Senko, Warlock Extraordinaire

I'll be honest, I do not like Tumblr. However, I wanted a place to put any short stories. • AD-EU & WrA-NA •

[senkothewarlock]

Gul'ivar's Travelogue - D1P3 - Ṭhumliskath

[Day 1, Page 3]

As we collectively bound our palms up in cloth, I stopped to pause for a moment. Was this the point where we felt our souls twitch and shudder? Some malaise that crept over us? No such thing came. In truth, a juvenile part of myself had hoped for such excitement, but the vast majority of who I am is quite relieved to be without such plights. The felguards returned to our rows, this time with rucksacks in a myriad of colours and hues. In no, uncertain terms, they told us in a gruff voice to pack the tray and its contents up.

Naturally, unwilling to get into a heated discussion regarding manners with our “Grandmistress”’s infernal aides, I complied. I took the careful time to affix a lid to the bowl, now containing some of my vitae and organised the tray within the bag neatly. As we finished our packing, another of the Felguard’s came up to us and announced that I will be travelling alongside the Zandalari, the Gnome and the Arakkoa. I believe the bird-man heard my gravelled sigh as he spoke out his displeasure in travelling along with an orc. Nonetheless, we were guided out to the pens and the soldier pointed at a felboar.

The beast appeared to be docile. Iron caps were set over each horn and spiked protrusion from the hide, a faceplate was attached to it – bearing a strange glyph in crude, white paint. As I gazed upon it, I saw its sickly green irises stare at me through the many-holed visor the faceplate had. The barding that was affixed to the boar was haphazardly placed, protecting only its face, legs and top. No where to ride, but instead it carried three large bags. In all honesty, the stench that came from the boar made me glad that riding it was not an option and I would be staying far afield of it.

Our felguard chauffer directed us to pack our belongings up into the bags and led us to the exit of the encampment. Our Gnomish companion was filled with excitement, taking the reigns and guiding the beast along.

                “He’s a good boy!” She exclaimed, despite her alignment to the Light, she remained a perplexity to me, being so comfortable around the infernal.

As the banners of the camp began to fade out of my sight, every time I looked behind us, the Zandalari spoke up.

                “I suppose we should be sharin’ our names, get to know one anodda if we be travellin’ togetha.”

The Gnome went first, she announced herself – bold and brashly – as “Squire Aurelia Tinkertwister”. Next, the Zandalari, with a puffed-out chest and a grin to her slightly yellowed teeth, named herself as “Taji’zehara, ‘baroness of bijous’.” I, then, gave my own name, as my eyes focused in on our avian accomplice who gave his name without fanfare as simply “Oracle Yskra”.

About thirty-to-forty minutes had past before we caught our next sighting of the warlock, who rode atop a curious platform. It had the legs of an elekk, with a flat top with railings. Black smoke billowed from two tubes on the back, similar to a Goblin contraption. Her hands held onto the railing as her amber gaze swept over the convoy that had formed, trundling through the path of vines, weed and pebbles.

                “Welcome to the land known as Ṭhumliskath – the greywoods. Here you will find an easy start to your journey with us. In your boar’s bags are provisions that will last you the first week of travel. A pack of essentials; rope, bed rolls, a tinderbox and a summoning stone. Please, take out the summoning stone now and use it.”

Taji’zehara reached in and pulled out a grey slab of stone with purple crystal pieces sticking out of it. She shook it with indignity until the Vulpera spoke up once again:

                “… Perhaps I ought’ve explained how to use it. Snap the stone in half and welcome your fifth.”

A tint of redness came over the Zandalari as she snapped the stone in twain, and from it, a thin line of purple energy shot into the air above us – no more than 10 metres – and from a rift, came down a squid-like creature. It wore teal skin, seven eyes and ten tentacles that dangled from it. Its gaze fell upon us and its mouth curled into a ‘smile’ that looked equal parts fake and rehearsed, it spoke:

                “I am Muulladag. Observer attached to you, team nine. Of your journey, trials and tribulations, I shall record. Should any one of you wish to quit, I shall send home. Should guidance be needed, I may provide.”

My stomach for hellish fiends is low, I was aghast at the prospect of riding with a demon – something I later, at the time of writing, have come to swallow and accept, but at the time I was irate and spoke things I perhaps should have kept buried. Needless to say, my embarrassment won’t be recorded here.

We kept moving, our boars picking up speed as myself and the rest of ‘team nine’, an unimaginative name, moved to what the Vulpera had told us was our first proper stop. A small trading post at the foothills of the greywoods proper. The fauna and flora amazed me, truthfully. Birds and bugs, as above and so below, skittered past. To think that we were on an asteroid – a measly rock in space – was discomforting. I kept having to ask myself, is this an illusion?

______________________________________________________________

A sketch of Taji'zehara

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #7 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

Now, full disclosure: The ending, if you speed-read, is questionable. Please don't jump to conclusions and read carefully.

---

Carranda and Carrthea waited with heavy hearts. The looks that pierced them both during their walk into the central room of the Andaruni felt like rakes of ice, slashing over their forms. Muted whispers of the decade-plus-old scandal pricked Carrthea’s ears. All she had worked for the past eleven years now fell to dust, and her only chance of salvaging herself laid in the hands of her hairbrained sister’s scheme.

A bitter sigh slipped past while the central dome was empty, sans the sisters, as Carrthea looked at her younger sibling.

                “You’re either the dumbest or smartest demoness I’ve known.” She said, rubbing her face.

                “Careful, that was half of a compliment!” Carranda said, smiling as she placed a hand on the shoulder of Carrthea. “Sure, your reputation is going to take a dent but think about how it will be after. Trust me, we can’t lose.”

In a flutter and flurry of smoke and wings, the balconies populated themselves with the Heptarchy in full attendance. As was tradition, none of their attendants, sycophants or eunuchs were allowed to witness the courting ceremony. A few of them shared gasps and mutterings upon seeing that, not only was Carranda the first one to finish, but with her sister in tow.

Also as of tradition, the Queen of Lust, Opheliazh, presided in the full regalia. In her clawed hand rested the Sceptre of Sin, half mace, half lantern. Pink smoke billowed from it as her jet-black brow furrowed at the sight she saw.

                “You have returned to the dome of the Andaruni, to be placed before the seven queens and judged for your completion – or incompletion – of the trials set before you. As per your instructions, you were to seek out a traitor, those who would erode our values. What say you?” The Queen of Wrath, Azarine, spoke.

Carranda walked into the red beam of Azarine’s gaze and stood at attention, attire creaking as her body became rigid with both fright and determination.

                “Your infernal majesties, I come with proof – a scroll from the Suillimacs of the deeps, upon this scroll is a confession, penned by my sister here, Carrthea.” Carranda spoke. Her dainty hand reading between her chest and plucking the scroll out.

The dome erupted into murmuring. A coo or two from those who gorged themselves on gossip, yet there were three who remained silent. Azarine, who was intent to keep listening before rendering judgement, and the seething scowls of Opheliazh and the equally incensed Zanazira, Queen of Greed.

                “… But I am not here to surrender my sister to judgement, for the scroll of confession highlights a deeper treachery.” She continued, her eyes scanning each and every Queen. “So, to you, gracious sovereigns, I ask that my sister be spared the indignities, in exchange for the names of the two Queens who broke the sacred ceremony.”

Now the murmuring broke into angry shouting, the seven Queens exchanging words of hostility to one another. The Heptarchy, while on paper was at peace to better serve and provide the Burning Legion, relished the opportunity to get one over on another. After all, demons will do, what demons are meant to do.

                “Nonsense! Who are you, uncourted, to make such bargains with your Queens?!” Sorayan erupted, aghast at the situation.

                “Silence that tongue of yours, Sorayan, this is my trial to adjudicate!” Azarine snapped back, her stare returning to Carranda. “You make a high request, yet if this as damning as you suggest, we will pass over your sister, proceed.”

                “Bargains in the trial! How delightful, what say we skip this and I’ll just court you for the audacity, mh?” Zanazira said, leaning over her balcony, a glint sparkled in her eyes. “After all, would seem that Azarine’s flames have tempered.”

                “I am keeping my flames for those who have earnt it, Zanazira, and if you interrupt MY trial one more time, you’re joining the traitors!”

How little she knew.

 As they continued to bicker, a small and fanged smirk broke on the lips of Opheliazh, who rose from her seat with grace. The Sceptre of Sin humming with the imbued magics. She gestured at Carranda with an empty hand, urging her to proceed.

                “The traitor Queens are-“ Carranda begun to speak, only for her words to fall into a gasp.

What happened next, Carranda was unsure of. Only that her body became wet and her vision became pinpricked. The walls of the central dome had narrowed in. A burning pain surged from her side as she fell to a knee, her breath leaving her. The scroll was snatched out of her hand by Carrthea, who stepped in front of her sister, in her other hand, a bloody dagger. Droplets falling to the ground.

                “Sister…” She mumbled, her words barely audible above a squeak.

A deafening sound filled the air as Opheliazh swung her sceptre; a zone of magic rushed the room. Each queen on their balconies, save for Zanazira, clutched their head and screamed, becoming dazed. The Queen of Lust descended from her balcony, a cloak of petals billowing behind her as her hoofs tapped across the marble floor.

                “Well, Carrthea, it took you long enough. I had feared you forgot our little hand-sign.” Opheliazh said, cooing as she looked around. The room was unconscious, just the four of them now.

Carranda placed a hand, clasping her side as she snarled, the other remained an open palm on the floor. She spat out blood, before looking at Carrthea with weeping eyes.

                “Oh, don’t give me that look, you silly girl. We’re demons. Do you think I could’ve been swayed by your words? You read my confession, you know how ruthless I am.” Her sister said, half her face visible.

Her head dipped down. The pain was flooding her system, death for demons is an inconvenience, but agony less so.

                “And what are we going to do, Opheliazh? When the zone of stasis wears off, what will we say?!” Zanazira said, her words tripping over another in a panic.

                “Relax, darling, relax.” Opheliazh reassured, taking the scroll of confession from Carrthea. “It was an arcane spell… Yes, that will do. A spell designed to eradicate us all. After all, we can’t expect something sloppy from the Carr sinasty now, can we?” She smirked, fangs gracing over the plump lips.

                “And what of me?!” Carrthea interrupted. “They all heard of my implication!”

                “Not to worry. The haze from the Sceptre has a way of making the rest of the Libertine Court… forgetful. However, we will need something to put them at ease.” Opheliazh spoke, moving to the centre of the room.

Her hand reached out to a sigil in the middle, with a flick of a wrist, a weapon of malice arose on a pedestal. A horrid whip of bones. She took it and handed placed it into Carrthea’s hands.

                “Snap it into shape, darling, and it’ll become a glaive. Or, more specifically, the glaive of our dearest mother.”

Carranda fought to keep her eyes open as her sister snapped the weapon into shape, only then she realised what was now looming before her. The bone-whip of Lilinithya, a weapon designed to bring true death to any of her spawn, to any sayaad.

As Carrthea shook the weapon into place, Opheliazh walked up and placed a hand on Carranda’s chin, pulling her gaze up right.

                “You know, despite your missteps, I will grant you an honour so that you at least do not die a total failure. For your… passion in the pursuit of such ignoble goals as justice, your drive in obtaining our little secret, and your staunch and, truthfully, delusional belief in sisterhood, I bestow upon you the placement of being a Succubus of Lust. Congratulations, and commiserations.”

Carrthea stood before her wounded sister and drove the glaive forward. The sharpened bone edge of the glaive bearing down on the throat of her younger sister, yet the final blow did not come. Above and below Carranda, a pentagram of fel green had appeared. Rods from the edges of the pattern deflected the weapon.

                “It’s-… it’s not hitting her!” Cried out Carrthea in surprise, swinging with reckless abandon. “DO SOMETHING!” She snarled.

                “Someone is summoning her, quickly, disrupt it!” Zanazira yelled, channelling her own magic into the summoning circle that manifested, yet it was too weak.

The rift across the Twisting Nether had formed, Carranda submerging within the dark energies of it. She looked up, her eyes full of hate and malice to her sister. Her body fell through the astral planes, hurtling downwards as the circle collapsed in on itself.

Travelling such a place is different for everyone. For Carranda, on this ill-fated day, it was a tube of agony and horror. Cackling had burst in her mind while the rapid strikes of latent fel and nether energy brushed itself against her stab wound, the skin knitting over as such raw energies healed her.

She was a fool, she thought to herself. She should’ve known her sister wasn’t sold on the plan in her heart, for how quickly she agreed to it. As she looked up, the rift within the Andaruni closed, the last look at home. Never again will she walk the streets of Veltheris, share a laugh with Druslith or become an embarrassing drunk in the clubs. She flung her body around, shaking her pain off. A new life now awaited her; a soft chuckle left her lips.

Being courted as a sick and twisted ‘mercy’ was what saved her. She was now a fully-fledged succubus and clearly, someone had taken notice of her. The astral plane thinned, reality began to seep in as her transversal came closer to ending.

She gazed upon the world, a constant storm in the centre of the northern hemisphere, continents formed around it as if blown away from the middle. A curiously shaped island, with a desert in the upper-left third seemed to be her destination. With one last inhale of the malignant energies, she orientated herself into position.

Azeroth awaited.

The chamber room flashed alive with green, infernal flames and a shocking brightness. Carranda stood proud, without a blemish, in the middle of a summoning circle. Around her were tombs and stone carvings of the deceased.

                “My, is it hot in here, or is it just me?” She asked, putting on her best sultry voice, before turning around.

Stood awestruck, was a young Vulpera. No older than thirteen.

Carranda’s face dropped. She might’ve been a demon, but she wasn’t a monster.

She turned around, only to be stopped by an abomination. A demon of shadow and fel, a crown of steel clamped around its head and a cloak of tattered silk and skin.

                “I assume you’re the one who called me here then?” She asked the demon.

                “Not quite, sayaad. I am Khul’arkot, the emerald star, and you are now bound to my student.” The demon said, gesturing at the youth.

                “… Oh no. No. I am not. That is a child, you sick fuck.” Carranda gestured behind her.  “Send me back to Sodmhor̄ah, let me die.” She protested, snapping a cone of darkness around the youth’s head.

Khul’arkot growled, his mass swelling in size. Within seconds, he had filled the crypt with his frame. Chains ensnared her as he pinned her to the top of the room.

                “You do not have a choice, demoness. I ordered you plucked, rescued from the jaws of your promiscuous, filthy city of sin and debauchery. You will serve, as the demon you are, or you will be broken, until you are reminded of your STATION.” He yelled, slamming her down into the floor.

A weak groan left Carranda as she stood up, steadying herself. She took one look at the Vulpera, who was trying to claw her way out of the cone of shadow and sighed. Her own big sister, so quick to betray her. To, literally, stab her in the back. And here she was, presented with a fledgling warlock. Something inside her snapped, a sense of pity formed, her thoughts cleared.

Her big sister betrayed her, but she won’t betray her new little sister. Even if she had to be cold and distant to her.

                “… Fine, I accept. But I am not doing anything to her.” She reluctantly agreed.

                “I care not what you do, or do not do.” Khul’arkot affirmed, shrinking down. “You are training material.”

Carranda dispelled the cone and stepped to the side of the warlock, ruffling her head between two, small-sized horns.

                “So, bitch, what’s your name?” Carranda said, trying her best to be antagonistic.

                “Senko, and yours is Carranda, correct?”

                “That’s my name, but don’t think you have power over me. I’m a free spirit.” Carranda remarked, adjusting her bangs.

Carranda took one look at Khul’arkot and sighed to herself. Not an ideal start to her path of being a demon. Yet, deep down, she knew others would not have her sense of righteousness, they’d be overjoyed at the prospect of being in the situation in which she was now in.

No. Carranda would remain, she’d be this little foxling’s succubus ‘minion’, for the sister knew the depravities of her people, and she wasn’t about to let another vulnerable soul – mortal or demon – be injured by such betrayel.

Fin.

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #6 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

NEARLY DONE! And it only took me until like, you know, half-way into March. Soz.

--

The membrane-paper’s surface shimmered with words, words that made the succubi’s stomach drop. There it was. A confession, clear and simple. Yet, despite having the smoking gun, she quickly reasoned that this could do more harm than good. She mouthed the words to herself, the Pituitarch had caught the confession Carrthea had penned and burnt, and as such, it read:

                “I, Thea, of the sinasty Carr, have committed a grave error. In my desire and pressure to be courted, I failed our most sacred of rites.”

Carranda kept reading, part of her was somewhat amused enough she let out a huff. This was the most eloquent her sister had ever portrayed herself, and it was on a confessional. She continued to read.

                “I have used wealth to buy the support of the Queen of Greed, my looks and magic to tempt the Queen of Lust, and through their aid, they provided me an already tortured elf from the world of Azeroth. Under the guise of illusions, the invigilator was tricked into thinking I had done the work.”

Carranda paused, her hand raised over the plump lips that ran in her family. Not only was it true that her sister had cheated, but that she had made two of the Queens complicit in such. Deep down, in the pit of her well-trained stomach, she hadn’t wanted this to be the truth. Carrthea was still her sister, still demonic-blood related, even if she wanted to take sandpaper to those horns and wear them down into little nubs.

                “I’m aware that there’s a ‘scandal’ floating around the city, that I cheated, that I somehow exploited the system. Yet with two of the Queens implicated, nothing will happen. I must become… harder. More ruthless. Snuff out any of these gossipmongers. Mother forced me to be the best, and so I shall be.”

Carranda sighed, there was simply no-one else she could focus on… But then it dawned on her. There were. Two, in fact. By Carrthea’s own words, they arranged for an elf to be shipped in, already tortured. Interference from the sovereigns violates the spirit of the trials. She folded the scroll up, ensuring it was clean of the sludge that it came from, and tucked it down ‘tween her cleavage. She had a new plan in mind. Convince Carrthea to be the witness to the corruption of the Queens.

Easier said than done.

Carranda’s trek back to her family’s house was a quiet and a solemn one. After travelling for so long, the walk down her street began to feel cold. Unfamiliar. She was used to the prying and inquisitive stares from her neighbours and their incubi servants who allowed themselves to peep a glance. She went to wrap her hand on the doorknob (which, despite the name, was politely shaped) but frozen. She clasped the thick cord and tugged, the chime inside the house rang out. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, rather wishing she had brought her flask of impish grog.

The door opened, Carrthea stood, eyebrow raised as her younger sister – a near spitting image of her, both had the same blue eyes, the pinkish tone skin and black hair, the only difference is Carranda wore hers as bangs, whereas her sister in a ponytail. Carrthea scowled a bit, leaning against the door frame.

                “Did you even try your trial, Sister? You’re home far sooner I was.” She asked.

                “I did. Actually, I’m quite close to completing it.” Carranda replied with, dragging her words out slowly. Carefully. Deliberately. “In fact, I was wondering if you’d be curious to hear me out. Since, of course, you’re almost legendary for your pace.”

The sisters exchanged glances, a furrowed brow on Carrthea as she moved out of the way, closing the door behind Carranda as the two walked into the ‘dining room’ of the house – a small chamber of chairs and a table, a bowl of blood-red fruit rested in a jar in the middle, soaked in a brine. Carrthea plucked one out as she sat on the opposite end of Carranda. She placed it to her lips, taking a bite.

                “Go on then, sister, what’s your trial?”

                “We’re to find traitors to the system, Carrthea. Bring them before the Queens in the Andaruni.”

Carrthea stopped chewing, she lowered the fruit from her mouth.

                “Curious.”

                “… I have your confession, sister.”

The two Succubi locked eyes. The room froze over, their eyes as cold as the ice they were the colour of.

                “What? My confession that I cheated during our game of Impopoly when you were a child? I hardly think that is the sort of material our beloved Queens are concerning themselves wi-.“

                “How did you get enough money to bribe the Queen of Greed?” Carranda asked, cutting the Felsteedshit. “Nothing is every truly lost on Sodmhor̄ah, you should’ve known this.”

Carrthea’s fist clenched around the fruit, crushing it with ease. Juices sprayed across the room as the flesh of the fruit squeezed past her fingers.

                “And you think you can just arrest me? Is that what this is? It’s a long trip to the Andaruni, I’ll be gone before you even leave the district.” Carrthea said, letting the fruit’s husked remains drop onto the table.

                “No, sister. I’m saying we can show the others that two of the Queens are traitors. They’re undermining their own system, whatever penalty you’d face for being my witness would be washed away by the fact we’ve brought the Queens of Greed and Lust to justice.” Carranda said, her voice pitching with excitement. “Don’t you see? We can even say that you were playing along to, I dunno, expose the corruption?”

Carrthea wiped her hand on the tablecloth. She sighed, pinching her brow. For the first time since the conversation started, she looked away from her sister. Her mind swam with thoughts of rage. Damn it all. The lie she lived for eleven years, now undone by her own sister. The sister she thought was simply a bimbo, without thought or cunning, had proven to be just as sharp as she was.

                “I… can tell that our mother’s stress on you was suffocating.” Carranda spoke, softly, trying to move closer. A hand rebuked such.

                “Suffocating?!” Carrthea snapped. “Every day, every hour, she was on my case. Reminding me of our sinasty’s long and ‘illustrious’ past of depravity and the societies that we eroded. I did what I had to do to get some peace back in my life! A peace you’ve been content living. You don’t think I yearned to have your place? To be second-sired and shunted off to the sides?!”

She groaned, picking up the jar of fruits and in a blow of frustration, hurled it towards the wall. The glass shattered, brine darkening the mauve-hued walls as fruit and juice seeped down to the skirting board.

                “I could’ve done it without the help. Damn trial was a piece of cake, but I couldn’t… risk failing. There was no way I’d be able to live with it. So, I lied. I bribed. I cheated. And now you think I can absolve myself by going along with this scheme?” Carrthea said, slouching in her chair, defeated.

                “… Even if you can’t… And I know it’s a big ask, but you’ll be stripped of being courted. You’ll be the one in peace, and I the one in the big girl shoes.” Carranda mused, a musing that paid off.

A soft smile crept on the face of Carrthea. A nervous laugh left her lips as she nodded along.

                “… Silly girl…” She said, standing back up. “Only my sister could convince me to go along with this inane scheme. Very well. I shall be your witness and testify to my cheating. As you said, if this goes more pear-shaped than our bodies, at least I can live in peace. I will be crashing at your place though, because mom is SO throwing me out when she finds out I was de-courted.” She shared a laugh.

Carranda stepped over, a smile on her face as she hugged her sister. Her heavy heart lightened and her mind softened. She took in a deep breath, centring herself.She hadn’t expected to sway over her sister with such a pitch. Perhaps, just maybe, she’d make it as a succubus after all.

The two made off to the Andaruni, and within the hour, were waiting in the central dome for the Queens to assemble…

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #5 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

(This is a long one, I felt inspired~! – Fair warning, do not read this if you’re eating and have a weak constitution. It’s a gross one.)

Finding proof would be easier said than done. For Sodmhor̄ah held just as many secrets as it did sins. The sickly pink world of vice and pleasure could only sustain itself by a vicious combination of feeding itself on both deceit and depravity, two hands of the same body. Yet if there was one thing that was shared by the denizens of degeneracy, it was the usage of the gigantic scar that the Dark Titan himself carved into the crust. The Ebon Suture was a 14,000 (13,956.2 to be exact) kilometre gash that fell deep into the world. The edge was jagged and black, as if the land itself had become thorned. The dragon pierced rocks of the Blade’s Edge Mountains on Outland could compare to such stiletto-sharp stone.

Fitting for such a salacious planet, that a whole ecology had developed deep in the festering wound that glanced the surface. Dens of iniquity – those that lacked the ‘refinement’ of the Sayaad – dwelt here. Pushed away into the ghettos and slums of the Suture. Unsanctioned Ethereal vendors, Satyr carno-clubs, and Wyrmtongue union guilds. Yet at the bottom, Carranda’s goal awaited.

Remnants of the pre-Legion inhabitants lived, gluttonous slugs with the heads of boars and pigs shuffled their ways through the caverns of the planet. Deep in their mucus filled pits of filth and esurience, nothing escaped. Be it food, drink or – most importantly – knowledge. The Suture had been long used, for over ten thousand years as a trash heap, and the magical currents carried any disenchantments down to the rifts for reassemble and consumption. The Pituitarchs, rulers of these slugs, better known as the Suillimacs, were more than happy to entertain the “up-worlders”, for a price.

                “Come on Druslith, just a few droplets.” Carranda pleaded, holding a silver goblet.

                “Carr’, babes, no. You’ve been begging me for twenty minutes now, I am not giving you my blood or drool.” The beleaguered demon replied. “Frankly, I think you should be solving the trial, not getting freaky with me.”

                “I promise, this isn’t some new kink of mine! I need it to help me on mine.” Carranda explained, a growl of frustration slipping past her lips.

                “I had a neighbour, Bronantia, say the same thing about-… You know what, not important.” Druslith said, shivering at an unwelcomed memory. “But you should know better. Demon parts, be it blood or spittle, are worth a lot. I don’t want you selling me on in some marketplace. You’ll undervalue me~.”  

Carranda’s face soured. Her lips, taut into a pout, as she held the chalice steady.

                “Okay, okay, fine. You know I can’t resist that pout…” Druslith grumbled, taking the goblet. A quick spit and the container was given back. “But I do warn you, I’ll flay you if this sells for less than double the market price.” She winked.

Carranda kept her mouth shut for once. She gave a brief appreciatory smirk and left the Andaruni. The barge ride back down into the rest of the city, she spent in contemplation, her eyes watching the liquid pool and sway side to side. She heard of the deals that one could make in the slime-pits of the Suture but never thought someone of her calibre would have to venture so far deep. Her face curdled as she spat into the goblet, closing the lid before wandering the labyrinthine streets.

                “All I have to do is find a chef with no morals or food standards. Easy.” She mused out-loud, strutting about the dense passageways.

An hour or so had passed, she slumped at the side of a broth vendor. At least, that’s what it was marketed as. In reality, it was a potent mixture of Fel, seasoning and at least thirteen different aphrodisiacs. She slid over a soul shard and made a purchase; a cutlet of a native beast fried in demon spittle. As her eyes fixed upon what she had ordered, she felt a pang of disappointment in her twisted soul.

                “I’m going to sell spit-covered meat to a slug to get information on how to rat my sister out.” She thought.

She closed the lid of her “goods” and quickly scampered away, fast as an imp, to the nearest docking plinth. She sat aboard a far larger barge than the usual ones, plated with demonsteel and the exterior lacked the usual gilded finishes, for this was blackened with heat and fire. The vessel plummeted itself down the four-thousand-kilometre depth of the Suture, anchoring itself near a checkpoint.

The heat was unbearable, and not the kind a lust demon would appreciate. She pushed through the uncomfortableness and was waved through by the felguards standing still. The bottom of the Suture was ablaze with magma bursting from the planet’s innards, a raging boil of potency. Sluggishly, the hot embers danced in the air and sparkled as they brushed against the rock. Hours had past, her hooves singed from the bursts of fire and heat. The goblet, anchored by a silver chain, swung around her waist. It, too, had heated up and each slap against her skin was comparable to a whip crack.

Eventually, after hours of walking on a thin passageway that propped itself against the walls of the Suture, Carranda saw her goal. The den of the Pituitarch Fla-Gus-Byl.

The den, or as they would call it, castellany, was a damp and fetid series of unpleasantries. Bubbling pits of gunk, ooze and sludge, rotting meat in troughs that the subjects gorge themselves on and scents that, fortunately, cannot be transcribed into words. These dens were an oddity on the world. Run-away eunuchs often found themselves safe here, despite the fact that the Pituitarchs were ‘legally’ subservient to the Queen of Gluttony.

Carranda’s hand clenched her stomach as she approached what could have once been a felguard, but was now a creature of rot, slop and malodour. His axe, stained with gore, grub and dinner from years ago, held itself steady at her face.

                “Speak your reasoning.” It spat out, slurry landing at the hoofs of Carranda.

                “I-… I come seeking knowledge and have brought tribute to the Pituitarch.” She said, trying her best to not gag in disgust.

Behind the guard was a cloth, separating the inner den from the rest of the masses. Yet even though it was nibbled on by errant moths, it held strong. At the mention of tribute, the heavy fabric swung open, revealing a plinth of stone and the vile slug-pig themself, Fla-Gus-Byl. His mouth opened in a wry ‘smile’, bits of meat dropping out as imp-like creatures rushed in to gorge themselves by the fat folds. A wheezing laugh raked its way out of the throat.

                “Knowledge! The up-worlder hungers as do I. GUARD! More food.” They demanded, quickly being presented with what was once the rib cage of a large animal. The Pituitarch slobbered on one such rib. “What can you offer I?”

Carranda paused, sneering in disgust she couldn’t hide – a disgust that caused Fla-Gus-Byl to laugh, their folds rolling and shaking in amusement. She unclipped the goblet from her waistband and offered it up, the guards closing in behind her should she be trying something nefarious.

                “Peacock meat, fried in Succubi essence, your… your ‘grace’.” She said, her head woozy from the noxious fumes.

Fla-Gus-Byl let out a moan of what one might assume to be pleasure.

                “Deleccctable.” They hissed. “And what would you seek in return from I?”

                “Eleven years ago, my s-… my colleague, Carrthea, was rumoured to have cheated in a vital test. It is common knowledge that nothing escapes or is wasted by you, Pituitarch, so I want the proof.” Carranda asked, her elbow crooked, holding the delight back.

The abominable slug stroked their folds as one would with a beard, before tugging at their membrane, smiling. The many outer-layers rippled and shuddered as the hand tore a piece of the ‘skin’ off and rolled it up like a scroll.

                “There are many things hidden in the depths down here, child of sin, not everything you find is palatable – unlike our meals!” They laughed again, a hand swiping the dish out of Carranda’s hand.

The Sayaad kept quiet, nodding as she walked away with the mucus-clad ‘scroll’ of skin, leaving the den and gasping for fresh air. She was going to need several showers, four tub soaks and most likely a sauna trip afterwards. As she trotted off to the barges, back to the surface, she paused and unrolled the scroll, the evidence she sought.

Her eyes gazed across it, and her mouth gaped open, for it said. . .

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #4 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

Carranda’s train of thought was broken by being nudged in the back by an impatient trial-goer. She found herself moving deeper into the dome as the swarm of Succubi got called into the central dome to be assigned their trial. The domed chamber was gargantuan; the ceiling painted with lurid and salacious scenes. Each of the seven halls had a balcony within the dome, decorated according to their sin. The only break in décor came from the ceiling light in the centre, revealing the blazing glow of the Burning Legion insignia. The din of conversation died down as one voice cleared the airways.

                “I do hope you’ve had your fill of prattling, there is work to be done. Our dark lord has no use for chit-chat.” She spoke.

All eyes swung to the fifth balcony, the ledge of fury. Stood dominant upon it was the Queen of Wrath, her blue-grey skin pierced with tusks and her body chiselled for war. Her wings unfurled, tattered and clasped with raked talons that were slaked in blood.

                “You are all eager to start, ladies, so I won’t keep you for long.” She spoke again, “I am Azarine, the Queen of Wrath – and I will be your main judge. The previous trials had a disappointing result. Your predecessors cheated our most sacred rite.”

A tightness formed in the chest of Carranda, and not due to the tight bodice. Druslith gave the sayaad a knowing smile before going back to paying her full attention to the Queen of Wrath, yet the words became muted in Carranda’s head. All this time she thought herself inferior, and now it was unravelling. Her mind swarmed with thoughts before being caught in a red light.

                “Are you deaf? I said everyone MOVE.” Azarine said.

Carranda had spent far too long in her mind, unaware that minutes had passed and she had completely missed the trial’s specifics. She gave a half-arsed salute and ran out. Her peers had vacated the Andaruni entirely and there was nothing left but attendants and eunuchs. She groaned in frustration, softly punching the frame of the entrance to the central dome as she moped through one of the halls.

                “Shit.” She thought, still trapped in her own mind. “I had ONE job. ONE!”

Unbeknownst to her, she had wandered into the hall of Sloth and slouched against a door that swung open. In a flash, she found herself firmly on her derrière, bent out of shape in someone’s office. In normal conditions, such a situation would be the average Friday night for a succubus. She looked around the room before freezing up, the office was occupied.

A cacophony of sounds blared from the desk of the demon, who silenced it with a swish of the hand. In an unusual fashion, her body was dressed in clothing – specifically a suit. Her black hair cut into a bob and glasses on her pink face.

                “If you’ve come to file a complaint, I’m busy~.” Teased the desked demon, filing her nails on a rib bone.

                “… Sure looks it.” Carranda remarked, a hand caressing her bruised ‘assets’. “Sloth?”

                “Naturally! What better way to empower oneself than by ignoring all these rabid booty-calls.” She replied, smirking. She picked up a crystal that kept flashing with the face of a gnome. “This individual, for example, has been trying to get hold of me for fourteen hours now. Much more potent when you leave them stew.”

The office was quite cluttered with boxes of paper contracts, soul shards and other such junk. A dulled, bronze nameplate read ‘Helvina’ at the desk.

                “You look terrified.” Helvina remarked. “Trial day, mh?”

                “Ahuh…” Carranda said, taking a seat unprompted. “And I missed the instructions. Too busy thinking.”

                “Well, good thing you’re here in the hall of sloth then, no~?” Helvina teased, reaching into a draw of the desk.

                “Oh, please. I’ve heard that too many times today.” Carranda groaned, fingers working her tense neck.

                “… Here. The instructions.” Helvina said, handing over a piece of ‘paper’ that clearly felt leathery and speckled with blood. “Normally I wouldn’t help someone so easily, but, as it turns out, you’re actually keeping me from more work, and as a demon of sloth, I appreciate it.”

Eagerly, Carranda took the instructions and read them, her eyes scanning over them. Her lips grew into a smirk. A soft lil’ huff of amusement.

                “Well now. This will be easier than I thought.” She remarked out-loud.

She placed the document back on the desk, giving a thankful bow of her head as she ran out of the office, for the instructions read the following:

                “This cycle’s trial is simple: find and eliminate those who cheated last year. You may use any means necessary; however, proof is absolutely required. Extra favour granted to those who apprehend those who’ve wormed their way into the higher echelons of our fair society.”

… And who better to grab than sister dearest?

[watersideporcupine]

The Quilled Sapling

She always loved to explore, even when it earned her the punishment of tripled chores. At first, it was the cradle she had been placed for a nap. One of the days when she was a wee toddler.

"Ya were supposed to sleep, sapling. Dat's how ya grow strong." a voice called, when the little escapee was noticed. She was put back to her cradle to sleep, this time the ever elderly looking lady sitting a nearby rocking chair. At that moment Zugiwaumasa didn't know what the old lady's hands were busy with, looked like airy squares. In the following years she would learn the task of mending things made out of fiber and leather.

The time passed, yet it failed to bring sleep onto the stubbornly awake child. Old lady with puffy hairstyle reminiscent of cauliflower chuckled as she noticed it during a little break.

"A lot like your pa, aren't ya child. Okay den. Let's see if da olden trick will work on ya as well." the female said, the sound build of her voice was strong yet she spoken softly. With that, the toddler happily coo'd as she has been freed from the cradle. Onto warm arms. Secure, familiar, scents of mixed herbs that she didn't know which ones yet.

"De song blossoms into de heart.

It's warmth, despite she disappeared in the past.

Heedin' ta it's message, da rule ya must follow.

De roots are secure, as Haranir we don't let it become hollow.

Ya might get da pollen fever of explorin'

Going away or outside, dat ya never should be doing.." the old lady, Kainda, sung while lightly caressing her granddaughter's hair and quills. With her olden wisdom, she was correct.

That time Zugiwaumasa didn't hear the following verses, if there were any. However, even her current age the lullaby of her grandmother resides in her memory.

[senkothewarlock]

Final Howl

(Hey all. I caught a cold and it is kicking my ass. I didn't want to leave the momentum fizzle out so here's something I wrote ages ago but didn't really like enough to publish. Fair warning, it contains pet death. Sort of.)

The amber eyes of Senko slowly peeled themselves open. A layer of grit and grime shed itself as she batted her eyelashes. Another night, another ‘mare. She swung herself out of the bed and placed her feet on the ground. A yawn left her maw as she popped the stopper out of a bottle of liquid, the same shade as her eyes. The slow pour of trickling alcohol provided a soft comfort to the vixen as she let out a laboured sigh.

Her hands reached for the stack of papers at her bedside table. With a gulp of booze, she began shifting through them in the moonlight that pierced into the house. She smiled at the postcard her beloved had sent her from the fashion show in Silvermoon, looking through the penned letter that accompanied it. The juxtaposition of harsh swear words and disparaging remarks about other people’s fashion in some of the most elegant cursive from a pink-inked fluffy pen softened the soul.

Other such mail included coupons for OrcMart, gBay – the most popular FelNet auction site – and various other franchises until she saw a new letter, one that hadn’t been there when she went to bed a few hours past. She reasoned that Carranda, despite all her bluster and bitching, saw it important enough to enter Senko’s room with it.

Pinching her brow, she slugged down the shot and adjusted herself on the bed. The soft lash of winter rains plinking off the windowpane soon found themselves drowned out as Senko’s claw tore into the paper, unfurling the letter. It was of few words, yet those often stung the most.

Senko’s nightmares were vivid, frequent and most harrowing of all, recollections of past events. Tonight’s visitations followed the pained pattern to a T. Slavery to her mentor, to the Sethrak, forced to fight her former best friend, and then, of course, the loss of her family. And as lady luck would have it, the most painful memory, would be the one that struck twice tonight.

The warlock never truly understood the point of the Alliance’s assault in Vol’dun. To send their own men trapsing through a hostile and barely hospitable desert for what? To burn down nomadic caravans of a people who were finally becoming free from generations of slavery for trading goods in a war that didn’t see them even fight. That shipping water and rations was somehow equal to manslaughter?

The dream had played out exactly as it always did. Senko’s arms and legs aching from escaping slavery, following the trade routes across the south coast. Finding one of the nooks her family used billow with black smoke and the stench of burnt timber. She rushed in to see these beast-men in blue surcoats rummage through her family’s possessions, and then the sight of her mother, her father and her brothers, stacked in the middle of a burning pile.

The only other living thing that escaped that site was one of the hyenas her family kept, a sort of ‘guard dog’ that was cut up badly by the Alliance. As the last token of her former life, and an innocent creature, Senko took her with her on those travels. It is here the nightmare usually ends, but today it was different.

Senko’s letter was from a rancher that Senko had befriended, with Urlator growing old in age, she had made the painful decision to keep her in a sanctuary out in the Barrens, visiting as often as she could. She hated it, but the old girl couldn’t keep up with the increasing demands that the Vulpera’s life had taken – and it would be far too cruel to expect Urlator to do so. The letter had simply read that Urlator’s life was nearly complete, and it would be wise for Senko to say goodbye.

The amber eyes wept. Salt-filled memories splashed onto the page as she pushed the shot glass into her cheek, knowing full well with her beloved on business and no other friends available, she’d have to do this alone. Like many things in her life. She steadied herself with a few breaths before sliding off the bed. Her legs sliding into her boots and the long sound of a zipper broke the dead silence in the room. She tugged a hood up over her head and flared open a portal to somewhere within the northern Barrens.

With a heavy sigh, she stepped through, leaving behind the night that had covered the east and into the dusk of Kalimdor. It was a small walk, some twenty minutes normally. Yet Senko dragged herself with each heavy step. The Hyena was the last anchor to her life in the dunes, the last tie to her family. She often saw a different life when looking at Urlator. Perhaps, had the lightning not struck Senko, she and her would be bound together as Senko lived her dream of an Akundite Prelate. Maybe the two would be desert pathfinders, or freedom fighters.

But now the door was soon to be closed on her past forever, so it felt. She eventually made it to the outskirts of the ranch. Brown banners decorated with thunderbolts lined the high fence, fluttering in the breeze. A slow walk to the front door of the ranch building was announced by the banging of her stave against the door. The skulls of her staff rattling around.

                “Zhakash. I apologise for my tardiness.” Senko said in a solemn tone, lifting her head up.

                “Your hyena… we’ve done all we can for her, I’m afraid. Urlator has lived beyond what a normal ‘yeen would.” The Orcess said, squinting softly at the hooded Vulpera. “… But I won’t judge.”

And for the number of silvers that had entered Zhakash’s coffers from Senko, it would be wise that she didn’t judge. Senko didn’t deny it. She had used Fel magic to siphon life from other things. Trivial things, really. The grass, the trees, bundles of insects and a far too haughty Kaldorei one winter as a treat. It all went back into Urlator.

                “How long, miss?” Senko asked, stepping into the parlour of the ranch. Her eyes avoiding any form of eye contact or face-to-face glances.

                “If she sees sunrise, I’ll be surprised. It got worse real fast… I am sorry, Senko.”

She said nothing, but her posture grew tense. Rigid. She stifled a sound, the crack of a tear. Something the Orc pretended not to hear. She speed-walked to the door that led to the pens and swung it open, practically rushing out to see her hyena.

Zhakash was a strong orc, tanned skin, eyes of a fiery passion, and brown, braided locks of hair. She was not the type one would expect to be in wolf-themed slippers to answer the door at seven in the evening, yet here she was. She entered the kitchenette as she watched the warlock stomp across the pens as she nudged a ranch-hand.

                “Part of this’ll sound awful, but I envy these people.” Zhakash said, her eyes softening on Senko.

                “… Why? Who would envy the mourning?” Her ranch-hand asked.

                “Seen so many wolves of mine go, you get numb. Ain’t a good feeling, daughter… Listen, I don’t want you out there. Not while she’s here.” Zhakash said, grabbing a horn of ale. “Never seen a ‘warlock’ grieve. Don’t know what they’ll do.”

Senko entered the pen slowly, quietly. She didn’t want to give the dying a fright. She kept her paces slow and steady, eventually lying on her back at the side of Urlator. The two laid in silence, the heavy paw draping over Senko’s robe, a soft yearning to have her own lungs flood themselves with air once more, yet the weak drags of air that the hyena took in became more and more laboured.

She was grateful that the hood kept most of her eyes concealed, for the tears that flowed were many. Her knuckles tightly clenched, turning as white as the bone beneath fur as she held back her sounds of grief. Her hand resting itself upon the paw of her trusty steed, feeling it growing colder and colder.

Damn it all, was the most recurring thought in the Vixen’s head. She pulled her hood down and took the time to look Urlator in her own eyes. The two faces were wet with tears and pain. Years of preserving the hyena, strengthening her life with stolen vitae had begun to rapidly show. The true age began to unveil itself on the hyena. A small necklace began to grow in its green hue, she let out a soft whine, brushing her head against Senko’s, before slumping into the ground.

The body of the beast slowly rising and falling.

Until it just…

Stopped.

Not even the light of the full moon that crept into the skies of Kalimdor seemed to shine brightly. Senko, slowly, moved the paw off her torso and stood up. She dried her eyes with the sleeve of her robe before taking a final look at Urlator. Her body was weak and emaciated. The Fel had fully left her, no longer was it keeping the hyena beyond her prime.

The warlock left the pen, returning to the ranch only to sniffle, sob and ask meekly for a sled to carry the corpse into the wilderness of the Barrens. Zhakash obliged without any resistance, offering a small vocalisation of condolences. She loaded up Urlator by herself and walked the sled out into the dry, cracked landscape of the Barrens.

She followed a stream, flowing from the west until she was far enough away from anything resembling a residence. As she held the body for the final time, taking off the collar around the neck that held the necklace, she began to prep a circle to act as a pyre. The idea of beloved steed rotting in the ground offended her deeply, thus the idea to cremate the body down to bones and bury those was set forth.

When it dawned on her.

Did it really have to be the end? She had reanimated before, a squirrel here, a bird there. Nothing too complex, but she understood the fundamentals. So, her mind steeled itself. With a final wipe of the tears from her butterscotch-toned face, she curled a finger into a claw and began to burn runes into the ground. The harsh, concentric circles erupted into the dry and cracked soil, flashing a bright and malefic green as Senko watched the flames tear into the flesh of Urlator.

The runes began to hum and spread, like veins from a heart. Tapping into more and more of the surface of the Barrens as what little of the wilderness wilted and rotted. Its colour sapped and leaves falling. She stepped into the circles of power and stood amidst the fires of chaos as she examined the bones. Clean of flesh, safe from charred marks, Senko reached down and picked up a rib bone, stowing it into her pocket.

Yet she knew she needed more. The ailing soul of Urlator that was caught in the necklace wouldn’t be enough power, nor the sparse vegetation. Fortunately, to her amusement, the low snarl of a worg disrupted her thoughts. She took one look at the beast for any signs of ownership, and when her eyes swept over and saw only mange and disease – she smirked.

                “You’ll do.”

A hand outstretched, the scream of life being drained shrieked across the night sky as Senko’s fingers clawed around an invisible object, her claws glowing with white, ethereal energy. Just enough, she thought, no need to kill the beast. The worg grew old and whined, Senko’s hand released and watched the beast scurry off, snarling in frustration at having several years stolen from it. She didn’t enjoy it, she knew it was wrong, but to her, so was letting the last remnant of her past die like this.

                “You will be made whole again…”

She mumbled, leaving the circle. With one hand, grasping the strands of a fractured soul in the air and another clutching the necklace, she began her foul ritual. The energies began to coalesce and slam into the pile of bones. Swept up in a vortex of deathly energy, the bones span around within the rune on the floor. Each pass and gyration, a beastly howl pierced not just the sky, by the veil betwixt life and death itself.

Faster they span round, and as Senko chanted in a deep and vile language, in the heart of this bonestorm, the body began to rebuild itself. The toes, then the legs. The undercarriage and ribcage – sans one rib – and finally the head. Preserved in this stasis that the energy had brought with it.

Senko, in one last strain, brought her hands to her lips and blew hard. The lifeforce and soul blew out from her hands in a burst of cyan flame, slamming into the skeleton. The roar of magic was silenced quickly by just one final sound of this abhorrent ritual:

The echoing howl of a hyena.

She stepped into the circle once more, the flames now smouldering on the edges of the runes as Senko placed a palm on the shoulder blade of Urlator. The Hyena looked at her with sockets of green fire and brushed her head against the warlock’s. In undeath, she had grown taller. Her bones seemed stronger, her teeth sharper. 

Death would not deter Senko. Like many things, it was an obstacle. Emboldened, she led Urlator away from what would’ve been her grave and smirked beneath her hood. She isn’t letting this one escape her. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever…

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #3 (Feb ‘26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

(My apologies! University was rude and told us we had to do something we were clearly told we didn’t have to do, so the writing flow stopped.)

The Andaruni was the peak of the urban mountain of debauchery. The garish neon lights of the city below lit up the underbelly. While the rest of the buildings were very distinct in their architecture, the capitol stood apart. The façade was crafted from ominous stone of ebon, a sort of shade that draws the gaze and saps the strength. The rainbow of colour was replaced the signature scorching hot green of the Fel. The heart of the building was a domed circle, with seven long halls connecting to it – a path per sin. The dome itself projected the sigil of the Burning Legion high into the sky, casting its shadow across the city.

The barge docked at one of the piers, disgorging its passengers out, spewing Succubi across the gilded plaza like a grotesque after-party. Far more affluent and powerful Succubi found themselves attended to by lesser ones and incubi held as eunuchs and toys. Their faces covered by cloth and golden chains kept their arms low. Before anyone had the chance to say something, or even acknowledge the sights, one such eunuch scurried towards Carranda and her friend.

                “Please…” He spoke, each consonant hissed, each breath laboured. “Follow me. The courts await…”

The newcomers followed the incubi through the main hall. It was a temple in of itself, dedicated to the primordial and most noticeable strain of Succubi: lust. Side rooms billowed with thick, pink incense from ceiling mounted braziers and a discordant mixture of screams, half in agony, half in bliss. As the clack of hooves trotted closer and closer, Carranda kept her head on a swivel, soaking in the sounds. By mortal standards, she’d pass as one in her twenties, yet she felt a slight sense of unease brew in her mind.

Surely, it was just nerves.

As the procession of demonettes ended, the central doors to the inner dome opened. A taller succubus greeted them with a glint of distain burning in her eyes. She easily towered over them by a good two lengths; her skin shimmered like a paradisial sea. Her head crowned by four horns, and a puffed-out chest as her manicured nails clasped around her generous hips.  

                “Yet another flock of the weak and miserable you’ve brought to us, Eunuch.” She spoke, her voice clear and elevated. “I suspect not a single one of these boors will even attempt the trials. Not a single one of you will find themselves in my Court, I assure you.”

Druslith nudged Carranda once more and whispered in a hushed tone.

                “That’s Sorayan, Queen of Pride. Apparently not even her peers in the Libertine Court care for her, too much of a loudmouth-.”

The moment the words left the lips of Druslith, the prideful queen gestured at her with a long and sharpened claw. Her lips curled in disgust.

                “You certainly shan’t be in my Court, gossiping before your betters so brazenly. Perhaps I ought to raise a new court, for the sin of stupidity and anoint you queen of it. You dress like an Aubrayyan tart.” Sorayan spoke, spitting to the side – pinging into a bucket her eunuch serf held diligently.

The murmuring crowd quietened as Carranda gulped to herself. Perhaps this was a mistake. She ran her hand over her now prickled skin, feeling sweat seep from her pores. Sargeras, it was hot in the hall. Her tongue-tip dragged itself over her hot pink painted lips as she began to ponder. Truly, the only reason she was here was because of her older sister. The pride she exuded over being the first born, the constant praise that was lauded upon her simply because she once flayed a Kaldorei for eight hours without swapping hands.

She could do that. She could do better. Anyone could. Right?

(I'll give someone a cookie emoji if they can tell me what they think I based the planet Sodmhor̄ah off of. Hint: It's a planet from a popular science fiction series, but it's never in any of the main titles. (And yes the name is meant to be a combination of Sodom and Gomorrah.))

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #2 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

Carranda finished arranging herself and left the dwelling with haste. She took a deep breath in to steady herself before approaching the city of sin – Veltheris. A mega-city that straddled the scar across the face of the world, forever miring its “beauty”. The city stretched to the sky proudly, towers and spires of metal that glistened, large conduits moved ethereal energies from one to another, and neon signs flickered with more being added daily by cohorts of unpaid and understaffed gan’arg peon crews.

The city was a maze to navigate, deliberately of course. Any visiting demon or mortal would be snared by the sights and temptations, any vice could be met and any pleasure ready, if one was willing to pay the price. Narrow streets and overhanging buildings drew shadows across the underside of the city, with pleasure barges powered by foul magics hoisted passengers to and from the levels.

The demoness stood waiting for the next barge to dock, imps throwing glittering chains around the bollards, mooring the vessel to the piers. She took a step aboard, her cloven hooves clacking as she stood on the metal and leaned against a gilded pillar. A stick of gum left her bosom as she placed it on her raspberry-hued tongue and chewed. Her focused face broke into a small smile as she gave a coy wave to a boarding succubus.

                “You made it, babes. I thought we’d have to send a pit lord to wake you up~.” The newcomer teased.

                “I still made it before you did, Druslith.” Carranda said, giving a wink.

Druslith was, indelicately put, a Goblin’s lurid dream. Her 'outfit', a term used looser than her morals, shimmered with pure gold. Her nails and hair matching, with even a slight, auric lustre to her skin.

                “I had fan mail to sort, Carranda! This one Nathrezim – Diathorus – is SO obsessed with me. I’ve even convinced him to get me earrings made from Draenei teeth~!” Druslith said, folding her arms ‘neath the chest.

Carranda caught herself. She should be feeling happy for her friend. Yet instead, she felt her stomach grind to a stop. Her gum bubbled no more as she thought to herself, lips pouting.

                “I wish I had that.” She thought. “I deserve that. She just gets all this because she zips around the Legion like a bloodsucking mosquito-“ Her thoughts broke by the lurching of the barge.

She forced herself to put on her usual, chipper face. She brushed aside some errant hair and blew a bubble for good measure. The barge began its climb past the spires of the city and directed itself towards the centre – the Andaruni; capital of the Sayaadi Heptarchy, and the house of the seven courts.

                “So, if I were to take a stab in the dark. Either envy or greed is what you’re angling at, Druslith?” Carranda asked, feeling the breeze.

                “Mhm! I’m quite looking forward to our trial. I heard there’s options this time around. My aunt only had the one when she went through this.” Druslith said, eyeing up Carranda. “What about you? Which court are you looking for?”

Carranda paused. A nervous gulp betrayed her.

                “I-… Don’t know yet.”

                “What do you mean yet?! We’re like, thirty minutes from starting! Well, I guess you’re going into Sloth~.” Druslith teased, elbow-nudging the black corset that supported Carranda’s physique.

                “It’s not that I’m lazy! I just… don’t care about which one I get into, as long as I get into one. I can’t handle my sister’s torment anymore.” She said, fingers rubbing the base of her horns, palms over the eyes.

                “Pfft.” Druslith scoffed. “Carrthea? She cheated anyways.”

Carranda slowly blinked, her hands moving from the face.

                “What do you mean cheated? Can you even cheat on these things? I thought the whole point was to be underhanded and, ya know, sinful.”

                “Well, duh. But there’s still rules. It changes each time.” Druslith said, idly playing with her garish golden-blonde hair. “You didn’t know? Was a whole scandal.”

Carranda said nothing. She stuck her tongue out, a claw piercing the gum she had been working on and flicked it over the edge of the barge. As her slender muscle slithered back in, her lips curled into a grin. Perhaps sister dearest wasn’t so perfect after all…

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #1 (Feb '26 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

(Am I really going to produce a week's worth of content in 2 days? Why not!~)

Across the impossibly wide expanse of the Twisting Nether, swathes of demons now lie disconnected and abandoned. With the imprisonment of Sargeras, the deaths of Archimonde and Kil’jaeden along with the scouring of what little remains of Argus, the Legion is all but gone. Shattered and splintered into petty fiefdoms of warlord demons, squabbling over scraps. Worlds of demons, content to spend their time waiting and in-fighting, yet not all the worlds burn with anticipation.

Commanding the vast, near infinite armies of the Legion was no small feat. As with any conflict in history, trophies and prizes were dolled out to the most loyal, the most dedicated, the most powerful, or bloodthirsty, or cunning. The world of Sodmhor̄ah is one such prize. A world, thrice the size of Azeroth with pink skies and a belt of rock. A great scar, perilously deep and long, stretches across the surface with geysers shooting plumes into the atmosphere.

The Sayaad race of demons are, unbeknownst to the casual observer, split into seven strains, or “courts” – while each demon performs their usual, racial habits, those sorted into the courts go about it differently. One of lust will choose to seduce their victims by appealing to sexual fantasies and the yearning within a heart, while one of pride will seek to inflate and manipulate the ego.

In gatherings as large as that on Sodmhor̄ah, the courts rule over various city states, and on the 11th month, of every eleven years, the courts convene to induct new and fresh Succubi, it is here on such a day, that one named Carranda woke up.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The screech of a wall-mounted clock, modelled in the shape of an imp’s head rang out in the cramped room. Sprawled out, bare of clothing and coated by a thin, silken blanket, the pink-hued demoness jolted out of her sleep. Perhaps the only thing messier than her black hair, was the room. Discarded boxes of junk food, magazines etched in infernal scripts and last week’s bodices strewn across the floor. The door slammed open, an infuriating growl came from both Carranda and the room’s intruder.

                “For Sargeras’s sake, when are you gonna grow up and get rid of this fucking alarm clock?!” The voice yelled out. “It’s court-day and you still have it!”

                Carranda tossed in her bed, a pillow thrown at the clock. “Get off my ass, Carrthea. When are you going to grow up and move out?” She fired back.

                “You are SO lucky mom is still regenerating in the Nether or she’d have your wings for speaking back to me like that.”

 Carranda’s only response to her older sister was to display her rather perfectly manicured fingernails, or rather, the one on the middle finger as she smirked to herself. The two had always been estranged. Carrthea was the favoured child, first-born, first to succeed. Her wings casted long shadows on any of Carranda’s few achievements in life, but as the demoness dressed herself, she held in her heart what could be considered ‘hope’. In a few hours, she would be gathered before the courts of sin and assigned her place in society.

She yearned for it. Her blackened heart, full of vice, pounded with excitement. Her mind raced with thoughts as her comb rushed through her locks. While an uncourted succubus could still perform her duty well, it was a stigma so great that one would rather be found associating with the lesser demons of the Legion. Not to mention, her sister would never let her live it down.

As she began to idly work on the laces of her bodice, pulling each string taut and tying it up, she pondered out loud to herself.

                “Perhaps I’ll get into Pride. I was very good at manipulating that Eredar into giving me that tome. Ooh, maybe Envy, after all I’ve been there a few times.”

[senkothewarlock]

Return to Form

I'M BACK.

University sucks ass but I got my mojo back and will be hopefully posting more. xoxo

[the-rubber-band]

Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your dms or ask box with storylines and rp ideas!

[senkothewarlock]

Gul'ivar’s Travelogue - D1P2 - Ṭhumliskath

(Sorry guys, rough time + internet outage! Back just in time for DWC August though, nyehehe.)

[Day 1, Page 2]

It did not take long for everyone to pile in, eventually I myself found I was being herded along the thoroughfare of soil and stone and into the assembly area. I resigned myself to a row near the back, in case I did need to make a quick exit – I figured the Tauren in front of me would be the perfect body blocker should the hostess unleash a barrage of Fel magic into the crowd. As I looked around, I noticed an all too familiar sight within the beast pens. A pack of boars, oozing with Fel.

The sight turned my stomach a bit, for the last time I had seen such mal-infused porcine, it was at the gathering of clans before the Dark Portal ripped itself open and our people stormed the vast distance and invaded Azeroth. My eyes caught Felguards saddling the boars. Pouches and bags slung over onto the harnesses with surprising care to the animals, the sort of compassion I would expect a Frostwolf clansman to have, not a demon. Each of the boars were given a faceguard that had numerals etched into it.

I had spent far too long reminiscing of Draenor when I had felt the weight of the stone bench shift, a soft grumble had left my lips as I turned slowly to examine who had found themselves next to me. It is not that I had wished to be alone, it is simply that I had wished to be alone for a little longer. I am still unsure if I am glad, then, that it was the Zandalari from earlier. Mercifully, she didn’t bring up my embarrassment and gave a crooked smile that looked psychotic given the tusks that jutted from her mouth.

As the last of the stragglers flowed in, our bench was joined by two more. The first was an Arakkoa, one of those who were cursed by their avian gods to be broken and flightless. Their plumage was most striking; a faint hue of purple danced on the edge of their – pardon the pun – raven black feathers. However, as aesthetically pleasing as this bird was, most shockingly was a gnome in white and gold plate and hair as unpredictable as her appearance here was. It is not the fact she was a gnome that brought my attention to her, but the fact her surcoat was stamped with the iconography of the human’s faith in the Light.

Before I had time to enquire about her affiliation and why she was in a place such as this, I heard the sound of magic breaking the air. Atop the motte, a rift of green and purple swirled before it burst open into a portal. The first was a Shivarra, the next was a Doommaiden. I tore my eyes away from the infernal menagerie to check on how the misplaced gnome was handling such a display, only to find her swinging her feet in amusement. She caught my eyes upon her and whispered:

                “Pretty ladies, aren’t they!”

Such an admission stunned me for a moment. I do not quibble over the subjective nature of beauty, but the objectiveness that someone with clear priestly aspirations called demons ‘pretty’ was the second time I had been flabbergasted within the hour. My attention was brought back to the podium, after I saw the gnome’s focus snap back there – I did not wish to make a fool of myself twice in one day by being singled out for my apparent lack of interest. By now, the hostess herself stood proud, centre-stage, along with a Man’ari who had half a mechanical contraption grafted to her head and another Vulpera, grey in colour, arms linked with the horned one.

The flames in the braziers rose and roared in heat and luminosity as she rose her arm, conducting a show to woo those who weren’t magically inclined in the audience. A simple trick, yet I found myself cringing at how easy it impressed the others. As our focus shifted back, gradually, to the podium, I felt a host of eyes sweep across us. Her demonic companions now held solidly, as if kept in stasis, yet their blazing glances persisted.

                “Welcome one and all, to the distant asteroid of Nathzorah. You are all here because we have seen that you are gifted. Skilled. Talented. And that these are being wasted and eroded in your daily lives. Squandered by those who see you as cogs in their own machines. I do not offer you purpose directly, nor do I promise power to be gifted – I promise you the ability and the place for you to forge your own destinies.”

Her speech started to a rather potent start. I can admit I did feel somewhat stirred by her words, yet I am aware her words were perfectly crafted to the audience she had plucked, including myself. A loud huff blew from my nose as she uttered the word ‘destinies’, as the last time a warlock spoke of such, the fates of two worlds irreversibly changed. Unfortunately, in the raptured crowd, my sardonicism was quickly noticed, as her eyes fell upon me.

                “Some of you may not be prepared to grasp your future yet. There is no shame in bowing out.” She said with a pointed smirk. “Until you are at the great gates of Kha'thularak, you are free to surrender yourselves to your old lives. A life of comfort, a life of… mediocrity. Still, if you wish to break your chains and be the person we know you can be, then we have work to do.”

A pause lulled over the assembled. By my count, five people had excused themselves and approached the demons, who opened bright portals for them to walk through. I trust that they were led back to their points of origin as it disturbs me to admit, this does appear to be a well-practiced organisation.

                “I call us the Cult of the Sulphur Sands, not for worship or idolatry, but we worship something far greater – knowledge. The pursuit of it. The understanding of it. The preservation of it. Let no spell be forgotten, let no skill be shunned, let no hate between you remain. Are you ready to get your hands upon the Spark that drives all life and brighten your own?”

At this point, in the third “stanza” of her speech, her felguard minions had weaved between the rows and placed a tray on our laps with an assortment of instruments. The most prominent would be the athame – a black handle dagger with a polished blade that reflected all, as if it were glass, and hilted with a silver fox skull ornament. A bowl of a light grey stone that was as deep as the average mug and a charm – a six-pointed star, which I overheard be referred to as the ‘hexacle’.

I flipped over the hexacle and began to read it to myself, internally, as to not bind myself to anything pre-emptively.

“I hereby swear this solemn vow that I, until formally released by the Grandmistress or her Eminent Webmistress, shall serve the Cult of the Sulphur Sands to the best of my abilities. I shall learn, I shall teach, I shall build, for the glory of myself, for the glory of the Cult and Her people, and for the eternal glory of the Spark within all creation. May it bind me until the sands of eternity are spent.”

                “… Then swear it.”

Was all that she said. My ‘peers’ had been quick to comply, rushing to take up the mirrored blade and slicing their palm. I hesitated. But then I remember what drove me here in the first place. Knowledge. Curiosity. For better or for worse, I was now in a place few had gone before, potentially gaining access to troves of knowledge lost to time.

So, I slit my palm open. I swore myself to the cult – as we all did – with blood and breath, we openly gave this Grandmistress Senko our vows of loyalty to the establishment and to her.

______________________________________________________________

The icon of the Cult, which I was told to be the 'Sulphur Star', or the Hexacle.

(Art by Boomie the Gob on bsky!)

[senkothewarlock]

Gul'ivar's Travelogue - D1P1 - Ṭhumliskath

[Day 1, Page 1]

Upon receiving a most strange and intrusive offer to expand my intellectual horizons, I took the offer up to see what this Vulpera had in store for me. With a bag of possessions and provisions prepared, I took out the quaint contraption and, as per her instructions, pushed the crystal in the middle of it. A miasma of foul magic ensnared me, every fibre in my being burnt with the desire to cast some form of countermeasure, yet I allowed it to happen. Curiosity is a double-edged sword. A flash of green blinded me, by my estimate, I was disoriented for some twenty seconds. I felt my weight shift as if the air grew heavier around me, my stomach churned as the pull of teleportation grabbed me.

I regained my senses to find myself on a circular platform, carved from a grey granite that stuck out from the surroundings. Etched and infused in this dais were thirteen symbols. The first, a closed eye. Leading out of the eye, and spanning across the platform, was a thin line that connected to eleven stars, each made out of a gemstone which I was later told to be tourmaline – a stone known for its spiritualistic connection of bridging the material to the immaterial in Tauren and Zandalari lapidiology. At the end of this chain, to which I noticed the line grew wider and wider with each star, was an open eye.

The dais spanned some 100m (328ft) in circumference, as I mentioned, it contrasted sharply with the terrain it was planted on. All around was barren soil. To the immediate south was a ward that shimmered with a bright, arcane hue. The dais was in a depression of the land, dirt walls around with a soft incline to the north, laced with paving stones. It was at this point I gazed up to the heavens and saw the reality I had found myself in.

The sky was not the one I had grown accustomed to, nor was it the sky of my home world of Draenor. Purple energy shimmered across, dancing and merging with streaks of green. Distant rocks softly breezed past in a ring. The faint, dim lights of planets stuck out to me the most. Planets I had known since arriving on Azeroth, yet it was here I noticed – Azeroth was one of the gems in the sky I was admiring. The twin moons. The atmosphere; a soft, shimmering shield around it.

I consider myself a stoic. A man unmoved by fancies. Yet I did find myself struggling to breathe at first, fright settling in. It took me a few seconds of forcing air, snappishly, into my lungs to centre myself. After my shameful display of floundering on the ground, like a dying fish, did I notice I was not alone. Luckily, few were observing my performance and more focused on socialising between themselves or being equally as awestruck as I was to the night sky above.

A Zandalari woman approached me, her attire in black, crimson and gold. She carried with her far too many bijous, gems and trinkets. Each step she took, she jingled like a bunch of keys on the ring of a prison warden. Her hair jutted up like her tusks and crested neatly, were it not for the racket coming from her – I’d say the hair would be the most striking about her. Embarrassingly, she was one of the few who wasn’t distracted by the scenery and had seen my entire ordeal. Without asking, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me up to my feet in a disorientating flash.

                “Cha bes’ be careful! Orcs don’t be havin’ regeneration.” She commented.

Naturally, I knew my race’s limitations. In hindsight, perhaps this was an attempt to bond, charm, flirt or tease me. I cared little at the time, as my pride was far more impacted than my coldness. I gave her a brief acknowledgement; a disinterested grumble of appreciation left my lips as I dusted myself off. I had hoped she would’ve taken the hint, but either she was oblivious, or she simply didn’t care for my reclusive behaviour.

She proceeded to tell me about the mystical properties of tourmaline, how it is often used in places of cleansing and protection. The ability it has to ground oneself and boost perceptions. While many may scoff at the idea, I have personally been a witness to powers within crystals, so I did not see a reason to challenge her on this. Her fingers pointed at each of the eleven gems on the pad, iterating her theories on why the gem was used.

Her hyper fixation was broken by the sound of a horn. The loud droning hum of a mustering call, a sound one does not quickly forget upon hearing it more than a mother’s heartbeat as a child. Some of the people looked around, like clueless whelps. How they did not clearly tell the path was up the incline, I do not know. Clearly, the calibre of people here was diverse and I was on the upper end of the intelligence scale.

Leading the pack, I followed the beaten path and began to notice what little flora existed in this dark and barren valley, shimmered with the light of the stars like metal in the moonlight. In a, perhaps, reckless moment of curiosity – I brushed my hand upon the gnarled twig of a shrub. It was cold iron. Cold to the point of pain. I withdrew my afflicted hand, rubbing it on the trouser leg and continued my pace, now behind the masses.

By my estimation, we had spent thirteen minutes walking in this thin strip of pathway. A preternatural darkness clung to the peripheries of the path, shadows draped over what I presumed to be larger trees. Upon the fifteen-minute mark, we were greeted by large braziers of green fire. Fel fire. With it, the accompanying stench of brimstone that petered out – a foul smell to snap us out of any daze from walking I assumed. The braziers were on the edge of a camp, itself guarded by a palisade out of metal and wood. To the north, a motte stood out, providing an earthy podium.

Surrounding us were a mixture of figures, some kept themselves clad in dark clothing and others in armour. While I could not see those in cloth, the armoured ones were purposefully visible. Fel guards. Demonic foot soldiers. Affixed with black plate with detailing in burning colours of gold, orange and red. I admit, I was prepared to cast a spell of warding against chaos, until my memory kindly did its job and reminded me that the person who invited myself and the others was horned. A common, demonic corruption. Thus, I reassured myself they were her minions.

I stood at the back of the camp and began to survey my surroundings properly. A tall banner flew the symbol at the peak of the motte which I shall sketch overleaf, there were pens for beasts to the west. Held together with red-hot chains that sizzled in the air, sending faint whisps of smoke up. Rows of stone benches were dug into the ground, kept dusted clean of the dirt and soil. By a quick estimation, there was room for fifty or so individuals to be sat, yet I counted only thirty among us.

It seemed that the Vulpera was not particular about the creeds she invited. I bore witness to Goblins, Trolls, Humans, Orcs such as myself, Tauren, all manner of Elves, Gnomes and Dwarves. Even more unpredictable choices such as the Arakkoa, the Ethereals and even a Murloc. I did somewhat ponder at what use some of these choices would bring to this coven that was being assembled, but I held my tongue tightly. An Orc is a proud warrior, who upholds their code of honour. They are not, however, a reckless and suicidal moron who would balk at the notion of sharing a seminar with others who could overpower him.

______________________________________________________________

[senkothewarlock]

Gosh.

I never thought my scritchings would result in so much support. Thank you everyone, from the bottom of my heart (as black and gnarly as it may be.) - I'll have the next Gul'ivar's installment up tonight. Also yes, it is meant to be a spin on Gulliver.

[senkothewarlock]

Gul'ivar's Travelogue - Prologue

I suppose it would be wise to describe the situation I have found myself in and who I am, before recounting the story in its entirety. My name is Lemok Gul’ivar. In earlier days, I styled myself a scholar of the arcane mysteries. But in time, I came to understand one does not study mysteries, one is humbled by them. To claim otherwise is to miss the very nature of the thing. I am an Orc, green in colour, old in age, from the lesser-known Ashripper Clan. On this rare occasion, dear reader, I shall forgive you – unless you are a Gorgrondite – any ignorance of this clan.

My people are a sept of the larger Blackrock Clan. Whilst they dwelt in their fortress complex, we stayed in the caves and gorges nearby. We studied the lands, the rocks, the ores and the mysteries that they dug up to turn into weapons and wonders. The arcane delights that so enriched our ancestors, the Ogres, oft ignored us Orcs – I was fortunate enough to have such a blessing.

Later in my life, as the Horde came to Azeroth and the wars were fought, won and lost, people settled and people perished, I had always aspired to apply Kirin Tor of Dalaran, to demonstrate my wealth of knowledge and further spread awareness of the arcane to the masses, not fight in endless wars and battles for soil and prestige. One can imagine my displeasure, then, upon finding out Dalaran not only could keep itself in one place, but it couldn’t even stay in one piece as it found itself detonated into a myriad of fragments, peppered down across the seaboard of the Isle of Dorn.

Some of you might find it wrong of me to recall how I felt at the time, but the pain I suffered was more at the loss of knowledge, than life. Aimlessly, I resigned myself to walking around the libraries and pop-up seminars that followed, yet none quenched my desires. A man dying of thirst is not sated by swiping the sweat from his brow.

That is when, reader, I found myself called – quite literally – via a disc-shaped contraption. Brass in colour, it shimmered alive when I placed it in my palm. The top began to fold out, opening into a set of four triangles at each cardinal point, in which a gem was placed at the bottom. It emitted a foul light, followed by a flash of green and the unmistakeable stench of sulphur.  

It goes without saying (Yet I find myself saying it so, for far too many remain annoyingly ignorant) that my people are no strangers to the allure of Fel magic, the sulphur hit me like the weight of which I hadn’t felt since my people drank from Chalice of Rebirth. Even being in proximity to my demonic blood guzzling relatives was enough to hue my skin, I silently cursed, hoping I wouldn’t find myself a different shade in the morning.

From the gem, an image constructed itself, reminiscent of arcane projections and the like. The image was that of a Vulpera, capped with horns and in heavy attire. My curiosity was piqued at how a scavenger race came into possession of such technology, and I was equally curious at how it landed in my mailbox at my humble abode in Durotar. Thus, I sat it down in my domicile and let it play.

                “Well-met, Mister Gul’ivar of the Ashripper Clan. It has come to my attention that you’ve found yourself wanting… more, in life. Your hunger for knowledge is well documented – both to us and to the world – yet the scraps that remain on Azeroth prove unfulfilling to a man of your scholarly calibre. I present you, therefore, with an opportunity to ensure your gifts and skills aren’t wasted in the pavilions of haughty elves and in the outdated books of Gnomish theories. Should you truly aspire to reach your heights, press the crystal before the next full moon, bring an item that is close to you but one you won’t miss entirely.”

I will not lie to you, dear reader. I felt my privacy had been invaded, for just that week I had acquired a book on Gnomish Ferromancy. The month prior, I had forced myself to attend the waffling of a Highborne, in which the only thing high about her was the smoke she had blown up into herself. To quote a Goblin expression that I find charming: my number had been called. I am not a man of faith, neither now nor when this had initially occurred, I have no family left nor any real ties to my life on Azeroth. It almost felt like destiny and had I belief in such a thing – I would call it so.

Yet the idea of so blindly trusting a mysterious, mutated fox that had been observing me like some sort of intrusive phantom was foolish. At the time, a bit of me was convinced that it was a scheme. She had wanted me to bring something valuable, lured under the false pretences of self-improvement, and then rob or kill me for it. If I was to meet my end, I would ensure it would be a wasted effort. I slept on the offer, rather soundly I might add, before waking up the next day. I wrote a few letters to what associates I had, informing them I was embarking on a trip; the details of which, naturally, I kept vague, for if this offer was legitimate – I wanted first dibs on the knowledge.

She wanted something close to me. I took that in the literal sense. A wine flute, made of crystal that I had bought during my time in Silvermoon after the ordeal with the Lich King. A few fond memories around it that made it somewhat sentimental, but nothing valuable. I leaned up from my table and took it off the shelf, packing a small bag of coverings, equipment and provisions, and set off.

What follows next, dear reader, is a collection of journal entries, letters and transcripts as I journeyed through a land far from Azeroth, found myself a family of bond not blood, and something I felt rivalled the Kirin Tor at its peak…

______________________________________________________________

A portrait of myself.

[senkothewarlock]

What should I write next?

I've got a hankering to make a story but I don't wanna wait until the next DWC. So gimme suggestions!

[senkothewarlock]

Okay I got it.

A travel log written from a 1st person perspective of Senko's cult asteroid.

Look forward to it next Sunday.