“What do you think of this one?” 

The trainer gestured to an another charger, the third one that he had shown to Banagan since he arrived at the stables. The young paladin stepped closer to the gate of the stall and looked over the dark brown horse. It seemed as sturdy as the other two.

“It seems like a nice horse.”

“A nice horse? I assure you, these are some of the best chargers that you’ll find in the empire. They have been bred for their strength and their fearlessness. You could ride this one into a regiment of orcs and it wouldn’t shy once.”

“Those do sound like excellent qualities in a horse.”

“This horse would be your closest ally on the field. It would be devoted to you and would never leave your side.”

“I’ll admit, that is kind of what I’m looking for. My parents have that with theirs. So I’d like to find something like that, too.”

“Oh? And what type of horse do they ride?”

“Well,” Banny began with a grin. “They were gifts. Not from around here, really.”

“Ahh, one of those exotic breeds. Probably from the islands. They good enough, I imagine. If you can get one.”

“Well, you’ve given me something to think about. I’ve got a couple more things to take care of before I can leave town. I’ll let you know by this afternoon.”

“Of course, sir. But don’t wait too long. I can’t promise this horse will still be available when you come back.”

“I understand. Thank you for showing me what you have.”

Luminash’s work table in his tent at the Dragonscale Expedition basecamp nestled among the Waking Shore’s red crags was stacked high with his materials: notes - personal work and messages from colleagues both - fragments of pottery, or magical items of indeterminate purpose, charcoal rubbings or broken down tablets awaiting his translation.

Each day at the camp when the morning sun began to shine through the gap left between tentflap and tent wall, Luminash began to stir. A few hours later, when at last the sun had risen into the sky and only filtered into camp through the canopy of trees or was blocked by the cliffs, the magister rose. Before anything else, he sat at his table, bleary eyed, and sifted through the work to be done each day.

Temporal anomalies, geometric calculations to puzzle out Titan locking mechanisms, new works in Titan and draconic coming to his attention daily... The work was unceasing, his pile growing little by little, surely never to be completed. Returning some time later, sated by breakfast and with a cup of steaming tea in hand, the golden light of the sun now coming in through the tent’s skylights - surely, a blood elf could not live without a bit of basking, even a night owl like Magister Dawnwing - he sat again and set about his clerical tasks.

Daily, new sketches, analyses of artifacts, translations and - always more exciting - hypotheses for unknown or unintelligible texts were produced by the magister’s hand.

February 24 - Day 6 Devoted/Trauma 

Storyline Progression: Prologue -> Here Fio Day 1 -> Here Xylaes Day 1 -> Here Pyraelia Day 2 -> Here Taric Day 3 -> Here Lynesse Day 3 -> Here Sheizara Day 4 -> Here Red Day 5 -> Here Fiorenze Day 5 -> Here Xylaes Day 6 here -> Here

“Vyarha asked if you had been poisoned; Word has gotten around the staff that something has gone on, do you want me to say anything?” Keranna asked as she dutifully combed through her Lady’s damp hair. 

That explained the rice and yogurt soup, spiced with flecks of minced mint. All things easy on the stomach, probably something Keranna had asked for. Fiorenze still hadn’t touched it, and she didn’t answer. 

There was silence for a while, and the pleasant feeling of tea tree oil being massaged into her scalp before Keranna started in again, “The Grand Magister will likely want to see you soon. You have not been back to Quel’thalas for some time. What would you like me to say when he sends a summons?” 

Yes, he would. The last thing he had heard from her this morning was a broadly, hastily and largely scrawled ‘I WANT OUT’ across the whole of one of their two way pages in her private journal. It probably seemed like the desperation of a half-mad woman coming through without much other prompting. Then again, it had truthfully been that. She didn’t answer the question, it was easier to close her eyes and listen to the birds outside on the terrace. 

“Doctor Gloamingdawn came by again at lunch to collect the soul glass from the mirror to take back to Elysian Hold. I did save a piece, it is in your reagent chest. What would you like me to do with the mirror frame? And the robes that were worn? If you don’t answer otherwise I’ll have them burnt,” Keranna’s tone had started to turn a little exasperated, but not unkind or overly harsh. 

Theirastra had decided to wear one of her most expensive robes, all lush silk and hand stitched embroidery, on her day out. Burning it seemed fitting. Burning everything seemed fitting. She didn’t answer, and didn’t revel in Keranna’s slow, measured exhale. 

There was quiet again for a long while as her head of house braided back her hair with careful, loving hands. A bath had helped a little, being wrapped up in new pajamas had helped a smidge more, but everything still felt terrible and raw. It was safer to stay quiet, to make herself small and not face any of it — let alone herself. 

“I’m tired, Ker. Please leave me,” her voice sounded exhausted, even to herself, but she didn’t need to play her grand role here. 

Keranna frowned and rested her hands on the Lady’s shoulders for a moment before clucking her tongue and helping her charge up, “After I help you to bed, darling. I’ll leave the light on when I go.” 

Fiorenze was flooded with relief that she didn’t have to ask, Pyraelia or Xylaes must have said something at some point. She immediately sank into the freshly laundered sheets and pillows, and curled into a ball to hide from the yogurt soup, her responsibilities, needed answers, and prying eyes. 

The subtle crackle of a blink spell made her ears twitch, and the soft mewl of Rue poked through the plush nest around her as the cat started to make biscuits on her shoulder. 

She’d allow it.

TW: Blood, torment, Childhood trauma, death

Totally have had this done and just forgot to post it

Word Count: 1148

Summary: Xarian is paid a surprise visit by the last person he would expect.

Warnings: Minor violence

@daily-writing-challenge 

Xarian had been silently working on his dining room table, going over the edges with different gouges and other tools to carve out an intricate design around its edge. It had been going quite well at that, which never happens. No matter how good you are at any specific skill, there are always going to be mistakes. They can be actively minimized, but they still happen. Xarian was working on one very particular one when a knock came from the front door. He blinked several times as he looked up, he was not expecting company. So who could it be? He set down the gouge he was using and moved to the door, placing a hand in the handle before calling out.

“Who’s there?”

“Xarian. It’s me, it’s Sera.”

Word Count: 1000 Summary: I love how it took Iranji almost a full year to articulate why he's helping these two.

@daily-writing-challenge

Iranji’s feet hit the deck with a thud, and he grunted as he felt the ship rocking beneath them. Port and Starboard appeared on either side of him with loud squawks, and then immediately flew up into the rigging to roost for the night. He nodded in thanks to Silas and then looked up at the sky to orient himself, checking to see which constellations were in view to get an idea of where the Prize was on the water. His shoulders relaxed when he saw a familiar skyscape, and he took a deep breath before heading to his quarters.

Nothing else he’d found in the world during his lifetime felt quite like coming back to his ship. A few things had come close, over the years, but the Glittering Prize remained the most consistent source of calm in his current life.

That didn’t make her the only source. When he got to what had been his door, up until about a year ago, he knocked firmly, to see if the other one was still awake.

After a few seconds, the door opened, and a blonde human woman looked up at him, smiling happily. “Iranji,” she said, voice soft.

“Hey. It too late?” he asked in common. 

Tabitha shook her head and opened the door fully. “He’s not asleep yet. Come in, please.”

He ducked the doorframe and stepped into the small room, which in recent months had been completely overtaken with children’s things. His attention went first to the crib bolted against the wall, where he could hear soft noises that indicated the half-eleven infant inside was, indeed, still awake.

He hung his rifle on its rack and then began unbolting his pauldron. “It okay if I hold him?” 

Tabitha raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t want to get cleaned up first?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Will once he’s down.” 

“Go ahead. But at least come sit and let me do your hair.” She sat down on the bed, crossing her legs, and gestured for him to sit down on the floor in front of her.

He took a moment to scoop Ira out of his crib, then smirked over at her. “That bad?”

“Look, I didn’t learn how to take care of your hair only to not do it,” she said with a soft laugh. “Come on. I know it relaxes you.”

He silently moved her way, taking care to hold her son close as he settled onto the floor as requested. The boy fussed, and Iranji immediately started murmuring to him in Zandali, rocking him gently until he settled again.

Meanwhile, Tabitha began running her fingers through his hair, occasionally pausing and retwisting parts that needed it. He closed his eyes and let himself relax as he felt her fingers work. 

“I know you were iffy on growing it out, but I think the white streak is going to look really striking when it’s longer.”

“Thanks,” he said. He wanted to turn his head to smile at her, but knew from experience that she’d scold him for moving. 

“It’s late now, but I can help you wash it tomorrow,” she said after a moment. “It’s a little dry, too, but I know you have oil. Priority on the wash, though. There’s… I’m pretty sure this is blood.”

“Probably,” he replied. “Not mine,” he decided to add for clarity before returning to humming to her son.

“Thank the Light for that,” she said. “More work with your goblin friends?”

Iranji chuckled and nodded. “That easy to tell?”

“Salvage doesn’t usually send you home covered in other people’s blood, so yes.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, he humming and rocking Ira to sleep while she sorted out his hair. The boy was a blissfully heavy sleeper once he actually went down, which Iranji always personally attributed to the way his ship rocked on the water. He always slept best here, so it made sense to him that everyone else would, as well.

Still, he hummed, just to help speed things along a little. Old habits died hard, after all, which is why he didn’t go quiet when the boy slipped off to sleep. Tabitha liked his voice, anyway.

A few minutes later, her hands fell to his shoulders. He turned his head, odd eye focusing on her in a silent question.

“So,” she said, voice soft. “Do you think that tonight I can finally get you to tell me about your family?”

He looked down at Ira, and didn’t respond for an uncomfortably long time.

“I’m sorry–” she began, pulling back from him. He cut her off, though he kept his voice quiet. “Nah. I’ll tell you. Been ten years. It’s okay.” 

If she were someone he was sleeping with, he never would have agreed to say anything. He didn’t like sounding either old or responsible to a bedmate, but the two of them had had a unique dynamic since the day they’d met. She was living in his quarters, and he was helping her take care of her son, so it was probably time for her to know just why he was so good with infants.  It was going to take words, which were difficult for him, but at the same time… he would do anything for Ira. And she needed to know why. 

He told her about meeting Elaina when he was twenty, and about their twin daughters, who had come along a few years later. The words came haltingly, but he found them.

She was crying by the end of the night, but that’s what happened when you talked about living through where the Cataclysm hit hardest. He caught her looking his scar over more than once, clearly drawing conclusions about just what had caused it, but she didn’t ask outright. He appreciated that, because he wasn’t sure he had enough words in him to cover that story, too. If her son hadn’t been sleeping peacefully in his arms for the entire conversation, he might not have even been able to finish talking about his girls.

@daily-writing-challenge​

A calloused thumb would loosely rub along the ink of the black ring around an equally rough finger though the eyes that stared at it were a mix of time and artifice.  It was a simple tattoo, born of grief and carried just the same.  Years had faded it now and again, each time Zexx would return to the shops and they would apply the ink to darken it again.  A faded gray was coming to the edges of it now as he blinked his green and blue eyes in thought.

"Are you well, Captain?"  The posh aristocratic voice broke the revere.

"Hmm?  Oh, sorry Madame Granville didn't even see you come up here," Zexx would cough, using the same hand to cover his mouth as he stood up from his spot against the railing of the spelljammer.  As the cough receded he would do his best to turn on his usual grin as he looked to the giff standing before him now.