In the dim light of a small hour, Zariya sat in the upholstered chair by the window with her legs tucked under her. With quickness and precision that could be born only of years of experience, she worked needle and thread through the hem of Rynathil’s cloak, her eyes flitting up from time to time to verify that he was still sound asleep in bed mere feet away. Her stitches formed the shapes of protective runes, crimson thread for crimson fabric. They did not need to be seen.
She could not sleep. She could no more stop him from marching to war than he could stop her from doing anything at all. This was not the first and likely would not be the last - he was as good at coming back as he was at leaving - but some small, nebulous part of her grew fearful, and her body tired under the weight of that animal.
“My parents were tailors,” she whispered, impossibly soft. “Not tailors for royalty, or nobility, just tailors,” she gave bitter clarification. “My family name isn’t ‘Sunwhisper’, it’s…” she added matter of factly, whispering the Thalassian occupational name for “tailor”. She watched his sleeping face suspiciously, ensuring his unconsciousness. The moonlight that filtered in through the window behind her was gentle with him; the outline of his body was drawn so subtly, the shadows cast upon his face annoyingly flattering. The knit of his brow and the tension in his jaw that were so often there in his sleep were not - he slept deeply, without dream.
Setting her finished project in her lap, she reclined slightly in her seat, her eyes never leaving him. “I know you see how hard I’ve worked, how fiercely I’ve fought for everything that’s mine,” she acquiesced. “I know you’ve known for a while now that I didn’t come from much - but that doesn’t make it any easier to tell you. Saying it…” she took a breath. “Well, I don’t like saying it.”
If he’d been awake, he would have laughed, and she would have hated him for it in the way that only love could. Moving in silence, barefoot across the floor, she returned his cloak to its hanger before hiding her sewing kit. It was a pointless gesture - she’d mended his things while he slept many times before - but she insisted. Her work done, she slipped back into bed, the front of her body meeting the back of his (upon this, she also insisted). She tucked her chin into the curve where his neck met his shoulder, the tip of her nose just barely nuzzling his skin, and she wrapped her arms around his torso.
“You can never know what you mean to me,” she whispered, trusting - perhaps foolishly - that she hadn’t woken him.
Steel met sharpening stone as Avalear cared for the edge of his blade. Requiem was forged with the purpose of felling the hordes of Scourge that threatened life on Azeroth and lay the ravenous undead to rest. Many of The Lich King’s unwilling soldiers were met with Requiem’s edge and offered proper burials by Avalear’s rites.
How many more battles have Requiem and Avalear seen together? The Scourge, The Legion, Twilight’s Hammer, and more recently The Sureki and The Order of Night.
Requiem had been gifted to Avalear on that same day he had been knighted by Lord Maxwell Tyrosus. Since then, Avalear had been offered many other weapons but he’s always been the sentimental type. Instead of forgoing his trusted sword, he would opt for repairs and upgrades.
Requiem has seen files, grinders, hammers for repair. It had the weight of its pommel readjusted on multiple occasions to be rebalanced and even retempered. On a special occasion it had even been enhanced with Lumenstone just like Avalear’s armor.
What would Requiem say to him if it could speak? Avalear wondered as he took a break from the melodic rhythm of the sharpening. With a soft sigh he took a seat and peered out toward the wilderness of Dorn.
Aluneth, Jaithys, Keena, and of course Xal’atath. All are or were at one time weapons that can speak to their wielders. Avalear wondered how many more weapons like these were out there. How many more were yet to be discovered? Though, he had to admit to himself that he was quite fond of that ‘sentient butter knife’.
What stories could Keena tell? How was she formed? There were so many questions that surrounded the rippled blade. Avalear peered back down fondly to Requiem and thought about the discussion it may have had with the dagger. The chips, nicks, and scratches all could have told enough stories as it was.
DWC August 2025 - Day 7 - Serene / Weapon - Tinnaire
(Picture from WoWhead)
Tinnaire shaded her eyes, peering out the arcane wall and into the expanse beyond. It was dark, but not night. How frightening it must have been to the K’areshi, such darkness. She had heard the planet had originally had two suns. The light-bathed planet was described as harsh but beautiful. A smile came as she imagined the glow of a saffron sky and how radiant the dance between suns Meter and Ti’meter might have been; was it like the White Lady and Blue Child moons of her own home? She dropped her hand and looked back on the plants and animals being so fussily, but lovingly, attended to by the returned brokers.
The buzz of activity (somewhat literally, with all the bees) and the fast-paced chatter of exchanged research and brainstorming made the elven woman smile again. It was beautiful to see this kind of fighting against the dark. Hope, enthusiasm, and ingenuity were as determined weapons as any sword.
One of Ve’nari’s assistants was busy handing out watering cans and instructions. Tinnaire made sure to catch their attention, her voice tired but warm, “How can I help?”
An imp was a weapon—provided one managed to control the wretched thing in the first place.
Mourvalis intimidated many of his friends, and even a few colleagues. He had wielded blood to summon demons, made pacts with unsavory entities, refused shirts in Collegium laboratories, and, off the record, far, far worse. But the imps? They were incorrigible. Fascinated with chamber pots. Rude. Reluctant to obey. And nowhere near as afraid of Mourvalis as he would have liked.
He had been enjoying, of all things, a pleasant exchange with a confessor when Tarham appeared, wriggling free from an absurdly small portal.
The imp only stared at him. They always did. Taunting him with their attention. As if this time they might actually listen.
But the Sin'dorei had not summoned him.
In truth, Tarham was rarely summoned at all, being the most useless of the lot. Granted, Gakmir spent much of his time with his head buried in disgusting vessels, but Tarham, well…Tarham was a paragon of apathy. He did nothing—yet somehow enjoyed enviable representation.
Mourvalis frowned at Tarham. Tarham frowned at Mourvalis.
“WELL?” Mourvalis boomed.
A rude bark broke from the imp’s backside, trailing into a pitiful whine. Tarham waited. Staring. Taking his moment. Then vanished, just as abruptly as he had arrived.
Mourvalis stood expressionless before the confessor.
He waved a hand, as if anything could explain that away.
“He’s a bit out of sorts this week—pact renewals.”
“He asked me out again,” Nahi murmured as she rolled onto her stomach, indigo silk sheets clinging to her curves like a gown. The fabric carried the faint scent of gun oil, oddly enticing. It was a scent never thought she would find attractive.
A low chuckle came from the steam filled bathroom as he dried himself in the shower, “That is his own fault. You have told him no how many times?”
Nahi folded her arms under her head and watched the silhouette of his body move, “I can’t even remember at this point.”
“Persistent,” he said, drying his hair with a towel, “I’ll give him that. I never thought he’d sink his teeth in this long. At least he learned one lesson from me, never let go of the unique.”
Her laugh was soft, a musical sound that warmed the room. “After all this time, shouldn’t you tell him?”
Tossing the towel in his hands into a chair as he walked to his closet, pulling out a long thin wrapped box and moving to the bed to sit next to her. “It is still so amusing to me, I would have said something a while back if he had stopped pursuing you since clearly you are not interested.” A frown wrinkled his brow and he reached down to cup her cheek, “You know I am not ashamed of our dalliance, right?”
Dalliance was such a sweet word that felt chivalrous for sleeping together once in a while, “I do not mind if you do not want to say anything, I would just never want to be a cause of friction between you.” That hint of her past was tickling her, that echo of guilt that took hold of her once in a while.
“A beauty in looks and spirit, I will tell him soon,” he runs his hand through wet silver hair. “Now I have something for you. Yeshione said he accepted you as a student, and that you have already subverted Yvosheinne to your side with those caramel nut cookies of yours, a good move there, my niece can be an imp if she doesn’t like you.”
Nahi sat up and tucked a leg under her while he spoke, wondering where this was going. “Use every weapon at your disposal, one of the first lessons, right?” Yeshione was Weylan’s brother-in-law and when she was talking about needing to train further in protecting herself Wey had suggested she reach out. Yeshione didn’t teach what some might call honorable fighting, he taught people to fight as dirty as needed to survive, which seemed practical to Nahi when she thought about it.
Another chuckle followed that, the deep timbre of his voice was something that still sent heat pooling in her belly. “Exactly so, I think you will learn quickly from him, that type of fighting is all about your intelligence and spatial awareness, and you have both of those in abundance.” He handed her the box, they weren’t the kind of lovers to share gifts, “Open it.”
Her brow arched as he set the box in her lap, they weren’t the kind of lovers who traded gifts. She popped the ribbon with her nail, tearing the paper to reveal a plain wooden case. Inside lay a pair of daggers: dark handles bound in tape, metal dulled to a practical sheen. She looked from them to his green eyes, surprised.
“I saw them at the night market,” he explained, brushing her hair back. “They made me think of you. Daggers cut straps, food, even open letters, when your admirers get so bold. They hide easily, too. Talk to Yeshione about how best to wear them.” His mouth curved in a faint smile. “I know you hate carrying your gun all the time. These should at least keep you armed.”
Nahi lifted one from the box. Its simple lines caught the light, flashing blue along the edge. Jewelry often was the language of past lovers. These were a gift from a man that understood what was driving her in the moment.
She set the box aside, a slow smile forming, and pushed against his chest until he fell back into the pillows. His laughter rumbled beneath her palms.
“I hope,” she whispered, leaning close, “you didn’t use up all the hot water. You’ll need another shower soon.”
(@daily-writing-challenge)
"It's one of those mindsets that I think people gotta figure out how to break themselves of. Living's plenty. Not every conflict has to be yours to tackle or get involved in, and if you're not equipped to get involved you're just gonna make things worse for the people who are equipped to handle it. Sometimes doing all you can do is doing nothing, and that's perfectly fine."
Laeynna had thought about it all night. On the walk to the apartment. Once she’d come in. Even through her slumber, she suspected, which had been far less than she would have liked. As a result, in the dead of night, she stared out into darkness, curled up on her side, Andaeros holding her to him securely as he had so many nights after his return, turning the words over in her head. And when dawn came again, she was still thinking about it.
Lynesse was right, of course. She’d said it then and she still believed it. She still knew it.
She had never been a combatant. Once or twice, once Ankalei had begun training, Laeynna had tried to lift her sword and could barely do so. After that, she wondered how her sister made it look so effortless. Perhaps she had gotten comfortable with seeing her face do it that it had been easy to think it was almost as helpful as the real thing. Her skill had always lied with magic. Before hosting discipline, Laeynna was further ahead in her studies. A natural affinity, though the argument could have been made that all of their kind had been practically made with magic in their veins.
But she had been something special. She still was. She could almost hear her father’s praise in her ear when she considered her studies. Aside from Andaeros and necessary guides, she had up until the night prior, kept them largely to herself. Even when she spoke of them in front of the Shielded Mind, she had done so rather vaguely. Almost as if she had something to be embarrassed about. As if she was still under the impression that everything she did was so small and insignificant that no one was going to be as interested as she was.
Over a cup of rose tea, Laeynna sat by the window that overlooked the entryway into their section of apartments and she gazed out atop paved streets and the proud colours and heritage of their people. There wasn’t a crime in being proud of her achievements. There also wasn’t a crime in sharing that with others. In the same way that there wasn’t a crime in sharing herself with others. She had… done relatively good the night before, hadn’t she?
She’d tried, though in hindsight, she realised perhaps she had asked too many questions. Although really, it was mostly because Lynesse was such an interesting woman that she couldn’t help herself. It hadn’t been societal expectation or niceties. Could she have been a woman like that once upon a time? Had that always been fated to be Ankalei’s role instead? No. Of course not. She still didn’t believe in fate. That had simply been how the pieces had fallen.
In another timeline, in another era, Laeynna could have been the impressive soldier rather than the impressive magic user.
Propped on her right forearm, with her left hand, she traced the rim of her teacup thoughtfully. With focus, a clear mind, a moment’s push that wasn’t quite instinctive but that was steadily growing more comfortable and familiar, a soft golden glow emanated from her palm and moments after, a small shield formed around her cup. The more she did it, the easier it became. The first time she had shown Andaeros, he had spoken to her of battle clerics, and the strength of one’s soul to create such things.
He had always told her that she was an extravagantly strong woman. Laeynna had questioned it, doubted it, as she doubted herself on so many different levels, but there was an undeniable truth in the observation. She was strong. She had overcome so much. She had survived exile. She had survived a life where she had nothing. She had endured and bore no small amount of scrutiny and lack of kindness from others. She had worn so many wounds upon her heart and even some on her body.
She was incredibly strong. Incredibly resilient.
The shield, ethereal in its nature, warm, with its soft, comforting glow, eventually came to fade. But the strength with which she had conjured it remained in her hand. She could feel it lingering there, as if she was on the cusp of some great discovery, some great acknowledgement of self. Something nearly tangible, but perhaps still only existing in concept.
When was the last time she had gone to the frontlines? Over a year. And before then, she had almost always been involved at some point. Always travelling. As she had admitted on the stairs, a clear difficulty in keeping herself to one point. Like she knew she was a force that couldn’t be contained, no matter how much she might have tried to for the sake of others, for the sake of some strange expectation that had been put upon her. That spirit inside of her had always been just as intense. She balanced it with propriety, though that largely won out in the end.
A year before, she had been one of a few that had been abducted by nerubians, kept in a wicker cage, and experimented upon. She could have placed fault. Could have stated that she hadn’t been paying attention. That she hadn’t been more observant. Too much time had passed to continue playing that game. In the end, all that had really mattered was that she had survived. Zaihne and the expedition had found her. But it had been terrifying, teetering between life and death, barely able to compose the words she’d wanted to, unsure if she’d ever be able to use her body again for anything. To say nothing of her mind which she had felt had surely shattered under the weight that she could have, certainly would have died there in the dim yellow lighting.
And ever since then…
Laeynna had been terrified. She had relived that scenario over and over again at night, resulting in more often than not the inability to sleep. To focus. To concentrate on much of anything. It had seemed easier to hole herself up in the apartment and to hide herself away from the world. There had been other things too, of course, that had contributed to that preexisting desire. It had all compounded and she easily remembered months in which she had been so utterly miserable that in front of everyone else, she had merely worn a mask. Things had gotten so much better since then, however.
She didn’t want to be afraid anymore. Hadn’t wanted to be for a while. As she thought back onto the frontlines, those that had gone, the idea that she didn’t yet have a place there, all she really wanted was for everyone to come home safely. Perhaps it was fine for her to stay home for the time being. To continue to refine what she was learning. She knew easily enough, however, that she didn’t always want it to be that way.
The burning in her heart, in a place where no one else could see, but that she could feel with an undeniable intensity, it told her that she wanted to be out there. With the others. She wanted to help. She wanted to protect. She wanted to make a difference. If she was so strong, then she could share that strength with others.
Drawing her gaze, peridot and gold, up to the sky that overlooked their fair city, so filled with a history of capable swordsmen and magisters and rangers, she felt that adamant resolve. One day she would be a part of them again. But she would do so for the right reasons. Not for validation. Not for approval. Not for what she thought anyone else expected out of her. Purely because she wanted to be there.
I want to protect the people I love. I want to protect that which I care for. Within these two hands, there is inevitable, undeniable promise.
Mayhaps that had been the realisation all along.
— @daily-writing-challenge
— (Soft, but important mention for @gloamingdawn.)
Would it always be this way? Lillandyr wondered, breathless in silk sheets, lips sore from kissing. Insatiable for him, she teased Heathcliff again, fingers being naughty things, pinching and then coaxing moans instead. He managed to be a temptation even though he’d exhausted her.
Once they were both too spent to even talk anymore, she half dozed, head on his chest, dreaming of how she’d like to get married. At first, she didn’t know what to picture. She’d not been a conventional child. She’d never dressed in her mother’s white slips to clutch a fistful of wildflowers, pretending to marry some handsome, dashing lord or gallant knight. Little Anya dreamed of being alone in a world that belonged to her and would have balked at the idea of sharing this world with anyone. Now, she found herself cutting herself open happily, bleeding and vulnerable and giving away all her secrets. Well…most of them.
Lillandyr frowned sleepily. She’d never even been to a wedding. Not a proper one. How did they go exactly? Would she have to marry in some stuffy temple? Who would be the guests? She had no family and all her friends were whores and criminals, or lived in the Castle and it seemed wildly inappropriate to invite…any of them.
Her mind drifted with gauzy visions of white silk and black roses. Of how fine Heathcliff would look in a suit with tails. Of a tall, tiered sugary cake that would be too sweet to enjoy, but so beautiful to look at. Would they dance together after they said their vows? And the vows…would they recite something old and traditional? She thought she’d rather write her own. To give him poetry and her heart in one moment.
It all seemed too intimate to share with others.
He was her whisper in shells on the sand that coaxed her away from the siren call of scheme and ambition. Heathcliff was the wine dark sea that gave her the pearl of his heart even though she didn’t deserve it. Lillandyr felt wildly possessive of this love suddenly. She saw it as the rare treasure it was. Undeserved though it may be, it was still hers and she wanted sacred, wild ritual, something more ancient than a wedding with its false sentiment and performance of sanitized love. How could she give herself to him that way when she wanted to scream and writhe and dance under silvery moon by the ocean and spill her poems and vows?
”I want to marry you by the sea,” she murmured, not knowing if he was awake or asleep. “No fancy dresses or suits with tails. No cake,” she said with a little smile because it was what Anya wanted. What she wanted. “No flowers. Just you and me. Let’s run away together and say our vows to the waves and the stars so we can mean them…because those things understand what forever is.”
Pressing a lingering kiss to his chest, she let her eyes drift shut as she dreamed the poetry of her vows said under the glittering, cold light of the stars as the only witnesses.
The final morning of the three day hunt was among the more peaceful that Susan stirred for, awoken by the twitterpater of the birds in the hundreds, loittering in the canopies of the expansive trees. No nightmares. No dread. No restlessness. She'd linger a moment, sat upright atop her sleeping bag and lost in deep thought.
It wasn't a coincidence, it couldn't be. Her restlessness the days prior likely correlated to the presence of a cultist within her vicinity, one she knew had every intention to slit her throat in the night if given the chance. Only to be spared today that fear and distrust when Sue was certain she had dispatched her adversaries. Now she had some experience behind this phenomenon, direct correlations between her unease before and her relaxation now-- If her dread returned upon her journey home today, she fretted it could mean only one thing:
A traitor within the Sisters in Sin.
Could it have been a friend? An employee? Worse yet, it could have been a confidant...
"Bullshit," Susan dismisses the idea with some intensity, she might have even scolded herself as she was certain now that she was going mad. Seeking troubles where troubles do not lie. It was better not to lean into the what if's without knowing if her suspicion was warranted. But still, some part of her was unsure. Wary... Nervous.
"Time will tell," she concedes, satisying herself with this comment.
Without another thought wasted on her concerns the woman crawls from the inside of her tent out into the main circle of camp, fingers raking through her hair to pull the tangled locks into a tight bun. A wide yawn possessed her lips then, eyes watery from the strain experienced between this yawn and trying to adjust to the morning light pouring through the canopies.
She had one plan for this morning, before breaking down her camp and that included checking the snares one last time, breaking them down and collecting any new animals caught in the traps for processing. So before she got too busy and forgot to sustain herself, Sue took a quick second to chew some venison jerky and sip a ladle of water. By some miracle she didn't feel quite as rushed as the last two days to get out and about, prowling the perimeters, but she'd be out before she knew it.
Jenny is brought along, a tiger following in the wake rather than from the trees as an extra force of manpower, the presence of the sheer power and fangs of the big cat dissuading other predators from trying their luck - - They were all on high alert to avoid another run in with a feasting crocolisk. Thankfully, though, no crocs on this morning walk through Susan's snare line, only a handful of rabbits and a singular crane caught in the rope snares. The latter of these catches she would measure for a moment, determining the worth of the bird with true consideration. In the long run, she dispatches the snare and releases the bird to the wild without incidence.
With all ten snares and a few fresh kills on the docket to round off her hunting period the Madam, Jenny and her tiger made the hustle back to camp in record time. Meanwhile Susan, on the walk back, was taking the time to erase her existence from this side of the river. Aswell she took in the sights, the sounds, the smells... Memorizing the land and comiting it to among her more favorite places.
She'd continue this practice of erasure when they return to camp by breaking down her little slice of paradise after butchering the new animals of the morning, letting the meats smoke over logs while she worked on packing things up around the camp. Her tent was first, sleeping bag pulled out and rolled up right. The metal bones are pulled from the sleeves of the water resistant fabric, making it much easier to fold up and condense down to fit into one of the packs meant for Jenny's flank.
Previously dried meats and broken down products, feed stuff for the hinny, her tools, her applicators and every other little piece of creation brought along to make her camping alittle easier were torn down and packed away into one of many bags. She was counting all along the while to ensure she would leave nothing forgotten, every weapon, every food item, every piece of cloth. She didn't want to risk disturbing the natural flow of nature any more than she has in the last few days.
It was by noon when her work was completed, the hinny packed down and all the goods secured. Her final task was to drown the last of the fires by dumping Jenny's water bucket into the smolders, steam and smoke hissing, rising to the canopies but dissapating before they got that far-- But Susan would not linger here. They had to make quick work of the next few hours if they would arrive home before the sunset for the day.
The silence would force her hand to acknowledge the uncontrollable aspects of her life. Her vulnerability as a human was clearer every day, but her will to live surpassed the desire death had for her; She would not be the damsel fly caught in the jaws of the venous fly trap again.
Somewhere in the journey she'd be caught off guard by the shimmering of the morning light off a reflective surface, her eyes blinking through the uncertainty to try and gauge the creature responsible -- Only to come upon the sight of little butterflies in the twenties, fluttering haphazardly through the forest floor seeking what flowers and nutritious flora they could. For the period of the calendar Susan surmised these little creations of life were building their fat reserves, preparing for migration. It was by pure luck she happened upon them, this deep into the woods. And in truth... She was mesmerized.
Morpho catenarius. Glowing white, ethereal. The ridges of their dermis layer held some kind of reflect material to their wings causing this glowing effect when light would hit them. In the morning sun they were known to be white, in the moonlight they were usually some tinge of soft, iridescent blue. Before Susan quite knew what to do a butterfly would land upon her shoulder, golden eyes measuring the little insect with some consideration before bringing a hand up to coax the beast onto it. Which the butterfly complies, it's little legs shimmying forward to climb onto the offered finger only to be carried over to a low hanging flowering cherry tree.
This serene moment was fleeting, a passing occurrence of the beauty of nature. Not necessarily for Susan's benefit, but it was to her benefit she got to experience it. These small creatures with their beautiful facade were as permanent to this world as she was; The parallel felt very real. Their beauty and vulnerability made them targets for pesky villains in the world -- Birds, anura and other beasts small enough that they'd find a butterfly to be a meal... But they persevered, their numbers and survival never determined by the will of their adversaries but their own keen instincts.
The butterflies, the campground, the blood spilled are all left in her wake. The only clue to the occurrence of the last three days lay packed down on Jenny's back, or burning a hole in Susan's pocket.
The amulet of the cultist lay within her reach, but she made no effort to disturb the cold jewel without knowing the full extent to it's purpose for the Red Temple.
To make the trip short and sweet she dedicated her mind to one thing and one thing only:
