#juneday72026

[tealribbons]

DWC - 06 June - Day VII - Horrify / Render

[Iɴ ᴀ ғᴏʟᴅᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴇssɪʟʏ ɪɴ ᴛᴡɪɴᴇ, sᴇᴛ ᴀᴛᴏᴘ ᴀ ᴅᴜsᴛʏ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ ᴏғ ᴅʀᴀᴡᴇʀs, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʀᴇsɪᴅᴇs ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀɴ-ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ Bᴏᴏᴛʏ Bᴀʏ. Hᴇʀᴇ sɪᴛs ᴀ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ, ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇss, ɪɴ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ɪғ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅ sᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪɴɢ. Dᴇsᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇs ᴍᴀʏ sᴇᴇᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ's ᴡᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ɪs ᴄᴏɴғɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ sᴜʀᴇ.]

...

By the time you find this, I wonder how different our lives will be. Will we, perhaps, be living in a different home? Will we even still be in Quel'Thalas? I know well that your heart takes you to places so far away, though I have questioned often enough if it is your heart that does or if you are merely avoiding that which seems to cause you no shortage of distress.

I know I have convinced you, persuaded you many times over to humour her. I know what you must think of me for doing as much. If our roles were reversed, I cannot say whether I would take the same approach or not. If it were my parents who tailed after us, wanting to be a part of our lives on such a level, would I have the heart to turn them away? Likely not. I have always had something for them that you have not.

Love.

I know that things are more complicated than they seem, that there are things you have not told me. That you will not tell me. From the very beginning, you have been a man of secrets. I worried, some, when our engagement was decided upon. If the man I was to marry was anything that he seemed. If anything he spoke to me was true, or if he merely let lie after lie after lie drip from his tongue.

I would like to think that by now, I have a much better understanding of who you are, even if there are still so many shadows that embrace you.

There is little doubt that our marriage was not what you had wanted or envisioned. Perhaps you had a mind to choose your own, or, I presume you might not have chosen anyone at all. At least, not in that time. Perhaps not ever. I hope that as our years have passed on and we have encountered so many other things together, that you have not come to resent me for being at your side.

You might have wished to conquer the entire world. If you were a conqueror. You are no such thing, are you. But not complacent either. No dreams of glory or romanticised ideals of perishing on front lines for a greater cause. Some might call you selfish for that. Heartless, even. But I know the truth, and if I do not, then I know the truth that I perceive. For where you have shown a certain coldness to others, to even the rest of the world, you have shown me kindness and understanding.

I suspect that the you which you perceive in a reflection is a very different man from the one that I do. And I imagine our future children will think the very same, though that future may come sooner than you think. I have not told you this yet, but it seems there is some discussion about the markets, the city, that I may be with child. I have not noticed a difference myself, but I would hardly know what to expect and others are sure of it. I will be going for examination to determine the truth of that soon. I hope that it comes with fortuitous news and that you will be just as pleased. But I fear that you may think it is only a representation of traditions and ideals we are expected to uphold, rather than the very symbol of life that we have created with one another.

Until then, though I see you smile so very rarely and even less do you laugh, I hope that you have found some joy with me. For though self-sufficient as you are, you ought not to face the world alone. Even should you feel that it has turned against you or that you have lost your place in it, I hope you will come to realise that you always have a place here with me. In my embrace. At my side. In my life.

As where I thought I might find cruelty and a lack of kindness, you have shown me otherwise. If you have ever questioned it, questioned your worth, questioned your significance, I assure you that my life is all the better for you in it. You have brought me a great many joys. And though we do not say such things to one another, perhaps looking back on this will remind you of something I think you do so much need to hear.

I love you.

You are a man worthy of love. You are a man worthy of mine. You are a man worthy of me.

Yours Always, Ei'riya

He had read it only once to begin with, though as time took its toll, weathered him down, and took from him the things he had felt he connected with, his eyes occasionally looked it over.

Soryk wondered how he had ever been a man who deserved it. Her letter. Her love. Her life. Her devotion. In the same breath, he wondered if that man who existed then still existed in the prominent present. He was certain that man had long since died. Not on the fields of battle. Not for glory. Not for those romanticised ideals Ei'riya had sometimes teased him over.

He had died for nothing, he was certain.

No matter how he questioned it, however, no matter how he turned those sweet and considerate words from his late wife over in his head, Soryk realised that as much as he had in so many years past, he still had no answers and no words at all.

As ever and even in death, she had struck him speechless.

— @daily-writing-challenge

[wraleo]

mini guache painting by Kinko White

Daily Writing Challenge @daily-writing-challenge Day 7

Melody's Wicked End

Melody wasn't the type of girl to sleep well. As her body erupted into the phases of womanhood, so did her restlessness. She often woke up at strange angles in bed as if her flesh wanted to join her mind in all the starry hopeful dreams that pulled her through the night. Sharing with her sibling in their family's cramped cottage was also becoming a problem. Her long legs always accidentally kicked her small sister in slumber, causing wails and sleepy fighting.

The sheets suffocated in the still humid night air. Melody scowled angrily at the black shadow of morning glory blooms hanging their bonneted heads from the stars outside her open window. They were bowed and missed the sparkling promise of ancient starlight blessing and teasing mystery no mortal could know. She wondered about other worlds and yearned for perfect hearts waiting for her eager desire to give hers.

Her mind drifted to Freddy, her father's farmhand, who just started working for them. He had a strong jaw that made her cheeks blush but with the gentleness of youth fresh on his face. His young muscles were already easily competitive enough to a grown man's. She wished he smelled better though. He didn't seem to understand good hygiene after sheering their sheep the day before. When he shook her hand and let it linger too long, the lanolin musk wouldn't wash off easily from her own. Something about this frightened and excited her. She felt violated from the careless disrespect of his stink even though the touch of his fingers filled her with wild thoughts. The urge to punish him for it rose. Angry that she was still thinking about this stinky pretty farm boy, Melody snapped the sheet off and snuck out of the warm bed.

She tripped loudly on all her books in the dark, catching herself on the wall. Books on dragons happen to be the largest in her small collection. As if their lore had to be physically larger than life too. Her favorites were the ones with drawings of handsome elves next to their dragon form. They were meant to be educational so they were anatomically correct and nude for illustration purposes. Her finger would trace the parts of men she had never seen with her own eyes in fear and look longingly at the elegant beauty of women with heavy breasts and lower secrets modest by design, barely an artist's smudge. Fantasies about one of them coming to take her away from the farm and her own troublesome heart occupied all her longing. She would be special and a vicious creature would heel at her feet because fate would bind instant devotion. Her family would see never see her fly away on the back of her beloved to leave the boring small valley. She wouldn't miss the sweet songs of pond creatures and forest bugs. The smell of wet earth and apples fermenting. These beautiful constants only taught her prisons could be beautiful.

There were other books too, all borrowed from the library. Vampires and cryptids and creatures of many types. She wanted to know it all, to know there was more than her frustrating reality. Convinced the one she would give all her love to had to be one of these otherworldly beings and had not yet appeared. Mostly because the selection around her teenage desires was grossly dismal so far.

Melody used these as steps to quietly build to their window. She slipped out letting the shock of damp on her bare legs remind her she was now a wild thing like the night. Waking Freddy would be easy. The barn walls were thin and she knew he stayed up late reading boring books on husbandry and mechanics. Her disgust at his literary tastes repelled her the most. She wondered if his mind was boring. This would have to be tested.

Following the edge of the foxglove garden, Melody tip-toed like a fae in bare feet with her long nightgown bottom bunched in her hand over her knees so the dew would not soak it.

Settling near the large oak to shadow her ghostly figure, she watched the barn door from a distance and began to trill and sing like a bird. She did not know their songs by heart but this did not matter. He should think this was odd. If she saw his confusion and frown looking outside the barn, it would be worth getting her feet wet. She grinned and suppressed audible giggles as she waited for his investigation.

To her delight, Freddy appeared almost instantly. Her mouth opened seeing him shirtless with a weapon in-hand, tense with threat. The metal on the long spear flashed in oil lamplight as she drew in a little gasp. Instantly she started running, determined to make him chase. She trailed her retreat with a few more obviously poor bird sounds.

The hedge of forest on the edge of the field hid her but blocked the moment Freddy alerted a passing Scarlet company of three other men on the nearby road. His face was serious as he conveyed his concerns of livestock thieves.

She ran breathless straight into the dark expanse of a barley field, the tickle up her leg from the plant whipping by as she brought distance between Freddy's pursuit. He would see her in the field dancing under the stars and fall in love. Her plan was working perfectly.

When she paused to wait her brow furrowed at a strange hole in the sky. It was as if a shadow blinked them out in vast swaths. Slowly this defined clearer until with terror she realized this was a huge creature descending upon her. Her mouth dropped open and a small sound escaped her watching the vague outline of a black dragon circle her lazily in curiosity. Huge red eyes narrowed as the magnificent expanse of it nearly landed. Trembling, she began to whimper with awe, unable to move. The first roar it shrieked made her scream and crumple to the ground.

Men's shouts followed and ghastly sounds of ripping flesh filled the humid dark. Melody cried while trying to make herself small. Despair had settled her to quiet when she knew the silence meant they were all dead.

The crunch was sickening. Sounds of the dragon eating had her shaking so hard she could no longer think. Looking was impossible, her eyes still squeezed shut tight. Thoughts of her own death consumed her. She screamed when she opened them and a naked elf was squatting down with her, wicked eyes observing with irritation.

He was covered in remnants of gore, with a horrible handsomeness that curled her expression into confusion. This made him look scarier and more cruel. He didn't feel alone, either. Shadows like imploring snakes curled around her body in indifferent observation. Her breath hitched into hiccups, sniveling in misery.

"Please don't hurt me!" she begged.

The elven man huffed with pissy disgust, looking at her very strangely. He spoke in common with a thick elven accent, words hissed like he still had a serpent's tongue.

"You lured me like bait. Did they see me overhead and decide to use you to lure the beast?" he accused with his teeth bared. She did not answer, grief and shock silencing. "But I am only hunting for wicked men tonight. Not little girls."

He stood slowly, hovering above her, thinking of his mate and their own seed of a child. "This is not mercy. My child will not feed on innocence. She will learn what your kind cannot." Leonardo backed away slowly to ready himself for transformation and flight but her defiance stopped him.

"No." Melody shouted after him with a sob. She knew Freddy was one of the dead. Knew that this guilt would slowly destroy her. Seeing the beautiful wicked man of her dreams look at her that way spurred her to fury. He turned, eyes flaring with narrowed waiting.

"No." she repeated, clearer despite her shaking. She stood and addressed the being with a heaving chest, unable to do anything but fight. "Dragons are all wicked. Your child will be too!" she added like a curse. It made her feel powerful, like she could lose her mind and be full of magic by wishing it so.

The red glow increased in intensity at her words. Leonardo made swift connection to her with a mean snatch and sunk his teeth into her tiny neck with efficiency. Her life drained in a rush and tasted unpleasantly unripe. She was fruit that should have grown longer and Leonardo felt only sour dissatisfaction from her kill. Nothing in his stomach settled right anymore.

He dropped her in the dew and transformed into a dragon, scanning over body parts leaking into the barley grass filling the air with sweet trampled leaf and rancid blood. His clawed weight sunk into the field as he snatched the body of the young man that threw the first spear through his leathered wing. He hung like a limp doll as he flew off back to Tristan's tower.

When Leonardo arrived and dumped him on the terrace, no one was around. His mate's proximity to Roval bothered him easily in his already ruined mood. The shower was a pout of denial. Normally he would present the blood of his hunt on his body for his mate but he didn't want her to have any of the girl's blood. It bothered him, the entire encounter. He regretted her kill in a way that unsettled him deeply.

She did not appear interested in what he brought home and he could hear laughter from Roval's room. He bared his teeth openly to no one as he walked back out to the terrace. With effort he removed the heart of the human and put it on a tray he grabbed from Tristan's wine and burst back into Roval's room again without care. His shadows conjured a tight rendering of elegant elven wear, hair curls separated still by the steam of the shower.

He sat down on an nearby lounge uninvited in a languid slouch, feasting and picking on the heart like it was a roasted chicken in a pub.

Roval was propped up in his recovery bed, sharing sandwiches Ahnariel made as a snack. Both paused with surprise at his return.

Roval grinned with amusement at his uncle. His bad moods were entertaining now. Ahnariel had warned him about the purpose of this hunt. "Is that a wicked heart?" he asked.

Leonardo glanced at Ahnariel while he licked his fingers messily. He brooded for a bit with drama before answering.

"I don't know. I'm the wicked one. And I eat whatever the fuck I want." he replied with a nasty rebuke, not offering a bite.

[riesling-vinesong]

June DWC - Day 7 Horrify/Render

A large stewing pot simmered over an old and worn, but well maintained, stove that Ries knew kept a steady temperature better than some of the more modern ones. She trimmed the "grapes" off the ends of the rockwrack she had scooped up off the beach in the early dawn, and piled the rest of the seaweed's fronds into the roiling water to cook down into a mushy paste. It didn't take long for her alchemy kitchen to smell like brine and hot pond water.

The ventilation was great in here, so that didn't stay bothersome for long. She smiled a bit as a new, up-beat and brassy song started on the record she'd picked up from a little shop she'd stopped by on her trip to Booty Bay. That vacation had been a gift that continued to give! The scratching of her pencil was all but drowned out as she rendered the strange shape of the algal bladder pod on her paper, adding it to her anatomical reference drawings of rockwrack leaves and stems. The water-warped pages before this one were filled with graphite and watercolor sketches of the botanicals she had found beneficial for her practice and the recipes for custom salves made for specific client treatment plans.

Her mother had been the one to insist on drawing lessons, and the act of putting pencil to paper would always bring back fond memories. Of course, she also had many other pages of drawings of this seaweed in particular in her book, but she needed to have a bunch of options to pick the best one if she was ever going to publish her work someday.

Sure, it'd been twenty years since she'd had the thought to put together an official manuscript. That didn't mean it wouldn't happen eventually. Things just kept coming up.

The tip of her paring knife sliced through the outer shell of the squishy pod, allowing her to get to the gel inside. Ries squeezed the goo out into the glass collection jar she had purchased for this purpose and rubbed what was left on her fingers into her cuticles. Her sister, Syrah, would be horrified. She had viscerally hated anything sticky, gooey or slimy on her skin. This, she knew, would have been her hell had she survived the scourge. But, it was an excellent salve for skin hydration, but she could mix in concentrated essences of other herbs to make pretty fantastic topical balms that had positive effects. Sanguithorn and peacebloom helped to relax the muscles, winter's kiss provided a many hours long sensation of cooling and fire lily did the same with warmth.

A single salve pot took six or seven pods to fill. It was nice that she only needed a few to send home with clients this week. The rest of the seaweed she'd use in other formulations — it was a great ingredient for the face mask cream she liked to slather on at the end of a long day to keep her complexion bright. Her father used to join her for her skin care routine in the evenings. Every now and again she'd catch Syrah doing his nails. Retired gangster or not, Ries was never sure if he had ever fully given that lifestyle up after having children, no one ever doubted how much he loved his daughters.

A slow, warbling jazz track started up as she tossed the empty bladder shell into the bubbling pot. As lonely as it could be being the last one left in her family, she still had an awful lot to live for. Like her manuscript — eventually —, new clients at the Shielded Mind and friends she had yet to meet.

@daily-writing-challenge

[kharrisdawndancer]

DWC June 2026 - Day 7 - Horrify / Render - Mesandrèaux

It was about as unglamorous as she thought she could get: still dressed in her clothes from the previous night, sitting on the edge of the bed in the hostel's communal dormitory, holding her head. She'd awoken moments ago to someone gently shaking her awake.

~~~

"You're having a nightmare. Time to wake up." The Lightforged draenei's tone was supportive and concerned. Messy had blinked awake, but to vision that swam and blurred, blackening at the periphery. Oh. _Oh_. She sat up on the edge of the bed with the other woman's helpful hand and took deep breaths. Not a nightmare. Not a hangover, no matter what it looked like. No, it was the aura she had come to expect when Sight was impending. Her stomach was tight, her head was pounding, and her heart fluttered with a lingering palpitation. The woman sat with her a few minutes, until she was such Messy was stable, then provided a wash basin and a towel in case she would need to vomit. She apologized for needing to leave, promising to check on the nightborne later as she headed toward the door. She thoughtfully kept the lights off--the rest of the occupants had left for the day already. Messy had wanted to tell her that it wasn't a hangover, that she hadn't even drank any alcohol the night before--though she had smelled of it after getting splashed an enthusiastic fan at the fencing exhibition match last night. Messy wasn't sure why she felt shame that the other woman would think she was a drunkard--there were plenty of youths who stumbled into the hostel late at night inebriated. She just hadn't been one.

She swallowed hard and turned her face up, opening herself to her Goddess and silently promising to do Elune's bidding. Sight struck her immediately, freezing her in her seat and her eyes glowed with unfocused Light appearing before her in runes and cryptic symbols. Her mind did not see the same divinity manifested. She saw great blue fungal caps creating a canopy over ethereal machines and works. She saw familiar wrapped figures moving about their business. Ethereal arcane batteries piled high. Conduits thrumming with power arcing through them. It felt purposeful. It felt imminent. A wrapped head turned toward her point of presence. It started toward her, gaining momentum with the snap and rustle of arcane power so associated with them. A foreign moon--White Lady--hung in the sky and brightened, drawing her awareness, and pulled her toward it; rocketing her perspective out of the vision. Messy collapsed over her legs and felt too heavy in her body. She trembled, unable to do more than focus on her breath for more than a minute. When she had gathered herself, it wasn't the basin she reached for, but her sketchbook and colored pencils.

~~ "Ahhh, that looks like Naigtal. I have never seen those particular mushrooms elsewhere. I have fought there, though it was a Legion world, not Ethereal." The Lightforged gently corrected, looking at the rendering Messy had put to paper. She had been true to her word and returned to check on the young Priestess of Elune.

Messy looked over to her slowly to keep her head from feeling like it was going to rupture. Her voice was hoarse and her shoulders tired. "This is today." "No," the draenei shook her head and smiled reassuringly, "the Legion is vanquished and the Ethereals have no presence there. Rest." Mesandrèaux considered fighting, trying to warn, trying to convince. But the simple confidence of the other woman was heavy and familiar. So, her own pulse felt like it was beating against the inside of her skull, she simply answered, "Oh," and laid back down on the bed.

@daily-writing-challenge

[elutia-morningstar]

Day Seven DWC 6/6/26 Horrify/Render

Elutia pulled herself up that night at the Silvermoon port, but her heart was heavy. It‘s been weeks since her run-in with Lady Ravenwood, and she found out who Mellanthios is. She tries to reach out to him, to locate him, but it is as if he has disappeared into the very void itself. Perhaps he had. A part of her wants to hunt him down; another knows if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.

She knew he would reach out when he was ready. Lady Ravenwood said as much. Now she felt as if she were always looking over her shoulder. Waiting. Wondering. She isn’t scared, of course. She doesn’t fear death. Truthfully, she didn’t think he wanted her dead.

Unless, perhaps, he has also been brainwashed. Perhaps that is the long game, for him to be the one to render the actual retribution for what happened to Dementri Ravenwood. Frankly, she doesn’t know, and the not knowing is driving her crazy.

Weeks go by, and she throws herself into her work with those trying to save Silvermoon and the world as a whole. Some of what she sees is enough to horrify even the most veteran of fighters. It feels like the more they eradicate, the more that comes. She is exhausted, pushing herself to her limits. Many times dropping from exhaustion. But no matter how much she does, how much she tries to keep herself busy. He is always in the back of her mind.

So she returns home, the last place she saw him. Perhaps he would show up there. Though if everything she knew is so, he will have completely accepted the dagger. She isn’t sure how powerful that will make him, especially since he is trained heavily by Lady Ravenwood, who is almost an anomaly in herself. There is no telling how she has enhanced him or how long she has been training him. It had to have been years, probably from the moment she received the letter from Emperria.

She makes it home and pauses in front of the door, taking a deep breath. The house is dark. Most of the occupants are gone. They were also a part of the war effort that she had just left. She enters the house, able to see well even in the dark. She makes her way to the living room and doesn’t even bother turning on a light, and sits down with an exhausted sigh.

A voice, soft and deep, breaks the silence of the room, making her tense immediately and on guard. But it is a voice she recognizes.

“Welcome home, Grandmother. I think you know why I am here.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[thecozykirin]

DWC June 2026 Day 7: Horrify

@daily-writing-challenge

( TW for execution and death )

( If anyone is curious about what Sybil keeps dipping into! I like to use Gaelic as an inspiration for old Drust / Old Common. It is a genuinely beautiful language that I’ve been putting in effort into learning as well! )

The crowd thickened near the Ashvane yard, pushing toward the harbor square like a tide with nowhere else to go. Dockhands, fishwives, and children balanced on their fathers' shoulders gathered together, all craning necks to see the timber scaffold where three nooses swung in the salt laced wind, heavy and patient. Three pirates from a crew that had been raiding merchant ships now stood there, stripped of their coats and boots with their hands bound behind their backs with tar-stiffened rope. Merrick walked ahead, broad-shouldered and easy in the press of bodies, parting the crowd with nothing more than the way he carried himself. "Oi, look at that." He jerked his chin toward the gallows, where the hangman was adjusting the length of the first noose. "Sloppy rigging, that is. Rope's too long by 'alf. Bloke'll bounce like a fish on a line 'fore 'e goes." He laughed, a short, barking thing, and elbowed Ridley's arm. "Bet you five silver the fat one pisses 'imself.” Ridley didn't answer. He was walking a half-step behind to the left, his usual position. His pale gray eyes swept the crowd out of habit—counting exits, noting the pair of guards flanking the gallows, and cataloguing the pickpockets working the edges of the mob. A boy no older than eight was lifting a merchant's coin purse near the fish stalls. Ridley watched him palm it and vanish between legs like a rat through a drain grate. Dampwick-born, he had to be. Merrick was still talking. "Should charge admission, they should. Only free entertainment this city gives, an' they don't even do it proper—" The first pirate was shoved forward and the crowd roared. Somewhere behind Ridley, a woman cheered and a man threw a half-rotten cabbage that struck the condemned man's shoulder with a wet thwack. Ridley glanced back, and he saw that Sybil had stopped walking. She stood three paces behind them, small and still in the press of bodies, her shawl pulled tight around her narrow shoulders. The crowd jostled around her as though she were a stone in a river, and she did not move, she didn’t even blink. Her mismatched eyes were focused not on the pirates, but the nooses. The hangman pulled the lever and the trapdoor dropped with a bang that cracked across the square like a pistol shot and the crowd erupted. Sybil flinched as if she'd been struck across the face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her fingers, poking from the frayed ends of her shawl, had gone white at the knuckles. Ridley saw it happen in pieces. The way her breathing changed—shallow and rabbit-fast, her chest barely moving under the wool. The way her eyes went glassy and distant, fixed on something that wasn't the pirate jerking at the end of his rope but something older, something further away, something strung up in a village square in Drustvar where the trees grew crooked and the fog never fully lifted. "Oi, Rid!" Merrick was grinning, his full attention on the spectacle. "Told you—fat one's next, watch 'is face, 'e's already gone green—"

The second trapdoor banged open and  Sybil made a sound that was so small, it was barely one at all—it was more like the air was being pressed from her lungs by a hand she couldn't see. Her knees buckled, just slightly, just enough that she swayed, and her lips began moving in fragmented whispers that were lost under the crowd’s jeering. "—mo dheartháiríní, Rowan, Thane, a stóirín, don't be lookin', don't be—" Her hand came up to her own throat and pressed against the collar as if she could feel a different rope there entirely.

Ridley moved without thinking about it. He didn't glance at Merrick for permission, his body simply turned and closed the distance between them in two strides, his long dark coat cutting through the crowd like a curtain being drawn. He stepped directly in front of her and blocked the gallows from her sight as completely as a wall. "Oi." His voice was low, barely above a murmur. "Don't look. Yeah? Eyes on me. Right 'ere."

She didn't seem to hear him. Her gaze was somewhere past his chest, past the fur-trimmed collar of his coat, past Boralus entirely. Her lips were still moving—names, fragments, old Drust prayers tangled with Common like briars through a fence. "—Da were first, they took Da first, an' Mam were screamin', Bran were cryin', he were only—an' Alaric, Alaric had the blood comin' out of 'im, out of his belly, an' they dragged him up anyways, they dragged him up with the—"

"Sybil." Ridley's gloved hand came up and hovered near her shoulder without touching. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. He could hear the third trapdoor bang behind him and the crowd screamed approval. 

Sybil's whole body jerked like a marionette whose strings had been yanked. "Máthair," she whispered. "Máthair, tá brón orm, ní raibh mé in ann—"

Something hot and ugly twisted in Ridley's chest. He'd seen people die. He'd watched Merrick break fingers, burn ledgers, and put a knife through a man's hand for shorting them on a shipment. None of it had felt like this—like watching someone drown in air, standing right in front of him, small enough that his shadow swallowed her whole. He took her by the shoulders gently—more gently than his hands knew how to be, the leather of his gloves creaking with the effort of not gripping too hard. He turned her bodily, steering her away from the gallows, away from the crowd, away from the roaring and the creak of taut rope and the wet gurgling sounds a man makes when the drop doesn't break his neck clean. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on, we're goin'. We're walkin'. That's it." He kept himself between her and the spectacle, one hand on her shoulder, the other hovering at her back without quite landing. He guided her down a side alley between a chandler's shop and a sail-maker's, where the crowd thinned and the noise dulled to a muffled roar, and the air smelled like tallow and old canvas instead of sweat and harbor brine. Sybil's legs gave out halfway down the alley but she didn’t fall because Ridley caught her, his arm hooking around her waist before her knees hit the cobblestones. She weighed almost nothing, it was like catching a bundle of sticks wrapped in wool. He lowered her against the chandler's wall, crouching in front of her. Her breathing was wrong. Too fast, too shallow, catching in her throat like hiccups. A thin line of blood had started from her left nostril—bright, and startling red against her freckled skin, and her hands were shaking so badly that the tremor traveled up her wrists and into her forearms. "'Ey. 'Ey, look at me." Ridley's voice had gone even quieter. He pulled off one glove with his teeth and, after a beat of hesitation that cost him visibly, pressed the back of his bare hand against her cheek. Her skin was ice-cold. "You're in Boralus. Yeah? Boralus. Not—wherever you were. You're 'ere. Alley smells like shit, seagull's screamin' up there like it's bein' murdered, an' there's a drunk bloke asleep in that doorway. See 'im? That's Boralus. That's now."

Sybil's eyes slowly focused. The lavender one first, then the brown, dragging back from wherever her memory had taken her. "They didn't—" Her voice cracked, thin as thread. "They didn't drop clean, Ridley. None of them dropped clean. Alaric were already dyin' from the shot an' they hung him anyways an' he—hhh—" A sob hitched in her chest but didn't fully form. Her hand came up and gripped the front of his coat, fingers twisting in the dark fabric as the blood from her nose reached her upper lip.

Ridley fished a rag from one of his belt pouches. It wasn’t exactly clean, but it was at least cleaner than the street—and pressed it to her face with a clumsiness that betrayed how unused his hands were to gentleness. "'Old that there. Tilt your 'ead forward, not back. Forward. There you go."

Sybil obeyed, but her grip on his coat didn't loosen. If anything, her fingers tightened, as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly gone liquid and dark. Her breathing was still ragged, but slowing. The tremors came in waves now instead of one continuous shudder. "I ran," she whispered into the rag. "I ran an' I left them. I were a doe an' I ran through the trees an' I didn't stop an' when I came back they were—still up there. Still hangin'. The crows were already—"

"Sybil."

"—already at Bran's—"

"Sybil." His free hand found the back of her head, rough fingers sliding through the choppy sandy hair, and he held her there, holding her at a fixed point. An anchor dropped in a storm she couldn't swim out of alone. "You was one girl against a whole village gone mad. You'd 'ave died with 'em.”

Sybil's face crumpled and the sound she made was barely human—it was a thin, keening thing, muffled against his knuckles and the rag. Her shoulders curled inward until she was folded almost in half. Ridley stayed exactly where he was. Crouched on the wet cobblestones, knees aching, with one hand on the back of her head and the other holding the rag to her bleeding nose. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He barely breathed. Behind them, muffled by brick and canvas, Merrick's laugh rang out over the crowd like a bell. Ridley's jaw tightened and he shifted his weight, putting his back more fully to the alley's mouth, and let his shadow fall over Sybil like something he could give her when he had nothing else.

She cried for a long time. Quiet, airless sobs that shook her frame and left dark spots on his coat where her tears soaked through. At some point her whispers slid entirely into Drust—a Athainne, glac aire díobh, coinnigh solas orthu, tá siad beag, tá siad chomh beag. Ridley understood none of the words but sat with them anyway, steady and silent and unmovable, until the shaking finally slowed and her grip on his coat loosened from a death-clutch to something merely desperate. "M'sorry," she breathed at last. Her voice was raw and small. "M'sorry, I didn't mean to, I just heard the—an' I were back there an'—"

"Don't." He pulled the rag away and checked the bleeding, seeing it had stopped and so he tucked it back in his pouch. "Don't apologize for that. Not to me. Not to anyone." He said it with the same gruffness he said everything, but something underneath it had shifted. Something he didn't have a name for and wouldn't have admitted to under torture.

Sybil looked up at him. Her face was blotched and swollen, her mismatched eyes red-rimmed, and her nose pink with a drying smear of blood still on her upper lip he'd missed. She looked wrecked and very young and very old at the same time, the way only grief can make a person look. "You see things too, so," she said quietly. "Don't you. Things you can't unfind in your head."

Ridley's expression shuttered. He stood, offering her his hand—bare, scarred across the knuckles, and rough-palmed. "Can you walk?"

She took it. Her fingers were still cold, still trembling faintly, but they wrapped around his hand and held on. "Aye," she said. "If you stay atween me an' the noise."

He pulled her up and steadied her when she swayed. He didn’t let go of her hand immediately, though he would later tell himself he simply forgot. "I'll walk you back the long way," he said. "'Round the yards. Y’won't 'ave to pass it again." Sybil nodded. She wiped her face with the heel of her free hand and pulled her shawl tighter, and when they stepped out of the alley into the gray Boralus light, Ridley positioned himself on her left side—between her and the gallows, between her and the crowd, between her and every ugly thing the city had decided to celebrate that afternoon.

[nahisummerhold]

DWC June 2026 - Day 7 - Horrify/Render

“That smells delicious,” Jes’champe said as he walked into his kitchen and smirked at Nahi who was in short shorts, a tank top and an apron with no shoes. He had gotten to play hero when her stove went out while she was cooking brunch for her and Irenthalas. While she was trying to figure out what was wrong Irenthalas had reached out to him to come and help figure out what was wrong. Which was clearly an attempt at matchmaking as the two men had known each other long enough for Iren to know that he didn’t know how to fix anything, that is what repairmen were for. 

The horrified look on her face as he stepped through a portal on her patio was amusing and he didn’t hide that fact in the least. Her step-father had explained why he was there but the look on her face turned into a scowl and turned it on Iren instead of him at least. As it was clear Nahi had been working hard on the dishes so he suggested that they just move everything to his estate. Her beautiful violet eyes rolled but she capitulated when Iren started picking up ingredients, and that it would be a shame to waste everything. 

She had been practical and agreed, even if she wasn’t happy about it, so they all ferried the brunch makings to his kitchen, and a pitcher of sangria had somehow ended up on his white shirt, the fact that she bumped into it as they came through the portal was a poorly veiled way of letting him know she was unhappy with him for interfering. The excuse that she must have tripped coming through the portal was a blatant lie, Nahi was too graceful to trip over nothing, plus she managed to move away just enough to get nothing on herself. 

Nahi looked at Jes’champe, she had mostly forgiven him for his interference, it wasn’t his fault Iren still hoped that the two of them would begin to see each other, felt it was the perfect mix as he cared for them both. She loved her step-father but they were going to have words when alone again, because she wasn’t looking to become involved with anyone, let alone Jes who she knew was not opposed to them deepening their connection. 

The bacon on the stove was rendering out, she had to start it again as it was what was on the stove when it went out, luckily nothing else was started when it happened. “Thank you, and tell your chef that I am grateful for the use of his kitchen.” Yes, she ignored the fact that it was Jes’s house, she was well aware that the kitchen was the chef’s domain and Jes was afraid to overstep as his chef was a treasure. Nahi spent a lot of time in the kitchen when she stayed, she adored the chef and he would teach her things he was working on. 

She thought to apologize to him for the sangria that she had absolutely spilled on him on person, but she really wasn’t sorry for it and, even though she hated lying, it had made her feel better. The new stove was an expense she hadn’t been ready for so maybe she would call Key and see if he could fix it, if anyone could it was him, and she knew he would not gouge her on the price. Was it childish to take her frustration out on him? Most definitely, but he could take it, he was a big boy. 

Moving behind her, he made a cup of coffee just the way she liked it, and set it next to the stove for her, then followed with a melon mimosa. “Do not worry about it, you know he likes you enough that he won’t mind you being here cooking.” Leaning against the counter far enough away from her so that he wouldn’t end up with more food on his clothes, intentionally or not. “You should come by and tell him yourself, or just stay over. We could order dinner later.” 

She already had tension in her shoulders and his suggestion made that worse. “I can call my massage therapist in, let you relax a bit after what happened.” They had known each other long enough that he knew the things that would convince her to stay. 

Then the other thing that would help was Iren and he decided to do so, “Yes Nahi, you should. If I had an extra room in the pool house I would roll out the red carpet, but as Jes already has, it is covered.” He smiled winningly at her, “We can make sticky caramel brownies later.” 

After HoT Fest Nahi had planned on taking a few days to just relax, but her mind wouldn’t settle, so she had gone up to the Tasty Pastry to work on Fire Fest plans, and her performance. This brunch with Iren was supposed to be her time to decompress and then the stove, nothing at all was coming together enough for her to find some peace. She on,y had to make it through Fire Fest, then she had nothing to do until the Gala, unless the sky fell again, which was possible. 

At the appearance of the coffee and mimosa next to her, she smiled up at Jes and offered a heartfelt smile, “Thanks.” He looked good, really good, the light blue shirt she had spilled the sangria on had been replaced by a black one, and he knew she liked how he looked in black. There wasn’t anything in his closet she didn’t like him in, the man had exceptional taste.

Her first instinct was to turn him down, even when Iren spoke, he was on her list for this whole situation, but one of the things Nahi loved about when Jes would ask her to go with him for an event, was getting to spend time on his estate. In trying to put distance between them, she had to admit she missed some of the benefits, the way he took care of her was one of them. 

“Sure, I can stay until tomorrow.”

Maybe one day of doing nothing wouldn’t hurt.

(@daily-writing-challenge )

(Mention of @keyalinvendel @jeschampe-vidroth ) (Divider by @uzmacchiato )

[raeflameveil]

day 7 - render

read more about this week's daily writing challenge here! @daily-writing-challenge word count: 1602 content warnings: drug use (light, before on-screen events) summary: The age-old question of "how did it get this way?" doesn't scare Rae as much as it used to. She doesn't mind that.

(ooc note: this marks the first dwc i've FULLY completed (LET ALONE ON TIME??)!!!! thank you so much to those who commented, liked, reblogged and gave feedback this week, i love you i love you i love you. HOORAY SEE U NEXT TIME <3)

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Raenessa was certain of very little in life, these days, but as she laid on her back in the spire she'd claimed for an outdoor reading nook in her new home, listening to the ocean waves crashing against the sand, it very quickly settled onto her shoulders that she was in a state of becoming.

Granted, that could just as much be the surprisingly-excellent weed that Elrosil grew talking, but little else had felt quite so true, recently. As starkly accurate. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun-warmed stone at her back and shoulders, the faint aches in various points in her body where old pains refused to unlatch fully, the restless feeling in her chest that screamed go, go, go, go at every opportunity. She felt every bit of it - and, for once, she wasn't afraid.

She couldn't help but look back on the course that her life had taken in the last year or so; even before the Voidstorm hit, there had been a shift in the air once she'd managed to land strong, back-to-back opportunities with Eerie. They'd both felt it, feverishly discussing plans and dreams, and what was next. They'd stopped only looking at the armor and kits they'd like in windows, and started being able to actually budget for them. They'd "made it", in their own way - and at the time, that'd meant anything on a spectrum from "we can afford a two-window apartment" to "we can afford to move out of the Row to elsewhere in Silvermoon".

Granted, they'd had to make a few questionable decisions to fully secure that - who didn't, after all? - but between Rae's work as Preyseeker, and Eerie adapting shockingly well to becoming Illidari… well, it really hadn't been so bad, had it? Sure, there was a massive, swirling storm over their homeland for a time that promised endless destruction and death. Sure, said day job for Rae had consisted of "get yourself into mortal peril at least four times a week for the sake of an elaborate payout" and "try not to surrender your own pain and despair to the man using it as a power source", but it'd been worth it, financially, until she'd gotten this job with the Cast Company.

And then, she'd gotten said job with the Cast Company. By all that was holy, Rae couldn't even begin to quantify how much that decision had upended so much of her life; for decades, she'd been a know-nobody, low-coin merc, grabbing whatever jobs came up and striving to ensure her basic survival. Yet, somehow, she'd landed this - and with it, she'd pulled in a stable income, a place to live, a gagglefuck crew of people that she… well, Rae wasn't sure if trusted was the right word. Maybe appreciated. Yeah. That was better. People that she appreciated enough to expect they'd keep her alive, and she would do the same for them in turn. It'd pushed her towards a man who both her sister and her friends had called "her healthiest attachment in ages", and challenged her enough that she'd sent a letter to the strongest arcanist she knew for mentorship. (The fact she managed to get accepted, still, for such a position? Barely conceivable.)

More and more, she'd done this back-and-forth dance with the person she knew herself to be, and had been for decades: in and out of the clear knowledge of being that mercenary, the street kid, the punk, the arsonist, the cutthroat, the sniper, the attack dog, and the much-less clear idea of being the scholar, the spellblade, the trickster, the strategist, the friend, the one capable of genuine laughter. She still smoked like a chimney, though: that much was consistent, no matter what happened.

Eerie had changed, too - more than just the sense of being a devourer, of course. She'd become calmer, more level-headed, more empathetic, more honest. Rae had watched as her sister embraced all of the warmer parts of her own personality, instead of shoving it away: they didn't fight as often, now. It rarely became a serious, bare-knuckle brawl; it felt more like they either gave each other space to process, or sat down to hash it out. Briefly, Rae was tempted to question who this new person was that wore her sister's face, and what she'd done with Eerie. But, she recognized that reflection, too: the cool-tempered watcher, ensuring her sister remained out of harm's way. It was the role she'd served dutifully for decades, looking out for Eerie, and one she knew she'd pick up again in a heartbeat if fate so asked.

What a change, all of it. What a twist to the story, after all.

Rae smiled to herself, a faint echo of the fuller gesture, and cracked her eyes open to watch as the last traces of the sun disappeared below the horizon line in the distance. Soon, the world would grow dim and quiet in the late-spring evening, and maybe - if she got lucky - she may see fireflies, blinking their way through existence in that quietude.

She'd had enough time to ponder this - the art of becoming, and the reality of being - when the sound of faint footsteps on the floating stairway caught her attention. She turned to look over her shoulder, and Eerie appeared, carrying a platter of food in hand that she set down on the spire floor as she settled in next to her sister.

"Brought you snacks," Eerie offered. "Figured you'd have munchies, if you were done mopping the laundry."

"I see that." Rae snorted, picking up an apple from the tray and taking a bite. "It wasn't even that bad, Eerie, you know we've had worse." She shouldered her sister, ignoring the faint sting from her healing sunburn, and Eerie let out a little huff in reply.

"I know that. But that shit was potent, Raerae, I could smell it from ground level. You sure you weren't sold, like, industrial-grade stuff?"

"Nope. Which is why I bought it."

"You're gonna kill yourself, one of these days," Eerie sighed.

"Eh, we all die eventually," Rae retorted, taking another bite of her apple. "Might as well enjoy the ride to the grave, else you're just boring."

"Let no one ever say that's what we were," Eerie muttered solemnly with a nod. "Alright. Fine. Just be careful, yeah? Don't go falling and eating shit. You'll die from this height."

"Sure, sure. Hey - do you ever think about… the way life is? How it just kinda pushes you into becomin' something else? Story changes, your road goes different, and then before you knew it… boom. Different person." Rae looked over, watching her sister for a long moment.

"I don't think about it," Eerie replied thoughtfully. "At least, not in detail. You know me: if I did that, I'd drive myself absolutely nuts. More than usual. But, yeah - sometimes, I guess? Definitely the 'different person' thing."

"Tch - yeah, no joke. Guess it's been on my mind, y'know? How everything flipped onto its feet and yet went completely batshit, all at the same time. How we're all… constantly in this process of becoming something, even if we don't know why, or what it'll be just yet. Story's ever spinning, and shit."

"Damn. Okay, poetics," Eerie laughed. "I mean - yeah, makes sense. You've kinda given your life a whole fuckin' overhaul, Rae. I'd be more worried if you didn't think about this, every once in a while. I guess it's kinda like cooking, in a way?"

"What?" Rae looked over, one eye narrowing in blatant confusion as Eerie snorted.

"Like rendering fat off pork, or something. You do it to change the flavor, make the meat more tender. Center it, in a lot of ways. Think we've hit that point where we're finally rendering out the fat."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

Silence passed between the two as they thought that idea over, and soon enough, Rae looked skyward, lips pursed at a small angle off-center as she ran the comparison. Sure, it was true enough: Rae had fought for this, hadn't she? Fought for a free and clear opportunity to just… be what she wanted? Free of expectations, and entirely with the ability to choose for herself.

She didn't think it would actually happen. She always figured she'd die how she lived: scrabbling for the basest sense of security, and of truth to it all. Remembered by few, loved by even fewer, forgotten eventually by all. But, the evidence to the contrary was directly in front of her, and the reality of that set in with a startling clarity that shook her the rest of the way from her high.

"Guess we'll let it render, then," Rae mused quietly. "See what comes from it."

Eerie slung an arm over her sister's shoulders with a nod. "Yeah. I'm sure it'll be good, Raerae. It's about time it was." The curiosity about what was to come - what would be next - was something that had followed both Flameveil sisters from their youth. The drive to see things through to the end, never leave a story unfinished, to watch, and watch, and watch, and revel as the world changed and they moved to accommodate so much new knowledge so quickly. Rae, herself, had never dismissed it; it was a valuable asset, dreaming of what was to come. She wanted to know where the story would lead - both for herself, and for those she cared for.

So, hearing the hope in her sister's voice, Rae couldn't help but agree with that assessment. "We will," she murmured quietly. "I bet it's gonna be something amazing."