#mayday12025

Day 1 (5/25): Cruel / Beauty

@daily-writing-challenge

It had been some time since the Harvester willed her Focus into being and given it proper attention. The summoning for the Scythe did not need words like many of her demons did. It only desired the quick offering of a soul fragment and the pulse of a thought for it, and now it hovered before her. 

Yet Safrona knew the summoning would be only half the battle. 

Unlike some animated artifacts or arsenals of dark esteem, the Scythe did not have voice, but it had personality. Some fragment of vanity contained by the soul that dared to bind and wield it before she had taken it as her own. Now it pulsed with a hot resentment at her lack of attention, braiding a spike of pain to her soul like a wicked thorn as she attempted to touch it. 

“Come now,” she chuckled tensely, wincing as she implored it. “I have been ungraciously distracted. I know. I’m terrible. I’ve let you go to waste. But my hands are yours now, yes?” She reached again at the midway apex of its grip at its hilt with no doubt, ready for another soul-spike of pain if the Scythe willed it, but the fuss had dampened with the coercion of her words and promise, allowing her touch finally without ‘retort’. It desired to be used and to be fed, in the end. 

Attending to the Scythe required not the heavy hand and spark of a blacksmith, but the gentler precision of a gemcrafter, and Safrona learned enough to make her hands useful in such things. Gently setting the Scythe in her altar’s housing that clamped the weapon in place, she properly cleaned the segmented blade that crowned it, a thick curve she then sharpened to its familiar wickedness with the delicacy of a gem grinder. 

The gems embedded to the blade’s framing were out of season, and she felt the Scythe’s rise of excitement as she unveiled the rare blasmephite to replace them. A small collection of rare gems for a rare Scythe that took its own preparation - a revelation that she planned the reworking and refitting, and only needed the time.

After some devoted work, she released the Scythe and left it to float, and felt its dark invigoration in approving pulses. A defined beauty could be given to the Scythe’s ethereal craftsmanship; she had been lucky to find such a ‘weapon’. But this was no simple tool, no sword to be swung, and no means to an end. The Scythe would protest at the ignorance to be used so and would never have given over its bonding, perhaps even choosing to remain lost to time. It was crueler, hungrier than any simple blade, and unmerciful by design as a Warlock’s arsenal tended to be.

Cruel/Beauty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waved a hand.

“Just get me the item.”

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

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

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

“Restless spirits hardly make for easy plans.”

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

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

She continued to watch the cemetery.

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

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

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

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

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

“Some sort of protection…”

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

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

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

“—That's where you come in.”

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

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

His mouth was at her ear, a whisper sharpened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should've played along, love.”

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

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

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

The Man in the Mirror

How long had it been now—months? Time no longer moved forward; it bled. The ache remained, crawling beneath his skin like rot, and with it came the slow erosion of care. He no longer bothered to maintain the elegance he once demanded of himself.

Leo sat in front of the mirror, in the room he shared with his best friend, GiGi. They had spent more time together lately, but even that comfort couldn’t reach the hollowed-out place inside him. He stared at the reflection in silence.

What looked back at him was not the man he once was.

Tired. Unkempt. Drained of all luster. The refined image he’d once guarded so fiercely had collapsed into something raw and unfamiliar. The past few weeks had been an endless theater of pretending—charming smiles, careful posture, polite conversation. But behind closed doors, this was who he had become.

He leaned closer to the glass, pulling at his skin, grimacing at the sight. “Pathetic. Hideous. Worthless.” The words rolled from his tongue like venom—an incantation of self-loathing. He’d begun to repeat them daily. They were a lullaby for the creature inside his chest, the one that twisted and stirred, hungry for ruin.

It wanted out.

It wanted to destroy.

And gods, how badly he wanted to let it.

He imagined it: giving in fully, tearing through everything that dared to exist near his pain. Letting the world burn just to match the wreckage within him. But something—some fragile tether—kept him from collapsing entirely. Not out of hope. Out of fear.

With a snarl, he balled his fist and drove it forward— The mirror exploded beneath the blow, shards flying like tiny daggers, scattering across the floor. His reflection lay in pieces at his feet, broken just as he felt inside.

With a ragged sigh, he pushed himself from the chair, stepping toward the ornate mirror across the room—an oval of gold, encrusted with glittering stones. GiGi’s mirror. It had become his salvation and his curse.

He stared into it, and slowly, the ruin faded. His features twisted and smoothed into the mask the world was allowed to see—flawless, composed, radiant. A lie, but a necessary one.

Only once the illusion was complete did he move, drifting from the room like a ghost wearing borrowed flesh.

It was morning. Time to play beautiful again.

@daily-writing-challenge

"How can any of our people have given themselves over to such cruelty?" Aneyah asked. She spoke in hushed tones as she sifted through the recovered belongings of a Nightfall cultist. Theras shook his head, the rasp of whetstone on the edge of his glaive offered in reply before the younger man spoke, "Father would say they are fools who have looked too deeply into the Void. That they believe its lies, and have become something else."

The Arathi's lips turned down at their corners, fingers tracing the delicate ornamentation of the cultist's befouled tinderbox, "But he is not here, is he? Tell me what you think, Ther."

The whetstone stopped for a moment. In the weeks they had spent rooting out Order of Night activity among the Sureki remnants, the cleric had gained his trust. Only in recent days had she started calling him something so familiar, and it still caught him off guard.

"You know how a lynx gets when it gets backed into a corner? I think they're scared." The ranger added quietly, "I don't think they're doing what they're doing out of malice. I think they're just...so, so frightened."

The tinderbox flipped open, revealing a darkened shard of crystal embedded within. Aneyah shuddered, clapping it shut once more, "What fear could do this? Could..." She choked. Months had passed since Wenren's murder, but the wound was still fresh, the embers the cleric once held within her breast yet warm.

"People will do a lot to avoid facing the unknown alone. If Renilash really is approaching, like you think, Aneyah, they...probably don't have the heart to face it alone." He eyed the edge of his weapon with satisfaction and stood, placing it with great care of its rack.

"Ther? If something should happen? If I ever lack the heart to..." She rasped a sigh, her shoulders trembling with it, "Please do not let me face it alone?"

The young Dawnwing nodded solemnly, though he found himself, as often, at a loss for words.

Tinnaire had always been a believer in the importance of beauty. Whatever one wanted to call it, Tinnaire tried to surround herself with beauty and she was quick to appreciate its many forms.

Though she hadn’t made the bed that day, the rumpled sheets and silk pillow still drew her eye appreciatively. Beautiful. A welcome and promise of rest. Sliding between the cool sheets and closing her eyes, she felt content. The room was quiet and dark. She was alone. 

Perfume clung to the pillowcase and the last hint of cologne drifted near. Her jade bracelet lay in the wooden bowl on her nightstand. It was nestled next to the magically preserved flower-bracelet. Both gifts were kept close and contemplated often, for different reasons. The tiny pair of embroidery scissors sat nestled next to scrap fabric with rows of small stitches practiced. The rest of the embroidery kit was carefully packed and placed in the nightstand bowl as well. A sketchbook was closed and a lined notebook kept the pen neatly in the divot of its binding.

A little bud vase held a few origami flowers and a little paper jumping frog sat on the lip. A few seashells and coins puddled at the bottom of the wooden catch-all bowl, and a pot of her favorite red nail polish sat with her hairbrush.

Daily-Writing-Challenge Day 1 - Beauty

(Art commissioned off Artists and Clients long ago, can’t find the artist name)

(A song performed at the Hearts of Tenacity Festival to this music We Don’t Talk About Bruno)

Ilerodora walks out, guiding a harp on a rolling base with a stool tucked under one arm. She sets the stool in place, arranges the harp carefully, and kicks the wheel brake with a practiced motion. The Ren’dorei sits gracefully, fanning the bright red skirt of her dress around her legs like a blooming flower. Placing her hands gently on the strings, she looks up and smiles. "Hello, everyone. I’m Ilerodora, and I hope you enjoy my music selection for the evening."

She gathers the sensation of magic around her, letting it hum beneath her skin. As her fingers glide over the strings, the music begins, gentle, almost tentative. Then, with growing intensity, she exaggerates the movements of her hands, each motion more deliberate than the last. Before her, on the stage, a figure takes shape, a luminous woman in a gown of layered ruffles, each one shifting through the colors of a sunset. As the melody swells, the apparition begins to dance. Her feet strike the floor with graceful precision, as if she’s drawing the music up through her steps, not following it, but conjuring it.

The harpist smiles, her fingers striking the strings with light, sharp slaps that create a staccato rhythm. The music picks up, shifting seamlessly into a slightly altered version of the original melody. Each percussive note matches the footsteps of the vision she’s summoned, who begins to turn and sway, her layered skirts swirling in a playful, graceful rhythm. The gown shimmers and twinkles in the night, like the image has sequins sewn into the hemlines.

Ilerodora leans in, eyes gleaming as her tempo surges. The strings sing beneath her hands, sharp and urgent. The illusion responds, the gauzy figure lifts her skirts with a flirtatious flourish, revealing long, sculpted legs. With each deliberate roll of the musician’s fingers, the dancer glides across the stage, left foot crossing before the right. Her hips shift with a hypnotic rhythm, a slow, serpentine undulation that defies the quicksilver pace of her steps. The contradiction is spellbinding, grace and power moving in perfect, impossible opposition.

The Ren’dorei rolls her shoulders back, her posture shifting, fingers move with a new intent, sliding into a smoother, more fluid rhythm. The staccato sharpness melts away, giving way to a softer melody that begins to swell toward the chorus. Center stage, the dancer turns, casting a sultry glance over her shoulder, a gaze that invites eyes to follow her. One strap of her gown slips down her arm, curving to rest just above her elbow, the gesture casual yet charged with allure, then pirouettes, once, twice, three times, her skirt flaring wide with each turn, a bloom of color and motion against the deepening light

Agile hands glide upward to the shorter strings, the pitch rising like a breath held in anticipation. Her smile widens, radiant and knowing, and she tosses her long hair over one shoulder. A single curl escapes, trailing across her neck like a lover’s touch. The dancer comes to a sudden halt, facing the crowd with theatrical precision. Between her teeth, she now holds a brilliant red rose, its petals bold against the shimmer of her skin. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, a wicked twinkle that promises something deliciously unspoken.

The red dress stretches across her body as she leans forward, her foot tapping out a steady beat, and with each pulse, light bursts outward in rippling waves, spilling across the stage like liquid gold. The dancer lifts her skirts and steps into the shimmering pool, moving with sensual precision, the translucent fabric catching and refracting the light, her form both revealed and hidden in the glow. Then, with a sharp twist of her hips, she sends a sweeping splash toward the audience, but the liquid light vanishes a breath before it touches them, dissolving into air like a dream slipping away.

Full hips shift on the stool, the motion in perfect harmony with the change in the music. Her fingers glide across the strings, pulling the melody into something deeper, more hypnotic. The dancer spins, her skirts flaring out in a brilliant whirl, the light rises from her legs, each layer of her gown catching the glow until the fabric itself becomes luminous. With a fluid motion, she steps forward, gathering her skirts and shaking them out. The light dances from her, droplets of magic cascading like raindrops, each one a spark of ethereal brilliance splashing onto the stage before fading into the air.

As the opaque dancer spins, the fabric of her gown lifts and falls in a rhythm, one side raised, then the other, picking up speed with each turn. Stopping suddenly, she winks to the audience, a silent connection passing between them. The brilliance of the dancer fades, her silhouette hangs suspended, each curve and angle of her frame outlined in the cool blue glow. She remains still, like a star locked in the heavens, until the final notes of the song fade, clearing the air around them. The last echoes linger in the silence, the magic of the performance lingering like a breath held between them all.

(Art by me :) )

Daily Writing Challenge May 2025

Day 1 - Beauty

There were cracks in the plaster still, and missing pieces of the facade, but never in her life had a space felt more her. 

Nahi’s little house had changed little outwardly since she bought it. Some shutters were fixed and freshly painted, the door painted and some stained glass decorations hanging in windows. 

Inside? Inside had been transformed from the home the old man had sold her, with its drab colors and worn interior. Now it was bright and welcoming with little touches of her everywhere. 

The back patio held the bright mosaic center she had created, the sun, in all its glory was a spot of pride for her. Not only was it beautiful and added color to a place she spent her evenings enjoying, but she was proud of the fact that she had created it herself. It had been very difficult for her, many mistakes were made. She could see them, even if no one else did, but to her, they were lessons, not flaws, so she didn’t fuss over them like she did other imperfections in her life, she let them live as reminders. 

Throughout the rooms of the home had things that made her happy, the brass cricket from Tinn was on a shelf near her stove, as close to a hearth she had. The painting Laeynna gifted her for her housewarming hung prominently in the great room, ironically named, since nothing in her house could be called great in size only in heart. Flowers of all types, glass, metal, paper, ceramic, they were not overwhelming, or overly feminine, the different media and her careful placement made them small art installations. 

The music room and spare bedroom were still not what she wanted them to be, but knew that they would have more life in time, and for now they were perfect because they weren’t finished, they were promises for the future.

Contractors were only used for the bathroom, all the rest of the work that was done so far was by her hand. She would need to hire someone for a couple projects, or find someone that could do the work who would not mind her questions about how the repairs were done. Her possessiveness of her home proved that she wanted to know how things were done, even if she couldn’t do it on her own.  She didn’t have people over often, but that was part of what made it even more hers. Nahi didn’t share pieces of herself well and keeping her house private fit who she was, it was her companion now, with its bright little touches and imperfections. It was just like her, and to her at least, it was beautiful.

May 25 - Day 1 Cruel / Beauty

Keranna idly massaged the bridge of her nose, letting the silence in the Glimmerglen Town Council's meeting hall stretch beyond comfort as she tried to stave off the inevitable headache this little tête-à-tête was going to cause. "Run me through your thinking again, please," she asked the other attendees around the table.

"I'd like to gift the Estate to you. Or transfer it, officially," Sheizara helpfully re-supplied. She had dressed up for this gathering as befitting of her station as the current Lady Tel'vaiel, and had gathered her sleek, golden blonde hair back into a high ponytail that made her already sharp cheekbones stand out a bit more. The much younger lady stood out like a sore thumb, the only Quel'dorei in the room and certainly the most modern of them all.

The taxes on that transfer were going to be eye-watering.