The blade shaved the thinnest strip of wood off the log. Again and again. Wood shavings piled up at her hooves. The runic pattern slowly emerged. A dull glow and a gentle thrum told her the spirits accepted the offering and gave their blessings. She laid the totem on the mound of flowers. Peacebloom covered this field ever since her mother found the embrace of the Earthmother.
Ora remembered what she preferred to forget.
The feeling of the fur on her hands sticking, slick with blood. The resistance of tauren hide against the point of a spear. The disappointment in her father's face.
"I know you would forgive me, mother. But father is still disappointed, upset, angry. I do not think he will ever accept me back. I took Runehide instead. He cast me out from his Stonehorn name."
Her fur dampened, tears soaked her face. The fur stuck to her skin in an all too familiar way.
The wetness as blood soaked her mother's robes. The weakness in her mother's grip as she faded. The warmth of her mother's smile as she slipped away. The wrathful fire that blazed inside.
An accident, they told her. They did not check the treeline for allies first. Flimsy, even for those Grim bastards. If they hadn't also recovered Alliance footmen, no one would have been able to justify it. But those corpses meant her mother's death didn't matter.
Her sobs ripped that peaceful meadow of blooms apart. She choked on her tears. Her throat cinched shut. Flashes in her eyes streamed by.
A brawl.
A duel.
Revenge.
A death for a death, but that didn't bring her back.
The goblin frowned at the sights of industry before her. "Sure is tough bein' a gal wit' a conscience." The greed ran rampant, starving laborers overworked, rusted machines worn out, and gluttonous management. The books? Cooked.
She ran a hand through her bright purple hair and slipped her gloves on. The mechanical fists hummed. An ogre enforcer ran up to stop her with a club ready to squash. The gloves revved and she spiraled into an uppercut and slammed home into the ogre's jaw, laid him out flat.
She sighed. "Ain't gettin' paid enough for this. They're gonna be so mad at me back home. Ugh. I think connectin' with the spirits so much rubbed off on me." A grinding sound came from her bag. "Yes, yes, I know, Chip. They're destroyin' your home." The grinding sound again. "...yeah, I do know what that's like."
Lakks rummaged in a box of knickknacks. She pulled a carved statuette of Gallywix out. She growled and crushed it in the mechanical hands. "Can't even be makin' somethin' to help us or anythin'. Guess I gotta wreck it all. After all, who says I can't enjoy myself a little when helpin' and doin' good deeds? Right, Chip?"
The grinding noise was short. "Attaboy, you're learnin' too."
'All that glitters is not gold.' That phrase echoed in her head. What worth did it have? What value would it bring to her life? Why bother?
She tossed a coin into the well and her eyes closed. Zandalari gold glinted in a brief dance, a sunburst. The troll's eyes burned as they focused on that coin.
If it had no worth? Discard it.
If it brought no value? Discard it.
If it held no meaning? Discard it.
Baljanji straightened from the fountain and grinned. All teeth and tusks, she looked more a beast than a troll. "Praise be ta Gonk." She stated as she walked away. Her gait matched that of a predator in Zuldazar, stalking game through the brush. Her eyes caught the sunlight overhead. Her focus drifted across the crowd. None interested her.
"Ah, maybe tha little mouse deserves more credit. At least she is entertaining." Blades flashed in the air and spun in her hands. She crossed the blades and grew scales, stretched, and contorted. The blessing of Gonk let the druid take this reptilian form. Her fangs left little to imagine on how effective she was hunting.
A scent. Human. Trespasser. Her eyes glinted in the brush and her tail swayed. The man came into view. A reprehensible thing greedily taking what he could. His bags overflowed with pelts and wasted meat, improperly taken, messily stowed. He took and took and took and gave nothing.
A mighty leap landed her upon the useless sack. She ripped it free. He took her fangs. He took her claws. He took, and took, and took. But this time, he gave freely. His lifeblood flowed into the ground.
Izharienamaa quietly sat on the pew of the small human church. Her tail curled to sit in her lap. Her hooves clattered on the stone floor whenever she moved. Her skin matched the white-gold filigree decorations on the ornamental ritual pieces. Her expression cracked the polite veneer of prayer.
The heat blistered from the draenei. Her hands clenched until nothing could give. She saw him on the ground before her, burning from her touch. The Light blessed, but it cursed as well. She bit her lip to stop the scream that wanted to rip out from her chest. When that strained feeling passed, she took a breath.
Visions clouded her eyes.
Argus. Her family. Traitors.
Flight. War. Demons.
Honor. Respect. Induction.
Retirement.
A blade rusting on the wall, she fell through the world and spun. What life existed for her? She laughed at herself. The hallowed halls echoed with her hollow mirth. She blinked, the pews returned to her eyes. Her hands unclenched and clasped together in a desperate prayer. It was not the first.
Razenagos tugged at the frills on her collar and frowned. The dracthyr passed her clawed hands over her visage, clad in formalwear. "Setre, are you sure...?"
"Yes, Raz, dear. We must make good impressions. They may join our clutch, you know." Setre wore parade armor and formal dress. Greens, bronzes, and earth tones. Her namesake sword, extinguished, but at the ready. The Green Knight of the Flame Blade cut an imposing figure and her tone left no argument. More or less, she was Razena's mother, some of her only family.
Razenagos grumbled and smoothed her clothes over again.
------
The banquet laid out left nothing to be desired. Whole roasted poultry, stuffed with breading and vegetables. Fine dining arrangements, with pristine dishware and shining silverware spread before Razenagos. The meal passed quickly. Plate after plate, course after course, polite chewing, quiet sipping. Small talk faded away, formal and ceremonious greetings and exchanges washed over her and drained away. She found herself adrift. Her focus, in and out, a staccato rhythm.
She hummed to herself. The conversation caught up to her ears. "Yes, I think she is lovely. We would be happy to bring her into our family." Setre and Raz both looked over in unison.
Setre spoke first. "That was not what was discussed." Tensions rose. "I thought we would join families."
The man rose from his seat, shadowed in this bleak recollection, nondescript, as important as the backdrop behind him. "You dracthyr do not understand how this works. I will not give up my lineage to intermingle with your family. Your daughter will marry into mine. She will make a lovely wife."
Razenagos shot up from her seat, heat rising. "I can't! I..." Memories floated through. "...am spoken for. I promised." She stared down at the floor and her feet. She felt eyes on her. She burned up from the unseen stares.
The shadow spoke. "A pity, but now you're promised to me." A snarl as he lunged forward. Setre jumped to her feet and drew her blade. Razengos moved faster. A clawed hand smacked the man away.
"No, I think not. Nobility surely didn't give you any real strength. I pledged myself to another, and... she is expecting me soon. Goodbye." The dracthyr's tail swiped the man and knocked him further back as she turned and stormed out. A withering glare fell on her older sister, Setre.
cw: alcoholism, substance abuse, depression, (unserious) suicidal ideation, hazy descriptions of sexual acts, dubious consent under the influence -- you get the idea the prompt is blur.
@daily-writing-challenge
where has the night gone? it feels as if it's only been a second. an eyeblink.
surely they've only just arrived, these strangers that szae has rounded up like cattle and herded into this posh club. she can still see the look on the host's face when she'd marched in with a train of beautiful women in tow. he'd slipped her enough coin to catch the first ship off this dreadful island, and she'd tucked it into her corset, promising she'd save it for just that. that she'd only share one drink with these people. she'd brought them here, after all. it would only be decent to stand with them in a row, shot glasses in hand, to toast to a young night and tip back her drink and
now her hair hangs limp from its pinnings. her corset has meandered down her sweat-slick chest. the coins are long gone, she definitely drank them all. but that's just fine. they've bought her passage into the arms of an Angel.
a real one. she has wings. she has soft, dark hair. she does not know where to step or how to swing her hips. szae commands with her hands, placing them on her waist, holding them in the air. she tells the Angel to look at her. she finds that it is always golden hour in her Angel's eyes.
it is not difficult to teach a stranger how to hold you, but szae has always found it difficult to want to be held. (she would rather stream, like smoke, she would rather drift through the fingers of a grasping hand.) she likes the way her Angel holds her. she rocks szae in a way that she hopes will never end.
it ends in an instant. the world outside is searing, merciless, unkindly bright. szae is the caterpillar who has left her cocoon too soon. she tips back her drink and
her angel is even prettier outside her dress. divinity unconstrained. a sacrament of flesh, the liberation of something pure. she would feel guilty for her transgressions against this body, for her unwavering impulse to defile everything beautiful, if she were not so drunk. but anyway, she tips back her drink and
bodies rain down beside her as if they've been brought in with a raging tempest. they swell at her feet like rainwater. she gets the impression that she will drown in skin. her eyes widen in the humidity, the baking heat against her. she really prefers to be smoke.
she blinks and they're in a fancy hotel bed, big marionettes with their strings snipped and their joints dangling. they fold over her pillows and curl off the mattress.
szae wonders in a panic what planet she is on.
who is hunting them.
how many still remain?
is this how her parents looked, powered down and balled like little bugs? their dead faces used to haunt her dreams, but this isn't so bad. they almost look like they're still alive, suspended in dreaming repose.
of course they are alive. she clutches a hand to her chest, her heart pounding like a caged animal fighting for freedom. they look terrible, their eyes are sunken, their skin pallid and gray, but one moans when she moves too abruptly off her bed. she barely recognizes some of them, and one not at all. they're all practically strangers.
she waits, and the tide surely comes in again. the darkness whispers to her in the voices of everyone she has disappointed before. it relishes in the sense of impending disapproval from the people that she is disappointing now. her mind is a marquee, spinning, spinning, spinning, ticking off one transgression after another. she crawls to the washing room, dragging herself groaning over the stained tile floor, and leans her head into the bathtub and waits for the world to stop spinning or for this misery to fucking kill her already.
instead, it goes brilliant. her Angel fills her mind, chases away the shadows. her kindness comes to mind, how jealous she is for it now. how good it would be to have a sweet voice in her ear to forgive her tonight. to curl up in arms that know how to hold her and cry this pain away, cry away the impulse to hurt herself again. her Angel would know how to keep her from falling apart.
or she'd take one look at the state of szae and this well-defiled hotel room and take a sensible hike straight out the door. szae rifles through the grimey mélange beside her: someone else's bra, pants that she wore or borrowed someone missing their own for some reason, little vials that bring back sensations that make her mouth itch. beneath it all is just what she knows she's stashed away. she always leaves a little for herself, just in case. she knows this cycle of pain too well.
her fingers close around a bottle. she tips back her drink, and
Victoria stared at the uniform folded on her desk. An officer's collar, decoration, medals. She felt nauseous. She survived Legionfall, but none of her comrades had. The empty bottles on her desk spoke more than she did. Pressed, folded, neatly maintained. Gilnean colors draped over her desk.
Her desk. She frowned at the thought, not for the first time. A knock interrupted her wallowing. A letter slid underneath her door. She perked up. Her steps came quick as she crossed her office, more of a glorified closet, and she stooped to pick up the letter. No envelope. Two words. "Found him."
So he was in the jungle after all. She was worthless here. A desk and papers? She considered resigning and setting everything ablaze, also not for the first time. She filled out the paperwork, a leave of absence. The quill scratched at the parchment slowly, painfully. Her hand trembled. She reached for an empty bottle before realizing.
She thought of her father. "Finally going to make you recognize me." She mumbled to no one. She barely packed a bag before she hopped a Gnomish flight out to Booty Bay.
-----
It had been days, weeks now, and she slammed a fist into the wooden shack's wall. It rattled. The jungle stretched forever, it seemed, and her nose still hadn't adjusted to all the smells. Locals eventually told her about him, so she knew he was there. But she had little patience left.
She rented this house, but hadn't settled in yet. A knock on the door quietly faded. She stared. A second knock. She walked over and opened it. A small child with torn, ruined clothes stood there.
"They said you do alchemy cheap."
'Well spoken kid,' she thought. "Aye, depending on what you need. I can make poultices, salves, and some aside."
"Pa is sick, got a fever, but he can't make it into the Bay anymore. Can you help?"
Her heart wrenched. "Yeah, alright. Let me grab my bag."
The trek through the jungle ripped at her clothes. 'Explains why his are so ruined,' she commiserated. A small clearing opened up behind a seemingly impenetrable wall of trees. A little cavern sat in the back. She found a cookfire, a dinnerpot, a few bedrolls, mats, and packs. A worgen laid out on a bed of scrap linens and wools. A girl sat next to him with a worn washcloth.
Victoria rummaged through her bag and pulled out a few vials and beakers of various mixtures and liquids. She approached the fire and quickly stoked it into a blaze. His eyes felt familiar as she stepped to the bedside. "Sir, what's your name? Can you tell me how long you've been sick? What symptoms?"
"Elland." The worgen croaked in answer.
A vial dropped into the fire and Victoria scurried to snatch it up from the blaze, cursed her luck, and burned her hand.
Hellmut flew up to the crow’s nest, made the namesake reality. He slowly changed back into his large, burly shape. His legs dangled over the edge and he covered his brow with a hand as he gazed for shore. His eyes strained to see the docks, the port, as if he looked hard enough, maybe he could see Adrien. As he thought of him, images filled his mind.
Early nights, late mornings… late nights, and early mornings. The slender man covered with nothing but a bedsheet as Hellmut looked in before heading for the docks. An image of him not even covered in a bedsheet as Hellmut came home after the last voyage. The two began casually enough, a kiss, a pinch, a hug, a laugh. He bought Adrien dinner, drinks, and more. Some could be called dates, but they never spoke of them as such. Still, one day, Adrien lingered afterwards. The kisses grew longer, the time together grew warmer, the touches grew gentler.
The big man shook his head. It was too far to see him yet, but he looked anyway. Too long left to sail to already get hot beneath the collar, but he did that too. He dropped from the nest to return to work, but his heart beat faster. The images played in his mind.
Never thought I’d miss your exaggerated stories,
Never thought I’d miss your aggravations,
I went to sleep every night taking you for granted,
You taught me how to fish and care for a car,
And you taught me how to stay awake when driving real far,
Never thought I’d miss your nagging reminders,
Never thought I’d miss those awkward phone calls,
I missed visits all the time taking you for granted,
You taught me to work and to put in effort,
Taught me the value of digging in the dirt,
Never realized how much I would miss you,
And all those things you used to do,
Just living my life one day at a time taking it for granted,
You taught me how to focus and always be my best,
Helped me learn the value of what beats in my chest,
Never thought I’d be here with nothing but memories,
Never thought I’d be left with only your footsteps,
Both of you left such large shoes to fill,
Hope that I can make you proud, that you can see,
The life I make with these tools you gave me.
Hey look its another one of my OCs! I know, hold your applause. Her name is Anber, and she likes riding on desert winds.
opic marker on Moleskine Cahier paper. For such thin paper, it actually handled really well. I love Moleskine for sketching, so I keep one of the plain cahiers on hand. But I decided to ink and color this one. There’s a little more bleed than I anticipated, and ink takes a little longer to dry. But I’ve always really loved how smooth the paper is. The bleed coupled with my shaky hands give a bit of character to the lines. My scanner isn’t kind to the colors. They’re a bit warmer in person.
In less than six months, I managed to lose two of the greatest men from my life. Both grandfathers that have been there since the beginning.
Two of the men that I looked up to more than any other. These men taught me what it was to be responsible, to take care of myself. They taught me simple tricks, showed me how to change my oil, run a tractor, change a tire, run a tractor. I can see their lessons every day in my life.
I think about them both every day, and I don’t know how life just keeps moving on.
Yet it doesn’t stop.
The colour has faded from my day to day life. Food tastes terrible, games aren’t as fun, the days go by quickly but without any impact. I have no tolerance, and my temper is always flaring. I feel like I need to cry, but the tears stopped long ago. Things that made me happy now do nothing.
I’d worry about the anger, but it’s the only permanent feeling that survives the dreary grey. I don’t know how to fix this. I’ve been trying to write, but the words just don’t feel right anymore.
I love them both so much, and I just want them back.
