With the words of the Nethermancer in her ears, Oplisca Du'mere heads into the depths of Khaz Algar to see about setting 'a house in order'. Little does she suspect that she is not the only one skulking about it the shadows of the Light...

A compiled post for the Daily Writing Challenge: May 2025.

This one took a bit as I ended up having some real life issues slow me down, but despite the time setbacks I was able to complete this story. Once again thanks to good fellowship, kind words, and support of friends I was able to complete another challenge.

Here is another master post to aid in navigating the story.

Special thanks to @daily-writing-challenge for building a great event as always and promoting all the writers this month!

Taint the Well

The work was difficult but not impossible.

Time was not on her side though as Oplisca lay draped over the corpse, her head resting on the bare chest. Her eyes were closed for the moment as she did her best to catch her breath. A corpse was always heavy, but this one even more so considering his large frame and despite how much blood it had lost. How much blood this husk had lost.

Sloppy. Amateur. Failing.

Shame.

There was light streaming through the ceiling as the fog began to slowly lift from her vision. Was it sunlight? Had she found the sky again?

No. It was still Hallowfall. She was still underground.

Oplisca was still alive.

Her hands lifted up to fill her line of sight as she blinked again a few times as she touched the shafts of Baladar. It was like hazy gold as it caressed her skin and dappled among the drying blood on her tanned skin. From tip to wrist and scattered about her forearm was plenty of Fayle, with no doubt many others judging by the silence in around her. The silence was deafening as it rung in her ears, it felt smothering and thick in her thoughts as she closed her eyes for a brief moment to bask in it's emptiness.

Oplisca craved this.

Black, inky tendrils whipped forth from the widening bursts of skin from Kinowin's hand as he screamed something unimaginable at the woman meant to be his sister. His one eye blazed with green light as the other dead seemed desperate to catch up with it's still living sibling. The face was written like poor poetry as it tried to recite a soliloquy of the brother and sister's troubled lives. A song of one alive thinking the other was dead. One dead thinking the other alive.

Time and space were locked in a cold war as the pair of them had always been. The amount of time it finally took to bring them to this point was lengthened by the absence of presence.

Two people sat.

People was an overstatement for what they could be considered. One a pretty young Arathi with dark hair and violet eyes dressed in a modest gown and looking to have been asleep for days. The other a middle aged elf, one eye dull and grey to match the brightly green of the active one drifting about the still stature of their companion. Both were alive. Both were calm. Both were not what they seemed.

Wolves in sheep clothing.

The elf spoke first, his voice rich with the gentle poetics of being compared to mahogany. His lips parting in a very wide and blinding smile as they broke in the tones of the elder race. "Well, I must say you're looking well."

@daily-writing-challenge

(AAA IM SORRY I'LL BE MORE ON TIME IN AUGUST I PROMISE, ADHD KICKED MY ASS)

Day 7: Infinite Punish(ment)

Senko awoke in a strange place. The walls and the floor were made up of squares, tiled in a perfect pattern that reached up to the ceiling. The room was gigantic, large enough to fit a herd of mammoths from Northrend in and have room for a Tuskarr hunting expedition. She hissed in pain, a hand clutching at her side. The wound flowed freely, and yet it did not impact her. She looked at the blood staining her hands and the stream that sprang forth. Yet, despite her hissing, there was no pain. No burning sensation from the impact nor was there any dizziness.

A clang. In the middle of this room, a bundle of mist fell. Senko’s attention shifted towards it, and for a moment. Nothing bothered her. No voices, no sights, no mocking laughter. She inspected the mist, a boot heel prodding it. The mist fell apart, revealing the blade she brought with her, causing her to kneel down and pick it up, cursing as she felt the side crunch. Holding the blade in her hand, she caught a glimpse of her reflection.

Senko was still pale, yet her colour returning. Her eyes gleamed with fire once more as she took a deep breath, tasting the air. It was acrid. Metallic. The strenuous mix of blood and sweat as she rested the blade against her pauldron and looked around. In the high ceiling, the shadows began to form. The mist began to dangle down, taking the forms of a hundred faces. Senko stared at each one, slowly coming to a realisation.

This was not real.

Each face, contorted with pain and burning with hatred belonged to those Senko had slain personally. All creeds, all races, all united in their hate of the warlock who stood centre stage. Scalps of fire and brimstone, teeth of razors, tears of bile and venom and empty sockets for eyes; instead, coins and gems spilt from the faces, clattering on the ground to break up the sounds of the dead. A booming laugh came from above, deep within the ebon mist. The faces joined in the chorus of mockery.

Senko rested the blade’s tip into the ground, hands on the pommel and spoke: “Come, come. We both know I’ve killed far more than this.”

A growl cut the laughter in half. The faces began to droop into droplets, splashing on the floor in a hissing pile of steam. Out of the ceiling, floated down the spectre of Khul’arkot, long thought to be dead – yet remained in fragments. Pieces of him scattered across the ‘inheritance’ that Senko had wrought from the corpse, now mere dust in the depths of Vol’dun. Khul’arkot stood sixteen feet tall, his head split open, his ‘skin’ torn to shreds and a cavity in his chest.

“You know, in a sick and twisted kind of way? I’m rather glad you didn’t die completely, ‘mentor’, I would hate for you to have been weak enough that one death stopped you after millennia.” She taunted, tapping the blade against the floor.

“And in an equally sick way, ‘apprentice’, I’m glad you were the only one who hated enough to strike me down. So predictable, so hate filled. I knew you would never serve… Just as I knew you were too much of a greedy sand-rat to leave my corpse alone.” The demon replied, hovering above the floor.

Senko cocked a brow. “So, your plan was to use your possessions as some sort of phylactery and then possess me slowly but surely, to take over what I had built? I’m almost impressed.”

“Quite deductive for desert scum.”

“Quite articulate for a corpse.”

The two stared off at each other, the light in the room fading and flickering. The ground within the mind palace shook and trembled softly. She knew she had limited time, but it was still her mind. Acting fast, she readied the blade in an offensive stance.

“The smoke the witch made you inhale will not be enough to save you from me, Apprentice. It is a reprieve, a moment in which despair shall crush what is left of your will.”

“Slight problem. This is still my mind, my power is absolute…” She said, raising a hand off the hilt. “As is my will.”

She ‘pushed’ forward with an open palm, causing the wall behind Khul’arkot to blow out, revealing a stream of fractured glass. Each one a memory within the folds of Senko’s mind. Such power flung the demon out, with Senko chasing him in rapid succession.

“This is where you belong, Khul’, in my memories. In the past. Dead.” She declared, swinging to sever the abdomen.

Khul’arkot shoved his hand into the memory he balanced on, lifting out a barstool and blocking the blow. The two hopped from past to past, surfing the diamond shaped glass cuttings that held memories – treasured and terror alike. Each one, Khul’arkot lifted out a different object, shielding himself from the relentless blows.

Senko just needed that one slip-up. That one gap in which she’d finally be free of this bastard. As her blade crashed through wood and through bone, steel and stone, she felt herself grow tired. The wound on her side itching… But why was it doing that?

“You grow tired and weary, apprentice. You forget, I have your mind in my grasp too. Your body dances to my whims.” Khul’arkot mocked, twisting his hand.

Blood squirted from Senko’s side as he raised a slab of stone he had plucked from one memory, a particularly fond one – a memory in which Senko and her friends in the caravan had rebuilt a wall to paint in the middle of nowhere. The azure brick from the mural fell towards her, only to break against the sword.

Mason dust covered Senko as she pressed on, hopping platforms before draining one memory, one where she lost her cool at a customer, and fired a blast of magic. The magic, fel green and grey, twirled around in the air, before clasping around the fleeing Khul’arkot. With a grin, she tugged and pulled.

The demon slid around, wiggling as it screamed. Voices began to ring out as it spoke in the multiple. Each voice borrowed from the memories that floated past them. As Senko tugged the chains to flip Khul’arkot onto his back, so she may stare into what remained of the demon’s face, when it performed its most insidious trick yet.

He morphed into Oonee and spoke in her voice.

“Can you really slay me when I look like this, ‘darling’? Your beloved wife.” He taunted, laughing at Senko.

“My wife wouldn’t give me as much of a headache as you did, Khul’arkot.” She stated, plunging the blade into the chest.

The visage dropped immediately. A flash of light began to burn at Khul’arkot’s true form, the essence of which slid up into the sword. The runes flared with a howl of pain as Senko pushed firmly on the hilt.

“Such a sad and sorry state… You fought better in Vol’dun….” She groaned in pain, twisting the sword into the withering body. “Not a drop of you will remain.” Senko promised.

A bang took place, throwing her back across the sea of her memories. As she floated, she woke up, slumped in her bed back at the citadel. Her side bandaged and weeping with blood. She groaned as she focused her eyes. Oonee and Baofa stood, the latter far more nervous than she was in her lair.

“Morning~.” Oonee said, bright and cheerful. A small dagger in her hand. “… It’s still you, right?”

Senko swore in pain as she stretched, smirking at her wife. “Last I checked, yes… Is that my dagger?”

“One of them.”

The two shared a laugh before Senko hobbled out of bed.

“Ah, Miss Senko? I really wouldn’t be mobile were I you.” The Pandaren cautioned, watching Senko hobble to a chest.

Senko kicked the chest open and gestured to a bag, in which Oonee plucked up. A soft thanks was said as Senko offered the coin to Baofa. Payment. The sounds of coins jingled within the black, velvet pouch.

“I do not know what you take, so I hope coin is welcomed.” Senko said, forcibly pushing the pouch into the Pandaren’s grasp.

“Coin is always welcome… But I am curious, Senko. This is quite the establishment.” She said, glancing out of a window at the ash fields. “You are clearly a girl of aspirations.”

Senko picked up the great sword and fished in her pocket. A letter pinched betwixt two fingers was offered towards Baofa. The letter was slightly flecked with red, having been too close to the abdominal wound, the beige parchment carrying the scent of Senko’s vanilla perfume and the iron scent of blood.

“If you ever get tired of hiding in Western Pandaria, you would be appreciated here.” She said, waiting to see how Baofa would react.

“I am appreciated wherever I go, Senko.” Baofa said, but not before taking the letter. “I will consider your offer, young one, but until then, my work is complete.” She said, dipping her head.

Senko gave a curt nod, before smiling to Oonee. “My dearest, mind taking the good lady to the exit? I have one thing to do.”

Oonee, knowing full well it was a fruitless endeavour to stop Senko, sighed and gave a nod. A smile on her lips, seeing the resolve fill her dearest once more.

It took a few minutes, but Senko had informed the rest of her crew to gather the pieces that she had ordered to be locked away. She stood at the throne, facing it as the two assistants stood motionless. One held the helmet, the other the cape. She pointed the blade towards the throne and channelled through it.

Her eyes went from amber, to green, to red. Redder than the hottest, smoking coals. She growled as the blade shook, drawing out malignant shades from the three objects. The throne room screamed, floor tiles cracked, the chandeliers swung, and spikes bent. It took only thirty seconds, yet it felt like half a day. The sword hummed with hatred as she sagged to one knee.

“Grandmistress, are you in need o-“ One of them asked, silenced by an upright hand.

“I’m quite alright, thank you.” Senko said, dismissing the concerns.

The sword felt heavy in her hands. Weighed down by the parasitic demon that dwelt within. Each step she took felt daunting, the blade dragged across the floor with a raking sound as she left the tower. She sighed as she casted a spell with one hand, opening a rift to the top of Mount Zanreth. She overlooked the pyroclastic flows from the volcano and hoisted the sword up, tip to the sky, her eyes swept over the runes.

“Consider this… mercy, Khul’arkot. I could have you destroyed by the light from a star, or torn apart by a dozen paladins… We Vulpera believe everything has a use, and so your new use shall be to stoke the lava’s heat and fire forevermore. As you sit and bubble away, heating my empire, I want you to remember one thing: I won.”

Senko dunked the sword’s blade into the lava, and with a push of her free hand, the spirit howled and shot out, burning up into the heart of the volcano’s flow. The sound rivalled that of an eruption itself. Chunks of the demon’s soul materialised in a physical form as rocks and matter, only to be swallowed up by the red-hot stream.

For a minute, the lava turned green. Its heat was replaced with an ethereal silence as the last screams died down, then there was nothing. The red hues came back along with the warmth as Senko hoisted her sword up, frowning at the imperfections left on the blade. At least it was still intact.

She holstered it on her back and left through her rift, closing it up behind her with a snap of her fingers. She had, indeed won. With his first, spectacular defeat in Vol’dun, and now his remnants banished, she had the chance to smile again this time.

Khul’arkot’s soul would, probably, outlive Senko and all she had built. But the punishment? Forced to be bound and stretched to every molecule of lava? That was infinite. And that made that smile of hers shine just a little bit brighter.

@daily-writing-challenge

(It gets a bit bloody at the end, and a vomit scene. Because is it really a possession without those?)

Day 6: A Relic of Negation

Senko shuffled to the flap. The cloying smoke still billowing out, like a forge at full capacity. Steeling herself, she grasped the striped skin that covered the entrance and tugged it aside. She looked up, sweeping her sight for traps or nets, of which there were none. In fact, the only thing of note was a small, brass bell that made a two-chime ding-a-ling as the cover was tugged aside. The room was carved from the local stone, and as such, it was a cold passageway. Roots and vines dressed the ceiling like the arteries of a body. As the two walked deeper into the interior, the smoke grew thicker and heavier. The amber hues of lanterns being the only thing visible by the time they found themselves at the end of a tunnel.

“And I thought my incense was thick…” Oonee remarked, using the case she carried for Senko to waft away the smoke.

“It is rather-… quiet. Is it not?” Senko asked, ears sharp and pointed.

A sudden ‘woosh’ sound was heard, and then the air was felt. The lanterns overhead swung with abandon as the smoke rushed away. Wispy tendrils clung to the ceiling as the bulk of the dense fog flung itself through the passageway, gushing out of the entrance to the den like smoke from the chimney of a train. Sat, on a humble chair, cross-legged, was a Pandaren. Her body was sculpted like a pear, clad in robes that seemed to wiggle alive. Stitch marks of purple, and black, and green, held the fabric together as it shifted. Draconic pauldrons billowed out a green flame. Her back was to the Vulpera, a high collar, which was no collar at all, but a scroll that was written with ever-burning runes, shielded her neck.

A long, ornate smoking pipe was seen, level to her mouth. Tiny appendages wiggling out of the top before spasming, they stopped and dissolved into a black and white viscous goop. She drew in on the pipe, blowing out a monochromatic puff before speaking softly.

“Two of you, and not very quiet ones either… I trust then, you are not the Shado-Pan here to put me on trial.” She said, still facing away.

“The only trial I’m here for is to see proof you’re as good as the report says you are, Lady Deadleaf.” Senko replied, a twitched curl formed on her pale lips.

“Mmh.” The Pandaren murmured, tipping some ash from her pipe. “Arrogance and charm are often partners in the dance of conversation. I wonder which you meant.”

Before the two vixens had a chance to respond, Lady Deadleaf adjusted her seating and turned around. Both hair and face markings were coloured a midnight blue, allowing her half-lidded, jade eyes to draw in the attention of the two.

“Since you clearly know who I am, you have me at a disadvantage, my little friends.” She said, taking another draw from her pipe. “Who does Baofa have the pleasure of hosting tonight?”

Oonee stepped forward first, the case now horizontal. “I’m Oonee, pleased to meet someone who also has immaculate fashion~.” She said, giving a bow and a wink.

Senko stared on in disbelief.

“My people often overindulge in silks; you seem to have it finely balanced. How quaint of life to produce an outsider with more balance than the people who fawn over it.” Baofa mused.

Oonee turned to Senko and spoke softly in the Vulpera tongue: “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

Senko gave a weak shrug before looking at the Pandaren. Her voice now hoarse. “I am Senko, the one who seeks your ability.”

A coy smile broke on Baofa’s face. “And here I was thinking you were after my poppies.” She said, a touch of sarcasm drizzled over her words.

Senko grew weaker by the moment. Faces began to appear in the smoke, the colour of the lanterns morphed and weaved into flashes. A polychromatic explosion assaulted her eyes, while the soft cackles from mouths unseen rang into her ears.

“My, so many negative emotions flow from you, Senko. I could use you as a battery.” Baofa said, absent-mindedly. She turned her gaze to Oonee. “Your friend here is suffering greatly, is she not? It is almost reminiscent of the Sha.”

“Well can you help her or not?!” Oonee asked, her voice pitch-shifting with worry.

Baofa took another drag on the pipe. “Madame, fixing people is what I do best.” She said, guiding Senko to a hollowed-out stump in the lair.

Senko slumped into the stump. Her fur a sickly white, the light in her amber eyes faded. Teeth sinking into her lips as she snarled at sights she could only see. Her knuckles, whiter than she was, clenched around her staff as she held onto it like a dog to a bone. Her body contorted slightly as she rocked back and forth, fur quickly becoming slick with sweat and shivers.

Baofa pushed Oonee softly in front, stepping aside to crush up some herbs and greenery. The soft grinding of a mortar and pestle synced up with the gnashing of Senko’s teeth. The Pandaren opened a deep pot, as wide as any keg the dwarves could dream of. She rolled up her sleeve and plunged deep into it, pulling out a diminutive creature. It was black and white, a sort of mist made corporeal. She glanced back at Senko and, tentatively, plucked another of these creatures out of the container.

“Oonee, what is in that case you have brought?” Baofa asked, prompting Oonee to pry a key from Senko’s pockets.

“It’s a sword she brought, I don’t know why of all things-“ She said, fumbling with the locks.

Each of the eleven locks clicked and clacked. Senko watching, her gaze pained and narrow. Oonee paused at the ninth lock, holding back a tear at the weakness that had suffocated her wife, she reached out with a shaky hand to comfort her as the locks continued to be undone.

As the last lock fell from the case, Oonee revealed the sword. Its blade was two-tone in colour and make-up, the bottom half was made of silver and shone brightly, even within the lantern-lit cave, whilst the upper half was an all-consuming black metal. Bridging the two halves were a set of runes in demonic, debossed into the blade. The hilt was made from leather and bone, built around the skull of a creature unidentifiable.

“… An evil thing.” The Pandaren said, recoiling backwards. “I have heard of stories of swords adorning runes and dark powers… but it does give me an idea to speed up the recovery. Bring it to the table.” She ordered, a hand stroking her twin-tailed hair.

Oonee bent with her knees, picking up the sword. Too unsure to grasp it and wield it properly, she brought it to a table that was cluttered in jars and in herbs and in bottled liquids. She glanced up at the Pandaren.

“In Pandaria, we had the Sha. Seven heads of an old god that fed on negativity. I need not to diagnose your friend, I have seen it all too often. She is plagued by such, yes? Possessed might be a word you use.”

“That’s right, yes. She’s been seeing and hearing things.” Oonee said, a rush of relief to her tone.

“Voices of harm and deception?”

“Yeah!”

“Then this should work.” Baofa said, mixing up a sludge. “Take this and coat the blade’s tip. Go no further than a hand’s length.”

As Oonee diligently coated the blade in the black and white viscous sap, Baofa packed her smoking pipe with the mixture she had on her side of the table and walked up to Senko. She gave a disapproving pout as she lowered the pipe to Senko’s lips.

“Now, young lady, you had better pull through. Would be rude of you to die on her.” She cautioned, pushing the smoking pipe ever closer to Senko’s mouth.

Senko clasped the inhaler in her lips, a seasoned smoker, she began to draw in. The mixture bubbled and popped at the other end of the pipe, as she summoned up the vapours to her mouth. The derisive laughter, the sinister mocking and the haunting sights began to soften. Her eyes, now bloodshot and strained, kept themselves fixed on the back of Oonee, who was still diligently working as fast as she could.

Each puff from the pipe caused a strain on the body, but at this point, she couldn’t feel a thing. Keeping her focus fully on breathing the contents in with her mouth, and exhaling with her snout, the air around her began to stain itself speckled black and white. Eventually, the pipe was plucked from her lips. She sat, quietly. Her body shaking began to slow. Baofa stepped back, returning moments later with a large, glass jar. She held it to Senko’s lips and gave a smile, as a nurse would to a child.

The butterscotch brow peaked in confusion at first, before Senko’s body heaved. Lacking the strength to cover her mouth, she stuck her muzzle into the jar and ejected contents. A grim scene: black, tar-like liquid began to throw itself out, staining her teeth and tongue. Lumps and matter bounced into the jar, some that seemed to jerk around, as if alive. Blood wept softly from her eyes and ears as she clenched her stomach in agony.

The jar filled up in mere seconds, pulled away from Senko’s lips and bottled. The warlock spat and coughed and heaved as she stared at the floor before throwing herself back into the seating arrangement.

“That… was awful.” She weakly said, running the back of her palm over her lips.

“I’m afraid that was the nice part, dear.” Baofa said, walking over with the coated blade. “You see, in Pandaria, we bested the Sha by reasserting ourselves over our emotions. This blade of yours must be used for you to reassert your will over your mind.”

Senko meekly took the blade, freezing as she heard Oonee scream.

“YOU WANT HER TO STAB HERSELF?!”

“Well, when you put it like that, you make me sound awful… But yes, that is the idea. I am not foreign to the concept of swords used as an instrument of dominating one’s will, miss.” Baofa said.

With a steady breath, followed by a frustrated sigh, Senko looked at Oonee and smirked. A weak one, but a smirk, nonetheless.

“I’ve done worse.” She reminded her wife.

“I’ll do worse if you die on me.” Oonee retorted.

@daily-writing-challenge

(Didn't really feel like I did a good job with this one but, here! Finale soon. I'll try and double-post it.)

Day 5: Restless Faith

The throne room was quiet, the only construction going on now was a few imps using some – surprisingly – quiet Goblin-tech floor polisher. The soft hum as the buffer slid over the obsidian flooring was all the ambience needed. Two figures stood before the throne, frozen in posture save for their breathing. The first one was short for her kind, she carried a hunch in the back, ‘lowering’ her to shy of seven feet tall. Her red skin was clad with a purple and grey bone-padded carapace that covered her torso, plate reinforced hooves and a leather-like textile for her legs that contained a myriad of pockets. Her bionic eyepiece whined as the internal mechanisms readjusted, breaking the monotony.

Her counterpart was taller. Much taller. Twelve-and-a-half feet tall, she stood proud. Large wings tucked in behind her as she stood split legged, four arms; two natural, two grafted on in foul, Fel alchemy, a hand replaced with silver, tucked beneath the wings. Her face was covered in two parts. A thin veil of fabric affixed to her horned helmet masked her eyes, while a metal neckpiece reached up, from collarbone to lips. The piece was a dull tin colour, each ‘link’ embossed with a rune.

The two stood in silence for only ten minutes, yet their statuesque posture made them seem like statues fished from eons ago, a silence that soon broke when a set of side doors opened, revealing the Warlock and her Webmistress. Senko had a long case underarm, polished and kept dust free as several padlocks clanged softly against it with each heeled step she took. Oonee, meanwhile, was dressed to the nines. A rucksack fixed to her back was the only thing to dissuade onlookers from thinking she was of Vol’dunai Royalty, if such existed.

The four met in the middle of the room, the long shadow of the Emerald Throne casted upon them. Senko’s face was taut. Her lips flat and thin, eyes wide and ears sharp. She felt the softness of Oonee slipping her hand into hers, settling her a bit as she addressed the two Man’ari.

“Ladies.” She started. “I do apologise for the disruption to your duties. I hope the urgency is noted.”

Verrith'zaa spoke up, the voice came not from her lips, but from the plating. “We are yours to command, Grandmistress.”

Verrith'zaa spoke coldly. Sure, Zunlara didn’t use any contractions and was a workaholic, but she still had a spark to her. Verrith'zaa, however, spoke only the words needed. She bore no accent from her days on Argus, nor any local inflections.

Zunlara pulled out three tablet-shaped objects. Some sort of slate, akin to the writings of the Trolls. She floated them across to Senko, in which their surfaces began to burn with runes and images – all in the same Fel green as most of the instruments within the Tower.

“Here are ze individuals I believe fit the criteria.” She announced, turning on her hooves to fully look at Senko.

The Warlock began to peruse the trio. The first one was a paladin, a human at some idyllic chapel in the northern woods of Elwynn Forest. She shook her head and dismissed it. Far too zealous, far too… Human for this. The next was an oddity. An ice troll on a small, seemingly uncharted island, between Zul’Drak and the Dragon Isles. Potential was there, yet the third caught her eye and drew a fanged smirk on her lips.

A Pandaren. An outcast. She dwelt at the bottom of a fissure in the Dread Wastes of Pandaria, a lair decorated with wood and amber. Reviled by her people, she was banished for Sha-based experimentations, or so the dossier said.

“This one.” Senko said, her claw tapping the tablet. “Lady Deadleaf. I trust you did your usual and left a rune nearby for quick teleportation, Zunlara?” Senko asked, coyly smiling as she took the tablet into her possession.

“Naturally.” Zunlara said, side-stepping out of the way. A runic circle, hidden in the obsidian flooring flared to life as fel channelled into it. “And you vill be pleased to know zhat, zere has been no issues vith ze teleporting.”

She gave a nod and walked to the circle, her wife still hand-in-hand, she looked back at the two Man’ari and smiled. “Zunlara, please go to my quarters and put the helmet and cloak in storage. Separate.”  With a fast step, Zunlara departed, Senko then spoke to Verrith'zaa. “Verrith'zaa, keep the workers in-line. Build me a tower worthy of my name.” Were the last words spoken. The rune flashed and zapped the two away.

Such an expenditure was costly. The asteroid was still in the early stages of being settled and resculpted. The tower shook, ash and dust shuddered off the framework as it groaned. The journey was long, the two Vulpera swam around in the stream for minutes. Teleportation was like swimming in thick air. Each breath was a fight; the pressure alone could force muscle aches or pop blisters. In the voyage, Senko thought back on how strenuous it must’ve been for the Orcs when the Dark Portal burnt through reality.

Oonee, meanwhile, seemed more at ease. Relaxed. Ever the diva, she softly turned around in the void, doing cartwheels and flips. Halfway through her performance, she winked at Senko before ‘diving’ into her, as the two collided, the portal spat them out. They adjusted themselves on the grass before looking around.

The sky was a dark, starless night. Frigid air and dense bushes. The grass’s shade nearly mirrored the blues of the sea around. Trees, thicker than any on Azeroth save for the World Trees, peaked up in the distance. After rattling her possession around to make sure it was intact, Senko gave a sigh of relief as she put the case under her arm and walked off, silently.

“Honey,” Oonee began to speak. “Do you want me to hold anything? You’re looking a bit… pale.”

Senko stopped in her tracks, with one hand holding the tablet to roughly guide the way on where to look for this Lady Deadleaf, and another clutching her casing, she didn’t really notice. She focused on her hand, not the overly zealous dossier pinched between thumb and index and gulped.

A bit pale, was the words Oonee used. Had it been Senko’s? She would describe herself as the child of a Yeti. Her fur was almost as white as snow. A gasp replaced her gulp as she nearly fell to her knees. She stumbled, wobbling around like a leaf amidst the breeze, before the firmer than usual hand of Oonee grabbed the collar of the robes.

“… The case, please. If you’d be so kind.” Senko said, offering it over.

Oonee took possession of it, holding it arm to arm like a dwarf would his rifle. She felt its weight before asking. “What exactly is in this? And why the-“ She paused, counting quickly. “Eleven locks?”

“It’s a great sword.” Senko answered, nonchalantly as she ran a paw over her face, softly slapping herself to get the blood pumping again.

“Senko, in what situation would you need a sword?” She asked, puzzled. Her head canted, ear flopping.

“… Would you believe me if I said half the reason was ‘because I wanted to have one’?”

“Well, yes.” Oonee replied. “Honestly that’s the best answer I could’ve asked for, but now I have to ask – what is the other half?”

No more secrets, Senko. Those were the words she thought to herself. “The other half is to apply corrective measures should a demon prove too hostile to remain on site. I had Faolin teach me some of the basics of domination magic.”

Oonee slowly blinked. A faint flush on her cheers appeared as she went to make a joke, stopping herself. “I was going to say something crass then.”

The two shared a laugh, for a moment, Senko’s fur began to recolour itself the butterscotch she was known for, only for it to fade.

“I dislike having it, truthfully.” Senko confessed, frowning at the case. “It’s a beautiful sword, but I feel… wrong for knowing such power, you know? Given we, as a people, were slaves.” She said, voice trailing off.

“Do you think it’s part of the reason you’re ‘haunted’ or something? A guilt you have for no reason?” She asked, diligently lugging the case.

“I don’t know. I had this done before I fought my mentor, it was a contingency plan – if I couldn’t kill him, dominate him. Anything to get rid of him.” Senko said, scratching at herself restlessly. “Loa above, it is hot here.”

Oonee raised a brow, even beneath the mask, it was visible. “Hot?” She asked, her fluff puffing up. “It’s freezing. Look, our breath is visible.” She said, puffing out an ‘O’ of air.

“… I’m well fucked, aren’t I?” Senko said, forcing a smile and a laugh.

A quick blow to the back of her head was delivered as Oonee caught the case again in her hands. She tutted.

“That isn’t you speaking, Senko. The one I know, and love, and cherish, wouldn’t let a set-back ruin her mood like this. What are you so fond of saying, again?” Oonee lectured, lovingly.

“There is always a way.” Senko said, huffing out. It was an eternal truth to her but saying it out loud felt cheesy.

“There we go! So have some faith in it! It’s not let you down so far, mh?” Oonee said, glancing at the dossier and walking forward, down into a crevice of the land. Ahead of them, in the folds of the land beneath a rotten tree, was an opening. The soft, amber light spilt out past the tiger skin covering the hole. A velvety smooth, soft trail of smoke danced out past the skin. The air begun to carry a sweet scent, of caramelised sugar – the smell of rainpoppies alight…