#day42021

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 4 - Accomplish

Read Part 1 ---> Here Part 2 

~I’m GoInG tO cReAtE a DiStRaCtIoN~

So stupid. 

So maybe he wasn’t going to get the others killed today, but he was definitely going to get himself killed. There was one very large, very angry, and very fiery behemoth waiting for them outside of this cave, and Aerden had no doubt in his mind that soon something smaller would be along that could fit into that narrow passage to finish them off.

If there was one thing that he knew about behemoths, is that they were not terribly bright and a distraction would probably work, at least long enough for the others to escape. That, and they were quite clunky, unable to move at high speeds aside from what their size allowed. He would have to rely on his speed and agility. As long as he could put distance between the large monster and himself, he could dodge those molten infernos, lead it away, lose it among the rocky cliffs, and then circle back to rejoin his group.

The other soldiers were prepping for a swift departure, two having to be carried and another needing support to be able to walk. The priestess was in the best shape among the lot, and they decided she would be on point. “We’re ready.” The young woman placed a hand on Aerden’s shoulder, blessing him with a magical shield. It wasn’t much, but it could be the difference between life and death. “Please be safe.”

“Just wait until the entrance is clear and go.” Aerden forced a smile to try to bring her some sort of comfort and assure her that he knew what he was doing. He didn’t. His hands were shaking, his heart was trying to beat out of his chest, and he couldn’t ever remember a time when his mouth had been so dry; but it was now or never.

He took his moment when the behemoth briefly glanced away, sprinting straight towards the hulking beast and leaping into a roll to slip between its legs. He was quick enough that it didn’t seem to notice: Not bright as predicted. This would give him ample time to create some distance between them before luring ---- 

*WHUMP*

Aerden hadn’t been paying attention to anything other than the behemoth, and at the end of his sliding roll he smacked right into something that obviously wasn’t ready for it either. A rookie mistake, Cazmilan would be so disappointed that he hadn’t been paying better attention to his surroundings. The Maw necromancer toppled over from the velocity and surprise of the impact, giving Aerden just enough time to make a quick survey of his surroundings: Charred behemoth still oblivious, necromancer down but would be up soon, Maw guard a few paces away that was just about to….

*SHUNK*

Aerden scrambled backwards and spread his legs just as the guard’s axe split the ground between them; it didn’t happen just in his comic books! The look he must have had on his face… He could laugh about that later when he was hopefully not dead. It was at that moment that everything seemed to slow down, and he could almost predict what was going to happen next. Caz mentioned this phenomena while the two trained together and Aerden had definitely experienced this before in times of panic: Tachypsychia, The Matrix Effect. Of course time didn’t actually slow down, it was just a trick of the brain, an illusion: A much needed one in this case.

Freeing one of his swords from its scabbard, he swept his leg towards the guard’s ankles, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. Aerden immediately lodged his sword down into the helmet slits, through whatever was inside, and out the back into the ground beneath. That was the problem with enemies from The Maw, some of them had corporeal forms within their armor and others were, literally, just angry sets of armor. The guard seemed out of commission, for now.

At least the necromancer had a physical body: A shriveled, disfigured one, but it would do. Something vaguely humanoid could possibly have humanoid-type anatomy; he had seen it in creatures all over, and even here in The Maw already. What happened to them after they died, since they were technically already dead, was beyond him. Only a split second had passed since he effectively pinned the guard to when he jabbed the side of his hand hard against where neck meets shoulder of the now-standing necromancer. Brachial stuns worked wonders on the living, and apparently also on this particular type of dead. The necromancer crumpled to the ground and Aerden’s attention immediately went to the behemoth.

All of that ruckus must have finally drawn its attention, because it was now reeling back, readying itself to lay down another fiery inferno. Yet again, Aerden jumped and rolled out of the way, shielding his face from the molten blast that completely ravaged the two Mawsworn he had just fallen. How poetic. He leapt to his feet and began sprinting the opposite way he had directed the remaining soldiers to go, and the behemoth easily took the bait.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw the others slipping out of the cave and moving swiftly, and freely, towards safety. Mission accomplished.

...To be continued...

Optional Challenge #3 - Use both words

Vixannya backed away from the painting to get a better look at the overall appearance of the display, tilting her head one way and then the other with a squint in her analytical gaze. She still had a little over one week until the grand opening of her gallery, To Live is To Die, but perfection was in her blood and everything had to be flawless, herself included. 

The annual Hallow’s End exhibition was by far her most popular, with nobility and celebrity always in attendance, especially at the grand opening on the 1st. These things were never just about the art: the ambiance, clothing, food, and especially the after party were just as important. It was a place for the rich, powerful, and interesting to dress to the nines, rub elbows with all types, and perhaps even scandalize for an evening without fear of repercussion. Invitations were difficult to come by, but with the right connections or a hefty donation, one may find themselves on the list. 

The paintings in this particular showcase portrayed death in all of its glorious forms; appropriate for the season, but not for everyone. It was her claim to fame, how she was first discovered by the art world. Her skill itself had been polished over the years, but it was the subject matter that caught the attention of many. Especially when one of the noble clients that sat for her ended up perishing in the exact same way that her painting portrayed. She was under investigation for a while, a coincidence was unlikely in such a brutal death. Then it happened again, and again, and it kept happening. There was no way she could have been present at the time of some of the deaths depicted in her paintings, and eventually most of those who questioned her accepted that she was as she had always claimed to be: A seer.

All of it was extremely taboo to the public eye, which is probably why many sought out her gallery to purchase her work or commission her for a personal piece. Others claimed dark magic and protested, which naturally, only made it all the more popular. From then on, every year around Hallow’s End, she would open up an exhibition full of the disturbing, macabre art, and every painting would be sold in a matter of days. After her name grew in popularity and she was set in stone as an accomplished artist, she branched out into other genres, but often kept it taboo to remain true to her roots.

Tinnaire sometimes sped up the process with a little heat. She was impatient, and the body modification faire was coming up quickly. She had to increase her stock! And with fire coming so naturally to her, it was hard not to nudge the process along. She tried to wait for nature when she found something in the wild, but this had been a fresh kill for sustenance, and the skeleton a gift. Besides, it was so cold here the usual processing would take too long if she let nature do all the work. That’s what she told herself, anyway, as she drew the tiny rune with a fingertip on the glass. All it would be was the tiniest warmth that settled in the large cloche jar. But it would be enough to cut days off the cycles. Her lips curled up at the corners to see condensation started. Some would say the see-through jar with the doe head was a bit macabre, but the process was fascinating and Tinnaire would not deny herself the study of it--though she had seen it hundreds of times. She stood up and surveyed the small work area she’d commandeered from Jencir. Her days here were busy and the company was good. She was adjusting her schedule, and she suspected he was, too.

The small workspace was a simple building, and he’d set her up a table and the necessary equipment. There were sharp knives that hung on the wall, buckets and rags, her paints and jars of chemicals, a barrel of snowmelt water, and over the tiny pump-handle sink there was even a window. The thick glass must have been expensive. Not for the first time, she wondered what he intended this tiny building to be in the future. The shelves had been here, too. Now they were lined with tiny taxidermied mice--a special request fondly undertaken--costumed and posed. The valiant knight in his shiny tin armor and shield was the best of that lot, obvious care taken with him. She had been experimenting with painting on the skulls, and had a few she was growing crystals on. There were frames to layout and bones to bore beading holes into. The door creaked and homestead clearing was quiet when she stepped out this late in the afternoon. The sun was dipping below the tree tops and shadows were gathering. Soon, Jencir would wake, they’d eat together, supper and breakfast, and then go about their work. Maybe after a walk or a bath. She couldn’t be bored with him pointing out constellations and she wondered, again, how many of them had changed while his people were trapped in their shield. Maybe she’d try her own hand at hunting again tonight. There was a bow just for her--his were all much too strong of draw for her--and she was determined that she’d bring in some sort of game before she left. He was already too generous with her. Her hand traced the sigil on the door to the main cabin again, and her eyes fell, knowing what it had been fortified against and why. Demons. Shadow. Fel. The glow of the runes seemed out of place here where the more natural glow of moonlight off snow seemed less rude. She looked up, and her heart swelled again. The first flicker of starlight winking strong through dusky skies fortified her. This was a good place.

Her lips quirked as she pushed inside. Anyone who wandered into her shed might get quite a fright, though.

Day 4, Daily Writing Challenge

@daily-writing-challenge

((After Legion, before Battle for Azeroth))

The druid 's hair was blowing freely in the wind as he walked, a rarity, since he usually kept in in a low ponytail. For today however, it felt just right. It didn't take long until he reached his destination: the lake at the roots of mighty Nordrassil, the first world tree.

"Don't tell me you're brooding again, especially on a fine day like this." A teasing, gentle voice called from behind.

"I was just thinking." Asharin replied as he glanced back, greeting his wife with a smile.

"Oh? A copper for your thoughts?" Serena asked as she caught up and linked her arm with his.

"I was considering the recent events, of what we accomplished and what it means for our family."

They were an unusual couple, for more than one reason. Asha had antlers from birth, marking him as a night elf with potential to become a great druid. Cases like him were rare, but not unheard of. Serena, on the other hand, was a blood elf. The tension between Horde and Alliance didn't make their lives any easier, even if they were neutral, avoiding the conflict as much as possible.

Luckily, his daughters Kiela and Elyena accepted Serena without much fuss. All it took was one discussion, but he wasn't privy to the details. Still, their emotions were geniue, so it's fine.

"You mean, the hopefully final defeat of the Burning Legion? Are you afraid the factions will jump at each other's throat again?"

"I honestly have no idea about the latter, let's hope we will finally have some peace. But not only the Legion was beaten, finally the Emerald Dream is clear of the Nightmare. Even the Rift of Aln. I was never interested in sending my spirit to the Dream while my body sleeps and I don't plan on starting now. Just..." Asharin paused, unsure how to continue.

"You're afraid that now you got the title of Archdruid, they will ask you to do this and leave us behind. So that's what has been bothering you." Serena shook her head before resting it on his shoulder. "Don't fret on it. You are not the only new Archdruid, many promising druids received it, right? So not everything is your burden to bear, and the elders can't order you around freely anymore either. The last time they tried it turned into a mess, or so I've heard." She winked, using his own words against him.

"You're right. Maybe I'm worried over nothing." Asha placed and arm over her shoulders.

Kael'thas Sunstrider had fallen. For real this time. Many of his steadfast supporters had chosen to join their King in the afterlife than be taken and live as the traitors they were considered to be. The combined forces had been able to reclaim the Isle of Quel'danas, though they had pockets of resistance left to deal with. The Sunwell had even been restored and purified into a font of Light.

But as many celebrated, there was a lot to clean up and deal with.

Accomplish/Macabre ( @daily-writing-challenge @ijirothehero​ )

World: Warcraft

Theme: Lord of the Rings OST - Rohan/Rohirrim Suite

“I was only a farmer’s boy forty years ago. Just some scrawny kid defending my father’s crops from foxes and the occasional bear. I thought… I really thought life would remain simple. Then the giant pig-men sacked Stormwind. The Night Elves stopped being myths and stories we would tell our girls claiming they protect their dreams under the full moon. The Horde conquered most of Kalimdor and now… now it seems like a new tragedy plagues us every year. War after war. When will it end? Will it ever?”

Estevot Bradshaw pulled his locket out from his collar and popped it open with the gentlest squeeze of his thumb. Inside were pictures of his two boys, Guntram and Ryland Bradshaw, and his wife, Marie Bradshaw. These mementos were supposed to give him strength through this long and arduous Northrend Campaign; but it was so hard to look at their faces and not crumble to his knees to weep. He wanted his family back more than anything… more than anything in this whole accursed world. His only solace was knowing their mangled corpses weren’t shambling around in the dark and the cold -- all three of them were burned and their urns safe from the undead. That was Highlord Tirion’s promise to him. And the only reason why he wasn’t a broken shell of a man now.

“Lord-Commander.” His squire broke the silence. “We stand ready.”

“Fetch my horse.” Estevot turned to the young boy with his face a hardened mask; he couldn’t afford to show weakness to him or anyone else. “We ride within the hour.”

The old Paladin had stuffed his armor with straw like he used to do when he was his squire’s age. It helped fight off the bitter cold nights in his Eastweald home, even if it did nothing to stop the frost in the heart of Icecrown. He found himself putting his own armor on by himself, choosing to send his squire off to find some hot cups of coffee to warm themselves during these long nights, and today was no exception. His wrinkled fingers slid into his gauntlets with ease. He tightened the straps on his greaves and treads, ensuring they wouldn’t loosen during his ride, and last but not least he carefully lifted his silver crested helm over his brow and onto his head. His flowing cape of ivory and gold danced when he stepped out of his tent and into that howling wind, where his squire, their armored horses, and three thousand soldiers waited.

Lord-Commander Estevot dug his spurs into Daybreak, and the faithful horse began trotting through the frozen mud to the front of the line. On his left and right were men from all corners of Azeroth; from burly orcs to curvacious draenei, lanky trolls to regal elves, stout dwarves to giant tauren, and lots of trustworthy humans beyond counting. What one would never find, however, is Forsaken; his trust in them was already parchment-thin from the start, but the betrayal at the Wrathgate convinced him to purge his command of any undead filth before they too got ideas of tossing plague grenades onto his head. If they want to fight the Scourge so badly they can rot with the Knights of the Ebon Blade where they rightfully belonged.

He reached the end of the encampment to gaze down the long and gentle slope toward the looming behemoth more commonly referred to as the Icecrown Citadel. Even in this freezing fog he could see them -- thousands of shadows preparing for their assault. Nay… hundreds of thousands. “We have no hope of breaching their numbers ourselves. None of us will even get close enough to the Citadel to stir the Lich King from his tower.” Lord-Commander Estevot grimaced in seething silence. “But our job isn’t to defeat the Scourge… ours is to distract the army of the damned so the elite strike teams can breach the citadel and wreak havoc within. We are the bait. Sent straight to the meat grinder.”

Lord-Commander Estevot pulled on his reins and turned to face his brigade. “Brothers of the Alliance!” He shouted, sending white clouds of his freezing breath into the merciless wind. “Sons of the Horde! Champions of the Frozen Wastes! From your first step onto this icy husk of a continent, you knew this day would come! You have fought long and hard on your journeys to my command, but hear me and hear me well! I care not whence you came! What gods you worship! What loyalties and allegiances you harbor! What matters now is you are here! Ready to fight the greatest threat to our ways of life! To life itself!" He began trotting up and down the vanguard with his squire following close behind. "But I ask not for you to fight for me! Nor the Argent Crusade! Nor the Horde! Nor the Alliance! Not even for yourselves! Fight for your kinsmen! For those that suffered and died at the hands of the Scourge and their demon overlords! They cower behind the shells of our families! Our children! This atrocity cannot stand! It will not!" He felt the rising heat of his anger settling in the back of his throat, threatening to light his heart aflame. The Lord-Commander turned his horse about-face and began trotting in the opposite direction. Even behind their helmets he could see their faces -- frostbitten and fearful. They knew this was a suicide charge at best. “I can’t let despair cripple them…” He thought behind his scowl. “I must turn their fear into fury.”

“Remember Eastweald! Whose farms and farmers were preyed upon by the Cult of the Damned! Remember Stratholme! And the hundreds of innocent men, women, and children caged and butchered like animals!” Estevot noticed a group of Blood Elves on his way down. “Remember Quel’Thalas! Remember the decimation of your people and the corruption of your Sunwell! Remember the screams of your kin crying out for mercy!” Next he saw orcs huddling on their war wolves. “Remember the Wrathgate! Your blood brothers choking on festering betrayal! Is that how you want to be remembered? Vomiting out your innards and shitting your smallclothes?! Or do you want to go out kicking and screaming, bringing as many of those bastards down with you?!” The orcs raised their axes and bellowed, but Estevot didn’t have the luxury of waiting for them to stop. “And what about you, trolls? Did you enjoy seeing what the Scourge did to Zul’Drak? To your kinsmen?!” The tusked warriors howled like hyenas on their fidgety raptors. The Argent Caller filled his lungs with the frozen air, pressed his lips to the gilded dragonborn horn, and let out a shattering bellow.

HAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUU!!!

Lord-Commander Estevot reached out to his squire, who leaned forward to strain himself holding his master’s scabbard. The old Paladin’s gauntlet wrapped around the embroidered hilt of his greatsword and pulled it free to hold it aloft with a single hand. “NO MORE! NO MORE MASSACRES! NO MORE ATROCITIES! NEVER AGAIN! THIS IS THE LAST DYING GASP OF THE SCOURGE! FIGHT FOR THE VICTORIOUS DEAD! FIGHT FOR HONOR! FOR COURAGE! FOR VENGEANCE! RISE! RISE AND FIGHT!”

HAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUU!!!

“CHAAAARGE!” He buried his spurs into Daybreak and the horse began to walk down the hill, with three thousand men joining him. The walk became a trot. The trot became a gallop. He could barely hear the shouts of his men beneath the howling frozen wind, but he didn’t need to; he could feel the cavalry charge in his bones like the bellowing growl of rolling thunder! He kept his sword pointed at the sun hidden above the thick grey clouds before jutting it toward Icecrown Citadel itself! Bursts of hot breath rushed from his horse! Closer! Faster! He bounced in his saddle with every stride!

Black arrows shot forth from the undead fortifications! One whizzed past his head, another struck him in the shoulder- and another in the thigh! “FOR EASTWEALD!” The Lord-Commander screamed, deafened by the wind swirling through his helmet and the thunderous drum of hooves against the frozen ground! “FOR KING TERENAS!” He could see the Scourge spilling over their barricades, eager to feast on the flesh of the living! For all he knew he was alone, charging headlong to his own death! But Estevot Bradshaw was ready to hug his family again!

Through frozen tears and bared teeth he shouted one last time, “FOR MARIIIEEEE!”

Day 4 - Macabre

Mature content: Violence, blood, implied rape and murder

Day 4, DWC 2021

There was something about Drustvar that fascinated her.

Though Ainsley had spent much of her time during and after the Fourth War in Tiragarde Sound, there were a few missions that took her unit to the cursed area and she had found an odd sense of morbid peace there. The priestess was no stranger to afflicted lands, and perhaps that was why she felt so unfortunately intimate with death and all its…affiliates. Perhaps running head-first into the macabre was just ingrained into her after spending so much time in the Plaguelands and beyond.

She definitely needed a vacation.

But as she sat in her room, staring at the ‘Call for Aid’ pamphlet she had hastily picked up from the War Headquarters, she wondered what it was that really piqued her interested.

A medic was always needed and local clinics could always use a helping hand. And it wouldn’t hurt to brush up on her monster hunting skills. You know, the bare necessities.

Hm. Drustvar.  

As her thoughts raced, the more easily she came to convince herself that this was the next step. After all, who could resist the allure of witchcraft and famous Drustvari sausages?

…

She definitely needed a vacation.