#dwcny2026

[daily-writing-challenge]

Surprise! We're doing a quick bonus level challenge for the first week of the year. No words this time, we're leaving it free-form. Write as much — or as little! — as you want this week.

Don't forget to tag us at @daily-writing-challenge in your posts and use the tags #dwc2026 and #dwcny2026 so we can find your work!

[cavelloshatterstar]

DWC Day 2: Hide/Golden

Hide in gilded lies, Golden standards cyanide, Poison to a heart

Whispered absolution In clandestine love affairs The only drip of Truth

Divinity stirs Eyes laid upon the secrets, Then turns blind away

Why settle for hurt When the cure is in your reach Grope for its lifeline

Drink deep what is yours These dreams, not lies, but choices, Ones you make your truth

@daily-writing-challenge

[seralahbloodhaven]

Bulwark

DWC Bonus level 2026

TW: medical procedures, body horror, extreme injury, broken bones, blood, detailed descriptions of injuries

Seralah stood towards the entrance of the training room, wide eyed and very excited. Her pulse raced as she looked down at the still smoking pistol in her hand. Oh, but she liked firing it. Such an efficient delivery method of her tranquilizer. As soon as all the holiday excitement was over, she planned on asking Manus to construct a firing range on the castle grounds so she could practice shooting…clay pigeons or something.

Her gaze moved to Leonardo who…did not look well. She’d heard the horrible sound of his bones shattering and had felt a tiny lick of relief. She hadn’t meant to shoot him in the groin three times and fortunately, three tranq darts in his dirty business was the least of his troubles. If he was even alive. Seralah didn’t want him to be dead, though it seemed Lillandyr did so he must have done something terrible. BUT if he was dead, she hoped it wouldn’t be in poor taste to ask to be given his remains.

She stood on the balls of her feet, getting Leo’s black blood on her slippers as she peered around the assembled crowd. Heathcliff didn’t seem interested in anything but Lillandyr and she was cross with him besides. He’d shot Aronsen with a tranq dart! Wholly unnecessary. He was not some beast to be subdued. When all this fuss is straightened out, I’m going to have a very stern talk with the doctor, she thought, glaring daggers at him, pert nose scrunched. Seralah didn’t think he noticed.

Manus said something about dinner, but she didn’t want to attend. Her mind immediately wheeled to the last dinner he hosted and she had not cared for that at ALL. She would go, of course, but there were larger, more pressing concerns at the moment.

She hurried to Aronsen, who sat on the floor and was slurring and laughing about his father. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she just assumed the tranquilizer was doing the talking for him. Her features softened in pity and she smoothed her hand over his head.

“My poor sweetheart,” she said. “Surely, that wasn’t enough to impair you too badly? Do you think you can bring Mister Leonardo to the laboratory? I’m going to mend his injuries. I’ve several ideas I’d like to try! And if I’m unsuccessful…well, let’s just hope for the best, hmm?” She grimaced as she looked at the puddle of flesh and blood that was Leonardo. She reached over and gingerly poked at his thighs. They felt…entirely too mushy.

Seralah withdrew her hand as though she scalded it. “Gross,” she breathed, fascinated all the same. She had never seen magic quite like that.

It was very inspiring. Lillandyr was so…powerful, she thought in a great warm rush of admiration. Seralah decided she should stop caring about whether her magic was palatable or not and perfect it.

Aronsen grunted and got to his feet, swaying a little. “Right,” he said. “I can bring him…I think.” He frowned down at Leonardo, clearly noting the state of his body.

“Do be gentle,” Seralah said, hovering at his elbow. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to pick him up.”

Aronsen rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said, “I think she broke every bone in his body…,” he trailed off, eyes narrowing as he looked around the training room. He stalked over to the opposite wall and took down a bulwark from the wall. The huge shield was almost as tall as Sera was and flat. She clasped her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Oh! How clever, Aronsen! That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll help,” she offered as he set the shield on the ground beside Leonardo.

Together, they tried to scoot the bulwark under him, very carefully lifting the limp and squishy limbs. Aronsen made a face when his arm flopped in the wrong direction. Seralah was red faced and huffing by the time they maneuvered Leonardo onto the bulwark. Aronsen then lifted one end up to drag him to the lab.

Seralah walked ahead, barking out orders. “Manus! I need an outfit change and please preserve my modesty or I swear…,” she warned. “Simple dress. Wool. Lab coat, and my hair needs to be up.” Her slippers squished with every step, sodden with Leo’s blood. “Nice lace up boots please, this feels wretched.” It reminded her of when she was little and her childhood cat Victor would hork up a hairball and she’d step on it in her socks late at night on the way to the bathroom.

She felt Manus’s magic crawl over her skin as her clothes changed faster than mortal eyes could see. The lab coat had a lovely, bleached smell and was nice and stiff with starch. Just the way she liked it. Already, she felt certain and capable. She would fix Mister Leonardo right up.

In the lab, she set about disinfecting the large, steel operating table. Everything was covered in debris. It was such a shame. Seralah knew that Heathcliff was probably just so very upset about it all. She’d heard him say he was leaving with Lillandyr on a trip so she resolved to see the laboratory fixed up and restored before he returned.

Once the table was shining and free of even a speck of dust, she directed Aronsen to get Leonardo onto the table. He effectively poured him onto it and Seralah did her best to straighten out his shattered limbs. His heart beat though his pulse was thready, weak.

“He’s going to need blood,” she informed Aronsen. “As he’s apparently your brother, you should be able to donate. I’ll set up a transfusion. You just sit close to the table…and er…you’re going to be very hungry after this,” she warned him.

Aronsen did whatever she told him to, dutifully dragging a chair close to the surgical table. Seralah set up the hoses and needles, but would need to correct his broken bones first or he would just continue to bleed internally. “Most blood is made in the bones,” she informed Aronsen as she set the tubing on a steel tray. “Most people think it’s the spleen,” she said with a laugh and a scoff. “It’s the marrow~ However…I’m not exactly sure how undead produce more blood. If it’s actually blood they’re filled with. Perhaps it’s some necrotic ichor!”

”Given his vampiric nature, I assume he can actually bleed to death,” she murmured, tapping her chin with a gloved finger, eyes narrowed as she gave the situation thought. “It would be akin to instant starvation, I reckon.”

She lamented there were no medical textbooks on vampires. Most people tried to kill them and not heal them, so she understood there wasn’t really an audience for this sort of literature.

“To set his bones…I fear I’ll have to cut him open,” Seralah said. “And some of them seem a tad…pulverized. His left forearm feels like wet bread. It has no bone structure left.” She puffed out a breath because it was a little nauseating.

Aronsen smiled crookedly at her, hanging on every word in his drugged state. It made her cheeks hot in a sweet blush and she had to pause to give him a kiss. It lingered a little too long and when she pulled away, she felt guilty and hoped Leonardo was still unconscious so he wouldn’t realize she was making him wait.

“Okay! Clearly…I can’t cut him open like that. It would be worse than vivisection.” Though she’d be curious to look at his internal organs. That could wait. If he died, she would certainly insist on an autopsy.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think how to do this. “I am thinking too narrowly,” she muttered, more to herself. “Relying on mundane means to solve this problem.” She thought of Lillandyr again, wielding her magic, looking wild and beautiful and full of rage.

“Magic,” she said, inspired again. Her eyes flew open and she snapped her fingers. “Specifically, necromancy! His bones are as undead as the rest of him. I will command them to reform, though I should need to see the bones in order to visualize and thus, make it so…,” she paused to ‘hmm’ thoughtfully.

She felt the cold presence of her sister hovering near. A brush of icy wind on the nape of her neck. Seralah shivered as Lottie’s tinny voice whispered in her head. I can go inside him. See his bones, she said.

Seralah brightened. “Oh! A brilliant idea, yes please do, Lottie!”

Swiftly, she moved to Leonardo’s head and took several deep breaths. “We’ll start with the skull.”

Seralah could feel the chill of the foul magic seep into her. It felt like trying to move in icy water, sluggish and numbing. Every time this magic had come to her, it felt like it wanted her to be dead too. Her heart would race in protest, asserting its vitality and then slow, skip a beat. Seralah waited for the lurching, nauseating feeling to pass.

Lottie described what she saw. Leonardo’s skull had spiderweb fractures all along the sides. His jaw was essentially broken in half. Seralah let the magic gather in herself…then connect to him. For a wild moment, she knew she could make him her slave. Her puppet. Her will was strong and that’s all it would take. He could fight her, but he was weak.

But having a slave wasn’t something she was interested in and that wasn’t the goal, so she left his will his own. Perspiration dotted her brow as she used the magic of her command over the dead to hold the bones together, stitching them energetically. It would still take time to heal, but this would hold him together while he did it.

She worked on his spine and that’s when it was clear she probably should have given him some kind of anesthetic. Even though he wasn’t fully conscious, horrible, gurgling moans issued past his lips. Her lips thinned but she decided stopping for an analgesic was a waste of time. Leonardo likely wouldn’t remember any of this.

Ooh…the bones in his forearm are just very tiny fragments, Lottie said. They’re all embedded in the muscle. The ligaments are ripped to pieces.

Seralah bleck’d and shuddered.

The magic felt very good now. Natural as breathing. Something she’d been holding back from expressing. She smiled as she yanked all the teensy bone fragments out of the muscle of Leo’s forearm as he made horrible, strangled noises. “How’s his heart, Lottie?”

It beats. Slowly, she said.

“Good. Any limbs as bad as this one?”

No…well…his pelvis is shattered in many pieces, but they’re big pieces. Not fragments.

Seralah winced. She’d yet to yank the darts out of his groin. She’d get to it. The tranq was helping to keep him out of it and it had the bonus effect of utterly paralyzing him. “I shall make more of this tranquilizer. He needs to remain still while he heals. If he doesn’t, I’m afraid I’ll just have to sever his spinal column until he’s better everywhere else!”

Aronsen made a horrified face at her, but she attributed this to the dart he’d been shot with. She wondered how long his drugged state would last and if it would hinder…certain activities. She was very curious to experiment and find out.

He is in tremendous pain, Lottie told her.

Seralah waved a hand. “Shhh…I’m focusing. Almost done with his rib cage.”

After an hour of piecing his bones back together, Seralah felt drained and sweaty. She set up the blood transfusion and told Lottie to remain in Leonardo’s body, not to take it over, but to keep her apprised of his vitals and how the healing was going. LIke an internal monitoring system! This gave her an amazing idea. If one were to capture a spirit and distill it via alchemy, then perhaps she could make some sort of crystalline structure, one for inside the body and one for the doctor or nurse. That way, one could use the crystal to communicate with the spirit and certain disease or injury could be monitored much more effectively.

She told Aronsen all about this idea as she set up the transfusion, ramming a needle in his arm. She was NOT a gentle nurse at all.

“What do you think of that idea? And oh, please remind me to write it down later,” she told Aronsen as she connected the rubber hose to the needle in Leo’s arm. She released the valve and watched Aronsen’s black blood flow through the tubing into Leonardo.

“This shouldn’t take too long. We’ll have enough time to freshen up for supper.” She said, squeezing Aronsen’s shoulder affectionately. “Are you worried about the dinner? I certainly hope it’s not like the last one…which reminds me, actually…,” she trailed off, frowning and feeling a strange feeling she’d never felt before. At least, not in a romantic capacity. Jealousy.

She’d not been jealous of Lillandyr, even when she and Heathcliff had fooled around. She’d just refused to be the other woman. A good decision, she thought.

“Aronsen…who is…Anya?” She asked, feeling weirdly stung remembering the dinner. Remembering how he had drunk that potion to save a woman named Anya even after he’d been told it would kill him.

@daily-writing-challenge

Mentions: @wraaronsen , @wraheathcliff , @wraleo , @draconecastle

[luminashdawnwing]

DWC 2026: Bonus Level

Luminash exhaled, and a plume of smoke flowed forth, the earthy musk of bloodthistle wreathing his head. He leaned back in his chair, permitting himself a moment away from the paperwork strewn across his desk; since his decision to return to Quel’Thalas and restore the dilapidated Dawnwing estate, he had had few such moments to himself, free from the demands of contractors and a renewed interest among the nobility in a resurgent House Dawnwing.

He was about to raise the pipe to his lips once more when came a knock on his study door, snapping him back–partially–to his present reality.

“Enter,” the magister intoned, not rising from his desk, nor in fact doing anything at all to hide the languor he had allowed himself.

The door opened, and the estate porter ushered in the magister’s guest. The porter, a young silver-haired elf from Silvermoon proper, Rilaniel by name, was one of the handful of employees Luminash had brought on for maintenance of the property. He was diligent, skilled, and understanding of how particular Luminash himself could be in his desires for the estate.

Particular, too, was the guest Rilaniel had brought. As quickly and quietly as the clerk entered, so did the porter close the door and depart.

Luminash, formerly interrupted, puffed a few times on his pipe, savoring the scent and the haze creeping over his mind; what often raced, a frothing rapids, had become a calm stream, “Goldleaf. Do come in, make yourself comfortable.” The magister offered an easy smile and motioned with a sweep of his arm to the chair opposite him at the desk.

The clerk adjusted his glasses and padded across the room, sliding into the chair with a distinctly feline grace; his slight frame and melancholic air only added to the effect, “I thank you for the welcome, Dawnwing. It has been many a year since I’ve visited the estate.”

“Since before the fall, you mean. I was not aware that you ever had,” Luminash responded, offering the pipe across the cluttered desk to his guest.

Despite quirking a smile at the gesture, Goldleaf shook his head, prompting the magister to bring the pipe once more to his own lips instead, “I had been a not infrequent guest of your father while he sought to woo my stamp of approval on research petition after research petition. Much as you have often been my guest in the Spire, come to think of it.”

“Ah, how little things truly change,” Luminash mused, “And now you’ve come again, for more of the same.” With a shrug, he slid from his chair, “You will want to see the tower itself, yes? Come.”

As he strode away from the desk, he dampened his pipe with a flash of frost and motioned for the clerk to follow.

* * * * *

Goldleaf nearly gaped as Luminash led him into the restored tower that dominated the eastern side of the estate grounds. Each successive generation of Dawnwing magisters had added their own touches to the structure: Senaril, the first of the exiled Highborne to bear the Dawnwing name to Quel’Thalas, had envisioned it as a beacon in untamed Amani wilderness, a high seat from which to look out on his new domain. Selius, Luminash’s own father, had made it an extension of his more frequent home in Dalaran, filling it with the trappings of the Kirin Tor, a monument to the organization’s twin pillars of scholarship and bureaucracy. In restoring it, Luminash had a grander design in mind.

The entry hall was dominated by a stair winding upwards, and a twisting, arcane sculpture of sorts, a series of distinctly mechanical conduits stretching from this font and running through the floor, the walls, the masonry itself, winding upwards. Surrounding this, a vibrant Thalassian garden, as if to hide the unsightly with the beauty of the forests outside. The tower itself was lit with lamps enchanted to gleam like the sun, to nourish the garden facade. As of yet, the conduits remained dim.

“Luminash, what…is this?” Goldleaf asked, stepping towards the structure towering in the center of the room.

“It is what will allow my great work to be done, Goldleaf. The tower has always been connected to the leyline running beneath our feet, but it has never harnessed that power effectively, never directed it towards any purpose.” Luminash scoffed, “My forebears used it to enchant their lamps, to shift rooms at their whim–parlor tricks! Allow me to show you, Goldleaf, so that you may better appreciate what I offer our people here.”

The clerk continued after the magister, stepping closer to the center of the room so that Goldleaf could see what seemed to be a well stretching into the earth, from which the spiral sculpture arose. Although both men were tall and slim, Luminash’s squared shoulders and blazing eyes, sparks of lucidity sharply focused even from the depths of the torpor brought on by the thistle, gave the other the impression of being dwarfed by someone of much greater stature.

Luminash, with outstretched hand, began to draw something up from below. Though the clerk had little aptitude for the arcane, even he could feel movement in the earth. Whatever this apparatus the magister had grafted into his tower was, it seemed to function as promised as a surge of brilliant pale violet filled the arcane well and flowed forth into the conduits, casting the tower as a whole in its arcane light.

The magister’s face spread into a smile as he turned to his companion. He seemed almost to hum with the power he had drawn into the conduits as he spoke, “With that, let us ascend. The true heart of the project lies above.”

As he followed the magister’s steps–growing brisker as both enthusiasm bubbled over and as the latent arcane power seeping into the structure itself energized him–Goldleaf ventured, “Your proposal was that you would be conducting some manner of experiment in energy transmutation, yes? Am I to assume you need all this power for it? What am I to report to the Grand Magister when he asks why we have authorized the private use of a leyline of all things?”

Luminash shook his head, “He will see clearly when you report the initial results.” When the pair reached the top of the winding steps, the magister ushered the clerk into the room at the top, through a pair of heavy, deep red curtains.

Within, the leyline conduits thrummed with power, washing the room in violet, and initially drawing attention away from the assortment of items the magister had accumulated here.

Along the walls of the round chamber were various and sundry objects of power: fel artifacts no doubt pilfered from Legion worlds; Void-soaked relics dredged from the vilest dens of maddened cults; holy symbols gleaming brilliantly with the Light or with the peaceful vibrance of life itself; runed carvings saturated with the sickly glow of Death. All were encased in multiple layers of warding, some arcane and bearing the hallmark of elven enchantment, others clearly derived from the technomancy of K’aresh.

Goldleaf could scarcely choke out his words over the lump forming in his throat, “Magister, do you understand how dangerous something like this is? These should be sealed away by the Reliquary. Or destroyed! Or–”

“I assure you, having designed a number of their security measures myself, the Reliquary would positively envy what I have crafted here!” Luminash responded. His irritation at his expertise being questioned was evident, though tempered by a warm sense of pride in his craftsmanship, “Please, allow me to show you the purpose of this place.”

The motion of Luminash’s fingers was delicate as he wove a series of tiny portals, transferring–slowly, methodically, much to Goldleaf’s appreciation, which would certainly be noted in his report–one of his collection to the table central to the room, itself encased in another layer of wards, only evidenced by the enchanted Mage’s Eye shining above. The item in question was a small wooden box bearing the mark of the Arathi’s Sacred Flame, but blackened by the touch of the Void.

“Before you lies an Arathi tinderbox, a symbol of their devotion to a manifestation of the Light,” Luminash began, taking on the tone of a lecturing professor, all too common when speaking to magisters, Goldleaf reflected–though he preferred that to those who spoke only with noble arrogance.

“As you no doubt can see, it has been marred by a loss of faith,” he continued, “The Order of the Night, they called themselves, and gave themselves over to darkness. But, I ask, is darkness insurmountable?” He flashed the confident, brilliant smile of a man about to be proven irrefutably right, “Of course not! Our people know this better than most. But what is able to overcome the dark?” He looked then to Goldleaf, expectantly.

The clerk knew not to take the question at face value. When Luminash entered such a mood, his desired lessons were rarely so straightforward. And so Goldleaf replied: “Any suitably strong will. As our people demonstrate themselves, yes?”

The magister barked a laugh, “Ah, a brilliant observation, my friend! Indeed, any suitably strong will. The Light need not banish the darkness. The darkness can, in fact, swallow up the light, or anything else, should it be powerful enough itself.” Though still nearly vibrating with built-up anticipation, Luminash did grow more serious for a moment, “Xal’atath proved this with Dalaran. The K’areshi heretics showed this in their manaforges: any power may be used to bind any other. And so…”

He motioned then back to the tinderbox, “The Arathi say much the same, that our understanding of the cosmos is arbitrary, based on categorizing what defies categorization. You would not be familiar with their work, or that of the Broker Firim, but I believe they approach the truth of the matter.” His eyes gleamed as he raised his hands and began to channel something, the arcane power flowing through the conduits whirling in eddies in response to the movement of his fingers, “The frame of all creation lies beneath what we see, and oh, Goldleaf… If we are gentle, if we are careful, we may…”

The tinderbox, to Goldleaf’s astonishment, began to glow, not with the Light as he expected, not with purification, but with a beautiful emerald, the color of dreams, a hue of hope.

“Pull…”

Then it shifted once more, and Goldleaf felt his stomach tie into a knot: the hope became despair as the sickly power of Death radiated from the tinderbox, black and bleak tendrils.

“Back…”

Another shift, then, as the energy in the room continued to grow; Luminash himself seemed overcome by it, his thin frame drooping, but kept upright by the power flowing through him. This time, the box seemed to split open and emit the same bright violet that flowed through the ley conduits.

“The veil.”

With a flash of nearly blinding golden light, the tinderbox glowed anew with the Light, with its Sacred Flame, and Luminash fell to his knees, his breathing heavy. He looked up towards Goldleaf, though, with triumph written on his features.

“Whatever you report today, know…that the Sin’dorei…” He paused for a deep breath, “With this new understanding, we will…be ready.”

The certainty in the magister’s voice sent a dagger of ice into Goldleaf’s very soul, “Ready for what, Luminash?”

“For whatever comes.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[ishgardiantrickster]

Bonus Level: Roughh

Her hands were roughened, hardened by years of gripping rock and mortar in her efforts to evade being caught. They bore the scars of old wounds that would never leave her hands. The callouses of past successful crimes, of holding her knives; of vows taken and broken. They were the marks of her history, a story she could recall for the centuries to come.

Her feet bore the same sort of rough. Years spent nearly barefoot as she roamed the Brume for food and warmth. Toes hardened by frostbite; the cruel evidence of a life lived roughly. It pained her, these memories. 

There were high points in her life, where the roughened edges of her hands and feet were soothed by lotions and warmth. Places and people who could be trusted. Even then, though, even then that trust had been broken. 

Rough edges around her heart. Splinters of the past always just under the skin. They could be peeled out, but they were as stubborn as she was. New and old friends would surely start to mend her roughness into that of an oddly shaped diamond, with shadows and scarring. Such as it was, life makes you what you are.

@daily-writing-challenge

[embersoftheorder]

For whom the bell tolls.

What the hell are you doing here? 'You're the only one who knows anything about this kind of place.' That's what Dewitt had told him as he had been given the orders to scout further into the outerspheres of the Twisting Nether to the broken world of K'aresh. A wasteland. A battlefield. A graveyard. A void. Eld's eyes would scan the unending horizon of violets and blues that matched no sky Azeroth had ever held. His breath was set calmly inside his helmet as let his eyes never stare to deeply into the hungry madness that was the doorstep to whatever was held behind that thin veil that imprisoned the Void. If truly one could imprison such a force. But that was beyond him. For the witch hunter was truly a stranger in a strange land but not an unfamiliar land. The vibrant neon of the perpetual twilight was something he had seen on his journey at the end of the Shadowlands fiasco. Some called it a fever dream of mass hysteria orchestrated by some awesome force in the post wartime of the Fourth War. He knew the truth though, it wasn't a dream. Death had been real and so had been the journey into the Astral Sea. The Wayfarer. A son he'd never seen grown. Grandchildren that were never imagined. Worlds beyond measure and scope but with it's own evils based around the mass of spectral energy that connected all worlds in that otherworld and time amongst the stars. But it wasn't for him. It wasn't home. Was this though? No. His home was in Azeroth, among the hills and high country of Drustvar ensuring the safety of a country that had lost all hope to the powers of a world that feared more than just death. "You're musing old man," Eld could hear Cheryl in his head as he took a slow breath of his recycled air from the heavy mask and helmet he now wore up on the barren cliffs of Shan'Dorah. Intelligence had advised that the air was safe to breath and that there was nothing to fear of prolonged exposure to the broken world. Om'kota had advised otherwise. "Can you survive here without issue? Of course my friend, many things survive amongst these fields. But the question should really be, what can you expect to change? And are you ready for those changes? Or consequences? I would tread lightly if you so wish to return as they say, unscathed." Eld's hand adjusted the rebreather machine at his belt, the metallic scent filling his nostrils as it filtered out more of the dust and invisible toxins that mingled among the ravaged world. It was time to head back to the Oasis anyway, he needed to send his report in to Stormwind and refresh his supplies for his next 'crawl' amongst the ruins. The inquisitor would shoulder his rifle and begin the trek along the ridge before something caught his eyes on that vast horizon again. He knew not to stare long into the abyss but then again nothing should be changing across that skyline. It was only for a moment, a blink and you'd miss it moment. Years of keeping his eyes on the road ahead made it hard to miss such a blip. Especially when it caused his breath to catch so quickly at the mere passing second. A chime in his head at it's shimmer. Time was a laughable concept considering the world that Azeroth and how everything was always in flux. But this made his bones ache. His muscles tighten as much as his jaw did at that moment. But he swore he could hear the tolling of a bell. Once. Twice. Many times more until the silence of his self again. The stroke of Midnight.

@daily-writing-challenge - DWC Bonus

[ruzzellgoldgrin]

DWC 2026-Bonus Level 

“Hmmm...” 

Ruzzell takes a step back from the bookcase, squaring up his framing with his hands. The curves of the ornate Pandaren woodworking didn’t quite match up with the human architecture of the room. Frustration. 

“Ugh... Why do they gotta make these homes so square? Ain’t they ever seen the inside of a Pandaren home? Maybe if I...” 

He darts over to a stunted tree, its branches and roots cut tactfully and shaped to resemble its naturally greater potential. Placing the decorative plant beside the bookcase added to the flow of the room. 

“Ah... much better!” 

He clasps his hands together in satisfaction. A sense of achievement for a moment before he looked around at the other mismatched housing elements. Another sigh. It had been just a few weeks since he moved into his new home, but deciding on how to decorate a home cohesively was a challenge for someone who’s home has been all across the world. Sconces, chandeliers, and a generous oven from his time in Valdrakken. Pots, furniture, and personal effects from his garrison back at The Wall. Artworks, jewelry, and far too many silken pillows from years living in Silvermoon. All beautiful, but clashing in their vastly different aesthetics. 

“...I need some fresh air.” 

Taking the tea set on a silver tray, he cautiously opens the front door of his oversized home and walks down the porch to his side garden. The exterior of the home was in much greater harmony than the inside. He’d spent most his time tending to the order and presentation of flowers and strategically places hedges. Walking through the vine-choked arbor into the garden center, he ambled along the giant Dwarven fountain, the centerpiece of his green sanctuary. Finding the little tented alcove set aside from the fountain, he carefully unpacked his tray and took a seat. A nibble of a fruit-drop shortbread cookie and a sip of some black chai tea and all was right with the world again. The sun had already set and the warm glow of his neighbors homes had begun to light up the coastline and woods surrounding his little piece of heaven. Glancing out over his grand view, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. The sea air was fresh and cool, a soft song on his ears as it spoke its ancient truths from time immemorial.  

This was home. 

In that moment, that feel of the ocean breeze, the calm of the evening, the rustle of exotic palm fronds swaying overhead. He was back to where he was so many years ago. A child on a wild sandy strand, surrounded by his family. Those memories of being back on Kezan’s beaches. That forgotten love and peace that came with adventurous youth and untainted innocence of days long gone in those golden years. 

He put down the half-eaten cookie on the tray. Glancing over to the empty plot just behind his home. A grassy field unoccupied overlooking the sea. That is where he would build a proper memorial for his parents. It would take time, hard labor, and a lot of gold, but he would make sure he got his parents the proper burial they deserved. 

A somber smile spread on his lips as he took another sip of his tea. 

“Don’t worry mom and dad. Ruzzy hasn’t forgotten about ya. I’m bringing ya home.” 

(@daily-writing-challenge )

[susan-gampre]

A Worthy Life Debt

my contribution to DWC 2026's Bonus Level; May this year allow for compelling writing, wonderful friendships, good memories and exciting opportunity! Cheers!

@daily-writing-challenge

“Now you listen here, don’t you get sassy with me! I change the bandages around here, mister, not you!” A halfhearted but pointed warning sounded off! And ultimately went ignored.

Esme pouts with disappointment as she watches the eagle chick continue to squawk angrily, his golden beak snapping in the direction of a cowering fox kit. He stomped his talons and gave mighty screeches - - mighty in his mind, atleast.

There was a strange new predator in the prairie, and this mini-raptor’s instincts told it to defend it’s territory. Only it’s territory was the handmade design of Esme Erynn herself, a representation of the wild to help her wildlife fosters get a sense of living in their natural habitat again.

By all accounts the kit was unamused. Infact he was quite overwhelmed with this new environment all together. The many different smells, sights and sounds had been grating on him since he woke from the night's sleep he had gotten. His ears were pinned to his head and body hunkered down, nice and tight as he hid in the deepest the brush had to offer. Though Esme had gone the extra lengths to landscape and create the ideal homey environment to shelter her fosters, it hadn't done much to provide him space to hide with this brave, suicidal baby bird.

The eaglette stayed of little help, especially now as he pecked, combing through the grass to try and dig the kit out himself. 

“What is a fox without den?” Esme made the note to herself, committing to her next job in the expanding of foster care supplies- locating a place for the kit to enjoy his solitude when he needed escape.

This morning had been on the very tail end of a lengthy caravan escort the day before, and was a chaotic jumble thus far of trying to properly introduce wildlife fosters to one another, as well as to socialize the grey footed ferret in her care. Which currently the ferret was dangling from the nets bolted to the walls, dooking and grunting in it’s own amusement as his tiny paws fumble with a treat he had snuck from an unsuspecting Esme's pocket but moments before.

Though shy of the fox kit, the ferret had been rather nonplussed about the sudden arrival of a new beast. It was becoming a bit of a trend for Esme. A sentiment Susan Gampre understood much to her chagrin.

The woman in question had let herself in, the front door opened wide enough for the shivering Madam to slip into the foyer of the humble guard, the door slammed shut behind her and nearly catching the long skirts of her gown in the threshold. The noise draws the eyes of all parties, the ferret and fox perking their ears up whilst the eaglette opens his good wing wide, beak spread open as a tiny screech sounds off. 

Susan pauses from shaking the snow from her outerwear coat, the faux fur neckline and crisp black body dusted in layers of white from the sticky snow falling outside. A small smile curls her luscious lips, amusement flickering in her weighted golden stare as her stiletto nails brush through her hair, prying the thick tresses out and free from the flattened state from her weighted travel coat.

“You just can’t stop finding strays and bringing them home, can you, Erynn?” The sly comment brings grey eyes to stare up at the Madam, making a doe in gnomelights of Esme. 

With her coat hung Susan stepped into the warmth of the room, a hearth blazing just to the left. The heels of Susan's six inch tall footwear on wood gave muffled but distinct clicks as she draws toward the maiden, then… A leg lifts up, dexterous and controlled as she steps over the gate blocking the animal babes into their nook of paradise. A fingertip pokes the little ferret's nose in passing, the beast having craned his neck in expectation as if this were a ritual to be snoot booped.

Susan maintained her cheeky knowing expression as she turns and reaches for the chick, her fingers gingerly collect the hatchling around his body, keeping his good wing pinned at his side to prevent harm in transporting him away from the cowering kit. She supports the beasts talons with her forearm, cradling him to her chest before nodding toward the kit in question. 

"Your missive mentioned the kit was alone when he was found. How has he been with the other animals?"

“Introductions aren’t going quite as I planned, mostly he is just hiding, nothing aggressive,” Esme concedes, unwilling to even try to argue her innocence beneath the Madam’s gaze. Though still her shoulders remain squared and her chin held high as she offers stability assistance to Susan, a hand to hold her elbow and help her back over the gate. 

“Give them time. They are young still, they will learn to cope as you set their routines."

Esme says nothing. It was a sentiment she had thought of alredy, but rather than tell Susan she knew better, she simply smiles to the Madam and nods.

"As I recall you’ve had that birdy for some weeks now… Two? Three?” A nod from the maiden would appease the Madam, leading to her reassuring, “You know best what is wing looks and feels like without his bandage. What do you think is left of his time before he can be released?” 

Esme sighs softly through her nostrils. The hard part of fostering was soon coming to fruition, something she had been happily avoiding up until now. But that was the Madam… Always logical, always asking the questions people wouldn't normally want to address.

In truth Susan knew best the weight of caring for lost beasts and helping them find their footing, she was who inspired Esme to take alittle initiative herself. What animal caretaking she did know was attributed to having been started under Susan.

'Healing the world must always start locally.'

The advice had always stuck with Esme, even all these years later.

“Another two weeks before the bandage should come off, three if he keeps pushing himself… Just yesterday he strained so hard to climb the netting all the way to the top perch I almost thought he wouldn't make it... But he finally did!” Esme giggles.

A hand reaches out to gently brush across bird's body as Susan holds the bird safely for Esme to inspect and estimate the keel, the half-elf's brow pinched with focus, “He is healthier than when he arrived. Bright, strong. With alittle opportunity to hunt and build his confidence, he’ll be a menacing raptor out in the wild soon!” 

"And the kit? You mentioned in your missive he was wounded?"

The beast in question has since flattened his ears down to his head again, shrinking beneath the attention of unknown company. Since coming to from his previous stupor, he was now full of life and trying desperately to survive, despite this strange change in circumstances.

"I owe the Scoutmaster a life debt," Esme explains to her old friend candidly, thoug cautious of offering up the being's name so readily. This is something that catches the Madam's attention, and forces her eyes to narrow. She had trained Esme well in the art of discretion, too well perhaps? "They were brave enough to venture off from a caravan escort to collect him, then brought him to me," - ("You whined and moaned that there was a sad baby that needed saving, didn't you?")- "... anyways, after getting him dusted free of the snow he had been buried under, I was able to discern he was malnourished and cut up... Superficial lacerations that were bandaged in a timely manner."

Though there was more to it, the fact that those cuts were precise and not jagged like the fox had been in an animal attack... Esme kept that to herself. Unwilling to provoke any of the Madam's gangster habits. Especially not so close to Torchlight's lands; Esme had a feeling the Lord Varentis would be unhappy to hear the whoremonger was out in the woods with her tigers looking for trouble.

The news of the fox's harrowing tale thus far had done much to sour the Madam's pretty face, her expression that of deep concern.

Esme reaches out to rest a hand atop her sister's shoulders, assuring her gently, "He did very well overnight Susan. I believe he will be okay, in time."

This settles the woman in question only alittle, but the duo share in understanding smiles before Susan nods, relenting from her brooding.

"I've since had help from friends within the House Varentis to patch him up, a fella named Morberic even shared travel hardtack to feed him, which I think really made the difference to the fella's prognosis," Esme chats excitedly.

Susan stares on in her silence with great appreciation, a sense of pride swelling as she looks upon this changed woman before her.

Once upon a time Esme Erynn had been meek, truthfully in some ways she still was. But in this moment as she hustled around her makeshift home and spoke frantically - excitedly - about the ongoings of the House Varentis, expressing all the fun she’s had, what help she’s done, gushing about her friends and ways they've made her days in this town interesting… It was hard to ignore that Esme Erynn was undoubtedly happy with this new life of her's.

She looked natural in her own home, making memories befitting a young woman her age.

While it pained her, Susan was also so thankful to see Esme had landed on her feet out here in the world. Esme personified the term ignorance is bliss to a degree, and life was not always kind to those who only ever meant to be well intentioned. 

Such was the purpose of the Madam, to worry and care about her dearest friends. The tigress in the shadow of the lynx.

Still she made a mental note of all the names Esme spewed, a common habit in her way of life. Perhaps… People worth knowing, in time.

"Oh! I finally discovered a name for the fox!"

"Oh yeah?" Susan raises her eyes to meet Esme's grey, "What is it?"

"Tramp!"

Susan blinks. Esme beams.