#day202021

“You can call me Master Thalsian.”

That was how the incomparable warlock often introduced himself on the rare occasion he decided to be friendly with anyone. Usually other dark artists or dregs of humanity.

But more often than not, he was always met with some version of the same response: “you’re not my master”

Why? Why was it so hard for others to show a simple modicum of respect. Why was the assumption that he planned on subjugating them like some power fetishizing madman?

Mages in violet towers could address each other with due respect and not bat an eye.

“Master Runeweaver, how are you?”

“Quite well Master Vargoth, and you?”

It was a sign of respect that Percival was always denied. He had studied and practiced as hard as anyone. More so even. Archmages and Kings had died where he had thrived. He was jealous of the people who lived in the light of society who did nothing and were revered by their lessers and respected by their peers. A chip on his shoulder that continued to grow and fester until it became irrational.

@daily-writing-challenge​

The Construct’s feet carried him unconsciously down a familiar path, through the dark, twisted forests he had traversed many times before, and finally into an intimate clearing that housed a long forgotten cemetery. A black cloak shrouded the imposing figure standing among the graves nearby; the White Lady only allowed the briefest glimpse of the pale face beneath. The cheshire grin that split his Master’s lips curled upwards before a bare palm was outstretched in silent offer, of which his creation gratefully accepted.

It felt as if it had been ages since The Construct visited with his creator. An odd concept for a creature that could spend literal months watching the decomposition of a body and assuming only hours had passed. Time meant nothing, until it came to his Master. Their time together was fleeting now that this particular creation had grown and thrived exceptionally well within that growth. Yet creation never went too long without creator, especially since their mental bond would allow them a certain intimacy despite their distance. However, It was always the touch that The Construct craved.

Drawn into His benevolent embrace, C closed his eyes and silently reveled in the euphoria he felt in every single touch. Many had assumed that the peculiar man had no compassion for others, or no feelings at all for that matter, but they were very wrong. They were simply undeserving of all he had to offer.

Gaebral pushed his hood back before leaning down to press cold lips to his construct’s forehead, then pulling away just enough to get a good look at his pristine features. “You traveled so far this time.”

The Construct lifted a hand, tracing pallid digits along his Master’s scarred cheeks and forehead. He had always found these scars from his mortal life beautiful and was pleased that Gaebral chose to keep them, even if he was no longer that same man. “Yes, and there is so much I have yet to explore. I brought you a gift.” From within his coat pocket, he retrieved and presented the icy blue soulkeeper crystal. Glimmering brightly, It practically vibrated with energy from all the souls trapped within. He delicately placed it into the other man’s hand and curled his fingers around it. “These are for -you-.” Purposefully stressing the final word, Gaebral would understand what he meant.

Indeed he did. Inky black eyes briefly studied the crystal while giving his construct an affectionate caress on his cheek. With a step backwards, he abruptly clamped both hands around the gift, shattering it in the process. Instead of roaming free or being swept back into the Maw, the souls were absorbed into his cold, marred flesh. The runes etched into his skin and armor shimmered with vitality, spreading from arms to core, and outwards from there. Vivid pinpoints of light twinkled within his shadowy gaze, like staring into the Great Dark Beyond on a cloudless night. Then just as quickly as it began, the process ceased and Gaebral dropped the remnants of the fractured shard onto the ground.

The Construct watched with enrapt awe as he could feel and practically see the power and energy buzzing through the air around his Master; he was clearly pleased. “What would you have me do next?” He inclined his chin as the scarred hand once more cupped his smooth cheek to draw him in closer.

Gaebral’s typically deep, hollow voice now resounded with various timbres and intonations of many speaking all at once, “Bring me more.”

She looked toward the door. Maybe she would go practice with her knives today.

Fortune rose from his spot, but left his mug, plate, and paper. She pursed her lips a little as he called out for the girls. She sipped her tea and gave Zeik a knowing look. He purred and headbutt her leg. Braedyn sighed and reached down to scritch him under the chin just how he liked.

She paused as she leant down, and blinked rapidly, as Fortune spun and suavely produced a lemon tart that he slid theatrically in front of her. It was clear he’d made it himself. A candle burned with little sparks cheering. She smiled up at him, heart lifting. He had remembered her birthday! A moment later Saviero and Cyrena’s girls came tumbling in babbling and with hugs and kisses and a wrapped present. She was overwhelmed for a moment, then kissed them each on the cheek.

@daily-writing-challenge

Day 20 Master/Jealousy

Warnings: Includes talk of limb replantation Also includes by alt @xylaes​

Can find links to the full Xylaes in Maldraxxus story line ---> HERE Pollux opened the door and smiled at his old friend, immediately the two clasped hands together and brought each other in for a warm hug. Xylaes and he had gone back a long ways; they were in the military together prior to the explosion that nearly took Pollux’s life, and before Xylaes began working deep undercover jobs. While they had lost touch during those formative years, it was easy to come back together and rekindle their friendship, despite the massive changes that both men had endured.

Pollux had been filled in on some of what happened to the other man in Maldraxxus during a brief visit, but they were well overdue for some more serious conversation. Not to mention Xylaes had specifically asked him to take a look at ‘the arm’. Pollux jumped at the chance; it wasn’t every day, or ever for that matter, that he could study a successful limb replantation that gave the new owner of the arm the old owner’s powers. The thought seemed completely ludicrous to him, but the Shadowlands in general were pretty ludicrous. There was magic and power there that anyone had yet to fully comprehend.

“Can you make the runes glow on your own?” Pollux leaned in closer with magnifying goggles in place as he pressed against one of the tiny runes tattooed on one of the fingers.

“I haven’t quite mastered it yet…” In fact, Xylaes had been keeping the entire arm covered and largely ignored the fact that it was there. “But if you ---” He flinched a little at the unexpected pin prick to his fingertip his friend delivered. He must have read his mind, “...yes, well. Provocation seems to work as you can see.”

Pollux’s eyes grew wide as the dozens of very intricate runes tattooed all over the arm shimmered with arcane energy. He rolled in closer to examine the point at which the foreign arm was affixed to Xy’s actual body. The scar had been covered with what appeared to be some type of very thin metal-like material, black in color, that encircled his bicep. From afar it looked like a tattoo, and even close up it could be mistaken for one with the way it was practically embedded into the skin. Whatever it was, it easily stretched with his movements even though it felt very rigid to the touch.

It was difficult to confuse Pollux, but in this moment he was absolutely baffled - in the best of ways. What he wouldn’t give to go study techniques used at the House of Constructs. He realized immediately it was a horrible thought, and he would never want anyone else to get hurt and go through what his friend had, but this could possibly be game changing. 

After a closer inspection, he leaned back and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, “The microstructure is similar to that of elethium, but it appears to be mixed with something else; it’s impossible to tell what. Elethium does make a good conductor for arcane but…” He shakes his head, he would need a sample to know more. Unfortunately, there was no way of getting a sample of this ‘material’ without possibly ruining Xy’s newfound abilities. 

“...I just don’t know what else to tell you. Whatever that is seems to be the source of energy. It could be producing magic, it could be reinforcing and maintaining the magic already there within the arm. It could even be giving you back your own powers, just completely negating what had been done or amplifying anything that still lingered. Your next stop should probably be with someone skilled in the arcane.” He was aware that some of his reasoning suggested that the actual arm replantation was unnecessary, aside from the runes helping to strengthen the magic. But that was the House of Constructs for you in an nutshell: Unnecessary limbs and limb replantation. 

“I had a feeling you were going to suggest that.” Xy wasn’t terribly comfortable talking about this to anyone else at the moment, not even other friends. “Do you think I should keep it?”

The question caught Pollux off guard and it showed in his expression. “What I think doesn’t matter. What I -know- is that if you decide to go the prosthetic route, I don’t think I would be able to duplicate that magic; I could give you other fun toys to use though. That decision is yours, but I do think you should go and test it out more before you make that decision.” He hesitated at the next suggestion, but figured it should be thrown on the table. “It’s likely that whomever that arm used to belong to was military, I might be able to track them down if they have their fingerprints on record anywhere.”

Now it was Xylaes’s turn to be caught off guard. The thought had occurred to him before, but what would he do with that information? Find their family, be like ‘hey I have your dead husband/brother/son’s arm attached to my body’. Nobody would want that news. On the other hand (no pun intended), it may help him discover the full extent of his new powers. “...Put that on the back burner, I don’t think I’m ready for that rabbit hole.” He sighed, reaching for his shirt to pull it back on, “You ready for that beer now?”

Day 20, DWC 2021

Jealousy was a fool’s emotion. Childish, immature, unproductive. It’s why we grow out of it as we grow into ourselves. Or so, that’s what Ainsley thought she believed.

It had plagued her since childhood. Children with their friends…their families. Seeing how lovingly parents would dote on their kids always set an uncomfortable tightness in her stomach. It colored her vision red, as if they were the villains. It simply wasn’t fair.

Though the effects eventually wore off, she would still feel it’s unkind pang once in a while. Parents with their children. Children with their friends. Youthful infatuations. Lovers. That sense of peace, of living comfortable lives blissfully unaware of the horrors that lay outside their own walls. Ainsley envied them, to be able to live free from such burdens.

Jealousy would turn to stubborn indifference. Why waste time with it when there were more important things to focus on? But as much as Ainsley tried to steel herself from such petty emotions, the clench in her jaw would still linger and the lump in her throat would only swell.

It was an annoyingly persistent emotion, jealously. And it, still, was a fool’s emotion. 

And a fool she certainly was.

It hadn't taken long upon coming home to stay that Leo'mar ventured into Silvermoon. He wanted to see how the city had changed over the years since their people had been devastated. Though he had passed through the city for work, he had never taken the time to stroll through the streets or see the people since before the Scourge.

Master/Jealousy ( @daily-writing-challenge​, @syrahnbloodfeather​ )

World: Warcraft

Theme: Anilah - Medicine Chant

They have been at it for hours. Hours! Lord Victor Sunpath was working his charm on Syrahn, who in turn giggled at every cheap and unfunny joke he made! Ijiro was white hot under his collar, the Retainer forced to accompany them as this smarmy bastard pulled every trick in the book to win her affection; and to make matters worse, it seemed to him that it was working! Syrahn never took her eyes off the rich oaf, grinning ear to ear as they walked circles through House Sunpath's newly planted gardens. Every time he brought up her hand to gently kiss her knuckles, Ijiro had to fight the violent urge to draw his sword and risk it all… but he knew he would lose more than just his one last chance to win her over -- a great deal more.

Victor Sunpath was the firstborn son of a powerful house. His family was renowned for their paladins, templars, and inquisitors, as well as their affinity to dragonhawk taming. A union with House Sunpath would give Syrahn’s family the leverage they needed to keep their rule absolute; it would ensure House Bloodfeather would not and could not be overthrown by any would-be competition. Moreover he was handsome, striking, and bold. Rumor has it he’s unmatched with a lance and has remained undefeated in every jousting tournament he’s ever participated in. A true knight in shining armor.

Meanwhile Ijiro was lowborn gutter trash, his “powerful house” shamed, exiled, and destroyed decades before he was even old enough to open his eyes for the first time. He was conceived in the back of a seedy tavern, his equally lowborn parents rushing to wed once they were aware of the pregnancy, but it didn’t do him any good; he was so poor he might as well have been a bastard in the eyes of all these lords and ladies. Everything he earned, Lord Victor was born with. Ijiro learned how to fight in dusty alleys, underground fighting pits, and on war torn battlefields. He fought hard and dirty as befitting a man of his stature, and every scar was a lesson. The Retainer wasn't much of a looker as a result; the deep gashes across his mouth had caused just enough nerve damage to slant his smile, an eye was pulled out during his time as a prisoner under interrogation, and his body was disfigured from sixty long years of hunting and mercenary work -- he even lost most of his toes to frostbite due to having poorly made shoes when he was just a boy. Most of his injuries could still be fixed through magic, of course… but he was proud of them all. Until today.

Syrahn was red in the face from laughing. She was definitely enjoying his weak jokes more than Ijiro was comfortable with, but what could he do to stop this madness? He was her Retainer, not her husband, and if this continued down the path he feared it would go, he would be Victus’ retainer soon as well; the very image of standing guard beside their bed chambers on their wedding night was enough to make him queasy. He forced himself to pretend to patrol around the gardens to “keep a watchful eye” on their surroundings, but truth be told, he couldn’t stand being around this man. It was agony watching her giggle at his every attempt to make her smile. Agony!

She was his lover! It was his name she gasped out in the early hours of the morning! It was his touch she craved when they were apart! How could she even entertain this fool and his pathetic attempts to win her heart when it already belonged to him?! Why would she do this when she knew it was killing him inside?! Ijiro closed his eye and swallowed his anger, knowing his temper would do him no favors in this man’s fortified garden. The better man in him knew Syrahn was only doing her duty to help protect her family, but the lowborn merc in him wanted to bury his sword so deep into Victus that only the destined ruler of Quel’Thalas would be able to remove it!

“Ah, ever the dutiful retainer you have!” Hearing his voice made Ijiro’s pointed ears twitch, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at them chortling on the bench beside the sparkling pond. “Is he always so paranoid of danger? We’re in the heart of my estate! There’s no need for such precaution!”

He grit his teeth before thinking, “I’m looking for any witnesses to your grisly murder you stuck up sack of-”

“Jiro, come here.” Syrahn commanded, offering a tender smile. “Lord Victus was just talking about his accomplishments in battle, and I want to show you off.” Helpless, Ijiro spun on his heel and approached them. Thank the Sunwell he was wearing a helmet to hide his scowl.

“Haha, is that right?” Victus stroked his chin while he looked the Retainer over. “Well, I’ve won first place in the last seven tourneys. Archery, fencing, and jousting. Some would find my skill with a pole most impressive.” He said that last one while winking at the Countess, causing her to giggle again. “Tell me, how many tourneys have you participated in, good sir?”

Ijiro swallowed again to take great care in his tone, but even with all this effort he could not mask his disdain. “None. My accomplishments occurred on a real battlefield. Unless my Lady took interest in watching comfortable knights playing at war, you would not find me within a hundred paces of a tournament or their foolish games.”

Victus raised his eyebrows in surprise, while the color drained from Syrahn’s face. “Is that so…?” He asked, grinning. “Quite a sharp tongue you have there. Is that how you lost your eye?”

Ijiro slowly turned his helmet to stare at the nobleman directly. “I lost it from loyalty to my Lady.” He coldly explained. Syrahn kept glancing between them, the roaring laughter and playful remarks had abandoned her; if this lord wanted to poke the hornet’s nest, he better be prepared to face the stingers.

“I’m absolutely famished…!” Syrahn sighed, quickly deciding to change the subject before all pretense fled with the wind, drawing Victus’ inquisitive stare away from Ijiro.

“Then we should eat at once!” He rose to his feet and gently took her by the hand, causing her Retainer to tighten the grip on his sword so forcefully he could almost hear the boiled leather straining beneath his fingers. Once she was on her feet as well, he shot Ijiro a daring smirk before pressing his lips to her knuckles again. For half a heartbeat it looked like Ijiro would do it -- but he relaxed his shoulders and turned around to resume his watch on the road. “Come along, my silver-tongued friend. Mother is cooking a meat stew so creamy it’ll lighten anyone’s mood… mayhaps even yours!”

Syrahn giggled again, though the gusto wasn’t there this time. Ijiro clenched his jaw and counted to ten, waiting for them to pass so he could follow closely behind. As Lord Victor pointed at a mundane statue to explain who it was, Syrahn quickly glanced over her shoulder and gave Ijiro a comforting smile. A game, perhaps? Was she pretending to like him so as to not cause offense? Would she not accept his hand in marriage once he propositioned her after all?

He’d never considered himself a ‘jealous’ person.

His early life experiences had taught him not to expect to be anyone’s priority - and that had made it easier to accept when the same pattern played out again and again.

He learned to be content with himself and being alone because that’s what he’d learned to expect.

Which had made the feeling he’d experienced earlier in the evening all the more unsettling.

He paused just outside his apartment building, taking a seat on a nearby beach before exhaling slowly and leaning back against the bench, gaze turning up towards the sky.

It’d been a typical evening - a couple of people down within the bar of the estate, and the conversation had been...interesting, but not overly engaging. A jab here, a tease there - just easy, light conversation. But as more people had filtered in - and separated out into groups - there was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

They all looked...comfortable...at ease - and he suddenly realized just how isolated he was.

With a polite, but rushed, goodbye he quickly made his exit, wandering the streets of the Goblet while he waited for the ache to pass...and it eventually did.

He ran his hands over his face as he stood up off the bench.

It wouldn’t do to dwell on it...nothing was solved by wanting what he couldn’t have.