#dwc2025

DAILY WRITING CHALLENGE 2025 IS BACK!

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO USE THE ACTUAL WORD FOR THIS CHALLENGE, YOU MAY SIMPLY BASE YOUR STORY AROUND ONE OF THESE IDEAS!

Choose one or both words/ideas and write a story, drabble, poem, or anything else once a day, every day, for a week!

Tag @daily-writing-challenge so we can reblog your stories.

Write the number day/challenge somewhere on your story.

LIST CONTENT WARNINGS VISIBLY ABOVE STORY! (Use a ‘read more’ line if content gets too graphic.)

Tags that will be used: #novemberdwc2025,  #novemberdayX2025 (X=whatever number day you’re writing for), #yourtumblrurl

There will be no optional challenges for the weekly DWC’s, but please feel free to make up some of your own challenges!

The next writing challenge will be in FEBRUARY 2026 and last one week!

CLICK HERE FOR OTHER IMPORTANT INFORMATION!

Good luck and more importantly, HAVE FUN! Encourage your fellow writers and show them some love and support with likes/reblogs/comments!

We look forward to reading some amazing writing!

((Written word list below the cut))

Pickles always woke up before Taric. It wasn’t because he was disciplined, it was simply because the sun had dared to shine in his eyes and the world needed to hear his opinion. He hopped along the perch in his cage, fluffing his feathers and practicing the day’s first greeting. “GOOD..”  Taric groaned.  “...MORNING!” Perfect.

Taric shuffled out of bed slowly, looking like a wilted plant and moving with the sluggish amble of someone who hadn’t slept well. He opened the window and the warm breeze swept in, carrying scents of salt, seaweed, and the lingering trace of something Pickles could only describe as ‘melancholic human stew’. He knew that smell, it meant Taric was thinking too much again.

So, Pickles did what any devoted feathery companion would do and he launched himself at Taric’s shoulder with pinpoint accuracy and the force of a small meteor. Taric yelped, always a good sign, and Pickles rewarded him with a gentle cheek nibble. This usually brought a chuckle, or at least a resigned sigh. Today it earned both. Good. Taric needed entertainment, and Pickles, being a generous bird, was willing to provide it.

When Taric stepped onto the balcony with his tea, Pickles perched on the railing beside him. The tempest on the horizon rumbled and Taric stared at it the way he often stared at forming storms: quiet, tense, and a little too still. However, he didn’t retreat as he once did.

Pickles followed his gaze. Storm. Danger.Bad.Also pretty, and interesting.

He puffed up, opened his wings, and let out a low, soft sound that almost resembled thunder. The way Taric jolted, spilling tea everywhere, was deeply satisfying. “Pickles…” Taric muttered. The tone: mildly betrayed. The face: priceless. Pickles chirped an apology that was absolutely not an apology.

A moment later, Taric slumped into his hammock with a tired sigh. Pickles hopped onto his chest, tilted his head, and pressed his tiny face into the hollow of Taric’s throat. Taric’s hands rose automatically, gently stroking his crest in the slow rhythm he liked best. Taric’s heartbeat steadied, the storm rolled closer, and Pickles stayed put.

Humans complicated everything like feelings, storms, memories, and even pain, but this was simple. Taric was sad and needed comfort. Pickles could fix that, even if only a little. He leaned in, full fluff mode activated, and chirped a soft reminder,  “Mom.”. It was an important anniversary, after all.

Taric froze. Then, he slowly smiled. “Yeah, I miss her too.”

Pickles didn’t understand all the things Taric carried, but he understood this: If his boy hurt, he would not leave. He would sit, sing, squawk, and bite fingers when necessary. That was his job, his purpose, and he was very, very good at it.

The tournament was many things: a spectacle of competitions, a parade of performances, a marketplace bursting with trinkets, food, and drink. But for Ryland, it was mostly an opportunity.

During the day, he wandered among the crowds, glowing as usual with his glitter-dusted skin, while flashing that devilish smirk that made merchants lean over their stalls and fighters forget their footwork. He watched duels, sampled the various cuisines from all over Azeroth, reveled in performances, and visited with old friends he saw but a few times a year. 

All the while, he was cataloging it. Not the fights nor the stalls, but the people. The way the soldier looked when flustered, the way a vendor licked their lips when they thought no one saw. He calculated every exchange with quiet intent, tracing the night’s potential partners the same way he would chart stars; deciding which ones deserved to be studied and then chased once the sun went down.

Night was a different sport entirely.

Icecrown might have been cold and haunted, but the nights around the tournament tents were anything but. The fires burned bright, ale flowed freely, and Ryland moved through it like a god of mischief draped in glitter and sin. One by one, tents lit up behind him. The game was simple enough, never the same body twice. Someone called it “tent bingo” once. Ryland had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, then immediately adopted the title as if it were part of his résumé.

Wednesday night alone had earned him a diagonal line across his mental bingo board: a shy merchant he had flirted with earlier in the day, a particularly bendy performer, and to his great amusement, someone who insisted they were ‘just here for sparring’. He was well versed in spotting and unraveling those lies. 

By the time the week began winding down, Ryland had a little map of memories traced across his body in the form of bite marks, scratches, and bruises. Well-earned trophies that didn’t need to be rewarded at the closing ceremonies. On the final night, the tournament’s fires cast the tents in a warm, ethereal glow, a strange contrast to the naughty promises and stifled moans exchanged inside them. That was the beauty of this place; it looked refined and respectable from afar, but the real stories were written after dark.

Ryland left Icecrown with his voice a little raspy, his lips swollen, and his muscles and bones pleasantly tired. He had crossed every corner of that mental bingo card, with a few bonus rounds to spare. Not bad for a week in the frozen north!

Veilos hadn’t expected to feel nervous. He had been to plenty of galas and fundraisers before and after every terrible thing that happened during the Siege. But as he walked up the path towards Meadowrun Conservatory beside Altherei, something in his chest felt unsteady and unusually heavy.

Altherei looked effortless in the lantern light, the kind of presence that didn’t ask for a room’s attention but earned it all the same. He reminded himself, as he always did, that this was just two friends attending an event together. No expectations, no implications, just that.

The galleries were full of warmth, color, and memory. Pieces of lives cut short and given permanence through the hands that shaped them. Veilos moved slowly, hands clasped behind his back as though he were still on duty, his posture carefully controlled. Altherei walked beside him, her quiet commentary thoughtful rather than heavy. He found that comforting, she didn’t speak as though she wanted to resurrect the past, she spoke as someone honoring it.

It was in the gallery of art done by the young apprentices where he had to slow his steps. The small booklet listing ages was what did it. Sixteen, seventeen, ten, the years where life was supposed to be beginning, not ending. He felt her gaze drift to him, not prying, just aware of his shift in demeanor. He kept his breathing even, his thoughts compartmentalized. She didn’t ask him anything, and he was grateful for it.

At one point, they stood together in front of the Sunglass installation, the glass fragments glowing brilliantly under the enchanted golden hour light. Altherei’s face was soft in that glow, and he watched it reflected in the glass instead of looking directly at her.

He wanted to tell her about Kyrisa, who could light up a room with her smile. About Zynia, who had just turned thirteen and was learning to play the lute like her mother. About Aeril, ten years old, who always woke up before the sun and begged to help him prepare breakfast. About how the Light hadn’t saved them, and how he hadn’t forgiven himself for surviving when they did not.

The words pressed heavily behind his teeth, laced with the familiar heartache that never fully left him. But how does one introduce grief into beauty? ‘This piece reminds me of my family.’ It sounded wrong. Too sharp, too heavy, much too selfish. This was neither the time nor place, even if it would have been the perfect time and place.

So when Altherei spoke of something light and thoughtful, he followed her lead. He let the conversation drift instead to craftsmanship, to how light behaves in color, to whether the enchantment shifted with the hour or simply mimicked one. He kept his voice steady and his expression measured. He kept his past where it belonged, for now. This evening wasn’t about him.

Later, they found themselves in one of the music rooms. Red played a piece on guitar, Voice of the Elrendar, the melody flowing like the river itself. Altherei closed her eyes to listen, but Veilos kept his open. He knew that if he closed them, he would see Kyrisa’s hands on the strings of her lute and he wasn’t ready for that tonight.

Still, something loosened in him as the music filled the small room. The melody was sad, but not broken, hopeful, but not naive. It walked the thin edge between mourning and continuation, the same edge he lived on every day. He realized, with an almost startled sort of awareness, that he hoped Altherei would stay in his life long enough to hear him talk about that edge one day. Not tonight, not soon, but someday.

When the evening finally drew to a close, he offered to walk her home. They followed the quiet forest path through Eversong Woods, reflecting on the evening. “Thank you for inviting me.” Altherei’s smile was soft, not knowing she had been the reason he could bear the evening at all.

He hesitated only a breath before stepping closer. Both arms wrapped around her, the embrace warm yet careful, as though he feared holding on too tightly to something he could not keep. She returned it without question or expectation, and it steadied something inside him that had been trembling all evening. He pulled back, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat to give them purpose. “I was glad to have your company.”

It was the most he could allow himself.

They parted there, she disappearing into the warm glow of her doorway, and he taking the long way back toward his apartment in Silvermoon. When he entered, the silence did not suffocate him the way it usually did. The rooms were still empty, the past was still waiting for him. Something new lingered in the quiet, something that felt almost like he might be lucky to still be here to feel it. Something warm, and something he was too afraid to name just yet.

Martyr

November DWC 2025 “heartache”

Tw: domestic violence mention, child abuse mention, misogyny

@daily-writing-challenge

Mirabella wasn’t meant for the life she led. Possessed of a gentle nature and deep abiding connection to old magic, circumstance saw her in a place she never would have chosen for herself. Her young girl dreams never came true and she walked the world with a perpetually broken heart. But no tragedy or little sorrow could convince her that it was better to be cynical. Fate had unkind plans for Mirabella all the same. Maybe this time…she would be convinced.

Long ago...

The cold, pale moonlight poured across the Nightbane courtyard, casting long shadows over the garden wall and the overgrown stone path. Zenith was no older than eight, a thin, quiet boy with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends and eyes too observant for a child his age. He sat cross-legged in the grass, staring down at the small, still form of a sparrow. Its wings were bent at angles that suggested it had struck something on its way down from the sky, and its tiny breast no longer rose with breath.

Something inside Zenith ached in a way he had no words for, he wanted to do something. He reached toward the bird, but not with his hands, with something unfamiliar within himself. An instinctive feeling, a pull, a wish that felt like a command.

Don’t be gone. 

The world around him seemed to hush, the grass stilled, and the wind stopped. The air thickened with a presence he didn’t understand, but wasn’t afraid of. There was a static tension to it, like the moment before lightning strikes. A faint shimmer pulsed from his fingertips, cold and invasive, as though it drew heat and life away instead of giving it.

The sparrow jerked, and Zenith’s breath caught. The bird’s wings twitched with sharp, unnatural movements, then it staggered upright. Zenith’s eyes widened with wonder. He had done this. Some part of him knew that this was his doing, but something was very wrong.

The bird’s head twitched too sharply to one side and then the other. Its eyes were cloudy and glossy, with no spark of life behind them. There was no spark of anything he recognized. It tried to open its beak, but instead of a birdsong, a hollow clicking came out, like pebbles scattering in an empty well.

Zenith didn’t understand what he was seeing, but his parents did. They had been silently watching from the doorway, as they always were. His mother’s breath caught, but not in horror, in recognition instead. His father approached quietly and knelt beside him, voice soft as he spoke. “Zenith. Look carefully at the bird.”

Zenith did, and he really saw it this time, and his wonder cracked. The thing before him was not alive. It was moving, but there was no warmth in it, no softness. Just a shell pulled upright by something that did not belong. “I… I didn’t mean to. I just wanted it to wake up.”

His mother laid a hand on his back, her touch was always warm and grounding. “This is good. It means the gift has found you early.”

Zenith’s breath trembled. “But it’s not alive.”

“No,” his father agreed. “Nor should you expect it to be, life and death are not so simple. What you brought back isn’t meant to be alive, it is meant to respond and to obey.”

Zenith stared at the twitching little body, now horrified by what he had done. “Can I put it back?”

His parents first exchanged a look of surprise, then one of approval. “Yes,” his mother murmured. “If you will it.”

Zenith closed his eyes and focused on the same feeling, but reversed. Release instead of restraint. The thickened air around him seemed to exhale, and the sparrow collapsed. This time it did not move again, and a heavy silence returned.

His father rested his hand on Zenith’s small shoulder. “You are ready to begin, earlier than we hoped, but the dead have called to you, and you answered. Now we will teach you how to answer correctly.”

His mother’s smile was soft, but proud. “We will start tomorrow.”

Zenith looked at the sparrow, at the wrong miracle. His hands trembled, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. He didn’t know then that this moment would haunt him for years. That this was the first time he touched death, and the first time death touched back, and it shaped everything that came after.

Wayfarer’s Rest was unusually lively tonight with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Vixannya sat at the polished bar, leaning lazily on one elbow while her eyes traced the room in idle amusement. She told herself she was here to relax, not work. Her mind needed a break from the grim images her magic liked to throw at her, but trouble had a habit of finding her anyway.

A young and handsome Farstrider claimed the seat beside her, angling himself just enough to make his intentions clear. “Haven’t seen you here before,” he gave her a charming grin. “Believe me, I’d remember.”

“That line actually work on anyone for you?” She smirked into her wine glass.

“Not really,” he shrugged with a laugh. “Although a face like yours, that’s hard to forget, that’s dangerous.”

“Oh trust me,” Vixannya murmured, “you have no idea.”

He chuckled, reaching out to brush his fingers lightly against her forearm, and the bar vanished. Darkness surged in like a wave of slick, writhing void that rushed across twisted trees. The ground was soaked in shadow, impossible to see where the earth ended and the corruption began. A soldier, this soldier, screamed in the blackness, his body torn apart by voidwalkers dragging him into nothing. Vixannya’s breath caught as the vision sharpened.

Hundreds of bodies scattered through the golden-glowing forest. Armor shattered, eyes empty, a field of death she couldn’t escape seeing. There was a break in the shadows then, a shift of perspective, and suddenly it was clear: Silvermoon’s spires in the distance. This wasn’t some far-off place, this wasn’t a hypothetical future in a land she’d never set foot in. This was Eversong Woods, this was home. A place that had barely recovered from one apocalypse, and here she was seeing another. 

The vision snapped away, leaving the bar’s lights painfully bright in comparison. The Farstrider stood next to her, alive and unknowing, watching her with amused curiosity. “You alright? Did I stun you speechless?”

“Something like that,” she pulled her arm back carefully. Her voice was a bit too steady, the kind of calm that existed only after years of seeing the worst and surviving it.

He called for another round, and she didn’t respond. Her heart wasn’t racing, she was long past panic, but the weight of what she had seen rested heavily within her chest. The Scourge had already torn Quel’thalas apart once. Her people had fought tooth and nail to rebuild and to thrive again. They deserved peace and safety, not this, not another slaughter.

She should warn someone about her premonition, but warnings had a price; there would be suspicion, fear, and accusations. Still, could she live with staying silent?

“Hey,” The soldier nudged her lightly, “Everything okay? I say something wrong?”

She forced an empty smile and slid from her stool. “No, just tired. Good night.” He looked puzzled as she walked away, but she didn’t look back. This was the first time she had witnessed this particular attack, and she knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t be the last.