#sturmtide

(( DWC February 2024 Day 7, Rumour/Discovery, CW: none, @daily-writing-challenge ))

In the weeks and months that followed the blooming of Amirdrassil, much of the dragonscale expedition found itself winding down. The Dragon Isles was secure and mostly safe now, and while there would doubtless be archaeological efforts for years to come, the expedition had accomplished most of its goals, and that meant it was time for many to return home.

Or, in some cases, seek other new experiences.

Lorellai was up like a flash when the captain's call echoed down into the ship where she and her team had been cooped up for weeks. Knowing they were close washed all that travel fatigue away though, as she and the others gathered their things and climbed up on deck. Ghorren was already up there, holding the rigging and wearing the biggest smile she'd ever seen on his face. He turned as they all came topside.

"Well friends, this is it! Welcome, to Zandalar!" Ghorren exclaimed, dramatically motioning to the great city that rose above them to the north.

(( DWC February 2024 Day 6, Vanity/Feelings, CW: none, @daily-writing-challenge ))

All was in readiness. Tulcor eyed the implements before him, each sharpened, cleaned, and oiled, ready for use. The chemicals were mixed and ready, the fumes stinging slightly at his eyes. His subjects were fully still on their tables. The black-scaled Dracthyr flexed his wings and shook out the excitement, he was going to need a steady hand. As he wheeled the tray of implements over to the first, he looked over his subjects. A young dwarf, a zandalari troll, a kul tiran human, a draenei, and a gnome, all helpless before him. He drew forth the first implement, the metal glinting in the light that shone form above, and approached the troll.

The satisfied grunt from the troll pleased Tulcor's hearing as he put the file to the calluses on the troll's feet, scraping away at the hardened skin as the other attendants circled around, providing the full service of Valdrakken's newest and finest day spa. Expert hands and claws clipped nails, softened calluses, massaged muscles, and applied treatments to skin for the delight and comfort of their guests. Far more rewarding than the soldier's life he'd been created for, if Tulcor was any judge. The smiles of his subjects filled his heart with a glee he'd never known fighting for dragonkind. He'd also learned so much of the peoples of Azeroth with this occupation, how each valued different results based on their physiology, something he kept in mind as he worked on the troll's feet, careful not to go too far in the treatment as the troll was typical in his disdain of boots.

Hours later, Lorellai, Pinapple, Edmund, Ghorren, and Shansii sat in fluffy robes, enjoying fruity drinks and listening to the soft music from the nearby speakers. "Shansii," Lorellai said, feeling more relaxed than she had in over a year, "we gotta thank your mom for tellin' us about this place."

"Three cheers for Henii, and her impeccable spa-finding skills," Ghorren said sleepily, slowly lowering a bundle of grapes into his mouth.

"And three cheers to the spa for having a 'Champions of the Dragonflights' discount!" Pin declared, raising her drink.

(( DWC November 2023, Day 4, Attention/Grief, CW: none; @daily-writing-challenge ))

It was a quiet night in the Dream, beneath Amirdrassil's boughs. The team had been relieved, and set up camp near the central encampment to rest up for the conflicts of the day to come. It was Ghorren's turn to cook, so the steam given off by the stewpot was filled with the scent of strong spices he'd brought from Zandalar. It was mouthwatering, and Lorellai was both anticipating and dreading the burn her mouth was soon to feel. Just on the edge of the campfire's light, Edmund snored gently, taking a pre-dinner nap, while Shansii called on the healing waters she carried to soothe his wounds. Pin was writing another letter home, and Lorellai was left just poking at the fire with a stick while Stroganoff burbled softly behind her.

"You're staring, girl." Ghorren said, breaking the silence as he stirred the pot, sprinkling in yet more spice after taking an experimental sip of the broth.

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry Ghorren. It's just... your left hand, the far finger. It's a different color, and I've never understood why. Was it injured?"

"Oh? Yes, but not by the enemy. I lost it to grief for my Yizbei, when she fell to the blood trolls. Old zandalari tradition, when you lose a spouse or loved one, you sacrifice the finger to the loa. Then, you grieve until it grows back. Once it's regenerated, then it is the sign from the loa that you should move on. If it doesn't grow back, then your time will soon come," he answered, stirring more before banging the spoon clean on the rim, and grabbing bowl from the mess kit.

"That's really romantic. You must have loved Yizbei very much." Lorellai said, accepting a bowl of the pungent, spicy stew.

"Oh yes, we had many wonderful years together, and two beautiful daughters to show for it. I wanted to show how much it meant to me. She'd probably call me a fool for it," Ghorren replied, smiling and shaking his head. "But, she is at rest, Bwonsamdi tends to her as he does all our dead, and I have plenty of life left to live. After all, I need to see my daughters grow, and with any luck, give me grandchildren to spoil."

The pair were joined at the fire by the rest of the team, roused by the delicious smelling meal. Jokes were shared and encouragement given before everyone retired for the night. Ghorren carefully snuffed the cooking flames with soil, and took in the team as they settled into their bedrolls and fell into much needed sleep. "Lend me your fury, my love. Once I get them through this, then I'll seek love again, as you would want me to."