#day22021

Wander/Blame

- Suramar, some 8,000 years ago.

Loyalists, he was raised among them. His entire life revolved around protecting them. Thousands of years before the Legion first came, his family had swore loyalty to protect their Lord and thus was the beginning of the elite force the Stoneblades had become. A specialized unit trained since birth in ancient forms of combat that the Duskwatch guard did not even know. Mostly because their form of combat was terrifying to those with knowledge of magic which their people embraced. The Stoneblades blows could shatter the mana from any spellcaster’s body, and thus the deadly blades the lineage had created struck fear in the hearts of any they were ordered to terminate. The coming of the legion had separated the people of Suramar from the rest of the Kaldorei Empire and for all they knew, their world was destroyed outside those walls. And thus the techniques the Stoneblades used became an ancient tradition that was lost to almost all but this specialized unit. Since their beloved city became closed off, the Stoneblades became the loyal hounds for the lord they served and in return they were treated better if not almost equal in respect. His family was so closely intertwined with the noble house that they knew their every inner working. Every enemy and every dirty secret as they were not without their zealous ways. Even Elisande would occasionally call upon her most loyal and thus they were sent to carry out her whim as they had proved most useful. The Stoneblades had become part of the fanatical supporters because their lord ordered it and for thousands of years they worked with the Duskwatch to keep their people in line. They were feared, they were respected… they were hated. Two days ago, Ramiaell became the youngest Stoneblade alive, the last in fact to have been born before his family was eradicated and the house they served along with them. He had a very estranged relationship with his parents, especially his father after an incident when he was barely a teen. There was no true love loss when he watched him die, but who’s fault was it that he felt that way? He was considered young even now among his people, barely a young adult. But he’d lived long enough in those hundreds of years to become fully accustomed to the structure and life of the nobility who never had to want for anything. To walk with such pride and prestige for so long but as a Stoneblade he had to earn that right and he had. His father made certain of it. And like all those before Ramiaell, he was hardwired and trained to live for nothing else than to fight like the muscle they’d bred him to be since he was old enough to walk.

And now he was forced to wander the streets as a mere lowly citizen, his penance for walking away instead of fighting to the bitter end. But he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t belong among the citizens nor the loyalists. He didn’t truly belong anywhere, not after what they’d made him. So where did a highly trained security detail who knew no other life turn when he had noone left to protect. There were many lords and houses that would take him in just because of his family’s name alone. As hated as the Stoneblades were they were more feared and for good reason which is why they saw fit to eradicate every one of them along with the lord they’d served. But if word got out that one survived, that -he- had lived, he’d be hunted and put any he swore to serve at risk. And yet the question remained, did he even want to go back to that life? Did he wish to protect those who were still doing what had been done to him? He knew the loyalists' secrets, their vile and disgusting games within the courts and what they were doing to their own people to pacify their boredom living day to day to keep fear and order. It was sad, it was wrong, and since when had he grown a conscious about it. His family had raised him to be void of such emotions. Maybe it had worked too well, because in the end he chose to be completely numb as he watched the light fade from his father’s eyes before he walked away. Numb to the fact that his brother, his mother… his family’s whole legacy and the house they’d sworn loyalty too had fallen before his eyes. He knew it wasn’t his doing, he wasn’t the one to blame. So he felt nothing as he walked away from it all, just as his father had walked away from him when he needed him most. He hadn’t forgotten, he never would. But what now? Hunt, or be hunted. Those were his choices, that was his reality. A professional killer was always needed, even in this beloved city. At least as an assassin, he could choose who he worked for. He was tired of being a loyal dog, time to go astray.

Silvermoon was too quiet. The bazaar markets in the morning had slowed to nearly nothing, the only chatter she heard was repetitive gossip between bored shopkeeps. Sunshine polished the cobblestones and a breeze kicked up little dancing leaves in the gutter. Khaeris softly sighed and pulled a fingertip across the wooden top of her alchemical booth. She hadn’t had a customer in well over an hour. She’d already tidied her stock and updated her signage. She smoothed her palm back over the wood and pushed herself back up.

The drop-down shutter clicked into place and the lock was set with a satisfying click. She would close early. Disappear for the day. Her smile teased out her dimples briefly and she dusted her empty hands across her skirt. Bangles made tinny notes around her wrists and ankles as she set off in a meander through the tail of the marketplace and back toward the gates. It would feel good to get out of her usual pockets of the city. To dip her toes in a pond or to climb up the walls. Or maybe to nap in the crook of a tree--she knew just the one!

Pollux was finally home, but busy in countless debriefings; there was no asking him to join her. She didn’t even think of it. Pyraelia had been busy at the harvest festival--and visiting with Aerden. Khaeris wouldn’t get in the way. She couldn’t blame them--together they could be young and light on responsibility. It didn’t feel that way when she was there. Khaeris still felt some part of Aerden’s hackles raise when he saw her; even if he didn’t feel it, she did. His silent judgement hung heavy and threatening between them. It was all right, she blamed herself, too. It felt satisfying to pull her sandals off and climb the tree. She’d always found her soul felt lighter as she moved up. Her arrival startled a songbird and it scuttled from the branches, but it came back quick enough once the elven woman had settled in. Sunlight dappled her skin and, to her delight, the birdsong picked back up. Later, she’d climb walls and dance across rooftops. But for now, rest and wander through dreams alone. It would be tomorrow before she realized she’d left her communication unit back at the booth, yet again. She’d been forgetting it so much lately. The batteries drained down, shut in the cabinet with the tea tins last week. Left to blink plaintively in a drawer at her desk in the pharmacy. Leaves rustled but no voices carried; Khaeris did not mind the quiet. Not when it was not-waiting quiet. This quiet was not a pregnant pause. This was a respite. From loneliness. From self-doubt. This was a light silence. A chosen quiet. If no one spoke to her, it was as it should be--there was no one in the forest to speak to her. Here, her spirit could relax and her heart could open.

Day 2 Wander/Blame

Part 11

Prologue —> Here Part 1 –-> Here Part 2 —> Here Part 3 —> Here Part 4 —> Here Part 5 —> Here Part 6 —> Here Part 7 —> Here Part 8 —> Here Part 9 —> Here Part 10 --> Here

Callia had been right about the House of the Chosen symbol she branded onto his arm, flashing it to the guards gave him instant access to their grounds, without escort. There were a handful of peculiar looks, but at this point many had become acquainted with the man through Callia, and through the skeletal guard ‘Steven’ that often watched over Fio’s makeshift, magical townhouse while Xylaes was recovering all those months ago.

His face twisted at the thought of his recovery in that townhouse. He did his best to push all that to the back of his mind, falsely promising himself that he would deal with it later. He never dealt with his trauma, he never had time to deal with it while in the military and it became something of a habit. Best to keep the body busy and mind occupied, and over time when those horrid thoughts crept up in the inevitable lulls, they wouldn’t be quite as overwhelmingly terrible. The lies one tells themselves to survive.

He shook the thought from his head, wandering slowly towards where he had known Callia to spend much of her time when not fighting in the Theater of Pain. He had been looking forward to seeing her again and delivering the picture of himself and their son, Garren. Yet the closer he got, the larger the pit in his stomach grew. This was probably going to be the last time he would ever see her, at least until he died.

Maybe the portal to the Shadowlands would never close, even after all the issues had been solved and he could continue to visit her, and be with her. No. That was a stupid thought. It had been over a decade since they were together in life. She was now dead, and he was still alive. The logistics weren’t in their favor, and eventually they would have to face some harsh truths about what they’ve done to each other. 

He spotted her long, silver hair from afar and felt a familiar flutter in his heart. Even after all this time. In death she was just as beautiful as she was in life; not everyone in Maldraxxus was so lucky as to maintain their living appearance, but she was a fighter and no doubt that was the reason why. Before he could even say anything, she turned to him and looked him over. “I wasn’t sure you would return.”

The comment hurt, but he understood why she said it. He made promises to her before and didn’t keep them. Pulling a small box from his pack, he held it out to her. Within, the photo of himself and Garren in a simple frame. They both looked happy, smiling the same smile. Callia’s expression immediately softened as she pressed a hand to her lips. “My boys…thank you…” She whispered, closing the distance between them to pull Xylaes into a full body hug, resting her forehead against the side of his neck as she had always done in life and softly whispered, “My heart.” 

Xylaes tilted his head down to press a kiss to her crown before nuzzling in against her; breathing her in, remembering, and stamping this memory into his thoughts, “My soul.” All the tension and worry was suddenly released, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders and he could fully breath again. He could feel it in her, too. Was this what closure felt like? He swallowed the lump in his throat and held her tighter; he could stay right here for an eternity and be content. ...But this wasn’t where he belonged. Not yet.

“Call-”

“Stay with me?

“Always.”

She leaned back to look up at him, a rare smile gracing her lips and she reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks, “I meant tonight. Your time is not yet up, you don’t belong here, and you know that. Plus, someone has to watch over our Garren and you still have a lifetime with him.” For all the pain and suffering he had gone through in his long life, he finally felt truly at peace, at least for this brief moment, and would hold onto this feeling for as long as he could.

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 2 - Wander/Blame Optional Challenge #3, Use Both Words

Warning: Death mention

Ryland wandered down the stone path of Stormwind’s Old Town, turning into one of the smaller alleys out of habit before stopping in front of a familiar building to glance up at a familiar window. 

Some renovations had been done over the years, but otherwise it looked exactly how he remembered. The window box now held a variety of herbs used in cooking, but when it belonged to Sela she had always grown red and white geraniums. Even though he knew they wouldn’t be there, it was always a small disappointment every time he visited this corner of the city.

It had been years since she died, yet every time he found himself here he could feel the tight squeeze in his throat and dull ache in his chest. He had found a soulmate in her, and at times it was difficult to believe he would ever find that again. Or maybe he just didn’t want to find that again, which is one of the reasons why he continued to dwell on this part of his past. It was hard not to, there was still a lot of mystery surrounding what had happened. Sela was the type of woman that everyone adored. While she too was a half-elf and would receive the ‘typical’ treatment of being such, no one could have ever imagined that anyone would have wanted her dead. Yet someone singled her out, broke into her apartment, viciously attacked her, then finished her off by pushing her down the building’s stairs.

It made no sense. She wasn’t a wealthy woman, she didn’t own anything of great value - at least that he was aware of. Ryland, on the other hand, had many enemies. By the time he had met Sela, his track record was littered with misdeeds. He gambled a little too much with gold he did not possess, he drank a lot, he did a lot of drugs, and worst of all, he was a known homewrecker of at least two very prominent households within the city. Sela made him want to be a better person, and over the years spent with her he had become just that. However, he was well aware that some wounds stay with you and not everyone, especially the rich and powerful, were very forgiving.

They never found Sela’s killer, and he had a gut feeling that they never really tried. She didn’t matter to them, just another dead half-elf. Even though none of the evidence suggested it, Ryland knew that he was to blame. Someone wanted to hurt him, and this was the best way to do so. A debt collector, or probably some pathetic noble whose pride and reputation he hurt because the man couldn’t please his wife and Ryland had taken it upon himself to do so. He was the fuck-up, Sela didn’t deserve to pay for his stupid transgressions. 

Lighting up a cigarette, he began to roam around the outskirts of the building, looking for something...anything. It was a pointless endeavor, he already knew that. Any lingering evidence he would have already found years ago, or it would have been washed away by time. 

The brief glimpse of red through a bare spot in one of the bushes below her old window did give him pause. Stubbing out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, he moved in closer to try to get a better look at whatever was hidden beneath. He smiled when he realized what it was, dropping down to his knees and pushing branches aside before fingers dug down into the dirt. After a few careful moments, he pulled his cupped hands out, cradling a young plant - dirt, roots, and all - that had bloomed two red and white geraniums.

“Where have you been!?”

Leo'mar had barely been in his room for two minutes when the door had swung open. His mother stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. The look she had fixed on him was more than a little familiar. His mouth opened to say something but she quickly cut him off. “How many times have I told you that animals belong outside?”

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 2-Blame

Suggested listening

Even after returning from the Shadowlands over a year ago, Bella was really having troubles sleeping most nights.  The only times that she had felt like she got a full night’s sleep was when she had worn herself out enough to make herself exhausted, and even then it wasn’t real good sleep since she was recovering from weeks of barely any sound sleep.  

The songstress had gotten pretty adept at faking being alright while out in public, but as soon as she was home alone working on projects, or trying to get caught up with other items, the dreams haunted her like always. She hated that even though she had learned of his forgiveness, and knowing that he had known for all this time she was lying, the dream of where he would blame her for his death was a bit too difficult to cope with, and in the end, she knew she was the one who had to forgive herself, she couldn’t get over the feeling of being the one to blame.

"I was made to be less than a living thing. I was reduced to meat. To property. I was thrown into the jaws of that wretched beast and she knew! My own mother knew! She knew and she left me!" Athaeda's voice was never raised but the words got louder and louder, reverberating through the tree-house with all the relentless agony inside her mind.

This was the moment of memory that sat heavy in the pit of her stomach. On one side of a breath she had thought herself loved, at least by her family, and on the other she was greeted by the harshest of truths. Those she felt dearest to her left her, knowingly, to her suffering. They had watched in secret shadows the breaking of her spirit. Her mother, who had promised her safety and comfort by the very nature of her birth, and Helna, supposedly blood-bound to her defense; they'd both left her to her monster. Left her to wander through her grief and blame, unknowing it all could've halted. Athaeda's hands shook, the glass pen clutched between her fingers the only remaining bulwark between her mind and the abyss that ever-threatened to swallow it. Frail wisps of void-black smoke licked along the edges of her fingertips just as surely as they teased the corners of her vision. She focused. She gulped a breath and bit back a sob as she started to write. There was no ink. She didn't need it. As she released her fury into the page beneath her the shadows within etched themselves across the parchment. They shifted and flowed, following the touch of their mistress as she bordered on unraveling. A poem unlike any other she had ever written.

How dare you burn away my innocence? Who are you? So great that you are entitled to such a bonfire. Your words are kindling upon the pyre that is me. Your arrogance knows no bounds and as such is endless fuel. Your wickedness wakens the same in me. A twisted mirror, your daughter. Bitter and hate filled. Spiteful and cruel. Still, you light the flames. Up in smoke we go for any peace you might've offered came only from lies. Plaguing poison now haunts the air we share. We will always be blood and for that I despair. Wretched thing. Wickedling. Damned spitting demon who stirs in me the hunger for sickest vengeance.

Day 2, DWC 2021

“Do you ever think about all those that you didn’t save?”

A derisive snort escaped the priestess’s mouth as she lifted a glass of light amber liquid to her lips. “I’ve barely started my first drink, pal, I’m not ready for those kinda questions.”

The human beside her chuckled softly, his leathers brushing against each other as he raised his own glass and took a big swig. “I dunno, just been thinking, that’s all.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

He bumped her playfully on the shoulder and she let out a soft laugh of her own.

The Curious Octopus was quiet today. Boralus as a whole felt quiet. Ainsley preferred the chatter, the ruckus, the jovial laughs of the working citizens unwinding after a long day. It helped drown out her own intrusive thoughts.

She turned to the man beside her, eyeing his profile carefully as he continued to seemingly daze off. Shadows danced from the simply lit scones on the walls and the candles that lined the edges of the bar top, illuminating his face hauntingly.

“Don’t tell me you’re going through something, Sammy.” Ainsley grimaced comically at her friend.

“Like I said, just thinking,” his face contorted downwards to an almost sad smile. “After Outland…I felt useless. Chronic injury or not, I feel like maybe if I was back on the frontlines…”

“Are you asking if I blame myself?” She interjected. Ainsley’s blue eyes caught his adrift gaze, holding it steadily there for a moment, watching as he grinned wryly.

“Well, I wasn’t going to get to the point that quickly, but since you brought it up…”

Fingers momentarily gripped her glass tighter as Ainsley saw brief flashes of the many faces she had encountered throughout her life—faces that had ingrained themselves so deep in her memory. Faces she would never see again.

“Honestly, who doesn’t?” Her voice was a whisper as she mulled over the question, tapping her fingers against the glass rim, “But that will never change anything.”

“I just figured, with your line of work and all...” Sammy trailed off, hesitancy biting off the last of his thought.

It was a fair assessment. A medical professional’s life did not come without its burdens. And the priestess had certainly gone through her fair share of guilt-ridden shame throughout her training and her life. It gnawed at her, slowly and deeply, like a parasite. Ainsley wasn’t sure if she had learned to rationalize with its reality and go easy on herself, or simply just gotten used to it.

“I learned early on that I cannot and will not save everyone. No one can. We’re given the tools we need to do what we can in the moment. All we can do is use them to the best of our ability.” Ainsley looked to Sammy, eyes flashing sympathetically, knowing full well what her friend was going through.

“So, do I blame myself?” She continued, sitting up straight in her chair. “Yes and no. But I don’t dwell on it, not for long anyway. Once we dig ourselves into that hole with every mistake we’ve made, ever bit of inaction or hesitancy, or every doubt, then that’s what we become: an amalgamation of all our failures. That’s a hard life to live, so it’s best to try not to even go there to begin with.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Who said anything about it being easy?”

Sammy’s expression softened as he grinned at his half-elven companion. “You know, you’re surprisingly insightful, Ains.”

A frown tugged at the corner of her lips, “Surprising?! I’m full of surprises, but that shouldn’t be one of them.”

“Hm…I’m still surprised, but I won’t…blame you for it,” he smirked slyly, taking a sip from him glass.

“Oh shut it…” Ainsley leaned towards him to swat at him, but as as she did his form leaned back agilely, narrowly dodging her playful strike. Ainsley squeaked as she missed and as instead her hand struck the glass in his hand, knocking it straight to the ground where it shattered loudly, sending shards of crystal and pools of liquid everywhere.

Sammy laughed aloud as the poor girl gave quick apologetic nods to the bartender and hurriedly grabbed a cloth to begin cleaning up.

“That, however,” Sammy began in between fits of giggles, “I will blame you for.”

Ainsley grumbled, “Not my fault…”

“Then what?”

“I’m…inebriated…”

 “You haven’t even finished your first drink.”