#dwcmay2025

[themidnightleo]

DWC Day 2: Placate/ Graceful

Another day. Another coin. Another slow step toward unraveling.

Leo had picked up more than just dust and bruises during his time in Undermine—he'd acquired habits that would have once disgusted him. Now, it was gambling halls instead of grand stages, whiskey-soaked nights instead of refined soirées. He threw away his gold as easily as he threw punches, often side by side with his best friend in taverns that reeked of sweat and smoke.

The drinking, the brawling, the reckless spending—it was all a carefully veiled performance. A façade to keep the beast within him sedated. For something monstrous stirred beneath his skin, clawing and gnashing with every breath he took. It whispered promises of liberation, of fire and ruin. The voices had grown louder, more demanding, and he had long since stopped trying to silence them. Now, he merely tried to drown them.

Self-soothing had become a foreign concept. Comfort? Impossible. All that remained was distraction. And so, day after day, he repeated the ritual—wager, drink, fight, survive.

And in those moments—the brawls especially—there were flashes. A second of bloodlust. A heartbeat where time slowed and he knew... he could win. Every fight. Every foe. Every damned soul that crossed him—if he just let go.

If he let it out.

But—

No.

It cannot be released.

He could feel it, coiled in the marrow of his bones, waiting for a moment of weakness. And though the temptation burned hot and sweet, Leo remembered too well what had happened that day. The day it escaped.

And he still wasn’t sure—if it came forth again—whether he’d ever find the strength to lock it away once more.

@daily-writing-challenge

[tycildawnwhisper]

DWC May 2025 Day 5 - Restless / Faith

“How are you ever going to be a hunter like Uncle Vael if you can’t hold still, dummy?” asked a brunette boy with leaf green eyes and freckles dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He lay prone in the knee-high grass, a spyglass out in front of him as he scanned the field stretching out before him.

Standing right next to him, another boy, two years younger, with long black hair, fair skin glowing faintly pink from the sun, and striking golden eyes, was tossing small pebbles into the air. He swatted at them with a twig, aiming to catch them mid-flight. Most of the time, he missed, and when he did, the pebble would rain down on his brother’s back with a soft patter.

“I don’t want to be a hunter, Paranir… I want to be a Paladin,” the younger boy said with grave sincerity, his voice soft as he sucked his top lip into the gap where his front teeth should have been. “And b’thideth, Mom’th a hunter too.”

Paranir didn’t turn around but kicked out at the younger boy’s legs. “Yeah, but she’s a girl hunter, Wintheol, you can’t be a girl hunter,” he said with all the authority of the older brother. “And you can’t be a paladin ‘cause you don’t have any Light.”

A handful of gravel suddenly scattered across Paranir’s back. Wintheol’s face scrunched into a stubborn frown. “I do too! Everyoneth got the Light! In my adventure thorieth Perrith Tinderpride thayth tho!” 

Wintheol huffed, then flopped back onto the grass with a soft thud, twig still clutched to his chest like a miniature knight’s sword at rest. His small legs kicked lazily at the warm air, blades of grass brushing his bare ankles.

“I’m gonna be a Paladin,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the drifting clouds above. The gap where his two front teeth used to be gave a gentle whistle to every ‘s.’ “I’ll get the Light, and armor, and a thwiftthrider. A real one. Not like Dad’th dumb old one.”

Paranir snorted quietly, his gaze never wavering from the field. “You’d fall off a swiftstrider.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Yes you would.”

“No I wouldn’t!” Wintheol snapped, then, after a brief pause, added quietly, “Not if the Light wath helping me.”

Paranir sighed deeply, adjusting his grip on the battered spyglass. It was old and dented, the glass scratched and cloudy, probably hadn’t worked properly since their dad was their age, but Paranir held it as if it were a sacred relic because his uncle had given it to him. He squinted toward the creek, where the trees shaded the rocks as it flowed into the pond.

“They’re not coming,” Wintheol said with a soft sigh, lying spread-eagle in the grass like a starfish, arms and legs stretched wide. “The thringpawth know you’re a big bully.”

“I’m not a bully,” Paranir replied without turning. “I’m a hunter.”

“Nope,” Wintheol grinned, golden eyes sparkling with mischief, smiling wide and baring his missing front teeth. “You’re a bully, bullieth kick their brotherth when they don’t want to believe in thtuff.”

Paranir finally glanced over, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, then sighed. “Uncle Vael says believing doesn’t mean anything unless you back it up,” Paranir said after a pause. “You don’t have Light just ‘cause you say you do.”

Wintheol’s gaze drifted back to the clouds. “I feel it,” he whispered, voice full of quiet wonder. “Warm and futhy. Like lemon tea. But in my tummy. And not thour.”

Paranir muttered, “That’s probably gas.”

Without warning, Wintheol grabbed a handful of grass and tossed it at Paranir, who yelped and rolled to the side. “Hey! Quit it!” Paranir shouted, scrambling to his feet.

“Bet you can’t catch me!” Wintheol challenged, already on his feet and darting toward the creek.

Paranir grinned, dropping the spyglass and chasing after him. “You’re gonna regret that, little runt!”

They ran laughing, crashing through the grass, the quiet afternoon suddenly alive with their roughhousing.  —————————

From the window, Tycil watched with that tired, tender smile that only mothers wore, equal parts love and exasperation. Her hands rested on the sill, fingers curled slightly, as if holding onto the moment.

“Should we stop them?” she asked, her voice soft, more amused than concerned.

“No,” her husband Bacath said, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her softly beneath one long ear. “We should try and see if we can’t give them a little sister to pick on.” He chuckled and stepped slowly back, pulling her with him as he headed toward their bedroom.

Tycil laughed, resting her head against his shoulder as they walked. “You think the world’s ready for three of them?”

He grinned. “It’ll have to be.”

(@daily-writing-challenge) (Mention of @vaelsnipe)

[siennablaze219]

DWC May 2025

Day 6 - Negative /Relic

The party was an image of wealth, the kind of decadent largess that festooned charity with gold leaf. Lady Orialyene Silverthorne, Ori, to those who knew her in rooms not wallpapered with gossip, moved through Lord Cal’endeer’s estate like she owned the place. The elite caste of Quel’thalas nobility saw her, and that was the point.

Ori wore her emerald-green gown as naturally as shadow follows light. elegant, concealing nothing. She wore it with the same comfort she had in leather and shadow, or lace and lies.

She wasn’t there for the wine. Or the seductive invitations whispered by voices that left guilt buried centuries before. Though, depending on how dull the night got, she might say yes to both. She wasn’t even tempted by accolades for the generous depths of her philanthropic nature.

She was there for the jewelry.

Ori was a beauty born of black hair, verdant green eyes, quick fingers, and a quicker mind. Finding what she wanted didn’t take a hint of finesse. The mistress’s private rooms were a monument to indulgence: necklaces displayed like offerings, rings fat with old gold, tiaras resting in velvet trays like holy relics.

It was all a joke, really. Wealth pretending to be power pretending to be taste. Ori stole not out of need, but out of boredom and disdain. She had her cousin, a talented jeweler with absolutely no idea how the jewelry was obtained, melt down the pieces. Then she wore them back to the same houses she took them from. Subtle, glittering mockery. A secret joke told with precious metals and perfectly cut gemstones, and only she ever got the punchline.

Alexandrite rings? Diamond tiaras? The black diamond and sapphire collar displayed next to an absurd little crystal vial labeled ‘Arthas' Tears infused oil’. None of it held her attention.

What stopped her was the statuette.

No taller than her hand. A woman, arms outstretched not to greet, but to embrace. Carved from obsidian so dark it swallowed light, laced with veins of emerald and opal. The eyes of twin garnets, glowing as if they’d been watching her since before she walked in.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It felt impossible, the kind of thing that shouldn’t exist outside a dream. Fragile. Eternal. Sacred, maybe. Enticing? Definitely.

Ori took it without hesitation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long after she returned home, her front door opened, slicing a blade of light across the dark foyer. Ori didn’t flinch. She sat entranced at a desk in her study, idol in hand, turning it slowly, reverently, like it might bless her with the secrets of the universe. She didn't need to look up.

Zindravara Dawnblade’s voice cut clean through the dim room, low and exacting. “What, exactly, did you bring home, Ori?”

Ori didn’t look up, but a smirk tugged at her mouth. “You felt that all the way from next door? How delightful.” She wasn’t expecting Zindra so soon, or at all. The mage usually kept to her converted mother-in-law cottage, communing with her father’s journals, or creating new little alchemical concoctions that were used to make life’s little distractions fade away.

Zindra stepped inside with caution, not fear. Her damp red hair, streaked with violet, clung to her back in a dark crescent, the mark of a bath abandoned in haste. Dark glasses shielded dull green eyes no longer suited to bright light but still sharp enough from magic to see what others had missed in this acquisition.

“I felt it the moment it crossed the threshold,” she said, voice low and clinical, like she was reading off a medical report. “It’s radiating. Layered enchantments. Ancient. Possibly sapient. It doesn’t belong here.”

Ori tilted her head, amused. “You make it sound like I dragged in an uninvited house guest.”

“You did,” Zindra said, without missing a beat.

Ori held up the statue in her palm, delicate, playful. “It’s just a little trinket from Cal’endeer’s mistress’s boudoir. Genuinely surprised he had given her owned this tasteful.”

“You know better,” Zindra said sharply. Then, quieter: “You feel it, don’t you? The pressure behind your eyes. The sense that it’s listening. Waiting.”

Ori’s smile thinned. “I do love an attentive audience.”

Zindra didn’t reach for the idol. Her hands stayed flat at her sides. “It’s cursed,” she said, flatly. Not a question. A diagnosis.

Ori rolled her eyes. “Oh, obviously. It's not my first time pocketing a naughty bauble, Zindra. But this one’s… different. It wants something. And I'm curious.”

Zindra’s mouth tightened. “Curiosity is how people end up as footnotes in someone else’s cautionary tale.”

Ori looked at the statue. Its eyes gleamed with quiet, crimson delight.

“The real question is,” she said slowly, “can you break the malison?”

Zindra drew in a breath through her nose, steadying herself. “Put it on the floor. Clear a space. And for the love of the Aspects, do not touch me while I’m working.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zindra knelt, her fingers dancing through practiced gestures, forming three glowing circles of arcane magic that intertwined on the gold laced marble flooring. She whispered the spell that warded the circles first then she began to unmake the curse that buzzed like bees at Ori’s teeth.

The air thickened. The shadows deepened. Then came the flash. A crack of light and flame burst from the idol, golden, searing, blinding. Zindra screamed, clutching her head, dropping to her knees on the floor. The smell of burnt silk and old magic filled the air.

“Zindra!” Ori scrambled to her side, but the mage’s hand shot up blindly.

“Don’t, don’t touch me,” she gasped, voice shaking. “It… it fought back. That curse wasn’t just laid, it’s alive.”

Ori stared down at the idol, which now sat calmly in the center of the ward, its gem-eyes glowing faintly, as though pleased. “What the hell is this thing?” she whispered.

Zindra, still on the floor, wiped blood from beneath her glasses. “Something no one should ever have touched.

( @daily-writing-challenge )

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #2 (May '25 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

(No I'm not running late I'm-... fashionably late. Yeah... Yeah that's my excuse.)

Day 2: Graceful Placation

The survey Senko was undertaking would quickly be broken by the distinct fwoosh of a portal and residual hum of arcane energy. She didn’t blink nor worry herself with an intruder, the spire of Kha’thularak, even in its half-constructed state, allowed a handful of souls to simply teleport or portal in. Besides that, the soft scent of a familiar perfume hit the sensitive nostrils quick enough to assuage any worries. Senko, these days, rarely smiled in earnest. A coy smirk, a threatening grin, a polite and disarming curl of the lips. Facades, tools, instruments.

“Even after several years of being friends, dating and being wed, you’re still such a brooder, darling.” A voice spoke from behind Senko, drawing her attention away from the grey-soaked vista.

“I didn’t know you looked at me under the trees and thought ‘I can fix her’, my love.” Senko retorted, giving a warm and genuine smile as she stepped over.

Oonee stood a head shorter than Senko, draped in robes that would shame a collection of nobles. A snug bodice of black leather, adorned with a spider-web motif that broke into a silky, semi-transparent skirt. A high collar covered the back of her head, enclosing her signature voodoo mask. Yet despite the high fashion, she contrasted it with a wicker basket hooked around her arm, a detail Senko poked at with mischief.

“Mmh, wicker? I hadn’t realised Gurubashi was in-… How do the Shal’dorei say, haute couture, this season~?” She asked, hooking her arms around the wife.

Oonee rolled her purple eyes, as narrow as sewing needles, before her spare hand flicked the ear of Senko. “Mhm, and of course, you’d be the arbiter of fashion. You’ve kept the same robes since I stitched them for you.”

“I’m sentimental… and they’re enchanted.” Senko retorted with, flashing a quick wink.

“Not as enchanting as the warlock who’s wearing it.” Oonee replied, going on her tippy toes to plant a kiss on Senko’s chin.

A quick heave of the chest and a surge of warmth broke across Senko’s body. She allowed herself to pause for but a moment. She was married for near a damn year to the love of her life, and the fact a few quick words and a peck on the chin was enough to keep her in a state of blushing bliss. Her daydreams were brought back into reality as Oonee’s claw tapped into Senko’s shoulder.

“Are you okay, my love? You’ve been glassy eyed a lot lately.” She asked, canting her head, an ear flopping to the side.

Senko was many things; a ruthless warlock, a loving wife, a good friend and now a leader of… something. Brave, bold and cunning. None of this, however, made her any skilled at lying to the one she loved above all her feats. It pained her to worry Oonee, but the idea of violating an ancient trust, a trust that forged the vows of their union, hurt her more.

“Let’s sit down, it is a-… long story.” She said, walking to the throne.

Before Senko could even adjust herself properly, Oonee had planted herself in the lap. She looked around and began to block out the ambient sound of construction, tugging the mask up as she planted the basket in her own lap. A red-and-white polka dot towel covered it, quickly snatched back by the grey vixen’s paw.

“Here, try this.” She said, borderline shoving a muffin into Senko’s mouth.

The baked good caught the warlock by surprise, blinking a few times as she wrapped her hand around it. A few slow chews later and she had cleared her mouth enough to speak, yet before she could, her wife interrupted.

“It could be poison.” She said, devoid of emotion.

Senko blinked; her amber gaze narrowed: “What did you say?”

 “… I said it could be raisins, I baked a few with them. You like them, don’t you?” She answered, a soft and tender tone in her voice carried a hint of concern.

Senko sighed, her thumb pushing into the sponge of the muffin. Her eyes relaxing as she counted the dots of raisin across the muffin top. She remained silent for a few seconds, repeating the number of which she counted: eleven.

“Oonee. I’m hearing things. My mind is… clouding itself. My words betray me, I snapped at one of the architects earlier, saying what I thought, not what I should.” She confessed, a coldness washing over her as she shivered into her wife.

“Well, some of them are meatheads, I don’t blame you for losing your cool.” Oonee said, trying to make light of it as she placed the basket on the ground, an arm wrapping around Senko. “What else has happened? Is it recent? What sort of things are you hearing?” She asked Senko, cuddling into her.

Senko’s mind churned. An interrogation. The wife was putting the thumbscrews on. She winced, teeth barring as she felt words – a bile that was not her own – bubble up to her vocal cords. Quickly, she shoved the muffin back into her mouth and mumbled. This wasn’t her. The very thought of seeing her wife as anything remotely negative sickened her.

“Didn’t take you as the comfort eating type, Senko.” Oonee said, softly stroking her back. “Take your time.”

Senko sighed, going to speak. She mumbled a few words, blinking, as she swallowed a chunk of chocolate muffin. “The past few days. I thought you said the muffin was poisonous, which is why my tone shifted with you. Just now my mind was-… racing, as if you were interrogating me, I had to chew on this to stop these ‘words’ leaving me. I-…” The warlock sighed, her eyes becoming wet. “I hate thinking this of you. I don’t know what’s causing it. Please don’t leav-!”

“Dumbarse.” Oonee cut Senko off, pressing a finger to the lips, now with smudged lipstick. “After everything we’ve been through, you think I’m running because my big, scary Warlock has a problem?” She said, smiling.

Oonee moved back her hand, an ornate ring with a dial centred around a diamond was adorned on her finger. More than on her finger. Through it. A spike through the pinkie finger, an exact copy of the ring on Senko’s hand.

“We’re soulmates, our rings literally penetrated blood, bone and spirit, which by the way, really didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would – I will not leave you. If you really piss me off, I’ll make you sleep on the couch for a night, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Senko couldn’t help but tear up slightly. The rawness of the words sailing from the lips of her beloved broke the stoicism and any wards she had spent a lifetime building. With her friends, she was always somewhat honest, but deep down, she remembered the words her mother told her after she cut her arm deeply sand surfing as a kit. “Big girls don’t cry.”

“… And let’s be honest, the stress of having your super-duper evil tower under construction and a garden that looks like a war camp isn’t exactly the most uplifting thing for you right now. I would’ve been happy if we lived in our cozy cottage, but, hey, your ambitions are part of why I love you.” Oonee added, placing a kiss on the cheek.

One of the Sayaadi, hoisting up one of the few remaining chandeliers, found herself in eavesdropping in on the conversation. Her lilac skin twisted slightly to angle herself better for the gossip, putting little effort into her job. Across from her, was an increasingly disgruntled sister-in-sin with marbled white and red skin.

“Stop gawking! You’ve made me do most of the labour today.” The flecked one muttered, trying to keep her voice low enough not to disrupt the married couple.

The Sayaad in lilac, however, couldn’t help herself. Seeing a few tears roll down the cheeks of Senko, she shot a cheeky grin to her beleaguered colleague and spoke up.

“Wow, the great Senko cries! I never thought I’d see her show anything but contempt, but here she is! Crying~!”

Before Senko could adjust herself and start disciplining the upstart demon, Oonee’s hand placed itself on Senko’s muzzle, clamping it shut. This was not the warlock’s battle. With an almost machine-like precision, Oonee rotated her neck some forty-five degrees and stared daggers directly at the Sayaad.

“Suc-“

“The name is Alyasax~.” The Demon so rudely interrupted. Her friend now hanging her head in shame, and a desire to be passed over what was to come.

Without a second of hesitation, Oonee spoke back up: “You’re not important enough for a name. You tell anyone about this, or run your mouth about my beloved having tears, not only will I web those tacky, cheaply-painted lips shut, I promise you this: When I’m done with you, you’ll be crying far more than your Grandmistress here,” She paused, stroking the cheek fluff of Senko, her hand shifting away from the muzzle. “And I assure you – no one will cry for you.”

Alyasax could do nothing but stammer, stutter and panic. She wrapped her hands around the whip-rope and tugged the chandelier with the well-practiced speed of someone who spent an eternity tugging objects.

Oonee, content with her dressing down, turned her face back to Senko, giving a firm kiss on the lips and a ruffle between the horns.

“You need some rest, and tomorrow we’ll begin to solve this problem of yours, mh?” She dictated to Senko, a question that wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Sounds good to me, especially now I know I’m not couch-bound.” She teased, lifting herself and Oonee up off of the throne. “Lovely muffins, by the way.”

Oonee blushed, balancing the basket off of a finger. “Is it wrong I was hoping you’d say you could do better? I was hoping to guilt you into buying some jewelry~.”

“I’ll buy you some for being a wonderful baker and a better wife.”

“Deal, my love.”

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

DWC 2025 - May - Day 1 - Beauty/Cruel

There were some, a few fortunate ones, who had experienced the beauty of the world from the first. 

They were able to revel in it. Embrace it. 

They didn’t question every time something took a positive turn. Doubt didn’t linger at the back of their minds - they didn’t view everything as a trap. 

He knew those individuals existed…He’d run into one or two when he was younger - they’d tried to challenge his view on the war, or some task he’d been assigned and he’d always scoffed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes when they’d pushed their optimism. 

After all - how could they possibly understand the experience of one who had only experienced cruelty? Rejection? 

Of course everything was going to work out for them - they were safe behind the walls, they had a family doing everything they could to protect them - the cruel war was out there distant…it wasn’t real. Not really. Not to them. 

To him for a majority of his life the war was real, the cruelty was real, the pain, the suffering - all of that was real. 

The beauty? The hope? A waste of time and energy better spent preparing for…literally anything besides what it was being spent on.

That had been his perspective, emphasized by a lifetime of experience…and then had come his children.

Osric sat back - seated as comfortably as he could be on the floor, carefully watching both the twins crawl between Frejya and Tyr - the two wolves relaxed, with their heads settled between their paws. Idalia eventually settled next to Tyr, leaning her head against the wolf as her brother, Evran, crawled over to Osric and settled himself in his lap. 

They were content, protected…oblivious to the world outside. The dangers or the opportunities. 

The twins continued to babble back and forth to one another, drawing Osric from his own musings, and he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the top of Evran’s head - catching the boy’s attention for the briefest of moments. 

He couldn’t protect them from everything but he would do his part - he was, of course, one of three parents - to make sure they didn’t have to face the world on their own. 

They would have the opportunity to have a better childhood than what he did…at the very least, he could help ensure that.

@daily-writing-challenge

[nahisummerhold]

DWC May 2025 Bonus Day! (Music for this post "No Man" by Nina Storey)

Nahi stood up on the stage, lights were being adjusted, sound was being set for the acoustics, a routine set up before a show. Most of the crew knew her already. She had done this same charity event for a handful of year and they were chatting amongst themselves and waiting. 

Nahi smirked and stood center stage then began to pluck a song out of the air that she would never perform but thought that they might like.

“Oooooooaaaaooooaahhhhh. Ohhhaaaa. Ahhhhhh.”

The vocals were nothing but a warm up for her before she began to set into the lyrics. Snapping her fingers and smiling out through the lights, the sound of chat and work stopping.  “Ah yes yes.” “I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin.” The first sentence starts and she winks out at the small auditorium, “I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin. I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin.” 

A small penlight hit to her right so she slid across the stage to the mark and the spot slid at her pace. “I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin.” Holding her hands up by her shoulders, snapping and working her shoulders back and forth, “I don't need no man and,” Nahi pushes the lyric to raise with a vibrato at the peak. “I don't need no man, and no love and no man and no love and no man.” 

Moving her way across the stage, knowing how the show had been set up she didn’t need the cues, she just flowed where she should be. “I don't need no man to hold me through the night. I don't need no man to tell me it's alright.” Tilting her chin back she smiles, the tone of the word changing slightly, becoming brighter along with it, “and I don't need no man to help me to be strong. and I don't need no man to string me right along.” 

Her walk was as graceful as if she was in a flowing gown instead of her short black shorts and red ‘Fangbreaker’ cut off tee. “Cuz you'll mess with your mind and he'll mess with your heart. then he'll tell you he loves you right before he departs” 

“Soooo I don't need no man to call me honey pie, and I don't need no man to look at me and lie.” One of the stage hands was sitting on the edge of the stage and she crouched down to quickly kiss his cheek, others in the dark jeering. “and I don't need no man to promise me the world,” standing up she turned her back facing the front of the stage. Looking coquettishly over her shoulder she bounced her hip, “and I don't need no man to call me his little girl.”

Pivoting on her front foot she stopped snapping, lifting her hands up in the air, while a tap of her foot keeps time instead, “Cuz he'll flash you his smile pouring on all his charm, then he'll get up and leave you while your hand is still warm.” “Oh I can sacrifice I'm not a broken promise,” Nahi just moved across the stage, the light slightly behind her at times, this wasn’t a choreographed practice, it was just the singer letting herself feel the song. “I think that I could tolerate someone being honest,” her hands move through the air, as expressive as her facial expressions, “I know it would be difficult but I think that I could cope, ‘cuz the truth is much more worth it than a lot of empty hope.”

Nahi grins and rolls her eyes, “I suppose that I am worthy but there's no way to be sure.” Curving her shoulders in and wrinkling up her nose with a saucy little wink. “If I don't drain myself of this poison I will never find a cure.” 

Snapping once more she falls into the cadence of the chorus, “I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin. I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin.” Other people begin snapping in time with her, “I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin. I don't need no man and I don't need no lovin.” 

The smile returns and she uses it to slide a flirty tone while pushing the notes higher, “I don't need no man,” Nahi wiggles her hips back and forth playfully, the song just a way for her to have a little fun. “I don't need no man and no love and no man and no love and no man.”

Her feet stop perfectly in center stage, and she leans back pouring her power into the next line, leaning back from the mic to keep the vocals clear, “So in yourself keep your pride. From those men do not hide.” Not even a breath is taken between her powering up the lyrics, her voice hitting every acoustic point in the theater perfectly. “Your mind is your power do not let it divide.” With a smirk she plays right into the end of the song, “I don't need no man.” The workers break into applause and cat calls, then the stage manager walks up and slaps her hand down on the stage, “You are all set.” Plopping down to sit on the edge of the stage, two sets of applause continue, one slow and sardonic, the other jubilant. Stepping out from the shadows, Irenthalas hurried to his stepdaughter, taking her hands and tugging her off the stage so they could hug, “That was lovely Nahi, I am so glad I got to hear that.” “As am I,” Jes’champe said in his darkly rich voice. Nahi looked up from the hug to arch her brows at him, a silent What is going on here? He only gestured at Iren’s back. Her stepfather pulled back, “Thank you for sending me the ticket, daughter. Jes’champe explained that it had gotten mixed up in the mess on his assistant’s desk with all the planning for tonight, so he came out himself and delivered it and a tuxedo in case I did not have one ready.” After the initial jubilation fro her, Iren had slipped back into an easy cadence, one in which Nahi could see he didn’t really believe Jes’ but was taking full advantage of anyway. “The last time we talked I mentioned I had never gotten a chance to see one of your shows so he told me that couldn’t stand and would need to be remedied.”  Nahilvi agreed with that, and it was something she had hoped to rectify, but here it was, taken out of her hands. “Well as this is a charity for building a children’s hospital it seemed a perfect one for you to attend.” She would not break the illusion that it was her plan to bring him. “And now I will have the perfect date on my arm all night.” ( @daily-writing-challenge )

[ricard-blythe-ffxiv]

DWC - May 2025 - Day 6 - Negative

"What the fuck is that?"

When he'd received a missive asking him to stop by his parents' estate after finishing up whatever business he had at this office for the week he'd imagined it could be any number of scenarios waiting on him — and knowing his mother, he wouldn't have been surprised had it been some over the top attempt to get him to backtrack on the already well established limits on his upcoming (incredibly small) wedding.

What he hadn't been expecting was the monstrosity that he assumed was supposed to be passed for something that might once have been a suit or something having to do with cloth at one point in time.

Or at least that's what it looked like it might have been…or was being passed off as.

Whatever it was, or had been, it was fucking ugly. Actually, ugly was an understatement…and he wasn't entirely sure the damn thing hadn't just moved on it's own.

"Oh! Ricard. Good. I was wondering when you were going to get here. If you'd set your coat to the side, dear…"

His mother appeared unphased by the presence of this…thing. Acting as if it was completely normal, as if it hadn't crawled from the pits of hell to be present in their sitting room.

"Why in the world would I do that…"

"So you can try this on."

"And why would I do that?"

Catherine turned and narrowed her eyes at her son, her voice holding the same edge it had when he was significantly younger. "Because I asked you to, and also because I'll be expecting you to wear this at some point — whether that's during the ceremony, that you continue to limit the number of people who will be permitted to attend, or the small soiree after."

"Not to sound like an ungrateful brat, mother — but once again, why would I wear something that looks like a wyrm ate it and then the thing crawled back out of said wyrm's stomach? How old is that damn thing? A century? Two??"

He heard the sigh, could picture the eyeroll…where was his father when he needed him?

"It was your great-grandfather's, Ricard — and as I said, you've limited who can attend and what we are allowed to do to celebrate, this is the smallest thing you can allow."

"No, mother."

"Ricard…"

"No! I'm not convinced the damn thing isn't alive, and I've told you why I've made the choices I have. The answer is no."

"Well if not this, then maybe you'll allow a few more people to the ceremony itself — that surely isn't as terrible."

Slowly his mother turned back towards him, her arms crossed over her chest, and it dawned on him exactly what she was trying to do.

"This was never about the damn suit…was it mother? You thought if you tried something so outlandish that you knew I'd never agree to that you'd slip something else in that wouldn't be as bad." He shook his head with a little laugh. "It might've worked…a few years ago it might've worked."

He poked her nose before walking past towards the door. "The answer is still NO! I think you forget that you're the one who trained me, mother! I see through your tricks!"

He didn't stick around long enough to hear her response, he knew better than that.

However, he did hear from his father the next morning that the poor man had been sentenced to sleeping on the couch again…except this time he hadn't the faintest idea what he'd done.

@daily-writing-challenge

[raxwel-blythe]

DWC - May 2025 - Dangerous

There had been plenty of circumstances over the course of his life — some of his own making, some of others designs — that had resulted in dangerous situations.

Decisions that had led to him having to outrun the guards of Stormwind and dive in the canal system in order to lose them (his partner at the time had been less than pleased with the tactic). Decisions to walk a rather inebriated (and handsy) woman back from Brewfest that led to him trying to explain to the woman's husband that no, he wasn't trying to sleep with her. In fact, it was the other way around. And when the man hadn't been convinced, the decision that diving out the nearest window was the easiest escape route versus trying to slip out the nearest door. (He'd been right, and it hadn't made the landing hurt any less.)

Some of the circumstances were more…amusing in nature, some had more serious consequences — and yet on this particular day, and on this particular afternoon, he couldn't help but wonder in what mindset he had to have been in to think that it would not have been a dangerous combination to allow his son and Finn to pair up and do, well…anything.

He should have known better. When Renault looked up at him with those big brown eyes, Finn sitting next to him, tail wagging hard enough to shake his backside, he should have known that the pair of them were up to something.

Just like he should have known that the request wasn't going to be something simple.

When he was that age, was it ever something simple?

No! Every boundary he could find he was going to push — and why would his son be any different?

"You said if I did a good job trimming Finn, I could try it on you — and I did a good job with Finn, didn't I?"

Raxwel's gaze shifted to the worg, who looked like someone had attempted to give him a trim, but otherwise looked no worse for wear.

It was his own fault, really — he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wincing at the jagged cuts — he could have told him no if he'd done a bad job on Finn…and he hadn't done a bad job on Finn, or that's what he'd tried to convince himself.

His hair was getting too long anyway, he would've had to see a barber eventually…and this would just make him make the trip to Stormwind a little sooner than he'd planned.

His son really was dangerous with a pair of scissors.

@daily-writing-challenge