Day 1 - May 25: Cruel/Beauty
@daily-writing-challenge
Words: 1,032
Out of the darkness, a pale, naked figure appeared before her.
Iantha had drawn the heavy velvet curtains, blocking out the wintery light of Northrend as she stood before the floor-length mirror. One thin beam struck through the gap, cutting through the shadows like a blade, illuminating her willowy form. Motes of dust hung in the air, reminding her that not even the undead minions that kept the ancient tower house in order could cleanse it so thoroughly. It didn't bother her though.
Her mind turned back to her reflection, marred slightly by the tarnished silver of the mirror that was every bit as old as the house itself.
Iantha narrowed her gaze, echoed by the pair of fel-green eyes that levelled their own scrutinising look back at her before lifting to the top of her head.
Perched within the muted violet locks were two horns, almost hidden against the dark backdrop of her bedchamber: black, barbed weapons that swept backwards like twisted taproots. She'd learnt how to care for them properly over the years (thank the Sunwell for the Draenei), but no amount of polish nor decoration could disguise them for what they really were: an unmistakable sign of corruption.
Taking a step forward, Iantha leaned closer to inspect her face, first following the dark, runic tattoos over each eye. They had been the first of many wards that kept her Fel corruption in check, having gotten them soon after the agonising transformation—a shift so painful yet intoxicating, that it had reduced her memory of the immediate aftermath to nothing more than a vague haze. The tattoos themselves probably would have hurt too in any other circumstance, but it was a process she could only guess at.
Further down, two plump, garnet lips stood out from the rest of her mostly-Thalassian features like a red X on a treasure map. They curved slyly at the thought; her lips had always been one of her best features, and she was quietly grateful that they hadn't been twisted by corruption as well. Regardless, it still lurked nearby.
She curled them back into a fierce grimace and opened her mouth slightly. There, four fangs stood like deadly stalactites and stalagmites guarding a cavern entrance. They had been practical, she mused, not unlike a san'layn's own teeth.
"All the better to drink the blood of demons."
The sardonic words sounded loud against the stillness of the shrouded room, but any lingering echoes of it were absorbed by the layers of silk, velvet and stone that made up their little sanctuary. Briefly, her attention flicked to the shape of the canopied bed behind her, draped with gauzy, grey fabric like a wraith. Iantha smiled.
Like him.
The softer sound of a long exhale breezed through her nostrils as Iantha catalogued other changes: darkened hands and feet, each digit tipped with their own curved talon. The subtle bluish-purple cast of her skin beneath the shimmering arcane warding tattoos.
With a dramatic whoosh of air, a pair of great wings spread wide, their breadth spanning perhaps a quarter of the spacious room. Where iridescent, oil slick feathers caught the beam of sunlight, the rest faded into the shadows like her crown of horns above. Folding them again, she tilted one forward into the light, flexing it experimentally where it bent at the apex. There, two long digits and a shorter third perched, taloned in a similar way to her fingers and toes. It looked like the wing of a harpy, or some oversized, ancient bird.
Iantha's nose wrinkled with derision.
They hadn't always been like that—they'd been small and useless, made up of a mess of scrubby spiky feathers, just like any other felblood had. But that was before.
Before she'd foolishly, arrogantly cracked open that crystal to unleash the torrent of souls within.
Before she had turned the essence of each into the power of a life sacrificed. The power of entropy and chaos.
Before she had burned them to nothing, like wildfire through a tinder-dry forest; every leaf, branch and twig fuel for her furnace.
Just as it had been in Outland, every drop of blood in her veins felt like it had been lit ablaze, searing new lines through her flesh, transforming and corrupting further, pushing her deeper into fel's grip.
But, pain sometimes also begets pleasure.
Iantha closed her eyes, focusing on her heartbeat, and the tainted blood that coarsed like lava through her veins.
It only took a fraction of attention now before she could feel the rush of power rising like a dry desert heat before pulling herself back again. That was the problem: by its very nature, chaos refused to be controlled—couldn't be—and this power came with a steep price. A promise of utter annihilation, should she allow it to run rampant. Unchecked. Unfettered.
Even now, she wanted to.
The poisonous green aura licking at the edges of her feathers subsided as Iantha forced the chaotic threat back, willing her blood to cool as much as the Fel would allow. She could still feel the residual heat of it upon her skin though, pleasurable in its ever-present temptation.
Then—
Another sensation—one that could temper, or perhaps distract from the hellfire, even if only for a moment.
The dry, cold air of winter made manifest. A stillness that only the dead, or their stone effigies could achieve.
Then came taste and scent at once: tingling mint, grounded earth root, then the faintly herbaceous notes of peacebloom over a bed of grave dirt. Overhead; cutting mountain wind and glacial snowmelt.
Falonel stepped over the threshold into the room, his lichfire eyes already upon her. He didn't pause or slow his approach, only stopping to wrap his arms around her waist.
"What are you doing, my Rose?"
Even as she stood naked before the mirror, there was no hint of confusion on his face, nor amusement in his voice. Instead, he pressed a kiss into the flesh of her neck, leaving a cool island in its wake. Iantha's gaze found his in the reflection of the mirror, tarnish marks framing them like an old photo. She smiled, nuzzling her cheek against the rough, silvery hairs on his face.
"Thinking of you is all.”
