#mayday62025

Relic

She’ll never send this. Definitely not. Absolutely not…okay, maybe. Folded, tucked between pages. For no one. For someone.

Does this belong to you?

Light and Shadow Flowers of tragedy The bite of the past And future

The ache in my chest My limbs My heart My demons

Something cosmic Grand and affectionate This is the relic Waiting for discovery

Dear Avalear,

I was surprised, but very pleased, to get your letter. The years may have been long, but the fondness of friendship will always keep us ready to bridge the gap as if it no time has passed. Call if you need me, friend, and I will come. You can call for my shield or call for a game of cards, either way, I will come. That's what we do.

You are right, I did return to the Crusade. I never truly left it, even when my orders took me far from the old hubs. Though, sometimes, in the Crusade, I feel like a relic of a long past era, still feeling the pull of that old oath and the terrible, wrecking grief that comes with pursuit of the mindless Undead. I will never not grieve for them, and I cannot help but feel compelled to help them transition with dignity and respect. I will likely never fully rest until the plague of Undeath has been cleansed from the land and the afflicted are at peace.

Presently, I am on the Isle of Dorn (and often below it, too). I hope you have been well. I would say, ‘I hope you are safe’, but If I know you, you haven’t sequestered yourself away somewhere soft. I expect instead you are in the thick of it where people need you most. It eases my heart to know that those who need you undoubtedly count on you.

But, I don’t think I will ever understand your constant fashion changes. A dizzying array of styles! It does make me smile. I’m sure you think I'm old and stuffy in my same ‘uniform’ for the last decade. Ha!

A friend hoping to see you soon,

Ada

Day 6 / May 30

Negative / Relic

@daily-writing-challenge

The Silverlight estate had long fallen since the day the dead came and marched a blighted path through Eversong, a ruined eidolon of the rich walls and lives that once inhabited it. The once golden fountain that crowned its welcoming courtyard was all that really retained shape now, dilapidated walls sunk or crumbled in on themselves, leaving only foundational doorways.

Still, its last survivor came to visit each week, bound to guilt and the urge to reclaim what had been lost. Alinora craved an opportunity of worth that would give her name precedence to Silvermoon again, as well as her lost family. Something to lift her out of servitude to another House, and rebuild her into a seat of nobility she once belonged to.

For years, she had tried but could never cross the entry hall’s threshold into the estate proper. A heavy fear kept Alinora from passing too far into broken doorframes. She could hear voices, as if wailing from the depths of hell. The walls shuddered when she would walk too close, as if they sought to crumble around her and bury the last living Silverlight within.

She knew little about the supernatural beyond charms and incense, but Alinora could feel the evil of the place in her bones, and it would not be abated by her or any prayer of the Light. She was a woman of very little means now, unable to afford much in the way of help. Convincing her employers to intervene would surely tip them off into what she meant to do. With all her luck, anything found by seedier peoples she'd involved would rob her of what remained of the estate, if anything remained at all.

But there was one she had heard rumors of, a figure that regularly haunted Tirasfal, one that would charge her no coin for a successful exorcism. A personage of strange ways, as she heard it. The Forsaken were always of a…unique disposition and demeanor. And as her eyes caught sight of the one they named the “Gravekeeper” appearing in approach from around the dark lake she waited at, Alinora felt a dreadful regret build in her stomach to have called on the haunting personage in the first place.

Riding what seemed to be a formidable destrier animated only by the framing of its own bones, the Gravekeeper was an uncanny ghost of flesh that was guided by it in the clutch of a saddle. Garbed in grey-blue funerary lace that contrasted deeply with the near unearthly glow of pale skin, Alinora reflexively held in her breath as the Keeper’s sights took her in, swallowed by the lantern light of her gaze. She felt an entire cemetery had visited upon her within those eyes, and readied her a coffin.

“You are the Lady Silverlight?” The sepulchral voice asked, a formal echo that could almost be gentle. Shadowy hair drifted from the crown of dead flowers atop the Keeper’s head, defying gravity.

“Y-yes - I–” Alinora answered after a long bout of struggling silence, staring upward at her mounted “savior”. The blood elf curtsied awkwardly. “I am Mis–Lady Silverlight. Yes.” She could no longer be called by such titles, but it felt right coming from the dead woman’s vocals, strange as it all was.

The Gravekeeper slid away from the saddle fluidly, her black skirts billowing like a fog about her willowy form. A soft scrape of metal heralded the sight of a great relic of a spade, clutched at her side. Alinora felt the blessing of being able to breathe again as the spectral eyes moved past her to the hollowed out estate itself. The Keeper's head tilted slowly until it reached an odd, unnerving angle in the viewing, deeply interested.

“I see…” she replied, a murmur, a whisper. A whisper that seemed to be echoed in slight, mimicked intonations around her, though Alinora could see nothing of where they came from. For a moment, she thought she was to go mad again with nothing but a swell of whispers, but it was a sound that died quickly as the Keeper took her steps toward the estate.

“Well then. I do quite think you have some visitors,” the Lady Keeper spoke with perhaps more creeping humor than one should have in such a harrowing haunt. “Stay there, dear girl,” she instructed Alinora with a suddenly frigid demand that seemed to freeze her feet to the spot. And then, without much more of another word, the Gravekeeper invited herself into the barely held framing that was the entrance of the estate.

Minutes passed, and the estate seemed to build from its disturbingly negative whispers, to disjointed groans, to angered shrieks belting from its darkest spaces. Alinora cringed, gasped as she heard shatterings from within, watched topsoil tremble, watched eerie blue light swell within broken walls. Her entire body tightened as she witnessed the remains of the Silverlight estate seem to heave as if it housed ghostly lungs, and let out a dreaded rattle, as if its very innards were expelling its last, threatening promise of unholy retribution. Just as Alinora thought she might turn and run for the city, the estate went silent, dead silent. The Gravekeeper emerged from the great doorway she entered through, right before it collapsed behind her. She seemed...entirely unphased.

What was more, the Keeper had went in alone, but with her every step outward, things unspoken broke through the ruined soil of the estate, collections of bones reanimated to walk again, and collect around her. Some skulls twisted on their levitating spines as they clicked into place, terrifyingly turning empty sockets on Alinora herself. None said a word. In her soundless fear, Alinora could only formulate the basic assumption that they had no muscle, no vocal chords to grind words with.

“Your estate is now safe for your…hmm, digging,” the Keeper spoke, her eyes much more interested in her skeletal crowd than Alinora herself. “I would suggest bringing a rather strong shovel.” A hint of a smile drifted on the Keeper’s bruised, deadened lips.

“A shovel….?” Alinora echoed in barely heard refrain, the terror waning in the face of some sort of success, yet moving to the utter confusion on where to begin next. “But…I thought? What…what should I do then?” Her mind numbed over with what had just transpired and no real understanding of it. The fallen noble realized she had no idea what she was expecting.

The Gravekeeper seemed to tilt her head, as if listening to something on the silent air that she was deaf to. “Is it not obvious, my dear?” The lantern light eyes fell distinctly on Alinora now, and the voice that came from her seemed to echo with others. Familiar echoes that chased her own as her words drifted past the seat of her own lips. “Remember them. And do it better than you have. Or I'm afraid they'll just have to come back.”

DWC May 2025

Day 6 - Negative /Relic

The party was an image of wealth, the kind of decadent largess that festooned charity with gold leaf. Lady Orialyene Silverthorne, Ori, to those who knew her in rooms not wallpapered with gossip, moved through Lord Cal’endeer’s estate like she owned the place. The elite caste of Quel’thalas nobility saw her, and that was the point.

Ori wore her emerald-green gown as naturally as shadow follows light. elegant, concealing nothing. She wore it with the same comfort she had in leather and shadow, or lace and lies.

She wasn’t there for the wine. Or the seductive invitations whispered by voices that left guilt buried centuries before. Though, depending on how dull the night got, she might say yes to both. She wasn’t even tempted by accolades for the generous depths of her philanthropic nature.

She was there for the jewelry.

Ori was a beauty born of black hair, verdant green eyes, quick fingers, and a quicker mind. Finding what she wanted didn’t take a hint of finesse. The mistress’s private rooms were a monument to indulgence: necklaces displayed like offerings, rings fat with old gold, tiaras resting in velvet trays like holy relics.

It was all a joke, really. Wealth pretending to be power pretending to be taste. Ori stole not out of need, but out of boredom and disdain. She had her cousin, a talented jeweler with absolutely no idea how the jewelry was obtained, melt down the pieces. Then she wore them back to the same houses she took them from. Subtle, glittering mockery. A secret joke told with precious metals and perfectly cut gemstones, and only she ever got the punchline.

Alexandrite rings? Diamond tiaras? The black diamond and sapphire collar displayed next to an absurd little crystal vial labeled ‘Arthas' Tears infused oil’. None of it held her attention.

What stopped her was the statuette.

No taller than her hand. A woman, arms outstretched not to greet, but to embrace. Carved from obsidian so dark it swallowed light, laced with veins of emerald and opal. The eyes of twin garnets, glowing as if they’d been watching her since before she walked in.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It felt impossible, the kind of thing that shouldn’t exist outside a dream. Fragile. Eternal. Sacred, maybe. Enticing? Definitely.

Ori took it without hesitation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long after she returned home, her front door opened, slicing a blade of light across the dark foyer. Ori didn’t flinch. She sat entranced at a desk in her study, idol in hand, turning it slowly, reverently, like it might bless her with the secrets of the universe. She didn't need to look up.

Zindravara Dawnblade’s voice cut clean through the dim room, low and exacting. “What, exactly, did you bring home, Ori?”

Ori didn’t look up, but a smirk tugged at her mouth. “You felt that all the way from next door? How delightful.” She wasn’t expecting Zindra so soon, or at all. The mage usually kept to her converted mother-in-law cottage, communing with her father’s journals, or creating new little alchemical concoctions that were used to make life’s little distractions fade away.

Zindra stepped inside with caution, not fear. Her damp red hair, streaked with violet, clung to her back in a dark crescent, the mark of a bath abandoned in haste. Dark glasses shielded dull green eyes no longer suited to bright light but still sharp enough from magic to see what others had missed in this acquisition.

“I felt it the moment it crossed the threshold,” she said, voice low and clinical, like she was reading off a medical report. “It’s radiating. Layered enchantments. Ancient. Possibly sapient. It doesn’t belong here.”

Ori tilted her head, amused. “You make it sound like I dragged in an uninvited house guest.”

“You did,” Zindra said, without missing a beat.

Ori held up the statue in her palm, delicate, playful. “It’s just a little trinket from Cal’endeer’s mistress’s boudoir. Genuinely surprised he had given her owned this tasteful.”

“You know better,” Zindra said sharply. Then, quieter: “You feel it, don’t you? The pressure behind your eyes. The sense that it’s listening. Waiting.”

Ori’s smile thinned. “I do love an attentive audience.”

Zindra didn’t reach for the idol. Her hands stayed flat at her sides. “It’s cursed,” she said, flatly. Not a question. A diagnosis.

Ori rolled her eyes. “Oh, obviously. It's not my first time pocketing a naughty bauble, Zindra. But this one’s… different. It wants something. And I'm curious.”

Zindra’s mouth tightened. “Curiosity is how people end up as footnotes in someone else’s cautionary tale.”

Ori looked at the statue. Its eyes gleamed with quiet, crimson delight.

“The real question is,” she said slowly, “can you break the malison?”

Zindra drew in a breath through her nose, steadying herself. “Put it on the floor. Clear a space. And for the love of the Aspects, do not touch me while I’m working.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zindra knelt, her fingers dancing through practiced gestures, forming three glowing circles of arcane magic that intertwined on the gold laced marble flooring. She whispered the spell that warded the circles first then she began to unmake the curse that buzzed like bees at Ori’s teeth.

The air thickened. The shadows deepened. Then came the flash. A crack of light and flame burst from the idol, golden, searing, blinding. Zindra screamed, clutching her head, dropping to her knees on the floor. The smell of burnt silk and old magic filled the air.

“Zindra!” Ori scrambled to her side, but the mage’s hand shot up blindly.

“Don’t, don’t touch me,” she gasped, voice shaking. “It… it fought back. That curse wasn’t just laid, it’s alive.”

Ori stared down at the idol, which now sat calmly in the center of the ward, its gem-eyes glowing faintly, as though pleased. “What the hell is this thing?” she whispered.

Zindra, still on the floor, wiped blood from beneath her glasses. “Something no one should ever have touched.

Dear Eluvianna,

I didn’t know what to expect when Captain Trueflame had asked me to join in on her mission but I was glad to have the chance at seeing you again. And I did. I saw you in a different light than when I had met you. My uncle would say; “If you want to get to know someone? Fight with them”. I feel like I learned a lot about you when we delved into the Skittering Breach. Just in case you need to hear it, I feel like it needs to be said. Or read in this case, right? You showed a great deal of care and selflessness when we were going up against that ascended Nerubian. We were on the same page about helping the others out and when you signaled for me to go it was like we were in harmony. A silent understanding that I feel is a rare thing.

DWC Day 6 - Negative/Relic

(Continued from here)

Note to self- leave a reminder before going to sleep that you’re inside a magic bubble. Else you will walk straight into it while you’re still groggy from sleep. Not a pleasant situation.

A scratch.

It is pitch dark herein the town of Surwich. Granted, it had always been dark here, even during the day. It seems Gilneans are eternally plagued by cloudy skies and rain, no matter where they end up in the world. Not that I’d complain- rain was a rarity in Eversong… and I do rather like it.

I have set up a camp for the night, as the local inn will not take my business. They still believe me to be allied with the Reliquary- a notion that sours my stomach to the pit. But I cannot afford to be argumentative here, not if I am to get these people to cooperate with me. As usual, the fate of this town takes precedence over my own personal feelings.

I am still looking for the League's missing caravan- or, at least, its contents. Yesterday’s search proved fruitless- the swamp has all but reclaimed the caravan, and maybe the rider and horses too. Still, I am not done yet.

A scratch.

I’ve never gotten so much use of my water-walking spell until now. The swamp was treacherous, day or night. I found a few things of note: discarded foodstuffs, broken crates, and a corpse. It is too dark to identify, and I’m not about to drag it into town for a better look. I will have to leave it there until morning, but I have a feeling it was the driver. Poor man… or woman.

I swear, I can feel a presence behind me. And my senses are usually correct about these things.

Also, an unusual phenomenon has begun occurring- or maybe it is not so unusual for me. My spells fail, on occasion, and I lose sight of my surroundings when they do. Have I become ill? Incompetent? Or, perhaps it is the “usual suspects”...

Wait. Was that a neigh?

A scratch.

Well, I have successfully herded a frightened packhorse into containment. With some expertly placed bait, and my 'strategic' herding, I ushered it back to town, and eventually, into the horse pen. Now the people see value in me… as a horse herder. How tiresome…

Poor thing, though. It barely escaped death, unlike its partner. It seems rather fond of fruit. 

Much to ponder tonight, but there is little else I can do at this hour. I might as well reclaim the last hours of my sleep before day breaks. I need to identify a corpse come daylight… and the reason for my strange ‘blackouts’. Though I suspect the answer is yet within me.

@daily-writing-challenge

Kaleh'a was perplexed.

This was not his usual type of job or interest, but the possibility of what lay under this unassuming pool of water...

He was a Keeper of the Moon, by heritage and faith, believing and worshiping the goddess of the moon, Menphina. That meant that on the off chance he heard an interesting tidbit about the goddess of her supposed possessions...he bit.

Which led him here. Hands on his hips, bow and quiver leaning against a nearby tree, stripped down to just his shirt and small clothes, ready to dive into the deep, deep, deep water and hopefully retrieve what some claimed glimmered on a night of the full moon.

Which happened to be tonight!

As he watched, the moonlight slowly spilled across the top of the water, and his eyes widened, grinning wide. Sure enough, there was a glimmering silver something at the bottom of the pool, and his tail flicked excitedly at the prospect of finding this relic. All he had to do was hold his breath longer than anyone thought possible.

He's got this!

He didn't want to give himself more time to think about it, jumping straight up, executing a flawless dive into the water, and splashing into the water arms first.

One minute of silence on the surface passed...

Another thirty seconds...

Two minutes...

He burst out of the water, yelping in panic, a silver half moon tucked under one arm as the other floundered for the shore, and his feet kicked out at something under the rippling water.

"Back! Get back!" He scrambled out of the water, dripping wet, his hair and ears plastered to his skull as he rolled away from the water and bounced into a crouch, panting wildly as he stared at the water surface...

And three, beaked heads poked out, the snapping turtles that had made the pool their home glared at him balefully. One by one, they slipped back under the water, leaving Kaleh'a on his own on the grass by the water, and he flopped onto his side with a relieved sigh.

Lifting the fragment of the moon up in his hand, he marveled at the silver sheen of the metal, and as he peered closer, he could see what looked like part of a face on it. He had it! He had really found it! A relic of Menphina!

And that was right when the baby snapping turtle decided the tuft of his flicking tail was the perfect snack. Leaping up, he yowled in pain, the silver moon arching through the air as he threw it in a panic, trying to shake off the stupid turtle as he heard the distinctive plop of something sinking below the surface again.

(From the written hand of one seamstress and courtesan...)