#Lysuath

[inay-art]

I got distracted from the family portrait. Gremlins harassing an innocent man just trying to do his exercice.

#blood elf #Rahaeth #Lerothis #my art #Sal'danis #Lysuath

[glimmermagpie]

build-a-bastard workshop with Lysuath

#art #mine #WoW #World of Warcraft #blood elves #blood elf #sin'dorei

[glimmergold]

Mother

“Hi Minn’da!” calls Lysuath, as he lets himself in to the apartment and gently shushes the puppy, the little thing still wriggly and overexcited.

All the curtains are shut tight because it’s early, but that’s to be expected. He’s going to wake her up but he has breakfast and juice so she won’t be too annoyed. Not that she ever is by these visits. He doesn’t see her nearly as often as he should.

He tiptoes into the bedroom where she’s still little more than a collection of shapes beneath the covers. The box of food and flask go on the bedside table as he opens the curtains a crack to an immediate protest from the bed.

“Ngh… Go away, sprog. Too early…”

Lysuath snorts and drops the puppy on top of her. “Tell Cheesecake that.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches his mother be drawn from her cocoon by the enthusiastic overtures of a happy corgi and smiles. There’s peace here that he knows nowhere else.

Nereia Dawnheart, wrapped in her robe with her hair piled messily atop her head, ageing disgracefully and fussing a puppy. There’s no sight more welcome in his life. Finally she gets to breakfast, as Lysuath distracts the absurd creature with tickling and ruffles.

“So what’s this in aid of then? And don’t say you were missing me, I doubt you have time to,” she asks, eyeing him speculatively over a pastry.

Lysuath gestures to the dog. “He’s for you. I thought you could use the company.”

“You just turned up at sparrow’s fart to give your old mother a dog?” She arches one red brow in perfect scepticism.

“‘Oh, thank you so much Lysuath! He’s adorable, Lysuath! I shall walk him every day and think of you, my darling boy!’,” he mocks, with no sting in it. “I can’t keep him. No time, like you said, and he can’t follow me where I’m going.”

He ruffles Cheesecake’s chubby canid cheeks with a faint stirring of guilt.

“Who gave him to you then?” asks Nereia.

“What?” Lysuath looks up with a blink.

“You wouldn’t have taken him for yourself, so you didn’t buy or rescue him. But he’s precious enough to you that you don’t want to just dump or sell him. So. Someone gave him to you. Someone that means something.” She takes a smug sip of her juice.

Sighing, Lysuath snatches up a cushion to fiddle with. “Someone I have to work with, and who I… Who I don’t like to hurt. I don’t know. He likes me too much. Enough that I don’t want to be callous.”

“You’d throw a Magister’s emeralds into the fountain, but here you are making sure a dog is well looked after. What a strange boy you are, my darling,” says Nereia, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair back behind his ear.

“Emeralds are uninspired and so was he…” he mutters, feeling a child all over again and pinned by the weight of his mother’s curiosity.

“Boring old git, yes. Fine, I won’t push. Take happiness where you find it, but if he gives you more animals try to foist them off elsewhere? I’ll take this one because he’s cute,” she allows, as Cheesecake snuffles back over to her side and cuddles in, at home already. “What else have you been up to?”

“The Darkmoon Faire. Finding a new teacher. Making friends.” He twists the tassel on the cushion around and around.

“The one in the Ghostlands didn’t work out?” Nereia’s eyes, always quick, flit to the sleeves he has worn coming to see her ever since taking that particular post.

“No. Still not quite sure about the new one yet either. But there are others too. One likes to dance, she’s going to help my hand-to-hand skills. A good group actually. Not too dull. Lots of trolls.”

Nereia doesn’t ask why it didn’t work out, nor the cause for Lysuath’s uncertainty, just lays a hand on his arm and pretends not to feel the scars through his shirt. He will tell her, or he won’t, and that’s always how it’s been with them.

“Good,” she says. “Letting you get bored is a hazard to all life on this world and I really can’t be bothered to go wherever pops into the sky next. Please do not bring trolls back here, thank you.”

“You’d like Maz. And Yazu.”

“Are those the two that don’t take any of your shit?”

“Uh huh.” He grins and then turns at her tap on his shoulder so she can braid his hair.

“The one who dances. What’s her name? Do I know her?” she asks, leaning over to snatch the brush from the bedside table and setting to work.

“Amornia Ashwreath, and I doubt you do. She’s scary as hell though, Minn’da. Moves like a ghost. Ow.”

“Should’ve brushed it before you came over if you didn’t want it to hurt, sprog. What’s the new teacher called?” Nereia is merciless with the brush even after he complains.

“Kyr Lythorilien. I don’t think you’re going to know him either. He likes birds. And ranting.” And blaming his problems on other people, but Lysuath doesn’t think his mother needs to know that part. She’d only get angry and do something embarrassing.

“Mm, and sensible trolls. The mystery man. Anyone else?”

“Girl called Bevois. Skittish as anything, but she’s good. Fun. The kind of person you’d want to teach how to crush people with a glance,” says Lysuath, dropping his head forward so she

can get at the back of his neck. “It’s weird though.”

“Hm?”

“All the other elves are so thin! It’s like they never eat. Ever. I’m hoping I never have to share a reflection with any of them because I will not cope. Am I fat, Minn’da? Be honest.”

Rolling her eyes, Nereia smacks his shoulder with the back of the brush. “Piss. With your metabolism? Honestly. Do I have to go and have a word?”

They laugh together at the notion of it.

“Like with Filavel and my hair. Everyone thought you were going to kill her,” says Lysuath. “She’s still lucky I didn’t, with how slow it grows. You looked awful.” Her clever fingers start on braids, taking the time as if assuring herself that it’s all still there.

“She was twelve. She nearly wet herself.”

“And she still avoids me if we’re in the Bazaar at the same time. It’s immensely satisfying.”

They go on until Lysuath’s hair is neat and tidy, tossing memories back and forth over the dog and hairbrush as the sun climbs through the gap in the curtains. It feels blessed, as if no world beyond the room exists, as if nothing can shatter their bubble of peace.

As if.

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elf #blood elves

[lysuathflameheart]

Asleep

Drifting in a molasses haze of fatigue, his dreams take on illogical forms in the distant waking world. He knows for a fact that he is in a hammock, can feel worked fur under his cheek and heavy blankets weighing him down with warmth. Yet he also knows, with near the same certainty, that Nylas is pressed along his back, as hazy and irreverent as the city sunset.

"Nyl?"

"Hm?" replies the phantom. One golden-skinned hand seems more real than Lysuath's entire body. Than the entire life after.

"What're you doing? Here?"

An arm wraps around his middle and squeezes. It's not real, because it doesn't hurt as it presses against the wound there. No, the pain is all in his mind.

"Do I need a reason?" says Nylas.

"You do when you're dead, yes," replies Lysuath. "It's not as if I'm in any danger of forgetting you. I don't-- I don't need this, right now."

"My Flame, passing up the opportunity to hurt himself? Very novel." The tone of Nylas' voice shifts strangely, his breath on the back of Lysuath's neck is closer. Warmer.

"How about this?" purrs Theluvin. "It's been so long since we saw one another. You're being ungrateful."

He bites at Lysuath's ear, and it hurts even though it's the left ear, and it's gone. The arm has clamped down like a vice, captive, punishing. Thrilling.

"Do you think these people are going to keep your attention? Do you think you're worthy of their adoration?"

This is harder to fight than Nylas. There's so much more of Theluvin in him, all viciousness and venom, moulded and aligned. Forced to become.

"Bring them to visit. You can put on a show. I'll pull the strings and you dance and we'll see how long it takes, mm?"

The heat is sick and stifling and he would like to struggle but he can't. The arm is a weight across his chest, inside it, twisting like a dying eel as the fingers leech to cold where they clutch his heart.

And then rip.

"You should be resting," mutters Master, a shrouded shadow over the hammock, beside it.

"I… can't…"

"Because that man has your heart? Do you need it? No part of it is required here, remember that. There can be no space for sentiment in what we do." The lecture pauses as a claw is scraped across his sternum.

Apologies echo, endless, distant. He feels them as pale firelight, draws closer until it sears at his face and fingertips. Coils himself into the middle of the spilled words, rasping and broken.

“Elor felallan morin'aminor."

And then silence.

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elf #blood elves #dreams

[inay-art]

Vague ideas, projects beginnings. Tarot card for Narmë and a (maybe, if I’m motivated) surprise for the bed nook.

#my art #Narmë #Lerothis #Sal'danis #Lysuath #Blood elf

[inay-art]

No still no portrait. Tonight is SKETCHES!

Redo of a first sketch attempt in february. Very happy with the progresses I’ve made in two months already!

#lerothis #Lysuath #blood elf #my art

[inay-art]

I am returned. Outfits for friends (Lysuath with red hair and Sal’danis with black hair) and my own gremlin (blond)

#outfits #my art #elves y'know

[inay-art]

You know the drill by now. Outfits! For Lero and friend’s Lysuath

[inay-art]

Sketchy sketches. The names of cats and elves for the curious! Dark haired/dark skinned man: Sal’danis (belong to my friend @Vesperidal on twitter) Red haired/pale skinned man: Lysuath (belong to my friend @glimmermagpie. Also the one dancing) Grey and green cat: Miss Demeanor (Sal’s cat) Tabby cat: Tybalt (Amarth’s cat, not in the pictures) White kitten with giant ears: Batling (Lero/Rae’s cat) Black kitten: Darling (Lero/Rae’s cat)

[glimmermagpie]

Lysuath Flameheart

#art #mine #digital #worldofwarcraft #OC #bloodelf #sindorei #WoW

[lysuathflameheart]

#playlist #original character #world of warcraft #blood elf

[lysuathflameheart]

Give me your hand

Lysuath watches the hunched figure of a Tidespeaker moving on the desolate beach. It looks as if she’s collecting shells. Alone.

The more you use…

He just keeps thinking about what he could do if he was full. Wonders if he could fix Quillfont’s arm, give Kyr some lucidity, keep everyone from-

He draws his knife and is about to move when;

“Don’t,” comes a low voice, from the shadows. Full of gravel but familiar, in a way. “You can’t see it but she’s being watched from the opposite shore. Telescope and two rifles. They won’t get here in time, but they’ll know you’re here and I don’t think any of you have time for that.”

The heartbeat is deep, and steady. Familiar because it follows them all around whenever Quillfont is present.

“Mm. Thank you. Sebastian. Is there anyone else on this shitty hunk of rock I can kill?” asks Lysuath, ducking around a boulder until he can sit, out of view.

The offensively large worgen emerges and sits with him, strange eyes on Lysuath’s face. He doesn’t like that.

“No. No one who wouldn’t be searched for. There are better ways to improve your mood, mate.” A smile. Not precisely warm, but genuine enough.

Lysuath’s lip curls. “It’s not about feeling better. What has she told you about me?”

“That you helped to bring her back. And that you’re very… confident.” Sebastian clears his throat and looks at the angry sky.

“You can thank me another time,” says Lysuath, really not needing that particular conversation just this moment.

“Mm. Going to tell me why you’re out for blood then?”

...He could do without this one too, but there’s something to how Sebastian looks at him, even as he despises it. Sebastian isn’t scared.

“Power. I’m running low. Void creatures don’t tend to bleed in the way I need. The way I can digest,” explains Lysuath.

“Ah.” Sebastian’s expression only changes in as much as he appears to be trying to understand. Which is… odd. “And taking that from the Ashborne weakens them I suppose? Which isn’t what anyone needs right now.”

Lysuath nods and swallows against the lump threatening to form in his throat.

“But if you had it, you’d use it to help them? Bring them back in one piece?” asks Sebastian, and Lysuath can tell that he’s asking more about two people specifically.

“I thought I could try to fix Quillfont’s arm,” says Lysuath, lamely, because he can see where this conversation is going and he knows, he knows, he won’t be strong enough to say no to the next question.

He wasn’t even trying for this, this wasn’t his aim, Sebastian approached him, asked him questions, it’s not his fault if--

“Can you use mine?”

Lysuath can tell the broken bark of laughter that jumps from his chest startles Sebastian. He covers his mouth with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut and tries, so hard, to keep the rest of it in. He waits. For it to be questioned.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead Sebastian just waits, patiently, for the first answer. He is, Lysuath realises, allowing him to think. To process.

“I can,” he says, finally. “But Quillfont will kill me for it.”

“She won’t. She’ll have a go at me and she might smack you, but she won’t kill you.” Sebastian sounds too confident in that for Lysuath’s liking. “I could write you a little note if you want? Say it was freely given.”

Lysuath snorts quietly. “What if I take too much? It’s hard to stop.”

“Then I’ll stop you.” Sebastian makes that sound incredibly simple, but then again he does look like he could break Lysuath with one hand. And like he’s done it before.

Kyr told Lysuath once, that he could be more than what Theluvin and Master have made of him.

But Kyr also told him a few other things, last night.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you could actually do it."

And

"Because I can't kill another person I... I can't be responsible for that again. I can't repeat that. Anything else, but that."

"Then perhaps we're all fortunate you do not love me.”

And

“Blood is just blood.”

So Lysuath looks at the man who is allowed to love, and allowed to help, the poet who survived. A monster with sharp teeth who gets to be soft.

And he thinks about Quillfont, Rosalie, and how for ten minutes she was just young, and hopeful, and in love without knowing what to do with it. The ring on her twitching finger, the cut on her face, the steadfast belief in taking happiness where she can find it.

And he says;

“Give me your hand.”

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elf #blood elves #worgen #blood

[lysuathflameheart]

How do we eliminate hate?

His hands are coated in thick, bubbling, oozing blood but it won’t go in. His body won’t absorb anything else despite screaming for more. Crying for it. He can feel his heart pounding, pulse thundering, knows that his skin is clear and flushed, his eyes bright, all exhaustion chased away.

Lysuath needs more.

But it won’t go in.

With an inarticulate bellow of rage and frustration he kicks the body over the edge of the cliff. A scout, probably. Accidents happen. People die.

How do we eliminate hate?

Around him.

The stones echo his fury back at him and twist it to mocking as he sits and stares, stares at his hands painted crimson. There is such sickness in chasing the drops spattered on his cheeks with his tongue and he does that too. Because there’s something wrong with him. There always has been.

I could burn everything to the ground and start anew.

Perhaps it’s the Void, perhaps it’s his own mind joining in, but he can taste citrus. Oranges and sugar. Heat wells in the corners of his eyes, heavy and thick with grief.

“Wasn’t enough was it?” says Master.

Lysuath startles so badly he almost falls, ruddy hands clutching the stones as he stares around, wild and panicked. Nothing. No one.

“I did warn you, boy, that nothing will ever be enough for this power.” The voice is coming from the air around him, thick and amused. “The more you use, the more it wants.”

So, I'll continue to search for a new way.

“Where are you? Show yourself!” snarls Lysuath.

“Elsewhere, ingrate. Calm down before you join that unfortunate at the bottom of the cliff. Made a mess haven’t you?”

He tries to walk away, further along the cliff edge, picking through trees and bushes, but it follows. The voice. Master.

“Another lesson, mhm. It always wants more, and more is so easy to come by isn’t it? Especially with a band of loyal… are you calling them friends yet? I wouldn’t, if I were you. Sources. That will make it easier on your mind.”

“Leave me alone.” Lysuath hates that it sounds like begging.

“No. Now, there’s no doubting you’ve made some extraordinary progress, boy. No doubt at all. Irritated as I was at you going, you might well have had the right of it. Getting some new perspectives, practicing in a much more realistic environment…”

We live long lives, Flameheart.

In the pause Lysuath can visualise the decrepit old leech pacing in the dust, one bony finger pressed to his lips. Thinking. He stops walking and sits again, because what’s the point of trying to outrun this?

“But I still think it best you come home now. Before more of them end up dead. How long do you think it will be? Honestly? Until it’s your fault? They’re so willing to feed and you’re going to take too much, boy. You always do. And you can’t fight them all if they turn on you. You might manage one or two, if they’re pulling punches, but not all of them. You’ll be damaged beyond repair if that happens, mhm.”

“Why do you care? Just get someone else. There are plenty of other desperate, hungry, people in Murder Row.” He hates how his voice cracks.

“Investment! Years I’ve given to training you, honing you! Finding you, even. I am intensely opposed to starting again, Lysuath. You won’t be walking away from me. Come. Home.”

Staring out at the greying horizon, he thinks about it. Bared and bleeding wrists, hands, willing offerings. Do you need blood? After almost every confrontation. Even if they don’t like it, they trust him to take it and use it well. And just how hard it is to say no. The times he doesn’t.

And I still have a few centuries left in me.

And he thinks about dusty books, wavering gazes, the things he imagines during the quiet hours. Opened throats. Trying to push life back in to something so abused as the soul fled it, feeling all of it, a pulse he couldn’t save.

The unbridled terror in Gehran’s eyes as he reached for his knife. The one person who ought to trust him, slept beside him, the first to freely offer blood and… terrified. Of him.

In truth, Gehran is right to be scared. Finally waking up to the reality of what he’s been following around. The starving, never-satisfied, truth. Lysuath has always enjoyed how Gehran’s pulse jumps under the hand on his neck.

Baemus’ voice echoes in his head, replacing the silence left by Master, as Lysuath tries to remember when he lost track of the Fool’s heartbeat amongst the others.

How do we eliminate hate? I could burn everything to the ground and start anew yet that seems like an ever droll way to do it.. So, I'll continue to search for a new way, we live long lives, Flameheart, and I still yet have a few centuries left in me.

Except he doesn’t. Not now.

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood #injury #character death

[lysuathflameheart]

Magic, Manners and Poison

It has never been full before.

Lysuath has been apprenticed in the Ghostlands for a year now, learning everything he possibly can, magic, manners and poison. He can pick someone out by their heart rate at a hundred paces and pour a perfect cup of tea, and yet.

He has never seen the fountain full before.

Fountain in the loosest meaning of the word, pieces hacked away until only the pool remains, a basin in the floor of what was once the main receiving room of the crumbling villa. Deep too, more than it really should be. Just something to avoid in the dark, lest he fall in and end up with a broken leg.

He has never seen it full before, and never seen anything full of this much blood.

He stands on the flat marble at the edge and peers down into the thick morass of deep ruby as Master bustles around behind him.

“Strip,” orders Master.

He darts a look over one shoulder and scowls, but knows better than to question. The order is followed with economical haste and soon his clothes are heaped on a spare swathe of tabletop. He returns to stand in front of Master.

Master, who is holding his knife, toe tapping impatiently.

“What are we--” he starts to ask, but is shushed.

The knife goes to work on his skin, scoring runes into his chest an arms, crimson dripping from them. At least Master’s hand is steady. At least this isn’t the first time Lysuath has been cut in this room, in this villa. At least the knife is sharp.

And it’s just pain, of course.

The carving goes on for an indeterminable amount of time, spreading down his spine, around his hips, crawling down his legs.

“There are times when we are forced to drain ourselves into uselessness,” says Master. “Regrettable, but it happens. Always try to run before that point, or make sure you have allies around who will tend to you.”

“Yes, Master.”

“This ritual is going to ensure that you don’t suffer from exsanguination for as long as you might otherwise. It will give you reserves in order to wake yourself up again. It won’t fix everything, you will still have to eat and drink a great deal when you awaken, but you will awaken and that’s the important part. Understood?” Master pulls himself back up from cutting runes into Lysuath’s feet and stares down into his face. “Doesn’t fix everything, eat a lot when I wake up. Understood, Master,” repeats Lysuath. He feels flayed.

“Good. Get in the pool.”

He can see it in the red and rheumy eyes, the curling smirk, that Master expects him to balk. Lysuath’s pride suddenly won’t allow him to even hesitate in turning back toward the still, dark, sick surface of the old fountain. He can, so he must.

His stomach flips and twists as his feet find the cool marble again and then there’s nothing for it. No other way of delaying. He sucks in a breath, screws his eyes shut, and steps out into the empty air.

It is warm.

Warm, and it doesn’t even splash when he hits the surface, instead welcoming him down, pulling him into that viscous body heat. It floods his nose and mouth, forcing the breath from his lungs and replacing it. When it finds the carved symbols it invades there too and he can’t even struggle. Can’t think. Can only become.  

All there is, is blood.

-

He wakes to the sensation of cold marble under his back. The light has changed, that subtle shift that means daytime in the Ghostlands, little as it means inside the villa. The walls of the fountain crowd the corners of his vision, ceiling far away.

Nothing is red.

Lysuath slowly lifts an arm. It is pale, but the veins blaze beneath the completely unbroken skin. Not a single cut nor scar remains on his body as he sits up to examine himself. “Save the admiration and get back up here,” orders Master, voice ringing out from above.

Pulling himself from the empty pool, Lysuath realises that he feels full to bloating. Not sluggish though. Entirely alive. Buzzing with it. It feels good. He feels powerful. Too busy marvelling at the sensation, he neglects to notice the knife.

“How do you feel?” asks Master, circling him, blade glinting.

“Glorious. Powerful. Did it work?” asks Lysuath, grinning, eyes wild.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

At least the knife is sharp.

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elf #blood elves #blood #injury

[lysuathflameheart]

Visit Home

Sometimes Lysuath just needs his mother. He stays with Kyr and the rest until his body has locked up with cramp and the rhythms of the Cleft of Shadow tell him day has broken. Then, taking the ruby phoenix from around his neck, he carefully winds the cord of it around one stick-thin, bird-boned wrist. “Tell him I’ll be back.”

Silvermoon is as eternal as ever when he steps out through the other side of the portal. Wonders why people are looking at him until he realises he hasn’t cleaned himself up. He’s still coated in soot, bruises and blood.

Sod it.

He keeps walking, chin up.

Minn’da is not at home, holding court in a dusty tavern backroom instead. The lookout almost doesn’t let Lysuath through, his appearance is so ghastly, but his expression sparks recognition and she steps aside.

Ignoring the man tied to a chair, Lysuath goes straight to his mother, kneels folding him to the floor beside her, hands bunching in the fabric of her skirt. The soothing touch to his hair is automatic and immediate, interrogation forgotten for this, her son.

The last time Nereia saw him like this, it was Nylas.

“...Not your orc, sprog? I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No. Not him. He’s fine. No… Amornia.” His voice cracks.

That startles Nereia, because she hadn’t realised he cared. It’s so rare, these days. Her hand continues to soothe and pick through the rusty, burned tangles. Putting them to rights.

“What do you need?” she asks, gesturing for her guest to be removed, silently, from the room. He doesn’t even struggle. It bodes well for when they resume.

Lysuath shrugs, hopelessly, and continues to hide his face. “You. I just needed you.”

He talks about it eventually. It all comes out, the mission, his arm, trying to save her and failing. The amount of truth he tells is hideous, but he hasn’t even hidden his bruises or the scars on his arms and there is no other way to explain.

She was engaged. He saw the ring.

If Nereia bats an eyelid he doesn’t see it, she simply waits until the tale is told and then calls for food. Drinks. Encourages him to clean himself up, brushes his hair, sends his clothes for repair. Piece by piece she puts her boy back together again until he is ready to go out into the world.

When Lysuath slips from the backroom the inn is far more crowded. This time the only looks he gets are curiosity and appreciation, if they notice him at all. It feels almost wrong, like he should be wearing this on his sleeve for all to see, but Nereia has reminded him that that isn’t how they work. This is Silvermoon, and all weakness will be exploited if not hidden and carefully guarded.

He turns his head so Nereia can kiss his cheek in goodbye, then makes his way out onto the street. The afternoon shadows are drawing long between amber bars of sunlight as the full city presses down on him, hundreds, thousands of heartbeats.

He remembers when hers stopped.

And perhaps it’s only because his thoughts are with Amornia, still, that it catches his attention. A soft, precise step ahead. A dancer’s step, and build, light as a feather and cored with pure steel. Lysuath finds he’s following her, this unknown dancer, watching how she moves, the fall of her hair.

She turns, feeling eyes upon her, and he doesn’t know her face but still thinks perfect.

Jogs to close the distance between them even as she tries to work out if they know one another, recognising the dance in his movements as he has seen it in hers.

“Lysuath Flameheart,” he says, smile full of warmth. “How about a drink?”

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elves #blood elf #character death

[lysuathflameheart]

Brunch

Perfect control.

It would be a lie for Lysuath to claim he is on possession of it. He has his good days and his bad days. Silvermoon tests him, so full of memories, ghosts. Too many people he knows. It’s still better though. Better than the Ghostlands. It’s just pain, in Silvermoon, nothing there scares him, but in the Ghostlands he can never stifle the fear.

There is always a hand around his throat.

The city then.

He is having brunch with Lady Everlight, because she’s lonely enough to pretend he might be interested in her and she likes to gossip. Only one in ten things she says is ever valuable, but no one else is biting. She always pays too and Lysuath isn’t about to start turning down free food. So they sit at a breezy patio table, he lets her rest her hand on his knee, and pretends to look interested whilst watching the plaza out of the corner of his eye.

“--and you know she’s pregnant, of course? It’s not his and apparently he’s realised that but I think he’s just so desperate that he’ll look the other way. Which is fine, you know, I’m not judging if that’s how people want to conduct themselves, they just ought to do it with more discretion!--”

On and on it goes, Lysuath humming and nodding at any pause in the endless monologue. He watches her chin wobble for a bit, which she misinterprets as him watching her mouth and then blushes profusely whilst the babbling never ceases.

One finger has started to tap to the rhythm of her nervous heartbeat when a flash of blonde hair catches his attention from across the square. That should not be remarkable, but there’s something in the shade that makes him look.

For a moment, a scant few seconds, he thinks Ashwreath has come to check up on him. Those are her cheekbones, her nose, the same haughty cast to her mouth. But if she has, then this is a new illusion and a padded disguise, a deceiving heartbeat and healthy blood.

His body realises before his mind catches up, responding to muscle memory that doesn’t belong to him, vertebrae locking into place one after another as his spine straightens, knees coming together, chin up. A perfect posture that isn’t his and ghostly flecks of boiling liquid on his bare shoulders.

Hatred erupts, howling out from the back of his mind in a billow of charcoal smoke and blasted embers. It is so immediate, so tangible a thing, that Lysuath expects the woman to feel it from a distance, thinks he will see the marks of his burning eyes sear into her skin.

“...Lysuath?”

Everlight’s voice snaps his attention back, first to her face, then to her hand where it still clings, clammy, to his knee. She has followed the direction of his gaze and what a time for her to pay attention to something that isn’t herself.

“That’s Seraleth Highspell isn’t it? How do you know her? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

Lysuath damns the woman and her bloodhound’s nose for gossip.

“I thought she was someone else,” he mutters, closing his hand over Everlight’s. “As lovely as this has been, Essie…”

He squeezes. And squeezes, and squeezes until her fingers have gone white, until he can

feel bones grinding together, until the pain cuts through her shock and she sobs. All the while he watches Seraleth Highspell on her way out of the plaza. Only when the blonde head vanishes does he look back at Everlight.

“I’m bored of you now. Fuck off.”

Her retreating figure, shoulders shaking, hand cradled against her chest, brings Lysuath a pulse of vile, twisted satisfaction at getting to watch another bridge burn. He rubs the scar on his hand, the one he has come to think of as belonging to Amornia for the amount of times he’s given to her from it, and stares at nothing.

It is only when the waiter comes out with the check that he realises just how badly he has lost control.

#writing #mine #world of warcraft #blood elves #blood elf #injury #abuse