The Amaranth

‘Lady’ Lillandyr Shadowglade

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Amazing art by @wraheathcliff

Lillandyr Shadowglade

The Basics –––

Full Name: Anya Silverbough/Alias: Lady Lillandyr Shadowglade

Nickname: Lil. Evil snake woman. Princess

Age: Mid to late twenties equiv. 

Birthday: She won’t tell

Race: Sin'dorei

Gender: female

Marital Status: Fake widowed. Engaged to @wraheathcliff, mind link to @wraaronsen

Physical Appearance –––

Hair:  Her long hair is naturally wavy and a honeyed blonde. 

Eyes:  Intense, acidic fel green

Height: 5’9

Build: Classic hourglass/curvy. 

Distinguishing Marks: N/A

Scars: She has faint burn scars on both palms

Tattoos: poetry verse on back/right shoulder blade

Piercings:  Her ears are pierced several times. No body piercings. 

Common Accessories: Huge, enormous black diamond engagement ring on her ring finger. It’s so large it has caused wrist and shoulder pain. It’s extra. Like her. And cursed. Like her. She usually has a fresh red rose tucked behind one ear. Dark circles under her eyes. 

Likeness: Veronica Lake

Personal Information –––

Profession:  Socialite, thief, relic forger, conwoman. 

Hobbies:  Writing poetry under the pen name Asmira, study, daydreaming, playing cards, gossiping, scheming

Languages:  Thalassian (she refuses to learn to speak the other Horde languages, though she can read them), various magical/forbidden languages

Currently Living:  Formerly In the dank, leaky basement of the burned up ruins of Manor Shadowglade. Currently at Castle Dracone

Birthplace: Quel'thalas

Religion: She refuses to worship anything except herself. 

Fears: hunger, intimacy of any kind, fire, the dark, being out of control, surprises, spending money (and soon…carriages)

Personality:  

Her personality depends on the circumstances in which you know her. If, for some wild reason, she’s not running a con on you, she is an eccentric woman. She is not introverted, but she is soft spoken. She listens intently and seems to enjoy letting other people talk and talk. Paranoia rolls off her in waves. She has a quick and violent temper. Under the thin veneer of civility, Lillandyr is an unhinged, feral woman. If she IS running a con on you she is vapid, easily amused, catty, outgoing, touchy, and perpetually flirtatious. She doesn’t seem to have a thought inside her pretty head. 

Relationships –––

Mother:  Emaleth Silverbough (Deceased)

Father: Unknown

Siblings: None but these are the ones she fakes having:  Eramyn - Older Sister (Deceased), Nycasia - Older Sister (Deceased), Varistan Veyne Sumourne - Older Half Brother (Alive)

Spouse: The fictional Arothir Brackwater- First Marriage (Deceased, but also made up…so…)

Children:  None

Other Family:  None but her stolen identity has several cousins and one uncle.

Pets: Tache, her mind controlled Shal’dorei assistant

Sex & Romance –––

Sexual Orientation: She literally never thinks about it like that. She only becomes aroused at the idea of having power over someone through complicated schemes. Or graphic violence. So whatever that is!

Preferred Role: Dominant| Submissive | Switch

Preferred Position: Bottom | Top | Vers

Turn ons:  Strawberry petit fours, her own cleverness, pulling off a con, giving into her rage, I don’t know…being choked probably. 

Turn offs:  Everything bothers her. But stupidity especially. Submissive men IRONICALLY turn her all the way off. 

Love Language:  Fuck you, darling. 

Relationship Tendencies: She has never had a relationship that wasn’t adversarial or forced on the other person through magic. She needs someone who can handle her. Like…literally she needs a handler.  Now that she’s been in a fairly healthy relationship for awhile, she can be possessive, jealous but fiercely protective.

Traits –––

Bold your character’s answer

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between/ Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader/ In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic /In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between /Modern

Hard-working/ In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional Information –––

Smoking Habit: Severe

Drugs: Whenever possible

Alcohol: It’s a problem

RP Hooks –––

She Owes You Something:

Did you make a generous deal with Lillandyr and now it’s biting you in the ass? Maybe you got sweet talked into something that is now shaping up to be a giant scam. That relic you bought from her was a forgery. You can be a creditor too, but it’s not a 70’s skin flick so be more creative than that! 

You Sell/Buy Relics and Esoteric Tomes:

She is a book and relic dealer. Most are smuggled and are probably forgeries but maybe you’re just as desperate as she is to acquire more. 

Looking For ––

Anything EXCEPT family/slice of life stuff. Lillandyr doesn’t need to breed. One of her is enough. No child deserves that. Be gone, single dads. Don’t put this walking red flag around your children. 

Contact –––

Message me or write at me on here. I don’t play the game often and I super don’t want to RP IN the game even if I have cool outfits. You can add me on discord: lilbriar. 

[lordtristanblack]

DWC Day Seven @daily-writing-challenge

Little Life

TW: death, massacre, gore, consumption of a dragon, infidelity

When Tristan grieved he did it with the entirety of his foul existence. Like every strong emotion that seized him through the numbing haze of immortality, he became the unwavering priest of this new religion inside himself, his devotion terrible in its intensity.

The humans burned her body. He watched from atop the hill overlooking the village. The mortals celebrated her death and all the sheep she'd no longer feast on. They danced around the conflagration of her great body as the flames dulled her bright scales to ash. They feasted on her flesh because it was a way for them to reclaim their dead she had previously devoured.

The wind, merciless and uncaring as the sea, stirred Tristan’s long, black hair and brought the scent of his fallen mate’s cooking flesh to him, coated his body in it.

For a mortal there is no misery, no sorrow or suffering that is absolute. It is always fleeting and finite because it will end. Death was the great mercy and mortal feelings died a little every day before the lights went out. For Tristan, there was no madness to escape into.

As he watched the horror, feeling he should bear witness for HER sake, he drew a dagger from his belt and sawed into his chest. The pain made him scream as his fallen blood grew black and red variegated roses. He pushed past the pain, past the crunching bone as he cracked open his own sternum, lips drawn back from pale teeth wearing a thin veneer of his own blood.

He cut his own heart out of his chest and woke near dawn, said heart new and remade, dutifully beating out forever as he lay in the roses of his own vitae.

Tristan found himself walking amongst the sleeping revelers who were still drunk on wine and full of his mate. He knelt at the great fire pit they’d made to do this violence to every part of her and he smeared her ashes on his hair, face and clothes and remained on his knees, frozen.

He couldn’t be roused to speech or actions by the villagers when they woke to bury the ash and bones of his beloved. Only the occasional tear would cut a clean path down his cheek. It softened these mortals who had no idea it was the architect of their doom that silently wept.

After a full day and night had passed, a woman came to him with gentle, insistent hands and took him to her small hut where she undressed him, burning his blood caked robes in a fire outside. She washed him and dressed him in homely tunic and trousers. Then she sat before him with a lovely face soft with pity.

Like she understood.

The woman stroked his face, moved beyond logic and reason by the well of anguish she saw in his fathomless black eyes. His pain, unknown to her in the specific, still moved her to tears. He was beautiful to her this way, the other brought low enough to love.

This is surely what drove her to kiss him with heat and passion. This beautiful fallen angel who made no sound and only wept had to be a gift from uncaring gods. It felt like blasphemy not to touch him.

Her surprise at his voracious return of her sweet affection melted into delight when he dragged her into the bed and pressed her into the straw filled mattress, snarling at her, teeth at her throat. This is when Tristan came back to himself. The self loathing tore into him, sharper than any dagger. If only he could break the surly bonds of this mortal guise, be the beast they’d just burned to ash and devour this woman whole.

His blunt teeth couldn’t tear out her throat. His bites only made her cry out in pleasure that began to suck him down into confusion. Her kisses defeated him. Her soft touch so wanted it didn’t matter what hands delivered it.

Tristan learned her name and that she liked foxgloves. He learned that her hazel eyes were different colors depending on the time of day. Or if she’d been crying. He learned that she was a terrible cook and that he’d never tell her this. It was easy to lie to her and tell her every meal was his favorite.

When his maladaptive nature hurt her, he learned it was easy to earn her forgiveness with foxgloves he picked in a glade. Mortals needed death for everything. It was easy to lie then and tell her he loved her because it felt like love.

Tristan labored to build a better home for his wife. The years made his hands rough but didn’t put silver in his hair to match hers. It didn’t put lines around his dark eyes. The slow grinding pressure of time never stopped his back.

He found he didn’t mind the extra work when she became too frail to do it. The suspicion of his eternal youth was explained away by dragon magic. He had, forty years ago, bathed in the ashes of one of the last dragons. It wasn’t a gift he could give so he was not harmed for his otherness. At least…not directly.

He returned home one day after a disappointing trip to the city to sell wool. He found his wife in the arms of another man. This was no passionate affair. They were both in the winter of their lives and carried soft ease that told Tristan this had been going on for a very long time.

“Why did you lie to me?” Tristan asked, the numbed grief returning, strangling and screaming, demanding vengeance.

His wife wasn’t sorry. This confrontation only brought out defensive anger. “I never loved you. I felt sorry for you!” Was her only explanation.

He saw the warm familiarity of her fade into icy revulsion. She hated him, he understood this. She coveted his eternal youth and life. He was too strange to love. This little life had taken most of hers and yet had meant nothing to her. It had meant everything to him.

Tristan sighed. “I would have given it to you…if I could have. But perhaps you are right. I didn’t love you either,” he lied.

He killed his wife’s lover first and with the most efficacy. There was no need for him to suffer. He simply unmade his heart and the body died in seconds.

Systematically, he went from hut to hut, most never waking. Those that did and fought him discovered pain would not stop this monster. Nor would death. Every time Tristan was cut down, his body vanished and reappeared perfect and filled with patient rage.

When he’d finished, he dragged the bodies to the place they’d burned his mate. He made a pyre and watched the bodies burn. Twice, his wife stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife, screaming and sobbing. Demanding he kill her too as he’d killed everyone she’d ever loved.

When the bodies were ash, he coated his skin, hair and clothes in them. Tristan stood and touched his wife’s hair, now white. She was just as beautiful as the day she had given him that first lie of kindness.

“May you live many years more,” he whispered. “I would kill you for what you’ve done…but alas. Love confounds me.”

He left her weeping in the ashes of the village as he made his way to the city to see his grim business finished.

[lillandyrshadowglade]

*pets my evil barbie*

[wraleo]

mini guache painting by Kinko White

Daily Writing Challenge @daily-writing-challenge Day 6th

Melody's Wicked End

Melody wasn't the type of girl to sleep well. As her body erupted into the phases of womanhood, so did her restlessness. She often woke up at strange angles in bed as if her flesh wanted to join her mind in all the starry hopeful dreams that pulled her through the night. Sharing with her sibling in their family's cramped cottage was also becoming a problem. Her long legs always accidentally kicked her small sister in slumber, causing wails and sleepy fighting.

The sheets suffocated in the still humid night air. Melody scowled angrily at the black shadow of morning glory blooms hanging their bonneted heads from the stars outside her open window. They were bowed and missed the sparkling promise of ancient starlight blessing and teasing mystery no mortal could know. She wondered about other worlds and yearned for perfect hearts waiting for her eager desire to give hers.

Her mind drifted to Freddy, her father's farmhand, who just started working for them. He had a strong jaw that made her cheeks blush but with the gentleness of youth fresh on his face. His young muscles were already easily competitive enough to a grown man's. She wished he smelled better though. He didn't seem to understand good hygiene after sheering their sheep the day before. When he shook her hand and let it linger too long, the lanolin musk wouldn't wash off easily from her own. Something about this frightened and excited her. She felt violated from the careless disrespect of his stink even though the touch of his fingers filled her with wild thoughts. The urge to punish him for it rose. Angry that she was still thinking about this stinky pretty farm boy, Melody snapped the sheet off and snuck out of the warm bed.

She tripped loudly on all her books in the dark, catching herself on the wall. Books on dragons happen to be the largest in her small collection. As if their lore had to be physically larger than life too. Her favorites were the ones with drawings of handsome elves next to their dragon form. They were meant to be educational so they were anatomically correct and nude for illustration purposes. Her finger would trace the parts of men she had never seen with her own eyes in fear and look longingly at the elegant beauty of women with heavy breasts and lower secrets modest by design, barely an artist's smudge. Fantasies about one of them coming to take her away from the farm and her own troublesome heart occupied all her longing. She would be special and a vicious creature would heel at her feet because fate would bind instant devotion. Her family would see never see her fly away on the back of her beloved to leave the boring small valley. She wouldn't miss the sweet songs of pond creatures and forest bugs. The smell of wet earth and apples fermenting. These beautiful constants only taught her prisons could be beautiful.

There were other books too, all borrowed from the library. Vampires and cryptids and creatures of many types. She wanted to know it all, to know there was more than her frustrating reality. Convinced the one she would give all her love to had to be one of these otherworldly beings and had not yet appeared. Mostly because the selection around her teenage desires was grossly dismal so far.

Melody used these as steps to quietly build to their window. She slipped out letting the shock of damp on her bare legs remind her she was now a wild thing like the night. Waking Freddy would be easy. The barn walls were thin and she knew he stayed up late reading boring books on husbandry and mechanics. Her disgust at his literary tastes repelled her the most. She wondered if his mind was boring. This would have to be tested.

Following the edge of the foxglove garden, Melody tip-toed like a fae in bare feet with her long nightgown bottom bunched in her hand over her knees so the dew would not soak it.

Settling near the large oak to shadow her ghostly figure, she watched the barn door from a distance and began to trill and sing like a bird. She did not know their songs by heart but this did not matter. He should think this was odd. If she saw his confusion and frown looking outside the barn, it would be worth getting her feet wet. She grinned and suppressed audible giggles as she waited for his investigation.

To her delight, Freddy appeared almost instantly. Her mouth opened seeing him shirtless with a weapon in-hand, tense with threat. The metal on the long spear flashed in oil lamplight as she drew in a little gasp. Instantly she started running, determined to make him chase. She trailed her retreat with a few more obviously poor bird sounds.

The hedge of forest on the edge of the field hid her but blocked the moment Freddy alerted a passing Scarlet company of three other men on the nearby road. His face was serious as he conveyed his concerns of livestock thieves.

She ran breathless straight into the dark expanse of a barley field, the tickle up her leg from the plant whipping by as she brought distance between Freddy's pursuit. He would see her in the field dancing under the stars and fall in love. Her plan was working perfectly.

When she paused to wait her brow furrowed at a strange hole in the sky. It was as if a shadow blinked them out in vast swaths. Slowly this defined clearer until with terror she realized this was a huge creature descending upon her. Her mouth dropped open and a small sound escaped her watching the vague outline of a black dragon circle her lazily in curiosity. Huge red eyes narrowed as the magnificent expanse of it nearly landed. Trembling, she began to whimper with awe, unable to move. The first roar it shrieked made her scream and crumple to the ground.

Men's shouts followed and ghastly sounds of ripping flesh filled the humid dark. Melody cried while trying to make herself small. Despair had settled her to quiet when she knew the silence meant they were all dead.

The crunch was sickening. Sounds of the dragon eating had her shaking so hard she could no longer think. Looking was impossible, her eyes still squeezed shut tight. Thoughts of her own death consumed her. She screamed when she opened them and a naked elf was squatting down with her, wicked eyes observing with irritation.

He was covered in remnants of gore, with a horrible handsomeness that curled her expression into confusion. This made him look scarier and more cruel. He didn't feel alone, either. Shadows like imploring snakes curled around her body in indifferent observation. Her breath hitched into hiccups, sniveling in misery.

"Please don't hurt me!" she begged.

The elven man huffed with pissy disgust, looking at her very strangely. He spoke in common with a thick elven accent, words hissed like he still had a serpent's tongue.

"You lured me like bait. Did they see me overhead and decide to use you to lure the beast?" he accused with his teeth bared. She did not answer, grief and shock silencing. "But I am only hunting for wicked men tonight. Not little girls."

He stood slowly, hovering above her, thinking of his mate and their own seed of a child. "This is not mercy. My child will not feed on innocence. She will learn what your kind cannot." Leonardo backed away slowly to ready himself for transformation and flight but her defiance stopped him.

"No." Melody shouted after him with a sob. She knew Freddy was one of the dead. Knew that this guilt would slowly destroy her. Seeing the beautiful wicked man of her dreams look at her that way spurred her to fury. He turned, eyes flaring with narrowed waiting.

"No." she repeated, clearer despite her shaking. She stood and addressed the being with a heaving chest, unable to do anything but fight. "Dragons are all wicked. Your child will be too!" she added like a curse. It made her feel powerful, like she could lose her mind and be full of magic by wishing it so.

The red glow increased in intensity at her words. Leonardo made swift connection to her with a mean snatch and sunk his teeth into her tiny neck with efficiency. Her life drained in a rush and tasted unpleasantly unripe. She was fruit that should have grown longer and Leonardo felt only sour dissatisfaction from her kill. Nothing in his stomach settled right anymore.

He dropped her in the dew and transformed into a dragon, scanning over body parts leaking into the barley grass filling the air with sweet trampled leaf and rancid blood. His clawed weight sunk into the field as he snatched the body of the young man that threw the first spear through his leathered wing. He hung like a limp doll as he flew off back to Tristan's tower.

When Leonardo arrived and dumped him on the terrace, no one was around. His mate's proximity to Roval bothered him easily in his already ruined mood. The shower was a pout of denial. Normally he would present the blood of his hunt on his body for his mate but he didn't want her to have any of the girl's blood. It bothered him, the entire encounter. He regretted her kill in a way that unsettled him deeply.

She did not appear interested in what he brought home and he could hear laughter from Roval's room. He bared his teeth openly to no one as he walked back out to the terrace. With effort he removed the heart of the human and put it on a tray he grabbed from Tristan's wine and burst back into Roval's room again without care. His shadows conjured a tight rendering of elegant elven wear, hair curls separated still by the steam of the shower.

He sat down on an nearby lounge uninvited in a languid slouch, feasting and picking on the heart like it was a roasted chicken in a pub.

Roval was propped up in his recovery bed, sharing sandwiches Ahnariel made as a snack. Both paused with surprise at his return.

Roval grinned with amusement at his uncle. His bad moods were entertaining now. Ahnariel had warned him about the purpose of this hunt. "Is that a wicked heart?" he asked.

Leonardo glanced at Ahnariel while he licked his fingers messily. He brooded for a bit with drama before answering.

"I don't know. I'm the wicked one. And I eat whatever the fuck I want." he replied with a nasty rebuke, not offering a bite.

[wraheathcliff]

Some of my writing from a different character... and a new POV for this story. You don't have to know our existing lore to enjoy this one. Thanks for reading!

[lillandyrshadowglade]

This is a great short story and beautifully written. Engaging and lovely. Relatable and horrifying. Masterfully done

[lordtristanblack]

Name Me

June DWC 2026 Day 4

@daily-writing-challenge

SFW Tristan?! TW: animal death

Tristan Black loved the stars before he knew they could die. He would lay back in the cool grass on summer evenings and gaze up at them, feeling small and insignificant. This humility was relief. They are like me, he thought, shining in the dark, all alone. Perhaps he had brothers and sisters worlds away, looking at the same stars and wondering about him. This was a different kind of lonely ache. It held hope along with longing, dangerous things for him to feel.

In his five thousandth year, laying in the grass, listening to the night wind hiss through the trees, he discovered the sky was wrong. A bright star called Adhara was gone from the sky. In her bright place was a hazy smear.

He sat up, heart racing with a cold, sick sinking feeling in his guts. So this was the legacy of all things, even the stars, to die? Would he witness the very last one blink out of existence leaving him in the cold, vast forever?

Tristan had convinced himself that after all these ages, he had mastered his emotions. He hadn’t shed a tear in a thousand years and now, he found himself hunched over on his knees, sobbing, snot and spittle on his face, his chest on fire with tight horror and grief.

Adhara, his beautiful star, the star that had been shining since his lonely birth, abandoned him at last. Immortality was a long road of grief and if one waited long enough, unmoving, the road changed until it was unrecognizable…but the direction never changed. Forward. Forever leaving loves and enemies behind. Forward with no destination.

He felt the air warm, night blooming flowers a thick perfume that drove away the salt scent of his tears. Light filled the glade, soft and silvery, making him raise his face from his hands.

There, standing before him, was a unicorn, slender as any cervine, coat white and shimmering. In all his long existence, he had never seen one. They only appeared to the innocent and pure of heart. He’d been monstrous since birth. He didn’t belong here and this wasn’t for him.

His ego could not stand in the face of divine beauty born of the magic of the world he so loved. He stayed on his knees, weeping because he couldn’t avert his gaze though he felt he should.

“Get away from me,” he begged. “Please…I am foul and I ruin everything I touch. I’m no innocent.”

But the unicorn only lowered her proud head and nudged him with her muzzle. You are innocent for what you are, came her soft voice inside his head.

His brow twisted in desperation and confusion. “What am I? Please…tell me there are others like me.”

The unicorn chuffed and began to graze in the glade as the moonlight broke through the canopy of trees. There is nothing like you because you carry the power of nothing. You don’t belong in the world.

Tristan felt the black tide of rage sweep over him, drown and suffocate him and the thread of reason in his mind. He stood, fists clenched. “No! You lie, creature!” He snarled like a fox with its leg in a trap.

I cannot lie. You do not belong but that does not mean you are unimportant. You will give me a name. The unicorn paused her grazing to look at him with dark, mysterious eyes.

Trembling, the anger drained out of him at such an honor. Perhaps she felt kinship with him, another immortal. She felt ancient in his mind, her magic wild and of the earth. She was the Old Magic that had been fading from the world.

“I will name you,” he said softly. A little, sad smile curled his lips. “Adhara.” He reached out to touch the unicorn’s neck.

The light of her was snuffed the moment he spoke the name. Without word or explanation, just relieved sigh as she crumpled to the ground and began to dissolve like mist hit by sunlight. He screamed in horror, on his knees again, begging.

“I’m sorry! Please! I didn’t know…please don’t…please,” he ended his pleading with a thin whimper.

He kept the unicorn’s horn. It became his secret treasure, never to be used in spells, with him wherever he ended up. It was subtle, his love of the mythical creature he had only seen once, when he was still innocent…for what he was. Little porcelain figurines hid between thick tiles on shelves. A fountain on a balcony with a marble unicorn resting through the spray of water. Brass statues in his library. Carved into his headboard, looking down at Nesnora’s sleeping face.

He felt strongly then, gazing at the two, beautiful countenances that had pierced his heart, that he didn’t belong. But how could he stay away when everything in him needed these lights. Ached and bled for them. More than death, he wanted them.

Wanted her.

He’d promised Nesnora he would never apologize to her. There could be no forgiveness for all he had done. For the first time he wished he could go back and do it differently.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her as she drifted in dreams, not hearing him.

To her he gave the only material treasure that had ever meant anything to him. On the pillow beside her beautiful, sleeping head he laid Adhara’s spiral, golden horn. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I hope this is goodbye. And if it is…don’t mourn me.”

He left in the dead of night, his magic taking him to the Shadowglade estate crawling with undead. He made his way unmolested to the dying iron tree.

Tristan kneeled in the poisoned soil and gazed up at her black branches. “I do not belong, mother. No good deed made you answer and so no evil deed has either.” He paused. He didn’t expect to hear her voice. But he still hoped. Still gave her the silence in between beats of his broken heart.

“I can’t exist. There is no place for me. I can’t…even love properly,” he said with shame, tears sliding down his cheeks. “But you can fix it. You can wipe the world clean of me.”

He took in a breath, afraid but resolute. “Name me?”he asked in the pleading voice of a child.

He returned before Nesnora and his….guests woke. Tristan never spoke of how even now, his mother refused to name him.

@wranesnora

[lillandyrshadowglade]

*shoves my evil barbie at you*

[black-hearted-bat-deactivated20]

[lillandyrshadowglade]

@draconecastle lmao

[enchantedbook]

'The Little Mermaid' by Hiroaki Ikeda, 1971

[swan-bones]

Tangle Rose

Block print, 2021

by Kelly Louise Judd

[fitsofgloom]

Exciting Action From The Celestial

[draconecastle]

Dracone women tbh @lillandyrshadowglade @seralahbloodhaven @mirastarsorrow

[lillandyrshadowglade]

How I’m tryna be

[depsidase]

[wraheathcliff]

@lillandyrshadowglade

[devils-queen]

666

[daily-writing-challenge]

COMING SOON!

For more information, please see our FAQ page —> HERE!

It’s our second challenge of the year, starting a little later than normal due to busy May schedules! We’re looking forward to writing with you all again, learning more about your OCs and reading your stories!

See you with a word list soon!

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Happy Birthday, Darling

@wraheathcliff

Part three/conclusion

Lillandyr sprinkled the sadarac powder over the deep, purple ink. The scent of clove tickled her nose, but she found it warm and pleasant. It hid the ammonia the lichen had fermented in and prevented mold. Her lips curled into a little, girlish smile as she tied a black ribbon around the ink bottle. It was a clever gift.

Once the ink was dry, she swept a mink brush over it to free it of the powder and rolled up the parchment. This she tied with a black ribbon too. Lillandyr spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready.

Arriving at the Lucky Mermaid, she knew she’d be overdressed. It was the first time she’d asked Heathcliff to show up somewhere instead of their happenstance meetings. She’d lied and said there was a poker tournament and she needed a partner. Poker was a solo game so it wasn’t even a good lie, but he’d readily accepted.

Lillandyr had spent what little she had on renting the whole lounge for the night and for a band that was admittedly not very good, to play. She’d stayed after closing the night before to decorate. Purple streamers and balloons. She knew it was silly but she couldn’t keep from indulging her childhood, unfulfilled wish of having a birthday party.

The cake was small. Three layers, drenched in buttercream with purple rosebuds and Chantelle cream filling. Lillandyr completed all of this by nestling a ridiculous, metallic silver party hat in her pinned up hair. Her dress matched the decor, purple satin, short, tight, and showing plenty of cleavage.

The look on Heathcliff’s face was worth all the trouble. At first, he looked puzzled at the empty state of the popular lounge. Then he found her, sitting towards the back, grimacing with amusement at the party hat.

“Happy birthday,” she said airily. “Since you were a cunt and wouldn’t tell me when your birthday is, I decided it was today. Sit down and if you complain…I’ll cry,” she threatened nastily.

Any protest or complaint died immediately. His features softened into an expression she’d never seen, soft and vulnerable, pleased and a little sad.

“Presents, then cake,” she said over the din of poorly played jazz.

Lillandyr took the bottle of ink from her purse and slid it smugly over the table. “Ink made from Ochrolechia tartarea. That lichen you showed me on the rocks a couple months ago. I figured out how to make it.”

He looked genuinely delighted. “You rolled your eyes so much I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

She scoffed. “I’m always paying attention, you ass. It’s just…you are being so…nerdy.” The sting of her words was smothered by the affection and warmth in her eyes and her ornery little grin.

Before he could go on about it and embarrass her, she slid the rolled parchment over the table and watched as he read the poem.

You are a thousand things

It hurts to want

Things I’ll never know

Like how your eyes look

First thing in the morning

Which side of the bed

You’d claim if I was there

The little sounds you’d make

While deeply asleep

A more easy silence

Not tight with tension,

That can never be broken,

Would settle warmly

Over our morning coffee

I’ll never sleep on your couch

In a fit of petty anger

I’ll never hold when you cry

Or wear your slippers

Even though I know

You’d hate it if I did

In this way

I mourn a thousand tragedies

Of all the little things I want

But know I’ll never have

Watching his face…Lillandyr realized she’d fucked up. The ache in her heart was mirrored in his expression. And he looked as though he was gearing up to let her down easy but she’d already, clearly accepted and admitted defeat. The humiliation couldn’t stand.

“It’s one of my favorite poets,” she blurted. “Thought you would…enjoy her work.” The lie came too fast. It had loose ends. She scrambled to add legitimacy. “Private, unpublished piece so it’s rare. Part of my collection. Copied it in the ink so you can see how pretty it is.” Her face was hot.

There was this odd moment of disappointment, but then he had the twinkle of discovery in his eyes. “I enjoyed that. I’d love to see her other work. Who’s the poet?” He asked with real interest.

Fuck.

Her mind furiously tried out names in seconds as sweat gathered at her lower back. A…for Anya. Then S for Silverbough. She couldn’t resist putting part of herself in there. And at last Mira, after the woman she wished she was more like.

“Asmira,” she said with a smile filled with both relief and the sting of her own lie.

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Ochrolechia Tartarea

@wraheathcliff

Lillandyr had never planned a surprise for someone’s birthday before, but she knew better than to have it anywhere near Hallow’s Eve. She knew she was bad at gifts, but that would be comically bad. Despite the dark clothes and overall air of gorgeous melancholy, Heathcliff seemed like a child of summer. Maybe it was his scamp behavior. Maybe it was his boyishness when he talked about frogs or moss or some other scientific thing that captured his attention. Regardless, she chose July 10th for his birthday. Early summer, before the heat was oppressive, before the bite of fall. When the fireflies lit the fields like the starry heavens descended to earth to play for a while.

Pacing her basement, she blurted, “Moss!”

Tache looked over his shoulder, nearly losing his footing on the step stool he precariously balanced on. He’d been trying to patch the dirt wall in the basement to mitigate the flooding when it rained. “Mistress, I don’t think moss will be substantial enough-“

She whirled around, roses in her cheeks, venomous green eyes narrowed. “I’m not talking about the fucking basement, you dolt!” Her features softened, gaze askance as she tugged on her bottom lip. “…actually, I think it was lichen.” Not that she knew the difference really. Both grew on wet, dead wood. Or sometimes living wood? Mushrooms too.

“Fuck,” she grumbled, annoyed at her own ignorance. She had just never given a shit about these things and thus had never bothered learning about these things beyond not liking mushrooms in her food. Slimy little dirt tasting bastards. Truthfully, she still didn’t give a shit but she had an idea that grabbed her by the tail.

“Would you get down! You’re not a carpenter…or whatever the fuck fixes a basement. I didn’t ask! I have something else for you to do and it’s important,” she huffed while yanking her hair out of the bun it had been in, flopping down on her rickety chair to sit in front of her vanity. “I want you to research inks made from…forest garbage. Like mushrooms and moss. Lichen actually. I don’t think you can make fuck all out of moss, I don’t know.”

Tache hopped down from the stool, looking put out. She ignored this. He tutted, draping his cardigan over his arm. “Moss has many practical us-“

“Tache? Shut up. Did I ask for a treatise on moss? No? Now hop to it. I only have two weeks,” she said, tugging a comb with missing teeth through her unruly, golden waves.

She was sure she had most of the supplies. Gum arabic and nice, new quills. Brushes if she wanted to use a different style of calligraphy. She’d made her own ink, when she needed it to smell a certain way or dry down to a certain color to meticulously carry out a forgery. But she’d never made it out of stuff found in the woods before. She nicked the pigments from an art supply shop. But she didn’t want his gift to be…stolen goods. Besides, it’d be just her luck she’d get pinched and have to beg him for bail money (again). That would ruin all the fun.

She smirked as she dabbed on rouge. “Doesn’t bother with his birthday! Pah! What a wet blanket. I’ll show him,” she said to her reflection.

“Ah…who’s birthday, Mistress?” Tache ventured with the most stinky, sour puss face she’d ever seen.

“My boyfriend,” she lied just to make him suffer. And leave. She was tired of him looking at her like a kicked dog begging for scraps.

Tache’s features melted like ice cream on the pavement on a scorching day. He looked gutted and she rolled her eyes. “I’m writing him a very romantic poem for his birthday. And he showed me this…lichen? Yes, lichen a couple weeks ago. He said ancient elves used to make purple dye out of it. His ancestors. And his house colors are purple and black,” she went on, affecting the air of a besotted girl, replete with fluttering lashes and dreamy sighs.

Clearly anxious to not hear another word, Tache hurried up the basement stairs, out the hatch and into the humid afternoon.

Later that night, she looked over the notes he made, peering at his tiny, tight script through a jeweler’s monocle she used in forgery work. “Fucking hell, Tache. Did a mouse write this?”

He just pouted.

She sat up, bouncing in her seat a little. “Ochrolechia tartarea! Cudbear! That’s what he called it! Ha! Now, you can go to the apothecary and get some for me. I’m not foraging like a dirty peasant,” she said with a huff, lighting a cigarillo.

When Tache didn’t immediately get up, she glared at him and snapped her fingers. “Well?? I need ammonia and clove oil too! Write that down.”

Tache sullenly obeyed like always. He glared at her as if to protest but she delivered a perfectly timed sweet smile and he sighed heavily, muttered a ‘yes, mistress,’ and was on his way.

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Freebies

@wraheathcliff

Thirteen years ago…

Part One

Just because she paraded around dressed far finer than she had in the old days didn’t mean Lillandyr avoided her old haunts. She felt drawn to them still, like a comfortable pair of shoes. She teetered on stilettos too high for high society, smoking furiously, practically stomping to the lounge, hand bag clutched tightly to her chest because she’d heard bits of a conversation behind her. Words like ‘foin’ and ‘nip’ had her walking faster. She’d hate to magically lobotomize a couple kids just trying to get by. Delivering to punish those in her old profession.

Lillandyr didn’t like the Dizzy Trollop for a variety of reasons, two of them being the name. “Stupid,” she said snidely in a grumble as she stormed in, the doorman stepping out of her way. Met with a wall of the yeasty stink of a thousand spilled beers, the reek of sweaty bodies and a sour smell she didn’t want to know the source of, Lillandyr plopped down on an uneven, wobbly bar stool and looked at the bar tender, Dornyl knowingly with pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow.

It was her fucking birthday and the Dizzy Trollop gave her a free drink. Not just any free drink. It had four fruit skewers, something in it that made it aggressively fizzy, too much simple syrup, lots and lots of cherries, two umbrellas (her favorite cocktail adornment) a sparkler, and enough liquor to see her not needing another drink for the rest of the night. All served in an entire pineapple.

“One birthday girl,” she said smugly to the bartender. “Please,” she added to grease the wheels and get her the fancy frilly nonsense drink faster.

As she waited, a girlish, private smile played at her lips. Until a hand played at the small of her back. Black magic, like velvet slithered through her brain as she slowly turned to ruin the day of whatever cretin had the unmitigated gall to interrupt her birthday treat she’d been getting every birthday for the past decade.

Instead she glowered up at Heathcliff. For once, she didn’t bother mashing down her delight and pleasure at seeing him. He got a rare, big toothy smile. She was so glad to see him that she didn’t even wonder (for long) if he’d been what? Following her? She’d never seen him there before.

His eyes held soft affection as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Happy birthday, Princess,” he rumbled.

Her nose scrunched when she felt her cheeks warm. She usually pretended to bristle at the nickname, but she liked it so much, it was just about her favorite thing. It turned her insides into pure sugar, sticky sweet. She gestured to the ridiculous cocktail as the bartender heaved it onto the bar top.

“Free birthday drink,” she explained. “I spent all day getting free birthday things. Little cake at the bakery, free spicy noodles and some nice hand lotion at a snotty boutique,” she chattered away, not thinking how a real noble woman would never run herself all over town getting free things of dubious value.

But Heathcliff didn’t point this out. His brow raised, lips thinning before they curled into an amused grin. He then took her hands, making her huff and frown as though very bothered when any excuse to touch him was never truly rebuffed.

He slid something cold into her palm. It was a lighter. She never had one and was always trying to nip his. She managed to hold onto the silver flip lighter with his monogrammed initials for two weeks once. But he always managed to snatch it back.

This one was silver too with roses and inlaid mother of pearl. On the back, in loopy scroll was the word Princess.

She gasped in genuine pleasure. “Well. I just love it,” she gushed before pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek without thinking. “You scamp. Must be tired of me stealing your lighter.”

He shrugged, not answering, face lit with pleasure at her reaction. “Come on. I’m taking you to dinner.”

She laughed at his snooty judgment. It was fair. This place was too much of a dive for her too.

It was after dinner as she drew her finger across her plate to get up the last bit of icing from the cake she’d had for dessert, it dawned on her that she didn’t know when his birthday was

“When’s your birthday?” She asked a little too casually. “I need to agonize over a gift. Can’t let you beat me.”

Heathcliff heaved a sigh, though he was still smiling. “I don’t bother with it anymore,” he said lightly.

Lillandyr made a face like she’d just sucked on a lemon, knee jerking his refusal to have fun for some reason. She opened her mouth to rebuke him harshly when she noted the sting of hurt in his eyes. It clicked then. He didn’t bother because he was undead.

She let it slide without comment, wanting to hold his hand under the table. No one since Mira had ever made her birthday special.

Lillandyr let him smoothly change the subject as she began to scheme, eyes glittering in pleasure at her idea.

[wraheathcliff]

Lucky Eyes

Flashback from 15 years ago when Heathcliff and Lillandyr started their dance

Heathcliff left the gallery wanting to break something, preferably something that screamed. He threw the show propaganda into the street bin where it belonged. Those that served shouldn't have their nightmares exploited in art with ignorant applause.

It was supposed to be Vic's last show. The gallery was bought by a higher hand and edited his friend's nightmares into pastels, sanitizing slaughter for the parlors of the comfortable. A slight change to an expression, an erasure of a symbol here and there and all context shifted in favor of the state. Heathcliff sneered at the grotesque, pathetic audacity. Leaders who had to hide with schemes lacked good ideas.

His lieutenant was not adjusting to undeath well. Old Vic's eyes were the last to go. Crumbled under the weight of the grave, skin sagging, mind fogging, while Heathcliff stood untouched— his ancient, boiling blood refusing the quiet of death. No pride dwelled from this. He decided to offer his medical services to help.

After a stiff drink and a hunt for his favorite pretty blonde.

TW: Bloody violence, excessive commas

Every week he was starting to make a habit out of her now. At first it was genuine surprise until it became so obvious it felt electric. An addictively long dance that left his mind burning with her every night.

On Thursdays she opted for rougher fare, slumming it at The Severed String. It was still opulent for the rich but had a smear of crime so heavy on the velvet only criminals with thick cologne were unbothered by the stink. Pipe smoke with low red lights curled around glittering misfortune in the shape of sharp heels and stolen cufflinks. A place for elves who lost their glow to drown in something darker than wine.

Lillandyr sat at the gold-edged bar like a princess in exile, beauty a sharp, devastating thing that cut through the haze. Thunderous venom swirled in her emerald eyes, a storm waiting to break. She was openly annoyed, vibrating with a frequency that warned the wise to stay away. And absolutely gorgeous.

The drunk magistrate's guard leaning into her space was a sledgehammer trying to crack a walnut. He was too loud, too close, his breath a hot, unwanted invasion of the air she was trying to save for better company. An offensively average elf with confidence undeserved. Heathcliff removed his top hat and walked over slowly, amused. His smile dropped when he saw her flinch as a meaty, unwanted hand rested on her thigh. The guard mistook her silence for submission, a fatal error in arithmetic he was about to regret.

Heathcliff didn't think it was fair her dress get ruined for it.

A heavy hand fell on the man's shoulder and shook him with a jerk off her leg.

"CUNNUS, you LOUT! Look at you! You look fantastic. What good fortune I have tonight." he added with enthusiasm, ignoring Lillandyr completely. His charming smile greeted an old friend but the man's face twisted in a mix of flattery and confusion.

"You've got the wrong one, deader. Name is Jax." he replied with dumb frustration.

"No shit!" Heathcliff answered with a laugh a bit too intense, his usual manner of speech jolted with the act of one biting back violence. He blinked like he saw a revelation on Jax's face. "But you just might be the man with the wits enough to do it." he asserted with hopeful suggestion.

His hand slid to the back of the man's neck, pulling him away from her to speak in a conspiratorial huddle. Jax looked tense with suspicion but let his vanity trust the stranger. Heathcliff continued. "There's a rare, nocturnal hunting hound wounded in the alley. It looks pretty roughed up but I think I can stitch him together. I need someone strong enough who isn't a complete jackoff to figure out how to hold it down while I work. We save the beast? We go half and half on the sale and celebrate with some cards."

Jax looked at Heathcliff as if he needed one more incentive.

"It's probably a Dracone breed. Those assholes buy hounds for, say, at least a solid million gold."

The man huffed out a breath. "Let's do this."

Heathcliff's smile spread in satisfaction. "Yes. One moment." he turned back to Lillandyr and grabbed a pink cocktail she just had refilled. He tipped his head back and drank the entire thing. She stared at him wide-eyed from his unusual rudeness. He snatched her cigarette next and took a drag before handing it back with a wink that crinkled the corner of his eye and a smirk that said see you later. It was met with a sneer of disapproval.

He led the man into the alley, steam from the sewers clouding the refuse littering the damp brick. Jax followed him to a dead end where Heathcliff pointed at a large crate covered in boxes.

"In there?" Jax confirmed with caution.

"Yes, he's asleep. Probably easy to handle now. Go ahead." Heathcliff instructed, whipping off his heavy wool coat and rolling up his black sleeves. He put on a pair of leather gloves and gestured with encouragement, preparing a syringe.

As Jax bent down to look in the crate, a needle emptied into his ass. The magistrate's goon yelped once but immediately collapsed in a heavy stupor. Heathcliff stood over him in disgust.

"Your Magistrate hosted quite the gallery opening tonight." he remarked as he squatted near the man's head with a heavy sigh. The guard's eyes rolled wildly with hate but he could not move. His mouth trembled like he tried using all his strength to speak.

"My, what lucky eyes you have. Eyes that looked at Lady Shadowglade a bit too much."

He pulled down harder on his right glove and sharp metal claws protruded from the leather. This came down hard on the man's thigh mirroring where he had touched Lillandyr. Confusion and terror marked Jax's impotent gaze at the dark man hovering above. Heathcliff said no more as he dug his claws in, severing a leg artery messily, pulling like the vicious beast he promised. He didn't waver under the convulsions, waiting until the man went limp and he could hear the blood drip faster down the echo of the sewer drain.

The eyes were taken swiftly, stems making them delicate ornaments to swim in the saline solution he kept in small jars in his coat. Heathcliff wiped most of the blood off his skin. With a sharp whistle his hounds came to greet him, licking and whining at his hands for his next command in Thalassian, 'feast upon the damned'.

It was granted and he didn't stay to watch. Heathcliff gathered his coat and slipped back inside the smoky lounge. Inside the washroom while scrubbing up he looked at himself in the mirror, feeling comfortable with his ghoulish appearance. It was fun to be the accusation, as a little treat. Fulfilling a rumor now and then wouldn't be the worst crime plaguing their lands.

She was still perfect with her disappointment and new drink, this time bright red. When he approached, she snatched it with a protective tease.

"Thief. Scamp." she smarted at him with a genuine betrayal of delight.

"Princess." he said low and close, leaning while lighting a cigarette. She snatched it before he could take a proper drag, pressing her red lips on the filter thoroughly. He raised an eyebrow with a smile.

"You were too nice to him." she quipped.

His eyes glittered with restraint. "Perhaps I was." he answered honestly. "I promise I'll be meaner next time."

@lillandyrshadowglade

[charnel-grounds]

Gustave Doré (1832–1883), “The Gnarled Monster”

illustration from “The Days of Chivalry; Or, The Legend of Croquemitaine” by Ernest L’Épine (as Quatrelles), 1866

source

[lillandyrshadowglade]

@draconecastle you and your pals

[thisobscuredesireforbeauty]

[lillandyrshadowglade]

@wraheathcliff yes 😌