#zeehva

[ Artwork by @aerart ! Featuring @zeehva ! ]

Marigold flowers lined the gilded streets and terraces, blossomed in the floating gardens, drifted and danced in the gentle autumn wind that carried down from the jade mountains towards Dazar'alor. Illuminated by the warm, flickering fires on candles and torch sconces, the legendary city of gold instead seemed to glow with a heartwarming amber hue.

The sweet smell of incense carried through the air. The sounds of steady drumbeats, conch shell ocarinas, and maracas, all resonated in her soul - how could she keep from dancing?

Ahuatli was well accustomed to these celebrations - but nowhere in the world was the Day of the Dead celebrated so spectacularly as Zandalar. On these special, saintly days, it felt as though the whole of the empire was in Bwonsamdi's grasp.

In some ways, perhaps it was - the Loa of Graves had taken the place of Rezan, the Loa of Kings, in Zandalar's pantheon. The head of her very own order of veildancers, herself, danced in Bwonsamdi's name; the same name was whispered and exalted by Queen Talanji. And even still, with a shiver coursing down her spine, she asked herself - how could she keep from dancing?

As the veildancer peeked out from behind the curtains, feeling a sense of stagefright that she hadn't felt since she first started dancing, she understood why. Her icy eyes scanned the masses. Richmons and commoners, priests and paupers.

And for the very first time - her father and mother were not there, among the crowd, there to support her as they always had. She drew the stage curtain back, and turned away.

She wasn't ready.

The only person Phoebe has really only run to was her mother when she was smaller. Her mother's arms were her safe place. they could always ward off the monsters in her nightmares or quell her shaking from the lightning of the summer storms. She always knew her mother would do anything to protect her, and it brought her peace of mind.

As small children, she and her brother would often comfort one another when the village children would tell ghost stories to each other. They would often sneak into the other's room that night to ward off any possible ghosts that may be waiting to scare unsuspecting children when they were alone.

As an adult, Phoebe had no one to rely on. Fear was broken out of her during the training she received as an assassin. Fear meant death, it meant failure. Failure was no option, and only she could poorly attempt to comfort herself in the lonely, dark hours when her trainers couldn't see her cry.

Thank you @zeehva for sending in an ask!

📁 The Estate does have a coffee budget, but it’s never for her -- she’s not a huge fan and if she has to drink it, she tends to load it up with cream and sugar. Tea is much more to her preference and she has a few blends that are morning staples. 

📁 Her marriage to Halandir was, by and large, fairly happy. It lasted around 50 years and really only started to fall apart in the final five. He was a devoted husband who let her chase her passions and she rarely interfered with his own. Fiorenze very much avoids trying to think about the schism they had because it does hurt -- she did love him, even if their union was arranged. 

“Back to work?” Melody asked. She plucked Joci’s brass knuckles from the small stand next to her bed. She had spent the night in Joci’s bed — with her host  choosing the floor — after a few too many glasses of wine. 

“Gotta pay fer me fla’ somehow, yea?” She took the weapon and slipped it into the small pocket stitched into her trousers. “Don’ ya go’ work tonigh’?”

Melody’s face fell a bit. “Wish I didn’t have to,” she said, thinking. She brightened up. “But coin means I get to take you out.”

Joci grinned. She laced one boot and then the next. “Whaddya wanna do?”

Melody chuckled. “Just be ready come Saturday.”

“Wha—”

“Don’t be surprised if there’s a delivery, either.” She winked and slipped into the hallway. 

Joci stared at the door after it shut. How did I meet her? She stood there, smiling for a moment. She could hear Melody’s shoes clicking on the stones outside. It broke the trance. Her eyes drifted over to the table, where a small envelope was sealed shut. She read the address aloud. “Zeehva Belrose,” she said slowly. “Care o’ Missus Stanley.” She tapped the envelope against her lip, picked up her sling pack, and stepped outside. 

The oppressive heat that had borne down upon Stormwind had dissipated. The humidity, however, had not. She could already feel herself sweat as she passed the auction house and the cheesemonger. Thankfully, a slight breeze ushered her across the bridge out of the city, and as soon as her feet hit Elwynn’s dirt, she was no longer baking atop the stones on which she had been walking. She took a deep breath, allowing the freshness of the forest to seep into her pores. Ahead of her, perhaps a quarter mile was Mrs Stanley’s. She took the small envelope from her sling pack, running her fingers across her own name she had penned along the back flap. “Joci W.,” she muttered. That’s my name. I wrote that. Me.

When she was within ear shot of the small cottage, she called out for her friend. Mrs Stanley, who had been working in her front flower garden, turned about.

“Joci,” she said, urging her over until she could pull the younger woman in for a tight hug — a hug returned just as tight. 

The two went into the cottage. They sat, enjoyed some ice tea. Mrs Stanley listened to Joci’s recent sea adventure and Joci listened to stories about grandchildren and big meals. Laughter was spilled.

“Speakin’ o’ fam’ly,” she said after catching up, sliding the envelope across the table. “Coul’ ya give this ta Zee whenev’ she drops in?” 

Mrs Stanley looked at the penmanship. Not the best, but clearly practiced. “Did you write this, dear?”

Joci nodded hesitantly. “Hope ya kin read et...”

“Ya have better handwriting than my healers.” The elder grinned. “Good for you, dearie,” she said, tucking the envelope away. “Was this why you stopped by?”

“I mean tha’ an’ ... I nee’ some talkin’ ‘elp too, I mean ... if tha’ be ok?”

“Advice?”

“Aye. Like from a mum, yanno?”

Mrs Stanley nodded. She knew how hard it was for Joci to reach out. 

“Et’s abou’ someone ... someone I met.”

Mrs Stanley stood. She poured another glass of iced tea and placed a small plate of iced macaroons on the table. “Go on, dear,” she said.

   (Ima answer this publicly because I have no doubt that a lot of people are curious about this, and I hope that’s okay. But Bathtub came about first as a joke, and then people started referring to him ICly aaaaaaaand he just stuck. Lets see if it matches up, eh? I’d love to hear about how you (and others!) think Bathtub came about. Maybe something will stick and solidify this poor cat’s background.    The joke: there’s a post floating about where someone wished to be a chunky, orange barn cat, and it was adorable to me. And of course, one of the replies on the post is of a chunky, fluffy, orange barn cat with a caption that has the cat named Bathtub. I ran with it OOCly because I had two orange tabby cats in my bpet list and it was all the giggles at the time. There were some laughs about how it was Darenis’ daemon, too.    Then I forgot to put him away. (Story below for dash saving purposes.)