#juneday22026

“It seems the Archmage is unavailable. You have our deepest apologies. You can leave the parcel on the desk and I will be sure it gets to her.” After an inspection. No one said it outloud, but the alchemist heard it loud and clear. They couldn't be too careful with packages delivered by hand and not through official channels.

Khaeris huffed and set the small chest of vials down with a little less care than she probably should have. The man behind the desk jumped a little, but Khaeris’ ears twitched to catch the musical tinkling of the glass and then the chiming of her bangles as she placed both her hands on hips and loomed over the poor assistant magister stuck behind said desk. “Thank you.” It was said more sharply than she usually spoke to people, but she was frustrated and stung.

The magister watched the petite woman walk away with purpose and a kick in her steps that he was glad to be well away from. He was glad she hadn't caused more of a disturbance, really.

Once the woman was gone, he leaned forward and smelled the bouquet of wildflowers that she’d left on top of the box of alchemicals. After another moment of visible argument with himself, he lifted the lid and peeked inside. It wasn’t precisely protocol, but the package did have to be inspected. Surprise made him open it further with the furtive glance behind him toward the archmage’s office door. He wasn’t Magistrix Sunmote’s usual assistant and he didn’t know if the archmage was in the Archives today, but it wouldn’t do to get caught snooping through her deliveries. He smiled and closed the lid with a thoroughly enchanted expression, rethinking the visitor. ~~~

Later, Pyraelia would find her usual medicines delivered not in their usual plain vials but instead in a bottles of rainbow vibrant hues and soft, iridescent pastels. There was a small tin of goldthorn tea, some homemade petit fours, a bottle of a new experimental perfume, and a note that simply read, “I miss you. Tea soon?” in Khaeris’s elegant script.

@daily-writing-challenge

Elthen had spent his entire life bathed in color, light, and love.

His grandfather, Camithar Crimsonrune, had been a glazier by trade. He crafted windows that were sturdy, serviceable, and unremarkable, yet true artistry lived in the gifts he fashioned for his beloved wife, Lorince. Their modest home glittered with delicate glass treasures: tiny birds perched upon shelves, flowers that would never wilt, stars suspended from silver threads. Of all his creations, however, none brought him greater pride than the colorful blown-glass pens he made for her. With those pens she filled page after page with tales of love and romance, weaving dreams into ink while holding his craftsmanship in her hand.

Their daughter, Liridrae, was raised in that kaleidoscope of color and wonder, and she fell hopelessly in love with glass. She inherited her father's hands, but where Camithar created glass that was merely good, Liridrae forged glass that was near perfection. Technical excellence was not what made her heart soar, her true passion was stained glass, great radiant mosaics that transformed sunlight into living color. She was passionate about the brilliant way brilliant colors were cast across stone and wood, almost as passionate as she was about Pel’eron, the man who supplied the metallic compounds that lent her creations their brilliance. Together they transformed ordinary light into something breathtaking.

By the time Elthen inherited the family home, every surface seemed touched by colored glass. Sunlight never simply entered a room; it poured through in the rich sades or high windows, or bounced of the smaller pieces and danced on the walls. Every room marked by the legacy of those who had come before him.

Though he earned his livelihood supplying medical-grade glass vials, beakers, bottles, flasks, and every manner of vessel demanded in the medical trade, his soul sought expression elsewhere. His creativity poured into sculptures that showcased sweeping forms of glass that captured movement as beautiful as nature itself. His works found homes in gardens, where they stood among flowers and trees enchanting their beauty without overwhelming it.

It was through one such sculpture that he met the woman who would become his wife. She was a landscape designer searching for the perfect centerpiece for a client's garden. One sculpture became two. Two became three. As the project expanded, so too did their relationship. What emerged was more than a garden, it was a marriage of horticulture and glass. Her designs elevated his art. His sculptures transformed her landscapes.

Together, they made the world more beautiful. Then she left, taking Jovi'drae and Lirise, their daughters, with her, and in their absence the colors seemed to abandon him as well. No longer did he lie on the floor of the playroom beside his daughters, gazing upward as sunlight danced through the flock of suspended glass birds that wheeled across the ceiling, scattering rainbows over delighted faces.

It pained him to enter the office she had occupied and see the grand stained-glass window above her desk. The brilliant reds, golds and blues that had once filled the room with life now felt like a wound in his heart that couldn’t seem to heal.

Worst of all was the garden. Every path, every flower bed, every carefully chosen tree bore the imprint of her artistry. His sleek contemporary sculptures still stood among her plantings, perfectly balanced, each complementing the other exactly as they always had. The garden remained beautiful. It simply no longer brought him joy.

With the dissolution of his marriage, Elthen felt as though he had lost the inheritance of generations. The vibrant legacy of color, beauty, craftsmanship, and love that had defined his family for centuries slipped from his grasp. After that, he made only what was ordered. Perfectly matching glassware for clients. Day after day, year after year. No inspiration, no wonder, only repetition.

Then she walked into the hot shop, in an instant, he remembered what it felt like to be an artist again. The furnace's glow reflected in colored molten glass. The way color could transform something ordinary into something miraculous. Watching her work was witnessing the magic of creation.

The greatest gift was not what she re-awakened in hi, it was who she was,Lirise had come to learn from him. His youngest daughter stood before the furnace, determined to master the craft that had built their family name for generations.

And of all the countless things she could have chosen to create, all she wanted to make were vibrantly colored glass pens. Just like the ones her great-grandfather had made for his wife, the ones that had once carried stories of love into the world.

Day Two DWC 6/1/26 Vibrant/Disturbance Her once long, vivid white hair had now become partially dark blue. It had started from the roots and was slowly edging down the strands. A part of her wonders if she should just cut the white off at this point or just wait for the hair to become the dark blue, an almost black color that she knows it will become.

She stands in the bathroom and stares into the slightly foggy mirror, staring at her wet hair, contemplating her decision. To cut or not to cut. It didn’t look bad with it half and half, and as quickly as it was changing, it would probably reach the end of her strands in a couple of weeks. Still, maybe a change of hairstyle might do her some good. A new beginning, a new her. Besides, she could always grow it back out.

She reaches for the scissors and picks up a strand and is about to cut the white away when she hears a loud crash outside the room, followed by a scream. She drops everything and takes off toward the sound.

“Where are you? What happened?”

She doesn’t see anyone in the living room or dining room, so she heads to the kitchen, and there she stops cold. The kitchen is in disarray; items were everywhere as if a tornado had hit the room. But that isn’t where her eyes are.

A dark figure is there, covered in shadows that hide his features from her view. Across from him is a young woman whom Elutia recognizes immediately. The girl’s long, vibrant white hair was identical to what hers had once been.

Ellissay. Her niece. Her twin sister’s daughter.

The blade of her fencing foil carved a streak through the air that glowed a shifting blue-violet and hung behind as a ribbon-like after image. Her "opponent", Senia Wildfire — they weren't actually having a match, yet, this was technically just practice — slapped her own steel in a decisive, hot pink tinged parry that sparked an arc of glittering, miniature stars around them. Sen's gasp of glee made Fiorenze laugh a bit as she bounced backwards in retreat, light on the balls of her feet, ready to advance again herself if they were actually going to have a duel instead of taking light swipes to test out their enchants.

"Can your sister do hearts instead of little stars? The crowd is going to LOVE the extra burst sparkles but ~I'm~ the Queen of Hearts out there and it'll be SO much more thematically appropriate," Senia asked as she stopped in place and inspected her sword for a moment. "I'll pay for it, obviously."

Fiorenze smiled. She hadn't been part of the Shining Sabers long, but Senia had been extremely welcoming the entire time. Her first time stumbling into the underground club that hosted the matches had been a revelation. Co-ed fencing, surrounded by a cheering crowd that could bet and put money toward banes or boons to grant gifts or handicaps to the duelists.

The sabers themselves had to be enchanted to trail light as they flashed through the air to make them easier to follow in the shifting lighting schemes that occurred throughout. At least once per bout the club lighting was completely replaced by ultraviolet, and the individuals — or teams, that was a boon that could be granted — had vibrant, glowing decorations as part of the grand show.

But it was a real duel at the end of the night, beyond the bombastic stylization and opportunities for tricks among the lunges. The most skilled fencer won at the end of the match, resulting in a fun, performance oriented event that contributed toward city and kingdom-wide official competitions.

"I'm sure Pyraelia wouldn't mind," she said to Senia in answer, "She's been looking for fun new projects to keep her busy."

Senia's smile was as bright as her blade, "Yay! Is she coming to your match on Friday? It's your first one, right? Who are you up against?"

"Aylali, apparently," Fiorenze sighed as she tucked her blade under her arm to mark the end of their play, "And I haven't invited anyone yet. It's fairly late in the evening and I sort of want to get through the first one without anyone I know there, you know?"

"Oh, ~The Grand Dame~," Sen's tone was perfectly sardonic, "You're going to beat her, right?"

Fiorenze didn't hesitate, "The person with the most wins in the club? Of course."

That made Sen laugh, "Then you should invite your friends and fam. I can't make you, but you do have all that extra noble training in this and are pretty good. Plus, flaunting is fun. Have you come up with your strip name yet?"

Saying it like that always sounded so dirty, but the strip was their stage. She wobbled her head and free hand back and forth in a so-so sort of way, "I've been considering Fallen Star. Especially because I can always shift into my astral form for the drama."

"Oh! I like that. And it will upstage Aylali even more… Now," Sen grinned and shifted into her en garde stance with her blade out, "let's actually properly practice."

Fiorenze shook her head and chuckled quietly as she brought her blade back to her active hand. It really was nice to play again.

After her conversation with Ry at Hearts of Tenacity Festival, Ema had gone straight home. The night had been filled with wonderful performances, a time to enjoy the festivities with friends. Their conversation had not gone how she had hoped. Far from it actually. He said he forgave her, but that did not ease the pain she felt. Her own disappointment in herself.

She had spent the night tossing and turning. Unable to find the rest she so badly wanted. Her thoughts filled with unanswered questions about herself.

The next day she went and saw her therapist. Spending more than four hours going over that conversation, how it affected her, what she had done and said. She looked out the window of the office, watching the city below. Her therapist watched closely.

“It’s not easy admitting something like that to yourself Ema. You did something without even realizing you were doing it. Everyone has done it in their lives. You are not the first and won’t be the last.”

Ema looked at her. “Even if at the time you did not know really what that word means. You still said it. Now the question is, what drew you to Ry in the first place?” Ema knew that question would come up, it had come up in the conversation with Ry. But she had not really been able to answer him, and she knew he deserved an answer. So with that she was finally able to realize the truth behind everything.

“His aura, how easy I found myself flirting with him. He just draws you in, with his words, his body, everything about him. And over time all I could think about was what it would be like to be with him. It had been so long since I found myself drawn to anyone sexually since Aelarion was alive. And I craved that. I craved him.” She looks out the window once more.

Her therapist nods, “It's so easy to get lost in what we are feeling, that we sometimes lose ourselves to it. And act with out seeing what it is doing to the other person. The first step is admitting to yourself what you’ve done, and you’ve taken that step. You also took another step, by apologizing to him, even before he told you."

Ema looked back to her, “You’ve been hard on yourself. But don’t be.” she tells her. Ema takes in a deep breath, before she finally nods. “Go and speak with him again, give him the answers you could not give him that night. And be patient. In time, things will work out how they are meant to, even if the outcome is not the one you hoped for.” 

Ema soon left to return home, feeling a bit better about things. Knowing what she had to do, she spent most of the evening deep in thought, before finally getting a full night's sleep. 

@daily-writing-challenge

He wondered how he'd gotten into it all. It had been conversation to begin with. That was all it was. A very simple conversation. The kind of conversation that surely could have happened every day. And now that conversation had gone from words exchanged to an excursion on the horizon.

On an early morning as the sun began to rise and Soryk started his day, he lifted a hand into his hair to shake it about. And to wake himself up a little more. He wouldn't have said he ever slept well. That seemed almost impossible. He didn't give it too much thought, but he was fairly certain he never exactly began a day feeling rested. Most of the time, he felt like he merely existed, and for a man like him, maybe that all he needed.

It was how he'd approached most of his life, after all. Relatively detached, going through the motions, living on the outside, maybe not living on the inside, assuming the man had ever lived to begin with. And he rarely thought about any of it. Sometimes he wondered when he stopped caring. If he ever had cared.

Day 2 Disturbance/Vibrant 

The warmth of daylight invaded the corners of the hotel room, bouncing off alabaster walls and antique gilding. Ruzzell’s eyes wrinkled in protest of the dawn, still wrestling from the troubles of the night before. His efforts to steal a few more minutes of rest were fruitless as the rousing of the day beckoned. Morning chants rang out over the city, decades old hymns rebirthed in new verses. Some of the words made sense to him still. The lingering of ‘Belore’ echoed in unison was his call to wake up and greet the day as so many elves did. Kicking off the bedsheets, he grumbled along, holding his aching head in his hands. A quick shower, hot and soothing. A clean shave and cold water to the face. Medicine. Not the kind he sought the night before. Walking out of the bathroom to get dressed, he spots a collection of emptied bottles strewn about the table. He hardly recalled all that had happened at the bar. He knew he relapsed into drinking again. The stress of the city, and especially the invasion of Xal’atath and the Void was enough to trigger his fears and worries from the past year. K’aresh was figuratively and literally far behind him, but the traumas still lingered. The man shakes his head, trying to dismiss those thoughts as he laced his boots and buttoned his gambeson. Today there was more training. 

Opening the door to his hotel, he’d find a letter was left on the crimson doormat. Stamped on the outside with a heraldic Hawkstrider and crossed glaives, the same markings of the bar he visited the night before. The contents of the letter contain a politely penned recount of Ruzzell enjoying himself a bit too much, having made a ruckus and wandering off in the middle of the night with several bottles of port. An open tab with a hefty charge for not only leaving the premises with said drinks but also making offensive remarks to patrons was underlined at the bottom. Ears drooping; he could only sigh and make his way up the pavilion back to the bar. 

Kerios, the barkeep from the night before was humming away, polish off glassware when out the corner of his eye, the familiar green guest appeared. 

“Ah, Mr. Goldgrin. I see you found our letter.” 

Ruzzell pushed his sunhat down, trying to hide his shame behind his amber sunglasses. 

“Y-yeah, about last night... I deeply apologize for anything offensive I said...” 

The elf glanced down to the goblin and offered a practiced smirk, the sound of a glass squeaking in his towel. Ruzzell fumbles around in his pockets for his coins, spilling out its contents onto the bar and pushing each coin out while continuing. 

“I don’t really drink that much anymore. It... brings out the worst in me.” 

As he goes over the tab, he pauses a moment, recalling vaguely that his instructor had gone drinking with him and offered to cover his tab. 

“Uh, Jestirion didn’t mention covering my tab, did he?” 

Kerios furrowed his brow in confusion. 

“My apologies, but who?” 

“The elf I was with, he didn’t...” stopping mid-sentence, he shook his head. “Never mind.” 

 This must have been his mentor teaching him a lesson in humility. It was only fair considering the trouble he had caused everyone in his drunken stupor. The barkeep eyed the goblin curiously before collecting the coins, neatly filing them in his till. Counting over the amount, he gives an accepting nod and a professional reply. 

“No worries at all Mr. Goldgrin! You aren’t the first person to get punchy after a few drinks.” Kerios then pushes back a bottle of spring water. “Best stick to water and personal opinions to yourself from now on, hmm?” 

The shame burrows deeper, though it was well warranted. He takes the bottle and gives a hushed “thanks” before walking out of the building. Uncorking the bottle, he takes in the fresh, clean water. Much needed hydration; his palate and spirits were restored by its purity. Rows of spring flowers and trimmed hedges guided his path down The Walk of Elders. Glancing around at all the new and old buildings gave him a sense of nostalgia. The refreshing drink soothed his mind as he took another thirsty gulp. Something about the taste was magical, perhaps sourced from a spring above a leyline or enhanced with magic. The gift was accepted all the same, restoring his view of the vibrant frescos and merchant stalls along the road. He made his way down this path many times in the past few weeks of his return to Silvermoon. He’d picked up fencing since returning to the city. His enchanted torch was no longer his crutch. Fist fighting was inadequate; batons were too brutish, and his practice with glaives was amateurish at best. But fencing was the de facto martial art of the city for those without the grace for glaives or the reflexes for bows. Jestirion had been his instructor now and would give him daily lessons outside The Shepherd’s Gate. 

Awaiting below an apple tree, the familiar face of the master looked up from his book. The elf had waited patiently for his student to finally show up. 

“Belore guide us, our pupil decided to wake up~” 

Boyish charms and vibrant jade eyes peered out from above, meeting with the irritated violets of the goblin. 

“Sorry Jestirion about last night. You know I wasn’t right in the hea- HEY!”  

A flash of silver lashed out towards Ruzzell as he quickly pulled out a main gauche to parry the blow of the sword. 

“First rule of fencing Mr. Goldgrin: Always be on guard!” 

The swordmaster’s rapier retreated and speared up in taunting, its tip dancing side to side in anticipation for the student’s retort. Following instruction, Ruzzell drew his own rapier out to a half-draw before his instructor lashed out again. 

“H-hey! I wasn’t ready to-” 

Clash, clang, swipe! 

The main gauche redirected each offense as Ruzzell retreated a distance to draw his main hand. 

“Rule number two: Your opponent will seek every advantage you afford them!” 

The duelers meet again in a swift exchange of steel and clatter. Guard, parry, response, retreat, guard. Practiced stances and replies to each advancement and testing of his reflexes. Alcohol and stress had dulled his nerves and mind. 

“Again!” 

Clash, clang, swipe, scritch! 

A puff of cotton billowed out into the wind as Ruzzell’s gambeson is torn open! A nasty gash that had sparred his skin thanks to the padding. Jestirion’s blade angled down with its point, ready to spear again. 

“Rule number three: A person’s last thoughts are often filled with distractions...” 

The elf paused a moment, keeping dominance over his smaller opponent. The tips of their swords crossed, tapping tips together in anticipation of the other’s tell. Ruzzell shook his head, trying to focus on the duel now and the lessons learned. Then, inspiration took over. The sun. He turns his parrying dagger, blinding his instructor with the light, then closes the distance, disarming the elf and kicking him down into the dewy grass! Rapier pointed down towards Jesterion’s chest; the elf laughs haughtily and smiles. 

“Well done, Mr. Goldgrin! Impeccable form and quick thinking! See what a clear mind can do for you?” 

A wave of accomplishment washes over Ruzzell as he sheathes his blade and helps his instructor up to his feet. 

“Thank you... I’ve not been myself since coming here... I’m sorry about last night.” 

The elf holsters his rapier and gets up. Patting his student’s shoulder, he walks with him down the road towards the garden. 

“All behind us now friend. Now, what say you and I get some ceviche and a pitcher of sangria~” he says with a mischievous grin, much to Ruzzell’s dismay. 

@daily-writing-challenge

There was an audible belch of the thick mucus of the holding chamber as it spit up it's quarry onto the smooth coral steel with a cringe worthy splat of ectoplasmic barf. The smell didn't hold a candle to the sight or sound, but it didn't stop Zexx from retching as much as his lungs and stomach had pulled in from the honey slick gunk. Shaking and shivering as it poured from ever orifice that could burn his elbows duck into the flooring with spiraling tingling pain that a pair of cuffs wished they could produce.

It was awful. Especially the fourth time.

"Ah, Mister Candell. Welcome back to Antioch," spoke the singsong toned words of the astral elf commander as he towered for the first time over the fallen hero. "We missed you."

Coughing and spitting, Zexx would do his best to keep his gooped head lowered as he croaked out. "I said I would come in warm."