It was common knowledge that the antithesis to shadow was light. The Light, however, did not reach everyone, whereas Shadow’s embrace could touch all. This was the basis for the existence of the Academy, to teach those unfortunate souls, whom Light could not touch, how to combat the shadow’s influence by using unorthodox methods. Its grand purpose, to safeguard Quel’Thalas against otherworldly threats. Its populace, however, shunned anyone who attended the Academy, seeing them as outcasts who studied dark magic simply for the thrill of it.
Turasil was used to being shunned in this way. In her youth, she was quiet and withdrawn, ever drawn to subjects most would consider ‘strange’. But in the Academy, she felt welcome, she belonged. Here, she whiled away her innocent years, studying the dark arts in the hopes that she might understand them. For she did not understand the Light, nor did it ever close the distance to her. There were many people like her at the Academy, and through them, Turasil made connections, and even friendships.
Things that would not last.
Rumor had it that a former student of Dar’Khan Drathir would come to serve as an instructor there, and for many, Turasil included, that was an opportunity for advancement. Here, Drathir was seen in high regard, whereas the rest of the world ignored him. Here, he was seen as a pioneer in their field, and to study under his own student would surely bring levels of knowledge and understanding not previously achieved by any of the student body.
As she was once an ambitious woman, Turasil seized upon this opportunity. And Drathir’s protege took notice immediately, for her skill was nothing laughable. Soon she found herself privy to special projects, expeditions to historical areas, and risky, even dangerous experiments. Her understanding of the Shadow expanded rapidly. Turasil was happy, then. She had experienced fulfillment.
She had not realized her goal was moving further and further away. The deeper they delved into the forbidden together, the greedier they became. Until it was too late.
Turasil was cursed. Banished from her homeland for her transgressions. Transgressions she could no longer remember- so how ever could she hope to make amends? How could she go back to those golden forests and ivory spires, tainted as she was, now but a stain upon her people’s history, along with the academy? Along with Galarisen..?
For better or worse, she would seek redemption the only way she knew how: by slaying the very thing that sought to tarnish her. Set upon the road, she would travel north and south, and back again, hunting creatures of shadow wherever they reared their vile heads. If she could not get back to her home, the least she could do was ensure the shadow could not reach it either.
This is how she would atone, even if the golden gates were forever barred. For what else could she do?
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DWC May 2025 - Day 5 - Restlessness / Faith - Tinnaire
The whiskey glass sat on the end table with a sketchbook mostly filled with runes. Binding. Warding. Storing. Sending. They were all peppered across pages like freckles. Evidence of knowledge and study over her lifetime, but also the restlessness that caused them to cavort rather than march on the paper.
She was no master at runic work, but neither was she a novice. What was the saying, “Jack of all trades, but master of none?” Tinnaire softly snorted her exhale and took up the whiskey again, and then her pen once more.
It had not been an easy week and her faith was showing wear around the edges. Her eyes flickered toward the apartment door, opposite her lounging. The far side of a fortnight was turning to show its tail. Tinnaire continued to wait, feeling brittleness creep over her shoulder like a witch’s shawl.
Would it always be like this now? Maybe. History often repeated; was it already? She finished the alcohol and played the missive again, ears flicking at this rich voice, and she was at once betrayed by both the flutter in her chest and the sinking in her stomach.
Runes of potential; ruin and rebirth in the mark of fire inked last and activated with her magistrix’s touch. The page went up in flame and her eyes flared with more than reflected light.
“How are you ever going to be a hunter like Uncle Vael if you can’t hold still, dummy?” asked a brunette boy with leaf green eyes and freckles dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He lay prone in the knee-high grass, a spyglass out in front of him as he scanned the field stretching out before him.
Standing right next to him, another boy, two years younger, with long black hair, fair skin glowing faintly pink from the sun, and striking golden eyes, was tossing small pebbles into the air. He swatted at them with a twig, aiming to catch them mid-flight. Most of the time, he missed, and when he did, the pebble would rain down on his brother’s back with a soft patter.
“I don’t want to be a hunter, Paranir… I want to be a Paladin,” the younger boy said with grave sincerity, his voice soft as he sucked his top lip into the gap where his front teeth should have been. “And b’thideth, Mom’th a hunter too.”
Paranir didn’t turn around but kicked out at the younger boy’s legs. “Yeah, but she’s a girl hunter, Wintheol, you can’t be a girl hunter,” he said with all the authority of the older brother. “And you can’t be a paladin ‘cause you don’t have any Light.”
A handful of gravel suddenly scattered across Paranir’s back. Wintheol’s face scrunched into a stubborn frown. “I do too! Everyoneth got the Light! In my adventure thorieth Perrith Tinderpride thayth tho!”
Wintheol huffed, then flopped back onto the grass with a soft thud, twig still clutched to his chest like a miniature knight’s sword at rest. His small legs kicked lazily at the warm air, blades of grass brushing his bare ankles.
“I’m gonna be a Paladin,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the drifting clouds above. The gap where his two front teeth used to be gave a gentle whistle to every ‘s.’ “I’ll get the Light, and armor, and a thwiftthrider. A real one. Not like Dad’th dumb old one.”
Paranir snorted quietly, his gaze never wavering from the field. “You’d fall off a swiftstrider.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“Yes you would.”
“No I wouldn’t!” Wintheol snapped, then, after a brief pause, added quietly, “Not if the Light wath helping me.”
Paranir sighed deeply, adjusting his grip on the battered spyglass. It was old and dented, the glass scratched and cloudy, probably hadn’t worked properly since their dad was their age, but Paranir held it as if it were a sacred relic because his uncle had given it to him. He squinted toward the creek, where the trees shaded the rocks as it flowed into the pond.
“They’re not coming,” Wintheol said with a soft sigh, lying spread-eagle in the grass like a starfish, arms and legs stretched wide. “The thringpawth know you’re a big bully.”
“I’m not a bully,” Paranir replied without turning. “I’m a hunter.”
“Nope,” Wintheol grinned, golden eyes sparkling with mischief, smiling wide and baring his missing front teeth. “You’re a bully, bullieth kick their brotherth when they don’t want to believe in thtuff.”
Paranir finally glanced over, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, then sighed. “Uncle Vael says believing doesn’t mean anything unless you back it up,” Paranir said after a pause. “You don’t have Light just ‘cause you say you do.”
Wintheol’s gaze drifted back to the clouds. “I feel it,” he whispered, voice full of quiet wonder. “Warm and futhy. Like lemon tea. But in my tummy. And not thour.”
Paranir muttered, “That’s probably gas.”
Without warning, Wintheol grabbed a handful of grass and tossed it at Paranir, who yelped and rolled to the side. “Hey! Quit it!” Paranir shouted, scrambling to his feet.
“Bet you can’t catch me!” Wintheol challenged, already on his feet and darting toward the creek.
Paranir grinned, dropping the spyglass and chasing after him. “You’re gonna regret that, little runt!”
They ran laughing, crashing through the grass, the quiet afternoon suddenly alive with their roughhousing.
—————————
From the window, Tycil watched with that tired, tender smile that only mothers wore, equal parts love and exasperation. Her hands rested on the sill, fingers curled slightly, as if holding onto the moment.
“Should we stop them?” she asked, her voice soft, more amused than concerned.
“No,” her husband Bacath said, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her softly beneath one long ear. “We should try and see if we can’t give them a little sister to pick on.” He chuckled and stepped slowly back, pulling her with him as he headed toward their bedroom.
Tycil laughed, resting her head against his shoulder as they walked. “You think the world’s ready for three of them?”
He grinned. “It’ll have to be.”
(@daily-writing-challenge)
(Mention of @vaelsnipe)
May 28 & 29 - Day 4 & 5
Dangerous/Tremendous/Restless/Faith
"Don't you think it's a risk having cakes and casual conversation with the Confessor, ma'am? Even the Director avoids overlapping acquaintances in his personal life."
Were she any other woman the comparison to that disappointment of an Elf would've made her bristle. Instead she adjusted her glasses and continued to read through the transcript of the session Veilos Dai'goa had with Ystalis Windbinder, Captain of the Silver Squid. His vessel, and crew, had been implicated as the transport in a smuggling ring dealing in Shath'Yar artifacts and — more recently — canisters of Black Blood from the Undermine into Eversong.
His buyer, the Lord Quer'il, had recently been killed. Messy business. Nobody high up in the Regency wanted a trial once the evidence of treason had been presented, it was going to go public if they took that route and people would panic. It was easier to claim he attacked a few guards — who weren't guards at all — and they were forced to defend themselves.
She licked her thumb and turned the page, pursing her lips a little. Something was missing. "Everything we do is a risk, Agent Starcinder. Doctor Dai'goa has signed the same contract as our other Confessors, I trust his discretion and integrity," her brow furrowed, recalling the confession itself while she took in the ink on the page.
Veilos would have known if Ystalis were lying. Ystalis confessed to being themself, verified identifying information, and then threw a wrench in everything by maintaining that he had never owned the Silver Squid, had never sailed on the Silver Squid and had never met with Lord Quer'il.
No lies, no memory tampering, no detectable magic.
Vexing.
"Of course, ma'am. As a reminder, your meeting with the Grand Magister is in five minutes," Starcinder prompted, wisely not arguing her original angle.
Right. "Thank you, Agent Starcinder. Will you please have the inventory registers from the Quer'il manor and the Silver Squid shipping logs on my desk tomorrow morning? I'm unlikely to return this afternoon," she closed the file and locked it away in her desk.
The quiet hum of all her safety wards re-aligning and going live as her office door closed was a great comfort. As Second Director she had a small translocation orb directly the antechamber to Rommath's office, same as all the other Magistry Intelligence directors. She turned the ring the enchanted cabochon was in on her finger and in a flash she was in the high tower that loomed over the Court of the Sun from the middle of the old castle.
His attendant made her wait the remaining three minutes. She understood, meeting times were sacred in and of themselves.
The Tenant Council and Lady Tel'vaiel's request had been sent ahead with the original petition for a spot on his calendar, and he held up a hand from behind his desk to keep her from wasting her time to walk all the way to the guest's chair in front of it, "This won't take the fifteen minutes, Magistrix. I doubt it will take another five. This is suitable, the Tel'vaiel estate is valuable and requires a skilled hand to maintain. If you are agreed, I'll advance it to the Regent Lord to make official."
Keranna smiled, pleased that she had been correct in her assessment that he would agree to this, "With a request of my own. The Tel'vaiels' have had their time. It is time to resign their name to the ashes. If it pleases the Regent Lord and First Arcanist, I would prefer the county be re-titled Zerine, and all Ladies or Lords of that place styled in that fashion."
The Grand Magister was quiet a moment, his tone was neutral but she could feel the exasperation, "The maps, Keranna."
"Are not your problem, Grand Magister."
That earned her a rare, quiet laugh, "The request will be made. You've served the kingdom well in your time. What of the Quel'dorei?"
Keranna wished she could say Sheizara wasn't her problem, but she was still the young woman's sponsor. She shrugged lightly, "Restless to travel, I imagine as soon as it's all official she'll dash off and chase her freedom for a while."
"And the problem of Director Kam'arrin?"
She knew he wanted him gone as soon as possible, but her cat and mouse game wasn't quite over yet. Her head tipped in acknowledgment of his patience in that particular matter, "Have faith in me, sir."
His only response was a flick of his hand, opening the door behind her with a flash of arcane. It was enough for now, and she knew better than to push her luck.
Saffron red hair was falling out of the way she had it tightly pulled back. Right into her eyes tinted with a shade it once hadn’t been. Every day had been chaos, honestly. Fynnrandi couldn’t remember the last time she’d been sleeping. It felt like every single time she was about to, or had closed her eyes for longer than a few minutes, someone was immediately at her tent. It was encroaching invaders, or fel-blooded orcs, or scouting reports from the crags, or draenei and broken prisoners waiting for interrogation. It was always something. She’d gotten accustomed to that, however, and thus an echo of ‘commander’ this and that had become so normal and so expected, she’d become nearly numb to it.
As such, the first one barely got her attention.
One of her soldiers had intercepted a letter, but its contents were not ones she’d expected. She had come all of this way, followed the Sun Prince she was so loyal to, in hopes of obtaining some kind of providence for their people. She understood desperation and she understood service. But she also understood that if they were granted even the mere chance at salvation from a fate she otherwise didn’t care to imagine, it had to be pursued. But the letter she held in hand implied that perhaps they were all there for the wrong reasons.
That she was there for the wrong reasons.
As her stomach began to turn and twist about, the same voice from before, and then joined by another broke into her thoughts.
“Commander—” The second started again. “There’s been another. Come. Quickly!”
She looked up from where she’d been standing, her attention so focused on parchment and ink. Looking towards the entry to her tent, she crushed the missive in her hand, knowing very well her conflicted feelings would have to be addressed later. Much later. She followed after, quick steps with a great deal of strengthened resolve. She wasn’t sure she could call it a war, but it certainly felt like it, some days. In her time where they were momentarily camped, completing a list of objectives given to them by someone above her, it hadn’t been uncommon to have her soldiers fall or even those found during scouting missions. She’d seen so much death already that she wondered if she had grown desensitised to it.
She didn’t want to think that. The hardest part about killing was that it was the first one that cut the deepest. The more one killed, the easier it became. They became less faces and more nameless moving masses of opposition that needed to be cut down. More bodies for the slaughter, a numerical trophy of countless victories, but at what cost. Military sometimes bred that out of someone. If she questioned her humanity, maybe it meant she still had some remaining. Or maybe she was simply delusional.
The two soldiers led her to a high cliff face that overlooked a valley of towering mountains and lakes of glowing green fel. Where thunder and lightning crashed and crackled and kissed the ground. Where the sky always looked ominous and overbearing, like the weight of so many worlds rested upon proverbial shoulders. It was a frightful place. But would Netherstorm have been any better? Based on what she’d heard in various correspondence passed this way and that, she didn’t think so.
Already they’d collected bodies that some of the mages kept cold whilst graves were being dug. The one she was meant to look at and confirm was set aside, though it was much the way they had treated everything else they’d done. There was no way they could have known what they were bringing her to. Even she had to stop and pause as she stared down at it. On the ground, laid out as respectfully as possible, a sickly pale man with dark hair. So long that it pooled beneath him. She would have known him anywhere. She had known him anywhere.
Fynnrandi simply stood and stared, caught in a frame of time that, to her, went untouched by the mortal hands of mankind. As if what she found there before her simply could not be real. Questions trickled into her mind gradually, one after the other. Where had he been? What had he been doing? They hadn’t served together in the same regiment and that had been for the best, but why was he out here? Wasn’t he supposed to be stationed elsewhere?
“Did he have anything on him?” she asked, her voice harder than it needed to be, but hard enough to hide the strain in it. No matter what she was feeling, she was still the commander. Her soldiers could bend and break, but she could not. She had to remain as she was, a tower of strength, a walking image of wrath and scorn and spite.
“No, Commander. We’ve already examined him thoroughly. Could’ve been starvation. That’s what we thought it was, but that’s not it. Siphoned of his mana, maybe. Something else got to him.”
Something else. Fynnrandi released a short, rough breath. Something else. Could have been anything, really. These lands teemed with so many beings and entities that she’d thought it wiser to avoid. And yet it seemed like they were walking into the arms, embracing that which might ultimately destroy them. She wondered how many times she’d done exactly that, blinded by some otherworldly amount of hope.
“Leave me,” she finally said. The two soldiers that had led her said nothing, merely watched her, as if they weren’t certain they’d heard right. After an awkward shifting of one, Fynnrandi nearly snarled, “Now! Get out of my sight!”
It was all the encouragement they needed to scurry right past her and down the mountain path they’d led her up.
Left on that precipice, Fynnrandi found her gaze unable to leave the dead man before her, trying to take in every feature about him that she could. The tuft of black that grew on his chin. She’d remarked on it in the past. Each time she’d thought he’d needed a trim, he’d grown it out even more just to get on her last nerve. And she’d let him because they’d agreed that though they were wed to one another, they would not interfere in the wants and wishes of the other.
It hadn’t been love. It had been duty. But they had certainly liked one another. She would have called Rydallar a friend, and undoubtedly he would have seen her much the same. Perhaps they would have grown old together. Not that the thought mattered in the moment. There was no moment in which she entertained the thought of dropping to her knees in grief. No moment in which she thought even a lone tear would do anything to assuage her. All she felt was righteous fury.
He didn’t need to come. He wasn’t a soldier. He had come for her. So that even when they were apart, she would not need to feel so alone. That they could still write to one another and know that they were living and experiencing the same hell. Together and yet apart. But this hadn’t been his battle. He could have waited back in Quel’thalas for her. Should have, perhaps.
Looking between him and the parcel she’d been clutching ever tighter in her hand, she found herself once again questioning every step she’d taken in this world, following the footsteps of a man she had been adamantly loyal and devoted to.
What have you done, my prince.
The same thing, perhaps, that he had done to the rest of his people. Bitterness touched her tongue, spreading bile before she wordlessly choked it right back down along with everything else that threatened to rise. Perhaps the Sun Prince hadn’t been directly responsible for Rydallar’s death, but if this had all been a fool’s errand, something she was beginning to feel was distinctly the case, then he was responsible. And even if he wasn’t, Fynnrandi wanted him to be.
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Day 5
Restless/Faith
@daily-writing-challenge and mention to @lukel-sunshadow @tycildawnwhisper and friends of the @theshieldedmind
The day had been quiet. Almost too quiet.
Tycil had held a few tired, crooked smiles as she leaned on the frame of her half-built doorway, wiping sawdust from her fingers. They’d replaced old beams, reinforced the second story. Vaelsnipe’s shoulders ached pleasantly from labor, but the ache couldn’t compete with the deeper thrum beneath his ribs. That old rhythm of watchfulness.
He left with the promise he’d be back before the week was out to help her some more. She nodded and turned back into the house that had finally begun to resemble more and more of a home.
The woods of Goldenbough Pass swallowed him whole as he walked on for the city. Birdsong filtered through the high boughs, and golden light traced slow arcs across the path. But to Vael, the peace felt paper-thin. A trick of surface tension.
Each step stirred memories.
A scream in the snow.
The burn of void in the air.
The vile smell of undeath creeiping up behind.
The moment the gates of Silvermoon cracked once before when no one believed they could fall.
This forest watched us die once, he thought grimly. It could do so again.
He paused beneath an old tree, one he remembered climbing as a boy. A companion he hadn't though about for thousands of years perched above, tail curled, watching him carve arrowheads with Tycil. Now it just stood silent. Ancient. Unmoved.
The problem wasn’t the silence.
The problem was how much he trusted it less and less.
He couldn’t shake it, the gnawing edge in his chest, like an arrow held taut but never loosed. Every time he looked at Tycil, at Lukel, even at the doctors gossiping in the city's clinic there it was.
What if it happens again?
What if the next wound takes them?
What if peace is just a delay, not a gift?
Silvermoon came into view, its spires gleaming in the fading sun. But even the light here felt brittle.
He passed through the gates, nodding once to the guards. They knew him now by sight, by name, by the wary look in his eyes. The city had returned to its rhythms, laughter echoing from balconies, music spilling from taverns. But he saw too clearly the fragile seams. The overconfidence. The ease that let danger in the first time.
It’s all so breakable, he thought. All of it. And no one wants to admit that.
He stopped just before the main thoroughfare, where the cobblestones turned from forest-shadowed to gold-tinged. The scent of lilacs drifted faintly in the air, he didn’t know if it was the gardens or just Lukel again, lingering in memory.
His pulse caught.
Because that was what made it worse.
He cared now.
Tycil. Lukel. The quiet bonds he’d formed with people who made him laugh again, curse again, feel again. He had roots now. And that made him vulnerable in ways he had almost forgotten how to live with.
He tilted his head toward the sky, just for a moment. The city’s light painted his skin warm.
But still, the air tasted like prophecy.
Something’s coming.
He didn’t know when. Or how.
But the wind always changed before blood was spilled.
And Vaelsnipe had never stopped listening.
I bet you didn’t think I’d be dropping you a line, huh? It’s been a while since the Third Invasion but I still remember those times fondly. Despite the circumstances, it just felt right with all the paladin orders coming together.
I hope you’ve been keeping well. After Turalyon took over the Silver Hand I made an abrupt exit so I don’t even know what you’re up to now. Are you back with the Crusade? I thought about reenlisting when the scourge resurfaced however many years ago that was now.
I wanted to thank you for having my back during those times. On and off the battlefield. When anything wavered you were there to help bolster not only me but the other knights around you. It’s more appreciated than you might know.
Make sure to take care of yourself out there too, yeah? I know there’s plenty of squires out there that are looking up to you.
Sincerely,
Avalear
May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless/Faith
( Continuation of this part HERE )
“You can sit there, there's tea and cupcakes. Help yourself, I bought them for you.” He said as he walked over to his large shelf.
He doesn't need to tell her twice, she'll wait quietly while she eats. To make his work easier, Soren usually classifies his finished work by numbers and symbols according to the customer. Mei is no exception. He has created three pieces of jewelry for her and takes them out of their corresponding drawers before placing them on the table.
“Voilà, voilà. With the documents you brought me, I made three different pieces of jewelry. A hair brooch, a necklace and a bracelet. I'll let you choose.” He said nervously.
Soren had always been a nervous draenei, especially when it came to his work as a jeweler. He's always had doubts about his abilities, even though his talent is not in doubt, and the advice of those close to him encourages him. And they'll never stop encouraging him.
Before touching anything, Mei wipes her hands. She has no desire to get anything dirty.
Her gaze is first drawn to the feather-shaped hair brooch, with a violet-blue stone inlaid at the top. It's a pretty, simple and elegant brooch, just the way she likes it. And it echoes the feather in her hair. It would be fun to wear both.
Next, she looks at the silver necklace. It's slender, really all-purpose, except for the pendant in the shape of a small jade monolith. She can see herself wearing that.
And finally, a pretty wooden bracelet. With peach blossoms engraved around it and a little butterfly.
She thinks she's made her choice. When Soren had come to tell her he was going to design the jewelry for the ball. Mei's only request was that the jewelry be discreet and simple. She's really pleased that he's respected her request.
“These are beautiful jewels, Soren. I know you doubt your abilities, but I promise you've done a superb job. She takes his hand. You can have confidence in your abilities, my friend.”
Her words soothe him, and he squeezes her hand in return. He stopped tapping the ground with his hoof.
“Have you made your choice? Are you going to wear all three or just one?”
“The bracelet,” she replies. The bracelet is still my favorite, the butterfly and flower match the Thora embroidery. But the brooch also has its charm.”
Mei wrinkles her nose slightly in thought.
“There's still time before the ball, you have time to make your choice.” He replies.
“Really, I'll wear both maybe?”
Whatever her final decision, she'll be proud to wear his jewelry.
