Alyssa Ward

The in character blog of Alyssa Ward.  Gilnean, Secret Warlock, Jeweler and collector of exotic trinkets.  WrA Alliance.  Facial Likeness: Laura Prepon

[alyssa-ward]

Heartbeat

I have been in this place since time began. I have been in this place at least one hundred seconds. I know, I counted them. I cannot know if I counted them too fast, or too slow, but I am sure it was one hundred. Seconds. I think it was seconds.

This place is a confusion. There are trees, and there is grass. There are stones. There is no sky, or at least, there are no stars. I look up. Or, I perceive up, and it is black. There are easels and paintings here. They hang from the trees. There are faces on them. Human ones. Or places. Buildings with spires. A small house. A cliffside path and a river. I do not know what they are.

Time flows. I know that it must, but I cannot feel it. I cannot remember when I arrived. I cannot remember when the paintings arrived. I am aware of a sequence of events. I counted to one hundred. That preceded this thought. There is linearity, but there is no flow.

Events happen. 

Sometimes there is a mirror. Sometimes I look in the mirror. I see a pale face. This face has freckles. This face has hazel eyes. This face has red hair. This face has freckles. It must be my face, even though when I look down, I see nothing but grass, and rocks. I am not here, but I am here, the mirror tells me who I am.

Sometimes the trees creak and groan and part, and the grass moves and a path opens. I am in a clearing, but there is another clearing. When the trees move, I see the other one, and in it sits a swirling mass of black and white light in chaotic incohesion. When the mass arrives I enter that clearing. I place my hand, I perceive the idea of playing my hand, on its surface. In those moments a voice speaks to me. It is a woman’s voice.

“Fuck of a day.” It might say. “Damn it Alyssa.” It might say. “You did good work.” It might say. And I will reply to it. I will speak in a woman’s voice. “Are you sleeping?” I will ask. “Did you drink too much again?” I will ask. “How are you holding up?” I will ask.

“I’m fine.” The woman’s voice will always say. And sometimes it might say “No, I’m not.” Sometimes the woman’s voice will talk more. Usually less.

Rarer still, nights come where the trees part only the slightest bit. I think it is night. It has the texture of night. The sky is still black. On these nights I squeeze between the trees, it feels like I have physical form. I can feel the pressure of wood against my skin. I perceive the idea of wood against my skin. And in the other clearing the swirl of black and white is thin and distant but present.

And then I hear the woman’s voice. “I love you.” It will say. “I’m so sorry.” It will say. And I will reply to it. “I love you too.” I will say. “It is alright.” I will say. And I think it brings the voice comfort. I think it brings me comfort too. And then it rains in my woods from the black starless sky. 

So events happen. Another event has happened too.

I am sure it has been recent. When the woods open, when the swirling mass of black and white arrives and I place my hand upon it. Perceive placing a hand upon it. The sky opens up. The woman’s voice speaks to me still. I speak to her in return. But there is more. In the open sky I see a map. Twisting cables of red. Blood vessels and capillaries. Nerve endings and twisting muscles. It is the inner workings of the voice. Of the person who speaks to me. I reach into the sky and pluck at nerves and blood. They move and react. “What did you just do?” The voice might ask at a time like this. “I don’t know,” I might tell it.”Something’s different,” I might say.

The woman's voice in the black and white mass of energy, I have come to realize, lives in a house of meat and blood. The woman's voice drives this like a carriage. Trapped in the house of meat and blood, she sends it signals and it carries her, and it carries me. When she touches the woods, the woods thrum. They pulse. They pulse in time with the movement of the blood in her body. 

Thump. Thump. A dagger vibrates rhythmic and strong.

I could drive a carriage. If I had a carriage to drive.

I have found some clarity. I am a person. I was a person. I could be a person.

When the clearing opens again, I will speak to the voice. And I will make a request.

“Kat,” I will say. Because I believe the name of the voice is Kat. “It has been nine years. Or nine seconds. Or nine millennia. I cannot live in these woods. Take me to the house. Take me to the body. Take me to the vessel. It must have been preserved. Cut open its chest, throne, vault. And place me within it. I will touch its blood and meat and nerves and bones, and I will drive it like a carriage. And you will not have to be sorry anymore.”

I think the voice of the woman will like that. I hope I will like that. I am ready to find out if I am the woman with a pale face. And hazel eyes. And red hair. I will drive the woman with a pale face, and hazel eyes, and red hair. I will be her heart where her heart no longer beats. I will beat for her. And I will say my name is Alyssa.

[Mention to @kat-hawke]

[kat-hawke]

 ‘ 💼 ‘

Send me   ‘ 💼 ‘   to hear a rumor about my muse from someone who works for / with them

"I've heard through the grapevines around here that the Director has had a rather messy trail of relationships since her wife's passing. It's been nearly five years since Alyssa vanished, and I still know nothing. She still claims that Alyssa vanished on her just as she did us, with nothing more than a note and charred remains of a home. I have no reason not to believe that it is the truth, but I also lack a reason to fully trust the Director doesn't know more about it. After all, a lot of us still believe she's guilty of having her Commander murdered just so she'd get the promotion. None of us know who she really is or what she's capable of anymore." - Sr. Agent Miles Ward

[Mentiones to @alyssa-ward]

[kat-hawke]

The night has been long. The mission gone absolutely pear shaped. In Kat's grip, the Gilnean dagger thrums with its otherworldly light, the soul within drank deep of their troubles today, but there had been nothing for it. In Kat's mind comes that familiar ever present voice. Even the indefatigable soul in the blade sounds exhausted. "Let's go home."

→ ❝DISHONORED sentence starters❞

Perched on the rooftops like a stone gargoyle in the night, Kat looked down upon the faintly lit building nestled in the back ally of the Dwarven District. A known drug den of renegade ex-syndicates that took every measure to move their goods unknown from Stromgarde to Stormwind without as much as a sideways glance. Nearly a year of tracking and nothing to show for it, on official records at least. But there was nobody here that would be missed if they suddenly went missing, a prime example of culling the bottomfeeders of society.

Hours had passed as the Director sat perfectly still, the Gilnean baroque dagger in one hand ready to drop atop an unsuspecting target. Yet nobody emerged from the den and the lights dimmed until they were dark. Annoyance turned to anger in the churning caldera of emotion that was the Director's core, the boiling temper soothed only by the sudden invasive voice from the soul trapped within the dagger.

"Let's go home," the familiar haunting voice echoed within the Director's mind.

Sucking in a deep breath Kat prepared to protest and argue, to rationalize entering the building to find at least one life to snuff. Instead, she released the air from her chest in a defeated sigh, turning the dagger over in her hand so the blade ran parallel to her midriff.

"Fine…" Kat groaned, sliding a tiny vial of liquid Azerite from the hip pocket and pouring three small drops over the glowing engravings of the blade.

"Next time I do this shit my way," She chided, "Time is no' on our side, luv'."

[@alyssa-ward]

[kat-hawke]

Natalis

Locking herself away from the world within her study, the Director sought an afternoon of silence and respite from others who demanded attention. Alone in the silence with nothing but her own thoughts was a dangerous game, but the mess of tomes and papers upon the desk offered to distract from the ominous whispers in distant shadows. The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminated the pile of mail as she tossed it down before drawing the curtain halfway and procuring a bottle of whiskey from the shelf nearby.

With a low groan, she dropped into the leather upholstered seat, plucking the card from atop the pile of mail. Examining the colorful, floral design on the front before flicking it open with one finger. The card was filled with cliches and sentiments that felt more appropriate for a teenager than a woman turned thirty-one. Having never been one for grand gestures or over-the-top celebrations, the birthday card elicited immediate agitation. The sender just going through the motions of buying a generic, socially obligatory piece of stationary without any consideration for the recipient. Disappointment mixed with swelling aggravation, a bubbling caldera of cage rage within her core.

With a deep breath, she reached for the bottle of whiskey on the desk. Pouring herself a generous glass and knocking it back in one gulp, the burn of the liquor racing across every nerve as it went down. Kat's gaze flicked to the faintly glowing dagger on the other table as she poured a second drink, incomprehensible whispers layered over each other crept into the very corners of her consciousness. Dismissed with another deep drink of the smokey liquor.

The silence within the study broke as the card was crumbled within her fist and tossed violently into the waste bin at her feet. With a heavy sigh, the Director went back to the tome writing the twisted language of the Void, pushing whatever remained of the mail to the corner.

Why celebrate another day marking another year? A constant reminder of the mistakes and hubris over the lifetime, the irreversible damages done. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the silver inkwell, Kat snarled as the scared and anguished-aged visage stared back at her without the glamour enchantment. She knocked the inkwell to the floor with a fierce backhand and inhaled the second glass of whiskey without a second thought.

Fingers raked through the raven tresses as another sight spilled over her nude lips, correcting her posture and regaining composure. Desk space was made as the tome was pushed away. With a creak, she leaned back in the chair and pulled another dark-covered book from the shelf of many. This one, instead of shadowed words, houses a collection of poetry and short stories, tales of mystery, and the macabre from a Gilnean author. A personal favorite, evident by the well-loved wear on the pages as she committed nearly the entirety to memory.

Kat flipped the cover open to the ribbon which marked a page; the story of a man driven to insanity over the beating of a tell-tale heart.

Vague mention of [ @alyssa-ward ]

[alyssa-ward]

It's been years. Some days the voice in the dagger is coherent, like not a day has passed. Sometimes Alyssa's shattered psyche is the incoherent rambling of a mad woman, until Kat has to cast the dagger away in frustration, or sadness, or self loathing.

Sometimes it is silent for weeks, not a peep of its own volition, and then a fresh new day it's chatty and lively. But one thing is sure. If Kat calls, the weapon answers, focused or not, she always answers.

Tonight though, or more like, early early in the morning. When next Kat's fingers grace the space between glowing blade, and Gilnean rose pommel, the voice booms in her head, clear as a bell.

"Happy Birthday, Katanie. Keep going, for both of us. You owe me that."

[kat-hawke]

12. How often do you think people should RP when they have ships together?

Romance and friendship ship asks

When they have time to do so.

We're all human and we need to respect that. Ideally, once a week would work fine for me. But we all have a life outside of RP and should be mindful that not everyone can commit to writing a ship every waking hour.

As long as there is some OOC communication going on in the non-writing time, that should be fine. Hell, @alyssa-ward and I would go hard writing and then take 2-week breaks in between and it worked fine. But I have encountered people out there who demand posts daily, which is exhausting.

[alyssa-ward]

Those times when we did go hard writing were often spending two weeks writing a three hour IC scene. The passage of time in RP is weird.

[kat-hawke]

To Rattle the Chains

Kat stood upon the stone outcrop, the gentle breeze rustling her hair as she gazed out over the serene park. Her eyes drifted across the vast open space, listening to the one-eyed alchemist below as she collect a bowl of soup from a street vendor just below her perch. Their gaze meeting for a brief moment in silent understanding.

With a covered bowl in her hand, Max respectfully approached her, acknowledging her position. "Director," Max spoke as she settled on the stone, holding the bowl carefully in her lap.

Kat's attention turned towards the bowl in the alchemist's lap, her curiosity piqued. "Is the soup for actual consumption, or some sort o' experimentation?"

"I don't play with my food," Max scoffed, tapping the lip of the bowl. "Augustine is watching the shop this evening. Thought I'd fetch him something."

"How kind 'n sisterly." The Director muttered, feigning interest.

Max clicked her tongue in jest, "I do try," she replied, turning towards the promenade below. "Business or pleasure, Director?" the alchemist asked with a smile, gesturing to the people below.

A curt snort forced through the Director's nostrils as her lips flattened at the corners. "As much as I love jokes about pleasure everyone seems t'make... Do I ev'a make an appearance in public for anything other than business, Miss Parkhurst?"

"Suppose not." Max hummed in agreement. "You'll have to excuse me, Director, if I so wish to cushion your professional demeanor with a bit of light-hearted banter."

A faint smirk curled the edge of Kat's lips, "Th' absolute audacity," she muttered before scanning the area. "A quick word, however, is my business here. I'll try not t'bend your ear for too long. Wouldn' want the soup t'go cold."

Max nodded understandingly, "Certainly not. Cold soup makes for a terrible meal," she quipped, raising a brow. "You have my attention. Unless you'd prefer a more quiet place to speak business?"

Shifting her attention fully toward the alchemist, the Director gave her a knowing stare. "When do I eva enjoy public crowds or the noise?"

"Fair enough," Max chuckled, rising to her feet with the bowl held securely. "Lead the way, then."

Kat motioned vaguely as she turned on her heel, leading Max to a quieter spot for their discussion. Choosing the longer route to ensure none were tailing, the two made small talk on the newly re-opened shop that the Parkhurst siblings had acquired. Whether or not the Director truly cared was uncertain, but the long walk to the far corner of the graveyard in silence would have been less than ideal.

Navigating beneath the vine-covered trellises, she approach one which held a tub of water and a handful of fish. Gloved hands rested upon the weathered rim as she stared down into her reflection in the water. Sinister thoughts and whispers of self-loathing began to stir in the deepest recesses of the Director's mind.

"I trust things have been goin' well with Sherwood's potions?" She inquired without looking away from the water.

Max took in the scenery with a subtle nod. "More or less," she remarked, turning to lean against the trellis. Her myopic gaze traced the vine's path upwards, tongue tapping against the backs of her teeth. A sigh eventually fell from her lips. "I've been researching the technicals behind the curse along with corresponding treatments. The result is just a lot of theory and postulation, though, without a real test subject."

The alchemist's fingers drummed against the bottom of the bowl. "All that to say— I've only a trial sample to offer."

As she gazed at her reflection with disappointment and disgust, Kat let out a low hum from behind her lips. Shifting her focus to Max, she leaned back against the water tub as her arms crossed beneath her bust. "Ian serves as the primary test subject, being th'only worgen in our crew," she explained. "But that's no' th'only reason for our conversation. There's something else that doesn' require Sherwood or anyone else's involvement."

Max's gaze snapped back to Kat, and the corners of her cordial smile twitched upwards. Revealed the faintest hint of a fox's wicked grin. "Then, at your word, I'll have the first samples delivered to Mister Sherwood." She paused, head canted as she recollected her smile. "You've my attention and discretion, Director."

Kat raised her hand for a brief moment before nestling it back into the opposite elbow with a shallow nod at Max's initial statement, a silent green light to deliver the trial potions to Ian. "Good. I need somethin' t'do th' opposite of wot Ian's potions will do. A concoction that will, let us say, uncage the beast within someone who is afflicted, rather than calm it."

Max's brows rose to meet her hairline as she incredulously blinked. "Might I ask why?"

The Director maintained her solid expression as she looked the alchemist back in the eye. "You may not."

Max clicked her tongue. Then nodded. "Fair enough."

"I do no' plan anythin' of ill intent. If that is of concern." Kat offered in a monotone.

A hum escaped the alchemist in her breath. It sounded more contemplative than condescending. "I am paid to craft potions and maintain discretion." She summoned her cordial smile and offered it to Kat with a slight inclination of her head. "What you do with my creations is beyond my concern. Though, I appreciate the reassurance nonetheless."

Max's shoulder rolled in a subtle shrug. "A lot of frivolous fluff to say I trust you, Director."

"Trust is generally earned, no' given, but I appreciate th' statement all th' same." Kat chuffed with a quick roll of her eyes.

"Fair enough. I'll begin work on your request as soon as I am able." Max replied before her brow raised once more to voice a slight concern. "This will require more valuable herbs and reagents, so you know."

"Send me th' invoice and I'll make sure it's taken care of. Either that or a list of th' reagents 'n herbs and I'll arrange a delivery." Kat dismissed the matter with a shrug, unbothered by the financial impact it may carry.

Max's warm smile lit up her face ever so slightly. "Wonderful. You can expect to hear back from me soon," she said, pushing herself away from the trellis and tilting her head inquisitively. "Is there anything else that needs to be addressed?"

"No, that's all," Kat replied, gesturing with two fingers towards the path. "You should go before the soup freezes."

"Of course." Max chuckled softly and started down the path, waving briefly over her shoulder. "Enjoy your skulking, if that's what you prefer, Director."

The Director let out a low, grumbling sound, lips pursed tightly as her gaze narrowed. "I do not skulk," she muttered, glancing briefly at her reflection in the pool before heading off in the opposite direction.

[ @maxparkhurst ] [ Mentioned: @ian-sherwood ]

[damien-ward]

A surprised look etched across Damien’s face as he noticed he had a package and letter in the mail. Carefully, he eyed the parcel before opening the letter, it was short and sweet, and a warm smile graced his face when he realized who it was from. Miss Belrose. It had been years since they had seen each other. That brief encounter having left quite the impression on little Celina; since that day her desire for collecting trinkets seemed to only grow.

Folding up the letter Damien placed it in his pocket as he slowly opened the package, however, his nose told him what it was before his eyes did. Chocolate cookies, one for him and Celina. Eyeing the delicious baked goods he admired the aroma for a moment before picking up one of them and eating it. He mumbled and shook his head in delight at the chocolatey taste.

It took only a minute or two to finish the cookie. His eyes then trailing back down to the other one… He pursed his lips as he pondered for a moment. I mean it will be stale by the time Vivienne brings Celina back from the Dragon Isles, right? It would be a shame to let it go to waste.. he thought to himself. His gaze then shifted around as if to make sure no one was looking before grabbing the second cookie and beginning to eat it.

A sense of shame weighed on him, but was quickly drowned out by the unbelievable taste. It was perhaps his greatest curse, even before becoming a worgen, that of being a sweet tooth.

(Thank you for the mail @zeehva​) 

[alyssa-ward]

Somewhere beyond the veil, Alyssa in her eternal limnal grove of trees and paintings, looks upon the portrait of Damien, as best she remembers him, and clicks her ethereal tongue. "Don' know what y' jus' did but I just know karma saw that, big brother." A flicker of amusement as she ghosts across the space, a new blank canvas blooming to work on. "Hope y' doin' alright out there wh'ever y' are, Damien."

[jackdaw-kraai]

Love the experience of writing a character who is absolutely, completely, and unapologetically an asshole. They never stop bitching, not even in their internal monologue, and they are the very embodiment of a cranky goat.

It’s incredible, more writers should write characters who are in no way meant to be unproblematic favs. Write problematic favs instead. Good for the writing soul.

[asherlin]

Fun for writing fics, to be sure!

But the majority of times I've seen this in RP, the writer either:

refuses to accept consequences for their character's assholery (either through outright refusal or having some "out" buried somewhere in their TRP/Profile)

is looking to goad someone into throwing the first punch ("they started it" + some OP ability buried in their TRP/profile)

or just plain enjoys trolling other players (sometimes combined with hints of a "nice side" just as others are about to walk).

So yes, write problematic characters. But be careful when RPing them, because RP is a collaboration and what's fun for you might not be so fun for the others around you.

[kat-hawke]

I feel a little called out for writing an asshole and boy does Kat keep bitching in her internal monologues. Lol

[alyssa-ward]

Alyssa has probably gotten pretty used to that bitching internal monologue over the last few years, hearing some of Kats true thoughts in meetings and dealings.

[kat-hawke]

Debating if I should rewrite (or maybe republish is the right word?) the older Kat stories. Not change anything or make any retcons, mind you, but polish them up. Looking back through them I can see where I've grown in my writing and it felt clunky and detached from the more recent stories. I mean, it's all mediocre skill level, but you get what I mean.

Iron out some details and remove/tie up loose ends from old writing groups that no longer exist or people who turned out to be terrible. Clean up the timeline a bit.

Or maybe just make a timeline with simplified versions? I don't know.

[alyssa-ward]

You know I'd love to see it. We may not really write these days but I'll never not be invested in Kat's story.

[damien-ward]

If you go by the Worgen starting zone the youngest playable worgen could be as of Dragonflight is 30 years old, that would make them 18 at the time of the worgen assault on Gilneas. Now if you want to say your character was a prodigy and amazing at what they do you could argue they were at the youngest 16 in the starting zone and thus 28 as of Dragonflight, but that’s pushing it.

That also makes me realize that Genn Greymane has to be in his 80s now…. Unless Blizzard retconned it I am pretty sure Genn was in his 70s during Cataclysm.

[damien-ward]

I just realized something. It’s been 12 years since the events of the Worgen starting zone. 15 years since the worgen first showed up on Azeroth.

That’s more than enough time, in my honest opinion, that Blizzard really should address how worgen age. People change a lot in 12-15 years… It would be nice to know if the curse makes them age slower, if they age at all, or if they just age as normal humans.

I doubt the latter just because I mean look at Genn. Like I said above he’s in his 70s, maybe in his 80s now if Blizzard hasn’t retconned his age, and he’s still running around and fighting like he is in his 20s.

Really hope Blizzard addresses this in Dragonflight, or next expansion. 

[kat-hawke]

Hope is all we are going to have for this and we all know it.

They ain’t gonna do or say shit about it.

[alyssa-ward]

They still barely want to discuss or acknowledge how elves age. I don't remember the last time I talked about elven ages and didn't have to debate if adulthood was in their 20s or their 200s. And Warcraft loves it some elves. If they don't get clarity, Worgen sure wont.

[damien-ward]

Celina Ward certainly seems to take after her father, but does Dardillien notice that? What quality of hers does he think she got from him? Are there any qualities of hers that remind him of her mother? (Always love seeing Celina content on my dash <3 )

Damien most definitely notices that Celina takes after him in some aspect. For example he notices how inquisitive she is, which she definitely gets from him, she's always curious and asking questions. Another quality she gets from Damien, though he doesn't notice it, is her recklessness. She gets into stuff and does things she shouldn't, for example she will climb a bookshelf to grab a book instead of asking someone to get it for her.

As for qualities that remind him of her mother? Definitely Celina's sense for adventure, she gets that from her mother Vivienne. She always wants to go out, she always wants to explore, climb buildings, etc. As for physical qualities Celina has dark jet black hair just like her mother.

And Celina curses more as she gets older which she definitely gets from her mother.

Thank you for the ask @zeehva

[kat-hawke]

Clearly, Celina needs to spend some quality time with Aunt Kat. She can learn many things. Good and bad.

[damien-ward]

That's gonna be a no from Damien... Celina going adventuring looking for trinkets with Zee? Good. Celina hanging out with insane Aunt Kat who might decide to put her soul in a spoon? Bad.

[alyssa-ward]

She would put her soul in something better than a spoon, c'mon.

[lemonaera]

[kat-hawke]

“The Training Yard”

Love the way this came out. Wanted something like this for a while, that displayed the muscles (kept the abs hidden cause y'all are heathens), and not in the standard Blue/Gold uniform the rest of her art is in. Depicting the morning workout routines of Kat and Unit Eight.

Aera delivered flawlessly. Everyone should, at the very least, be following her.

[kat-hawke]

— You’re fuckin’ with the wrong wolf baby Darkness gonna break your light No prayer gonna part my thunder No one’s gonna change my mind —

Commissioned @aerabrosa​ to make Kat’s deadly step, and I absolutely love it!

Was an impulse buy? Sure. Do I have any regrets? None. 10/10, easy to work with and would recommend.

[kat-hawke]

Another Winters Veil Ball

Kat approached the bar with an empty glass in hand and motioned for a refill, casting her gaze across the banquet hall. The blue and gold banners were muted with the evergreens and red, peppered in gold and silver decorations. Garland strung through the trusses overhead like joyous webs, which the attending members of the Alliance danced to the calming melodies of the chamber orchestra. A woven tapestry of Holiday decor gathered at the massive tree on the far end of the hall. A fir the size of which could only be imported from the frozen hills of Dun Morogh, glistening with enchanted candles and ornaments that hung from its branches. This year, a new touch to the Winter Veil tree where the pin needles glamoured every so often to appear frosted.

“Here alone this year, Director?” The bartender pried as whiskey drained from the crystal decanter to her glass.

“Are we eva’ truly alone?” Kat replied, dodging the invasive query as she collected her liquor and left.

Finding a stone column to lean against, she nursed the fourth drink of the evening and searched the crowd’s faces as the orchestra began a new piece. The violinists plucked their lines before the other string instruments joined, followed by a few bells.

Every military branch was present, as they always were at the yearly Winters Veil Ball. A tradition that she at first enjoyed but became bored of over the years. There were only so many times she could fake a smile, fake a pleasant greeting to the higher ranks of the naval, army, and fellow intelligence assemblage. Some faces new, some old, and others simply missing. A faint smile touched her lips as members from her Unit came out of their shells and mingled, knowing they deserved this well-earned respite.

Plucked strings ceased as violins drew their bows, filling the banquet hall with their verse.

The obvious first-timers dressing in simple outfits dulled colors which matched the holiday in the place of their uniforms. The middle-ranking officers stood out each year. The majority of them always dress flashy with expensive dresses and suits, hoping to stand out the most like a preening peacock to either find debaucherous bliss for the night or to catch the attention of their upper brass, schmoozing for promotional metrics. Then there were the high-ranking officials. Those whose lives were their entire career would wear their dress uniforms, either to impress or for clout. Some instead took the chance to mingle across the board, shedding their uniforms for flowing dresses and sleek suits.

Drums joined the occasional note in tandem with the violins now, before both all but the bells went silent in a charming bridge. The strings rejoined and built to the dooming crescendo with the drums, flowing into the choros as the dancers moved fluidly with each note.

Kat fell somewhere in the middle herself as she wore suits for work rather than the leathers and found dresses to be uncomfortable and impractical if she needed to be agile. Paranoia, some called it, though she preferred to think of it as staying prepared. Her typical attire had been traded for tonight, sporting a blazer instead with silver details to at the very least appease those who would dare comment on her unfestive wardrobe. The Gilnean dagger which housed a lover’s soul was oddly absent, left in the sheath at home as weapons were not permitted within the hall. She felt naked without a blade and lonely without the company of the warlock in her mind.

Instruments subsided again, leaving the strings to echo through the hall with the bells chiming behind them, building again as the raps of the dum slowly rejoined in the bridge.

Kat couldn’t help but tap a finger against her glass to the tune of the orchestra. While her legs yearned to venture to the floor in muscle memory, she resisted, maintaining her distanced expression as she shifted which shoulder held her weight in the lean against the column. The Director’s gaze shifted down into the amber liquor as her memory wandered back several years to this very spot. A more joyous occasion as she smiled, laughed, and danced with those around her. A time when she branched out to the adjacent militant officials and mingled, finding both friends and rivals within the mix. And rarely, something a bit more.

The orchestra flourished in the transition to the outro of the melody. The conductor’s arms were waving as if to cast a spell over the instruments. Violinists virtually threatened to cut through their bows as the drummer tested the durability of their set, the bellringer nearly breaking a sweat as they moved. All together, playing in fortissimo.

Her memory fades in the excitement, snapping back to reality to catch the decrescendo. A single violin plucking their strings once more just as they had in the beginning before silence fell over the hall. Perhaps it was symbolic that the song ended as it had started, or maybe Kat read too much into it as lips pursed and the whiskey drained.

Dancers bowed to one another before applauding the orchestra, a moment in which Kat took the opportunity to slip from the banquet hall to the balcony which overlooked the city to take a break from the event before the wells beneath her eyes threatened to swell with a wandering memory.

[ Music Reference ]

Vague mention: @alyssa-ward​ and Unit Eight Members

[kat-hawke]

Wading

Whispers overlapped in an incoherent cacophony of madness, a gargled mess to the untrained mind but a source of answers to those who knew how to listen—focusing on one of the many voices at a time, separating the possible truths from promises of untold power.

Beneath closed lids, Kat’s eyes shifted rapidly as she sorted and searched through the voices and visions from a Greater Beyond. Her hands were motionless as they hovered on either side of a perfect glass orb, housing a hungering darkness that violently threw itself at the walls of its glass prison.

The viscous void defied the laws of physics, failing to occupy the vessel as an actual liquid and instead shifting as if trapped within a vacuum. It seemed aware of the Director’s presence and responded accordingly.

The dark violet light emanating from the orb illuminated the entire study, coalescing on the surface of the glass and flowing into Kat’s open palms. It traced the veins in her arms, up to the neck, like rogue raindrops on a windowpane— fading away before glowing once more, reacting to every mental throb as she waded the Deep Darkness.

An hour passed before Kat peeled her eyes open, the amber hue replaced with the same dark glow as the glass. As her hands pulled away from the bottled void, the ominous light subsided; washing away from her veins and eyes. The agitated dark mass within the orb settled and shifted slowly in the vacuum of the vessel.

“Uull’ ifis qov qi'vorzz thoq shel.” Kat whispered beneath her breath as she stood from the desk.

Two fingers wiped away the blood which spilled from her nose, followed by the side of her thumb to ensure the upper lip was clean. Ignoring the warnings her body attempted to give as each passing year, the strain took more of a toll.

Distracting herself now with the bottle of whiskey, she stared out the window at the quiet streets of the village below, light softly by the oil lamps. As everyone else slept, she began to pick at the few threads taken from the whispers of the Great Beyond, searching for answers.

[kat-hawke]

Recrudesce

Sweat dripped from the brow like rainfall as the thunderous thumps of wrapped fists connected with the punching bag in a repeated rhythm. Boots scuffed in the dirt, kicking up dust in the dry and hot afternoon as Kat shifted her position with each forceful blow. Muscles screamed and seared with pain as she pushed well into the second hour of the exercise, overexerting her body in the typical fashion; self-destructive and bullheaded.

As fatigue continued to fight against her waning breath, Kat drew upon the azerite stone at her neck as a stimulus. Another habit turned into an addiction, a dependency, a temporary power source that would fade in time with a heavy crash.

She was mid-swing when something stirred in the deep recesses of her mind—pausing after her fist made contact with the bag. The small black sphere constructed in the mental space, the tether to another, had finally awoken with a tentative flicker. For weeks it remained dormant and dull, lifeless, the state she had hoped it would remain.

No thoughts, words or cryptic message came—only the sense of a returned presence.

Kat’s lip curled into a snarl, and anger flooded the senses. Perhaps Annadia was successful, or Seraanna had never perished after all. It mattered not which it was. The primal essence of rage rattles the cage at her core all the same.

It turns out that problem had not solved itself; the debt was still owed.

The amber eyes sparked pale blue as the stone around her neck turned to a grey drain state. Kat’s throat ached with the furious shout which filled the training yard. Her legs pushed off of the ground, spinning in the air to connect the back of her heel with the punching bag. The chains snapped, and the bag flew to the ground with a heavy thud.

Panting with clenched fists, she stood over the defeated and broken punching bag. Snapping out of the blind rage, she looked up and around, having caught the eye of every other agent and operative in the training yard. Each of them was quickly diverting their gaze as Kat eyed them one by one.

With a huff, she unwrapped her hands, gathered the duffle with her gear, inhaled the bottle of water, and stormed into the building to shower and change.

[ @longveil​ ]

[alyssa-ward]

Scattered Memories

(Overgrown Library by annah847 on Polycount)

In the grove of her mind, Alyssa snaps awake from her silent meditation in alarm. Daydreams, or otherwise perhaps, force her back to alertness. She casts her senses outward. Increasingly the Dagger isn’t simply a vessel, it is in some ways her. Her senses take in the texture of the world around the blade. Books maybe? A woman. An office? “Where are we?” The question is sent to the holder of the weapon she inhabits with a hint of concern. “Nothing feels familiar.” How many offices has she been in?

There is a moment of pause- thought and hesitation, before the person on the other end of the link between blade and owner inquires, “Familiar how, exactly?” It seems at least someone is still keeping the weapon close.

A moment of pause in return, and then a wash of confusion from Alyssa. “Are we at your home? I just don’t feel like I’ve been here before.” Her magical senses flow outward into the physical space, attempting to confirm where she is. Within the grove, things flicker and move. Bookshelves filling the grove and then rapidly growing over with vines and moss.

“In the study, yes…” The tone of hesitance from the wielder lingers. “What do you mean ‘feel’?”

“In the study,” Alyssa echos back. “What colour is the desk? I think I’m holding too many places.” A wash of desks sprout from the undergrowth, different shapes and sizes, memories. One from her room in Gilneas, one covered in tools from the Blue Recluse. Countless amidst the trees.

“It’s wood, made of mahogany. Don’t you remember?”

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