweat, the man glared down at him. Yet, despite his scorn, his chest rose with the fatigue of a hard-fought session. Draeun’s method had pushed him—more than he’d admit aloud.

But Draeun didn’t hear the praise hidden in the silence. His vision blurred to black, consciousness slipping away.

When he stirred again, he was exactly where he had fallen. The world was dim, his body aching. He touched his swollen cheek, a hiss tearing from his lips.

“You suck at this.”

The voice snapped him back. His teacher—Oldric—approached, handing over an ice pack. Draeun took it weakly, pressing it against the bruise with a flinch.

“Thank you,” Draeun muttered, voice thin but sincere. “For not pulling your punch.”

Oldric’s back was already turned. “Tomorrow, then.”

Draeun’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow? But I’m injured. Shouldn’t I—”

The man spun, his words cutting like steel. “You think your enemies will wait for you to heal? Out there, you fall once—you stay down. Tomorrow.”

Draeun lowered his gaze, ice pressed to his face, his breath trembling. When Oldric vanished into the dark, Draeun whispered to the empty room, voice quiet but resolute.

“You’re right… Tomorrow, then.”

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, every movement screaming protest, and began the long walk home. Each step carried the weight of pain, but beneath it all—there was resolve.

Emily had told him in Stormwind that a girl had been found dead. He had, by then, finished a painting: a young woman in a blue dress, hands composed, eyes closed. He had painted it as a man notes down a name he expects to forget. He slept badly and dreamed better, which was the wrong order for a man trying to live.

No one had asked him to go to Westfall. The wish arranged itself without announcing its reasons. He packed a small bag and took a mail-coach west. It made its customary quarrels with the road and at last chose to lose one outside a holding called Garner’s Fold. The driver, cheerful despite the road, declared a halt. “There’s a smithy down the road,” he said, pointing with the whip. “Tell him the axle’s sulking.” Basil had the sense to lift his bag from the coach before he left it, and the driver, relieved of responsibility, promised him a seat back to Stormwind in the morning, if not the morning after.

Garner’s Fold consisted of a yard, a forge, and the minimum of houses necessary to prevent the forge from wandering away. The smith was of that type who never looks surprised to be needed. He said he would come. Given both the hour and the circumstance, Basil thought it best to retire. One of the houses served as an inn, as such houses often do—beds honest, beer correct, and conversation kept to the small change of weather and cattle. He ate, as one does in such places, what was brought, and went up when the hearth below had decided to go out. He lay down and expected not to sleep. He slept.

At some dark hour, he woke. The house had that particular stillness of buildings you do not know well: all the noises are correct and therefore suspicious. He lay listening for the sound that had woken him up and could not isolate it. He was not alarmed, for it was not his habit, but he experienced the peculiar embarrassment of a man who has been watched making a small mistake and cannot tell who has watched him.

The inclination presented itself then—polite, persistent. He dressed without striking a light. The corridor had been scrubbed recently and held the thin, soapy smell of diligence. On the stair he paused, not to listen, but to become the sort of man who goes out of doors at night without an errand. It seemed he was already that man.

Outside the yard, the land went spare in every direction. The moon could not be bothered; what light there was came from the general agreement of the stars that it would be a waste to withhold it entirely.

He did not choose paths so much as accept them, as paths in that sort of country did not so much lead as decline to hinder. He went on with the air of a man who has been given proper directions and trusts them because he cannot remember having asked.

Presently he found that he had come to a place he could not have named if asked. A house stood a little off from the faint track. The door gave when he tried it, not in welcome, but because it seemed staying shut had ceased to be worth the effort.

The rooms on the lower floor conducted themselves as deserted rooms do—without imagination.

At the top, three doors. He opened the first and was shown the customary scene: a bed-shape printed in boards by years of weight, a rectangle on the wall where a picture had protected the wallpaper from the sun. The second door stuck. The third knew him.

Behind it was a small room that had been emptied of furniture and of the signs furniture leaves behind. The boards bore the discreet shine of oil. There was a smell he recognized and disliked recognizing: a clean, tight smell of ship-stores. The window was the window he had painted: old, its glass wavering, bellied in one corner in a way which turned a moonlit strip of road into a slow river. He knew where the light would touch when the day leaned; he could have set his palm on the wall and found the cool place that had been her shadow. He didn’t. His hands felt suddenly awkward in front of him. He slid them into his pockets because there was nowhere else decent to put them.

He wanted, very much, to ask: Who cleaned this? Who took away the dust and left the quiet? He imagined a woman with her scarf tight against scents she would rather not carry home. He imagined a priest finding something respectable to do with his hands. He imagined a guard with a bucket. He experienced—coolly—the unpleasant justice of having been anticipated. The dream had not borrowed this place. This place had been pleased to use his dream.

He told himself he had not been here. He said it aloud to the floor: “I have not been here.”

He returned to the inn by a way that would not let him remember the way back.

In the morning he paid what was asked and thanked the smith by name though he had not been given it. The coach took him up just as promised. Stormwind received him with its usual lack of interest, which was a comfort. In his studio the painting waited, as paintings do, with the patience of things that do not know what they resemble. The blue was blue. The hands were as he had made them. The light lay obediently where it had been told.

He set his bag down in its place. He washed his hands longer than was needed. He told himself, carefully and without heat, that the matter was concluded: he had gone, as far as was reasonable, to satisfy a curiosity no one had demanded of him. He was content to allow that something had placed him where it preferred, and that he had stood there as long as was polite.

He did not propose to ask what else might be required.