#dwc2020

Daily Writing Challenge is here!

-Any form of writing is welcome: drabbles, stories, poems, etc! -You can write more than one story per day! -The word(s) itself doesn’t need to be used, it’s just a general topic to write about! -Don’t feel like you need to write every day! -Late stories always welcome! -You do not have to be in the WoW fandom to participate! -All stories will be tagged with dwc2020, dayX2020 (X being whatever day the story is for), and your tumblr tag. -Don’t forget our optional challenges, found HERE!

Please tag @daily-writing-challenge on your work so we can reblog it, and clearly mark what day you are writing for so it can be tagged properly!

Last year, @kharrisdawndancer​ and myself hosted a Daily Writing Challenge during October and we want to do the same this year!

HOWEVER, this year will be a little different due to wanting to avoid the Shadowlands expansion, so the Challenge will run from September 20th to October 20th!

If you would like to join the Daily Writing Challenge (DWC) for 2020, I have changed up my Writing Challenge blog found HERE to use for this. General FAQ: -The prompt list will be posted in there closer to the start date, so go follow that blog and tag it if you write using any of the topics! -Any form of writing is welcome: drabbles, stories, poems, etc! -You can write more than one story per day! -The word(s) itself doesn’t need to be used, it’s just a general topic to write about! -Don't feel like you need to write every day! -Late stories always welcome! -You do not have to be in the WoW fandom to participate!

Day 30 - Secret @daily-writing-challenge​ Follow-up to THIS story

Pollux exhaled a cloud of smoke and condensation into the frigid air before bringing the cigarette back to his lips.  It had been a long week already, he could feel the chill down to his bones at this point; warming up seemed almost impossible while in Icecrown. The handful of other soldiers with him went about setting up a fire and preparing dinner while Pollux leaned heavily back against his rucksack.  He was both starving and extremely tired, but he wasn’t sure which would win out in the end.  With the way his eyelids drooped, sleep would probably come the moment he finished his cigarette.

He pulled out his comm and flipped through the unread messages, he could always count on Khaeris to leave him something sweet that would make him smile. In response, he took a picture of his face with his eyebrows and eyelashes coated in frost, sending it along with a message that read ‘Is it time for the beach yet?  Missing you...and warmth.’

Another message was from Xylaes; he was obviously agitated at something and had been staying in Pandaria on ‘vacation’ for a while. There were no specifics, Xy was a private man and kept a lot of secrets; Pollux could relate. Xylaes also knew that he would never press for information, just offer a night out drinking at some dive bar. He could go for that right about now.

His final message was from Aerden; it was just a lone photograph of the younger man’s birth certificate.  Pollux smiled to himself when he saw his own name next to ‘father’. It didn’t really feel any different than it had before, but legally there would be a huge change.  Pollux hadn’t had a ‘next of kin’ since his mother, and there was something comforting about knowing that Aerden’s previous ‘father’ could no longer play that card.  That and Aerden would be set for the rest of his life. They had spoken about hosting some sort of gathering to let their friends know, but that would have to wait for another time; as would a response.  Right now, he needed some sleep.

Day 11 - Passion @daily-writing-challenge​

The missing hour of dark magic that follows the rugged brink of twilight, when the White Lady entices those whose boughs sway and shudder like digits pierced on barbs, and svelte, seductive fiends burnish fruits and fan their wings, alighting on specks of gold to ensnare the desires of swains.

Passion clenches in a swathe of satin, fluttering over the disheveled sheets; seizing your secrets and sighs, seams torn like jagged lesions dripping silky prayers of greed; and the savory torment of flesh hugging flesh evolves into song that leaves you weakened.

Daily Writing Challenge Day 4 - Broken

Aerden stared at the familiar front door, inhaling and exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm his nerves. He had talked himself in and out of doing this multiple times over the course of the past couple weeks, but there was something about today that drew him to the front stoop of his childhood home.

He knew his mother’s husband was home, he had caught the occasional glimpse of the man ever since Pollux had sent him the text saying he was back in the city. There hadn’t been an incident in some time, and Aerden assumed that the man just completely forgot of his existence.  That was for the best.  But Aerden had questions and he wanted answers, so now here he was, standing on this stoop. 

This was a terrible idea.

He rang the bell and took a step backwards, straightening his posture and attempting to look more confident.  This probably wasn’t what anyone meant when they told him that he needed to have more confidence.  There was a moment of panic where he thought that maybe he should just run away and forget about it all, last time he was here he left broken and bloodied. However, this would continue eating away at his conscience if he didn’t get answers, so he stood his ground.

Then, the door opened, and there he was:  Aerden Lo’sharri Senior, or as he often went by, Varril, his middle name.  Aerden could feel the blood drain from his face; this man had been such a huge part of his childhood, and it took the younger Aerden far too long to realize the extreme levels of manipulation and abuse that the elder had put him through. All he had wanted back then was to be loved and to make his ‘father’ proud.  Now, he’s not entirely sure that either of those two things ever happened.

“To what do I owe the honor, son?” Varril seemed nonplussed by the entire situation, almost as if he had expected Aerden to show up at some point.  

“I’m not your son…”  The words were mumbled and quiet. The elder Lo’sharri was already getting under his skin.

“Speak up, kid”

“I am -not- your son.” Aerden spoke with a more forceful tone while doing his best to maintain eye contact.

Varril chortled, which only made Aerden even angrier, before stepping aside to allow him entrance into their home, no, Varril’s home. “Found out about your whore mother’s cripple then? What is Mister Hale and that pretty girlfriend of his up to these days hmm?”  

Aerden’s face began turning a shade of red, the anger welling up inside of him was trying to brim over. The man was pushing his buttons on purpose, he knew this. It was something he had always done his entire life to just about everyone in it. Speaking poorly of his mother, letting on that he kept tabs on certain people; he was trying to get a reaction.  Aerden ignored it and stepped inside, keeping his head held high.

This was a terrible idea.

The rush of memories once inside the familiar home didn’t help, and he immediately felt that pang of longing for his mum.  “My father is doing great, thanks for asking.” He turned to face Varril and plastered on the fakest smile he could muster. Two could play this game.

Varril made some amused noise, although the shift in his demeanor was obvious: he was annoyed.  These were dangerous waters to tread.  He moved towards the bar, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of scotch to pour them both a drink, pushing one across the counter.  There was no way Aerden was going to drink this, but he played the part and stepped up to the bar, wrapping his hand around the tumbler.  The adrenaline rush had kicked in, but it didn’t stop his hands from shaking, nor could it stop that lump in his throat from forming.

“What do you want, Aerden?  There’s nothing left in this house that belongs to you.”

Aerden dropped his hands down to wipe against the tops of his thighs, and so the older Lo’sharri couldn’t see them shaking.  He turned his gaze downwards then wetted and parted his lips, but no words came out.

“Just spit it out, I don’t have all day to deal with your cowardice.”

This was a terrible idea.  

Aerden raised his gaze, he needed to see the reaction. His fists balled at his side and his jaw clenched, “Did you kill my mum?”

Aerden Lo’sharri Senior wasn’t expecting that question and it showed all over his face and in his aura.  That was the one of the benefits of being an empath, strong emotional reactions were nearly palpable.  He didn’t need a spoken answer, and this is exactly why he wanted to do it face to face. Finally, the older man broke his silence, “You’re a foolish child with foolish notions.”  He waved a hand dismissively.

There was no hard evidence, but that one look, that one reaction, was all Aerden needed to know that the man was guilty. Unfortunately this was the part of the plan where it got all fuzzy, because now what?  

This was a terrible idea. 

That question was promptly answered for him.   There was a sudden, sharp pain in the back of his head,  and then he blacked out.

Daily Writing Challenge Day 11 - Curse

The Darkmorn ‘gift’ they had called it. Fuck that. It was a damn curse at times, especially during the first decade of his life.  Taric had spent much of his childhood terrified of this so-called gift; the ability to see, speak with, sometimes touch, and walk among the dead. A spirit-walker. They didn’t exactly make self-help or parenting books on the topic, and with no guidance from anyone that knew what was happening to him, Taric struggled every day.

His mother, Melidoria, tried her best to help, but not really understanding what was happening to her son, she wasn’t able to provide much beyond comfort every now and then. It was something he had to navigate on his own, an impossible task to do well at his young age. Mostly it was ill-timed ‘visits’, and not all of the spirits he came into contact with were benevolent.  Some of them were overly persistent, and once they had discovered his abilities, they often wouldn’t leave him alone until their message was delivered. Looking back on it now, Taric wished that he could have shoved all of them right into the Maw for treating and using a young child in that manner.

The worst were the possessions.  Being that young, he tended to be more open to encounters, and that had been taken advantage of many a time.  He rarely remembered what he had done and his mother never told him unless he asked. He could always see how difficult it was for her, and it was one of the reasons he seldom asked. Then, the incident happened; the reason they left Quel’thalas to start a new life in Booty Bay.  Melidoria never spoke of what took place, but the haunting look in her eyes afterwards never left. The things parents do for their children. Taric never knew the whole story, but curiosity had gotten the better of him when he was older. He could never be for certain, but the archives reflected a string of violent crimes during that time frame that mimicked those of a recently executed convict. He was nine years old at the time.

It was there in Booty Bay that great-grandpa Darkmorn finally found him. He had already been dead for centuries, but the man acted as a guide for their family.  The two never actually spoke of family, but it was obvious in their looks, especially in those peculiar eyes. Taric finally gained control and learned how to keep himself protected and life became much easier for him and his mother after that.

Now?  It was simply a part of who he was, and who he would always be.  Needless to say, the recent events happening in the Shadowlands were more than worrisome.  He couldn’t fix it, he couldn’t do a damn thing about it aside from sit there on the sidelines and watch everything get fucked.  It was an all too familiar feeling. At some point, this would all culminate into one giant shitstorm and he knew he would be right in the middle of it.

Day 28 - Cemetery @daily-writing-challenge​

Rhys had never met his mother; she had died the day he was born, choosing his life over her own in her first and final act of selfless love towards him. He didn’t know much about her, although he did know that she was younger than he was now when she got pregnant.  No father was ever mentioned, nor any family.  Even after her death no one came forward to claim her as family or friend. At least she didn’t die alone.

When Rhys was a bit older, the matron of the orphanage brought him to the cemetery where she was buried and he was given sunflowers to lay on her grave. This had become an annual excursion for him, and although the matron stopped joining him after a few years, she was always happy to provide him sunflowers from her garden.

This year was no different, and thankfully there was an abundance of sunflowers to be found in Westfall.  After selecting a few of the largest flowers he could find, he made his way towards the cemetery in Elwynn Forest where she had been buried. It was always a solemn affair even though he had never met her, nor did he even know what she had looked like.  Someone once told him that he had her eyes and her dimples, but there were no photos nor records anywhere to be found.

He slowed his pace as he approached, noting a figure wearing all black and carrying a bouquet of sunflowers with him.  While Rhys couldn’t tell exactly from this distance, he did note that this strange man appeared to be close to where his mother’s grave was located.  Cautiously approaching to get a better look, he stopped walking and watched.  He had always wondered if there was anyone else in the world that had known her, and if they also knew that he existed.

What if….

Rhys’ grip tightened around the stems of the sunflowers as his eyes went wide.  What if this man was family?  What if this was his father?  Although he did look older, maybe he was her father?  Not exactly something you ask a complete stranger in the middle of a cemetery. Instead he maintained a respectable distance and silently debated if he should say anything. He could feel the nerves creeping in and catching in his throat, he knew that if he had tried to speak, everything would have come out in a stuttering jumble of word vomit.  

His hands had now begun to shake from the building anxiety, causing him to drop the sunflowers to the ground.  Quickly, he bent down and gathered them all together, ensuring that none of the petals had been crushed too badly by his own clumsiness.  Surely now the man had to know that he was here.  

Day 26 - Trust @daily-writing-challenge​ Co-written by @taricdarkmorn​ for his Day 26 as well!

Red leaned against the railing and stared out towards the moonlit sea; lips parted into an ‘O’ before exhaling a smoke ring that framed the White Lady perfectly.  Booty Bay had always been a crew favorite, there was never a dull moment at The Salty Sailor.  Even now in the dead of night, the dull roar from the tavern carried all the way over to Taric’s small apartment above his shop. 

All pretenses had been set aside between the two, there were more important things happening in the world.  They both knew they were related, and everyone that knew the both of them also knew that they were related. It was obvious by their similar hair alone, but the smile sealed the deal. Why hide it from each other? There was no sense in denying it now, two Darkmorns were better than one in this particular situation anyways.

Not that Red would ever say it aloud, nor would Taric.  He used his mother, Melidoria’s surname, so as far as anyone else may have been concerned, Red was also a Sunflare. It would usually take him a long time to trust another, but there was something about Taric; he immediately seemed dependable and honest.  Plus, they shared a mutual bitterness towards Turiil; Red’s brother and Taric’s father.

“You knew her?  My mom?”

Red turned to face the younger Darkmorn, nodding.  “Yes, while Turiil was courting her. I always thought she was too good for him, but then again I thought that about any woman that he ever dated.”

“What was he like?”  Taric had never met Turiil.  His mother became pregnant with him while out of wedlock, and in those days that was highly frowned upon. A shotgun wedding was out of the question, so Turiil ditched her.  He didn’t know much of the man beyond that, his mother didn’t like to speak of him and he didn’t want to press because he knew it would upset her.

“Shit…” Red grumbled, tiling his head upwards to exhale a cloud of red smoke.  “You may as well be asking what Sargeras is like.” 

This elicited a bark of laughter from Taric.  “Fuck.”  He shook his head, kicking his feet up onto the railing and crossing his legs at the ankle.

“Yeah, be glad that he ghosted your mom.  She dodged a bullet on that one.”  Red stubbed out his cigarette, silently considering what to say about that horrible, monstrous man.  “Umm.  Well, he was a fucking genius.  Runs in the family.” He flashed an arrogant smirk, “He played the noble game extremely well, everyone ‘loved’ him.” Finger quotes went around the word loved.  “He practiced blood magic.”

Both of Taric’s brows raised, his look of surprise clearly suggesting that he had no idea. “That also something that runs in the family?”

“Not for me at least.  Are you…”

“No, no.  I mean, I suppose it’s possible but I’ve never tried. I umm…”  Taric’s gaze drifted off towards the horizon, narrowing his eyes at the distant storm clouds. “I guess what I have is more elemental.”

“Huh…”  Red smiled knowingly, “Like your gr-”

“Great-grandfather.  Mhm, he told me as much.  It’s part of the package deal.” Taric gestured towards his heterochromatic eye.

“Lightning attracted to you too?”

Taric nodded, gesturing to the green fern-like pattern tattooed on his right arm. “From the first time it happened.  Didn’t think it would happen again.  And again...and again.”  He paused, twisting his lips into an overexaggerated frown.  “And again.”  The man had a rough time discovering all of his new powers and ‘quirks’ on his own. Even now he was still figuring it all out, but now he had Red.  It was a comforting feeling, having another living Darkmorn to talk to, and it seemed that Red felt the same.

“Sucks to be you.” Red jested with an impish grin. 

“Well at least I’m not an impassive asshole.” Taric jested right back at him with that same grin.