#soleiltrois

[ilikeyoshi]

2/3 of my currently active rp characters in @knightsofrepentance!!!! their names are rhythm (left) and valoiseré (right)

my 3rd babie is probably going to require some specific cc hunting but maybe i’ll make her sometime too :3c

[ilikeyoshi]

more valoiseré bc its 2am and my brain won’t shut off. i have a channel in our guild server for these but i like to post my favorites here too ;w;

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<A month ago. Suramar.>

“Honeyyyyy, I’m hooooooome!”

Valoiseré waltzes—almost literally—into the living room. Her studio apartment is large and VERY extra, full of sleek glass and leather, abstract paintings, and a controlled, minimized sort of clutter. VERY decorated, with a million details, but clean and spacious so as to feel there’s not too much at all.

She drops a bag on one side of the couch, and then dramatically drapes the rest of herself over it too. Sighing loud enough to be heard from the other rooms, she feigns exhaustion.

“Gee,” she calls into the empty living room. “I sure do bet it’d be nice to be greeted with love and joy after another long day of rehearsals. My feet are killing me.”

She kicks both legs up, dainty and effortless, like a well trained swim dancer. She wears flats now, but her feet can contort into a pointe position with ease. Yes, they sure do seem like they hurt as she waves them around like that. Liar.

But no response comes. Valoiseré desists with her pestering, rolling back to her feet and sweeping into the kitchen. She pulls bobby pins out of her hair, white bangs dropping back over her forehead.

“I feel like making dinner,” she calls. “Dunno what yet though. You have any preferences?”

Silence. Valoiseré finally catches on. “Charliese?”

When no answer comes, Val makes her way to one of the bedroom doors. All teasing looks are gone; her brow bunches and arcs up at the center, her eyes big and full of worry. She knocks, feather light, and cracks open the door.

Dark, all except for what city light makes it through the drawn curtains. Valoiseré can just make out a lump in the blankets, and her face pales.

“Oh, baby,” she coos sadly, slipping in and sitting at the bed’s edge. “Another fever?”

“Yeah,” croaks a muffled voice within the bedding. “I’m okay.”

Valoiseré lovingly strokes the occupant’s arm through the blanket. “You sound lovely,” she tries to joke, but it doesn’t really land. “How bad is it?”

“Like... a six?”

“So, an eight.”

Quiet. Valoiseré fusses. “Okay. I’ll get your clothes—“

“No—“ There’s shifting, a sickly face appearing in the blankets. “You’re exhausted and it’s late. I’ll be okay until tomorrow—“

“I’m not making you wait until tomorrow,” Valoiseré says in fretful sternness. “If you can pack up your meds, I’ll find your shoes.”

The croaking sounds defeated this time. “I’m sorry...”

Valoiseré stoops a kisses the nose in the bed. “Nonsense. The doctor will fix it, okay?”

“Yeah. Like he always does.”

The tone is so jaded and sad, it makes Valoiseré’s ears pin back, her heartstrings knot up in her chest. It hurts, badly, knowing Charliese is right—doctors have only ever been able to do so much for her.

She smiles, a little bit pathetic. “Maybe they’ll find something this time.”

[ilikeyoshi]

I MIGHT BE BIG MAD AT WARCRAFT RIGHT NOW but i’ve wanted to write a thing for my dancing daughter for uhhhhh like two weeks. so here: her and her choreographer!!!!

"Five, six, seven, eight."

The theatre, in its expansive beauty, is hauntingly empty. All the lights above the seating are off, but no one sits and watches the lone woman on the stage. Her costume isn't that; a leotard, tights, and ballet shoes are the extent of her outfit. Her hair is pinned tightly back, even the long bits that normally fall down her ears and cheeks subdued by small clips and pins. It makes the sparkling sweat on her forehead plain to see under the blaring stage lights.

The exhaustion is absent in her motions though. A perfect form, every step and move precise and intelligent; this is a woman who has danced and danced all her life.

"Five, six, seven, eight."

Each number comes with a step; though muttered under her panting breath, they echo through the empty auditorium. She dances for not a soul. She dances for herself. Her body is littered in bruises and wrapped in bandages. Her ballet shoes are worn, scuffed, flecked faintly with blood.

She finishes with a pose, holding picturesquely still, all except for the heaving rise and fall of her chest. In the distance, a single man's clap echoes back to her. She does not release the pose yet.

"I thought I'd find you here," Lucius's voice follows, a smooth baritone, but loud and very clear. This man yells often. "Soleiltrois. Our last show was yesterday."

"You can never have too much practice," Valoiseré replies, her voice held evenly despite the heaviness that hangs on each word. She at last drops the stance, her whole body going slack, all but her feet which do not drop their delicate, precise positions even when the rest of her body wavers.

Lucius stands from the lone chair he's taken, walking down one of the aisles toward the stage. Valoiseré can faintly see the shine of his white eyes, the reflection of the stage light off his bald head. She straightens herself, all but those gasping lungs, uncontrolled beneath her ribs.

"I have not seen that style before," Lucius says, almost softer. "Certainly nothing I have taught you."

"Azeroth is a curious place," Valoiseré replies smoothly.

Lucius only hums. He climbs the steps onto the stage; his outfit is dark and plain, a high collar around his neck and pristine sleeves snug to his wrists. Almost a tuxedo, but it lacks even the spots of white at his neck or hands. His face is marked with age, the kind of wrinkles Valoiseré dreads to imagine on her own face one day. He looks out at the auditorium; her eyes follow.

"You have practiced alone more frequently as of late," Lucius says. "What of your sisters? The other Suns?"

"They need their rest," Valoiseré says.

"You do not?"

"I couldn't sleep, Lucius."

He looks at her, even as her gaze remains on the auditorium. Her breathing is only beginning to recover now, but the sweat lingers, bright as stars all across her face. She is wearing none of her paint tonight.

"Of all my dancers," Lucius says slowly, "you are the one I least expected to venture into the world. To join someone like Moonshine, like these search-and-rescue knights." He does not say it meanly; they both know Valoiseré did her part during the civil war. They know she is capable.

But she loathed every moment of it. This was a woman who hid in plain sight, just to hide at all. Were the things she loved most not threatened so, she never would have braved it. Lucius believes to his core he would have lost her in every sense—she would not fight, and she would not dance. She would not show her face in the hour of war.

"You despise the Horde."

"The Knights are not the Horde," Valoiseré says. She meets Lucius's eye, fiercely. "Or at least, they are not the Horde that wages war on a home we barely saved. They do not occupy my city for their bloodied agendas—they are out, in the most frightening corners of the world, helping those that need them."

"And you think you can be one of them?"

"Absolutely not." She laughs, not even self-depreciating; it is all wild, restrained amusement. "I am no Veros, no Thalyssra. I am not you."

For the first time, Lucius's stone-stoic face breaks into a smile; she watches a flicker of green twist into the glow of his eyes. She knows illusions well. She knows those eyes aren't white anymore. "I know you can help them, Soleiltrois. I have never doubted you, in war or on stage."

Valoiseré goes quiet. She looks away, to the floor and her scuffed shoes; taped in places, stitched in others. She needs new ones.

"I must," she quietly says. "Now that I know I can. That I... I can make a difference—I must. For every threat that comes to Suramar, that comes to—" She breathes in, sharp, eyes suddenly glassy with resisted tears. "I will not lose it. Not to this dying, horrible world."

Lucius's smile fades. "You hate Azeroth too."

"So much," she whispers. "It has done nothing but hurt us, Lucius. It infects our streets, it drags our people to its endless war... Maybe it is destined to die. Maybe that is the only way to end its cruel reign.

"But I will not lose Suramar with it."

"Cities fall, Soleiltrois—"

"No."

"Listen to me," Lucius says, a sudden snap to his voice; she knows it well. This is a teacher's voice; this is not anger, this is sheer, razor sharp determination. "Do not do this for Suramar. She is old, and she will not survive the test of time. She will fall—if not to this war, then to another, or to nothing at all."

Valoiseré is very quiet, listening, but on the brink of resisting his words.

"Do it for you," he says. "For what you believe in. And if you say you believe in a decaying metropolis, I will send you to do hanging crunches."

She's laughing again as he threatens her. She looks back at him, a stiff smile; hard to hold, despite all her prowess in every other area of her body. "Not long ago, you sacrificed everything to save this very city."

"Yes," Lucius says. "That does not mean I was right."

"Or maybe it doesn't mean we're just trying to save the city."

He considers it for a long moment, and then softens. "Perhaps it doesn't."

"Hey," Valoiseré reaches out and pokes Lucius in the stomach; his body is deceptively well-defined under his unassuming clothes. "What are you doing up so late?"

"I couldn't sleep, Valoiseré," he chides, and she grins wide at him.

[ilikeyoshi]

when u finally find a good doll maker that lets u make ur elf BLUE

[ilikeyoshi]

been thinking about Her lately

[ilikeyoshi]

i love a girl

[ilikeyoshi]

wow guess who hasnt written any solo fic in for FUCKING ever and guess who isn’t even REMOTELY surprised the thing that kicked my ass back in gear was my fucking nightborne. of course. of course it was

anyway hello here’s something that happened way back when suramar was first being breached, and in fact probably even before it, because the eclipsion is just that many steps ahead

"This is it? I don't see anyone."

Soleiltrois glances back and forth just to be sure, then crosses her arms and pouts just slightly at the demon inquisitor beside her. His face is as expressionless as always—but then, hers is hidden in a veil across her nose. She, however, is chilly this far from Suramar's heart; the night wind takes swipes at her, defenseless in her dancing clothes.

She leans on a slippered heel and taps her other foot, and eyes the wilderness beyond the city's edge. She's never seen the world just behind a now-shattered barrier, and if she were to be honest, she used to imagine it as a wasteland, burned away in emerald fire...

And now Elisande brings those monsters into the city they've protected so long? Soleiltrois casts the demon beside her a wary scowl. This one claims himself a deserter, and though she doubts him, she too is disloyal.

She nods at him. "Show me."

Wordless, the inquisitor floats forward, right to the edge of the cobble street severing the city from the woods. The moonlight casts his shadow over the stones, until the end of it is swallowed by the wilderness, where he stops. Silence consumes, save for that whistling breeze and the rhythmic, waiting tap of Soleiltrois's foot.

Then the wind gets colder; the elf even flinches. Brief fear takes her features, arms quickly unwinding as she steps back—there is a wicked energy in the air and she feels it on her skin like static. The demon does not move.

"Zil'ruun," she whispers in a hiss, eyes darting around, but nothing reveals itself to her. "What is this?"

"The doctor," Zil'ruun rasps, his voice a ragged, breathy sound, as if he speaks on his inhales instead of the exhales; "is in."

"What in blithering tarnation does that—"

Her mouth snaps shut, silent, as Zil'ruun's shadow flickers and then bursts to life. A yawning, breathing void rises from the shaded cobblestones, darkening as it coalesces, until it appears black as the night sky, with white splotches in its featureless form that Soleiltrois, slowly, realizes are multiple eyes and one long maw of razor sharp teeth. The horror places two limbs on the ground, grotesque with claws longer than broadswords, jagged horns that protrude from what the elf must assume is its skull. Its form flickers unendingly, shadows rippling deep within it, or peeling off like motes of smoke.

The horror lunges, its face stopping within a hairsbreadth's of Soleiltrois. She feels a scream in her lungs that never makes it to her throat, the urgent want to flee simply caught and paralyzed like a rabbit by its hunter. She stares, wide-eyed, into something deeper than she can comprehend, very nearly pained just by trying.

And it... laughs at her. Giggles at her. Soleiltrois breathes just a little bit.

"Doctor," rasps Zil'ruun's ghastly voice. The horror (doctor?) doesn't look at him, studying Soleiltrois, but one long earlike appendage bends curiously in the inquisitor's direction. "This is the arcanist we spoke of."

The ghoulish monstrosity speaks, and Soleiltrois wheezes. "Arcanist Sageveil," it greets, a gnarled and echoing voice of its own, as if dozens speak at once; it's feminine and strangely singsong in cadence. It giggles again.

"Please do stop that," Soleiltrois says, struggling to keep her voice firm, yet still it shakes.

The horror blinks its five(?) eyes at her, as if bewildered, then jumps in a startle. "Oh," its hideous voice rasps; suddenly the shadows collapse, like gravity-defying water pulled to the earth at last. They splash around the feet of a woman, short and olive-skinned, her bouncy waves of hair like the sunrise sure to chase her nightmarish visage away. She waves her fingers at Soleiltrois, smiling cheerily. "Excuse me! Is that better?"

The arcanist is stunned. She blinks stupidly at the smaller woman—her ears are long and pointed like an elf's, but her eyes are an unsettling fel color—finally, helplessly confused, Soleiltrois shoots Zil'ruun a balking look.

"Inquisitor," she says politely, "what the fuck."

She flinches when one of the smaller elf's hands shoots out in a gesture of further greeting. "Dr. Lyrissa Solsong," she says, a hint of professionalism touching her darling voice. "The shal'dorei have hid away in their city for many millennia. Tell me, arcanist, have you heard of the sin'dorei?"

"Children of the blood," Soleiltrois observes, skeptical. She shakes Lyrissa's hand. "No. Are all of your people, your Eclipsion these... sin'dorei?"

"Nope!" Lyrissa nods back at Zil'ruun. Soleiltrois lets out a small 'ah'.

The arcanist clears her throat, resists a shiver—it's more at the last few moments than the cold at this point—and musters a professional smile. "Doctor," she says, "I do—I do recall your leader's name being... Embereye? I confess I still don't quite believe it."

"Understandable," Lyrissa chirps. "But I assure you, the arch magistrix is just as she claims. Zil'ruun tells me you can discern this?"

"Yes," Soleiltrois says with a glint of pride. "My magic is undeceivable. I have thorough means to make certain this arch magistrix of yours is just as she says she is."

"Good!" The doctor claps her hands once. "Then our coming appointment will be brief. But that is for another time—Lady Embereye sent me ahead to make sure we're all on the same page."

"Oh?" Despite her efforts, Soleiltrois can't help but sound a little nervous. "Rumors of your activity within Suramar Province have spread through my city. Elisande and all of her people know you have the potential to be a great pain in her side."

"How complimentary of her," Lyrissa says. Soleiltrois gives a dry laugh. "Then you as well must know what the Eclipsion is capable of if you are, how did you put it, deceiving us. Yes?"

Now she understands. The smallest sweat breaks on Soleiltrois's brow. "You have my attention, doctor. Our rebellion failed, and the survivors were exiled to the wilds for their bodies and minds to starve. I know those stragglers outside the city will only fail again. But you—"

And her eyes glance across at Zil'ruun. He is unreadable by nature, by the very wicked energies he was forged from, but he stands silent and loyal at Lyrissa Solsong's side. Soleiltrois knows what power the inquisitors hold, how quickly he could leave the both of them as stains on these moonlit cobbles.

Except now Soleiltrois has seen what Zil'ruun saw. Could it have been this doctor that turned his loyalty away from the Legion? And if she is only an underling of an alleged Embereye descendant...

"You," she continues, meeting Lyrissa's eye again, "give me hope."

Lyrissa's laugh and smile are so nonchalant it feels like the weight of Soleiltrois's sentiments go right through her. "I'm happy to hear it, arcanist. You don't mind if I make certain? For my commander, of course."

Soleiltrois squints. "I want to be of service, but—"

"Splendid."

She opens her mouth to protest, but Lyrissa raises her hand to the arcanist first, and Soleiltrois feels her words, her thoughts, perhaps her mind utterly stolen from her. She feels the sin'dorei's gaze, suddenly piercing, hollow white, injected like needles into her very self and drawing up—something. Everything. She lays bare Soleiltrois's whole being through the glass of a syringe she doesn't hold.

It's over in a second, but it feels like a century. Soleiltrois gasps, gags, turns away to promptly vomit. Lyrissa is still all smiles, her fingernails folded toward herself as if to look over her handiwork. Is she? Has she taken something? Soleiltrois doesn't know.

"Arcanist," the doctor says, when she hears Soleiltrois's wheezing turn a little more to breathing. Something has softened about Lyrissa's voice. "Your love and loyalty to Suramar colors every thought in your mind. Truly—sincerely—there is nothing you wouldn't do for this city.

"And nothing you wouldn't give to purge the demons from it." Lyrissa's eyes look up at the arcanist, green again, but dazzled. It scares Soleiltrois, who only composes herself and swallows thickly. Lyrissa beams. It's frightening. "My lady Embereye is going to like you, Soleiltrois."