#novemberday52025

[varistanveynesunmourne]

The Envoy

November DWC 2025 Day Five: Sunshine/Morbid

@daily-writing-challenge

TW: mind control, murder, blood

Nycassia hadn’t known what she was waiting for, walking the twilight beaches under the looming edifice of Dracone Castle. She had been drawn here by one of her blood who dwelled inside the place she knew would not welcome her. A little sister. The shadows of the clouds that drifted over the land whispered her name. Anya.

In House Shadowglade, Blood called to Blood. It was the oldest magic there was. The ancestors knew her name and because Nycassia walked with one foot in the realm of the living and other in the land of the dead.

Her little sister had left the rose choked castle in a rush with her paramour and…something else that took the shape of a man but certainly was not one. Nycassia dearly wished to know just what she was up to.

A young man stumbled over the sand dunes to reach the rocky shore Nycassia wandered. His eyes were wild and wide, filled with perverse lust and devotion. When he reached her, he fell to his knees, keening in agony. This pleased her and she smiled softly, touching the pads of her cold fingers to his jaw.

“Did you do as I asked, Poppet?” She murmured, soft as a feather, cold as the grave.

The young man nodded. “Yes, Mistress. I found your brother. He is among the living and…I’ve his address and the name of the House that keeps him.”

She arched an eyebrow sharply. “Oh? What House keeps my dear brother?”

”Dracone,” the young man said.

Nycassia couldn’t help but laugh. “Tell me, Poppet, do you believe that there are no such things as coincidences?”

The boy nodded earnestly. “Oh yes, ma’am. I believe in destiny. That things happen for a reason!” Her thrall beamed up at her with perfect love and obedience..

Her features melted into something that looked like sweet sentiment, as if the boy’s shining faith in fate and destiny moved her still heart. She smiled at him, stroking his hair, crimson eyes large, irises reflecting the light like a nighttime predator.

“Walk into the sea,” she whispered, stepping back from him.

Nycassia didn’t watch the young man walk into the water until the waves closed over his head.

She let herself come apart, become less substantial. Nycassia’s form dispersed into a thick, oily looking red mist that crawled over the landscape, preternaturally fast and reeking of iron. She followed after her little sister.

Perhaps…all of this was merely a coincidence that both of her living siblings fell into the long reaching clutches of House Dracone. Or maybe it was part of something else, some horrible destiny where everything happened for a reason.

Nycassia moved over the land swiftly, catching up to Anya with ease. She merely watched, following her all the way to Kazimir Dawnfire’s estate.

She only lingered long enough to witness her sister ruthlessly kill and leave with her handsome, dark haired prize. It pleased her that Anya was a cruel and pitiless creature. Nycassia would soon return to Dawnfire Estate, but for now…it was time to collect her brother, Varistan.

#

Varistan spent a few days alone at the Dracone penthouse. His scars had largely disappeared, though they caught the light which made them silvery, just pale lines over his face like it was a broken pane of glass. They bothered him, of course, but less than they had when they’d been thick, black lines. His beauty still remained and this soothed his shaky ego.

He supposed he was waiting for Aronsen Dracone to return from whatever family emergency he had. Varis wasn’t sure what he thought about being lovers with the man who ruined his face and bit off and ATE his finger. He guessed it suited his fallen station, he thought glumly, bored out of his mind, laying on his stomach, ankles crossed, naked in the black, silk sheets, smoking all the drugs he’d found in the penthouse, drinking top shelf liquor.

“A day. A day I could understand,” he said, chin pillowed in his palm. He looked very pouty and petulant and had anyone who knew the two saw them, the relation between him and Lillandyr was very clear. They were both gorgeous when they pouted.

He felt very stung by Aronsen’s disappearing act. He was the one to leave. Not the other way around. He worried he’d been…a novelty. An act of pity. It stung his pride and made his chest ache. Not that he’d been entertaining…love…or anything of the sort, but he’d felt a connection. Or so he thought.

Varis flopped onto his back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “Who are these Dracone cunts anyway?” He muttered.

Astalon Shadowglade, the late patriarch of House Shadowglade and Varistan’s father had mentioned the Dracones twice. Unfavorably. Astalon had promised his chosen, golden son that soon, he would let Varistan in on all the family dealings. The alliances. The rivalries. But soon never came because the Scourge did first.

The sound of shattering glass interrupted his moping. He wasn’t immediately alarmed. He’d witnessed Heathcliff Dracone and another…dark, curly haired asshole tussle and nearly kill each other. He assumed it was more family squabbling which meanly pleased him. If he couldn’t have a nice, happy family because they’d all died, then he didn’t want anyone else having a nice time with their family either.

Varistan was disavowed of whatever notions he had swirling around in his liquor and drug soaked brain when a horrifying creature skulked into the room, hissing at him. With a terrified shriek, Varistan tumbled off the bed in his haste to right himself. In a spill of long limbs and silk sheets, he hit hard, knocking his head on the marble floor. A string of colorful curses left his lips as he desperately looked around the room for his sword, Sunshine, holding the back of his head.

“Lord Varistan Veyne Sunmourne,” the creature said, its voice slimy and high pitched, overly dramatic with unwarranted gravitas given it addressed a naked man writhing around on the floor who was trying not to piss himself in terror.

It wore crimson silk robes on its lanky, skeletal body. What flesh was visible was pale and tinged gray. The face was mostly covered by a mask of gold, rays like sun extending from it. Only the mouth was free and it had no lips. Just a permanent grin of very long, very white pointed teeth.

“I am the Envoy of the Crimson Saint. The Mouth of Lady Nycassia Alyndria Shadowglade,” it continued, holding out stick-thin arms, spreading unnaturally long fingers.

“The fuck you are!” Varistan crowed from the floor, keeping the bed between him and the “Mouth”. His sister had no envoy because she was dead.

He’d never been close to his eldest sisters, Eramyn and Nycassia. Lillandyr had been his favorite. The youngest Shadowglade with her strawberry blonde hair and freckles. She’d been a sweet, shy girl who loved his stories and followed him everywhere like a little duckling. She was dead too and some blonde hussy masqueraded around the city using her name.

He crawled over the floor to where he saw his blade in its scabbard under a chair. “She’s dead,” he shouted, trying to throw his voice.

The creature folded its hands together and didn’t follow his movements with its head. Its lipless mouth remained in a rictus grin. “Undead, my Lord. And anxious to see you,” the Mouth corrected in its sibilant voice.

Varistan froze, fingertips touching his blade. “…undead?” He asked, voice trembling.

“Yes,” it hissed. “Perfected. Ascended. She requests your presence. At once.”

It didn’t sound much like a request to Varistan.

“I think I’ll politely decline that invitation,” he said, yanking Sunshine free from her scabbard.

Varistan sprang to his feet, blade leveled at the Mouth. Varistan had no idea what was wrong with him. He was not brave. He could have run. He’d been acting out of character lately and he blamed Aronsen. The handsome bastard had given him some sort of erotic death wish.

The Mouth just continued to smile and click its teeth together as though it was cold. Then, it reached into a velvet pouch at its gilded belt and drew out a handful of glittering powder. It rattled out a wheezing breath, blowing the powder in Varistan’s face.

Frantically, Varistan waved at the shimmering powder and sneezed, his eyes watering. Immediately, his limbs wouldn’t obey him and his blade fell from nerveless fingers to clatter to the marble floor. His legs went next..

Like a rag doll, Varistan crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap. He fought to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids were just far too heavy.

The Mouth clacked its teeth in pleasure at executing his Mistress’s will. It reached down, long, spidery fingers curling around Varistan’s ankles and it dragged the man out of the room and down the stairs this way, heedless of the injury it caused him.

It dragged him through the glass it had broken to break into the Penthouse and this created a trail of blood from the foyer to the courtyard. There, a wagon bearing a very nice, high polish walnut coffin, waited. The Mouth placed Varistan’s sleeping body inside, shutting and then placing iron pins in the four corners to make sure he would stay still during his ride.

In this way, Nycassia’s servant could smuggle Varistan out of the city. All the guards saw was a forsaken with a rather morbid profession and thought nothing more of it and let it pass.

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

[illyrias-silversun]

DWC November 2025 - Sunshine

The clinic had been updated to look like a rainbow had thrown up inside. Giida had worked her magic rather quickly and where the inside used to look like…well, a downtrodden and empty space, it now looked like a small, neon colored apartment. It was decorated in shades of hot pink, magenta, plum purple and bright yellow. The rug she'd chosen for the living room was zig zagging patterns of pink and black, accentuating the hot pink, oversized couch.

He'd told her he liked pink and she had absolutely delivered. He wondered if his kind-of-niece should maybe get into interior design. Though he couldn't see her doing anything monotone or boring. The space felt warm and colorful and despite himself…he really liked it. It was better than sleeping in an alley, in full plate, waiting to see if it was going to be a good night, a rainy night or a stabby night.

Illyrias sat on that bright couch, hands folded together as he stared at the little flower crown he'd placed on the coffee table. He really hadn't expected to make a friend at Sax on the Beach, let alone one that seemed to be sunshine incarnate. Faolan was indomitable. He wasn't overbearing or annoying, he was just…bright. All the time. He laughed and giggled and smiled like it was the most natural thing to do in the world. Despite the trauma he'd been through, despite the sadness that stained his past…he didn't let it rule him.

And Illyrias just couldn't figure out how he did it. Couldn't figure out why he cared. Especially about him. Illyrias could smile and laugh, too, but it never touched his eyes. It never felt real. It was a mask he'd constructed to keep people at arms length and despite that…the small elf was finding ways to slide right past those walls.

He sighed a little bit, reaching out to gently run fingertips over those flowers, shaking his head a few times. He didn't deserve it, he knew. He didn't deserve someone who tried. But Faolan had and was and he couldn't bring himself to tell him to just fuck off. He couldn't. Faolan had a sweet heart and being cruel to him…Illyrias just couldn't do it.

A soft silver light surrounded the crown, sealing the life in, keeping the blooms preserved within the shimmering magic. He didn't want to see it die, like watching that would have just broken him further. So he’d keep it alive because it made him feel…something.

Maybe happy.

@daily-writing-challenge mentions of: @varment-fao

[ruzzellgoldgrin]

DWC November 2025

Day 5: Sunshine/Morbid 

TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic Violence, Sexual Abuse, Death 

The sickly green ichor that was the blood of a goblin stains the upper margins of all pages in Treble’s journal. Most are kept glued together with a grim reminder of that fateful night. Written in neat penmanship is a new entry; a few pages past the lyrics he had jotted down earlier. 

“Captain’s Log, Day 3, Late Evening 

My beloved, I write to you not from The Iron Eagle, but from a vessel not our own. It has been three days since we departed on our mission. On the night of our departure, we were ambushed somewhere over the border of Khaz Modan. Heavy casualties from enemy air units. I nearly died writing down the lyrics of a song. The moon reminded me of you and our dreams to come, and I got distracted. I’m sorry for being so careless. At the break of dawn, our arrival was anticipated. Ironforge was untouched. Our airship took on heavy gunfire. They had an airship of their own, far greater than any of the gnomish gyrocopters or dwarven planes we’ve encountered. My father gave me his medals and commanded me to abandon ship. I refused naturally. My father told me something I never heard before. Told me he ‘loved me’ and was proud. The bastard. I cannot recall what transpired next but from the account of our Bosun Wixley my father set off our bomb prematurely. He is dead and I believe my singing may have played a part in this. Our escape rocket landed somewhere off the coast of Khaz Modan. We drifted water for hours and somehow made it to a dry dock. We thought it abandoned. Waking up that evening, we found pirates. They outnumbered us in men and guns. Offered us safe passage south in exchange for what wealth we could offer. I gave up most of my father’s medals, save for his admira ribbon. It's all I had left to bury for his Everlasting Party. Space of the ship is scarce. We sleep where we can amidst crates and ropes strewn about the top deck. Doors are all locked and a sharpshooter keeps watch over us in the crow’s nest. I feel more a captive than a passenger on this ship. I’m past the point of exhaustion and feel the lull of sleep pulling my thoughts away from you. I shall try and keep you safe in my dreams as much as in my heart. I will see you soon, my Mixxie. Good night.” 

Another entry, this one more lightly written and faded, sea water having washed out the otherwise neat handwriting of the author. 

“Captain’s Log, Day 5, Day Break 

Dearest Mixxie, we are stranded on a lone island somewhere off the coast of Westfall. We awoke in the early hours of the morning, the sunlight blinding our eyes as a great commotion broke out. The pirates had stolen our guns and remaining supplies in our slumber. Chok, one of the ogres that survived our crash, is now bound in chains and is being kept in bondage by their crew. We cannot resist their forces as they shove us off the ship with our own rifles. We are left with naught but a tin of hardtack, a flask of what was once wine spoiled into vinegar, and an axe one of our orcs clutches tightly in his fist. The ship is already far off in the horizon, sailing into the verdant haze that is Stranglethorn. The waters here are shallow, but the coastline is inhabited by clusters of Murlocs that seem to eye us curiously. We cannot stay on this island for long but approaching the shore in either direction will mean an encounter with these vile creatures regardless. I pray that our orcs will be enough to kill these beasts, for I fear my derringer in my breast pocket will not be enough to repel them.” 

The next few pages are torn with a few washed out words scribbled hastily. Partial letters can be made out. 

“Atta... loss... armland...” 

Past the tattered midsection is a new entry, the writing noticeably shakier and less refined in eloquence and formality, reflective of the author’s deteriorating mental state. 

“Captain log day 6 or 7, night time 

Babe, this is hell. We survived the Murlocs. Most of us. We lost Wixley in the carnage. I can still hear him screaming in my head. Thank the Light for our orcs. The brutes have a red glow to their eyes after the fight. Night is cold. Farmland as far as the eye can see. Making way toward this one house. I don’t care, maybe they will take pity on us. How could they not?” 

An addendum is written at the bottom in sharp angles, as if under distress. 

“I don’t know why. They seemed like nice folks. No guns raised. Then suddenly the orcs charged into the house. There were screams and the sounds of bones snapping. The young women were the worst. I don’t recall how long after the screams stopped that the orcs emerged from the farmhouse with sacks of vegetables and a roasted hog. I walked up to the house afterwards and briefly saw three women and an older man, their clothes torn open and blood everywhere. No survivors. I sat far away from the house near the shed and ate a haunch from the oily pig the grunts left for me. I eat despite the sharp pain in my gut after what I saw.” 

Another entry, still simple but more coherent. 

“Day 10 I think. Afternoon 

Sun hanging high in the sky. We have enough supplies from the farmhouse and a few abandoned wagons we found along the road. The orcs had found a broken-down harvester and tore off its claws to fashion new weapons. They are rusted but still plenty sharp. We would need them as we travel through these dark woods. I think that’s what the humans called this place. Dark Woods. I don’t recall. My head is foggy and I’m beyond tired.” 

A final entry is written in the journal; the writing scratched repeatedly into the pages and dug into the ones behind it, as if trying to make the words permanent.  

“Day 20. Night 

We’re being hunted. The jungle is thick and the roads are overgrown. I don’t think it's a tiger. I’m scared.” 

@daily-writing-challenge

[kharrisdawndancer]

DWC November 2025 - Day 5 - Sunshine/Morbid - Tinnaire

The offerings had been simple, but heartfelt. She’d gathered acorns from the trees around them. She’d brought the little lemon cakes her mother had loved and a dram of whiskey for her father. Their family crest had been lovingly embroidered on a piece of lynx leather and she’d whispered introductions for her Wildswalker who remained unobtrusive, but nearby. She had set up the sugar skulls and scattered marigolds to the offerings. The bright orange flowers popped in the otherwise shadowed forest.

Tinnaire had never felt morbidity in the holiday, but it had not always been easy to confront it. Especially alone, as she had for so many years now. She was grateful Jencir had come, letting her focus fully on communing as she had not been able to do in years.

Some years she felt them closer than others. This year they were near; Tinn took quiet comfort in the presence of her parents' spirits. The Scourge had taken them, but she was grateful they had been spared the horrors of Undeath and then the Shadowlands disasters so many had endured.

Her mother played through her golden hair by way of a breeze and a singing breath at her ear. Her father radiated pride and affection in the sunshine that lanced through the canopy to dazzle her. Her grandmother had been lost long before the Siege, but Tinnaire remembered her laugh in the chuckle of leaves that danced across the forest floor. A chipmunk scuttled up and helped himself to one of the cakes, and Tinnaire grinned to see her uncle’s teasing manner in its eyes.

The day passed smoothly, soft but sincere, and she left the glade with her hand reaching for Jen’s.

@daily-writing-challenge mentions: @wildswalk-the-stars

[musesofawolf]

Day 5 - Sunshine

@daily-writing-challenge

"Why are we here?"

Bryn was annoyed. Slightly. Really the sand in his boots was annoying, and the heat on his brow even more so. And yet, despite all that annoyance broiling under his stitched together brow, he was standing there, next to Kaleh'a, as the Miqo'te spoke with - or flirted with depending on your description - a group of Seekers in the Forgotten Springs.

Given how many giggles he was getting, he doubted he was actually asking the female's anything of importance at that moment, and sure enough, he turned away from them with a little wave and a grin before looking up at the larger Hyur beside him.

"What?" The twin ears atop his head flicked with the heat, naturally cooling themselves as his tail flicked and his eyes gleamed with the natural light. "You know why we are here! You met a Seeker with my last name and no tribe."

"So you go to tribes to try and figure out...what exactly?" The only appropriate rumbled response, at least in Bryn's mind, as the two moved back towards the gate and the guard who had let them in after a brief back and forth. Except Kaleh'a was dragging his feet...

"She had to come from a tribe." The only appropriate exasperated response to such an obvious question. "I already checked the J tribe, since you mentioned she was fair skinned, but they didn't know her. Which made me think maybe she came from the U tribe," with a gesture at the girls behind them, "but they don't know here either. So now I have a good guess that maybe she's from the M tribe, and dropped her suffix on purpose to hide that. In other words, progress!"

Bryn grunted, and shook his head in mild annoyance. "You're going to go around and check all twenty six tribes? You're insane..." But the task did make some sense, at least considering the boundless energy the younger Miqo'te seemed to possess. Which again, he was dragging his feet... "Why are you not dashing off to the M tribe to ask about her?"

Kaleh'a stopped, and his head turned, his gaze gliding back to the girls he had spoken to, and the springs they now splashed in, a slow, teasing smile on his lips as he flicked his gaze to Bryn. "Welllll, since you asked, we were invited to enjoy the springs..."

"No." Short, quick, to the point, but Kaleh'a never took that as an answer from the burly Hyur.

"Oh come on," he whined out, stepping in front of Bryn and stopping him from moving forward. "The sun is out, it's hot, and there is fresh, cool water not more than twenty fulm away! Plus good company." His eyebrows wiggled, and Bryn fixed him with a stony glare.

"Yes," the scout and rather well versed on Seeker culture rumbled out. "Good company that answers to a nunh, their tribal leader, who has claim to all in his tribe unless he is challenged and defeated. How do you think he would take to a Keeper who can't keep his eyes off his harem?"

Kaleh'a's ears wilted and his eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he chuckled nervously. "Right...forgot about that... I think sunshine got to my head."

Bryn just snorted at that. "Oh I don't think it was the sunshine."

[luminashdawnwing]

Day 5: Sunshine / Morbid

The grounds of the ruined Dawnwing estate were growing vibrant. Though the stone remained pockmarked by the decay that once gripped the lands, blooms had returned at last to the sickly trees, and the sun illuminated the ruins through new leaves, their shadows dancing over the skeleton of the manor house and its grounds.

Luminash strode around the perimeter of the courtyard, gloved hands clasped behind his back. While the structure of the home remained, it had been gutted by the twin depredations of the Scourge attack and time itself. Scarce evidence remained of his mother’s garden on the south side of the grounds, and only a husk of his father’s tower remained. It had survived even the Scourge’s ravages only to be destroyed by the surge of power that had come through its portal on Dalaran’s fall.

Theras and Aneyah stood, the Arathi resting her shoulder against the ranger’s, before the memorial Luminash had placed many years ago, its eternal flame glowing yet, even if the sun seemed to dim its light.

“What is he looking for, Ther?” Aneyah asked, peering up at him. The pair had arrived after the magister, and their brief time at the memorial had seen Luminash circle the courtyard thrice.

Theras shook his head, “I can’t say I know for certain. Jaskian might be able to say, but Father hasn’t said a thing. I thought we were only here to pay our respects as always.”

Magistrix Dawnwing née Clearwater had not arrived yet, but Luminash had said she would arrive later to view the grounds as well.

The younger pair watched as Luminash knelt before the ragged field of grass that had once been the estate’s garden, and pressed his hands onto the soil. Theras moved to speak, lips already parted, but stopped as Aneyah shook her head. She sensed something, it seemed, the younger Dawnwing did not.

There came a flash, like a spark, from Luminash’s hands, the brilliance of the Arcane tinged with something else. Then, a warm golden glow from the grass as flame began to spread; it was not the red-orange of a natural fire, but the same comforting yellow as Theras had seen in Hallowfall.

He looked to Aneyah, his surprise evident on his face, “Is that…?”

She nodded in reply as the Sacred Flame began to swallow the grass and creep across the field.

The magister stood, raising his hands to his side, looking for all the world like the conductor of an orchestra as he guided the dancing flames to an unheard tune. The growing light of the fire illuminated his silhouette, golden hair shining like the flames themselves, even as the shadow of the leaves above danced about him.

They stood in silence as they watched the fire encircle the magister, though it never so much as singed his robes, only for that silence to be broken by Luminash’s own voice.

“Theras, Aneyah. This is but the start. Will you join your efforts to mine to restore this place? The time has long since come to let the pain this ruin holds end.”

He turned towards them, then, eyes shining with radiant purpose, the Sacred Flame around him searing away the dry grass and leaving behind only a clean slate, a hopeful smile spreading across his face, “Today, Dawnwing is born anew.”

@daily-writing-challenge @kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian!

[susan-gampre]

Mother's Grief

DWC 2025; Day 5 - Sunshine

@daily-writing-challenge

Our story continues from here...

They had all slept through the night without incidence. No wails to stir the house due to tummy aches or rashes; The boys had been filled with as much chicken soup as Castellan could convince them to eat before being assisted to bed. Then, certain the boys would sleep well, Castellan took the time to tidy up the little abode before sleep took the Knight as well.

For the first time in alittle while, uder the same roof again and cuddled into eachother's arms, the Madam and the Knight slept without nightmares.

....

It had been the wafting smell of food cooking that initially stirred Susan that morning. Her stomach clenched and growled, her mouth salivating at once. It had been a peaceful way to awaken and, at first, she'd smile and stretch in languid, deliberate motion before the night prior replayed before bleary eyes. She remembered then how Castellan heeded her call and arrived in haste-- But after being embraced with her lover, she could not remember a thing. She didn't even remember being placed back into bed.

She comes to realize now - even if unconscious - she had taken the risk of leaving her partner to watch her children when she could no longer stand at the helm wading ailment and tantrum alike.

This forces Susan to wrench herself upright at break neck speed, her head throbbing from disapproval of such fast movement. She had spent the last forty eight hours almost entirely awake, fighting sleep to keep her boys comfortable and safe; To sleep now when they weren't completely out of the woods felt like a failure on her end. Even if Castellan had it under control, it was wrong to leave them completely without guidance. Or at the very least, without introduction.

Before she realized her feet were beneath her the Madam had burst into the kitchen, expecting the utter worst--

Three pairs of bright gold eyes of varying shades turn to Susan at once. They all froze, Susan meeting the individual gazes of the boys and then Castellan with impending confusion.

It was a simple sight. Noah was in the middle of biting down on a pancake where as Elliot was guzzling down a glass of water, his plate already cleaned of the breakfast Castellan was still in the middle of whipping up. The Knight blinks first, giving the pan in hand a jostle to flip the pancake. A smile breaks across their face, one that Susan would reciprocate with some relief.

"Hungry?"

This question from Cas would spur the boys to resume with their activities, chewing and drinking respectively with earnest.

Susan loosens the strained tensity of her shoulders, the worry practically melting as she appraises Cas with newfound appreciation.

Things were looking up.

"Starved," she answers, first passing the breakfast nook to address the boys by pressing a kiss each of their heads. Then she'd tread the short distance into the kitchen. There was little wait for wanting lips as the moment she's in reach, Castellan places a kiss upon Susan before hustling along with their tasks, leaving the woman to stare in the wake of her beau with widened eyes. Briefly they'd share a knowing smile as one returned to cooking a platter of pancakes, the Madam then turning to appraise the home.

It is now when she realizes she had entirely missed the fact things had been picked up and wiped down. Messes from the last two days had been handled; Used medicines and poultices to mend physical discomfort had been disposed of appropriately, dishes had been scrubbed and left to dry, the floors had been swept and mopped... Curtains were drawn open, allowing the sunshine to seep into the rooms with it's warmth and light.

The home breathed with new life.

Susan finds herself sitting with the boys in the breakfast nook, and as soon as she does is a plate of steaming buttered goodness awaiting her, a cup of syrup already on the table to be poured at leisure. She sighs quietly, content.

"Momma!"

She turns her eyes to the older of the boys, his smile beaming as he expresses excitedly, "Castellan makes good pancakes! Better than yours!"

At once Susan grimaces playfully toward said cook, who now stood bashfully at the cooking fire, trying desperately to not laugh at Susan's dismay.

"I think you're mistaken baby."

"No, it better," Noah hiccups, not even missing a beat. This earns an expression of utter betrayal from his mother as he continues nibbling on his carefully cut up pancakes. From the kitchen Castellan could be heard chuckling, perfectly amused by the predicament.

She'd let out a huff then, committed to trying these supposedly game changing pancakes for herself. With syrup to drown the cakes she cuts a pretty triangle from the pile and pops it into her mouth-- only to sigh in defeat.

Soft, pliable, buttery good and melting in her mouth... These jacks were anything but flack, Susan had to admit... They were some damn good pancakes.

"So?" Castellan prods, eager to watch but desperate to prevent their own breakfast from burning, working on a final pancake meant for their plate this time.

"Don't push it," she teases in return, allowing a comfortable silence to fill the space.

Though in this silence Susan would watch as this strange family of hers functioned, effortlessly so. The boys ate and drank to their hearts content -- Even when Elliot whimpers for more, Susan saves off a portion of her plate to scoop it onto the boys, putting the issue to rest at once. Meanwhile Castellan scooched into the nook, sitting with a content Noah who now sipped from his size appropriate glass.

The Madam couldn't help the swell of pride in her chest, this morning proving to be the best in months.

"Any plans today, love?"

Gold met gold with ease, the adults of the table appraising one another in new lighting. Gently Susan nodded, "I wanted to try and forage for medicinal flora for the boys. Teas to ease the pains in their throats."

"Lets do just that, after breakfast now. The boys and I will accompany you, getting out in the fresh air and walking around would be good for them."

And Susan couldn't find herself disagreeing.

Truly so.... Simple.

Mentioned: @resolutedefender

[arandori]

DWC Day 5 Sunshine

She greeted the morning, toes pressing into the cool sand as the sea unfurled towards her like a breath she’d waited all night to take. She paddled out past the breaking waves and just sat, soaking in the sea. As the sunshine began to kiss her skin, she rose into her first stretch. Salt in her hair, peace in her bones. This is where she is most herself.

@daily-writing-challenge