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DWC #4

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Day 4: Vengeance & Satisfaction

Day had broken, and the two lovebirds had been hurried out of the city. The long walk back to camp had begun. The winding stone stairs that led out of Valdrakken went on and on, the warmth of the morning sun began to pierce past the stone spires and illuminated the path forward. Urbanisation gave way to the rural fields and grasslands. Safely out of the city limits, Senko ran a thumb over a purple crystal in her many pouches. A green rift broke through reality, spewing forth a twitchy imp.

“HI FRENS.” The imp shouted, as loud as a direhorn in a pottery store.

“Hello, Pippy.” Senko said, giving the little creature a pat on the head before handing him some bags to carry. “Would you mind helping out?”

The imp, immediately, took the bags and shoved his head into them. The imp was more cat than fiend in more than one way. His spindly tail swept cross the dusted roads before picking the bags up and helping to carry them along. The two vixens held hands as they walked across country. The stones had given way to dirt paths, crudely made from foot traffic of the centaurs and drakonids. As they crossed into the Ohn’ahran Plains once more, they stopped by a small pond for a midday rest.

A serene body of water, tucked away behind blades of grass was the perfect spot for some respite. As the two sat down, Senko took her fiancée into an embrace by the water’s edge. The peaceful moment broke when Oonee asked a question.

“That story Vedda told last night… Do you remember much of it, darling?” She asked, her eyes looking up past the wooden frame of her mask.

“Bits and pieces. A fanciful myth, to be sure.” Senko mused, rubbing Oonee’s shoulder as she gazed across the pond.

“Do you think he knows?” Oonee asked back.

“Probably. I spoke to him years ago about the things I did in Vol’dun, but I don’t think he ever learnt the extent of it. Few do.” Senko replied, watching as Piprot placed down the bags by her feet before splashing in the water.

“Has anyone ever tried to-… you know?” Oonee asked, lifting her mask up which splayed her ears.

“Once. A frost troll. Didn’t end well for him. I suspect most people feel that the bounty isn’t eligible for cash-ins anymore.” She stated, idly throwing a pebble across the tort water surface. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. They won’t even lay a finger on you.”

Oonee’s quietness broke with a quiet giggle. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I don’t want to be a widow.” She said, her joke belying a fear.

“I always come back, my love. There is no need to worry.” Senko affirmed, plucking a wild flower and placed it behind one of Oonee’s ears.

A few minutes pass before the two rose back to their feet, having rested up. Piprot frowned as he swam back to shore and frowned even harder when he was told he couldn’t bring the duck home with him. He placed it back in the water, the solemn ‘quack’ that broke the imp’s heart before he picked up the bags and went off on his merry little way once more.

“So, what happened to the troll anyways? I don’t think you ever spoke about them.” Oonee asked, canting her head. “Then again, you do like your secrets.” She mused, giving a playful nudge into Senko’s ribs.

“Well, he didn’t last too long in a fight. I let him go, I’ve no beef with them.”

FIVE YEARS AGO, VOL’DUN

The table shook with anger as Ts’kon’s fist slammed into the crudely crafted drywood. Two years had past since his pact with the Fangcaller and he was still no closer to the imperial throne. He plucked a splinter from his hand before snarling and hissing in both parts rage and pain.

“How!” He yelled to himself. “How could one rat-“

“Technically, dey be more like foxes.” A voice interrupted the Viceroy.

“I don’t care what they are! Thisss Drakkari wass perfect for the job, and he got he got humiliated!”

The dark halls of the burrows continued to fall into disrepair. With each outburst of emotion, dust and plaster fell from the roof. The contingent of guards had slowly dissipated over the years to just a few handfuls of foot soldiers. Lousy ones at that too, they spent their time drinking and gambling. Loitering in the corridors.

“I am beginning to think you’re just here to ssssee me ssssquirm, Tuk’rakthul. You’ve done nothing to help the caussssse for agessss! I ssshould ssstick you where you ssssta-“

The Viceroy was cut off by a booming, ethereal laugh. The Zandalari was raucous, hand on stomach as his laughter drowned out the Sethrak’s complaints before ceasing. His misty, old eyes shot down at the serpent.

“If you be trying ta kill me through laughter, you might have succeeded, snake.” Tuk’rakthul replied, placing a firm grasp onto the viceroy’s shoulder. “Do you tink I be afraid of you?”

Ts’kon tried to speak, his words stuttered as he felt the sheer weight press onto his lithe frame.

“I be wantin’ a… resolution to dis problem too, but perhaps bounty hunters be not de right play.” He spoke, his hand still clamped like a vice on the Sethrak.

“Then what do you ssssuggessst?” Ts’kon hissed back, wrenching himself free of the troll’s grasp. “Enlighten me.” He furthered, forked tongue laced with cynicism.

“De bounty hunters be too-… flaky. Dey are motivated by greed, not cause. Your ‘empire’ is a joke, Viceroy. We all know it. Which is why you need to look inwardly.” Tuk’rakthul said, the demoniac dusting his hand on the sea-blue robes.

At first, Viceroy Ts’kon was enraged at having his nation besmirched. But he knew it was the truth. Everything the Zandalari had said was true over the course of two years. He thought, by now, the professor of the dark arts would have made a slip. Yet he didn’t. He was consistent. Infuriatingly so.

“Muster ya forces, Viceroy. Dis be a matter only you snakemen can deal with. I will deal with the Fangcaller, make her see tings from our point o’ view.” The troll said, walking out of the room. He paused, turning over his shoulder. “And Ts’kon? That dagger you be hiding, it is too blunt to pierce the skin of a troll. Try harder, next time.”

As the Zandalari walked out of the room, the Viceroy gasped in shock. He dropped a crude knife to the floor that cluttered and clanged. His every move, his every impulse – even the unchoreographed, was known. Just who was this troll?

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DWC #3

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Day 3: Bargain & Myth

Night had crept over the sky following a busy day weaving around the endless threads of the markets. The lengthy trek from the plains into the big city meant that a stay-over was needed. Loa forbid the notion of walking for several hours into a city, shop and walk all the way back. Far too gruelling for these paws. Within the residential, stoney spires of Valdrakken, resided one of the caravanners from Senko’s caravan.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, dear?” Oonee asked, arm around Senko’s.

“It’s either this, or we pay these extortionate fees. Thirty-five silver per night? They can fu-“ Senko and her profanity were cut off sharply.

The large, draconic-sized door swung open, only catch itself on the several locks that held it tight. Within the crack that had formed, a purple eye twitched and darted around within the lens of the glass. The sounds of dry heaving and fidgeting filled the hallway as the locks slowly begun to loosen. One by one, the chains slid back, and the door widened.

“Ah. Senko. Senko and Oonee. Hi, hello.” The voice replied, more of his ghastly white frame came into view as the door opened.

The Vulpera was wide eyed and erratic. His body was thin as the stick he used to prop himself up. Assorted dust lined across his snout. From what little of the apartment was on view past the resident, it was a dark room. Curtains and fabrics blotted out the windows, swaying only with a gentle breeze that snuck past both the drapes and the door. The vulpera hurried the duo in, glancing up and down the wide hallway.

The room itself was rather pleasant. The ceiling had been decorated with esoteric markings that carried a glow about them in the low lighting. The upholstery was a soft, deep red on wooden frames – wide enough for dragonkin to lounge about. The kitchenette, however, was a mess of wrappers and stains of dark chocolate.

The lovebirds barely had time to take in their surroundings for the night before Vedda, their gracious and bacchic host loomed into frame. His eyes fluttered opened and closed like the lens of a camera, snap, snap, snap! It was a gaze of curiosity. The apartment missed but one thing, rather, one individual. Vedda’s other half, a shaman named Lupo.

“So, Vedda. I-… I like what you’ve done with the ceiling.” Oonee said, offering a warm smile. She dug deep to try and say something nice about the labyrinth of intoxicants before her.

“Thank you! Painted them myself.” Vedda replied, chipper as his gaze no longer bored holes into the duo. “They help with the visitations.” He added.

Vedda was always the cryptic sort. The man was a profound seer, a proud silvercoat within the ranks of the Twin Tail Caravan. Yet he harboured a passenger in life. An entity of the void. Latched onto him like a parasite from their time in Uldum. It would be unfair to blame the eccentricities on this entity, but they certainly didn’t help alleviate them.

“You wish to know where Lupo is, hm?” Vedda asked, cutting his glances between his corporeal visitors. “He will be back soon. I sent him shopping. The chocolates, they ground me between my-“

“Between your highs.” Senko said, finishing the statement without any tact. As the words slipped past her lips, she realised perhaps those weren’t the best words to use. Alas, she could not take them back.

Vedda looked furious. Upset. Wrothful. For the whole of five seconds before a great grin burst onto his lips. “Quite so! We all need our anchors, after all – you know yourself how they can be.”

Senko shuffled awkwardly, a paw brushing her head. She had partaken in the coalescence of the dream that sprinkled across the Dragon Isles, however her state of being at that time was quite embarrassing. To save her from a memory, the door opened. It took the whole of a half-second before Vedda was prepared to cast some eldritch blast before lowering his hands.

“Oh, hi honey.” He greeted the visitor.

Lupo stood awkwardly at the door, realising that he was less than two seconds from having pure shadow blast into his hauberk. His hands wrapped around cheap, tatty bags made from plastic by-products that the goblins churned out. Various different boxes of chocolate stuck out of them.

“Were you really going to shoot me while we had visitors over?” Lupo teased, handing over one of the chocolate bars to his partner before giving a wide hug to the trio.

Some hours had past between the four meeting up. Night had now set across the city. A crudely made sofa bed was given to Senko and Oonee as the two rested on the quilts as Vedda offered his lodgers a drink. A tea that fizzled and crackled with some form of energy. As everyone hunkered down for the night, Vedda gave Senko an uncertain stare before his purple eyes flickered and flashed.

“You know, Senko,” He began to speak, slow, and deliberate with his words. “You remind me of a myth from back home. Of a firestorm that consumed the Sethrak…”

SEVEN YEARS AGO, VOL’DUN

The viceroy hushed his adjutant quickly before hurrying himself and the Skycarver out of the room. He barrelled through the doors and got clear of the guards. A glossy sheen, comparable to sweat, now drenched the brow of the serpent. As his eyes darted past the Skycarver towards the door and the bemused guards, the hissing tone of the schemer grew low.

“You fool! You nearly wasssted our bessst bargaining chip before the pretendersss!” He shouted into the ear of his minion. “Are you certain you have the right name?”

“Posssitive! I even brought a witnessss, from the docksss of the Zandalar!” The Skycarver replied, wrenching himself free of the tightened grasp of his superior. “I would not fail you, Viceroy.” He affirmed.

The viceroy’s fangs birthed a grin of malice. This was his in. The heirs of the empire all voted for themselves, and that kept the imperial throne out of reach. No-one would prostrate themselves to another claimant unless the situation was dire.

“I know I cannot be the only one who lossst ssssomeone in the ruin.” He mused out loud. “Oh. Oh yesss. Poor, darling, Fangcaller Ssssorikth. Lossst her lover. Revenge for allegiance. Walk with me, Ssskycarver.”

The Viceroy tapped the tips of his calculating fingers together, he drummed them against each other as he walked back down the hallway. The guards remained motionless and silent, excluding the eyes. Amber eyes peered from their helms as they watched the Viceroy saunter into the chambers once more. The guards had heard it all, sworn to silence, they could only watch as their new leader walked past.

The duo entered the chamber once again, wordlessly, the Skycarver walked forward to beckon the Fangcaller. Wearily, she followed in kind, refusing to leave the halls whilst the rest bickered amongst themselves. The doors moved slightly as the witness was brought in. The Zandalari was gigantic compared to the Sethrak. His azure robes flowed from hunched body. Wispy, white hair hung from his scalp and a pair of venerable, solid gold tusks hung on his jaw.

“Who issss thisss, Viceroy? And what do you want?” The Fangcaller asked, crossing her arms across the toga.

“A witnesss.” He stated, stepping slightly to the side to allow the frame of the Zandalari to fill the lady’s sight. “He saw the one who butchered our people.”

“Dat be true.” The troll spoke, his voice was low and carried an ethereal bass with it. Like war-drums on the wind.

The Skycarver looked furious, to speak in such a hallowed space without permission was sacrilege, but before he bore his arms into striking, he was calmed by the Viceroy. He wasn’t the emperor yet, but he was sworn to obey his liege’s commands.

“You know who killed my husssband?” Sorkith asked, her eyes grew wide. “Who?! Who’ssss blood sssshall I ssspill?!” She continued, her hushed whispers breaking the silence.

The viceroy raised his hand to order silence, to stop the troll from revealing the bargaining chip.

“Not sssso fassst, madame. We both lossst ssssomeone in thesssee cowardly attacksss… If you want the name, I want ssssomething in return.” He stated, still wearing a twisted grin on his serpentine face.

“You are bargaining for the livesss of countlesssss dead?! Are you sssssick in the hood?” Sorkith asked. Her purple eyes bulged with anger at this indignity. “Do you feel nothing?!” Her temper flared and the lines on her body flashed with lightning.

“Perhapsss I am. But I am alsssso the only one with a lead to our revenge, you know what I want. What any of ussss want.” He said, hands locking behind his back as he leaned in, invading the personal space.

“The Throne.” They said, in unison. The seat of a dying empire, stagnating in legal and lethal disputes.

At first, Sorkith looked reviled. She had lost her husband; he had lost his daughter. Revenge shouldn’t be something to bargain with. But here they were.

“If you think I am jusssst going to break the deadlock without proof, you mussst be inssssane.” She said, glancing at the Zandalari. “… and I trussst that isss why he isss here.”

The Zandalari reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment.

“Dis… ting, be de one responsible for the slaughters.” He said, offering it towards the Sethrak.

“And now you have ssssseen it, I expect your loyalty, Fangcaller.” Ts’kon said, placing a hand on Sorkith’s shoulder. “You are a woman of your word, are you not?”

Sorkith examined the paper. Her eyes darting over the bounty poster. A rational person would’ve caught themselves and wondered how a bounty got made so quickly. It mattered not. Why would it? The devil is in the details, but the only demon she cared about was the one in the poster.

“Bring me thisssss… Sssssenko’ssss head, and I sssshall bring you the throne.” Sorkith said, hissing to the last.

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday32024 #senkothewarlock

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February DWC Masterlist 2024

Day 1: Casualty, Flirt (Aerden) Day 2: Suppress, Pastel (Ryland) Day 3: Bargain, Myth (Kara) Day 4: Vengeance, Satisfaction (Ouro) Day 5: Notorious, Altruistic (Taric) Day 6: Vanity, Feelings (Ouro) Day 7: Rumor, Discovery (Garren)

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DWC Day 4: Vengeance

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“And then... I remember...”

Bruce looked down at his arm. His skin was pale as the waning moonlight, black veins writhing with every weakened pulse of his heart. His head swam, vision dim and distant.

Bruce looked up. “The Red Witch. What do you know of her?”

The little lord pursed his lips.

“The legend of E’Andusore… The whore told you, did she?” The shards of whispering shadow framing his head began to spin, building momentum. “It’s a tale lost to most of my people.

“She was a vicious crone who haunted a powerful magic circle; she and her nightmare hound, Narral’thix. The sacred site held the key to Life after Death; the natural cycle made manifest in mana. A power she used to butcher innocents and turn farmland fallow.

“As the story goes,” the lord smiled grimly. “She ate the dog’s heart to tap into the circle’s power, raising a mighty tree surrounded by a bramble thicket miles wide that only she could pass through unscathed.

“Until the Lady came with fire. A mother desperate to save her son.”

“Three times I've asked about that story now. The first time I heard it, She shared Her memory with me-- that old Oak Tree.”

Bruce's jaw set as the plaintive mew of a kitten long passed echoed in his mind. In that mansion, where Zelion’s family portraits lined the walls and an Oak Tree split the marble floors, he'd heard her cries.

Her coat was mottled brown with camouflage not yet shed. Milk teeth flashed in the darkness. Paws too big for her scrambled, begging purchase.

Emerald magicks flared outwards from his touch, along the grooves of the Oak’s bark, scrawling up and down the trunk. A whistling shimmer grew twice as loud from below, a tremor taking the ballroom floor felt up through the soles of his feet to his knees; enough to require bracing but not enough to steal his legs out from beneath him. The floor splintered beneath the kit’s paws, a desperate cry falling away into the darkness below until there was nothing left to be heard but the burgeoning hum of the awakened tree.

She regarded him with a tingle that remained in his fingertips and pricked at his thumbs. The Oak spoke only by willing a single word to the forefront of his mind: Vengeance.

Her bark served him as second eyes, racing down Her formidable length past the vine covered, stone walls of the cellars, deeper still past crypts, dirt, stone, bone until they reached where Her strongest roots anchored. She was framed by a circle of fallen trees, Her roots wrapped protectively over an ancient altar of jasper. The dead lynx cub’s broken back never made it to the stone.

And then the Oak stood silent.

“I was wondering if I’m no better off than that kitten when Kallarel--”

The smell of sulfur filled the worgen's lungs. Hellfire: the scent which lingered as the bramble brands crawled into skin; the scent which pierced the air with every lit cigarette. He focused on the sickening sweetness alone.

One by one, the arch over his heart gave way as Kallarel tore into the hallway, a manifested monster hot on her high heels with a blazing green gem alight in a chest once empty.

By the third spout of blighted blood, the witch was upon them; beauty, beast and burden all.

By the fourth, her hands were alight with a green fire to match the flame licking the demon’s panting tongue.

By the fifth, the lord’s prone figure was cloaked in cold shadow, absconded without a trace apart from the faintest flicker of rot against the nostrils before the witch could claim him.

And as the last of Zelion’s void crystals burst in Bruce’s chest, the haphazardly placed shard split in two with a deafening crack.

“I can’t... I can’t have died that night. I didn’t. But I dreamed. I dreamed... I was in a house-- the house in Gilneas. With my wife-- with my dead wife, Sophia.”

It was shamefully small, that old cabin in Gilneas. Sophia had given up everything for him-- lands, titles and inheritance. In exchange, Bruce had built a shack with leaky walls and slept with her on the far side of the kitchen for fourteen years.

Now they sat across from one another at the dinner table.

“I thought it might come to this.”

Bruce felt sick. There was a teacup in front of him, which rattled quietly.

“I miss you,” he said. Her face was just as he remembered it; prominent cheeks smattered with freckles and a button nose.

She rolled her eyes-- big, stormy and blue. The same ones he saw every time he looked at his daughter. “You’re doing fine without me.”

“I’m sorry--”

“Don’t be. I mean it. I'm proud of how Lizzie turned out. But if you want, you can join me now. You can rest.”

The knot in his stomach twisted.

“You don’t have to,” she went on. “Not everyone gets a choice, but you will.”

The tips of his fingers felt cold as ice. The table trembled below.

She smiled. It was warm and remarkably genuine-- like a candle in the night. “I know this is what you want, Bruce.”

The support beams above his head cracked. Dust fell in a plume, rippling his tea.

“Just know--” she hesitated, expression soft-- “you’re messing with powers you don’t understand. The Gods may never forgive you for this.”

His chest squeezed. He couldn’t breathe.

“But I'll help guide you home,” she said.

@daily-writing-challenge

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DWC February 2024 Day 7: Rumor / Discovery

How sweet victory had been, if for a moment. Those Infinites fortunate enough to be within the timeways themselves when Chrono Lord Deios brought about Murozond’s rise – and remained there while this same rise was averted – saw their ultimate goal realized, and saw it all come crashing down in merely a moment, the blink of an eye.

Without Deios, without Murozond, with all of their past failures – and a Bronze flight growing in power again – what was left but the ashen taste of failure?

Rumor swirled among mortals who knew of that brief hiccup in time that almost brought their world to ruin: the Infinites and their ilk were slipping away to other timelines to escape a purge of the timeways by the Timewalkers; or they had taken mortal visages and buried themselves deep among the peoples of Azeroth to avoid reprisal; or they were biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike again. Truthfully, this was the most likely.

What rankled Caeridormi – and all her other selves she had glimpsed – the most was how incorrect those rumors were, even, it seemed, the last. Altogether worse, her kin were beginning to question the sense in their efforts! At least one, Eternus, architect of the first attack on the Temporal Conflux, had joined the Bronze flight. Was it the beginning of a new era of understanding? Or the prelude to indoctrination?

Caeridormi cared little. Whatever the others were doing, they had not seen what she had. Buried in the sands, like a city forgotten by time, only waiting for a new wind to wipe away those years, she had seen her own end, a pure accident, and it refused to leave her mind, however many other timelines she set wing and claw within. They thought they could escape, however they chose, but she knew the futility.

There was a lesson, of course, about the perils of ambition, if the dragon cared to learn it. She had only sought to envision the future where Deios succeeded and the Infinites ascended, where they could correct all the mistakes and accidents of history: the wars, the death, so senseless, all of it! How much better would it be were it wiped clean!

But there, among the mortals who saw to the Infinite’s failure, one turned to face her. Surely, he could not see her through the scrying, he was just another elf. But she could not escape the nagging feeling that his eyes, brilliant and blue, pierced right through her. She saw in them, in that moment, herself, lying in the sands of time, breathing stilled forever.

She needed to know who this man was, what could bring him to take her life. How a mere mortal could take her life! And so, she searched…

Luminash Dawnwing. An accident at Eon’s Fringe. Her killer.

Not, though, if she could find a way out.

She hoped she could find a way out.

@daily-writing-challenge

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FEBRUARY DWC 2024 DAY 7 - DISCOVERY

Garren collapsed down onto his bed with a sigh, giving his arms a good shake off to the sides to loosen up tight muscles. It had been a long, but rewarding day, as most of his days had been since he made a new home in Bel’ameth. As someone that had been displaced by the fires in Teldrassil, he had been given this home with only one condition: Help build new homes for others in need.

Every day more and more of the refugees from Teldrassil were now coming to Amirdrassil to start their new chapters, so there was no shortage of work to be done. As exhausting as it was, there was satisfaction in knowing he was able to help others just like himself, and in watching the community come together as a whole to rebuild their lives. He saw many familiar faces, some who even offered to help him after learning that his grandparents had been casualties in the fires. There were others that used to scowl at him for being different who now embraced him. Perhaps sometimes it took a tragedy to make people see more clearly.

He crawled to the head of the bed and opened the window, leaning his arms atop the sill as he peered off into the surrounding area. He would occasionally catch glimpses of two wisps flitting around the forest floors and never straying too far from his home. He had discovered his grandparent’s presence his first week here, and it was comforting to know that they were still there looking over him, and that they still had each other. He gave them a little smile and a wave before sinking back down onto his cozy bed.

This was a new start for many of them in a variety of ways, and after feeling so lost for so long, it was exactly what he needed.

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday72024 #garrennorassin

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Vanity/Feelings Day 6 - February 23 DWC

(So! Little break from the back-ground story because I just have a better story for these words that is more current for Trist. Little Bard is ADJUSTING and depending on her husband alot more until she can build back her confidence. @daily-writing-challenge )

The woman in the mirror stares back at me with my eyes and yet she’s a stranger… I hate the feeling it gives me, the face is mine only it isn’t… ”You’re so beautiful like this baby” She grimaces, repulsed and I revisit that same small shameful place where -he- only looked at me like this… when I wasn’t in the body that felt like mine. I feel like some unwanted reminder, the thing that holds me back from actually being perfect… The woman looking at me is after all engineered, made to be a version of me that’s better… So I’m a better toy. Then I hear my Husband stir beside me and he touches my back, eyes still closed. He tugs at the robe I insist on wearing to bed when normally I’d lay bare beside his own magnificent form. My Mate is no stranger to Vanity, if anything his is what makes me crave my own from wherever it seems to be hiding. I want to fit beside him… to match him the way I never feel I do. Groggily not even awake he moans, “Come back to bed…” I want to listen, but my vanity (or self loathing) dictates I stare at the woman in the mirror for a few moments more, risk making him more insistent, or worse waking entirely… but I have to remind myself… The Mate in my bed doesn’t see this as better… he just sees me… Being This woman means I can give him what I desperately have wanted to give him for years. I begrudgingly try to sort the conflicting feelings in me that this body gives me that ability but makes me feel… even less desirable than my given one… and I realize again how I’d been hiding behind Leo for weeks now, as if that could somehow make people not see me. In my defense it seemed to work better than it should. So why do I want to be wanted? Looked at… desired? Am I truly so self interested? Narcissistic… that I crave the validation that comes when I see someone looking me up and down and imagining all the ways I’d look with them… And I’m ashamed of myself for missing it… “Sunlight…” He groans and tugs more insistently, “Please… I need you back.” And like that it all melts away… He needs me and nothing else matters. It's the same groan that has dragged me back into his arms for years, and it always will. It makes me swell with this sense of belonging. When I climb back into the sheets, I feel beautiful, wanted… even when it's just to sleep a few more moments. He makes me feel at home in my body whatever it looks like from day to day. He is my everything… the font of my confidence and the reminder that I am not more or less, I’m just his. That simple truth is enough to make what was uncertain fall away, there’s simply not enough room when his plea for me rings within my mind, heart, soul. I only have the space for him.

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday62024 #tristayranambrosio

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DWC - Day 7 - Rumor/Discovery

( A continuation from:)

"I cannot BELIEVE you did this, Vya'daras!" Zariasona roared in laughter in the confines of her humble home now located in Duskwood. "Well, how else was I going to get you out of the stockades, Magistrix?" The sly smirk of the man was seen. "To which Magistrix are you referring to, myself or you." Zariasona was overly pleased with herself, and even more so with her best friend, Vya'daras Nightvein. "You never, ever, cease to amaze me. I need someone who is as craft and clever as you, dear friend. It certainly pays off to have friends, it seems." Zariasona continued chuckling, sipping her wine periodically. Agnes, who had managed to escape the fiasco entirely, came into the room and filled both of their wine glasses before giving them both a bow and exiting the room.

"Dearest Magistrix, surely you know that my own skills are unparalleled. I have quite the plethora of stick up my own sleeves, you know. I've been using subtle, subversion and subterfuge for eons now. Did you really think that I'd let you, of all people, fall victim to the Kirin Tor?" Vya's voice purred out. "I did not, actually. I just hadn't realized that you managed to evade their grasp. Once again, you never cease to amaze me. I knew you were good in the shadows, but darling this is far better than I could have ever imagined!" Zaria had finally simmered down from her laughter, sinking contently into the sofa. "You are my dearest friend Zariasona. You've given me things I had only dreamed of having. I simply cannot just let you out of my sight that easily." Vya'daras had long since found comfort in the plush couch across from Zariasona. His own tendril from his pony tail sat idly upon his shoulder as the fire crackled in the hearth. "Well, This is certainly the best discovery that I've had in some time. I'm honored, and glad, to have you beside me." The words were heartfelt, something she rarely displayed for anyone. "Just remember Zariasona, Magistrix Kamille Clinton only serves the Kirin Tor and its interests." He said with a sly grin. "My Apologies, Magistrix Clinton!" She said with her own devious grin to match. "How could I have been so foolish as to forget your wonder and splendor!" Together, the two roared in laughter over their deviousness.

@daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday72024 #zariasona

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DWC: Day 3 - Myth

“It’s a myth,” Drackul kept saying while he was watching the others play video games in the living room. “It’s not a myth,” Morpheus looks over his shoulder for a second. “Then what are you doing about the situation in front of you? You are fighting higher level creatures and endless health potions — that are on a timer.” Morpheus was attempting to level faster by completing quests and having shitty equipment. Plus his hunting log. “You will die and I will laugh my ass off,” Drackul smirks with a light chuckle.

Aries was watching them with amusement brewing inside of her. She looks at the TV screen briefly then goes back to drawing in her sketchbook. “I am on my way,” Hades announces from two feet away. He was walking into the living room with his laptop and hands full of equipment. “May I?” He sits by Aries on the sofa, getting himself situated. “You look beautiful today,” He says with a light smile.

“Thank you,” She responds, making brief eye contact with him. Her hands fold in her lap, “You look handsome as always.” Hades smile widens then he clears his throat to regain focus. “Why are you leaving me out to dry? What the fuck, dude?” Morpheus was getting annoyed. He takes a pillow and throws it at Hades. “He wants to wait till you are at one percent and rescue you like the damsel in distress you’ve become,” Drackul teases Morpheus.

“I wanted to be a gentleman and say hello to Aries,” Hades abruptly answered. “Shut up and rescue me before I fail. I’ll have to hear about this failed attempt and the myth will be busted!” Morpheus was a man gripped by stress and sweaty palms. He was sweating from the endless mouse clicks and keyboard noise.

— @daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday32024 #returntohelheim

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DWC #2

@daily-writing-challenge

Day 2: Suppress & Pastel

(I know it’s technically ended but I joined late so I’m just going to keep going. :3c)

Some days had passed since Senko brooded atop of the perch. Her mind still lingered on the events that transpired the last time she roamed the sandbanks of Vol’dun. She never admitted it to anyone, but her neck and wrists still ached from the shackles of slavery. Her mind kept playing the same scenes over and over, even now as she walked across the paved streets of Valdrakken. The city was a cosmopolitan jewel on the crown of Azeroth’s civilisations.

Engineering that would shame Ironforge, militancy on par with Orgrimmar, markets and bazaars to rival Silvermoon and Dalaran combined. The scent of spice broke her ruminations as she glanced at a fellow Vulpera, hard at work to convince a pack of dragonkin to try a hearty dollop of Akunda’s Bite, grounded up and sprinkled on their cereals in the morning. How ironic it was a scent of home that broke her mental revisitations.

The fox had a flair to him, a showman. Pale, yellow fur broken up by his gaudy blue vest. He spun a tattered top hat around his left paw, while firmly grasping a diminutive shovel in his right. Granules and grains of spice glistened from it as he used it to gesture like an auctioneer to the market goers.

“Now, are you sure I can’t tempt you?” The man spoke, a wooden box beneath him creaked as it supported his wild movements.

“I don’t know,” one of the four-legged dragonkin spoke. “Spiced cereal? It sounds like a dietary disaster.”

Senko had only intended to offer the stall a glance on her way to meet up with her fiancée, her culinary curiosity burnt bright within her malign heart. Having made the slightest of eye contact with the vendor, she stepped over and slid between the roaming dragons.

“Ah! I was hoping to see you here.” She began to speak, shooting a fast wink at the merchant. “Your herbs were simply divine. I must say, spices in cereal – I’ll have to steal that idea from you, it was a hit.” She further went on.

At first, the merchant was a tad perplexed. He had only seen Senko in passing. Not many Vulpera bore horns from their brow, and one who lurked markets as much as she did was certainly a spectre one wouldn’t forget, as she continued to aid the sale, he shot a wide grin.

“Oh, you know me! Always happy to lend a paw.” He added, tipping the hat forward.

“… What’s the worst that can happen. I’ll take five-, no six bags please.” The customer spoke, eagerly plucking coin from purse.

Senko gave a smirk towards the vendor, she dipped her head and walked back into the thoroughfare. It was as she strode off, she repeated the phrase in her head: Rule four, support one another where you can, even the smallest bit of help can add up to something big. Her caravan had few rules, but they were impactful enough.

As Senko continued down the streets, she took inventory of the services being offered. A gnome and a goblin with engineering stalls next to each other, constantly firing fireworks and making each other’s gizmos and gadgets malfunction. A pandaren with several kettles, each brewing an herbal concoction. A troll downing a phial of some viscous liquid and flexing to a crowd of swooning Kaldorei. Stands and stalls lined the streets like bunting from lampposts, colourful canopies and flags fluttering and swaying.

Unfortunately, the sound and stench were also as eclectic as the goods and services being offered. The overwhelming stink of reagents being crushed, the deafening roar of haughty Shal’dorei laughter. Steel clanked and swears yelled as blacksmiths hit their faulds and fingers. It was a miracle she could hear her beloved call out her name.

The honeyed words of her wife-to-be broke through the miasma of mercantilism, providing Senko a beacon to walk towards. She weaved and, more often than not, elbowed her way through the crowd of the inconsiderate tall ones before reaching her destination. She saw Oonee with an armful of bottles, each one a different dye.

Oonee’s iconic voodoo mask sat squarely on her grey fur, her purple eyes piercing past the crude woodwork as she waved a bottle towards Senko. She took a quick glance at the stall and quickly deduced it was a tailoring stand. Each bottle sloshed with a colour that matched the canopies of the market. Oonee placed a few down back on the counter and gave a wide hug to Senko, bottles clinking together as her arms swung round.

“Been busy, have we?” Senko asked, placing a quick peck on the cheek.

“Of course, darling.” Oonee started, lowering her tone slightly. “They’re far cheaper than Dalaran here.”

Senko gave a chuckle: “Not like you to price watch, dear. Having trouble deciding a colour or are we going as a rainbow?”

Oonee flicked Senko’s ear with a claw, the half-grin and raised brows visible past the mask was something she had gotten used to.

“Hah hah(!)” Oonee said, her dry remark giving way to a giggle of actual mirth. Matrimonial banter beginning early. “I’m having trouble on which colour to go with to accent the dress. Any thoughts?”

Oonee scooped up the bottles again and held them to her chest. The liquids sloshed side to side, staining the glass slightly with each sway. Senko took a step back and admired the figure before her. She imagined each shade against Oonee’s fur and imagined a white dress. Her focus was broken when she had been caught staring just a bit too long.

“Try to imagine me in the dress, not out of it.” Oonee teased.

The comment caught Senko’s tongue in her cheek, of which had now adopted a crimson hue of blush. She fumbled her words before clearing her mind to give a reply.

“The pastel pink one. Matches your eyes, goes well with grey and white.” Senko affirmed, giving a nod.

“Great~! I’ll go buy some.” Oonee said, placing down the bottles and waving over the dyer.

Senko smiled as she crossed her arms, she took a deep breath and appreciated Valdrakken for what it was. A place of peace.

SEVEN YEARS AGO, VOL’DUN

The viceroy brushed past the guards’ long twin-blade polearms, the latent lightning in the skyglass crackled in the dark hallway. Braziers of blue flame lit the narrow and winding passageway up. At the end of the rough-hewn hallway was a stone door, thrice as big as any Sethrak with a serpent’s head carved in the middle. Each step the viceroy took, the guards clanged their weapons together. Harmless sparks flew off and littered the rug.

His fists were balled up in rage, the guards didn’t have time to open the door for the rampant official before he kicked the door in and entered the large, circular chamber. Once the royal chamber of Emperor Korthek, now a desolate room of misplaced grandeur. The floor had been carved with ornate iconography of Sethrak heroes and heroines – slavers and warlords all. The viceroy looked at his supposed equals with anger and contempt.

How he loathed his fellow inheritors, and they loathed him equally. With the demise of their emperor, the Faithless had been broken into clutches and petty bands who still shared the ideals of the empire, yet none would support one another in becoming the new sovereign. Each was dressed in the same scarlet toga and carried a sceptre; made from dry wood and fixed with a crystal ball.

Some styled themselves as princes or princesses, claiming descent from Korthek’s many concubines and mistresses, others as viceroys of the imperial territories across the merciless deserts. A meeting between such esteemed individuals was rare, even during the height of the empire, but now? Unheard of, save for dire circumstances – which this was.

“Viceroy Tsss’kon, a dissspleasssure asss alwaysss.” One of the figures began to speak.

“Sssave me your insssolence, falssse prince. You know why we are here, why we are all here.” The viceroy countered, slamming his badge of office into the cold floor. An authoritative bash.

“Do you have the final death toll yet, Viceroy? Or are we sssstill guessssing?” A softer, feminine voice asked.

“Five villagessss and jusssst over four-thousssand and five-hundred dead. Imperial and devoted alike.” Ts’kon replied, a hand running over the charred bangle. “No ssssurvivorsss, they had life drained from them.”

The gathered claimants gasped and spoke in hushed and hurried tones. Such a raw power was unknown to them, for they knew only the storms and the sands. The viceroy carried the soft stench of sulphur and brimstone around him, his exposure to such chaotic magic left a taint on his body and clothes.

“I have ssssent ssscoutsss to follow the tracksss. They’re Vulpera, that much we know. But thisss magic that wasss ussssed. It issss foreign. I ssssent my adjutant to the Devoted burrowsss, find out if they know any ssssussspectsss.” The viceroy said.

The gathered Sethrak murmured. While fights between Sethrak were rare, as the Faithless preferred to uphold the notion of racial supremacy and fought defensively against their zealous brothers, but even so, to think that their brethren would cast foul magics across the dunes out of spite? To snuff out an empire all knew were dying in such a vile manner was unthinkable.

The individuals nodded along to the viceroy, whether they liked him or not, he was the runner-up to become the next emperor. His decisiveness to investigate as opposed to blaming one another for perpetrating atrocities was a welcome change, however no-one would dare voice support.

Suddenly, the door burst open. The guards in the inner sanctum drew blades before realising it was one of their own. The Skycarver approached and knelt before the viceroy, giving narrowed glances at those present. His chest cavity heaved as he drew in breath.

“My lord,” he said, wheezing as the acrid, metallic taste burnt in his mouth. “I have a name for you.”

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday22024 #senkothewarlock

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DWC - Day 2: Pastel

“Do you want these?”

Aries shifts from one foot to another, admiring the wall of fabric in the craft store. She was not alone on this trip. A longtime friend and band member, Drackul was tagging along for the ride. He came up to her with a smile and already laughing. “They were on sale,” He holds up a bolts of pastel colors in various shades. “The clerk wants to get rid of them.”

Her focus breaks to look at the offerings. “I want to say yes, but I am afraid that I will have to decline.” She does begin to smile, touching the fabric. “I know you mean well, Darling. But I can’t use these. They don’t go well with my aesthetic.” Drackul nodded as she spoke, “I will put them back then. I didn’t think you’d like them. It was worth a try, right?” Aries gives his cheek a peck and a gentle pat on his arm.

As he leaves to return what he found, Aries sighs and looks around at the other things in the store. The decorative pieces and various knickknacks out on display. Her hands carefully take the pieces that interest her to look at closely. “Find anything you like?” Drackul asks when he found her in a different aisle. “I am looking around. There’s so much here, you know?” She says, looking around as she walks down each aisle.

“And we are being followed by the workers. They think we are going to steal their shit,” Drackul laughs as he speaks, “I want to fake them out..” Aries was listening to him and let her lips spread into a smile. “You’re so bad. You are right to have fun though. I think we can have fun together elsewhere. Somewhere they can’t follow us..” Drackul shuffles closer to Aries and smirks with a wide grin. “I want to know what you mean. Where you are hinting at, Aries.”

She lets her red lenses rest on his face and watch his body language. “Perhaps, follow me around and you will have your answer.” She was cryptic and playing hard to get.

—- @daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday22024 #returntohelheim

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Notorious DWC Day 5

Apep was notorious for twisting mid flight to see if he could unseat his rider, there was something fun in listening to the elf squeak at him. Ziorea aware of his ways molded her body against him letting him spin around in the air. She hissed at him between her teeth. “They are watching us. If you want to explore the world with me, you are going to have to listen.”

He banked a hard right threatening to crash them into the capony of trees. Rider and drake soared with an eerie silence in the air. Both of them scanned between trees for their target. Shadows ran below them. “There” She whispered into the wind. Apep should have not been physically able to hear his rider, yet he did. With a lift of her hands, fingers let go of the reigns trusting her drake to guide them. Fingers twisted and wove a spell snaring the running into place.

Curses were heard from the target as he was caught. The elf and drake halted the chase. A lazy circle flew back to the company.

“Might have to try something harder if you want to stump Apep.” Ziorea called out to the leader. “Far too easy” She grinned hoping she would be hired as their scout.

@daily-writing-challenge

(I might not get others out, I am so far behind)

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday52024 #ziorea

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Daily Writing Challenge - Feb 24

It has been a hot minute since I've written anything, so bear with me and forgive any mistakes! I may have expanded the actual size of the barrier to encompass more territory because I wanted to use that particular spot above the city for the setting. Thanks to @sharpen-jadescythe for showing me that spot!

Words: Rumor/Discovery

Ever since the Burning Legion restlessly paced outside the bubble surrounding Suramar City, an oppressive fear had befallen the whole of the city. The streets became deserted; the markets struggled for business and the pleasure houses and luxury shops closed their doors earlier than usual. There was no doubt war had come to their doorstep, and with the undeniable instinct for the elves to close themselves off from contact when anything threatened their shores, their fates had certainly been sealed with no allies to come to their aid.

Xalendyra plucked the gauzy curtains back from the window with a heavy feeling of suspicion settling into her gut. There he was, her wayward husband, slinking out the back door again. This was unlike him, because if there was an errand to be run, he would send the servants. He never did anything himself if he didn’t have to.

Dyra slipped on her cloak and stepped out the back door after him, waving her hand across the path he had stepped across mere moments ago. A faint glow, like a purple mist, revealed his path through the gardens. It was easy enough to use magic on him while he had slept. A simple location spell and she could find him at all times. He was remarkably incompetent at magic, she thought.

And so she followed him, but it was difficult to be stealthy with so few people in the streets. At times his path seemed to use discretion as it skirted into nearby alleys, but his steps along the edge of the canal were hard to follow without being seen, and she often had to slip into pockets of shadow to avoid patrolling guards. His steps wound towards a park on a cliff above Suramar, a scenic spot that was treasured by many as a picnic location, prime for lover’s trysts. Such a place was empty now, and woefully unguarded.

As she climbed the path with an assist from a levitation spell, she could see a dark cloaked figure standing at a stone picnic table, but he was not alone. Another dark hooded figure stood nearby, and Dyra could make out the sharp spikes of pauldrons underneath the fabric. She couldn’t quite make out who it was, though. She would have to move closer.

What are you up to, dear husband? She rolled this thought around in her head as she crept closer, situating herself behind a tree. She couldn’t hear any words, but could tell by their gestures that the one with the spiky armor had all the power in this conversation. She saw the figure raise a hand almost to strike her husband, and he flinched as an armored gauntlet curled into his collar, and bodily lifted him from the ground. Terror gripped her throat as the figure carried her husband to the precipice of the cliff and dangled him over the edge, his legs kicking vainly. His arms were splayed out in a gesture of surrender and she could hear the panicked babble of his words rise above the normal volume of hushed conversation.

“Please - I am doing all that you asked and more! It would be rather rash to lose an ally such as myself – I assure you – I am more than willing to comply – I just need more time – I – ahh!”

It seemed the figure had no patience for his begging and casually released him from the cliff. Everything seemed to slow to a crawl as she saw him plummet: before she could stop herself, the words of a feather fall spell uttered from her lips, the shimmer of the spell wrapping around her husband’s form before he vanished over the side.

Dyra scooted painfully along her rear end down the steep path, stumbling in her haste, sharp rocks and branches ripping at the fabric of her clothing. Montremus, she thought with despair. He was repellent and a thorn in her side, but she didn’t want to see him smashed at the bottom of a cliff. Whatever he had gotten tangled up in, she could certainly help him out of it, for her sake too.

She finally got to a place where she could stand up and breathlessly ran to the area she thought he may have landed. It was a lush and well manicured garden, but she could not see anyone standing along the paths. Her gaze drifted upwards, trying to track where he could have fallen, adjusting her expectations with the knowledge of the buoyancy that feather fall offered, which means he might have floated in a more parabolic fashion. Her eyes captured a flutter of movement from the canal and she ran towards it, catching him just as he dragged his sopping form from the water.

“Monty,” she cried out in relief, scrambling to help him climb up the ladder. His cloak and robes clung wetly to his form, tangling around his legs as he tried to right himself, and he crashed into her, taking her down with him.

“Dyra!? What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice high-pitched and shaking. “You must go home at once!”

Her hands pawed over his soaked body, checking him for wounds. “Are you all right?” She ignored his demand and hugged him despite her feelings that he was a stupid, stupid man and she probably never should have saved him. Perhaps it was to the credit of a fragment of whatever devotion remained that she pressed her warm lips against his cheek. That move startled him into silence because she hadn’t willingly touched him in months.

“Everything is fine - thanks to you, I suppose?” He asked, gently pushing her away and settling his dark gaze upon her. There was tenderness beneath the suspicion glittering in his eyes, which surprised her.

She nodded as he stood and helped her up with him. “I saw whatever it is you were doing. I saw you almost get murdered.”

“My business partner has a little bit of a temper,” he said evasively, removing his cloak and draping it over his arm. “It’s nothing to worry about. As you can see, I was meant to land in the canal.”

He was lying, because it was her application of feather fall that had adjusted his course. He would have been nothing but pudding on the cobblestones if it hadn’t been for her.

“I don’t like the look of this business, Montremus,” she said, fear lacing her tone, causing to be sharper and whinier than she liked. He took her by the elbow and they began their way back to their mansion.

“Trust me, I’m doing the best thing for our family’s wellbeing.” He was momentarily distracted by the eerie green glow of ships appearing and disappearing just outside the shimmering purple ward around the city. “These are dark times. Our demise is on our very doorstep. Other civilizations have had far less warning and we are fortunate enough to see our fates written on the wall weeks before it actually happens.”

Dyra’s gaze turned to follow his own. He was referring to the Burning Legion’s attempts to break through the magical barrier that encompassed their city. Their civilization that nearly burst at its seams, confined as it had been to this sphere. She imagined leadership was in a panicked state, day and night, since the invaders appeared. But she trusted them to have a plan, and somewhere in the depths of her mind, she felt detached, as if it was happening to someone else and didn’t wholly affect her future. Perhaps she couldn’t blame Montremus for taking action. Maybe he was trying to bargain with a smuggler to take them out of the city and flee.

“I’m scared,” she said before she realized she had. After a few seconds, she realized he had said nothing, and she turned to look at him. He watched the barrier, seeing dim explosions light the sky as the Burning Legion began to launch ship-fired weapons at the magical shield.

“So am I,” he admitted. They both stared at the beginnings of the assault, hands linked in the dim moonlight.

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday72024 #the-purple-elf

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DWC - Day 1: Flirt

Aries sat in the darkened club, lighting her cigarette to lessen the nerves she felt. Dressed in unusual garb, she looked like a creation of her own. Her long, straightened hair with a blend of black and grey. Her eyes blacked out like an Alien. Her lightly tanned, tattooed covered skin glistening under the candlelight. Her nails brush through her hair and maroon lips purse shut after smoke leaves her lips.

A transplant from London, Aries found herself in the company of club kids and horror-grotesque lifestyle in Los Angeles. She embraced the concept of making her drawings and paintings come to life. The concept for her outfits and costumes to become reality. The fabric and colors were the centerpiece. She was not afraid to show her body. The fully tattooed skin that went from head to toe.

Her outfit tonight; a PVC bodysuit with a revealing cut in the chest area. Her platformed boots with the buckles going up the leg. A black fur coat to keep her warm and add to the allure. She looks regal, beautiful and seductive. She takes another drag from her cigarette to inhale the smoke.

She remains quiet and collected with the music setting the tone for the atmosphere. She could flirt with anyone. She could dance and let herself go. “Another drink?” The waitress came by to ask her. Between cigarettes and red wine, Aries was fine for now. The bottle of wine barely touched. “No, but thank you for asking,” Aries answers with a gentle tone. She talked so calmly and meek for someone with an intense outer appearance.

A new breed of woman in the club for all to witness.

If you wanted to hear her voice:

youtube

Inspiration:

— @daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday12024 #returntohelheim

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February 2024 DWC Masterlist

Day 1: Casualty, Flirt - Jace Day 2: Suppress, Pastel - Xylaes Day 3: Bargain, Myth - Jace Day 4: Vengeance, Satisfaction - Xylaes Day 5: Notorious, Altruistic - Vixannya Day 6: Vanity, Feelings - Dicenne Day 7: Rumor, Discovery - Xylaes

@daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februarydwc2024masterlist #turning-through-the-never

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DWC Feb 2024 - Day 1 - Flirt/Casualty

tw: injuries (bruises, broken bones, no blood), drunken behaviour, emotional vulnerability

Arlyn woke with a groan, if only she could go back to sleep at least until her pounding headache was over. Why did her head hurt in the first place?

"Ugh..." The singer tried to blink her eyes open, but only the right would obey. She was about to rub the sleep out of the other when a rough but gentle hand caught her wrist.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice was rich and deep, soothing the immediate panic Arlyn felt upon the contact.

She knew that voice, Tides damn the fog on her brain.

At least the advice was welcome as she finally realized why her left eye wouldn't open. And now that she was properly awake, she turned around to face other person in her bed, her good eye widening with recognition.

"Ah, Sam..." was all Arlyn could mutter, cheeks suddenly flaming red -the tank top the other woman wore left little to imagination- as a few bits and pieces came back to her.

"Morning to you too, though it's almost noon." The worgen grinned as she sat up and stretched. "Glass of water's on the nightstand. Thought you might need it after last night."

"Thanks." The singer drank eagerly, it would surely help with her hangover. Damn... she didn't really drink that much, did she?

"So uhh, last night. Did we...?" Arlyn finally asked, though she had a feeling she knew the answer already, considering she was still in her bra and her doeskin breeches.

"Nope, kisses and cuddles were all we did. You were too drunk, and that's no real consent in my eye, y'know." Sam furrowed her brows a little as she replied, untangling herself from the sheets.

"Don't get me wrong, you're quite a sight with all those tattoos and nice curves, even with a plum glued to your face... just didn't want your time with me to become another regret after sobering up, especially after confiding in me like that." She finished as she stood, her scarred, muscled body in full view in her top and trunks. "Let me get you another glass."

The answer made Arlyn feel relieved, touched and annoyed all at once, and for some reason -one she actually knew quite well- even the tips of her ears were red by now.

"Thank you. I don't think I'm ready for that yet, and -hey, that's not a plum and it's totally your fault!" Not the most elegant way of switching topics, but the singer was glad Sam played along without fuss.

The indignant shout and crimson cheeks at the end earned her a grin and a wink from the worgen. Okay, Arlyn wasn't that glad anymore. Insufferable woman.

"All good, so don't worry your pretty head over that. We agreed to only do what we both want and comfrotable with." Sam's voice turned serious for a moment, but the levity was back along with her teasing.

"My fault, is it? I clearly remember disagreeing with that. Let me get you that water while you try to recall everything from last night. Oh, and one last piece of wisdom: Don't try to stand." Sam suggested, swaying her hips even more as she padded to the kitchen downstairs.

Arlyn couldn't help a gulp at the sight, followed by a groan. It was unfair how Sam could affect her so easily.

"Wait, what did you-" Her question was cut off as she jumped to her feet to go after the other woman, a decision she quickly came to regret with a pained cry.

Keeping her right foot off the ground, the singer hopped back to her bed and sat down amid a string of curses.

Her ankle throbbed horribly after this little stunt, and she had to bite back a hiss even at the barest of touches. At least it was already expertly bandaged, though that black wrap was certainly wasn't hers.

The sight acted as if she was handed the last piece of the puzzle in Arlyn's mind, the events of the previous night rushing back in.

---o---

Arlyn exhaled again with a huff on the empty balcony of the Flask & Rum, but the cold night air was no balm to her wounded pride. She adjusted her coat -she only took it to appease Gramps, she didn't mind the cold these days- over her shoulders with one hand, her other palm coated with a thin layer of frost as she cradled her swollen shut left eye.

The injury itself was not a surprise after the countless times she ended up like this, but the way she got the current one was utterly humiliating.

The Love is in the Air celebration was still in full swing all over Azeroth. It didn't matter in the past, but ever since she got her 'closure' with Jake, every year got steadily worse. This time all Arlyn felt was complete and utter loneliness.

As any good kul tiran, she chose to drink away her troubles. She had high alcohol tolerance so she didn't have high expectations, but if she could actually end up drunk, Tidemother knows she had earned a break. Surely one night wouldn't hurt.

Still, Arlyn had her principles so she didn't get smashed rightaway. She was only tipsy at best at the time, and apparently that was more than enough to ignore the warning of Horman and his buddies to avoid the brawl floor tonight. Something about a woman who felt so at home hitting people as if she was a fish in the sea.

A single punch. That was all it took to knock Arlyn out completely. When she came round, she was already leaning against the bar, Horman looking over her with concern while Gramps was shaking his head. Apparently the woman caught her before she hit the floor and even carried her prone form up to the bar to make sure she would be okay.

The worst thing was, Arlyn took the hit because she just couldn't tear her eyes away from the woman. And now she would be forced to look at her from afar with just one eye for the rest of the night. Good thing she was too embarassed to take a peek after this.

And now she was out here, sulking and figuratively licking her wounds.

"Tides fuck it all, I need more Anchor Drop and get properly drunk if I want to survive this night." Arlyn grumbled, covering her blackeye with her hair as usual. Damn it, as if her original troubles weren't enough.

Her decision made, the singer rushed down the steps to get back inside. Maybe she could forget the whole night if she drank enough. The sound of opening doors made her look up in surprise and missed her step, only let out an undignified yelp of pain as her right ankle twisted beneath her.

She closed her eye by instict in anticipation of the impact on her backside, but a pair of strong arms caught her by the waist.

"Woah, are you okay?"

Arlyn's working eye snapped open at the concerned tone, and of all the people she found herself in the hands of the woman who knocked her out earlier. Why, why did it have to be her? And why did the woman have to look so gentle despite the rough scars marring that beautiful face?

Arlyn wanted to curse and cry, but was unwilling to shame herself any further.

Scrunching together what remained of her dignity, the singer nodded, but her forced smile turned into a grimace the moment she tried to put weight on her right foot and lifted it back into the air instantly.

Her ankle was busted. Fuck.

"Sure as fel doesn't look like it. C'mon, let's get you inside." The newcomer clicked her tongue at the singer's actions.

Arlyn suddenly found that she missed the feeling of being held as the woman let go of heronly to switch position, with one of the singer's arms over her wide shoulders and one of the woman's own arms once again on her waist. At least they were about the same height, but it woudl be slow going.

"Can this night be any worse?" The singer muttered under her breath as she hopped down along. Her voice low enough that no one was supposed to hear, but the other woman did if the the rumbling chuckle was anythign to go by.

"If there's one thing I've learned, things can be always worse. A drink or two usually helps though. What do you say?" The words were accompanied by what was probably a wink, though it was harder to tell with the eyepatch covering the woman's right eye.

And damn, but that lopsided grin was charming, not to mention the way her whole demeanor -the way she cared for real- put Arlyn at ease despite her earlier dislike.

"As long as it's Anchor Drop, I'm in. You owe me anyway for giving me this lovely wink, by the way." Arlyn shook her hair away to reveal the massive bump that sealed her left eye shut.

"Was told the risk of injury was a given if I went down there. I thought that was true for everyone, then why is it my fault? But it's also true that I was surprised by the way you froze mid-swing, and I forgot to control my strength as a result. Sorry about that. You're the only one who received a full force blow since I've been here." The woman chuckled a bit sheepishly. "The name's Sam, by the way." "Wait, so you were holding back when you punched out the other guys with such ease? Tidemother's arse, what sort of beast are you?" She was smiling to take the edge out of her words. "I'm Arlyn. I would say nice to meet you, but my eye disagrees." She added with a laugh of her own.

"Hah, a big bruise doesn't make you any less pretty, and I can always kiss that eye better if that's what you want." Sam grinned before adding "And it's a fair question. I earn my gold with fighting bare-handed most of the time, and do bodyguard or mercenary jobs on the side. Plus I'm a worgen with all its perks, so yeah, you could say hitting people is my specialty."

"Arlyn!"

The singer thanked the Tides that their chat was interrupted by a concerned Horman rushing towards them. The precious moments he won her were barely enough to get her blush under control.

"It's okay Horman, just slipped outside and twisted my leg. Sam caught me and now she is going to buy my drinks, courtesy of my wink."

The man glanced at the brawler once before shaking his head with a sigh. "Of course, of course, but I'm not the one who will explain all that to the old man. She's all yours, champ." He pointed at her injured leg before adding a last comment for Sam and walking away.

"Heh, you got reliable friends, I'm almost envious. Though I don't get what your wink has to do with anything..."

"You can have him, he worries too much for his own good. As for that... well, this is far from the first time I'm down to one eye thanks to the tavern brawls. I guess it's actually quite often the case. Anyway, it works wonders for getting free drinks." Arlyn scratched her cheek with her free hand.

"As someone who's down to one peeper permanently, can say with confidence it really sucks. Sure, yours is just shut now, but continuous damage builds up, so take care, will you? Am sure your natural wink is just as charming, plus you have a lovely singing voice. Surely it's enough to earn your keep, isn't it?"

The fact that Sam had watched her performing caught Arlyn completely off guard. She got plenty of compliments before yet this was one of the few times she got truly flustered.

"Ah, uh... thanks... but it's not that simple." The singer paused, she didn't really pay attention to the black eyepatch hiding Sam's right eye from view before, but the scars were telling. "Maybe a tale for a tale? I'll try to explain, if you are willing to share how you lost yours."

Arlyn didn't miss the way Sam's face stiffened, apparently the topic was a no-go.

"That's maybe a discussion for another time, sorry. Now hurry up, we better get that boot off before you ankle swells into it completely, or you can say goodbye to your boot as well. You don't want that, do you?"

"Then it will be just another casualty of the night at this point." The flippant line earned Arlyn a chuckle, and she was relieved that the awkwardness was gone.

The singer was helped to one of the empty seats once they finally reached the bar -luckily Gramps' rotation was apparently over, saving her from another 'great' conversation- while Sam knelt down to ease the boot off.

After a strangled yelp and a few whimpers it became clear that the worgen's prediction was spot on. It took a few minutes, but Arlyn could finally exhale in relief, ignoring the discarded ruins of her footwear.

Relief that vanished instantly at the sight of her bare, swollen foot and ankle, the latter already twice the size it normally should be.

"Fuck. It's broken, isn't it? Good thing I have a splint and crutches at home..." The singer grumbled while wiping her tears.

"Could also be a really bad sprain, but I'm no healer and you'll definitely need one if you want to walk on it anytime soon. Best I can do is wrapping it up." Sam offered, rolling up the singer's breeches a little before she started rummaging in her backpack.

"Raincheck on the healer for now, so please go ahead." Arlyn chose to order four kegs of Anchor drop instead, the barkeeper obeying silently. Healers were still a sensitive topic for her even after a decade, but Sam couldn't have known.

The sudden pain pulled her attention back to the brawler, only to find she was almost finished with the bandaging, using a black wrap. She was so gentle, something Arlyn had already experienced more than once tonight. Her cheeks turned red, and not because of the alcohol.

She wanted to kiss Sam. Fuck.

"It's one of the wraps I use for fighting." Sam explained, easing Arlyn's foot onto the empty seat. "Not too tight, is it?"

"It's perfect." The singer nodded her thanks and took another deep sip from the alcohol, anything to distract her from the woman next to her.

"Ahh... good ol' Anchor Drop never disappoints." Expect it did, her mind was still locked onto the sensation of the worgen's touch. Yep, she needed more drinks.

Sam watched with raised brows as the first and then the second keg was emptied. Soon enough the whole round was finished off with Arlyn already ordering the second.

"You sure you want to go that fast? I promised you a round or two, true, but fucking up your balance and depth perception even further is a bad idea."

"Hah, this much is nothing. Planned to drink more than this anyway, and a busted ankle's not going to stop me." Arlyn reached for a fresh keg so she could ignore the constricting feeling in her chest.

"Hey, you really should slow down. How do you even plan going home like this?" Sam knew it wasn't her place to interfere, fel, she barely knew the singer, but she couldn't help a frown at the alarmingly increasing number of empty kegs in front of Arlyn while she herself was barely halfway into her second.

"Why, are you offering to sweep me off my feet like a knight and carry me home, hmm?" Arlyn asked with a tilt of her head and an odd, teasing smile. Normally she wasn't so daring -given her lack of experience-, but she was drunk and it was not fair how easily Sam could affect her.

"Yep, that's more than enough, you're completely drunk." Sam reached out to take away Arlyn's drink, and sighed in relief when she let her. "As for sweeping you off your feet, you know you already did half the job for me, right?" Sam looked pointedly at the singer's injured ankle.

"Ugh, that was mean! You're not fair." Arlyn pouted, arms crossed under her chest. Nope, she was simply not good at this sort of thing, but the brawler's small chuckle was enough to console her ever so slightly.

"And now you're laughing at me! Seriously, you're the worst!" Arlyn grumbled before easing her bad leg off the seat and took on her coat with slightly uncoordinated movements. "You said you'd carry me home, so let's go."

"I certainly didn't say it, but definitely a better plan than watching you get wasted. Just let me pay first before I get banned from here." The brawler sighed before reaching for her coin pouch. At least she stuffed it quite nicely earlier from the bets on herself, more than sufficient to cover the cost.

"Nah, it's fine. Miranda, tell Gramps it's all on me. He can dock it from my pay if he wants." Arlyn couldn't help a real, honest laugh at the worgen's flabbergasted expression. "Perks of being the owners' daughter. Now come ooooon." She raised her arms at Sam, ready to be picked up.

"You're the the owners'... I'm not even surprised anymore." A glance at the barkeep's expression told the brawler it was all true. "It's sooooo tempting to toss you over my shoulder and carry you like a sack of potates, y'know."

"I'd like to see you try!" The singer dared, only to be unceremoniously grabbed by her waist by a single strong arm. "No, no, no! I was joking, okay?!"

Sam couldn't help a satisfied hum as she eased Arlyn back to the floor. They made quite a scene, but she couldn't be bothered about it anymore. Most of the folks were completely smashed anyway.

The drunk singer hopped a few steps away to steady herself against one of the wooden columns. She simply stood there for a moment, oh so tempted to wipe that smug look from the worgen's face, preferably by kissing it away.

The thought painted Arlyn's cheeks crimson with butterflies in her stomach, but the suffocating feeling in her chest grew worse at the same time. Luckily the brawler was too busy with double-checking that they got everything to notice her turmoil.

At least that's what she thought.

"Fear not, going to do it properly now. You ready?" Sam asked once she had her own coat and backpack on.

A single nod -Arlyn still couldn't trust her voice- was all it took to lift the singer into her arms like a princess. Sam expected her to yelp or complain, but she simply wrapped her arms around the worgen's neck and snuggled into her shoulder.

"Just don't fall asleep on me. I have no idea where your place is, so I'll need directions. Up for it, princess?"

She didn't receive a verbal reply, just a groan and a fist smacking her shoulder halfheartedly. Good enough in her book.

The trek to the singer's place shouldn't have been too long, but it was getting really late and Arlyn made her take the wrong turn more than once either accidentally or deliberately -likely deliberately-, and Sam was getting tired. It even started snowing to spite her further.

"Are we close by? Not going to lie, I won't be able to carry you like this for much longer." The worgen panted as she stopped for a short break.

"You can put me down. I can hop along fine, just don't let me fall." The singer's voice was deflated, her earlier sass and cheerfulness all but gone.

"No need for that, can still give you a piggyback ride. Just no more wrong turns and dead ends, okay?" Sam asked with a frown, concern evident in her tone, exactly like when she first held Arlyn at the stairs after she slipped.

It made the singer's heart ache even more. She just couldn't hold everything in anymore.

"Sorry. I just... I just didn't want this to end." Arlyn took a deep breath and patted the brawler to let her down. She wasn't sure that she could voice her thoughts properly, she was too drunk for something that would be hard even when she was sober, but after putting up with her the whole night, Sam more than deserved to know.

So she did her best to explain evewrything. About the crushing loneliness, the lack of any touch more meaningful than a pat on the back, and she could hardly believe that for the first time in years someone held her with geniue care, like she mattered instead of out of some professional facade.

Even about how humiliated she felt after getting getting knocked out by a single first, and how her opinion on Sam took a complete turn during the time they spend together. And that of course all this had to happen on the one night she decided to get drunk for real.

"...and this, you carrying me like that, it felt... nice. Safe. I know you barely know me, that I'm pathetic, and that you think all these are just my drunken ramblings, but I swear by the Tidemother, none of it is a lie!" Arlyn was clutching at Sam's shoulders desperately with tears running down her cheeks, begging to be believed.

After a moment of utter silence, the singer was about to let go and make the rest of the way home somehow -she would have to hop or crawl since she was in no state to successfully summon Tymest-, only to be pulled into a tight embrace.

"I understand." The truth of those two words hit Arlyn like a sledgehammer, letting her break down into relieved sobs. The worgen just held her, grounding and protecting her amid the storm of her own emotions.

Their hair was partly covered in snow by the time the singer calmed down.

"Damn, your leg msut be freezing already. Better get you home fast before you catch a cold... but we'll need a proper talk once you're sober." The worgen muttered before scooping Arlyn up into her arms again. "Which way, princess?"

"It's fine, cold doesn't affect me much. I think it even helped, ankle's not throbbing that badly right now." Arlyn looked down at her bandaged foot dangling in the air.

"Before I tell you, there's something I'd like to do." She huffed out a short laugh when she was picked up, but this position worked just as well. Arlyn locked her gaze with Sam's.

"Can I...?" Unable to finish her question verbally, the singer's good eye glanced briefly at the worgen's lips as she leaned closer.

Arlyn could see obvious desire warring with restraint in that gorgeous golden eye. If only she could convince Sam that her sober self would've wanted to do it all the same.

"The thought was haunting me for half the night now... even before I got that drunk." The singer added with a whisper, running a finger along the brawler's jaw.

Sam's last restraints were shattered by that devastating combination, she finally succumbed to the siren's call.

---o---

"Warned you, didn't I?"

Sam's voice was enough to pull Arlyn back to the present, her face still crimson from the memories.

The worgen handed her the fresh glass of water, brows furrowed at the singer's injuries. "Tried finding some ice for those, but no such luck and didn't want to turn your kitchen upside down."

Arlyn chuckled sheepishly a little and took a sip. "Yeah, about that..."

She put down the glass and held her hands up, her palms suddenly coated with a thin layer of ice before cupping her closed eye with one hand and gently placing the other on her ankle.

"I'm a frost mage. It's a recent development, so you could say I still fumble around a lot. Finding a way to soothe my bruises seemed like a good place to start with, so yeah." She didn't mention conjuring spears of ice or the existence of Tymest yet, but it was true she had much to learn as a mage.

"Oh. Well, useful choice for your wink at least." The brawler huffed as she sat next to the singer. This also explained Arlyn's comments about the cold.

"Are you sober enough for the talk? Sorry for pressing, just I'd rather have it over and done with, and maybe get back to bed after." Sam's voice grew serious.

"Yeah, my head feels a lot better now, so go ahead." The singer had an inkling of the subject. She was tempted to ask if she could receive a few more kisses as a reward if she guessed right, but didn't want to give the wrong impression.

"So... yeah. Am shitty at speeches, sorry in advance. About your uhh, explanation, trusting me like that last night, it was risky. I do understand, and it's not my style to take advantage of others like that... but there are too many scums out there. Ones who wouldn't hesitate to trick and hurt you for their own gains. Just... if you ever have to do anything like this sometime in the future, be really careful. Please." Sam gently placed a hand on Arlyn's cheek, the warring emotions at what could've happened if someone used the singer like that visible in her gaze.

"I... I only did it because you gave me reason to trust you. And I promise, I'll be careful... but for now, I'm just really glad that the signs weren't simply made up by my imagination." Arlyn whispered with a smile, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. "And you were a real gentleman, offering to take the couch and all."

"And I'm glad you convinced me otherwise, your bed is quite comfortable. Best sleep I had in years, but being allowed to hold you certainly helped. And you're trying to distract me on purpose, aren't you?" The worgen purred, showing a fanged smile as another kiss landed on the corner of her lips.

"Is it working?" Arlyn's laugh was free and happy, and along the most enchanting sounds Sam ever heard before.

"Almost... just let me grab that splint you've mentioned last night. Wouldn't do to make your injuries worse now, would it?"

"Haaahh, okay. The whole stuff is in the back of the wardrobe over there." The singer pouted with her arms crossed over her chest, but she had to admit the brawler had a point.

"Now, since you are sooo concerned about my injuries, didn't you say something about kissing my wink better?" Arlyn teased once her ankle was properly secured.

"Mhm, more than happy to." Sam reached out to move Arlyn's unruly locks out of the way, setting them behind her ear, to reveal the singer's swollen shut eye. She carefully traced the line where the bruised lids pressed firmly against each other and was about to lean in when Arlyn suddenly stopped her.

"Ah, a moment, I got an idea!" She pulled out the drawer of the nightsand to produce a lightblue lipstick and wasted no time to touch it with a frostcoated finger before applying it over Sam's scarred lips with a grin.

The worgen kept back a wince from the sudden cold, but she got the plan instantly.

There was nothing stop her this time, and once Sam pulled away, a perfect, bright blue kissmark decorated the deep purple skin.

"It worked!" Arlyn chuckled, happy with the cool sensation on her swollen lids. The idea was a success, which meant that the score would be still a tie at worst even if her next one failed spectacularly.

"Can I ask for one more thing?" The singer whispered once she pulled the other woman down with her to lie on the bed. "And you don't have to agree if it's too much. Can you remove the patch? It's not about the story, I just... I'd like to see your whole face."

The worgen raised her brow at first before freezing in place. After a moment of silence, she finally moved, pulling off the eyepatch and revealing her scars in their full glory.

Arlyn reached out, slowly and cautiously, giving Sam more than enough time to stop her if she wanted to, before her fingertips made contact with the uneven skin.

"You're so beautiful..." The singer trailed off, but her hand kept moving, tracing each mark one by one before resting it on the brawler's cheek.

"Hmmm... maybe I'll need more convincing to believe that. And if you're looking for a real beauty, a mirror will do the trick, gorgeous." Sam quipped back, but her smile was gentle and grateful.

"Such a flirt. I guess I'll have to keep your lips busy or I'll be blushing constantly." Arlyn smiled back and closed the distance again.

Sam found she liked that idea very much.

@daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2024 #februaryday12024 #asharinhun

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