Seraanna Longveil

Stories, inspiration, and musings related to Seraanna Longveil, a World of Warcraft character played on Moon Guard (Alliance).

[maxparkhurst]

"Don't chase the rabbit"

BRENNADAM, STORMSONG VALLEY

She remembered the day with exceptional clarity; the day she first met Simon Schultz.

Maxinora stood in the doorframe. Sun still baked into her cheeks and streaked through her hair. Feet sore and blistered from where her loafers pinched her toes. Frozen and wide-eyed like a doe caught in a hunter’s scope

She had never met the man seated next to the hearth, and she would remember meeting someone like him. His legs were awfully long, stretching for miles before him as he reclined in Papa’s chair. And his nose, hooked and twitching, reminded Max of a rat she’d recently found in the garden. His eyes shifted much the same, tracing the contours of her mother’s face as if it were a hunk of cheese. More hunger than anything else.

But the way her mother sat in his lap, tangled in his long limbs, made Max question if she ought to have known him. Mother seemed quite fond of him, after all. She let him caress the swell of her belly. Touch her shoulders and twirl her hair. All the while, she raked her own fingers through the rivers of ash in his hair, smiling in a way Maxinora never knew she could. They whispered amongst themselves, as Midsummer fireflies do. Fluttering closer and closer. Eyes twinkling. Skin glowing. Unaware of Max. Unaware of the world around them.

Until the house started to shake.

Maxinora knew when Papa came home. She felt his arrival long before she heard or saw him. Being built like a brick poophouse- a sailor from the docks used that phrase to describe Papa once, built like a brick shithouse, which made Papa laugh. When Max tried it for herself, though, she only received a mouthful of soap. So, Papa was not a brick shithouse, but a brick poophouse. And that’s just the way of things- he possessed a thunderous gait that shook their tiny house to its roots.

The man’s beady gaze snapped to attention and latched onto Max. His eyes flashed hot like churned coals, making Max’s belly knot with sick. They stared at each other for a brief moment, though she swore it felt longer, as her mother swiftly untangled herself. By the time Papa’s steps reached their crescendo, a cordial distance was placed between Mother and the Stranger. Ice dripped cold into her toes; she wondered if she’d been naughty for peeping.

“You little scamp!” The floor flew away from Maxinora, Papa’s boisterous voice in her ear. And all was momentarily forgotten. She squealed with delight as he hoisted her up onto his shoulders. “You beat me home!”

“'Cause I’m fast! Faster than a schooner!” she laughed, spry arms thrown around his neck.

“A schooner, eh?! Who taught you that, huh?” Max’s vision blurred as Papa spun her around, bouncing her on his shoulders. “You clever girl! My precious, clever girl!”

Mother’s soft sigh cut through their revelry. Papa paused mid-spin, blinking and dumfounded. She gave him a placating smile - unlike the one she’d given the Stranger, this one Max was familiar with- as she nodded to the man in the chair. Papa swelled with excitement, laughter rippling beneath his skin.

“OH-HO!”

Maxinora suddenly found herself no longer with the high ground, but instead plopped onto her feet. She wiggled her toes, feeling the chill from prior creeping back, as she watched Papa barrel towards the Stranger.

“IF’N IT AIN’T SIMON BLOODY SCHULTZ!”Papa howled.

Ah. So the Stranger now had a name. Simon Schultz. S-I-M-O-N. S-C-H-U-L-T-S.

“Ah. Yes. Good to see you Cy-”

Simon made a sound Maxinora could only describe as a mix between a cat’s yowl and a dog’s bark when Papa yanked him from his seat. Papa wrestled him into a bear hug, squeezing the color right from his cheeks.

“It is so good to see you, Simon! It’s been YEARS.”

“Mhm,” Simon wheezed, gently patting Papa’s back, “Very. Good.”

“Ah!” Papa sighed as he released Simon, the lankier man spilling into the chair. “You need to meet Maxi!”

Max’s chest swelled when Papa beckoned her hither. She approached on light feet, rocking on the balls of her feet before the chair Simon slumped in. She looked between Papa, with his beaming grin, and Mother, with her disquieted smile. Then, she turned to Simon and wrinkled her nose. Standing this close, she could smell something sour wafting from his dark, leather coat; a mix of wet earth and eggs turned rotten.

“You stink,” she mumbled, pulling her shirt over her nose.

“Maxinora,” Mother quipped, voice soft but stern.

Papa threw his head back with laughter as he stooped down to her level, clapping a hand on her head. “No, no, Angela! She’s right. Simon does stink! Smells right like- Ah. Bollocks. What’s it you’d always say, eh?”

Simon sighed through his nose, grumbling, “Sulfur and petrichor.”

Max drew in a sharp breath. Petrichor. A new word. Something to chew on. She licked a canine as she ducked from under her father’s palm, scurrying a degree closer to Simon. “Petrichor,” she echoed, “How do you spell that?”

Simon lofted a brow in quiet response.

“She’s got a real fixation on spellin’ words,” Papa explained, rising to his feet. “Her teacher says she’s got a hunger for it. Done already spellin’ her name ‘fore her other classmates. Go on, Precious. Show Mister Simon.”

Max did not want to spell anything for this stinky man who stared down his long, sharp nose at her. But some part of her felt that if she spelled her name for him, maybe he’d spell that new word for her, and that seemed like a fair trade. So, with a final glance at Papa’s encouraging smile, Max spoke in a clear and confident voice.

“M-A-X-I-N-O-R-A.”

“Ah. Very impressive,” Simon mused.

The way he said it, though, sounded as if he weren’t very impressed at all. Which made Max’s cheeks burn something fierce.

“I can spell my last name, too!” she blurted, “P-A-R-K-H-U-R-S-T! Parkhurst!”

Mother’s smile remained neutral and pleasant as she nodded in encouragement. Meanwhile, Papa’s smile grew to be all teeth and no eyes as he applauded. “Very good, Maxi!”

Simon, on the other hand, simply nodded. Nonplussed. “Yes. Good.”

And that set a fire under Max’s ribcage. She puffed out her cheeks and stomped her feet. Before she could receive a scolding, she jabbed a finger at Simon. “A-and I can spell your name! S-I-M-O-N S-C-H-U-L-T-S!”

Now that gave Simon a reason to pause. He said nothing as a slow smile crept on his lips. Feeling satisfied, Maxinora met his grin with a cheeky one of her own. Either hand on a hip as she stood on the balls of her feet, her flag sailing at high mast.

“Z,” Simon quipped.

She instantly deflated with a puzzled huff, “What?”

“Z,” Simon reiterated. He clasped his hands together as he leaned over his chair, bringing himself eye level with Maxinora. The grin he wore was almost feline in nature. She could smell the petrichor and sulfur in full, now. And she tried her best not to retreat from it. “S-C-H-U-L-T-Z. Sh-ult-z. Like the buzz of a bee.”

That bit of trivia fell like a stone in a lake, rippling Max’s confidence as it sank into her tummy. She dropped her gaze, feeling the burn in her cheeks and chest crawl to nest behind her eyes. She wrung the hem of her shirt as she tried to blink away tears. What an awful and stinky man. With his hard-to-spell name.

“She was closer than I was when we first met!!” Papa roared, ruffling her hair. “Just a clever girl! Ain’t got a clue where she gets it from.”

“Certainly not you,” Simon chuffed, leaning back in his seat.

“Not everyone is uncaringly logical, Simon,” Mother murmured as she glided past. She paused at the doorframe, looking over her shoulder. “Help me with supper, love?”

Papa gave an empathetic nod, following after.

The parlor fell exceptionally quiet with only Max and stinky Simon occupying it. Max stared at him as he fished in a jacket pocket. From its folds, he procured a tin of cigarettes and an accompanying matchbook. He managed to slip a vice between his teeth before Max huffed.

“You can’t smoke inside.”

“Yeah?” Simon drawled, juggling a matchstick between his forefinger and middle finger, “And who’s gonna stop me?”

Max drew in a sharp breath, expelling it in a flaring huff. “Mama is always scolding Papa about it. She tells him to take it outside!” She punctuated her statement with a curt jab towards the front door.

“Your mother,” Simon cackled as he struck the match and lit his cigarette, “Ain’t gonna tell me shit.”

Max grimaced at the tendrils of smoke snaking through the parlor. She lifted her shirt over her nose again, glaring daggers into Simon’s chest. “Is it cause you and her are friends?”

Simon shrugged off her question. He stretched out his mile-long limbs, sinking into the chair as he puffed on his cigarette. A cloud of smoke hung over his head. He looked much like a dragon - the cigarette his fire, and the chair his stolen hoard. Max didn’t like how comfortable he was in Papa’s chair. Much less how looked at her mother.

“You like her, don’t you?” she dared ask.

Simon’s gaze snapped to meet her own. A momentary heat flashed in his eyes - anger red as burning coals- before being snuffed by a sly grin. He cocked his head away to expel a cloud of smoke. Then came to lean an elbow on either knee, grinning honey-suckle sweet at Max. “Listen, kid. Why don’t we keep what you saw earlier between you and me, hm?”

Max met his grin with a dubious glare, “Why? Were you doing something bad?”

Simon’s brow shot into his hairline. He shook his head with a laugh. “No, no, no. Nothing bad. But just in case anyone asks, you saw nothing. Right?”

Max inclined her head, jutting out her chin. “You want me to lie?”

Simon snorted as he flicked ash onto the carpet. “It’s not a lie. It’s withholding the truth. It’s- Ah.” His grin turned almost toothy. “It’s a secret! Little secret between you and your buddy, Simon. Don’t that sound fun?”

Max hummed with a shrug, unconvinced.

“Come on, kid. Don’t be difficult.”

And then it was Max’s turn to grin like a cat who’d caught a canary. She met Simon’s expectant gaze with a subtle nod. “Two silver.”

Simon recoiled with an incredulous blink, “Excuse me?”

“A bag of salt taffy costs two silver,” Max explained, “All the chewing ought to keep me quiet.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed as he barked a laugh. “Alright. I’m picking up what you’re putting down.” He stuck out his hand: “Two silver and you keep that mouth shut.”

“And,” Max added, taking his hand, “You tell me how to spell petrichor.”

Simon chuffed, looking down his nose with a slight degree of admiration, “Precocious little shit.”

[longveil]

A Golden Bell

[ Photo by horacio olavarria on Unsplash ]

Tasselin’s walk back to her Aunt’s flat was distracted, but the brasswork kraken at the meeting place of Death, Light, and the Deep welcomed the young monk nonetheless. The silvered key fit the lock effortlessly, the door opening almost before the tumblers had settled, as if anticipating her arrival.

But the closing of the lock? That was firm and unquestionable, the wards about the apartment resettling almost as palpably. Here was solace and refuge, a haven within the chaos of Stormwind.

Near an hour passed before she settled into bed. Sheets of cool cotton instead of silk, only a light comforter in the summer’s warmth. Shutters closed, but the windowpane still open to admit cool air off the Harbor.

Deep breaths as muscles relaxed, her mind calmed, as she sought the quiet place in her mind where a dark, mirrored sphere rested. And from there, sent a query twined in wisps of shadow.

“Aunt Seraa?”

It was a moment before she knew a response, accompanied by a sense of patience and small concern.

“Dear Tasselin.” In this place of mind her words were firm, without the halting interruptions that plagued Seraanna's speaking voice. “All is well? I had not expected your touch.”

“Everything’s fine. Stormwind’s boring, as usual. I wish I could be there with you and Antianna in Silvermoon.”

“Soon. They still find their footing now that the shadow has passed. I am yet looked at askance, and they would not know what to do with you, dearest.”

“I suppose. Can… can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Always.”

“Do I have a title? I know you do, and Antianna does. And I’m part of the family so -- do I?”

“Ah. A curious question. We had meant to speak of it to you here, but if that knowledge is what you wish? Yes. Your name is upon the rolls of Morrowsun, openly and without pretense. Vor’min has seen to it, and you shall not endure what we did upon our father’s death. Daughter you may claim, yet my heart remains fond that you name me aunt.”

“I…” Tasselin sniffed, tears welling unexpectedly. She rubbed a knuckle to her eyes, and the tenuous binding shadow faltered a moment before it was buoyed and strengthened by the presence at the opposite end.

“It is that tradition names the daughter of a marquis or marquessa a lady. So it is that you are. I trust you not to abuse such, save when another is in need of humility. That is why you ask, yes? That another needs names and symbols to see the value of you?”

“Mmmhm.” A last sniffle. “Something like that.”

“More the fool, they. Teach them otherwise. I must depart, sadly. Others demand my attention.”

“Okay. Thank you, Aunt Seraa. Love you.”

“You have my love, dear, and more.”

The tenuous connection faded, stretched shadows dispersing into the falling night.

Tasselin lay awake for a time, listening to the Harbor’s murmurations.

“Lady Tasselin Morrowsun,” she finally murmured with a soft laugh, then rolled over to find her dreams.

[longveil]

✿ - DECAY - an old memory, from childhood perhaps

[ Photo by Nelson Wong on Unsplash ]

“They are your daughters!”

Minn’da’s voice echoed up the stairway, angry and amplified by too much wine. Seraanna, a girl of pale skin and ashen hair, all skinny legs and elbows, crouched in the shadows atop the stairs. Finger over her lips, she turned back to her younger sister to motion quiet only to receive a frown from the dark-haired child. Annadia was already far more devious and needed no such reminder to silence.

“They are my gift to you, surfal. But you know I cannot be their father; they cannot be my daughters.” A masculine voice now, one the girls had heard before. Calm and even, attempting to be a voice of reason despite the unintended hint of condescension. “Don’t I see that you are all cared for, that they’ll never worry for want?”

“What they want is to know their ann'da! You know I never needed any of this - we were happy without it, Vaeran, just you and I. It could have been so simple, we could have been so happy...”

“We were young, Aralya, but you knew. You always knew my House would make its demands.” A silence, the sound of fine silks moving below. “We still have each other. The families have what they want, the deals are met; she has my name, but you still have me. I would not allow that to be taken.”

“And don’t the girls deserve that?” Their mother’s voice was quieter now, almost pleading, “to know their father? They’re your own blood, Vaeren. You held them when they were born, kissed each of them. Why won’t you be their father?”

“Her son - my son - cannot be contested. An heir was agreed, and all would be lost if he were challenged. Morrowsun would be crushed by the breaking of the accords; we would be paupers. The girls,” he emphasized gently, “would grow up with nothing, Aralya. I can give them everything, but they cannot be my daughters.”

A long silence, the two girls shifting uncomfortably in their hiding place before the sound of quiet sobbing drifted up from below.

“...damn you.”

“Come out to the balcony, love. The night air will do us both good before I have to leave.”

Annadia nudged her Seraa’s shoulder, blue eyes lambent in the shadows atop the stairs. “That’s ann’da?” she whispered, “I want to see!”

“No, Minn’da will be sad if we’re up.” Seraanna turned to gently push her sister back towards their bedroom. She was only a few years older, but more knowing of people than her brash sibling. “Come on.”

A hushed whine from the younger child, “Seraa...”

Seraa only raised a finger to her lips again and nudged Anna back to their rooms.

[longveil]

It's Father's Day, so have an old ask about Seraanna and Annadia's father, Vaeran Morrowsun...

[velnna]

wip

[annadia-thorn]

A Storm's View

[ Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash ]

As they rounded the northwestern shores of Tirisfal, it came fully into view.

The Voidstorm.

A dark swirl of Shadow and Void suspended in the sky, lanced by a spear of Light.

Quel’thalas, below, was still hidden behind the horizon.

If the winds held, they’d make the harbor come morning.

A N Y P O R T  –  F O U R   D A Y S   E A R L I E R

From Kul Tiras, it was merely an ominous presence on the edges of the horizon when it manifested, the lookout noting it as a stormfront that was unlikely to reach the Aralya’diel at her dock in Anyport.

But it was Seraanna who emerged from her quarters soon after, tentative steps taking her to the rise of the aft deck where she looked silently to the east. Shadows swirled about her feet, rising and falling, and when she returned to the main deck the crew parted before her like waters before a tidesage.

The ren’dorei’s declarations that dark power swelled past the eastern horizon would have been disturbing enough, had there not been a quaver to her voice as she described emanations of the Void from the distant shadow. And she insisted that they needed not to stay distant, but must instead sail to Quel’thalas with “all haste that... we might make.”

Maxinora stood quiet in the doorway to their shared quarters, but Annadia was the one to challenge her sister.

“The hell, Seraa? It’s just a stormcloud, we can’t drop everything for–”

“...no.” The whisper cut off Annadia’s protest like a cleaver. “Azj-Kahet. K’aresh. Now she comes for Quel’thalas. Our home, dear sister. Take us... home.”

Seraanna turned, crew shuffling out of her path as she returned to her quarters, the Alchemist wrapping an arm over her Shadow’s shoulder and glancing back at the Captain before closing the door.

* * *

Later that evening, Annadia stood watch on the aft deck, searching for that dark smudge of shadow her sister had sensed, finding it only by the lack of stars in its place on the horizon. Seraa’s whispers echoed in her mind. Now she comes for Quel’thalas. Younger years played in memory, the pair of them hiding in Silvermoon’s rubble, minions of the Scourge lumbering through ruined streets, and darkness descending on her soul as the Sunwell was extinguished.

The unhurried pace of Ko’jin’s tread, recognized easily, broke her reverie and drew her attention. It was an effort of will not to reach for a weapon, even when it was an old friend that approached her back.

Habits learned in Murder Row never died.

“I know you be doubtin’,” the old troll offered without preamble, coming to stand beside his captain and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the railing. “Lotta money, lotta trade we be settin’ aside if y’do as ya sistah asks.”

“It’s another four days to make our contacts in Boralus, three for the business,” she sighed. “Even with the armistice, Kul Tirans pay top coin for exotic goods. We’d give that all up. Not to mention passing by pretty boy’s place entirely, either bring him and Cherise with us or risk dropping them off in Gilneas.” A humorless laugh. “And you know how much Gilneans love the armistice.”

“True, true. Still, you heard her, same as me. Been more herself since she came back from Arom’s Stand wit her Alchemist, for what dat’s worth. But dis?” Ko’jin tilted his chin towards the horizon. “Hearin’ de fear creep inta her voice, ya cool sistah’s voice? Dat grips me gut more den any shadow in de sky.”

Annadia was silent, eyes closed as she drew a slow breath.

“It was simpler when it was just the three of us, Ko’jin. Me and Ghaz following you while you ran around with that stupid amulet.”

“De woons!” Ko’jin laughed.

She chuckled low. “Yeah. But some things are still simple when I don’t let all this shit get up in my head.” A wave of her hand encompassed the Aralya’diel, the cargo on the deck yet to be traded or stowed in the hold, the ragged piers and flickering lights of Anyport. “In the end, it’s Seraa. I trust her. She’s my sister.”

The sin’dorei sighed heavily before offering Ko’jin a sidelong glance. “And you know most of what we’ve gone through together.”

“So let’s wrap it up and get out of here." Annadia slapped her hands on the railing, a sound of finality. “Unload what we’re trading, secure what we’re keeping, and sail for Quel’thalas with all the haste we can make.” The last few words uttered in imitation of Seraanna’s halting murmurs.

Ko’jin rose to his full height and snapped off a surprisingly passable salute, a smile wrapped around his curving tusks.

“Aye, Cap’n. S’much for de pleasure cruise...”

* * *

The ship was already a-bustle the next morning, crew loading and unloading cargo as Ghaz engaged in a spirited debate over moorage fees with Anyport’s goblin quartermaster that sounded like the prelude to a brawl. A courier was the least noticeable thing in the cacophony, dodging the barely-organized chaos to deliver a message for the Aralya’diel’s captain.

Minutes later the prelude was on the precipice of mak’gora, work slowed to a near-halt as crew and dockhands began to exchange bets on orc or goblin. Few heard the string of curses that came from the captain’s quarters, but the wooden thud of the door slamming open drew the attention of some. It was the echoing retort of a gunshot that stunned all into silence – even Ghaz and the quartermaster.

Annadia stood on the deck, gun lifted in the air and a sheet of parchment in her other hand. The morning breeze made a loose mess of her unbound hair, and she’d hastily tucked a half-buttoned linen blouse into leather pants, but there was still a full complement of weaponry at her belt. Eyes ablaze, she stuffed the still-smoking pistol into its holster and drew a shortsword with casual ease. The crew that knew their captain’s storied “education” stepped carefully backwards.

“Now that I've got your attention – stop fucking around!” The sin’dorei leveled her blade towards Ghaz. “Enough with the foreplay and pay the moorage already. At a fair fucking rate, too,” she snarled towards Anyport’s quartermaster. “And if you two’re gonna have a hate fuck, then do it quick. The rest of you get back to work. We sail on the tide.”

“Cap’n, that’s in two hours!” One of the newer crew, joined at their last port in Kalimdor, spoke up.

“Damn right it is. Better get on the fucking stick, then.” A menacing jab in his direction served as emphasis.

Annadia spun on her heel and stomped back to her cabin, the parchment still in hand. The crew were already scrambling to work, but Ghaz caught a glimpse of a sigil on the note - a cog writ in black ink.

“It’s that kinda news, huh? Ko’jin was right, pleasure trip’s done,” the hulking orc muttered before returning his attention to the quartermaster. The goblin peered back with more confusion than anger.

Ghaz snorted. “Don’t worry, ya ain’t my type. Now about proratin’ those moorage fees...”

[longveil]

269 - Su Jian (2020)

[perfeqt]

“When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.”

— Anaïs Nin

[writing-prompt-s]

"So why is that eldritch... thing writhing on the floor?" "Tried to enter my head. Mind control possession or something."

[perfeqt]

“I plant roots so deeply in the people I love that I always lose a piece of myself when they go.”

— Beau Taplin

[perfeqt]

“You don’t deserve someone who comes back, you deserve someone who never leaves.”

— Unknown

[mournfulroses]

Albert Camus, from a notebook entry featured in The Complete Notebooks of Albert Camus

[mournfulroses]

Salma Deera, from a poem titled "girls who don’t care for being touched," featured in Letters from Medea: Poems

[janpesart]

On the brink of insanity 👁️

I was thinking about how shadow priests and void elves must fight against the whispers of the void and wanted to paint it.

[janpesart]

Blythe

Commission for bipsaway on Bluesky! ❤️

[longveil]

And in the back of your mind Where even dark is blind Looking for a sign Waiting for your time to come But you can’t outrun The hand of fate And I will wait

-- The Pretty Reckless, For I Am Death

[bramblesand]

People, especially games, get eldritch madness wrong a lot and it’s really such a shame.

An ant doesn’t start babbling when they see a circuit board. They find it strange, to them it is a landscape of strange angles and humming monoliths. They may be scared, but that is not madness.

Madness comes when the ant, for a moment, can see as a human does.

It understands those markings are words, symbols with meaning, like a pheromone but infinitely more complex. It can travel unimaginable distances, to lands unlike anything it has seen before. It knows of mirth, embarrassment, love, concepts unimaginable before this moment, and then…

It’s an ant again.

Echoes of things it cannot comprehend swirl around its mind. It cannot make use of this knowledge, but it still remembers. How is it supposed to return to its life? The more the ant saw the harder it is for it to forget. It needs to see it again, understand again. It will do anything to show others, to show itself, nothing else in this tiny world matters.

This is madness.

[perfeqt]

“You’re so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.”

— Tracy Chevalier, Girl with a Pearl Earring