She needed this night, needed the win that the two shows she had managed to pull off represented. She had not performed since New Year’s, and sometimes, after you do something for so long, you forget the true joy that goes into doing it.
In a little snarky moment that only she would understand, her set for the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe show was based entirely on her family. She sang a song her mother used as a warm-up, so it was always around her, and it meant that if her mother was singing it, she would have a level of safety and time to go off and do what she wanted.
The second was that little song she wrote about her father being the non-committal type, the same as she was. Sleeping with the same friend-with-benefits more than once was really as close to a relationship as she had come. It had mostly been out of fear when she was younger, and that carried through many, many years until she began building this new normal around herself.
Last was something she had written to perform a few years back. It explored the effect of dementia on a person and those who loved them, but it seemed apropos after her mother’s death and the tie-in with other family connections through the songs. They were all very well received, and she even had a few people linger to talk to her, which was always nice.
It meant she had a little less time to get to the Red Moon. She was as quick as she could manage, especially with having to style her hair. Nahi could have used a wig, but it just felt right to do it herself. Used to quick changes for the stage, she was ready to go to get her there just in time.
She actually arrived just before opening and slipped through the back entrance, stealing a canapé from the kitchen with a conspiratorial wink to the sous chef she met earlier. Beyond the kitchen doors, the club hummed with pre-opening energy, staff making little adjustments: candles being lit, silk drapery being straightened and tied back perfectly. This was not yet her moment, so she retreated to a quiet place to watch the opening.
Nahi let her eyes wander, picking out people she knew in the crowd. As when he went to the gallery opening with her, seeing Xylaes in a suit made her pulse quicken. He looked just as good as he had that night, and the memory made her smile. After spending time with him in the dangerous shadows of the hookah lounges of Murder Row and seeing him here, he never seemed out of place. He was in control. He owned his space.
Dori, radiant in emerald, worked the room with effortless command. Emceeing was often mishandled; she made it look easy and smooth. Her wit walked a line just above flirtation, her warmth genuine and perfect for the setting. Watching someone in their element was its own pleasure, and Dori seemed perfect for this.
Fio looked stunning in tailored pants and a sheer blouse, giving off just the right hint of I am in charge. She moved through the room extinguishing small crises, the natural state of any event organizer, and with so many moving pieces on a night like this, she was in constant demand. Nahi had already spent time with her earlier that day while walking the stage and choreographing her songs, so there was no need to compete for her attention now. Staff slipped in and out of rooms, cubbies, and kitchens, emerging only to murmur updates or fresh complications at Fio’s shoulder.
When Stellan took the stage, Nahi could not help but admire him. She had always been attracted to him, but this side was something else entirely. The scout who had always made her feel safer in camp, knowing he was watching over them, had morphed into a charismatic, seductive flirt, and it surprised her enough that she stared at him for a while, which equated to his entire set.
She had eaten some of the passed canapés and had asked Serazhen to keep hot water with lemon and honey ready for her instead of alcohol. After her operatic choice to start the night, she didn’t want to falter on the stage that mattered most to her.
When it was her turn, she moved into place with deliberate calm, stepping into the circle of light as though it had been waiting for her and technically it had. The spotlight poured over her cream-and-silver cocktail dress, catching on the subtle sheen of the fabric and igniting the delicate fringe at the hem. Each measured step sent it brushing against her thighs, a soft shimmer of movement that promised the playfulness she would open her set with.
The neckline framed her collarbones cleanly, leaving room for the amethyst necklace she had chosen. The stones caught the light in flashes of violet that rivaled her eyes, it was a bold contrast against the pale elegance of the dress. Matching earrings brushed her jaw when she turned her head, scattering color into the darkened room.
For a suspended moment before the music began, she stood still and let herself breathe. The hum of the room softened in her ears. The nervous energy that had lived in her chest all evening settled into something steadier, something controlled. She knew how she looked, she was polished and commanded attention. Entirely at home beneath the light.
The set went amazingly, and she was buzzed from the adrenaline high. Moving through the room, she talked with people and was about to find her corner again when someone caught her eye.
It couldn’t be him. He was dead, wasn’t he? Why now? It had been more than thirty years since she had last seen him. Why here, of all places?
Fortunately, her role at the opening did not require sustained engagement, only brief, charming exchanges to promote the Moon, something she had mastered in her career. So when fear struck and her thoughts stalled, her silence passed easily as attentiveness. She simply inclined her head, as though listening with care.
The pause gave her cover. Through the shifting bodies at the table, past candlelight and crimson silk, she searched for him, for the shape of a face that had haunted her youth. A nightmare she had tried to bury, and yet here it was, unearthed in her present.
He did not look at her, yet she felt the direction of his attention like heat against her skin, palpable enough to seize her lungs in a clenched fist and make her fight for air. Then one of the men at the table said something to her, and Nahi turned a dazzling smile toward the compliment. Was it too much? Possibly, but no one would really notice, not with the affection she had for those who praised her music.
When she looked up again, he hadn’t moved. Her violet eyes studied his profile and posture. The light was low, and crimson silk half-obscured his table. Memory and shadow were known to create dangerous concoctions. Was it truly him, or was the emotional turbulence of the past seven weeks casting familiar shapes in unfamiliar darkness?
She excused herself and moved to get a better view. By the time she found it, the man was already heading toward the private rooms with one of the club’s hostesses. His back revealed nothing.
At the bar, she made herself approachable, posture open, expression welcoming, though she was content simply to cradle her cup and slow her breath. Hot water, lemon, honey, simple things that allowed her to ground herself.
Was his nose the right shape? His eyes the correct shade? Or was her mind, startled by resemblance and memory, manufacturing a ghost?
She just couldn’t convince herself either way. Maybe it would be wise to find someone to add magical protections to her home. And it was definitely time to make an appointment to see Xanelan again. If her mind was structuring threats from her past, it was more than time to stop avoiding therapy.
He leaves what was left of Silvermoon City before dawn, slipping into the formation of volunteers and soldiers gathering near the gates. No one questions him, nor his age. There are too many faces, too many hollow expressions, too many people pretending they are going for practical reasons instead of personal ones. They say they’re searching for survivors, which was a partial truth. They are searching for their loved ones, and to see what remains of their homes, if anything at all.
It wasn’t a good idea, but what else could he do?
What else did he have left?
The Scourge had not fully withdrawn from the woods, that much is clear even before they reach the outer treeline. The forest feels unsettling, too quiet in some places, then abruptly alive with distant movement that causes hands to tighten around weapons. The air carries the heavy, sweet-sick scent of decay beneath the sharper sting of smoke. Every snapped twig makes someone turn, and every shadow seems to shift a little too slowly.
When Tranquillien finally comes into view, it looks like something out of a fever dream. Dark and heavy smoke rises in uneven columns. Several buildings are still burning outright, flames licking through collapsed roofs and broken windows. Others sag inward, charred skeletons waiting for gravity to finish its job. The sky above the town is stained a sickening gray. It's worse than he had expected. Some buildings remain, a small win. Not enough to get his hopes up.
The group breaks apart quickly, voices calling out names, checking doorways, pulling at debris that might conceal someone still breathing. Keyalin does not call out, he doesn’t trust his voice not to break right now. He moves toward his neighborhood on instinct. He knows the path by heart, or he once did. Everything looks so different now. The road is coated in ash, soft enough that his boots leave distinct impressions. The outer line of houses, including his own, took the brunt of whatever swept through first. Several structures are reduced to little more than cracked beams and half-fallen walls.
He sees where his home should be before he allows himself to register it.
There is no house.
There’s only the outline of foundation stones and a heap of collapsed timber still burning in its center. Heat rolls off the wreckage in waves, distorting the air around it. The front wall is gone entirely, the upper floor has caved inward, and what remains shifts and crackles as embers settle.
He steps forward anyway.
The heat forces him to squint, smoke clawing at his lungs. He maps his memories onto the ruin. Four steps in would have been the main room, five more, and he would have reached the table where they all sat and had meals. He can almost see it: the careful placement of silverware, the little projects his father would bring to the table, his mother bustling around to ensure everyone had enough food, and his sisters’ laughter filling the space.
Now there is only fire and ash.
A beam collapses inward with a shower of sparks, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too numb, nothing here feels real. Did he even survive? Was this some kind of nightmare limbo? He crouches near what should have been the center of the room, reaching carefully into the debris despite the heat. His fingers brush something metallic and he pulls it free, a warped fragment of what might once have been a tool. It bends under slight pressure, twisted beyond recognition.
He stares at it for a long moment before letting it fall back into the ash.
There are no bodies here.
That thought lands heavily in his chest. What if they were alive? No. That was unlikely. What if they were still wandering out in the woods, no longer themselves? That was more logical. He swallowed the lump in his throat. His parents had insisted on staying longer. He had argued. He had wanted to remain too. He had wanted to protect what was theirs. He didn’t want to be left alone.
But he had left.
He is alone.
The knowledge settles into him with a painful finality. He had obeyed. He had done what was asked of him. The logic doesn’t quiet the ache. Somewhere beneath the smoke and heat, beneath the ringing in his ears and the shouted orders from the road behind him, he can feel it: A futile yearning for one more ordinary evening in this space. One more lesson. One more shared meal. One more moment that had seemed so unremarkable at the time. One more anything.
Behind him, someone calls out sharply. There’s movement near the treeline, the threat is still present. The woods still hold things that will not stay dead. What if it was – no. He couldn’t think that way, not about them.
He rises slowly and the roof gives way completely, collapsing into itself in a rush of sparks and embers. By morning, there will be nothing left but stone and ash. He turns away before the fire finishes consuming what remains. Ash clings to him as he steps back into the street, carrying the scent with him.
He does not look back again.
Behind him, Tranquillien continues to burn.
Directly following this story found ----> HERE
TW: Child death, death
He laid Kyrisa down gently as if she might still wake, easing her onto the cool sand where the tide could not reach. He lingered there kneeling beside her, hands hovering as though unsure where to rest them now. Her dark hair spread around her across the sand, dusted faintly with ash, her face already too still. He pressed his forehead to hers once, breathing in salt, smoke, and the fading trace of her, then forced himself to stand.
There was no time to rest. “ZYNIA,” he called first, voice already fraying as he searched for his daughter. “AERIL!” He called for his young son, but the only sound was the crash of waves and the distant screams of a city dying.
He ran.
He searched the beaches first, boots slipping in wet sand as he moved from body to body, turning each small form with shaking hands, praying and dreading in the same breath. Each time it was not them, relief and horror twisted together so tightly he thought it might split his ribs apart. These were someone else’s children. Any other moment, the realization would have shattered him, but panic left no room for it.
The newly risen Scourge came in waves just as relentless as the tumultuous sea. He cut through them without thought of who they had been previously, blade flashing as Light and Shadow burned hot through his veins until his hands shook from the strain. Fingers clawed at him, jaws snapped, but he moved like a man possessed, because he was. Each corpse that fell felt like buying one more second to keep searching, one more breath before the truth could catch up to him.
He searched the areas where the fighting had been thickest, calling their names until his voice went raw. He searched abandoned homes, the triage tents, and anywhere else survivors might have gathered. When there was nowhere left on land, he went into the water.
He waded into the sea still armored, waves crashing against his chest as he scanned the surf for any sign of familiarity. The cold bit deep, but he barely felt it. He dove beneath the surface again and again until his lungs burned and eyes stung with salt and grief. He refused to stop, because stopping meant accepting what he could not bear to name.
Day blurred into night and back again. Someone pressed water into his hands at some point. Someone tried to speak to him, but he barely heard them. He just kept searching.
By the third day, his body begged for rest, but he ignored it and pushed through it with a stubbornness that bordered on madness. He slaughtered every undead thing that crossed his path without mercy, as if punishing them might force the world to give his children back.
It didn’t.
When a fellow soldier and friend finally found him, Veilos was knee-deep in the surf again, staring out at the endless gray horizon like he could will it to answer him. “They’re gone, Veil,” the man said softly, voice breaking under the weight of those words. He didn’t respond at first, nor did he move. The words slid off something numb within him. A hand firmly closed around his arm, “You’ve done all you can.”
That was what finally cracked him wide open, not the words that were spoken, but the gentleness in which they were delivered. His knees nearly gave out, the fight draining from him all at once and leaving behind only hollow exhaustion in its wake. He let himself be led back to shore, though his gaze kept drifting over his shoulder, as if expecting to see two small figures running toward him at the last moment.
They never did.
He carried Kyrisa himself, refusing to allow anyone else to touch her. He held her wrapped carefully in a blanket and held close, as if the world might still try to take her from him if he loosened his grip. He knew they would begin digging mass graves at some point. There were too many dead, not enough time, and definitely not enough hands. “No,” he said when they tried to guide him that way. “She won’t go there.” No one argued after seeing his face.
The cemetery was quiet in a way that felt almost cruel after all the chaos, no one here was coming back to life. He walked to the place where his mother and her wife rested, the headstones and flowers lovingly kept by Veilos himself. He set Kyrisa down beside their shared grave, and then he began to dig.
The soil was stubborn, stones making the work slow and punishing, but he didn’t care. His hands blistered, his muscles burned, his sweat mixed with dirt and ash, but he never stopped. The rhythm of the movement became the only thing keeping him upright. Drive the shovel down, scoop, lift, throw, then repeat over again and again until the world narrowed to just him, her, and the earth beneath.
It took him hours, perhaps longer. Time had long since lost meaning. When the grave was finally deep enough, he climbed out slowly and knelt beside her. His hands shook as he brushed dirt from her hair, smoothing it back and tucking it behind her ear the way he always had. He remained there for a while, memorizing every line of her face and every detail that he already knew, because he knew this was the last time he would ever see her.
He wasn’t ready.
He stayed until the light began to fade, until the chill crept into the air, until even his stubborn heart could not pretend the moment could be held back forever. At last, with a shaky breath, he delicately lowered her into the ground, positioning her with the same care he had shown on the shore, as if she were only sleeping.
For a long time he lingered there, kneeling between the two women who had shaped his life. His hands hovered over the shovel again and again before he finally forced himself to begin. Each shovelful felt heavier than the last as she slowly disappeared beneath the earth. He stopped more than once, staring down as if expecting her to sit up, to laugh, and to tell him this was some terrible mistake.
But the grave filled all the same.
When it was done, he sat there between the two graves, hands slack in his lap, exhaustion finally claiming what grief had not allowed. The world felt impossibly quiet. “I couldn’t find them,” he whispered into the stillness, voice breaking at last. “I looked everywhere. I’ll try again.” The wind stirred the trees softly overhead, it was the only answer he would ever receive.
At some point, without meaning to, he lay back against the cool earth between his mother and Kyrisa, as if trying to exist in the space there between past and present. The ground was hard, the air cold, but he barely noticed. Sleep took him there, beneath the open sky, cradled between the two graves, as though he could keep watch over them even in rest. He didn’t spare a thought for any straggling ghouls. If they came for him, he wouldn’t resist.
When he finally woke, something in him felt hollowed out by a grief so vast it seemed impossible he could still be standing at all. Yet he was, and he would carry that emptiness with him for years to come.
((This story is for The Red Moon's grand opening event taking place (OoC) tonight! You can find more info on the event ---> HERE))
Stellan rose from the piano bench, smoothing and rebuttoning the front of his deep midnight jacket as the garnet silk beneath caught the spotlight. He stepped away from the instrument without looking back, and instead, he reached for the microphone with one hand and his old fashioned with the other. He gave the background band a small nod, this would be a fun surprise!
The tempo that responded to him was bright and alive! It burst forth with energy and swept through the room, grabbing everyone’s attention. It was unmistakably upbeat, the kind of sound that stirred your blood and made staying seated feel impossible. Stellan grinned and stepped off the stage.
♪ Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear…
And he shows them pearly white…♪
His rich and commanding voice spread throughout the room, carrying easily over the band. He snapped his fingers lightly to the rhythm, shoulders swaying as he moved between tables. He wasn’t restrained tonight like usual. He was clearly enjoying every moment of this; the pulse of the music, the way eyes followed him, and the way the room leaned closer without realizing it.
♪ Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe…
And he keeps it out of sight. ♪
He tipped his glass just enough to hide it from view, seafoam eyes flashing with private amusement. The irony pleased him more than it should have. There had been a time when vanishing in plain sight was his finest skill. When precision meant everything, and when death arrived so cleanly it felt like an afterthought rather than a crime.
The crowd laughed, delighted.
♪ You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe..
Scarlet billows start to spread.
Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath, babe..
So there’s never, never a trace of red. ♪
He glanced down at his own hands as he sang it: immaculate cuffs, polished rings, fingers steady around the weight of the glass. The corner of his smirk curved a touch deeper. He was all too familiar with ‘scarlet billows’, but tonight they were only lyrics wrapped in a jaunty tune. He prowled along, brushing fingers along the back of a velvet chair, leaning closer to a noblewoman who flushed when his voice dipped lower for the next verse.
♪ On the sidewalk, ohhh Sunday morning..
Lies a body just oozin’ life.
And someone’s sneakin’ ’round the corner…
Could that someone be Mack the Knife? ♪
He leaned into the question with a glint of mischief, angling the microphone toward a flustered patron as though daring her to confess. Laughter rippled through the room and the trumpet answered him with a cheeky flourish. The audience adored it. The danger softened into spectacle and the risk dressed up as charm, all wrapped up in a swinging beat. To them it was only story and seduction.
♪ There’s a tugboat down by the river, don'tcha know..
Where a cement bag just droppin’ on down
Oh, that cement is just, it’s there for the weight, dear…
Five will get you ten, ohhh Mackie’s back in town. ♪
The words hummed pleasantly in his chest. Back in Silvermoon, back in silk instead of shadow. Back where his name drew applause instead of dread. He spun lightly on his heel, laughing mid-phrase as the band swelled brighter. He took a slow sip of his old fashioned between lines without missing a beat, letting the bass continue for a measure before sliding right back in. His voice was fuller now, swagger sharpened by joy rather than the menace the song promised.
♪ Now did ya hear about Louie Miller?
He disappeared, babe..
After drawin' out all his hard earned cash.
And now Macheath spends just like a sailor
Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash? ♪
He let the question hang with a playful lift of his brow, smile easy as the crowd laughed at the wicked implication. Taking a slow sip of his drink, he gave a subtle but knowing shrug. Eyes glinting in the spotlight before he slid effortlessly into the next line, leaving just enough pause to make it feel dangerous, but never real.
♪ Jenny Diver, ho ho, yeah Suky Tawdry,
Ooh, Miss Lotte Lenya and Lucy Brown.
Oh, the line forms on the right, babe,
Now that Macky’s back in town. ♪
He let the names roll off his tongue with playful emphasis, casting glances toward the balcony where a few hostesses laughed and leaned over the railing as if they themselves might answer to them. The room clapped along now, caught in the rhythm, and delighted by the scandal woven into the verse. Stellan spread one hand in mock gallantry at the line forms on the right, inviting the joke, and completely owning it.
♪ I said Jenny Diver, woah Suky Tawdry,
Look out, Miss Lotte Lenya and Lucy Brown.
Yes the line forms on the right, babe,
Now that Macky’s back in town. ♪
“Look out old Macky’s back!”
He held the final refrain just long enough to make it flirtatious instead of foreboding. The band punctuated him with a brassy flourish that sent applause crashing through the cabaret. Stellan stood in the center of it all, smiling broadly, breathing steady, and completely composed. He lifted his glass in a lazy salute, eyes gleaming with something no one in the room could quite name. He placed the microphone back onto its stand as though he hadn’t just walked the length of the room singing about murder with the composure of a man reciting poetry.
They clapped for the song,
they toasted his charm,
and they laughed at the wicked little story.
He savored the irony.
Not because it troubled or haunted him, but because it amused him. How close the melody came to memory, how easily brutality could be dressed in swing and sold as spectacle. He gave them a shallow, elegant bow, “I’ve always appreciated a well-dressed professional.” The laughter came so easily. The band drifted back into ambient rhythm, and Stellan remained among them, the only man in the room who truly understood how little of that song had been fiction.
Manus rose from the chair next to her bath and his clothes dissolved like mist. His body was elven but it moved from another world. There was no more beautiful flesh than his and it only added to the otherness of his presence before Mira. Still, his nudity did not seem explicit. As he walked into the tub the ceramic gently changed shape around her to accommodate him. Flowers burst on the surface to blanket modesty even though his hands slid up her thighs like they were long lost lovers. He faced her intimately, knowing his magic was already sending waves of small pleasure through her bones. Her lower lip trembled, eyes wide but she did not flinch. His thumbs gently massaged the indent of her inner thighs as his long black hair dipped into the water and wiggled like lost ink towards her. In his eyes were the universe. They reflected everything Mira loved and she had to blink to focus that they were just an illusion. The sound of small bells in the distance made her ears feel sweet.
"Have you ever kept reaching for something not knowing what it was? When all else defies this nameless faith? When it cannot be logic nor belief? Belief requires a destination. One I have searched and created worlds for. But none tell me why."
Manus pulled her into his lap and she gently floated to him, straddling as a lover. His dark shadow lowered to her shoulder to bless skin with kisses. Mira gasped for breath feeling the impossible ecstasy of his hands sliding over the curves of her back.
"Perhaps this makes me a bit of a cunt."
Manus knew Mira's lost face couldn't completely follow his vague abstract. His problem was so external sewn into him it was hard to articulate in mortal terms.
"My dinners are an extension of that." he said with a smirk of confession, pulling back to grin at her. He admired her mortal beauty and pet her hair back from her face with all his attention. Her tears flowed freely without willing them to.
"Your future will always be beautiful, Mira. I have seen it."
His eyes held hers without release. "It's because you are in it. Someday you will know this. That everyone you touch…" his hand found hers and kissed her fingertips gently. "Everyone you love only adds to your beauty. Even after they leave you with only tears to mark their passing." He placed her hand over his heart and cupped her cheek with his ancient hand, holding her. "I could tell you your future. If love blooms to a garden of peace. I could give you the power to know this. Or you can kiss me and I can be your friend. I cannot be both. Do you understand?"
The bells sang a sad song around her with dust that sparkled with heavy magic. His eyes rested on her lips, waiting for her to speak her answer.
As a note, the Red Moon event takes place on 21 Feb 2026. This event is being used for prompt advantage and this piece is forward dated to that event.
Valerron was going to hate it. Belidrae smiled to herself as she examined herself in his mirror. Medium length bright honey and cream blonde hair fell down in modest waves, an idle curl here and there, assaulting turn of neck and naked sun-kissed shoulders. The dress was perfect, she thought. A front cut out just beneath the bust, thin straps that tied in a bow at the back of her neck and hidden by her hair, backless—an opening that dropped to her small, and embraced every curve until the skirts fell about her feet. Her left thigh peeked out from beneath a slit that would shift with every step she took. She’d picked an antiqued bronze, something she thought would complement the rest of her and provide a proper contrast to the rest of her features.
As she bent down to carefully pull one heel on a foot and then the other, she minded the darkly painted nails and considered the situation. She’d never been to the Red Moon before, though she’d certainly heard of it. She wouldn’t have called it a place of ill repute, though she could imagine that was precisely what her family thought of establishments like that. On the contrary, she thought people could have benefited from more places akin to. People were wound far too tightly and surely, they’d find just a smidgen more joy if they weren’t so caught up in themselves. If they didn’t take things so seriously.
Within reason, of course. Some things were meant to be taken seriously.
She’d seen a flier for it in the city on one of her extensive shopping trips and in preparation the day before, she’d searched and searched and searched until she found the right dress. The right accessories. The right jewellery. The right shoes. It didn’t have to be society’s version of perfect. It only needed to be Belidrae’s version. As she examined herself in the mirror, turning this way and that, she concluded that it was. Appropriate for the venue and a great way, she surmised, of making a striking first impression.
Belidrae had been good at that. Further more, she’d known she was good at that. She had been so aware of it, in fact, that there was no doubting she’d used it to her advantage with her clientele down south. Although she’d not entertained any such ideas upon her return to Quel’Thalas, it was a hard thing not to think about and not to consider when knowing what she was about to leave for and where she was going.
On her way out the door, Belidrae reached for a thin, sheer golden shawl and drew it around her shoulders. Valerron was definitely going to hate it, quite possibly most of all when Belidrae didn’t return until the wee hours of the morning. But life was for living and she’d spent over a year doing quite the opposite. She was going to make use of her ring, of her illusion, and see what the Red Moon had to offer.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It was a beautiful location, both the general vicinity and the interior. It looked just like what she would have expected a place of that calibre to look in the harbour of their very fair city. Well, perhaps a more contemporary version of it, which was good. Needed, even. The sin’dorei—hell, all elves really—were sometimes too stuck on tradition and old ways. There were places for such things, certainly, but clinging onto the past really did more harm than good. If the rest of the world was changing, their people did, too. Otherwise, the world was simply going to move on without them. And the sin’dorei were much too proud to let that happen.
When she’d been let in, Belidrae had taken her time in appreciating the architecture. She made a mental note of various locations. It was immense, really. Incredibly impressive. Perhaps not something she might have anticipated when she was on the outside waiting patiently for entry. One of the first points of interest had been the bar, not far from the stage, and for some moments, she imagined what kinds of shows might have been performed on it. Burlesque, perhaps. Maybe more exotic pieces.
She didn’t linger overlong there, just enough to procure the first Total Eclipse, something she felt was important when taking in the scenery, and to give some polite exchanges with a dark-haired bartender, who she’d overheard the name of, but given the amount of business they were getting, didn’t seem particularly keen on taking too much of his time. She made a note to come back later and perhaps ask a few more questions about the work they did and his own experiences in his time there.
Was it a nice place to work? Looked like it could be. Probably afforded more protections than she’d ever had doing the work she had before her return. Of course, that was the trouble when one was working for themselves rather than a madame or something else of that nature. Belidrae didn’t consider herself to have a long list of impressive talents, but she had, at the very least, known she was good with people. That still hadn’t changed, even if she had a tendency to meddle and annoy others with the way she something prodded her cute little nose into a situation that otherwise didn’t involve her.
She wouldn’t be doing too much of that tonight. She was only here to scope, to survey, to investigate, to meet the people, and perhaps see if it was a place she might like to see more often. Or a place that she’d potentially fit into. And of course, to indulge in some drinks, plenty of which she suspected were going to be paid for with Valerron’s coinpurse.
The views were beautiful, being able to see far out across the water. Belidrae loved that especially, and she didn’t doubt that it was because she had always held some kind of appreciation for it. The sound, the scent, that little kiss of salt on the air and in her hair, making her seem more like a beached golden nymph rather than an elf. A book she’d read when she was quite young had said that those who longed for the sea harboured great turbulence within themselves. She hadn’t thought much of that at the time, but as she grew older, she felt like she resonated with it more.
Maybe more so because of the way that the Void still tore at her mind, even when she put on her best smile and her best act, trying not to seem like the liability that she very well could have been. Discipline, she’d reminded herself. In the Red Moon, there was enough noise to drown out all of those whispers that otherwise tried to tug at her. Between conversation and music, it was exactly what she needed to have some cohesive thought to herself. Say she did decide to work for such a place, or even anything like it. Valerron wouldn’t let her hear the end of it. She could keep it a secret for a time, but that wasn’t going to last forever. Not when she was living in his estate. Especially not if she had her name plastered on something he might see in public.
He could be swayed if he knew she was making her own coin, however, and not spending his. Maybe. Depending on what kind of work she did. She’d never told him about the clients she took on in the south, knowing very well that if she did, he might start to see it as some kind of failing on his part. After all, Belidrae hadn’t exactly done it because she enjoyed it. It had been purely a necessity. She happened to be good at it and she’d been capable of acquiring some fairly impressive coin. There was no reason not to be pragmatic about it. She didn’t hate it. She didn’t love it. It was a means to an end. But that could change, perhaps. Anything could, after all, and nothing ever really stayed the same, whether someone recognised change or not.
As the night drew on, more of her unspoken questions went answered. On the equally impressive showcase stage, it wound up housing beautiful people. Glamorous people. Made her almost think of a few of the higher society functions she’d attended before returning to Quel’Thalas, when she’d observed the fashion trends for her own studies and design projects. Back when she’d thought she might go that route. A shame she wasn’t still doing that in the present, though the only thing stopping her from picking up needle and thread was herself.
And memories. Memories always stopped her. Like she just wasn’t ready yet, and didn’t know if she ever would be again.
The musical pieces weren’t what she thought they would be, which pleasantly surprised her. Classy, elegant, sensual and alluring. She liked it a lot. There were some faces she recognised, having seen them at other galas, though no one she could say she was personally acquainted with. That was sometimes the problem with going to these kinds of things. Belidrae had gone to more and more alone, which meant hours of silence and just listening in on other conversations, occasional compliments on the wear others would have, and rarely any exchanges that lasted more than a few sentences back and forth.
This was definitely not the same thing as those stuffy soirees the Blood Knight Order had sometimes had where she drank and danced to excess, not at all afraid to charm her way into a conversation with one of her brothers’ comrades. Maybe it was just that Belidrae was out of practise when it came to things like that.
As she’d continued her perusal, she eventually found herself examining past crimson curtains that paved way to indulgent cushions and soft rugs. A place of reprieve, perhaps, away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the cabaret and bordello. She’d lost count of her drinks, though she suspected she was on her third, given that she’d already started forking over her brother’s money without much hesitance. When giving her feet a chance to rest and regain some endurance before she’d take to more exploration, she made the acquaintance of a strikingly handsome man with the kind of blonde hair she might have described as sandy or ashen. Impeccably dressed was the first observation she’d made of him. ’Xylaes’ he called himself, not terribly shy about talking her up. A very charismatic man who definitely seemed to know the ins and outs. Just speaking with him, Belidrae suspected he’d been with the Red Moon long enough to be comfortable.
She tried not to ask him anything too prying, sticking largely to questions regarding if he enjoyed what he did. What his favourite part was. Some of the stories of memorable experiences he had, if he was willing to part with them. Innocent little things like that. She told him what she had told so many others, things of little importance. That she dabbled in seamstressing, though some had given her the affectionate title of ‘lace mistress.’ That she had a few older brothers who served in the various affiliations that seemed to build their peoples’ foundation.
But as she listened and shared what she felt she could, she found herself spending a fair amount of time trying to make him laugh, thinking a stunning man like him could only be more so when he was doing that. Or smiling. Although considering his work, she suspected that he might have done plenty of that. In the end, he served as a very worthy distraction, and if she hadn’t been on her own personal mission, she easily could have wasted no shortage of hours with him.
A part of her thought he might have been able to do the same, but she knew that was the purpose of the role. Some people were paid to make other people believe whatever they wanted to believe. With that in her own background, she took most of it with a very pleasant grain of salt. When she reluctantly took to her feet once more and admitted she had more to look at, he presented her with a card. With it, a cheeky invitation that he liked companionship outside of his work as well.
Companionship. It’d made her laugh a little. It’d made her bare all of those teeth and flash him that coquettish curl of her mouth before she dipped her head to hide a part of her face beneath the waves of her hair.
He was cute. She’d have to give his offer some consideration, and she thought on it more as she eventually made her way back past the curtains, somehow managing to not lose her footing, though Belidrae had never exactly considered herself the most graceful woman. In fact, she might have been a woman who played at elegance and was really a little bit more clumsy than she would have liked to admit to. Eyeing his card a few moments more, she thought about the other information he’d given her. As she carefully slid it down the front of her dress for safe keeping, she thought of the beautiful woman she’d seen on stage offering introductions.
Arandori. She was the proprietor of this grand establishment, and splendid it was. Maybe she would need some extra hands. On a day where there wasn’t a large opening, on a day when it wasn’t filled to the brim with people, she’d have to reach out and see if perhaps they were in need of another pair of helping hands.
But until then, she could continue nosily prying her way into each and every little delightful morsel that the Red Moon had to offer. More coin to spend. More drinks to have. More late hours to spend until she’d undoubtedly make her way back home to an estate where a Farstrider would be most unimpressed with her conduct. And then she’d flash him the flutter of her dark eyelashes and surely he’d forget all about it. She’d always had him wrapped about her finger.
— @daily-writing-challenge
(Tiny Mentions for: @serazhen, @nahisummerhold, @xylaes, and @arandori.)
The Red Moon would be opening its doors in a few hours at its new location near the Silvermoon harbor. After the fall of Dalaran, Xylaes had assumed that chapter of his life had come to a violent end, and he would throw himself into his mercenary work instead. But the news of Arandori opening a new location in Silvermoon City was a temptation he couldn’t ignore. He owed them so much.
He stood in front of the mirror longer than he meant to in his small apartment in Murder Row. His suit hung nearby, a deep charcoal with subtle crimson details woven through the lining, tailored perfectly to his broad form. A pair of polished, sleek black leather dress boots waited beneath the suit, their finish catching the light with a pronounced shine. All of it had cost more than he would have once made in months.
He could still remember a time, not that long ago, when that number would have seemed impossible. He could still feel the cold stone under his spine and the flattened cot that barely softened it, and the air thick with sweat and resentment during the decade he spent behind bars. The way men measured each other by weakness, the way silence only kept you safe if it made others uneasy. Back then, nothing had been made for him, and nothing had been chosen. Nothing had belonged to him except his sentence.
He reached for the dress shirt first. Crisp, white, and smooth under his fingers. He slipped it on slowly, rolling his shoulders once as the fabric settled. It fit perfectly. No pulling at the seams, and no borrowed shape from whoever had previously worn it because it had been made just for him. He fastened the buttons with care and adjusted the collar, glancing at his reflection as if expecting to see the ghost of who he had been.
The man in the mirror did not look like a prisoner.
His eyes, once a golden-green, now deep violet from a power he never asked for, were steady and calm. There had been a time when those eyes had burned with rage rather than mercy, when anger had felt like the only honest thing left in him. Now that the flame was controlled. Not completely gone, probably never gone, but at least mastered. There was no need to prove he could survive anymore, because he already had.
He picked up the jacket next, the lining flashed red as he slipped his arms through. The weight of it settled across his shoulders, the fine tailoring a reminder that this was chosen and not borrowed. He adjusted the lapels, smoothed a hand down the front, and watched the transformation complete itself.
The first time he had worked at the Red Moon, it hadn’t been glamour, it had been survival. No one else would hire him, not with a prison record and certainly not with the rumors he could never escape. The Red Moon had not asked questions. They had offered velvet instead of stone, perfume instead of rust, and gold instead of judgment. He had practiced this craft long before during his time in the military. The way to read a room, to charm and disarm, the way to make others follow his lead without a word. He had learned that intimacy could be curated and managed, and even weaponized if necessary. The job came almost too easy to him.
There had been nights he walked the floor with a smile carved carefully into place, and every touch was calculated and every word measured. He was desire shaped into something safe and contained within silken sheets and soft lighting. He had sold the illusion of closeness while keeping the most fragile parts of himself locked away.
Back then, he wore a lot of borrowed finery, tailored just enough to pass in low light. Tonight, the suit was his. He leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting the open collar to show a little more chest beneath. His reflection didn’t look ashamed, nor did it look desperate, it looked composed and very capable.
He thought about the nights he had laid awake in a cell, staring at a ceiling he could not escape and wondering if that was all he would ever be. A mistake, a cautionary tale, someone people avoided in the streets. He remembered counting breaths just to stay steady, and he remembered the way time stretched and days could feel like months. He also remembered promising himself that if he ever walked free again, he would never live small.
Now he was choosing to go back to the Red Moon. Not because he had to, because he wanted to, and because he could.
He exhaled slowly and reached for his golden cufflinks, fastening them with steady fingers before fully straightening. There was no prison in his posture now. There was only a man who had been broken multiple times and rebuilt himself into something stronger. Xylaes gave his reflection one last look, and a faint, knowing smirk touched the corners of his lips. Tonight, he would step back into the Red Moon not as someone discarded and fading into his own past, but as someone who belonged.
