#juneday32026

It had all happened rather unintentionally. Ankalei might have preferred to claim otherwise, but the truth was that tactics and strategy were only well worn by her when it involved battle of some kind. In a squadron, in a unit, on the front lines, or anywhere else like it, Ankalei was a force to be reckoned with. But when it came to affairs outside of it, regardless of their nature, she was... rather the opposite.

And when she was put in front of her twin sister, it oft felt like all of her brilliant fragments of her mind went out some proverbial window.

(Art credit @lukelf)

Tycil did not move. She had been perched on the branch of an enormous tree that rose high above the pathways winding through Zul'Aman's forest. A lifetime of training kept her poised there, muscles relaxed; no body could hold tension for that long without betraying itself.

A small green lizard emerged from a knot in the wood and scampered along the branch. It paused beside her hand, flicking its tongue. Sensing no danger, it continued on. Tiny claws clicked softly against leather as it ran across her wrist, over her shoulder, and along the dark fabric covering her back. The creature crossed her neck, climbed over her black hair, and vanished into the foliage beyond.

A creek wound alongside it, fed by waterfalls higher in the mountains. Water rushed over smooth stones, carrying leaves and broken branches downstream. Dense vegetation crowded both banks. The humid air hummed with the sounds of insects, birds, and distant beasts, but Tycil ignored it all.

Across her lap rested two daggers. Their metal was nearly black, forged to betray no glimmer of light, even if the sun managed to pierce the canopy overhead. One blade sat comfortably in each hand, balanced and ready.

A faint rustle drifted through the undergrowth and Tycil's attention sharpened. Several moments later, a troll emerged from the greenery. She carried a staff across one shoulder and walked with the relaxed confidence of someone moving through familiar territory. Tycil watched her follow the path beside the creek,stopping near the water's edge just as she had every day for the past five days.

The troll crouched beside the creek and lowered a hand toward the water, preparing to wash her face. Her gaze drifted across the surface then he froze.Tycil saw the shock register as the water reflected eyes that faded from bright blue around the pupils to a deep, void-like purple at the edges of the iris. Fear flashed across the other woman’ features but it was too late.

Tycil moved, one moment she was part of the tree, the next she dropped from her perch. Air pushed her hood back past her hood as she descended, the  troll barely had time to begin turning before she slammed into him. Both daggers struck home, one burying itself into the left side of his neck, the other hilting as it slid through the space behind his collarbone.

The force of her descent drove him face-first into the muck at the creek's edge, a wet sucking sound escaped him as he choked on his blood. His hands clawed desperately toward his throat. Blood spilled between his fingers, dark against green skin. He struggled for breath, body convulsing as instinct fought against fatal wounds.

Tycil twisted both blades, the first severing his spine the other scraping against a rib as it tore into his lung. The troll's resistance vanished almost instantly. His body shuddered once, then went limp. The quick flash of death hadn't even disturbed the sounds of the forest around them, not acknowledging it more than it would have a falling leaf.

Tycil remained crouched over the corpse for several seconds, scanning the surrounding vegetation. Centuries had taught her caution, experience had taught her never to assume anyone was truly alone. 

Only when she was satisfied did she withdraw her blades.Blood dripped from the dark metal and she wiped them clean on the troll's clothing before sliding them into hidden sheaths.

Grasping the corpse by the arms and despite her slender frame, she possessed more than enough strength to drag the body into the creek. Water churned around exposed roots as she maneuvered it to float under one. Beneath the surface, movement caught her eye, the scavengers that hunted these waters had already sensed the meal she provided. 

A larger shape emerged from the depths, jaws snapped shut around the troll's arm before the creature vanished once more beneath the churning water. Tycil observed for a few moments longer. Nature was efficient, by morning, little would remain.

Another troll killed in Zul'Aman by her hand. She had lost count long ago, but the sense of satisfaction never faded, the only difference was that this one had belonged to the Twilight’s Blade.

Day 3 Shock/Reflect 

“Oh, look darling. My pawn is on the move once again. The sands of Fate shift once more~” The ethereal’s voice giggled teasingly to his partner. 

“N-no! I simply... had dust on my lens was all. Anyone would have read those signs wrong!” The broker protested his loss. 

The holoboard before the two changed once more, a pawn morphine into a figure of a ship moving diagonally across the board. 

“He’s moving quite expeditiously this time! No doubt he’ll be delighted to see us once more!” 

The pawn comes to a stop at the edge of the board and then vanishes. On another level, the same figure appears and then morphs back into a humanoid form. Blocks illuminate and dim as the figurine moves towards a representation of a tent on the board. As the two symbols phase together, the flap of the canopy flies open. A small figure clad in atmospheric armor barges in, and a filtered voice erupts from the helmet. 

“You!” 

The rotund broker turns slightly on his floating cushion, barely addressing the guest. 

“Oh, if it isn’t everyone’s hero. You know you cost me twenty dinars on that last wage-” 

Ruzzell marches right up to the opulent entity, grips his robes and promptly punches his ornate faceplate off his shoulders! 

“Te’zpiel!” shrieked the ethereal in shock as his partner was assaulted. The goblin and broker tussled on the sandy ground as Zheshad wrestles weakly to pull the small man away. A contingent of Ren’dorei scouts arrives and help sort out the dispute. 

“Settle down everyone! What’s going on here?” says one of the elves. The goblin is pulled away with the dented faceplate still gripped in his gauntlet as he struggles, not finished with his fight. 

“That windbag almost got me and my friends killed back on K’aresh! And now they’re playin’ another sick game!” 

The scout manages to free the metal plate from Ruzzell’s grip and hands it back to the broker. Pale blue flames settle once more where the man’s head would be, though not without a large crack along the edge of his plate. 

“This little green beast assaulted me! Arrest him at once!” 

The Ren’dorei scoffed at the broker’s demand. 

“This isn’t Tazavesh. This is a forward base. We keep the peace and boot out any belligerents.” The woman rests her hand on the hilt of her spellblade, then turns to Ruzzell with a scowl. “Try that again and we’ll personally escort you out into the wastes.” The elf nods to her fellow scout and lets go of the two. Before heading out, the woman makes a parting remark, “Also, a helmet isn’t needed to breathe out here you know...” 

Glancing around, Ruzzell realizes that none of the other people in the camp are wearing any specialized gear. He’d been overly cautious in K’aresh and assumed that Voidstorm would have been the same. Removing his helmet, he let out a deep sigh. 

“Well... this is all very exciting! I had hoped this would be a more favorable reunion Mr. Goldgrin. After all, I helped set you back on your right path.” 

“You almost got me devoured by a Void monster!” Ruzzell flailed. 

“But you succeeded! As I anticipated! Clever of mind, swift of feet! I saw you lure M’azzon towards Dimensius; a marvelous play!” 

Biting his lip in anger, Te’zpiel finally rose to his metallic feet and hovered back to his partner’s side. 

“Yes... you are an ‘unpredictable’ pawn in our game” he said as he straightened out his robes and seated on his cushion once more. Pulling up a bowl of glowing fruits, he plucks a morsel and offers it to his guest. “Void date?” 

Ruzzell turns his nose at the offering; the broker shrugged and dropped the fruit into his fire, the sweet flesh vaporizing almost instantly. “Suit yourself.” 

“Why did you send me a letter to come here? Haven’t I amused you two weirdos enough?” 

Zheshad gasps and fans out his bandaged fingers across his breast in feigned offense. “Ah! Such venom! Should you not call yourself Goldfang instead?” The otherworldly indigo of the inner lights shifted behind those vaguely humanoid bindings on his face, as if to smirk deviously. “But in all honesty, my friend, we called upon you here because Fate once again is at play.” 

Eyes wild, Ruzzell huffs in bemusement. “What Fate? I already played out that ‘story’ of yours.” 

The ethereal raises a finger to interject. “You have played out but one Chapter in this story, Mr. Goldgrin.” 

“A Story that persists for you until the Final Chapter” the broker adds to the riddle. 

“Chapter? Story? You make this out like I’m some kinda character in a novel you’re writing.” 

Cocking his hooded head to the side, the Zheshad looks to his partner and then back to Ruzzell. “In a way, we all are actors in a grand play. Such is Fate. Intertwined. Stories written and rewritten. Sometimes even collaborating narratives together.” 

Blinking in confusion, the goblin clicks his tongue and waves his hand dismissively at the notion. 

“You guys been hittin’ the hookah too much. Better lay off that magic zaza and buggin’ me for anymore of your hokum crap.” 

As Ruzzell turns to leave the tent, Zheshad stops him on the way out. 

“Your past is already written, solid as stone. But your future is always shifting like so much countless sand. It is in the present that you can see the cobbles of the paths before you.” 

Zheshad’s words managed to strike Ruzzell in a way he was not expecting. The goblin’s expression softened in some understanding of the expression. 

“Just reflect on my musings, hmm?” The ethereal assured then let go of the man’s arm. The goblin said nothing in turn but gave a nod before walking towards the portal back to Silvermoon. 

( Minor trigger warning for mentions of violence and abuse ) @daily-writing-challenge The floorboards creaked like they were trying to wake the whole house. Ridley shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, rolling heel-to-toe the way he used to move through back alleys in Boralus when being quiet meant the difference between a heavy pocket and a broken jaw. Old habits, the kind that lived in muscle and bone long after the reasons for them had gone. He adjusted the bundle against his chest carefully, and kept walking the slow circuit from the window to the hearth and back again. Giddeon was four days old and had opinions about sleeping, loud ones. Not now, though. Now the boy had finally gone quiet, his damp little mouth pressed against Ridley's collarbone with one fist curled into the open collar of his shirt. The weight of him was almost nothing. A bag of flour weighed more. His pistol weighed more. Hell, Ridley's arm alone probably weighed more, and yet this scrap of warmth and breath and angry red skin had him moving through the dark like a man carrying a crate of Azerite—terrified to jar, to jostle, to breathe wrong. Sybil was fast asleep, finally. She'd wanted to keep the boy in the crook of her arm all night, murmuring those strange little half-rhymes she does when she's too tired to filter them: thin night, thin night, mind the light, mind the light. 

He'd kissed her forehead and pried the babe out of her grip the way you'd pry a bottle from a drunkard, slow and careful, as he reassured her. Sleep, love. I got 'im. I got 'im. 

Ridley stopped by the window, the glass cold near his cheek.

Westfall stretched out below the homestead in silver and black, the grass pale as ash under a fat autumn moon. The sea was a dark line at the horizon, restless and glinting where the moonlight caught the chop. He could hear it from here if the wind was right, and tonight it was. A low, rhythmic shush that sounded nothing like Boralus—there was no creak of rigging, no drunk singing, no slap of bilge against hull. Just open water and open sky and the dry rustle of wheat. Their homestead wasn't much, just a stone cottage with a patched roof, a chicken coop Ridley had built twice because the first one leaned, and a garden where Sybil grew things he couldn't name that smelled of rain and old bark. But the land was theirs and it was bought honestly, or as close to honestly as a man like him could manage. 

It was quiet here, quiet enough to make a man's thoughts too loud. 

Ridley shifted the baby's weight again and let himself look at his own reflection in the dark pane. His shaggy hair had fallen over one eye as always. His beard was untrimmed and his shirt rumpled from being slept in for three days running. He looked like a man who'd been dragged backwards through a hedge and then handed an infant. Which, near enough, was the truth of it. Ridley had never known what to do with peace. He understood noise, because to him noise made sense. Noise told you where trouble was coming from, like a bottle shattering in an alley, a woman shrieking three streets over, or boot steps behind you that were too measured to be drunk and too slow to be harmless. Merrick’s laugh booming through a room before someone else’s teeth hit the floor, gunpowder cracking in the damp air, coin clinking, men cursing, and the ugly wet sound of a knife finding somewhere soft. Peace was different, because peace had both space and time to it. Peace let a man hear the blood moving in his own ears and wonder what, exactly, had been left behind in him after all the shouting stopped. 

Merrick's face came to him unbidden, the way it always did in quiet moments. That was the bastard of it. Not the shouting, not the ugly words or the uglier blows—those he could handle, those were the language of Dampwick, the grammar of brothers who'd been built on the same broken foundation. What haunted Ridley was the look on Merrick's face the moment he'd understood that Ridley was actually leaving.

Not threatening.

Not posturing.

Leaving.

Betrayal, raw as a wound, and underneath it had been something worse—confusion. Like Merrick genuinely could not fathom that his brother, his brother, the boy he'd fed and taught and dragged through every gutter in Boralus for over two centuries, would choose someone else over him.

The split had not been clean.

Nothing with Merrick was ever clean. The fight started over Sybil because of a vision. She'd told him the deal in Freehold would go sideways, that the man he was meeting would bring iron instead of coin. Merrick heard the man will betray you and acted on it, he put a knife through the man's hand before the meeting even started, torched the arrangement, and lost the cargo and two contacts in one evening. When the dust settled it turned out the man had brought coin after all, the iron Sybil had seen was the Watch, three officers who'd been tailing the deal for weeks, Merrick didn't blame himself for misreading it, he never did, he blamed her.

The shouting had been bad, but the rest had been worse. Ridley remembered the exact moment his loyalty snapped, not bent, not frayed, but snapped—the sound Merrick's open hand made against Sybil's face, the way her head turned with the blow, the collar at her throat buzzing like a hornet. Ridley, who had spent his whole life standing at his brother's shoulder, stepped between them and said that was enough. The beating Merrick gave him was thorough, professional even. Merrick knew how to hurt a man without killing him, and he knew how to hurt Ridley specifically, because he knew every old break, every scar, every spot where the body remembered pain the most. His brother had cracked two of his ribs, split his eyebrow to the bone, and dislocated his left shoulder with a move he'd taught Ridley when Ridley was fifteen. But Ridley had gotten up. That was the part Merrick hadn't expected. Ridley always got up, because he'd been getting up his whole life every time something or someone knocked him down. But this time, he got up and he didn't come back to heel. 

Merrick had called after him. Not with rage, at first, but with something much worse. "Ridley. Rid. Come on, bruv. Where you gonna go, eh? Where you gonna go that ain't with me?" That facade of familial warmth fell apart quickly when Ridley hadn't stopped: "You're nothin' without me, you stupid bastard. You know that, right? You've always known that. You don't walk away from me, little brother.”

“Watch me.” The scar above Ridley's eyebrow itched sometimes, in the cold. He had others from that night—a white line along his forearm where he'd blocked a bottle, a burn on his back from where Merrick had unleashed a blast of arcane fire, and a crooked knuckle on his right hand from when he'd finally hit back and broken Merrick's nose. The first time in his life he'd ever raised a fist to his brother, and it had felt like cutting off his own arm. Some nights he still dreamed about Dampwick. Not the bad parts, or rather, not only the bad parts. He often dreamed of the early parts during those nights. Merrick boosting him up through a bakery window to steal day-old rolls, Merrick showing him how to tuck a blade flat against his wrist so it didn't print through his sleeve, Merrick sitting on the edge of his cot after their mother passed, not saying anything, just sitting there, hand on the back of Ridley's neck, heavy and warm. And now it all meant nothing, or it meant too much. It was hard to tell the difference on some nights. He exhaled through his nose, and Giddeon made a sound. A small wet mnnh against his chest, and Ridley's hand came up to cup the back of the boy's skull before he'd even thought about it, his palm swallowing the whole of it. He wondered if Giddeon would have magic. Real magic, not Ridley's patchwork rune carving and the jury-rigged traps and inscriptions he'd cobbled together because his blood wouldn't cooperate—but the arcane that had come easy to Merrick, liquid and obedient, proof of their Elven inheritance that Ridley had always reached for and never quite caught. Sybil's gift was something else entirely, older and wilder, tangled with antler and root. Between the two bloodlines, Giddeon might carry something. Or he might carry nothing. He might be like Ridley, reaching for a fire that he cannot light. 

Then I'll teach him runes, Ridley thought, with a stubbornness that felt like pressing a bruise. I'll teach him to shoot. I'll teach him to build. He won't need it to come easy. He'll have hands and a head and that'll be enough because I'll make bloody sure it's enough. 

Somewhere in the dark, a nightjar called. Westfall was louder at night than people expected, with crickets and frogs in the creek down the hill, and the occasional far-off bark of a coyote out in the dust plains. It wasn't the forest sounds Sybil grew up with, the deep dark forests of Drustvar that were full of rustling undergrowth and stag-calls. But she'd planted things from that home already. They had herbs along the windowsills, lavender by the front step, and a hawthorn sapling near the fence that she talked to when she thought Ridley wasn't listening, murmuring in that lilting half-rhyme of hers, blessings or prayers or whatever the old Drust words were that she carried like seeds in her pockets. The whole homestead smelled like her now—dried rosemary, wool, beeswax, and the faintly sweet earthiness of whatever she brewed in the kettle that wasn't quite tea.

Ridley still didn’t know if he'd earned all of this, and a part of him suspects he hasn’t and never will and that's a thing he was going to have to carry. But Sybil told him once, back when he'd said something close to that out loud, drunk on bad wine and ashamed of himself for being drunk. She had just touched his jaw and said, Earnin' is just doin' it again tomorrow, love. Just doin' it again tomorrow. That's the whole of it.

Maths hadn’t been to Silvermoon in years. The first steps back inside the walls were a little disorienting. Things had changed. He had changed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. People glanced his way, but their eyes quickly moved on to his sister. He tried to keep his hackles down, but it was hard with the open hostility being shown to her.

Estira had a light hand on her warp stalker’s head, but her unfocused eyes roved the city paired with a dreamy expression. Whatever she saw reflected in the marble and stone of the city, Maths would never see. The Void’s incubation in her was much more prominent than his own. It made sense, she’d invited it with relief once she’d understood what was happening. Maths had simply followed his sister protectively. Habitually.

They walked slowly; Maths was on high alert for anyone threatening them with more than a glare and Estira was meandering, leading them on what Maths could only assume were her whims. Hopefully not whispers.

It made a long and uncomfortable walk for him.

They finally found the Embassy that Easy had told them about. The siblings registered and were approved to stay in the city with little fuss. A few rules and recommendations were given by rote, with no shock shown from their host as a passerby spat insults and sputum alike in their direction. The soft hum of an arcane barrier activated and protected them. The ren’dorei reading the scroll did not even flinch, did not even look toward the other elf. Estira’s gaze focused finally, pinning on the man, but she remained still and poised. Her ears twitched, though. Maths swallowed and pulled her gently the other way, toward an inn their attendant had told them was friendly.

This city had changed.

(Note: This reflection goes back to when the tree of Teldrassil burned. Around that same time, I lost my roleplay partner and dear friend of 10 years, who passed away too early. I wrapped up our roleplay with his characters sacrificing themselves for their mates. Seemed fitting. Thanks for reading.) Day Three DWC 6/2/26 Shock/Reflect

Elutia spent most of her time trying not to think about that day. The pain and grief of her home burning still made her ache even after all these years. However, it was what she had lost that day that all but suffocated her each time she thought of it, making her chest feel as if an immense weight was upon it and causing her not to breathe.

Today, however, for once she lets herself reflect, and though she still feels grief, it no longer consumes her. It no longer robs her of all the air in her lungs, or crushes her chest, or makes her wish it was her instead.

She closes her eyes, and the wind blows through her almost now dark-blue hair. Her hands grip the railing of the ship, The Righteous Venture, thinking back to all those years ago…

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

Light help me, Light help me. I was even at the Cathedral early this morning! It has to! Light, help your humble daughter Thalvassa get this dracthyr’s hair right!

It’s my first try with one of them. They’re new in Stormwind like we had once been, even though they’re actually much older. But while our people keep talking of the many worlds we’ve been, these people have known only war and sleep. It’s unfair. I want to at least help them look nice and fit in. People are cruel enough even if you try. When I was new, the other young tried to pull my tentacles.

And they’re my father’s students! Not shamans actually, the first is a warlock, but he learns from him and keeps learning. And he lives with a spirit of some human prince who used to cause some trouble before our time. Not our problem. They’re nice people who volunteered to let me experiment because I struggle in the salon, and I thought I’d get them light hair, like the human used to have, so they can look a bit like both at the same time, and also so I can practice because it’s difficult and I keep getting complaints, and they agreed, but their hair is as difficult as mine! I thought they were using a human form! Visage they call it. And the alchemical mix for standard humans isn’t working right! Light help me, Light help me… Light, you really owe me! This has to go right!

Their posture changes. I think they think people don’t notice, but if you have eyes, you see. One of them is nervous and fidgety and eyes always darting around, the other is calm and looks like he owns any place he’s in until he runs into an obstacle in his own form. Right now it’s the second one. And both have a habit of staring into space or being lost in their thoughts and looking amused at the most random things. Quite like my father, both in their ways. It’s no wonder everyone thinks warlocks and shamans are a bit crazy. But they’re nice, and they will have good hair, damn it! Sorry.

When I unwrap the barrier foil I brought from the Exodar on our last visit and look ahead in the mirror, their hair is dark orange. I want to cry. “I trusted you,” I mutter.

My victim looks at his reflection and just grins. Then he asks, “Spirit of the place? Or the Light?”

“The Light,” I say. “I went to the Cathedral and all.”

He waves it off, “Oh you don’t have to go that far. We’re here so you can practice, right?”

“I wanted it to come out right. I don’t want you to be treated like we were.”

He looks almost taken aback, then pensive, then certain of himself again. “Alright. So, it’s that different, huh? I thought it felt wirier than at first, but…”

A clue? “What happened?”

“Was it… You know, it might have been the soul forging. We asked the Light for a favour too. And I think a few things have been different since. The kind you don’t really notice, especially when you’re both new in the form.”

Lightforged? “Like Jeoris?” Their mutual researcher friend my father often invites home. They all sit until the morning hours and talk about philosophical nonsense.

“Not quite like Jeoris,” he says. “We’re not made of the right material for that, neither of us. This was just supposed to bind our souls together so that nothing can interfere.”

“And did that work? I often feel bad asking for trivial things when the Light has wars to worry about. But it would be nice if it did.”

He wears the most content smile on his face. “It worked. I think you can ask it for whatever. You’re just supposed to be sure of it, that’s how I understand it. I could do that.” He looks up at my hair in the mirror. “But now I wonder. What do you use? The same?”

“No…” Can that be? “Our hair texture is different. Do you think the Light made it the same? How do you even make the visage? Do you say you want to be this or that, or do you plan it out or do you have members of that magician flight help you…? Oh by the Light, I need to wash this out.”

“I’m handing over,” he says. “Lorsirain can tell you more about the visage business. But from what he told me and from his memories, it was spontaneous imagination and his brother Wrathion giving him a few pointers, and then asking the forces of nature to get it right.”

He avoids contact and acts like things such as this are more his partner’s business than his own. That’s another way to tell them apart, even without hearing any names.

Their demeanour changes, becoming initially uncertain and then much more animated. Then my experimental client laughs. “That would be like it. ‘Let’s fix this while we’re at it.’ Alright, so, we wash this out and try draenei dye?”

I sigh with relief. He can roll with the punches. You need that to live here. “Let’s try. You’re not mad? At me or the Light?” I warm up the water with that dwarven contraption Balritha had installed.

“This is an experiment,” he says. “You’re free to experiment, that’s the whole purpose. And the Light? No, no. I almost changed to a draenei visage myself. Then I got used to this one, and then I wasn’t alone in here anymore either, and human suits us.” He gestures at his currently orange hair. “This is a nice touch, actually. Like a message. ‘I did work here; it’s not your imagination.’”

read more about this week's daily writing challenge here! @daily-writing-challenge word count: 2087 content warnings: none! summary: Raenessa's spent a century looking at her sister like a mirror. She's still figuring out how to contend with her emotions about the fact that the mirror won't ever be the same, again.

— ··« ◊ »·· —

ᴛᴡᴏ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟ

"What do you think? Enough like you?"

Rae looked up from where she sat on the broken-down couch in the apartment she shared with her sister, her brows raising as her eyes swept over Eerie. They'd always had the habit of changing places - but, recently, Eerie's hair had finally regrown long enough that she could let it down from her normal buns in favor of the short bob that Rae normally sported. Honestly, if it weren't for the microscopic differences they only they knew how to detect? It was like looking into a mirror.

"Oh, we're back in business," Rae confirmed. "Just stop standing with your weight on one hip, and roll the shoulders forward a little."

"Yeah, 'cause you're always fuckin' slouching," Eerie scoffed. "You're gonna give yourself back pain that way, dipshit."

To that, Rae stood, sniffing as she closed the gap between herself and Eerie, shoving her at the shoulder. "Then you get to suffer with me, jerkass. Now go switch the jacket - mine's on the dresser."