Daily Writing Challenge
February 2025
Day 6: Annoy / Holiday
Aneyah wiped a tear from her cheek as the candle sputtered out, a gentle puff of her breath turning its light to darkness. The shades over the window of her Mereldar home blocked the glow of Beledar, reminding her for this short while of what night had felt like back in the Empire.
She closed her eyes, and behind her lids danced the sky, stars twinkling in their fathomless distance, the cold blackness stretching overhead, all the way to the horizon. A soft exhale of breath, and she opened her eyes again, taking in the darkness of the room, lit only by a single candle now.
The outlanders celebrated a holiday this time of year, as she had learned from magister Dawnwing, and she recognized elements of it from the Empire: looking to the night sky to honor those who had passed. There was, however, no night sky for her any longer, only the incessant blaze of Beledar, or its all-swallowing Shadow.
"No balance between the two," she breathed, the silence of contemplation shattered even by a voice as soft as hers.
Soft as moonlight, her father had said once. The first candle she had lit, and blown out, had been for him.
The second had been for her mother. As far as she knew, her parents yet lived, and yet she knew their hearts had perished when the Hallowfall Expedition had disappeared.
For weeks after the catastrophe, and its arrival in Hallowfall, she had scarcely slept, the images of airships lost, crashed against the rocks, and spiraling into the deeps, seared into her mind. She wasted away, dead while alive, food and drink scarcely passing her lips. To remember those days, the fear and uncertainty, brought a familiar stone to the Arathi's stomach.
"You would have known what to do," she sighed, not for the first time since that day. The third candle was for her brother; she would visit his memorial at the Veneration Grounds before the holiday had run its course.
The final candle, its dance still casting flickering shadows into the corners of the room, was for Wenren. He had been avenged, but the Order of Night yet lurked, a poison in the hearts of the Arathi, festering beneath the ground.
What good, though, would despair do? That is what had led to their formation from the start, that nagging kernel of emptiness, gnawing at the heart and at the soul.
She felt it, too, the pain and the loss, and yet here she remained. A gentle puff from pursed lips saw the final candle sputter out, washing the room in darkness and tiny, curling wisps of smoke.
Here she remained, remembering the lost, embraced by the darkness, but not lost in it.
The sounds of the river echoed as the waters rushed past the sand bend. It gurgled as it splashed against some rocks further down and created a sense of peace and calm that was so rare in the shadows of Duskwood.
Banagan sat on a large rock on the bank of the river. He flicked his fishing rod and sent his hook out into the water with a slight plop. He tugged on the line a couple of times and then waited as the current pulled his baited hook. Next to the paladin, his larion companion lay on the ground with his chin resting on his paws. While the paladin watched his fishing line, the larion kept watch on the river and the tree line on the opposite bank.
Banny reeled his line back in and looked at the empty hook.
“Something got lucky,” Banny chuckled as he reached for a can next to his rock to get another worm.
A quiet rustle happened on the opposite bank. Sentinel’s ears perked and his eyes started scanning intently. Noticing the change in the larion, Banny lowered his fishing rod to the ground and picked up the sword that lay ready behind him. The rustling grew louder which caused Sentinel to push himself up to a seated position as he watched the trees. The branches parted and a worgen poked its head out. It sniffed the air and then looked directly at Banagan. Its lips curled back to show its fangs and it let out a snarl.
The larion looked directly at the worgen. Fanning his wings out, Sentinel started to growl. The deep rumble grew into a fierce roar that echoed across the water. The feral worgen stopped and stared at the larion. Then, with its head dropping low, it withdrew back into the trees. Banagan and Sentinel could hear the sounds of the worgen retreating deeper into the woods until eventually the sounds of its passing faded. Banagan waited a little longer before putting his sword down and picking his fishing rod back up.
While the paladin continued fishing, the larion remained seated. Sentinel’s head slowly scanned the area and his ears flicked at every sound. Banagan cast his line a half dozen more times with no success. He was about to admit defeat when he noticed that Sentinel was no longer looking across the river. Instead, the larion had turned his head and was now looking towards the road behind them that led back to Darkshire. He didn’t hear anything, but still lowered his fishing rod to the ground again and retrieved his sword once more.
Sentinel rose up to standing and faced the road directly. Banny stood and moved to the larion’s side, his sword held at his side. After a few moments, a padding sound could be heard coming from the road. A few minutes later, a familiar rider appeared on the back of a fiery winged lion. Banagan relaxed as the lion turned and trotted towards them, finally stopping in front of them. Valiant let out a quiet huff which Sentinel returned.
“Afraid the fish aren’t biting today, dad.”
“Well you know what they say about a bad day of fishing,” Braghaan replied with a chuckle. “Sadly, I came looking for you.”
“Everything okay?”
“As much as it ever can be. But you got a message.”
“A message? What’d it say?”
“No clue. Not my mail to open.” Bragh pulled an envelope out of the back of his glove and held it out to his son. Banny stepped forward and took it. Twisting it over in his hand, he looked at the wax seal that held it closed. He paused for a moment before breaking the seal and pulling out the letter and reading it.
“Everything okay?” Braghaman asked calmly.
“Yeah. They want me to head back. Guess my holiday is over.”
“They opening up a new front?”
“Who knows? I’ll find out when I get there.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I’ll head out after dinner,” Banny answered with a sign. “May as well get one more home cooked meal before heading out.”
“Figured as much,” Braghaman said. Reaching behind him on the saddle, he untied something wrapped in brown cloth. “Also figured I’d better give this to you as soon as I could, just in case you decided to leave sooner.”
“Thought you didn’t read the letter?”
“I’ve received enough envelopes like that in my time, son. I know what it usually means.” The elder paladin leaned forward in his saddle and held the long package out. Banagan stepped forward and gently took it.
“What’s this?” Banny asked as he hefted the roughly three foot long item.
“Open it.”
Banagan laid his sword on the ground and looked at the package. Pulling on the cord that was tied around it, the brown cloth started to fall away revealing a scabbard and a gleaming golden hilt.
“What’s this?”
“A new tradition, I guess? I would love to say that this is a family heirloom that has been passed down from father to son over the generations. But the reality is that your grandfather was a farmer. I don’t know that he ever owned a sword, to be honest.”
“So what about this one?” Banng asked as he pulled the sword from its scabbard to reveal a polished blade with etchings along the side.
“That’s my sword.”
“I thought you didn’t like using swords.”
“I don’t now. But once upon a time, I used to carry one. That one, in fact. I had it cleaned up and repaired. Even paid someone in the city to put a couple of charms on it as well.”
“Why?”
“Because if you are going to go out into the world, trying to save it time after time… Well, that’s kind of a family tradition I guess. So it seemed like a good idea to pass this on.”
“Are you sure, dad?”
“Yes, son. And in many, many years, when you’re in my position, you can hand it over to the next generation.”
“Thanks, dad. I appreciate this, really.” Banny sheathed the sword and slid it into his belt.
“Gather up your stuff and let’s head back to town. We should get your gear together and then we can figure out what to make for dinner.”
DWC February 2025 - Day 5 - Annoy / Holiday - Tinnaire
Tinnaire sat with her supplies and stared despondently at them. She was day-drinking and the remains of several glasses were scattered through her apartment like cacti in the desert of her soul.
Dramatic much? She snorted and let her gaze refocus on the cluttered coffee table before her.
Flocked red ribbons. Lace. Thick cardstock. Glitter. Paste and scissors. Truly, she had all the tools, all the necessary embellishments.
She had always been confident. Always.
Until she wasn’t.
Tinn knew it wasn’t a good look, drinking alone in her apartment during the Love is in the Air holiday. But she also knew she wasn’t doing well, and allowed herself to indulge. Just this one day. It was supposed to help her relax. Help push past her new insecurities. It was supposed to soothe her surprisingly tender heart.
She hadn’t yet made a single valentine for the people in her life. She had the list of names, it wasn’t for a lack of people she cared about. Some of these people would have been getting these silly paper creations for years, others would have been newer additions this year. Even thinking how a silly little handmade valentine might cheer her up, if she were to receive one, couldn’t help her muster up enough motivation to get started on making them for others. It always had before. Thinking about the smiles that might come had always been enough in the years prior. After all, she never had received any back.
With an uncharacteristically bitter flash of emotion she lifted her whiskey to her lips and sipped as her eyes roamed the list. Her eyes caught on the name she had expected to catch on.
In a moment of pique, the list went up in flames. Gone in an instant of ash and a writhing curl of smoke.
Orange and yellow light flickered silent against cobbled walls around them as the four men rounded another corner of the labyrinth that lay beneath Jamurlak. The city was ancient, built who knew how many years before, and it could have been assumed that the city had been built on top of another entirely. There was an old joke about a king who built a castle three times. The first one sank, so he built another one. The second sank as well, so he built a third. It burned down. But the fourth one stayed up. Try and try again.
"And so that's how they go the Cintra's strongest castle," Janus chuckled as he ducked his head down to avoid what could only be assumed was moss on the ceiling. His hand was held in front of him with the lantern lighting the backsides of the men in front of him. No one else laughed with the bard. "Oh come on now, it's a funny story."
"No it's not," muttered Alfred, a long knife held in one hand as he crept along ahead of his brother. "It wasn't funny the first time and it's not funny now."
"Well 'Wally', I think we're all well aware of your sense of humor or lack thereof," Janus made a face at his brother's back as he stalked along. "Why am I in the back anyway?"
"Cause we all know how you do in a fight," the younger brother snarled quietly back at him, annoyance clear in his tone.
Janus could only make another face and mimic his brother with no real barb to throw back. He knew how was with swords or knives. Crossbow was his best bet, unless it was a full moon and they were crazy, it was best for him to handle the lantern. At least for some.
Ahead of Alfred in the line was Eld, his creaking step muffled by a wrapped cloak causing him some difficulty in his gait but at least kept him quiet. The cloak was the least of all their worries as the four of them were wrapped from head to toe with whatever clothing they had to keep their exposure to the minimum. As Eld had explained to them all, the sap of the spores was terribly corrosive to flesh as he made for them all to see by the black scarring along his neck. All it took was one bauble of the flowers and it would go downhill fast. To help with keeping the creature at bay they had doused all their clothing heavily in vinegar causing quiet a stench at first before they entered the sewer and were mildly grateful for the sour note that clung to them now.
The witcher did his best to ignore the men behind them, their banter back and forth reminding him why he always viewed them as the same boys who nearly burned down the west tower at Kaer Seren. Pushing each other's buttons as much as they could until one or the other broke. It was very clear who was still always the victor in the 'game'. There was a song pang in his heart for those years and a missing for Gregor and Mina Klaudin. He would have relished in seeing the boy's mother giving each a thrashing as Gregor would follow his wife's hand with a cuff of his own. Boys will be boys was not in the Vistani family's dynamic. Respect and responsibility was their way.
A bit of wet moss caught the older man's step as Eld felt his footing give to send him pitching forward onto the walkway they traveled above the thankfully dried out canal. Hands braced to catch himself Eld found the floor stopping it's approach as a strong arm caught him and propped him up. Duncan looked to him with his eerie glowing eyes, his face grim but also bearing concern for his friend. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, thank you. I just caught a bit of this overgrowth," Eld replied, keeping his voice to a whisper to hide his embarrassment. Duncan kept a steady gaze on him for a few moments longer before nodding and propping him back up on his feet. The vampire looked like a shadow of his usual self. The old robes he usually melted into were gone replaced by dark trousers, vest, and hood making the man look nothing like the monk he usually portrayed. Thin limbs and body belied a creature of supernatural grace and strength. Not to mention constitution as he walked barefoot now down these tunnels, advising he could keep a better grip without footwear as he lead them down into the depths. The three others had been shocked how little Duncan cared for himself but Eld knew in his heart there was hardly anything that could hurt the vampire down here.
Waycrest's concern was for his friends as always.
Naked steel shone shimmered in Duncan's left hand, a gladius that looked more ancient that the city they wandered the depths of. Eld had seen it a few times and had been curious of it's make but Waycrest never offered it for more than a brief inspection when he had it. One got the feeling that the vampire hated it being out and especially hated holding it. The past always complicating the present.
The travel was slow but the memories were swift as Eld kept a hand against the wall to steady himself as he kept a brave face. The people of Markhor had been whispering as they borrowed the cart from Cuthbert to head south for the initial journey. Candell on holiday. Holiday was a foreign word to the people of the village as the idea of going somewhere for no reason was a ludicrous notion, especially for the private smith just outside the village. Eld supposed they liked him enough but an odd one in a hamlet usually lead to a lonely life. The first years were fine as he lived in fear of the consequences of being found or his 'family' being found, but those later years just lead to far to much introspection. One could go mad in such a routine and maybe he had gone slightly.
"We're here," Duncan whispered over his shoulder and stepped into the antechamber that was the crossroad.
The room was wide and held more than just cobblestone as Janus widened the shutters and lifted the lantern higher to alight the room. It was built much like the tunnel they had been traveling from but opened into three other tunnels for what could only be the cardinal directions or the very least right and left tunnels. As much as the chamber was like the tunnel they had traveled the black tendrils of vines and still bodies of flowers above them reminded them of why they were really here.
The archespore were horrid in tales and even worse in person. Bulbous wide roots cork screwed from the walls and ceiling, the skin of the plants a deep mixture of the color of manure and the sick of a rotting dog. The smell matched as well from the fetid clouds that drifted from the heads of the dreadful plants. Crimson crowns opened and closed like the gasping breath of a sick child as bits of tendrils bearing the same amber baubles that Alfred had described of the fateful end of the patrons of the Silver Lady. Heavy was the head that bore the crown and the red maws did little to disguise the puckering bulb within as those same tendrils that hung their bells also licked the sickly air.
'Oh gods they're here Eld where do we go?'
"Uncle?" Alfred asked as he gently touched Eld on the elbow causing the witcher to snap back with more than just reality.
"What?"
The younger Klaudin looked as if he'd been struck by the tone the older man had given in his sudden response. Eyes downcast with a cough the mustachioed man would do his best to face the yellow gaze of Eldridge. "I was just asking, which way should we go?"
Eld stood quiet a moment, feeling the release of the venom of his voice and regretting it instantly. The eyes of his other companions could be felt just the same for his harsh word to Alfred as he grimaced hard deciding as ever to push onward. "Right was the way to the hag. We go that way first."
"Together?"
Eld was already limping his way toward the right tunnel, his hands flexing and releasing as at his sides. The Klaudins looked to Duncan, hoping for some kind of guidance or advice with the way their godfather was behaving. The vampire could only shake his head softly as he followed up to reach the witcher as they delved back into the pit of the catalyst.
"I got a bad feeling about this," Janus murmured softly as he looked up at the flowers in the ceiling undulating in their fixed positions.
Alfred frowned as well but motioned with his knife toward the tunnel. "Take up after them, I'll be right behind you."
"Don't trust them," the bard quipped as he motioned up to the ceiling.
"Do you?"
Janus smiled sardonically before he shrugged and jogged after the older companions. Alfred gave a final looked up above and followed into a darker memory.
A little scoff dropped right out of Esrasti’s mouth, sharp, pointed features betraying the incredulous displeasure that crossed right over her features. Orgrimmar was always a terribly smelly, smelly, unsightly place to be and their attempts to decorate were constantly lacking. These were one of the people they had chosen to ally themselves with? Sometimes she thought things were considerably better under Elisande’s rule. No. That. Was going too far.
Which was worse—an amalgamation of demons and felfire or unsightly orcs? Rolling her eyes, Esrasti realised she couldn’t pick. They were both awful. But at least the orcs probably weren’t going to do anything except hold ridiculously stupid conversation. That too, was a little unfair, though, and at least some part of her recognised that. In truth, she’d actually met one or two that she rather liked the company of, but it took someone so terribly special for her to give them the time of day. So few people met her very exacting standards.
The pathetic loose banners, buntings, and streamers decked in reds and pinks and whites were draped here and there over trading stalls and simple building constructs. Nearly everywhere she looked. Shoddy things, really. She could have decorated the excessively large city considerably better in her sleep. And no, that wasn’t an offer.
With a hand upon her hip, she studied a rather impressively large and deeply flawed imbalance fabric heart. One side more bulbous than the other. It looked like it’d been designed by someone not paying attention or having a single care to give. Pathetic. “It looks as though a child did it. They ought to have more respect. How do they ever anticipate being taken seriously when they present themselves like this?” Never mind that her people were the outsiders. Chances were the orcs of Kalimdor found themselves perfectly content and that one should have considered themselves lucky to see decorations to begin with.
“Miss—” Esrasti had every intent to ignore it to begin with, given that it could have been addressed to really anyone in the city and it wasn’t as though she’d come to meet anyone in particular. Seemingly only to complain about things being beneath her expectations, like her expectations meant anything in the broad spectrum of things. But when she was jabbed with something that felt uncomfortably sharp, she turned quickly, gaze narrowing. Her movements were so abrupt that though her immediate response was to resoundingly smack whoever had the sheer audacity to touch her, she found herself thinking better of it when she was faced with a rather hunched over Forsaken. “Miss,” he started again.
All bones and no brains, she thought to herself, lifting that hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“Yes?” she began. “Out with it.”
“Miss, I was going to tell you that they were made by children,” he explained, well-spoken and right to the point. If he was offended by Esrasti’s behaviour, he didn’t show it, or he simply knew better than to invite what likely could have only been further rude demeanour. When he was met by the cock of a thin eyebrow that she’d likely spent far too much time sculpting to the point of self-perceive perfection, he lifted a hand, mostly bone bound to rotting and tattered flesh, held together by the very animation of life—or something like it. “There’s an orphanage. Most of the decorations were made by those living there.”
Of course there was. Of course she’d seen it. She just barely looked at it twice. It all seemed so obvious, now. And if children were at the hands of decorating the city, she couldn’t exactly come down quite as hard on them. They hardly knew any better. A more charitable soul would have offered to help them make such things better. Was she that charitable? No. Of course not, but—
“For what it’s worth,” the Forsaken man continued as his hand dropped and he began to pass her. “You have a piss poor attitude. You might want to consider changing that. People won’t tolerate it for long.”
He didn’t bother to stick around to hear her reply and instead left her right where she was, a little too stunned to speak. In Suramar, no one would have dared. Esrasti practically fumed, the coursing of heated, red blood fluttering beneath the surface of her dark teal skin. How dare he. How dare he. Except reality prodded at her just as sharply as his finger had. This wasn’t Suramar and no matter how much she thought the entire world should have bowed before her, it just wasn’t going to happen.
“Hmph!”
Esrasti folded her arms across her chest, haughty, petulant, and bratty. She muttered under her breath some incoherent childish string about how she didn’t care if he tolerated her or not. But then, some moments more and she felt herself deflate. Even if he wasn’t wrong, she didn’t want to admit that she was.
For gods’ sake.
The whole thing was stupid. It wasn’t like she ever wanted to celebrate it in the first place.
The note was waiting for her, affixed to the door by a single, slightly bent tack. Eluvianna paused, brow arching as she plucked it free, attention lingering over a crude but earnest heart drawn in one corner.
She unfolded it, already smiling before taking in the words. The handwriting was bold, strokes deliberate...yet almost nervous. A poem—of sorts. A riddle, though not a particularly difficult one. Charming in its overdone sincerity. She exhaled a quiet laugh.
Her boots echoed along the stone as she made her way to the Hero’s Welcome. Even from the outside, the atmosphere was different—soft candlelight flickering against the windows.
Inside, the tavern had transformed. A single table set with roses and a modest spread of candles. The usual bustle now intimate, garish hearts and banners clashing slightly against rugged charm.
Taelan stood beside the table, poised, but restless—waiting, uncertain if she would come. Meeting her with a knowing glint, he straightened, hands clasped at his back.
“Ah, my humble verse has found your curiosity,” he said, voice lifting with a knightly flourish.
She stepped closer, both amused and taken.
With his usual gallantry, Taelan took her hand, a reverent kiss pressing to folded fingers, then guided her closer.
“And yet, poetry does no justice to this sight,” he whispered.
I know that it is a little late for Valentine's Day, but this Final Fantasy XIV fanfiction is for @daily-writing-challenge event Daily Writing Challenge February 2025 day 6 holiday featuring my ocs.
It's Saint Valentione's Day in Eorzea and the city of Ishgard are celebrating the holiday, with adventurers joining in. The adventurer Clairwa is writing a love card to her friend Vo'ran as a nice gift for Saint Valentione's Day.
A World of Warcraft fanfiction for @daily-writing-challenge event Daily Writing Challenge February 2025 day 6 annoy featuring my Forsaken priest oc Luise.
Luise Rose is annoyed by the dogs in the town barking at her due to her being a undead woman.
