#eluviannaa

Depth/Shimmer

A penumbra pinned to the low mist—a shimmer spindling along the darkness with intention. The path through the Ghostlands was often obscured, but now it demanded a different kind of sight. One even the undead seemed to understand. But Eluvianna knew the stones well. She would always remember.

A hand smoothed the cloak billowing its reply to her steps, violet light edging a hood drawn in vain. The heavy murk had offered a gift, a shield, still fragile against her presence.

The elf’s steps quickened. It would not last long.

The dampness thinned at the boundary of Eversong, its threads slow to part with the ren’dorei. It was not mourning that held them fast, but hunger unmet. Fate had not been as kind to the gilded groves before her.

In the distance, where sunlight once streaked pride over Silvermoon, a dark orb now spiraled in vigilance. Eluvianna watched its gloom absorb the spires while golden bands above her strained to greet this ghost of Quel’Thalas. Beneath foliage choking in indigo, she paused, honoring the familiar contest between Light and Shadow. Memory had brought this heir again to a conflict as ancient as the earth beneath her feet.

A subtle tug reclaimed the fabric of her cloak as she took the rise toward Brightspire Manor. The city’s majesty receded beyond haunted boughs, its dirge unwilling to release her.

It was as though the very same shadows at Eluvianna’s heels had guided her grandmother’s quill across the letter. For centuries, shadow was held at arm’s length here. Now, time alone swayed the call to arms—exiles and reluctant allies alike. An opportunity, perhaps, for those who wielded the Void with a different intention.

What was the adage?

Know thy enemy.

Eluvianna had no duty to war, cosmic or otherwise. Yet she could not ignore the summons tucked beneath her cloak, nor the quiet suspicion that it would ask her to reconsider.

Uinen will always take advice from Xal'atath lol. They pretty much will believe anything she says without question, and Xal'atath is probably the only person they actually trust.

Send "You belong to me." to see how my muse reacts.

(Accepting!)

The runes on her back flared to life with a brilliant violet glow as the Ren'dorei spoke. Something in either her voice or her words (or both) tugged at the magic keeping the Void inside of Gin in check, cracking the prison door just enough for It to slip through and take over with no interference from the Vessel this time. Sapphire eyes slipped slowly to amethyst, sclera darkening to a purple so dark it was almost black.

"We belong...to no one." It spoke through Gin, using her voice and the voices of others as It spoke. But as a step toward the elf was attempted, It found Itself rooted in place. A runic circle of glowing violet lazily danced at Its feet, pulling a frustrated growl from It.

"What do you want from us!?" Many voices faded into one now. Close to the Gilnean's normal voice, yet somehow still distinct from it.

Cruel/Beauty

The cemetery was unnaturally quiet—its spirits did not wander tonight, seemingly absent under Drustvar’s full moon. Gnarled trees bowed to neglect, husks of shanties still angling to carve each star from the night sky. Cobwebs sealed each tomb with care, dripping the brine of distant shores. A mist tolled across uneven terrain as ravens gathered at wrought iron, echoing the knell to summon the unseen.

Violet eyes narrowed—catching the same hue of the blade at her leg—to follow a dance of shadows across the ruin. Gusts beckoned from cracked monuments as darkness detached from the boughs, stretching over the hem of her cloak, soft leather shifting as it caught the moonlight.

“Bit dreary for a midnight stroll, innit?” Zane offered, irreverent, hands moving idly along daggers at his waist.

He was only here at Baeldric’s…insistence. The directive of man wholly unfamiliar with the concept of true negotiation, let alone refusal. But the rogue was mostly muscle, there to ensure his employer's interests. Her expertise merely tolerated under a watchful eye. They were not allies. And certainly not friends.

Their past was spare, passing through the seedy taverns of Boralus—a shuffle of contract or distraction. He hadn't taken her seriously at first. Eluvianna had been a mark of a different kind, indifference playing right into his instincts. Entitlement that was more ego than charm. A game she had no intention of entertaining.

But he had come with that same swagger to Baeldric's office:

“Oi, what a sight, fate dealin’ me a lucky hand today—business and pleasure.”

The man was crass, but never more eager for debauchery than coin. Had their business interests not aligned so specifically, she would have declined even a simple arrangement. She had certainly sidestepped many before.

As Cormac’s rival, Zane’s reputation preceded him. An honorless rogue through and through. Their history wasn’t her concern, but his disregard for any thieves' code marked him with distrust to many. He feared Baeldric, but the man didn’t care how the work was done. Only that it was. With Zane, it wasn't pretty, but pesky morals were never a problem.

Vaguely amused by the tension, Baeldric turned in his chair, giving them his back. The audience had concluded.

He waved a hand.

“Just get me the item.”

This was all against her better judgement. And Cormac’s. She could imagine his weary look now. But this was not his business. And the business was indeed tempting.

She hadn't told him, either. So far, the nature of their relationship would only truly earn respect from someone like Zane. And the timing never seemed right—most business discussions required more clothing than none at all. But caution hardly crossed her mind: Zane was a rogue with a weak mind. Trifling with a shadow priest was not in his best interest.

Fresh dirt piled high around several open graves. Her brow furrowed, his comment about the stroll unclaimed.

“Restless spirits hardly make for easy plans.”

“Aye, even my considerable charms fall flat with the dearly departed.”

Zane laughed, patting his belt. “Though can't blame a man for trying, now can we?”

She continued to watch the cemetery.

“Well, we don't seem to have an audience this evening.”

In the distance, a galleon etched into stone caught her eye. It was one of the few markers bearing more than just a name. Beside it, a broken hilt thrust deep into moss.

Without a word, she passed the grounds, cloak lifting at her heels. Kneeling at the excavation, darkness swallowed. Displaced soil held withered shoots struggling to breach.

“Curious that whoever had been here before didn't take it.”

Her fingers hovered over the hilt, surveying the trench…and a distant touch of the Arcane.

“Some sort of protection…”

Zane crossed his arms, allowing her thoughts to drift from him. But he couldn’t help himself.

“It needs a sacrifice, love. Equal power. A dark key for information,” he tested.

His shadow loomed at her back, voice now a warning too late.

“—That's where you come in.”

Before she could grasp the meaning, steel sang through cloth at her shoulder and bit deep into flesh. Unbalanced, she braced a knee to earth. Throwing her shoulder back, he staggered with a rough breath. Her vision fractured, the landscape split and blossomed into bands of haze. Fingers now sinking desperate into the dirt.

A heavy laugh came as Zane steadied. Leaning forward with a reluctant exhale, he swiftly caught her shoulders, easing back an arm reaching for her blade.

His mouth was at her ear, a whisper sharpened.

“No, no, no, no...We all play our part—let's not ruin it, now.”

He squeezed the gash across her shoulder, drawing a pained gasp. Her head tilted as though seeing the wound would somehow help her understand.

He quirked his lips, nodding. “Simple trick, really. But it’s not what’ll be killin’ ye.”

Then, with a swift shove, he sent her tumbling into the grave. Limbs clawed through loose dirt before she crashed, limp, into the coffin below. Rotting wood cracked beneath her weight as soil poured in around her, ragged coughs ripping from her throat. Movement was slow—wading through the spin of poison, just enough coherence left to see his shadow pass.

A grin bloomed in the moonlight as Zane’s elbows folded over bent knees, low enough that she might have seen him—if she still could.

He let out an amused sigh. Watched as she shifted, weighted by pain and hallucination. Struggled. Almost pitied the state he would be leaving her in.

Then, finding no sympathy to spare, two fingers flicked to his brow in a sharp salute. “You've been a great help, m'lady.”

Her vision blurred and spun as the wooden lid quickly followed with a whump, pinning her against the bottom of the coffin. The click of his tongue carried down through the timber. His words already gritting her teeth.

“What a waste of a lovely evening. Not how I usually entertain such a fine lady.”

“Should've played along, love.”

Nails drove into wood, pounding in rhythm with her fading consciousness.

“Wish I could say it wasn't personal.”

Loose earth thudded over the lid, a rhythm slowly muffling into a ritual of silence and darkness.

Crush/Serious

(Where it all began.)

The study had grown cold again. Sunlight pressed itself against the windows with shameless curiosity. Still, it knew better. It would not enter.

Dacian noticed this the way one noticed breath in winter air—inevitable, unremarkable. The fire had been laid three hours past. Four, perhaps. The logs refused to catch properly, their half-hearted complaints hissing into silence. He did not stoke them again. There was no point. The cold came from elsewhere. But from where...Eversong seemed to wonder, as well.

His hands moved across the desk with ritual. Left drawer, center, right. The same as yesterday. And the day before. The wood was well-crafted, its joints would outlast his own, without question. Yet the drawers stuck. Always stuck. Everything here had learned to resist him.

Lady Tavora and the Magistrix were rarely in agreement, but it had become clear that both thought him mad.

Neither had said as much, but the Lord knew well that silence in Everheart manor was a curse of its own. Surely, borne from what had been seen…what they thought they had seen, as they passed the doorways, watching him search. Watching him pull books from shelves only to replace them in different positions, as if the act of reading had changed their fundamental nature. And still, Tavora brought him tea he did not drink. Asked questions he could not answer. Begged that he consider rest.

Rest. As if one could rest with a hole in memory.

The grimoire existed. He knew this with the certainty of bone, of prayer, of things learned so young they predated language. One unremarkable volume of many, to most, leather binding without title gone soft between time and hands. He had seen it, held it, been the one to tell his daughter its dark fairytale. And now, where had it gone?

It was not unlike many tomes penned by a chorus of quills. He had questioned the authenticity but once, of course. But this, this was different. And an anomaly was not quite a forgery, was it? No, whatever this was, it was more of a trick. He had to find it to be sure. The mere impossibility of it made his head ache.

His fingers found the gap behind the texts, where something just as impossible had suddenly thought to take him seriously.

And there.

There.

Lucky/Heartache

The corridor of Netherlight Hall was quiet. Empty. Near dark.

A rising arc of moonlight was first to break the stillness, rapping impatience against the stained glass above. But its menagerie of sentinels only bristled in silence, narrowing their gaze to watch a small light pass a threshold. Searching the darkness below.

Zevvie.

Her steps came soft with nostalgia as a sole shadow detached from the carpet to blur at her heel. It would easily mimic her pace, unseen, tasting the starlight ferried in her pocket.

She had come to find a place for the rose. A surprise for a paramour. A token blooming with the sentiment between them. Yet something else also toiled in that same thrall, so very curious what the Light had come for tonight.

Attention drifted…no, was drawn, to a table at the bedside and upon it, a box. Smooth, dark wood utterly refusing mortal description. Its edges toyed with her eye, each line in disbelief of the next. Calling, not with sound, but reflection of the mind. Regrettably mistaken for her own curiosity.

But when she opened the lid, a breath caught on something more terrible still: misunderstanding. A veil lifted, offering, as all proper snares did, a glimpse of something that still felt malleable within fate. Even as a thousand eager claws, sickness, raked through her chest. To rearrange everything.

Cradled in the pitch was a glint of  something all too familiar. Somethings. And far too many of them. The whimsy that drew Eluvianna to each one, each pebble, was in truth no whimsy at all. And Zevvie now saw them for what they were: watchers.

She blinked. They could not possibly fit as they did, pulsing upward toward her hand. There are so many.

Frantic, her eyes turned about the room. To the drawers. Wardrobe. Shelves. Yet, before she thought to indulge them...she knew.

But she would. Must.

Each was opened in anxious succession. One. Then another. Another still. Pebbles spilling as the compulsion gave them air to breathe. To call. Their whispers clattered together, confessing incoherent sins, begging beneath the tremble of her fingertips.

Eluvianna found the door had been left ajar. Whispers sucked into silence, as if nothing had ever been.

But Zevvie. Zevvie was not ready to know.

Harm/Useful

The rise of land was ceremonial. Manicured hedgerows greeted guests with pristine geometry alongside towering figures sculpted in marble. Beyond, elegant paths allowed one to contemplate an endless curation of eternal blooms; flawless specimens that had no doubt inspired countless illustrations within timeworn tomes of Floriagraphy.

Brightspire manor was not a home, but a monument to legacy. An alabaster fortress flanked by golden boughs that seemed to bend in deference. Gilded heritage edged domed towers and broad wings sprawling east and west. The only modest detail of the manor’s presence graced its entrance. Efficiency in contrast, merely a few marble steps. And something strangely out of place.

Andaura, with hands folded.

The Magistrix’s robes carried a touch of Silvermoon formality in crimson and gold. Still the style of her rank, though softer than the function Eluvianna had seen required of her when Quel'Thalas had known conflict.

Truly, the matron had been forged from the rime of those who walked the manor’s halls before her. A cold presence that found Eluvianna hesitant to draw her hood. Everheart Manor was a warmer, if imperfect, shadow of what stood before her now. Where Andaura and Tavora had toiled to veil scandal, Eluvianna wore it with gravity. But that was not what was...new. The Magistrix was seeing her granddaughter for the first time as a ren'dorei.

Though Eluvianna had long wielded a manner of Andaura’s composure, her step began to falter. The violet crept forward in her wake, tasting the immaculate stone. Whatever had inspired her grandmother's letter would not shield either of them now. Now that the Magistrix saw what she had truly invited. 

Andaura was as still as stone. Her gaze slid once over the ren'dorei. “It seems time has made our heir—” in the pause, a smile threatened to draw her lips “—bold."

A shoulder turned as slowly as her words, beckoning Eluvianna toward the manor’s threshold. 

“But a great many things can be useful. Don't you agree.”

August DWC 2025

✦ Ethereal/Calculate Elu+Zevvix

✦ Layer/Wither Elu+Dacian

✦ Twitterpated/Primal Cormac+Feo

✦ Direction/Languish Elu+Serenya

✦ Rustic/Attack Elu+Selene

✦ Celebrate/Reactionary Elu+Liora

✦ Serene/Weapon Mourvalis

+all my DWC 2025

This round I wrote some Elu lore floating around in my head and challenged myself with themes a little less tragic/dramatic. It was was fun, and tough! Some Silvermoon rp over the weekend inspired the Mourvalis piece, apologies to anyone overhearing convos about imps and chamberpots—bathroom humor found it's way twice into the prompts haha. Welcome to my brain this week, I guess.