#cazmilan

May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

The scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and incense hung thick in the air as the afternoon light poured in through the tall windows that overlooked the city. Stellan Volanthus stepped quietly into the studio, his long coat shrugged off and hung on a nearby hook. The space was as he remembered: organized chaos, canvases leaned against walls, palettes of muddied color scattered about. His daughter stood at the center of it all, barefoot with brush in hand, her hair pulled up with two old paintbrushes skewered through it like pins.

She didn’t look up when he entered, too focused on the work before her. Her brush was moving in short, precise strokes over a canvas larger than most she’d invited him to see before. From where he stood, he could only make out harsh lines of red and gray.

“You said it was important,” Stellan said after a long beat, voice low so as to not startle her, “so I came.”

“Yes, thank you.” Vixannya’s voice was measured, but there was a charged undertone to it. Her brush paused and she stepped back from the canvas, finally turning toward him. “Do you know what I’ve been working on lately?”

He crossed the room slowly, his boots echoing off the hardwood floor. “Something dark,” he remarked dryly, glancing at the scattered paints and the sharp angular shadows in her latest piece. “Looks like you're angry at someone."

“Not angry, no, curious.” She motioned toward a finished painting covered with a cloth. “I’ve been painting killers, famous ones. Assassins, serial killers, some are dead, some still alive. Some I visited in prison, some agreed to sit for me. The ones who don’t, I don’t show their faces, only the ones who want to be known. I’m calling it ‘Monsters Among Us’.” If there was one thing that Vixannya loved, it was delicately traversing the edge of a sharp blade.

Stellan’s body went still. That gnawing sense deep in his chest tightened, the one that had never quite faded no matter how many names he buried or how many years passed in comfort. He kept his expression unreadable. “You always had an eye for the dark,” Voice quiet but steady.

Vixannya tilted her head. “You’re part of it.”

He studied her for a moment, unsure if she meant that in the abstract, or if she knew. But there it was, already gleaming behind her calm stare, certainty and recognition. “I assume this is where I ask how long you’ve known,” his tone betrayed a small crack of something darker. Not fear, but the memory of what he had always done when others found out.

“I figured it out a while ago. By accident, mostly. I had a vision of my brother’s death while he was playing the part. But don’t worry, I ensured that would not happen to him and his fate has changed.” The details were not necessary, so instead she let his mind wander. “Then it all just fell into place and made perfect sense. I started this painting with him in mind as The Chameleon, but then I stopped.” Her eyes softened. “Because he still is him, and he would never agree to this.”

Stellan exhaled slowly. That part was confirmation, not revelation. He’d always suspected she knew more than she let on, but hearing it spoken out loud shifted something within. “You’ve been keeping a dangerous secret.”

She raised an eyebrow. “From whom? You?”

He almost smiled. “Anyone else who’s ever known didn’t last long. You’re the exception.”

“I know,” she said, unflinching. “And that’s why I waited, I wanted your permission.”

“It is not just my permission you need. I am not the only one to carry the title.”

“Cazmilan would not dare come after me if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyways, I wanted this version to be you. Even if you all do look the same, there are still differences in mannerisms, moods, auras…colors. Things the vast majority would never notice. I do.”

Stellan moved closer to the easel, catching more detail of her rough sketch of him taking shape in shadows and jagged contrast. But no face, just the suggestion of power and presence. A shape-shifting ghost in motion, but his silhouette was unmistakable if you’d ever seen him kill. “You’re not showing my face.” Not that his face always looked the same.

“Of course not, never planned to. You would never give me permission for that, and I don’t quite recall how you looked back then. Just your presence, or lack thereof.”

He deserved that. “Why do it at all?”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next. “Because I want to paint the truth about what runs in our blood, I want to acknowledge the thread that binds us together. It’s not about judgment, it’s lineage. This is a legacy whether we like it or not, and maybe a part of me mourns the fact I was never a part of that particular legacy. I think the world forgets too easily who really moves it. What lurks beneath the names in history. I don’t want to glorify it, just show that monsters don’t always live under beds. You were a large part of that world, and still are in some ways, so I don’t need you to atone, just to sit.”

He was quiet for a long time. His fingers brushed the edge of the stool as he debated. Her voice was calm, but the faith she had in him, the kind that could only come from someone who had seen what he was and decided to love him anyway. That was far more dangerous than any blade. “I’ve seen what runs in our blood in the mirror for decades. I never wanted it to pass to you, never wanted the weight of it on your shoulders. But you’re right, legacy doesn’t ask permission, it just seeps through if no one stops it. If this is how you claim it, not with a knife, but a brush, then fine. I’ll sit. Just don’t pretend I was ever anything more than what I was.”

“A monster. You agree?”

His thoughts drifted back to his father and how ruthlessly he trained him, stripped guilt from flesh and bone, taught him to kill with a clean conscience and disappear just after the final breath was taken. He didn’t regret the things he’d done, regret had no place in a world that rewarded precision and silence. The man he was had not died, he just grew tired of the noise and that’s when he knew it was time to pass the mantle. Still, the restlessness never left. It stirred inside him now, whispering that the work wasn’t over, only paused. “Yes. But I don’t need to be forgiven,” Finally, he sat down on the stool. “And I won’t pretend I regret any of it.”

“I know,” Vixannya murmured, reaching for a brush. “Most monsters don’t.”

He smirked, “Am I still one to you?” 

She dipped the brush in paint and met his eyes with a small smile. “Maybe, but you’re not just a monster, you’re also a man who happens to be my father and I’m trying to paint both. Anyways, sometimes the world needs monsters.” With that, she began to paint.

For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to be still. Not vigilant, not armored, just present. Sitting for a daughter he hadn’t raised but who somehow still believed he was worth painting even after truly seeing him, and maybe that was the part that unsettled him most.

There had already been about a dozen casualties among the Elite Forces training candidates. A good chunk had quit on their own accord within that first month, realizing it was just too physically and mentally demanding for them. Another handful had been told to leave after showing they clearly weren’t equipped for the training. They would return to their normal units within the military, but would not be given this opportunity for at least another few years.

It’s what Aerden knew was going to happen. Pollux had filled him in on what to expect during the entire process, although no amount of explanation could have prepared him for the exhaustion he currently felt. It was a brutal process and at times he felt as if he were hanging on by a mere thread; but they all felt that way. That was the point of it all, to push them to their limits and then make them adapt and learn how to push beyond those limits.

Despite it all, he somehow managed to thrive. His training with Cazmilan Fin’endal in particular had been a blessing to this entire process. The older man has a punishingly difficult workout routine and never went easy on Aerden during their sparring matches. Aerden never won, and he reckoned he probably never could, but it wasn’t about winning, it was about learning. 

He may not have inherited Pollux’s precision with aiming, but when it came to hand to hand combat, the young man could fight and hold his own. Ever since they had started the occasional sparring at the beginning of the month, Aerden had, much to his surprise, managed to win every single match. He knew he had become a decent fighter over his years of training with Caz and various others, but he hadn’t realized he had become this good at it. 

The trainers had singled him out, along with a couple of others, to be leaders of different teams within the training group. It was a huge achievement and Aerden found it difficult to believe that he, among all these amazingly skilled soldiers, was the right choice for that role. However, he would put his all into it, like he did with everything, and hope he wouldn’t disappoint anyone. He still felt as if he had so much to prove.

It was never a secret to Vixannya that Inistellan Volanthus was her biological father. Of course, he didn’t go by that name at the time of her birth, and instead was known as Cazmilan Fin’endal Senior, or The Chameleon. As far as she knew, she was the only one that was aware of the latter, and aware of her half-brother taking up the mantle of the famed assassin upon their father’s retirement. She was of no threat to either of them, she quite enjoyed hoarding secrets. Especially family secrets.

Her mother, Aurolaina Ana’diel, was a family friend of the Fin’endals; a best friend to Stellan’s wife Delorrah at the time. Needless to say that after Aurolaina had gotten pregnant by her friend’s husband, that friendship had crumbled and she was on her own. She was almost certain that Stellan had given her a large sum of gold to quiet her; single mothers with unknown fathers were highly frowned upon in those days, especially within high society. If only that ‘high society’ knew of her mother’s other habits

Stellan had told Vixannya before that she inherited a ‘touch of his dark side’, and while that was true, it seemed to work in perfect harmony with the darker side she had also inherited from her mother. Aurolaina was a blood mage, or as she preferred to be called, a blood witch. Mage was far too gentle for some of her practices. Many considered that type of magic to be far too taboo, and naturally people fear what they don’t understand. So she kept it hidden away, using it only for personal reasons and with those she trusted.

Vixannya herself was naturally gifted, although a lot of her magic was more destructive in nature. A perfect combination of genetics to create the perfect storm. Thankfully, control had been learned early on. She was a smart child and understood that some things were meant to remain a secret, and she became very good at keeping them. Anyways, no one would ever expect the sweet little doe-eyed child.

After Annya had grown and moved away from home, her mother passed from ‘heart complications’. She always had a sinking feeling that she had simply become tired of this life and made her own heart stop beating. Annya couldn’t be upset by that, if anyone understood the intricacies of life and death, it was her. Not to mention that she foretold this death long ago and had already been subconsciously prepared for it. Aurolaina left this world peacefully, and that’s all anyone could ask for. 

It wasn’t until years later that she finally decided to reunite with her father. He was literally a different man now, but Vixannya knew. She had a premonition of his death when she knew him as Cazmilan Fin’endal Senior, and witnessing the same death for Inistellan Volanthus was too much of a coincidence. For now she posed as one of his clients at the Red Moon, it was the perfect cover-up. As much as they both would love to acknowledge the other as family, it was best for all parties involved that their secrets be kept.

October Writing Challenge Day 18 Word:  Message  It was late at night, he had already been in bed for at least two hours when his comm buzzed.  Immediately he startled at the sound and grabbed the little device, quickly opening up the message.  Texts that came this late were either never good or drunk texts and his first thought immediately went to his sister.  When he saw that it was indeed from her his heart sank.

Then, a photograph.  Of her….and…. 

Dicenne immediately wrinkled up his nose, scrolling down to the message itself:

‘Sorry for the late text but I just got back to my room.  You won’t believe who I met today, out in Pandaria of all places!  Do you remember seeing him dance, what was it, a couple Winter Veil’s ago?  When we went to the Royal Ballet?  It’s the principle dance, Cazmilan!  I got his autograph too!  I’ll see you soon and tell you all about it!  Love ya!’

Cazmilan Fin’endal.  She better not have any more to tell him other than just about the photograph and signing.  He knew all about Caz, he knew how he could be; they had briefly worked together for awhile after all (which he did not tell Kara on purpose).  On one hand, he was actually proud of her in a way, for being brave enough to approach the man.  Maybe she saw him as ‘safe’ since he was a ballet dancer, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth.  There was nothing safe about that man, but she seemed happy enough in the photo and message.

With a sigh he typed out a message in response:

‘Love you too, I’m glad you had fun, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

@karaamberlight @cazmilan

Khaeris lay in a bed that wasn't her own. The sheets were rich. The rug she put her feet down on each morning was thick and soft. The curtains over the window were finely made. The window itself looked over the Court of the Sun, not the Bazaar.

Pollux hadn't come home that week. Other Pollux, not her Pollux.

Gone on a business trip. Zandalar? Had he said that? He supplied the military, he'd said, but was that what this trip was?  Maybe somewhere else. She realized should probably be ashamed she hadn't listened closely, but she wasn't ashamed. Despondency came and went in waves.

Though alone every evening, Khaeris could not be disappointed in this. He was too strange. It was both too familiar and too jarring to see his shape. His silhouette was complete and unmarred. His eyes were green here. It hadn't been his 'birthday.' He was generous, and he'd been kind to invite her to stay at his home. It had startled and touched her when he'd let her remain even while he'd left. She could have been anyone.

But he was not her Pollux.

The furnishings leant to squared corners and sleek lines. The same as her Pollux. He still had a rather large and frequently used tinkering workshop in his home and technology was all around her. He had the same smile and the same sense of humor. His voice was the same, even if the cadences weren't exact. He didn't hold his tongue nearly as much as her Pollux.

And he was whole. He wasn't directly in the military--a supplier, not a front liner. He was confident in ways her Pollux was not. He was less jaded, less scarred--both literally and emotionally. He was rich and flaunted it, reveling in the attention and winning people over with smiles and charm so smooth you might not even feel it wind around you. His suits were custom tailored to him, the fit flattering and the styles new.

It felt surreal. It felt subtly wrong. Everything here did. She rolled over, heart quiet. She wanted to pretend she didn't belong here. But she knew she should have been comfortable in this universe. She should have felt some sense of home, right? This was her origin. She would never see the place (the time?) that was Home. She should settle in and find her feet.

Instead, she pulled them in under the warm blanket. Tomorrow, she'd carve out time for another look. Another heartbreak.

___________________________

She had been shocked, and she knew her complexion had gone ashen. The records were complete. Woodenly, not musically, she had thanked the clerk as she absently floated out of the Registrar office.

Pyraelia was dead here.

Dead. Of her hemolytic disease. Her sister had not saved her. No pact. Her parents were still alive... Fiorenze had a daughter she'd given her sister's name. But her Pyraelia was not here.

Khaeris found her steps had taken her, unsought, toward the Shielded Mind. It was not the Shielded Mind. Not the clinic where she'd spent hours on the porch laughing and talking with Pyraelia.

It was a general goods market of shops. She dashed down the steps as soon as she'd climbed them.

____________________________

Was the war the same there?

Had her Helal been at Darnassus? Was the Kaldorei city saved in the other timeline? Was everyone safe and celebrating the defeat of the Legion? Please. Please please.

She'd seen the Battlemage. His runes had shimmered as he confidently strode the streets of the Royal Exchange. She'd sought him out, but then hesitated. This wasn't her Helal. His eyes were both intact. His gaze had caught on her with no recognition, though his wolfish grin for her had been all too clear to read even across the Royal Exchange. It had made her heart jolt and her eyes widen.

The Registrar had smiled benignly at her when she'd looked at those records, too. They were starting to know her well.

This was not her Helal. Her best friend. Father to four. No, this man was still Heir. This man had no children. Had not married Aeni. No children. She had ducked beyond the crowd and lost him, all the while stroking the runed and enameled bangle her Helal has procured for her.

__________________________

Andaeros Dawnflare. His strong shoulders and that big, confident smile. ... But. But not following Feywren as a bodyguard.

Not her Andaeros. The Registrar knows that he's still a Spellbreaker. Never discharged dishonorably. Never broken and rebuilt and better for it. No. All the swagger she'd seen on this one made more sense as the pieces slide into place. Did he still tell terrible puns? Did he do calligraphy? Tattoos?

_________________________

They don't let her near the Adzior estates. Her Peacock and the monk are not there. Who are they, here? Ashraen was no where to be found.

_________________________

Caz wasn't with the ballet any longer. Their old coach couldn't say where he'd gone, but he had been gone years, before the Scourge.

________________________

Kenarin didn't own a shop; neither in Dalaran, nor, from what she could gather, in Stormwind.

_______________________

And Iloam had never existed.

______________________

Every night Khaeris finished climbing the steps to Pollux's home, her dance bag hanging over her shoulder and the scraps of her notes from the Registrar's office crumpled in her hand.

This was supposed to be her time.

If that was the case, why didn't it feel like she belonged in this world? She felt more like a figment of imagination manifested. A half-forgotten story.

She slipped into the stranger's house and made herself tea, as silent and as heavy as a ghost.

February Daily Writing Challenge 2025 Day 3 - Suspicious

Inistellan sipped on his glass of brandy, eyes fixated on the stage from his private box at the Royal Ballet’s production of Romulo and Julianne. Despite the tragic ending, it was a favorite this time of year. Love is in the Air was certainly a time for star-crossed lovers and love at first sight - two situations he was completely unfamiliar with himself.

Cazmilan Fin’endal Junior played the role of Romulo, naturally. He was their best and had been for years now. A perfectionist through and through, just like his father Inistellan. Perfectionism ran rampant in their family, even in his daughter Vixannya Ana’diel. It was their duty to always look polished and flawless in the public eye, and that had taken all of them far in life.

After the ballet had concluded, Stellan excused himself to go home, passing over the opportunity to have a meet and greet with some of the stars of the show. He preferred to keep his distance from his son, lest Cazmilan become suspicious of his true nature. After all he had trained him well on how to read people and it would be quite the scandal for them both should he be outed.

There were moments that Stellan did yearn for a relationship with his son, but this was what was safest for everyone involved. They had many good years together, but there were also heavy regrets on Stellan’s part. He never wanted to become his own father, but he feared he had done just that when raising Cazmilan. Still, he turned out well. He seemed happy and was obviously thriving. A part of him did wonder if Caz hated him just as he hated his own father in the end. Perhaps it was best not to know.

He would make his anonymous donation, attend at least one performance every season, and that would be that until the day he died.

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 18 - Precognition

Precognition manifested itself in a variety of ways within the Fin’endal family; no two ever had the same experiences. While many outside of their family that possessed the gift found it to be a burden, they had always found a way to manipulate it to their advantage

Death had been his daughter Vixannya’s forte; she could often see how someone would die by simply looking at them. At first it had been a terrible hardship, but over the years she learned to embrace and love her darkness. After a bit of experimenting, she quickly learned that blood was the best conduit to solidify those images and took to practicing hematomancy. A taboo form of divination, but she used it to her benefit to build herself a career and make her fortune.

Cazmilan had been blessed with the ability to see seconds into the future at any given time. On the outside it didn’t seem like much of a gift, seconds weren’t much to work with - except when it came to battle. He was a near unstoppable force when it came to fighting because he would know exactly what was coming next if he concentrated hard enough. Stellan had passed down the  title of The Chameleon to him, the name of an assassin that had been around and passed down for centuries, and Caz excelled greatly at this position thanks to his abilities.

Then there was Stellan, formerly Cazmilan Fin’endal Senior and The Chameleon, he had taken to his newest life and decided that he would die as Inistellan Volanthus. At least according to Vixannya that would be the case. She saw him dying strictly of old age, nothing fancy like what hung in her gallery, but that was likely due in part to his own talents: His premonitions usually showed him the day ahead. It was easy to avoid death when you saw it happening to yourself, but not quite as easy to avoid being old.

Much like his son, he was able to use his gift in battle, but only to an extent. He could change a specific outcome he didn’t like, but wouldn’t know how the change would affect everything else around him. It was a dangerous gamble. He could warn people of the terrible things that would befall them the following day, but what if telling them only made it worse? It had in the past, and harsh lessons were learned. Only so much could be changed. It was a gift he rarely used when it came to violence and war, but it certainly aided in many other aspects of his life. It had allowed all the comforts he desired and the ability to do as he pleased. In fact, it had allowed their entire family tree to live a comfortable life.

Thanks to Vixannya, he knew that he still had a very long, and very fulfilling life ahead of himself.

October 22nd Senses

He had seen in his comic books when someone was knocked out that stars were drawn around their head, he had also heard the phrase ‘seeing stars’ on several occasions, yet he himself had yet to experience these stars.  Were they actually stars that one sees?  Could you see other things along with said stars?  What did it feel like?  It was probably just an exaggeration for the sake of the comic books.  Maybe.

Today he found his answers.

Aerden had improved tremendously since they began their random lessons but it was an unusually aggressive sparring session with Cazmilan today.    Since both men had busy lives, he wasn’t always able to learn from the ballet dancer but he did keep up the work and train with others in the meantime.  None could ever compare to Caz though.

He was already worn down by the time it happened and made a poor decision which helped Cazmilan land a direct blow to his temple.  Boxing gloves or not, a strong hit is still a strong hit.  The next thing he knew he was on the ground and there were little flashes of bright light clouding his vision.  Little stars.  He would probably be more amused if his head didn’t throb so much.

It took him a moment to come to his senses and when he did Cazmilan was sitting there laughing because of course he was.  The man wasn’t exactly known for his compassion.  Aerden sat up slowly, spitting out his mouth guard and pulling off the protective head gear as he just stared at the ground.

“Ready t’go again, kiddo?” 

He hated being called kiddo and that would normally rile him right up but right now all he wanted to do was stare at the floor.  He didn’t want to shake his head right now either, he would probably throw up so instead he murmured a soft ‘no’.  Caz rolled his eyes in silent disapproval and clapped him on the shoulder before wandering off to find his next victim.  

Eventually Aerden picked himself up off the ground and plodded home, that was enough training for today.  At least now he could say without a doubt that the stars in his comic books definitely had a basis in reality.

@cazmilan