#juneday12026

For Tinnaire, there was a deep allure in tenebrosity. The forest on a cloudy evening, just on the far side of dusk, with frog calls and fireflies all around her. That moment when she opened the door to her workshop, and the curtains were still closed so shadows tucked around all the bric-a-brac inside, rounding corners and implying shapes. An evening spent on her sofa drawing by candles that had burned low. A bubble bath in the dark. A bookstore just before close. A cemetery under cloudy, storm-swollen skies.

Gloom, some would say. Affecting, she would say. Grey and flat. No, that's not how she saw it. She saw potential.

Tonight, she looked up, having opened the curtains to the sky and fallen asleep on her sofa. She woke gently to darkness and a glimpse of stars over the city’s silhouette. She stretched and rose. Not long after, she ducked out her door and then the gates, pulling up her dark cloak.

She had spent a few nights in Suramar recently, visiting with Jencir, and that had been lovely, but it had felt silvered not shadowed. She had visited the Hearts of Tenacity festival for an evening, but there had been glitter and magic and music. It was not at all a gloaming sort of situation.

Her green eyes flickered back toward the city only once before she slipped between the trees. It felt good to have land under her feet, and not stone. So much stone in Silvermoon.

When sunrise approached her feet reluctantly dragged the walk home. Her heart was light from all the spiderwebs and owl calls she had caught. When she placed her palm to the translocation orb up to her apartment, she felt deep satisfaction. A trip to the woods at night was always restorative.

DWC 2026; Day 1 - Gloom/Allure

@daily-writing-challenge

"What they don't tell yah about Drustvar is just how cold it is. Not so much temperature wise, mind yah. Though drafts brough' in by the sea are breezy, they aren't always so frigid. Nahh, it's cold like deadenin' to the soul. A few of m' bravest and I've gotten lost in the depths of the forest before. It's desolate of goodness, a feast for nightmares. Best way t' describe it," The captain of the ship leans back into the banister of the quarterdeck where the ships wheel lay, the heightened point of the ship allowed for an overlook into the main and foredeck, the boat teeming with movement and action.

Quietly she considers the brunette. She was currently buried beneath the wool blanket Emillie had offered earlier in the start of the sail. Little was visible besides her head, hair woven into a tight braid and kept relatively under control beneath a deep green cap. Though her baby hairs and free flying whisps were frazzled and battered by the billowing breeze of the sea.

The captain's blue eyes abandon the maiden and instead flicker about the scrawling of bodies on the main deck with a pointed precision, keeping track of each beings job and progress. Naturally she slipped into the role of watchful captain, focused on the functioning of the ship- Or perhaps Emillie was just distracting herself from the unnerving poignant expression worn by Susan Gampre currently.

Sue's guard had dropped to the very bottom of her heels the longer they remained out here in the middle of no where. At current the boat carrying some sixty souls were the furthest Susan, personally, had ever gotten from land. As such she felt herself free to act as naturally as she wanted.

This far out in the oceans, the world would not see the panicking Susan toiled with within her mind. This far from civilization they would not see her coming to terms with one of the most desperate attempts yet in the saga of rescuing her flesh and blood. Now, only the Captain Emillie Oswan was privy to it.

Years after having aligned her crew to the goals of assisting her long time business partner Emily earned herself consistent company with a side of Susan unlike what most saw. She was less so a Madam and more so a driven mother with an unbreakable love for her family.

At current the Madam was not the most thoughtful business partner. She had been so distracted from this meeting, though Emillie could hardly blame her.

Her eyes had been cast out into the sea, the tumbling waves and occasional sign of marine wildlife allured her most basic viewing pleasures... But really, her mind was enveloped with the possibilities of what lay ahead. Her decade of grief was one that had made the mother strong in spirit; It had helped her find faith in her intuition. Sill, all the positivity was overshadowed by the turmoil of her years of hunting the ghosts and whispers, searching for the truth of her daughter's fate.

In Emillie's mind, it was a wonder the woman didn't go crazy all those years ago, and even more so now.

The captain's hand lifts to scratch idly at her brow which causes her knuckles to carry the lip of her hat. Up and down, the admiral styled headwear bounces atop a sprawl of dirty blonde hair, the shortened locks tapered down some by the use of a distinct paisley patterned headrag. Whether this was another dull effort to distract herself or if she truly itched, Emillie only ends up bowing her head to Susan in a polite fashion. Aloud the dame states, "I'll have Oakley go check the gryphons now, ensure they are ready."

Susan hadn't said a word in response, didnt even allow her attention to be snatched away to watch the captain make a quick exit from the quarterdeck to speak to her second in command... And still Susan does not stir upon her return, to such Emillie simply moves straight to the wheel of the ship to command her vessel.

This left the Madam to in some semblance of privacy. It was more than enough to allow the woman to stir and boil over the idea that all was coming to a head. She had dreamed endlessly of the day Vivian Gampre would come home for the first time, the day the baby stolen from a new mother would be liberated.

It takes but a bit of time before she is drawn to the thought of the confrontation destined to come to fruition with her endless efforts to personally rescue her child. Finding Vivian would inevitably be putting herself in the company of her previous captors, people that had hurt and irrevocably changed not only her life, but the life of her children.

She had been preparing for the days of which those Red Temple cultists would answer for their crimes. A pointed, powerful enactment of her fury awaited all involved, a wrath which she had built over the many years she mourned the stolen innocence of her first born daughter. In truth Sue rarely went a day without thinking of all the ways she would see her justice come to fruition.

Emillie pretends to not see the furious tears dripping down the Madam's bareface. Soon enough her cheeks redden as she furiously scrubs her skin clean of the shimmering drops, expelling the blatant declaration to her feelings on the weighted matter. Still Susan's golden irises glitter in the swell of more tears which threaten to spill over. Her nose begins to burn as if her body were trying to provoke these tears. Stubbornly Susan steels herself, knuckles turning white as she focuses on her breath.

With a few deep pulls of oxygen and the shocking redolence of ocean water, Susan's mind would begin to slow and her tears reabsorb. Though her eyes do inevitably sting in protest to her fight.

"I am sorry, Emillie," Susan breathes out at last, broken from her spell of despair and anger. For the first time this entire trip the Madam looked the Captain in the eye, speaking directly to her. Though her voice did waver Susan keeps her chin lifted and stare strong, "Please. Tell me everything you know about the shores we'll be landing on. A complete debriefing."

At once there was a clashing of sea and sun as the women meet one another's gaze. Truly, it was as if Susan had completely snapped herself out of her own mind. The conviction to Sue's tone of voice prevents Emily from making a smart ass comment. The older dame would relent, nodding as she faces the horizon once more.

The plan for the caravan had never been to stop in Brill, but the rain had carved a pothole into the road, and one of the wagons had hit it hard. Between the fog and the perpetual gloom that hung over the area, the driver hadn't seen it until it was too late. The impact had loosened a wheel, shearing one of the bolts that held it in place.

At least, that was how the caravan leader explained it to Ori.

Not because she had asked, but because he seemed convinced she hadn't understood when the driver had discussed the problem right in front of her. She always enjoyed it when someone she was paying decided to speak to her as though she were a bit dim.

While the smith worked on the damaged wheel, Ori wandered through town, thoroughly unimpressed, not that she had expected to be impressed in the first place. She didn't mind the Forsaken or their undead allies, but she certainly didn't enjoy prolonged time with them.

When an alarm bell rang from one of the towers, she stopped and turned on her heel. Guards rushed toward the gates. Shouts echoed through the streets in both Orcish and Common. There was a raid on the town. She could have sworn all of that had settled down by now, why were the Alliance still even bothering with such things? Her thoughts on the matter were irrelevant. It was happening regardless.

Ori was a jewel thief, not a combatant. In hundreds of years, she had never been one and had never wanted to be. Her last partner had been a gifted fighter, and he had often told her stories of battles and campaigns. She had listened dutifully. None of it had ever inspired her to take up arms herself.

Stepping away from the center of the street, she watched the town swirl into eddies of activity. Green and golden eyes flicked toward the inn, but it sat all the way across town further than she wanted to go in this instability. Instead, she edged closer to a nearby building, hoping to remain unnoticed and out of everyone's way.

When a human woman emerged from the shadows, Ori continued backing away quietly. Years spent slipping through noble estates during lavish parties and relieving jewelry boxes of treasured family heirlooms had honed her stealth. In this case, the skill served her well. The woman never noticed her.

Hidden from view, Ori watched as the stranger produced a bomb, lit the fuse, and tossed it behind the defenders at the nearest gate. Had Ori felt any particular patriotism toward her people's place in the Horde, she might have intervened. Instead, she retreated another few steps.

A furious bellow sounded from the direction of the gates, followed by heavy, thunderous footfalls. An abomination lumbered into view. Part of its shoulder was missing, the flesh around the wound blackened and burned. A few stubborn flames still clung to the damaged tissue as it advanced toward the human woman.

Ori didn't even think to move farther away.

The construct had found its target. One of them would be dead soon enough. Fascinated despite herself, she remained where she was as the pair began to fight. It followed the familiar pattern: the quicker combatant maintaining the advantage so long as the larger one couldn't get its hands on them.

That remained true right up until the undead monstrosity employed another weapon in its arsenal and vomited a torrent of plague-ridden gore over the human.

And over Ori.

Who had not moved nearly far enough away.

"I was stuck in an infirmary in that gloomy forest for over a week," Ori said, a warm laugh carrying across the small table between two cups of coffee. "Between the cleansing and the monitoring, they wanted to make absolutely certain I was safe."

She shook her head.

"Which is why I'd rather not travel through Tirisfal if we can avoid it."

In this half-awake half-dream she existed in awe of this beautiful song. As time passed bathed in its radiance visions then flickered in her mind. Visions of pain, of suffering, of darkness made manifest. A concept that existed like a cancer, burrowing deep and spreading it’s toxic influence far and wide. It existed in opposition to the Song, and as the notes rang tinged with fear memories of a past life near forgotten surged forth in her mind.

It came as a promise, a solemn vow.

Soon, the song faded and her thoughts drifted once more, then sharpened, become focused.

She blinked her eyes to clear her vision as a transparent plate lifted above her. Her body felt heavy, sluggish, as she took her first step forward in a very long time. She fell to her hands and knees out of the stasis chamber, the shock of impact shaking the last remnants of sleep from her mind.

Slowly she got to her feet, standing tall and looking about the dimly lit chamber. It seems she wasn’t the only one being woken up as others of her kind dressed in formal attire helped ones like her out of stasis. A sharp tap of a writing stylus on writing board brought her attention to the Earthen walking up to her. Shrouded in worn, heavy robes, his marble face was almost hidden beneath a hood and behind a mass of coppery wires shaped into a thick beard and moustache.

“Another wakes fully cognizant, wonderful news indeed.” A few quick marks were made on his board, “In a moments time I will guide you through the Awakening Protocol. Firstly, do you remember your designation?”

She glanced down at her hands as if that worn stone could claw a definitive answer from the scattered memories of her past life. As she stared the Song she heard once more rang in the back of her mind and through the cracks in her hands and arms she could have sworn she saw pulsing energy reminiscent of what she saw in her dreams. Whether it was true or a tick of the mind it brought a clear sense of self and purpose.

She looked back to the Earthen before her and nodded firm.

“I am Skori and I swear to defend this world and it’s Song.”

Day 1 Gloom/Allure

Pointed ears perked up around the bar as the evening vespers echoed through the countless alleys and spires of Silvermoon. A haunting unison of elysian canting flooded over the present company, mingling with the perfumes of tranquility bloom hedges and another freshly popped bottle of port. The goblin with a golden grin sighed, breaking the illusion of an idyllic night.

“Well, aren’t you a sour one? I thought you loved this city?”

“It’s different now, Jestirion.”

The blood elf pouted and poked his student with a butt of his scabbard. The man grumbled in response.

“It’s not all bad. We got the Sunw-”

He paused for a moment to correct himself.

“The Dawnwell is secure now. Those void beings have crawled back to their dark corners, and our city can prosper once more without fear.”

Violet eyes glanced up to the swordmaster with doubt.

“That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about.”

Jestirion picked up his crystal glass and took another intoxicating sip.

“Elaborate.”

“…It’s everything. The people. The city itself. The culture now.”

An elongated brow arched with practiced performance.

“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? You always mentioned how you were treated as a nuisance here. The ‘Hero of Walk of Elders’ and whatnot. I know that I’ve been most accommodating not just to your kind, but to all of the… others.”

He turned unsteadily in his seat and jabs his finger into the man’s doublet, agitating the padded cloth and mood of his mentor.

“See, that right there! Yous don’t mean it.”

A correcting push guided Ruzzell’s hand away from the elf.

“Oh please. You are hardly making a good case for your own people.”

“It’s that shit right there!”

“Language!”

“Naw, I’m calling it like it is. Shit. You put on a polite smile, distract others with magic and fancy perfumes and clothes, and put on a show like this is some kinda play. But deep down, you are just like the rest of ‘em! You only tolerate us. You only accept us when it’s convenient to yous.”

The words sting, not because they were wholly untrue, but because of the scene it caused among the remaining patrons and barkeep. A glance around before the elf simply laughed it off.

“Apologies everyone. My protégé here has had a bit too much port and is reliving old woes.”

Ruzzell slinks down in his seat, palming his forehead as he groans.

“Fuck this, I need some air.”

The diminutive man staggers off his stool and takes with him his glass of port, taking another large swig as he stumbles out the doorway. Jestirion waves his hand dismissively and assures the barkeep that all will be well as he offers to pick up the tab. Outside, the cold air of the night arrests him. He falls back into the bushes, twigs snapping and a flourish of flower petals enveloping him in their gentle scent. Outstretched before him was the yawn of gilded towers hailing to the starry night above.

His mind swirled in a sea of booze and bad memories. He recalled his past lovers. His failed attempts at winning the hearts of people here. Of people who used and discarded him. Many of the same smiles and honied words practiced countless times. The reclaimed buildings and courtyards were unseen to him. He remembered The Scar and what it had symbolized. Not in the traditional sense. He saw what was still hidden in the hearts of the people. Resentment. Vanity. The allure of power. Elitism. He had already seen it in his time in Zul’Aman. No one wanted to admit that they still held onto centuries old beliefs. Old hatreds. Old views. This was Silvermoon reborn. New paint. New flowers. New gold and songs and fashion.

But the people were still the same.

“Mr. Goldgrin, the hedges are hardly a comfortable place to sleep for the night, don’t you think?”

“You fuggin… pretty…”

The drink got to him far too soon, turning to relieve his bowels of the tawny poison he sought to silence all those glooms and woe of the past. The vespers of the night swirled into a cacophony, tormenting his troubled mind.

“Oh dear… Uh… it’s alright. You just uh… take as long as you need there.”

Jestirion looked onwards down the sloping main line running down past the harbor and vanishing out to Quel’danas. The ever-glowing font of light stirred renewed hope and inspiration to the master. To Ruzzell’s weary eyes, he only saw the same font of power. New name. Same symbol.

Bassy club music reverberated through the worn floorboards under her feet. Her room in inn wasn't even particularly close to a club — at least, not that she knew, it was her first time here in Booty Bay — but Riesling also wasn't entirely sure that mattered. The whole multi-level, raised on stilts above the sea, block could probably feel it. And that was fine, really. It wasn't like she planned on sleeping much.

A perfect sea breeze disturbed the gauzy curtains around the window frame and beat back the latent humidity for a gorgeous second. Raucous shouts and laughter drifted up from the port's market, alongside the smell of roasting meat and salt air. The sun was starting to dip low enough along the horizon to paint the clouds in sharp, glowing reds and neon pinks. Had she ever been anywhere that felt like grabbing a live wire? Not that she'd ever grabbed a live wire, she'd be dead, but the heady, pervasive energy that was everywhere here was electric. She understood better now the allure of the place.

How exciting it was to find a place that made her heart race and blood sing before she'd even touched a drop of alcohol or thistle joint. She could count on her hand the number of times that had happened. The sound of whistles calling down the docks, heralding the crisp snap of waxed sails and the arrival of a new ship made a smile inadvertently bloom across her face. She checked her make-up again one last time in the polished, if oxidizing, mirror that took up the majority of the wall in her suite's bathroom.

The little, iridescent star sticker beauty mark on her cheek was, so far, staying in perfect place. She'd used a bit of eyelash glue to attach some seed pearls to the corners of her eyes. Those matched the captive pearl ring she'd put in her septum this morning. Gold eyeliner accented the shining speckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks where she'd used the shimmering liquid to cover up the faint, real freckles the sun had blessed her with. Her silky little black dress was tight enough that she might as well have been poured into it. But that was the point. She wanted to be alluring too.

In the morning she could enjoy a slower pace. A stroll on the beach in that thin, pre-dawn light would be refreshing — she imagined it was probably the closest this place ever got to anything near gloom. Once the sun rose she had a whole other list of plans. There were tide pools to visit and shops to make purchases in. The Red Rook had been lauded for years as a destination for the wellness minded. The owner Taric, whom she'd only met extremely briefly, was a total smoke show and she wanted to flirt and make a few recommended purchases before getting on her merry way.

Oysters on the half shell were cheaper here than they were back home. Crab and urchin roe, too. It wasn't going to be the most decadent lunch spread by any means, but if it was half as flavorful as the rest of life around here it would still be leaps and bounds beyond the upscale places she usually haunted in Silvermoon. She wanted to swim and nap in the late afternoon sun so her all-over tan could get a little more toast-y. Then she'd come back and get ready to dive straight into the nightlife again.

Three days wouldn't be enough to properly indulge or turn over all the rocks that hid the fascinations. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror and dashed out the door to indulge, knowing full well she'd have to come back again, and again, and again.

Day One DWC 5/31/26 Gloom/Allure The air feels thick, and I can smell the rain as fog rolls in off the ocean. I close my eyes. It’s not as if I can see much, anyway. Because the little light there usually is, is now hidden by the thick dark clouds that move in a steady stream overhead.

Most might not like a place at a time like this. The world feels almost grey, but I love it. I love the way the fog wraps around me so heavily that I can get lost in it. I love the taste of salt upon my lips as the wind blows mist up from the ocean.

I find myself drawn here time and time again, staring out over the water. Sometimes, to watch the sunrise, the bright light reflecting in the blue waters, the colors in the sky leaving me in awe. Other times, like tonight, waiting for the storm to roll in as it darkens the world around me.

I watch the lightning, and even though I know it is coming, I give a slight jump at the sound of the thunder that soon follows. I am unsure how long I stand there. Long enough that soon I can feel drops of water on my skin. Light at first, but picking up fast. I spin around, my head lifting to let the rain slip over my face as my hands and arms stretch out, palms up.

Summer rain. It is warm, and as I dance in it, I become drenched, my long silvery-white hair plastering to my head. My mouth opens, and a sound escapes my lips.

Laughter.

My lips curl, and I smile. Something for years I had not been able to do. I smile until my jaw aches and my arms feel heavy, and I feel dizzy.

I drop my arms to my sides and turn back toward the ocean, though I can barely see in front of me. The rain is coming down hard now. Again mirth falls from my lips, this time with a little humph, as if I almost can’t believe that I feel something besides pain.

I take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting out. I know this won’t last forever. The world is practically on fire. And I know I will soon have to go back to Silvermoon to do what I can to assist in the effort.

This is just a reprieve, nothing more.

Still, for the moment, I let myself not think of the whispers I hear, or the nightmares I have. I don’t think about what has come and what might come next. I don’t think of what I have lost but instead what I am finding. Not what I was, but what I am becoming.

World of Warcraft fanfiction for @daily-writing-challenge event DWC

Upon entering the Voidstorm for the first time, I knew two things: Arthas and I would stick to tea from here on out to keep a clear head, and it was beautiful.

I heard our associated Voidwalker Hathgore agree. And then the vague whispers. In my mind? Outside? It was an unclear distinction even at the most mundane of times, the way we worked.

“Alright, you two,” I told them. “Can you do me a favour and speak and think very clearly so I know it’s you?”

“Hear them, too, do you?” Arthas asked in my mind. Clearly, and easily discerned still, thank the Light.

“Mhm. Alright. Hathgore, just to be clear. Within the terms of our contract, you’ve always been free and you’re still free. If you want to go out and play and explore the place, you can. But I’d ask for protection for us and our group if you agree. And a bit of guidance.”

Hathgore let out an ethereally grumbling chuckle. “You need help. You’re tourists. I stay.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t listen to the whispers,” he added helpfully.  

“Thank you.”

“You know,” Arthas said, “There is nothing about my previous existence that I miss. Nothing at all. But it sure was nice to be immune to this. Then you came and disrupted it all with all your future and possibilities. Much like this.”

I brushed against him with my mind. “Won’t apologise for that. It’s pretty though, isn’t it?”

“Of course you’d think so. It’s not bad, but I prefer daylight.”

I laughed. “Me too, don’t worry. Not about to suggest joining the void elves here.”

A magical tug from Hathgore drew our attention to somewhere in the distance. “You should meet the people there. You’ll like them.”

I turned my attention to Arthas. “Will we like them? What do you think?”

Tinged with amusement, Arthas pondered the question, then asked Hathgore: “More importantly: Will they like us? In a way we’ll approve of. Not in whatever twisted way they think of here.”

Hathgore pondered as well, then the tug shifted direction slightly. “That one will. Let Lorsirain talk first. The domanaar will like the intellectual. I stay around, for safety.”

After a short consultation barely interrupted by the whispers, we decided we had always built our work with other planes on a mutually amicable basis, so nothing could be gained here by not allowing ourselves to like anything at all.