The tournament was many things: a spectacle of competitions, a parade of performances, a marketplace bursting with trinkets, food, and drink. But for Ryland, it was mostly an opportunity.
During the day, he wandered among the crowds, glowing as usual with his glitter-dusted skin, while flashing that devilish smirk that made merchants lean over their stalls and fighters forget their footwork. He watched duels, sampled the various cuisines from all over Azeroth, reveled in performances, and visited with old friends he saw but a few times a year.
All the while, he was cataloging it. Not the fights nor the stalls, but the people. The way the soldier looked when flustered, the way a vendor licked their lips when they thought no one saw. He calculated every exchange with quiet intent, tracing the night’s potential partners the same way he would chart stars; deciding which ones deserved to be studied and then chased once the sun went down.
Night was a different sport entirely.
Icecrown might have been cold and haunted, but the nights around the tournament tents were anything but. The fires burned bright, ale flowed freely, and Ryland moved through it like a god of mischief draped in glitter and sin. One by one, tents lit up behind him. The game was simple enough, never the same body twice. Someone called it “tent bingo” once. Ryland had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, then immediately adopted the title as if it were part of his résumé.
Wednesday night alone had earned him a diagonal line across his mental bingo board: a shy merchant he had flirted with earlier in the day, a particularly bendy performer, and to his great amusement, someone who insisted they were ‘just here for sparring’. He was well versed in spotting and unraveling those lies.
By the time the week began winding down, Ryland had a little map of memories traced across his body in the form of bite marks, scratches, and bruises. Well-earned trophies that didn’t need to be rewarded at the closing ceremonies. On the final night, the tournament’s fires cast the tents in a warm, ethereal glow, a strange contrast to the naughty promises and stifled moans exchanged inside them. That was the beauty of this place; it looked refined and respectable from afar, but the real stories were written after dark.
Ryland left Icecrown with his voice a little raspy, his lips swollen, and his muscles and bones pleasantly tired. He had crossed every corner of that mental bingo card, with a few bonus rounds to spare. Not bad for a week in the frozen north!
On a quiet afternoon that easily could have been a lazy one, Laeynna was anything but lazy. But then, that had never really been her style. She always had to be doing something. Always had to be doing. If she wasn’t, when she wasn’t, she interpreted it as wasting the time that she had been given. She had not gone through hell and high water to treat that time as nothing.
And today…
Well. It was a pleasing thing to occupy her time with.
She enjoyed studying. In fact, she’d enjoyed coming to study the Light, its intricacies, and all of the profound things that it came with. Just studying it had provoked her to think about so many things in life—and life, in general—in considerably different ways. Of course, she assumed therapy had something to do with that as well. It was all a process.
But this afternoon was not meant for study. At least, not of that kind. With a fond, light smile, she eyed the letter she had received. Although it was addressed to her, there hadn’t been any other distinguishing marks about its exterior. When she opened it, however, she found herself growing pleasantly warm. It had been from her sister. Ankalei had made the kind of request that Laeynna had never imagined receiving from her, of all people. Unfortunately, that had also come with something of a time limit, and Laeynna wondered if her twin had to self-coerce to even get the letter in her direction.
Ankalei wanted something for… unconventional garb. Flowers. In her letter, she included a broken piece of… Well. Laeynna couldn’t readily identify what it was. Glass? Porcelain? Maybe it was both? She suspected it was actually melted down and swirled together. Ankalei had wanted something that would match in colour scheme to that. So after a couple of days ruminating, Laeynna paid a visit to the family estate south of the city and plucked what she felt was a decent amount of inspiration from the garden. Although she’d made mention of it to her father, she hadn’t much lingered beyond that, simply issuing him some reassurance that no, she’d not forgotten she was meant to arrange dinner with him and her mother.
And her other half, which she was still dragging her feet on, knowing very well she didn’t want any of them to spend extended time with one another. But she couldn’t run from that forever either. Andaeros thought he knew what he was in for. Laeynna was certain he didn’t. Sure, maybe an inkling, but he didn’t really know, and she didn’t really want him to know.
Scrunching her nose as she stared down at the project she’d begun, her thoughts forcefully shifted. She could continue to worry about all of that later. Tilting her head, she looked at what she’d sketched out, which was incredibly rough and really only there to provide inspiration and minute guidelines on what she wanted to make. Then her gaze, largely peridot with the smallest flickers of gold, moved over to the actual project on the table, which was… Well. After days of working on it here and there, and trying to keep Rags from playing with flower pieces, she felt like the end result sort of matched what she had.
Taking a step back to eye the full piece, she began to pace from side to side. Through the clever use of flower petals, carefully pieced together, and fed through thin lines of bendable bark, she’d been able to create a billowing effect, which she then layered in full blooms and smaller ones alike, flower heads, fern leaves, and wispy bundles alike. It consisted of flowers of all kinds. She didn’t know what sorts Ankalei liked and she could have asked, but she questioned if her twin even found favour with them. In the end, she suspected her sister might have preferred the skirt was made from things that Laeynna liked.
…Didn’t that make it more special? The very notion warmed the botanist’s heart.
“What are you missing?” she asked aloud to herself and she was nearly certain she’d heard Andaeros grumble from the kitchen. Probably something about how he hadn’t been able to use the table for his coffee since she’d started this whole thing. He’d been an awfully good sport about it. She’d have to do something special for him.
Laeynna paced a few steps more, tipping her head this way and that. She wanted it to be special. Unique. A purely Laeynna creation. And then she lit up. Proverbially. Figuratively. Literally. “Oh, I know…” Approaching the skirts, she admired each individual line where flowers draped. And at the very end of the first one, as if testing out the idea, she rested a fingertip to the bottom petals, infusing them with soft shimmers of Light. A modest ripple of gold gradually spread up each individual petal in nonsensical lines.
Studying the first attempts to the idea circulating about her head, after a moment’s consideration, she nodded. Yes. That was what it needed. The skirt had been done in all shades of blue, as Ankalei had requested, but Laeynna felt that just that small touch of gold was a perfect contrast.
“Okay…” she began as she dropped down to lean in nice and close to the petals and as she knew she had so many other times, she couldn’t resist talking to them. Except they weren’t in a garden and they weren’t growing, which probably meant talking to them was a moot point. It certainly didn’t stop her, however. “So… every time Ankalei moves… I want you to gently light up. My sister is a star. She just simply does not know it.”
That wasn’t how things worked, of course. But she liked believing it anyway.
Once she had finished adding the very same touch of Light across the various hanging pieces of flowers, she rose back up, reaching down to pick up the skirt. Then holding it to her waist, trying to imagine what it was going to look like on her sister, she beamed proudly. Yes. It was perfect. In that perfectly imperfect way that everything in Laeynna’s life was, including herself.
“I did it, I did it~!”
Looking towards the kitchen, she tried not to feed her girlish enthusiasm, though was surely failing to do so. “You can have the table back!” After she cleaned it, of course.
In the days that followed, the very same skirts, all flowers and Light were packaged nice and neat and delivered across the water to a waiting twin of silver hair and blue eyes. Laeynna hoped she’d like it. And that she understood just how much significance there was in its very making.
Mirri stirred within the grove she was helping to nurture into being, where flowering vines twined through her teal hair as though to bind her to the earth. At her whisper, they loosened, reluctant but yielding, slipping free like children from a mother’s hand. She rose, stretching into the soft green light of the Dream.
“You have rested your heart long enough, child.”
The voice was rough, ancient, and when she turned, Ursoc loomed above her. His breath gusted over her, nearly toppling her. Still, she smiled.
“Ah, but great Ursoc, this is the Dream. What else is one to do here but rest?”
“Do not sass me, spirit-healer.” His dark gaze was heavy as stone. “You hide from what you feel. You hide from Her. Tell me, what did you learn of dragons?”
Mirri lowered herself back to the earth, legs folded neatly beneath her. Her green eyes lifted to meet his. “That they are not everlasting,” she whispered. She had seen Ysera fall. She had seen corruption twist light into shadow. And she had begged, oh, how she had begged, for her spirit to return.
“But she did return,” Ursoc pressed. “Why are you here at my feet, and not at hers?”
Her breath caught. “Not all spirits can be called back,” she murmured. “I tried.”
He said nothing for a long time, his silence as deep as roots in stone. Then his words struck like claws. “Tyrande found her spirit. Are you jealous that she did what you could not?”
A startled laugh broke from her. “I have no illusions of being a hero. But we all mourned her. Should not our tears have been enough? Should they not have washed her clean of corruption? Let her rise again?”
His eyes narrowed, piercing her to her marrow. “Why then do you linger here? Why have you not gone to the new tree? To embrace your Mother’s return?”
The vines stirred at her touch, curling into her lap like children seeking solace. “So much remains untended,” she whispered. “Secrets in roots, places waiting for care. My grove grows so slowly…”
“Your grove?” Ursoc’s growl shook the air. “Do you own the place of worship, little one?”
The words stung. “No. I own nothing of the land. If anything, it owns me.”
The bear leaned closer, scenting her very soul. “Then hear me: you must make peace with your Mother. Your heart aches still for her. Go to the sacred place. Go to her.”
She closed her eyes. “I tried. But it felt wrong, with him.”
Ursoc’s rumble was low and wild. “Then tell me, what else did you learn of dragons?”
Her voice trembled. “That I could not love one.”
The great bear nosed gently at her hair, a warmth that shook her to her core. “Because you were always meant to love a bear.”
The words struck her like a pulse of earth. The grove fell away, dream folding into dream.
When she opened her eyes, she was not alone. She lay cradled in arms strong and warm as mountains, her head resting against a chest that rose and fell like the slow breath of the wild itself. Her bear, her love, had been called down from the mountains to love her. He stirred, pressing his nose into her hair as though scent alone could bind her to him.
“Mmm… did you rest well?” he murmured.
Mirri nestled closer, the lingering echo of Ursoc still thrumming in her chest. “Always,” she whispered, “in your arms.”
(I have not written anything for Mirri in too long and the prompt was exactly right for my recent thoughts of her.)
The room was airy and still, its pale wooden floor glowing beneath the soft warmth of late sunlight. Golden shafts poured in from the high windows, where dust motes drifted like fragments of stars. Along two walls, mirrors reflected Nahilivi’s figure over and over again, one elf, multiplied into endless phantoms, each one poised in perfect stillness.
Her arms unfurled like wings. A ripple passed through her body, chest arching, hair lifting as she released into motion. With each breath, the air seemed to catch her and guide her, her reflection moving with her, showing the beauty of her serene movements.
She leapt, her body suspended, nearly weightless, before she landed, the ground had merely brushed her feet before she flowed into a turn that spun swiftly into another, arms extending, cutting through the still air around her. Her hair caught the motion, flowing around her body, a wave cresting in a midnight surf.
Momentum carried her down, rolling onto the floor with feline grace before she rose again in a fluid spiral. She whirled through a diagonal of turns, her reflection blurring into streaks of pale and shadow. Then she burst upward, curving her body from her toes to the long line of her neck, twisting midair, her body a ribbon unfurling in the warm light.
The music swelled, and Nahilivi’s dance surged with it. She turned, once, twice, three times, a perfect pirouette that left her poised in an elegant arabesque, chest open to the light. She leapt again, saut de basques spinning her diagonally across the room, her landings soft, silent, gravity lessening its hold on her, a lover releasing her to fly free.
She returned to its embrace one foot touching down then her entire body released to rest on the pale floor, hair spilling around her. Deep breaths drawing her spine up, then her exhale melting her further, the air from her lungs an offering to the spirit of the rehearsal space that had gifted her that moment.
This was how you warmed up after a week in the snow.
There was another cheer from the crowd. Thousands gathered in the stands. Though the frozen winds of Icecrown blew across the tournament grounds, the warmth of all the people around him married with the heat from the stage. Ruzzell's thoughts were pulled in a multiple directions. So much self doubt and hatred now. Poisoned. The sins of Undermine had tainted his soul once more and burdened his conscious. Yet a familiar sound tugged his tormented mind towards the stage. Angelic. Beautiful. A siren's call. For just a moment, the evil plaguing his soul was dispatched and filled with a familiar warmth. It was Nahilvi, dressed in fiery silks and twinkling gems. The ombre hues of white lightning melding into deep purple swirled in the air as twin stars of violet winked out to the crowd. He was captivated once more by her charm and voice. His heart thrummed to life. His cheeks flushed to his thoughts. From the first time hearing that voice at Hearts of Tenacity. Recalling the touch of her lips on his from Fire Fest. She told a story of passion, of hearts, of painful longing and then self-realization. She was in all ways to him perfectly beautiful and wonderful. Yet he knew next to nothing about her. An enigmatic illusion of her true self. A pretty picture come to life.
A hard blink, and the performance was over. The crowd roared again in applause and he shouted out her name in chorus. "Woot Nahi! You are amazing!" He meant it. He doubted she even heard him as the stage was already cleared and the MC came out to announce the next performance. An unsteady breath drew in, the icy air biting at his teeth. Her music was clarity enough to remove him from his mental fog, at least for the evening. He'd find himself able to briefly chat with her after her performance once more. Pleasant smiles and good vibes shared. He takes his leave as others clamor to chat with the impeccable performer. He was glad for her. Happy to see that others adored her company and regarded her in such high esteem. And he was thankful. Thankful for the clarity she provided him in darkest thoughts.
The snow crunched under his boots, his only company the harsh tundra winds sweeping down the surrounding mountains. He tugs at his overcoat, trying his best to seal in what little warmth he retained from the performance. As he made his way back to his tent, a singular thought was now made clear.
DWC August 2025 - Day 2 - Layer / Wither - Khaeris
“Was it like paper mache?”
How someone with no face could look befuddled, and a little offended, was a mystery Khaeris did not attempt to unravel.
… Unravel! Ha!
The ethereal pulled their arm back from the market counter with a polite, if puzzled, “Pardon me?” They had been discussing the magical wraps the ethereals used to bind their arcane forms inside.
“Like the paper-and-paste sculptures: paper mache. You know?” Khaeris waved a hand and her bangles chimed cheerily. “The wrappings you all use to bind yourselves together--can you mold them? Layer them into whatever form you want, before they’re ‘dry’, so to speak?” The blood elf bounced up to the balls of her feet, head tilting as they each inspected each other. She could swear the wrappings over the face -narrowed- as they contemplated her. Her dimples came out with a grin, “I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t just make up an answer--I’d never know. But how fun would it be to be able to build yourself into the shape you feel, rather than have a corporeal body that doesn’t match your vision for yourself?”
“I... I had not thought of it that way. The wrappings started as applied to our physical bodies. So, perhaps someone could have built them up? Could still, if they had the direction and ability.”
“What would you want? Could you still change it? Like fashion or mood? Ooooh, what about those emotional masks the hozen use?!”
There was silence a moment as Khaeris grinned still, eyes merry, before the ethereal rippled with effervescent, startled laughter that sparkled pink.
“I do not know.”
The blood elf couldn’t stop smiling, “Wanna find out? We could start with a hat!”
They shook hands before the first round and gave a brief nod, a mutual understanding that this is just a friendly match. The other fighter, a younger Sin’dorei named Aeryndor, was quick on his feet and heavier with his kicks than Veilos expected. It made him adjust his stance right away, tucking his elbows in tighter and moving more defensively.
The first few exchanges were quick, technical, and clean. Veilos managed a jab to the chin and a low leg kick. Aeryndor landed a sharp elbow that rattled Veilos’s jaw so hard his vision flashed white for half a second. It was good, smart fighting, and Veilos respected that.
Midway through the second round, Veilos caught a knee to the side. He didn’t drop, but his breathing turned rough, and he stayed on defense. Even still, he landed a clean hook that split Aeryndor’s lower lip. They both grinned at each other, wiped sweat from their brows with taped wrists, and kept going.
By the third round, it was clear Veilos was slowing, and Aeryndor was not. He feinted left, landed a spinning elbow that clipped Veilos’s temple, and Veilos hit the mat one moment later. Not knocked out, but not getting back up either. Veilos took a few to compose himself before clasping the outstretched hand and hauled himself up, muttering, “Good hit.”
The other man grinned back, blood on his teeth, with eyes bright. “You almost had me in that first round, though.” Veilos only chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder once before stepping out of the ring. The other fighters nodded to him, pats on the back to show their respect. Genuine camaraderie. It was a good loss, if there was such a thing.
By the time he got back to his apartment, he could already feel everything tightening: shoulders, ribs, bruises forming where knees had collided and fists had landed. He peeled off his shirt and tossed it aside before dampening a washcloth. The cut above his brow was still bleeding, so he cleaned it, and pressed the cloth to his skin until the stinging subsided.
He took a breath, leaned back, and listened to the silence that filled the space like a creeping fog. There was no cheering, no voices calling out hits and counters, just the empty hum of the city outside the open window and the tick of a nearby clock. The adrenaline was starting to wither now, leaving behind only the ache and the quiet. This was the part he hated most, it always came back to this moment.
Eventually, he stood, drank water straight from the tap, and tossed the bloodied washcloth into the sink. His body hurt, that part he understood and welcomed. The silence, though, that settled over him in a way he couldn’t brace for. He didn’t lie down, not yet. He just sat on his couch, staring at nothing and letting the quiet press in until eventually he would drag himself to the shower and then bed.
Tomorrow, he would heal himself, and in a few nights, he would probably fight again.
