A bit of an experiment, as I’ve not written anything quite like this in a while. 1118 words.
Nyloh stood still at yet another almost-familiar intersection and just sighed. No matter how many times he had walked between home, jobs, and gigs, somehow there was always a new corner of Xaliber to see. Tonight, however, new was the last thing he wanted to see. He just wanted to find The Mockingbird and enjoy a little music before the lateness of the night completely drained him.
The confusion of everything around him seeming both new and like he had been there before was frustrating. He had tried one shortcut and now it felt as if he had stumbled into another city entirely. After backtracking proved helpless, he stood for a long moment and tried to ignore the buzzing in his head in the hopes that he might gain a sense of exactly where he was.
He was sure that he had gone through this very same square not more than twenty minutes before, but it had still been bustling and full of life. The sun had only finished setting half an hour before, with many still out and about, enjoying food and conversation before returning home now that their work hours had finished.
Now, the food carts were shuttered and every shop nearby looked at if it had been closed for at least a week. It was all so drab and cold. There was no way he had looped around. It must have been a different square that just felt the same as the other, even despite the folding sign out front of one cafe that still said the same message about today's special.
He shuddered, trying to shake the feeling of dust collecting on his shoulders as autumn leaves rolled down the street beside him. The staleness alarmed him. Even as the fallen colors moved, there seemed to be no wind; nothing to energize the corner but a soft creak from a loose shutter.
Taking a seat on a bench nearby, his eyes couldn't help but follow the leaves and scan the street. The one streetlight illuminating it held steady, but was dim. The light wasn't enough to reach some of the far corners of the square, casting long shadows over storefronts and behind carts. The familiarity of his surroundings did nothing but unnerve him. It was all just right enough that he could feel that something was wrong about it.
His eyes instinctively searched all the sources of light. Several dim shop signs flickered in windows. Some second-story apartments over them had their lights on, however dull through their curtains or blinds, even though they showed little signs of life within. He tried to rest where he sat, but all he could do was search.
The darkness didn't bother him. The tightness in his back did. The lingering chill as if something was watching him. He kept trying to find what or where, but the more he did, the darker the square began to feel. He shifted his guitar case to his other shoulder and got back to his feet. Staying here seemed like a bad idea.
As soon as he is up, his eyes catch motion from a nearby doorway. A light flickered from within and he thought he had seen someone duck back inside. Perhaps they were watching him for some reason, but he saw no other sign that someone was there.
Lost or not, he needed to move on. He wouldn't find his way sitting here anyway. He let his feet move by sheer memory, hoping he would find himself back on the path he had memorized. By instinct, he turns down a wide alleyway and is greeted by a parade of soft lights; strings hung between windows above, casting everything with a soft glow. This he recognized.
He let out of long, relieved breath. It all felt so much more welcoming, the lingering warmth of everyone who would have been seated at the tables lining the corridor dispelling the chill down his spine. The two restaurants on either side that shared the alley loved to use it for outdoor seating. The first table to his left even had some fresh flowers in a vase to welcome any patrons.
He walked slowly through, taking in the feeling of it all and enjoying the lingering scent of dishes from earlier in the day. Halfway through the alley, things change. The chill returns. At first it feels like an errant breeze, caught through the corridor and pushing against his back, but nothing moves. The lights flicker, but do not sway. Nothing disturbs them as their glow fades in and out.
The sound of wood behind him makes him turn. A chair had scraped against pavement. He was sure of it. His eyes caught something move past the alley in the building across, as if a figure had stepped out of the window. He grunted at the thought. That wasn't likely. The building had been condemned a year ago.
Before he can turn back to walk the rest of the way, he sees the table. The vase is overturned and the flowers seem parched. The had been so vibrant just moments ago. And when had it fallen? It was glass. Surely he would have heard it tip over.
The buzzing in his ears had returned. He felt as if he was standing by a radio tuned to silence, catching nothing but the occasional bit of static. He turned and pushed onward to the other end of the alley. He wasn't far from The Mockingbird. He was done with his imagination playing with him.
As he walked, he began to hear steps behind him. An echo, surely. But the timing was off. He varied his pace, but the sound kept the same steady rhythm, almost shuffling as it followed. The strings of lights flickered again and he couldn't bear it any longer.
He took off in a run, exiting the alley and quickly taking a left. Ahead, he saw the first stirs of life as other people stood outside the familiar gray walls of The Mockingbird. He was there.
Doing his best to look as natural as possible jogging the rest of the way to the door, he didn't dare look back until he was just steps away from the entrance. The soft glow of the lights in the alley was gone, and all he could see was a door slowly shut itself with no signs of light inside.
His hands clutched the strap of his guitar case, tapping nervously at the leather. He needed to play something, anything. To make some music and let out the tension that had built in all of his muscles. A song is exactly what his world needed right now.
Eldarra's mind had been a storm for two nights and it had begun to take its toll. A paleness had reached across her face and tugged at her eyes, just as a strange weight did the same to her shoulders. She could not fathom what had brought this on as the last month had been relatively uneventful for her. The injured were less numerous with less travelers on the roads, the interim between seasons granting a much needed reprieve.
But still something cast her mind in shadow, lurking over her without seemingly any reason or form. All she could do was hope her morning prayer and meditation would provide an insight, to show some beam of light through the specter over her mind.
A sharp ringing followed by a crash told her that would not happen this morning, however. Running her hands through her hair, pushing the short strands that had fallen into her face back, she sighed, hoping to expel her worries long enough to handle whatever her sister had gotten herself into this time.
Before she had even stepped out of her own room, the voice she was looking for called from the door.
"I'm fine! Don't worry about it!"
"It is my job to worry." Eldarra called back, her voice flat as she turned the corner to see her younger sister trying to shuffle a sword behind a screen. After taking a moment to look her up and down to be sure it actually was fine, her voice softened despite the new dent in the wooden walls of their home. "Practicing again?"
Haeleth didn't answer, instead muttering back "A storm is rolling in, so I can't really do much outside."
Eldarra shook her head as she carefully looked at the walls, searching for any other possible accidents. "You've still not told me why you have taken up a sudden interest in the sword." She said, almost absently as she walked towards the screen.
Haeleth stepped forward, as if to stop her sister, but did not keep her from reaching for the simple weapon that she had put there moments before. "It's not sudden."
"Shall I rephrase?" Eldarra said, inspecting the sword's edge almost out of habit. "I know you've been practicing for about two years now. You never told me why."
"I said family tradition-"
"Which you and I both know is false." She cut in, tilting the sword at her sister with a stern glare. "You have never cared one bit for tradition, especially in this family." Her voice grew quiet as memories flashed before her with the strike of lightning outside. "Neither of us have."
"You've cared for traditions, just ones very different from our family's." Haeleth corrected.
"So why… this?" Eldarra asked, carefully turning the sword around in her hands to hand it back. "We walked away from our family traditions, away from this. Are you having second thoughts?"
The rain poured outside as Haeleth stared at the polished blade before her. She did not reach for it as she finally answered with her own question.
"Do you remember whose that is?"
Eldarra could only blink. "I can't remember if you ever told me."
"This sword…" Haeleth finally grasped the handle and took the blade, raising just high enough to catch another flash of lightning. "...is why I followed you to The Evenlight."
The sound of the rain seemed deafening as Eldarra thought back to when they joined the order, when they both sought out the priesthood. Memories rushed back to her, but none held answers.
"When our family split in petty squabbles and competitions about their hunting prowess, when their sisterhood failed because their concerns became about who was the better fighter, we looked to the past. Beyond when our mother's mothers vied to be called Sentinels or Wardens."
A disgusted look crept across Haeleth's face, finally making Eldarra realized just how dishevelled she was. How long had she been practicing? How long had she been awake?
With a deep sigh, her sister continued. "You had always been the true rebel in the family. Respectful, but no one was the wiser when you so effortlessly slipped away and found your true calling to Elune. I… didn't have that. I just had you. I knew I didn't fit in with them either, but my path wasn't the same as yours. I never knew what to do with myself… until you brought me to Kistra."
The picture in her mind finally came into focus. The day before they had made their final decision to leave, there in the Temple of Elune when they met her, when they learned of The Evenlight.
"You were always meant to be a priestess." Haeleth sighed and stepped backward, peering down at the sword in her hands. "But I always felt more complete with a weapon. I felt lost, torn between you and the rest of our family. Until Kistra said her name."
Eldarra remembered all at once and spoke without thinking. "Eisuna."
"She saved our family. And barely anyone even remembers anymore." Haeleth could look at the blade no longer, placing it on the table beside her.
"Grandfather's sword…" Eldarra remembered the stories, about the knights in the family who fought Azshara's traitorous guard. Only a few managed to survive as the rest of the family escaped.
Haeleth's hand began to shake. "She blessed this blade as the simplest gesture, to help our grandfather when he asked to simply protect his family. He asked for nothing else but a chance to fight. And now all 'fight' means in this family is to bicker or have a pissing match." She closed her eyes, her voice beginning to fail her. "I just feel like I should be doing more. That I should be like that. That somebody should remember what this sword means."
The thunder roared once more, drowning out a sob as Haeleth could say no more.
"You are doing exactly what you were meant to." Eldarra stepped towards her little sister and took her in her arms. "You remember what this family was meant to do. Your instinct has always been to protect. As long as you follow that, that is enough." She felt her sister crumple forward against her shoulder and just held her.
It pained her to remember Haeleth ever feeling so small to her, the rare sight of doubt in her headstrong little sister bringing her back to holding her when she was a child. She shushed her as the rain continued to pour.
"You remember. That is going to lead you where you were always meant to go." She said, brightness creeping into her voice. "And whatever your path may be, I just hope mine doesn't stray very far from it."
Faerran knew the feeling well, of wanderlust building over a week of walking the same three roads. It was a hazard of being an envoy for the Cenarion Circle. At times, he would have to stay put. Looking after nature or some ally or even the occasional negotiation, it forced him to avoid his usual tendency to travel, and to take the scenic route whenever possible.
It would be two more days before he could move on, to say goodbye to the strange trade agreement that was being worked on between Tauren, Goblins, and Trolls. He wasn't sure how he was considered a third - technically, fourth - party to this discussion, but at least it was interesting. However the mental stimulation of it had worn down, with only the last few details of amounts needing to be worked out. The numbers really had nothing to do with him and so he was left with little to occupy his mind with anymore.
With the roads of a wandering soul and bored mind slowly intersecting, he knew where it would lead him. Before laying down to rest, he was sure to slip on his sandals, preparing for precisely where the roads would turn. As slumber overtook his body, his mind began its journey.
His immediate surroundings were committed well to memory by now, having needed to traverse the worn paths between each party's camp enough to be able to follow them with his eyes closed. Now, with them actually closed, he could see them clearer than was he awake, the dust along each kicked up gently by the breeze as the wind urged him towards a southward road. The one leading in the opposite direction of where he came from a week prior.
That road was mere days away from the chance to walk them, but his mind could no longer wait. His spirit could not bear to be tethered to a simple tarp hung from an even branch to protect him and his supplies from the elements. He began to walk.
The firm undersides of his sandals left no footprints as he followed the road, taking in the sights as the dirt gave way to stone. The haphazard pavement was worn from traders and troops alike having made their way over hundreds of times, but this was not what caught his attention, nor the shape of the land flanking it or the distant trees.
The struggling weeds and sprouts, pushing between rocks and cracks within the paved road, held his gaze. He counted them as he walked, watching as every step seemed to invigorate them, creating small blooms as more pushed upwards to meet him. They brushed against his feet, seeking to follow him on his journey.
As more began to rise up from the road beneath his stride, he was no longer traveling south. He was traveling inward. An unnatural breeze swept in from all directions, kicking up dust until it swirled and became dirt. Rocks began to turn over and sink into the path as it slowly disappeared, overtaken by grass from every crack and it spread toward the horizon.
The breeze became gusts, carrying clouds in to envelop the sky, covering the sun until everything was cast in an even, pale light. The overcast was not gray, but green as sprouts from the ground rose to match and surpass his own height, making stalks and vines, arching over the now unmarked path, leading him forward with a quiet invitation.
Blossoms of every color stretched from the green around him, greeting him with morning yawns and sighs of dew. For him, it may have been time to rest, but along the path he was now taking, it was time for something else to wake. The road ended just ahead, the arching vines leaning into each other like an embrace over an ellipse of swirling mist. The wind brushed locks of his white hair across his cheeks as he smiled at the familiar window of green with hints of purple and infinity.
He was at his destination; the beginning of his chance to wander. The entrance to his true homeland. His chest was filled with warmth, his spirit flourishing as he took the final, yet first steps into the cure for his need to walk, anywhere as long as it was for miles.
His slumber would never fail to take him where he needed to go. All roads would eventually lead here. The Emerald Dream would always be there should he feel the need to wander.
Nyloh could feel curious eyes watching him from over the back of the couch as he carefully stirred the pancake batter. He did his best to keep his lips straight together, to not smile. He enjoyed the faint warmth of her gaze as he moved about the kitchen and didn't want her to think he had noticed.
He turned with the bowl toward the stove and poured a little slowly into the pan, already heated and waiting. With his back turned, he finally let a grin curl across his face. How long had it been since he last had pancakes? Too long. He used to always make it, especially for his family, but it slowly became a rarity when it was just himself.
But he could think of nothing better to share with the little sprite that was now staying with him. His mind tried to wander, worrying about what she would have had to eat before; how there ever could have been enough. He had to push that away for now. His attention was best spent focused on the pan. He knew his pancake recipe by heart after all these years, but he was still a bit out of practice.
Leaning over to watch as the batter bubbled in the middle and settled towards the edges, he was careful not to leave them there too long. Flipping the pancake quickly, he breathed a sigh of relief at the golden color it greeted him with. He wasn't so out of practice after all.
He did his best to stay focused, to ensure the rest of the batch came out as well, but he couldn't help but glance back, watching as Mith rearranged the pillows on the into today's special arrangement. He was never sure if there was a pattern to how she moved the different sized and colored pillows, but it was seemingly never the same. Chuckling softly, he pulled his attention back to the stove briefly for another flip.
Lots of little things would move around in the apartment over time. Sometimes the plants around the apartment would be shuffled around. Sometimes the books would be stacked differently. Whatever it was, he enjoyed the way it made the apartment feel alive, even if sometimes he would have no idea where something was.
Scooping the last pancake onto a plate, he looked over to her once more. There was a light she had brought to the entire place and he was never sure how to thank her for it. Hopefully a warm and fluffy breakfast would suffice.
After getting to RP her a few times for @gardenofevenlight‘s Lunar Festival event, I got a better idea of who Eldarra is after a long time of her really having no character at all, so I wanted to explore her a little more. 556 words.
The early hours of the morning were peculiar for Eldarra. As the moon slowly disappeared and the sky gained the first hints of light from the horizon, she felt connected to all facets of nature. Taking in the last moments of night as it dwindled and anticipating the growing warmth of the new day's light, it felt like an intersection between halves of herself.
She couldn't help but be introspective at such a time. Moving about her humble lodgings, still in her nightgown, she contemplated the day ahead of her with quiet thanks. Seeing another sunrise always felt like an occasion to her after seeing the frailty of life for so long.
And yet, today she found less solace in it than usual. A quiet anxiety grew within her with the rising light outside and a chill crept over her, the cold of night lingering longer than she liked.
The previous week saw several under her care slip away, a few soldiers who had helped a small village escape from an invading force of demons. For all she and others tending to the wounded could do, they were too far gone. Even after being moved to simpler tasks it stung as she remembered their faces and voices as they fought to survive for another day, to maybe return and help others again.
At least they could rest now, she told herself. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. They would live on in the memories of those they had saved in sacrificing their own wellbeing.
But this had become almost too familiar. She was tired of telling herself that, of losing those who had kept others safe, of losing anyone at all.
On her knees before her window, she bowed her head and breathed slowly. The windowsill bore a small morning offering, incense burning beside a handful of poppies and sage. The scent helped her meditate, easing the pain of the memory.
Slowly, she focused on what there was for her today. Simple tasks; preparing bandages and other supplies, purifying and consecrating them as needed to fight demonic corruption. With how much the medics and others required such supplies, there was always a need for someone to prepare more and she was happy with even such a seemingly small or even boring thing.
It was easy sometimes to forget one's importance. The tasks assigned each day could become so rote, taking away all of the spark and light out of one's own heart. Eldarra was careful in her prayers each morning to ensure she never forgot.
She was not of any lofty position and the things asked of her were never truly large, especially compared to what she knew others faced in such times, but it was still important. To the people who depended on her, to the people she could help, and to herself.
To forget that would mean forgetting the very light that enabled her to help in the first place. Complacency could endanger her effectiveness and she held firm to her perspective.
Perhaps that was why it still stung, why it was never any easier to see loss around her. That would be forgetting as well. Rising slowly to her feet, her lips curled into a brief smile. That would be her answer for today. That would be more than enough.
I’ve been trying to better understand Ferran and get my writing spark back under control, so I wanted to chase this inspiration while it was still with me. 1335 words.
After the loss of the Peak of Serenity to the invading Burning Legion, monks of all disciplines and walks had gathered on the back of Shen-zin Su, the great sea turtle, to regroup and rebuild their orders. As this effort grew, Ferran found himself dividing his time equally between attentions within the Emerald Dreamway and here. Seeing the counter-offensive build from two different angles lent him deep insight, not just into the world he was fighting for, but to himself. There was much to meditate over and little time for pause.
But there was still time. It could be found in the shade beneath a tree, in the rustling of leaves in the wind, or in passing through a quiet little nook at the Laughing Crane. Standing at the side of the Temple of Five Dawns, just away from most of the bustle of training and strategizing, the tavern for the time being, mostly empty besides a few patrons enjoying a moment to relax.
Ferran sat alone on the second floor, peering at the different corners of the room as it was lit by hanging lanterns, bright and freshly lit. Various corners of the room were in use for supplies, storing anything from ingredients for the cooks below to surplus for the campaign. It was easy for the conflict to be the first thing in his mind, but he pushed it away, curious at the sight of something tucked away towards the back, where most would not be looking.
A collection of unassuming pottery and other items, put away just at the end of the light's reach atop several boxes. They at first just seemed like they were left there carelessly, but the smoothed out tapestry they were organized neatly on showed they were left there to be found and the lack of dust showed they were used often. Makeshift tables and other places to keep items were common on the Isle, with more people and possessions there with the losses of so many temples and other places making for more than there was room for at times.
With no one else around to question him, he stepped back and reached for one of the lower hanging lanterns, carrying it over for a better look. As the light washed over the corner, the objects atop it reflected back at him and he could not help but smile.
The craftsmanship of the objects was immediately recognizable, though they were all from different places. A tea set centered between two teapots, both of which did not match the set. Some bowls and a plan off to one side. Two matching vases off to the other. The materials were varied, from simple polished stone to porcelain to what he could only guess was ghost iron. They were all from different places.
One teapot, its ghost iron faded from use, looked to have been from a farmer from the Valley. The vases were painted pottery from the Temple of the Jade Serpent, art of Yulon gracing their sides. The bowls were in some ways crude, but still beautifully crafted with their etchings of the Black Ox, showing the telltale signs of Townlong's sturdy folk. The porcelain teacups showing careful blue patterns on their rims, a sign from the Temple of the White Tiger.
They all told stories, all precious in their mere presence, that these were things some saw fit to keep with them, to carry to another continent as reminders of home, of what they were fighting for. But other stories lingered within, glimmering in the dancing light of his lantern as he set it down to get a better look.
They were all, every single one of them, broken; though that was more appropriately said in the past tense. They had been broken, but since repaired. Mended carefully, colorful streaks in their materials where their sundered parts had been rejoined. Ghost iron had been carefully filled with trillium, swirls of black and white amidst faded silver. Stone had been sealed with jade, bright green streaks curling up the sides. Porcelain had been joined with gilded lacquer. All of them put back together with something meant to call attention to their damage, to their impermanence.
They fought to retain these objects, just as those who owned them had fought to survive. And, fittingly, these showed their own scars, just like the many who had survived.
Survived the Legion. Survived the Sha, the Klaxxi, the Mogu. The Pandaren were survivors. They knew the importance of scars and the frailty of life. They knew the strength in things that were rebuilt. And there was a lesson in that.
There was always a lesson with Pandaren. They kept their lessons with them, all around them. Even in something as simple as a teacup. Even after being broken, there was still life and value here, in everything, no matter how small. He learned this lesson in his training, as the masters sat him and others down to slowly make such restorations as one of their tasks. It was easy to wonder how such a thing could benefit a monk, but they never would tell it to students.
They didn't have to. In time, everyone learned. The patience built from the slow and careful pace and time spent putting one single object back together. The keen eye and steady hand developed in joining and securing every piece. And most of all, the importance of the bright colors settling into every crack, holding each piece together. The value that remaining in anything that might be considered broken.
"Nothing is lost unless you let it be." Lessons of memory and tradition were passed down amongst the Pandaren, but so was history, even when it carried pain. This didn't even need to be told. After days spent working on them, seeing even something like a teacup come together once more, strong and whole again, was inspiring, the lesson learned silently.
Carefully trailing a fingertip along the edge of one of the bowls, he felt the slight shift in texture where one material blended with the other. His mind was flooded with similar memories, of carefully finishing a restoration, checking that each join was smooth but strong. He came to see himself in every one, each restored object sharpening his mind as the calm grew, gaining solace as he learned hope from each rejoined piece and the ability to do so with his very hands.
The memories of the time before his training crept in, remembering the tailspin he found himself in as his druidic ability dwindled underneath doubts. He was turbulent, lost feeling so many things about the holes in himself, whether they were real or perceived. But now, the damage and breaks, were restored, filled with something else.
Through the sundered objects they had restored, but did not hide the faults in, they had showed him the beauty not only retained but gained in having a deeper meaning by showing its past. The scars were part of a story, they had meaning; and that meaning was important and beautiful.
The gaps being filled were not just function, they were art. To cover them as if it had never been broken hid the lesson, the story.
The breaks in himself that were filled was his story. The holes in his druidism were filled with the colors of being a monk. That mixed nature brought him a deep comfort, made whole through the marks of what had filled the gaps.
Carefully looking over the restored objects laid out one last time, he picked the lantern back up and nodded. There were no longer two parts, pieces of druid bonded with a lacquer of monk. There was simply one whole, one him. His monk training had brought together the pieces of his druidic talent, but in that bond, he was more, overflowing and connecting with life, to restore and weave however he could.
He would take care not to forget that lesson. To not forget himself ever again.
Something very specific has always caught me about the isolation of the Nightborne. A world quest really made me think more about it and it’s stayed in my mind for months now. This is my answer to all that pondering. 782 words.
Suramar City spent thousands of years isolated from the world, living in its own decadence. So many taught themselves to be happy within the confines of the barrier that protected them, not knowing of the condition of the world outside, if one even remained. Most believed it was gone, that everything under the barrier was all that was left.
But others could not be so satisfied. Many held onto memories of what the world was, what it was supposed to be. Even as the almost countless years stretched on, as the arcane energies trapped under the shroud changed them all, they longed for the outside, even as the hope of ever seeing it dwindled.
The canopy of twisting energies that they began to call a sky became a dark omen to many, a constant reminder of the small world that was left for them. Quietly, as centuries became millennia, a specific kind of artisan within the Shal'dorei became heavily sought after, their talents gaining a new facet of value.
Artists.
Those who still held onto some kind of hope wanted something they could set their eyes upon. Reminders of the sky they all once looked up at or impressions of new ideas, of skies that may never exist anywhere but could transport them away from the confines of their shrouded home.
These images started from the lowborn, the outcasts. The ones who had nothing except these memories to hold onto, to keep their spirits up as the small fragment of what used to be a larger world tried to keep them down. They made their way up, peddling the one thing those in the upper castes dare not conceive of.
Hope.
They work tirelessly to find reagents, plants and oils and magical enchantments, to make the exact colors they needed, seeing the world is wider palettes and brighter shades than those who didn't question the world around them.
They made and shared images of with clouds, fluffy formations in different shapes and sizes, things that were more than just undulations and interferences inside an arcane field. They made images with colors that the nobles struggled to even remember and found themselves quietly addicted to, finding it sating a need that magic itself could not.
Commissions were offered to those they could find to make a new color for them, to discover a new kind of sky. They always feared the resource of art might run out somehow like the dwindling diversity in the ecology of their confines, underestimating the infinite bounds of imagination itself. All they knew was that they needed it.
Images of vistas shrouded at their tops in clouds and horizons with brightly lit oceans always fetched high prices. Grand displays became entangled in complex bidding wars. Favorite pieces became treasured family heirlooms.
As demand created new pressure, despite the opportunities, the artists sought new ways to replenish their own souls, to return to a state of simple remembrance and imagination. They shared freely with each other, work together, and dabbled in what magic they could to make their skies come alive.
Some made paintings that moved, that sought to bring back a passage to time itself under the unflinching shroud. They showed sunrises and sunsets upon walls that would otherwise have seen none. They went from blues to oranges to blacks in homes where many had long sickened of pale stone.
But some went further. A few with expansive talents both with a brush and with magic found themselves holding a special talent, able to bring their magic off of the canvas itself. Careful strokes of the brush could paint celestial bodies that rushed forward to brighten their rooms. They painted clouds that floated above the heads of others. Inspired in the quiet, they toiled, however ephemeral the magic, and made their own skies.
Blue skies to calm the nerves of those who felt trapped, like the barrier had shrunk and might one day collapse atop them all.
Skies of constantly shifting gray, imbued with chaotic energies for those who missed adventure and sought the wind.
Sunsets that stretched oranges into pinks, concealing dark purples in their corners, to bring back sparks to old loves that withered with the years.
Night skies of deep blacks dotted with bright spots, streaked with waves of color and clouds of shimmering dust, to help some sleep, finding it a more comforting darkness than the staleness of light under the barrier.
For thousands of years, Suramar stood by itself. Left as an island with no ocean, as a prison with no places to wander. But hope remained, for some had remembered and, in their memory and imagination, they gave back what they could.
After a lot of thinking about myself and writing in the last few days, as well as a bump in the road due to my own issues, I’ve found myself learning things I feel I should have already known. I probably even did know at different times, but managed to forget either due to anxiety, depression, or just plain being a bit of an idiot. But thanks to @pinxiedust, I am slowly learning again how to experiment, to toy with, to tinker.
Ironic that I forgot that, considering it’s the entire core of most of the characters I write (and the literal job of my WoW main). I lost a lot of confidence in my ideas and my abilities, but everything I write doesn’t have to be perfect or final. They can just be ideas, moments, and things to share with my partner. So I sat down today to experiment and ended up with far more than I could have asked for. 1369 words.
He thought he was done with this part of his life. After what felt like months, he thought it didn't have to be this way anymore. No more running, he said.
But run was all Ferran could do. He relied only on the strength of his legs and the basic instincts deep within in him to carry him forward, far away from the ruins he had turned into a home for himself.
It had taken him so long to make it the way he liked, using the power he had been given to bring life the way he saw fit to it. Curling vines around stones, settling any plant he adopted into little beds of fresh soil, illuminating it with all manners of warm bioluminescence. It was a home just for him, and the first time he saw the world finally shape itself to his whims. It was what he always wanted, wasn't it?
It came at a price. He should have expected that. Everything came at some sort of a price. It had to. But the power he had used to make his home what not his. It was no gift. It was not given to him, but lent. And he was not the one in control.
The voice of his old master echoed as he recalled the misshapen and twisted forms of his rescues. The petals gaining strange patterns and dark blotches, the stems curling at strange angles and gaining thorns, vines gaining a mind of their own and digging into sheer stone. He had been warned.
"This land has power within its very heart." He was told. "And it will speak to you. It speaks to all of us. When we sleep, when the clouds are dark. This land tests us."
He had always taken his master's words as fable, as parable. The warning itself a mere lesson. It was far more literal than he ever wanted to believe, even as someone who had listened to the land for millennia. He had forgotten the simple truths from all of his days as a druid. He had forgotten to listen.
To the land. To his teachers. Even to his instincts. All he listened to was his longing, the emptiness in his heart that told him to erase, to mold, to change the world and retreat from it.
Finally unable to run a single moment longer, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He was a fool and he knew it. He thought making a home for himself meant he could finally stopped running, but he had never stopped. He may have stopped moving, but he was still running from the world, from reality. He was hiding.
Hiding from everything that had pained him, torn away at him, taken away from him. He wanted to never lose again. He watched so many things burn… The Sundering. The Cataclysm. Hyjal. Even the simple boat that had taken him here. The entire world smelled like fire.
He just wanted to breathe. Was that so much to ask? Struggling to fill his lungs as he had run an unknown distance for an unknown amount of time, all he could do was try to breathe. He had lost again.
Another home had to be left behind as his arms still stung, remembering as vines turned against him and tendrils of dark energies reached to hold him, to keep him in the lair he had fashioned for himself. It didn't want him to leave. It needed him. But he had gotten away, refusing its supposed "gift". And now left without a home once again. No place to call his own.
Or so he thought.
As the blood rushing through his ears pounded with echoes of a quiet voice, a familiar whisper telling him that he can always run but he can never get away, another sound caught his attention. Soft but quick, a pattering. Something was rushing through the woods, quickly approaching him from behind. He was too tired to be threatened, merely digging his hands into the dirt and readying himself for anything.
Expecting an enemy, he looked behind him only to find simple crane running towards him. Dashing quickly along the road, his eyes followed, watching the innocuous creature. As it passed him, carrying his eyes back to the road before him, he found himself face to face with an unexpected figure.
At least twice his height and flickering with bright red light, the visage of a large crane stood in the middle of the road, staring directly at him. Time froze as another voice spoke to him, one that was lighter, calmer. He had heard it before in dreams and its sound drove away the other voice that had followed him from the ruins.
"Why do you run like my children do?" The crane asked.
Ferran found himself short on breaths. He understood the question was more than just his current predicament. He ran for more than to just escape the Sha. "Because there is nothing for me." He replied, his heart pouring out without another thought. "Everything behind me is gone. Why not run? I keep losing everything. It's hopeless."
"Is it?" The crane spoken with notes of curiosity and knowing. "You have run so much and for so long. How many times have you run not from danger or loss, but from fear? From failure?"
The question dug into him. He had left more behind than just losses.
"You seek so much from yourself. But you have been carried forward by such a simple desire." The red crane's voice softened, emitting the energy of a wide smile despite its form. "You seek to cultivate, to care for. You have merely lost the way of how. But it is not a lack of ability. A nightmare of despair has taken root within you."
"But what else is there to do? I have tried everything." Ferran founds his fingers digging into his palms as he gripped the dirt beneath him. "All I can do is run. I can't stop."
"I never asked you to." The crane replied, a hint of joviality in his voice. "I asked you why."
Tears formed at the edges of his vision, blurring it as he could no longer bear the sight of bright white and red feathers any longer. He had so many questions, so many things to say and ask as his heart felt ready to burst with fear, and doubt, and despair.
"Do not run away, looking back over your shoulder." The voice rose with a challenge. "Run towards. Chase. Create the destiny you seek."
"But where? Run to where?" Ferran asked, his voice breaking as he finally looked back up. But instead he saw nothing before him, the middle of the road empty once more. Slowly getting to his feet, he stumbled forward towards a single bright red feather. He reached down and took it, contemplating it and the figure it had apparently come from.
The Red Crane… He was unsure what had just happened and as his mind wandered, he finally found himself able to breathe. Exhaling slowly as the breeze whipped around him, he let go of the feather and watched it spin and curl as the wind carried it away. Following it slowly, his eyes were drawn to something in the distance.
A tall towering structure with a statue atop it. Silhouetted in the midday sun, he barely made out the shape of a crane. He gasped. In all of his running, he had lost all bearings of where he was until that moment. The Temple. It was still a long ways in the distance, but he could make it there before nightfall.
Questions instantly rose in his mind. Would he be accepted there? Was this even what he wanted? His legs didn't care for any answers, already pushing him forward and dashing off of the road in the direction of the temple.
He had run from training before, shunning his lessons for what the whispers had promised him. It felt foolish to go back, even after ignoring the warnings he was given, but he knew. He had to make things right. And he couldn't do it by himself.
I wrote this on the same day as my last post but was honestly a bit scared to post it. As I wrote it, making everything up as I went along in a stream of consciousness that ended up remaking an older idea, I wanted to have a little surprise at the end, if for no one other than myself. It probably doesn’t even make sense for anyone not familiar with my own internal struggles with my writing, going back as far as 2010, but it was a fun little experiment, seeing what new take I could find on something old. 1280 words.
It had been six days. Six days cooped up in this beyond disheveled apartment, rummaging through journals and notebooks and scraps. Endless amounts of papers, all covered in the same handwriting. The living space was small, with only the meager cooking area clear of writing materials. Light poured in through the windows, all opened to let out the dusty and smell of musty paper.
He had been basically living in that same space for six days, not wanting to leave as he struggled to understand the mess of history and discovery that lay within all the pages around him. The story they told was a winding mess, a labyrinth of theories and dairies, but somehow the days had actually flown by.
The notebooks were largely simple to follow. Each kept itself to a single topic. A specific block of time, a single experiment or study, something to keep it self contained. Beyond that, the handwriting was rather legible, surprisingly avoiding deteriorating as time went on over the course of what had to have been years worth of constant note-taking.
They just hadn't been kept in good order. The remnants of a careful system were there. Tall bookcases with handmade labels of years and months on them stood along the walls. The notebooks carried months, years, and volume numbers on them as well. He could tell where they were supposed to have gone and spent most of the entire first day just sorting, digging to make sure the dust covered collection was in its proper order.
He wasn't sure who had put them into such disarray. If the original writer had stopped caring about keeping their system or if someone else had come through looking. Nothing seemed to be missing, but based on the handwriting, note-taking practices, and constant labeling it didn't seem likely the apartment's owner would have suddenly slacked off.
He hoped the answer lay somewhere in the notebooks, but there was so much to go through. It almost defied sense that one person could write so much. A single year could have at least seventy notebooks, with twelve of a personal diary set aside to safely compile each month, around twenty covering individual subjects of study from throughout the year, and at least thirty experiments, each kept to its own book.
The studies ranged from simple tracking of movement patterns and environmental data to testing of various theories about possible patterns. The experiments were even more varied, with simple dissections of local flora and examinations of other samples in equal measure with more applied testing of theories about all forms of magic.
Every time that word entered his mind, he smirked. As the faint sound of vehicles driving along the roads reminded him of the still very much modern world outside him, the word "magic" seemed so unfit, but it was the reality of the world around him now. Under the flourescent lighting of the apartment, he read page after page of a scientific mind using scientific processes to test what just centuries before had been seen as arcane, as unknowable. What even half a century before was still inconceivable.
The world had changed so rapidly and surrounding him was the work of one who catalogued and documented as many of those changes as humanly possible. Surrounding him were answers.
And he had questions. His hand twitched under his glove at the thought. Questions about what really had happened. About the way the world had changed. About how he had changed. He pulled away from the book to stretch after having been hunched over for far too long again. As he rolled his shoulders, his sleeves and gloves parted to show a glimmer of his wrist, the light catching the metallic skin of his right hand.
A lot of things had changed when the rifts appeared. The incident that had nearly taken his hand weighed heavily on his mind as he adjusted the glove, not daring to remove it. He knew it was foolish to still be so bothered but it distracted him too much some days to look at something he still knew so little about.
Reaching up, his gloved fingers combed through white hair, pushing them away from his eyes as he stared at the pages open before him.
The various journal entries and tables of data and associated notes all fascinated him. So many different facets of the world lay before him on those page and the organization and style of writing made sure everything was accessible to him. He couldn't help but feel they were all written for him, talking directly to him, but this seemed to be the intention, one way or another.
The massive collection of several hundred notebooks were all part of an effort to impart this information to someone, though he honestly had no idea whom. Maybe there was no one in particular. No one knew where the writer had gone or that they even left such a wealth of information behind. It was almost luck that he was tipped off at all of their existence.
Standing there, amidst all of this information, a responsibility began to weigh on him. He felt like a student to an invisible teacher. Almost a successor. He had to find out more about this person who was giving him so many answers, or at least more tools to find his own answers. Through all his rummaging, he couldn't even be sure of a name, different notes seeming to indicate different aliases, but a notable lack of personal effects throughout the apartment.
A quiet chime and a vibration came from his left pocket. Fishing for his phone, he sighed. Only one person would be checking on him at this hour and a quick glance at the name confirmed his suspicion.
"Yes, I'm alive." He said as soon as he picked up.
"Well that's good to hear." The voice on the other side replied. "It's been like a week. Did you get what you needed?"
"I don't really have one single thing I need so that's not really likely to be found in someone's abandoned apartment." He explained.
"You're talking in riddles again." The voice said. "Are you satisfied? Will you be coming back soon? I don't like leaving you alone in a run down part of town."
"I'm not done here." He said, his words slowing as he began to think. He had only gotten through maybe a quarter of all the notebooks here, including skimming. What was he going to do? "I'll be fine, though. I can take care of myself." He absently flexed his right hand.
The voice merely sighed. "Is an apartment covered in paper seriously that interesting? You haven't even told me what you found yet."
"Just… a lot of information." He said, not sure how to explain it without going into details that would make his friend's eyes glaze over. "This is the closest I've been to understanding any of this in years. I'd rather be here right now."
For a few long moments, there was so reply. "I'm going down there in two days to make sure you're okay and to check on things. I'd like you to think about an actual plan for whatever is in there so you aren't moving into someone else's apartment."
"That's not a bad idea..." He said absently, not sure if he was even serious at that moment.
The voice just sighed again. "Two days. Take care of yourself, Wedge."
As the call disconnected, all he could do was chuckle. He had to make a decision at some point. Two days was probably long enough. But first, he had more reading to do.
While trying to get myself back into the swing of things, I had to get something I’ve had for @pinxiedust‘s Kistra finally out of my head and onto the page. 439 words.
By the time the Draenor campaign had shifted its focused into a full assault of the jungles of Tanaan, her name had already become quite notable among some of the more experienced soldiers. Though many kept it to whispers, she had become known for her perseverance and for making victories where they didn't seem otherwise likely. For pulling through with as many alive as possible. Her abilities as a healer were revered as those who had fought with her found themselves fighting harder to keep her light shining.
Rank didn't matter for them. In a war that continued to take strange turns in a land that wasn't their own, she was a beacon.
She was Kistra Moonpetal, and to follow her in battle was to follow the wind.
The newer recruits, the ones who had been swept up into this campaign almost by misfortune more than anything else, found themselves struggling less in her presence. They found her easy to follow, motivated by a force that seemed far too strong to be just a single person. The way she threw herself into every battle and the way the moon reflected in her eyes, all they knew was her determination, and it kept them all moving forward with her.
The veterans, however, knew more. They saw the eye in the storm, the emptiness behind the raging winds. They saw their own pasts reflected in her. They saw the loss. Not a single word was shared about it. No words were needed. Having seen three or so campaigns themselves, they knew what might drive a person to become a force such as she was.
Together they made her crew. They would be the sails, catching her wind and pushing forward as she moved to the next objective with the force of nature itself. Where she went, they would follow.
As they stood atop the ship, navigating treacherous waters towards the coast of Tanaan with the wind at their backs, they regarded her with fear and wonder. Storms seemed to mean nothing to her and the movement of the ship seemed to not affect her.
To the recruits, she was an avatar of something greater, as if the visage of Elune molded to the fore of the ship itself had appeared there on the deck. To the veterans, she was a reminder. She kept a strong appearance for them all, but they would make sure everything kept running. They would be what she needed to ensure another victory.
They would be carried by her determination to the shores of the unwelcoming jungle. They had all since learned not to fight the wind.
So one thing I love about Warcraft is the anachronistic way its presents so many different types and levels of technology at once. While a distinctly old, medieval based fantasy setting, it has many different sciences, some very advanced, some still very primitive.
It has steam-based tanks, but also WW1-era planes. It has simple outhouses, but also elevators. It has guns, cannons, explosives, and scopes.
It also has telescopes. Most commonly seen with as part of the Gnomish architecture, they are also just a simple combination of elements seen constantly within Azeorth, some even taken for granted. And I believe that, just like for us, many discoveries were made with these telescopes and with minds as inquisitive as out own.
I see a lot of the following being discovered mostly by gnomes, as they are at the epicenter of science and magic in the Warcraft universe, frequently blending the two and having both a large scientific community and a huge presence within the most magical minds of Azeroth.
When I was a kid, astronomy was my favorite thing ever. I knew so many things about the sun, the moon, the Earth. About Galileo and the Apollo space program. And I’ve been recently digging back into some of that and, well, I couldn’t help but wonder what astronomy in Azeroth would be like.
If Copernicus and Galileo and Newton and others stretching from the 1300s to the 1600s could solve so many things with tools not unlike those present in Azeroth, I think they would have some of the same answers.
So what if, with the other tools they have such as magic, could they learn something very unique to their world?
Science-y headcanon below the cut.
Ancient Night Elven and Troll calendars recovered from various archaeological dig sites differ slightly from modern ones, having a different pattern of leap days. Theirs alternated almost every other year. The Night Elves came to call these Solar and Lunar years while the trolls referred to them differently between tribes, typically named after different Loa.
The modern calendar, however, has a leap day on average every four years (differing occasionally between races, though the Common Calendar or Lordaeron, has spread to widespread use through the Alliance and eventually to the Horde, via early trade relations between Lordaeron and the Goblins.
For years, scholars debated the difference in calendars and for years the prevailing theory was that Azeroth, which through years of stargazing and mathematical projections was determined to be a large object moving through space, was slowly losing speed. The extremely small, almost immeasurable deceleration would account for a slower revolution around the sun, making for shorter years in the distant past.
Historical resources, namely surviving writings of Highborne and Troll stargazers, however, shows little change is the lengths of days. Likewise, astronomical data from multiple sources within Lordaeron as well as from exiled Highborne who kept their eyes heavensward, showed little variation within the last two thousand years. While the voracity and the possible accuracy of such writings was debated for years, many saw this as indicative of something beyond potential errors.
As mages began to experiment with Temporal magic, advances in astronomical calculation came rapidly through the practice of "glimpsing". Using several of the underlying principles of scrying, small portals through time could be made, not enough to send a person or even a solid object, but enough to send enough arcane energy to catch a glimpse of the world on the other side or to measure the immediate world around. A snapshot of an earlier time.
With said "glimpses", small and brief as they were, immeasurably useful data was able to be collected. Through such glimpses, the condition of the world in that location could be seen. The positions of the stars at any moment in time could be peeked at. The movement of Azeroth as a large object in space would be confirmed through examinations of it in different moments of the past.
Old theories about the various errors in early temporal magic were proven true. That farther into the past one went, the larger its margin of error, eventually leading one to locations entirely different than expected. This was explained by the movement in Azeroth itself, confirming both its rotation and revolution. And as mages learned to compensate, anchoring spells to the earth below to have any travel in time keep its proper position regardless of how the planet moved, more accurate results were gained, for both time travel and mathematical prediction.
Soon mages could predict the destination of time travel even thousands of years backward accurately within several feet. However, this revealed both an answer and a question.
The answer came in their ability to predict. Azeroth moved at a nearly constant rate, as theorized in the light of ancient calendars and stargazing data. But how, then, did time move faster over ten thousand years ago? Why were glimpses of the distant past incorrectly positioned?
As the question spread like wildfire among scientific minds, the same theory arose in short time. Only one point in time could explain such a change. Only one event stood between the distant and recent past with the power to change the planet itself: The Sundering.
With additional study surrounding the cataclysmic event, the conclusion was undebatable. The Sundering had shaken Azeroth so wholly that it had changed its own path around the sun, almost immeasurably, but enough to slow its years by a fraction of a day.
Quynt let out an overdrawn sigh, not hiding a single bit of her annoyance at herself as she paused in the doorway on her way outside. She was doing it again. Tightening her grip on the bags in each hand, she felt their weight as she held more parts and tools. She was working outside again.
It shouldn't have bothered her. She loved working outside when she had the chance and her current base of operations in Loch Modan was perfect. The location was a bit humid, but the mountain breeze coming down from the east from Dun Morogh made it all worth it. But the nice weather and cool mountain air was not why she was moving yet another project outside.
Pushing her heel off from the threshold, she stomped out to one of the makeshift tables she had set up. They had already been cleared of last night's failed experiment and she was ready to work on something new. Quickly dropping the bags, she leaned over the table and let out a breath slowly as her eyes fell shut.
It wasn't what was outside that drove her to work here. It was what was inside. It was what was strewn on every workbench and table in her temporary lodgings. Practically bleeding over onto her floor were scopes, barrels, stocks, magazines, and more. An endless stream of parts to countless dismantled or half-assembled rifles and pistols and other guns were everywhere and she just couldn't stand to look at it or clean it up.
She wanted them all finished. Her modifications, her experiments, her new designs. They had all seemed so perfect and clear and necessary two months ago. And then, after a few favors and minor emergencies from the nearby Ironforge guard nearby and the momentum was lost. Half of what was strewn around her seemed foreign, as if it belonged to someone else, while the other half just taunted her with more of the same that had sent her back to Azeroth half a year before.
She was sick of them all. Sick of every weapon she had. Sick of what they meant. So much of the conflict beyond the Dark Portal seemed completely useless. Nothing made sense anymore, and not just the strange intersection of time and space setting a conflict in what was apparently another timestream.
It wasn't that she didn't understand the threat or the stakes. Even if it was another world or another time, lives were still at stake. But none of it truly needed her. She was fodder at best, forgotten constantly, and still told she was imperative to a conflict she didn't even see frequently. She knew a lot of it was the leadership. While some garrisons, like the one in Shadowmoon, were doing well and leading the charge as the conflict shifted into Tanaan Jungle, others were disasters. She was extremely grateful that she was not assigned to Taylor's garrison in the Spires of Arak, which was a complete disaster, but while the small outposts she flitted between didn't suffer major losses, they all had the same lack of direction and connection to anything else going on.
Most of her time was spent trying to find something productive to do. She worked on any weapons sent to her, built new equipment for SI:7 operatives and marksmen, worked on repairing steam tanks in Nagrand and Ashran, but all of it didn't matter. In the end, more of her times was spent learning from the rangari and artificers, picking apart Iron Horde and Draenei technology, and investigating Apexis ruins. While all of it was extremely enlightening, she could never stop feeling displaced, literally where she did not belong in both time and space.
She was lucky. There were very few people who had seen as much of Draenor as she had who also had her experience with engineering teleporters. Stormwind needed a lot of data on advanced inter-dimensional telemetry and after a month of going back and forth between times and worlds, they had triple the information they were expecting and she had a well deserved vacation awaiting her.
A part of her felt heavy, even now, that she had walked away. That the weapons, vehicles, explosives, and other devices left behind, despite their quality, still didn't mean enough. But to her, they didn't mean anything. For whatever reason, Draenor was not her fight.
She honestly wondered if any fight was. Triggers felt clumsy to her. Stocks felt clumsy against her shoulder. She was still proficient, but she didn't have the same fire, the same reflexive spark as before. She had lost her edge.
And how did you find something like that again? It definitely wasn't in the tools. After weeks of trying to make a better rifle, a more comfortable stock, a more responsive trigger she knew the objects she used for combat had not suddenly changed. She had.
Rolling her shoulders and tapping the smooth metal surface of the table, she shook her head. She couldn't bear to return to that work, to look at all the reminders of where she was supposed to be. All those failed attempts to make things better just made it worse. She needed to work on something else.
Pushing her bag of tools aside with her foot, she reached inside, ready to work on something, anything, to occupy her mind when a shrill static echoed behind her.
Spinning around to face her other table, she knew the sound was coming from the misshapen metal box that was her gnomecorder. She wasn't expecting that to make a sound for some time, since the only station close enough to contact her was Thelsamar.
Quickly tapping the receiver, she responded. "Automa here."
The sound over the radio scratched before the thick accent of a familiar dwarf rose over the white noise. "Oi, Quynt. There might be some work for ya."
She reflexively squinted. "Torren, you know I'm on vacation, right? I'm not really doing odd jobs right now."
"I know that. But!" He started, his voice already sounding like he was expecting to be hung up on at any moment. "I figured ya wouldn't mind a little diversion. You never struck me as the type to take vacations, anyway."
"I do still need a break every now and then." She replied, biting at her lip. She didn't want to admit that her curiosity was already piqued or that a distraction was exactly what she was looking for. "What's the job?"
Terron cleared his throat before answering very carefully. "Have ya ever gone racing?"
@pinxiedust mentioned an idea of Lenathil getting into alchemy last night and I wanted to see what the old grump might do with it. 702 words.
For a few long moments, Lenathil questioned how what had once been a very neat little shed was now the disaster it was. He knew the technical answer, of course. He had done it. With bowls, bottles, and boxes set down anywhere that had a flat surface, he had been the strange, disorderly force to ruin his little hideaway. He had somehow managed to lose track of it all in just a few days without having any chance to really clean up.
Still, it wasn't without purpose. This mess had meant a large amount of practice finally put behind him, now that he had a break from what felt like half of Eversong lighting on fire without him watching it. Which also meant a leap in the quality of his work.
He had been teaching himself everything he could of alchemy in his spare time. For too long he had wanted something to occupy himself with, some sort of hobby or similar to keep his hands busy with something that wasn't his bow. He needed something new. Watching Zel and Quinnie tend to the garden that had miraculously sprung up around their home made him yearn for something of his own.
Carefully beginning the process of clearing away the oldest of bottles and dumping less than proper results in a bucket outside, he tried to hide his smile. Even in these "failures", he could feel progress in the things he learned sloshing around as he carried them. Something pulled at him to conceal his satisfaction despite knowing no one would bother him in his work shed.
But satisfied he was. In just under a week, he had managed to teach himself quite a variety of potions and tonics. He had enjoyed all of it, even when something didn't work as expected. He had the chance to finally learn again, to feel like he could grow.
Gathering up all the now emptied rejects, he set them aside to clean later and noticed how small the count was this time. He had far less accidents and poor results than he expected.
Perhaps his long history of field experience gave him an edge as he was most definitely not some young, bright eyed amateur. He knew what reagents could be volatile or toxic, how to carefully handle herbs without damaging them, and a few combinations to avoid. He also picked up quite a lot from Zel, who couldn't help but talk about some obscure fact she had learned about another plant she had encountered.
Moving on from the empty bottles to his latest batch, he began to organize them, sorting by their bottle shapes and colors, remembering what each one was. He couldn't fight back his smile this time. This made him happy. They weren't just successes, they were useful.
He had done more than learn over his time delving into alchemy, though that experience alone was worth it. He now had something to show for it. He could make something out of his little breaks.
He paused halfway to a tall vial with a pinkish liquid, frowning for a moment. He knew there was a possible downside. There was always the chance that this diversion could fall to the same thing as the rest of his tendencies. These potions were useful, even needed. What he worked on now to relax could become another obsession, another need to keep protecting others.
He closed his eyes and made himself shake it off for now. There were plenty of alchemists and others who could help with this, unlike the frequently thin ranks of rangers and guards. This was something he could afford to leave in the hands of others.
"I can make something useful, but I don't have to." He told himself, pressing it into his memory as he began to move sets of potions into boxes. He would bring them to the Farstriders later to distribute with other donations to anywhere that might have need of them.
But not right now. With most of his working space cleared, he perused one of his shelves for an alchemy book he hadn't looked through yet. Perhaps it was time to learn how those strange water walking elixirs worked.
Soft, deeply colored dirt slowly fell over Zel's fingers as she gently guided earth to cover the roots of a wilted Dreamfoil plant. She had found it struggling in the back of a less than careful herbalist's shop and didn't think twice about snatching it up. He obviously wasn't paying any attention to it anyway.
She had ended her errands early just to rush it home to her nursery, not sure what to make of its odd pallor. Her latest rescue was missing the varying shades of purple at the tips of its buds. Instead it was dull, colored in mostly a flat, faded blue. The way it began to curl made her worry, but she kept her hopes up.
Her best plot just happened to be open, able to perfectly capture the sun most of the day, and she was using the best soil she had. She kept it saved for just such an occasion. The soil was already moist, cushioning the plant in the plot.
Satisfied that it was secure in its new home, she gave it one more careful look. It didn't seem to droop too much and didn't seem to be entirely parched. It was neglected, but not so much that it seemed too far gone. If she didn't know any better, it looked like it was healthier already. Before she could get up to reach for the watering can, a gentle sprinkle of water circled around her rescue.
Zel slid backwards, not even realizing Quinnie was there. Clear blue eyes met hers and smiled.
"Where'd you manage to find Dreamfoil around here?" The silver haired girl asked, carefully sprinkling water over the plant and making sure not to overwater it.
Zel tried to cover her frown with a grin. "In the possession of a very negligent shopkeeper..." She replied, watching the soil darken as she carefully looked the plant over again. "It was just left there."
"Well I'm glad you found it." Quinnie frowned as she put the can down. She let a moment pass, a thought lingering over her. "You bring home a lot of plants."
"I probably shouldn't." Zel curled her fingers in the dirt without thinking. "I just hate leaving them there..."
"Well I'm glad you do it." Quinnie leaned over and pushed her nose against Zel's neck. "You've made this place so pretty! Everything feels so alive."
"Do you think so?" Zel leaned herself towards Quinnie and let out a long breath. "I'm just happy to give them a better home. Like I got..."
Quinnie blinked, surprised for a moment before she understood. Leaning in, she pressed a smile against Zel's skin and whispered. "Everyone deserves a second chance…"
I honestly just couldn’t help myself writing for Ferranne again... and probably went a bit overboard. Oh well. 1444 words.
The second wave of what was now being called the Pandaria Campaign had begun, with ships moving out from harbors along the Eastern Kingdoms toward this still very unknown land. The fleets were a bit out of the ordinary for the forces being sent ahead, however.
This was not mere reinforcements. These were expeditionary forces. Everything was needed. Supplies, crafters, surveyors. Bases of operations were needed along with all of the supporting pieces of infrastructure. In many ways the fleet appeared less about establishing a foothold and more about settling the new land.
An idea which considerably irked some of the more conscious passengers of the fleet. Whispers and discussions of the right to embark on inhabited land in such numbers, wonders of what made it any different from invasion. There was a lot of time ahead of them in the journey from continent to continent, with plenty of time to mull over the complex issues at hand.
Ferranne, however, was bored of discussing it and tired of thinking about it. There seemed no point to it. There was no changing the direction of the Alliance or the Horde, their decisions now set in motion like landslides unleashed after a storm. The ground underneath both sides had been weakened for years. He had expected something like this to happen eventually.
He never expected himself to be caught up in such, however. For a while he had prided himself on staying out of such large conflicts, but in the wake of the Cataclysm, it was difficult not to see war itself as another natural, primal force. He had failed to bring life to so many places, to preserve it in others, always finding destruction one step ahead of him. He finally had begun to wonder if there was any use in fighting it.
And that was how he found himself on this bulky, swaying mass. He had been enlisted to help with things he had honestly lost track of by now. Mending the injured, scouting the unknown, tending to the land for some project, even helping to restore what he heard called a "jade forest". It was honestly all a blur that he had just agreed to for no real reason. He just didn't see a purpose in saying no anymore.
Soon enough, he found himself on a supply ship with a job suited to both his druidic talents and his increasingly reclusive preferences. Possibly the most boring thing in the Alliance fleet, there wasn't much to do or see on the ship. Lagging behind the main force and distantly flanked and followed by escorts, it wasn't likely to see any action at all during its long journey and its crew mostly kept to itself, used to long journeys ferrying things they never had to even look at.
But what for most would be an exercise in boredom, for Ferranne was instead peace. He considered himself lucky to be assigned to such a ship. His task was menial at best, but suited him. All he had to do was ensure that everything in his compartments was safe and tended to, half of which took care of itself. The massive cases of botany equipment, herbalism tomes, and other paraphernalia in the lower compartments were barely even his concern. The compartments were reinforced and the containers would not budge even in the worst of storms. For those to be endangered, the ship would have to be sinking. Instead, the real bulk of his work was directly above him in the rear deck.
Laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he stretched out on a large rug in one of the smaller compartments where he had stashed his few belongings and just let the time pass. In some ways, he felt like he was in a time capsule, no longer part of the world or time itself but just existing in a bubble. Some part of him whispered that it was no real way to live, not for long, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. This job was all he needed for the time being.
Getting to his feet, he climbed halfway up the stairs, pausing with practiced balance when the ship tilted with the waves. Proud to have at least kept his sea legs all these years, he waited out the rocking of the boat and strained to listen. Voices and footsteps were always going back and forth above deck, but were distant, kept mostly to the fore of the ship. Beyond that was the same slow hush of water and creaking wood. The rear deck was, as usual, left alone.
Stepping up the last of the stairs and to the deck, his eyes were greeted by a flood of light from the windows stretched all along the rear of the ship and a blur of a new color, different from the endless brown of wood below deck. Instead, all around him was green.
In pots and windowboxes and hanging bowls were plants of all sorts, littered across the entire rear deck. Very little else occupied the room save for some small tables and stools. This was his real job, the real reason a druid like himself was assigned to a supply vessel. Not just to babysit boxes any deckhand could keep an eye on, but instead to ensure that all the crates of soil samples, pouches of seeds, and carefully secured plants made it to their destination. For the duration of his journey across the ocean, this was all that really mattered to him.
The large windows let in as much light as possible and he would open different ones to control the flow of air. There was no lack of sun for most plants in the deck, but when a few looked to struggle he would move them outside, to another set of boxes on the top deck. Carefully rotating them over time, they would all get the attention they needed.
His talents as a druid were barely even needed, his knowledge of herbalism and botany more than enough to ensure his seaborne garden could thrive. It was almost encouraging to be back to basics, to not feel so reliant on the nature magic that he had been struggling so much with ever since awakening from the dream. While magic had felt off to him, almost out of range some days, nothing could take away the simplicity of gardening, even on a boat.
A flash of yellow caught his eye. The sun came through the window and hit a windowbox of goldthorn, illuminating it as if to bring attention to the curling in its barbs. That was definitely a difficult one. Goldthorn needed something more like marshland to thrive. Fresh air and sun wouldn't be able to solve as many problems as it did for the others, even if it didn't need the exact same environment.
He gave himself a few long minutes to think, absentmindedly pushing fingers through his hair. It just needed a little more moisture in the air, more humidity. Thinking first to put it near the engine room, he knew that would just starve it of sunlight. Thinking of what compartments were below him, a possibility flashed through his mind and instantly made him smile.
Carefully pulling up the goldthorn's box, he carried it down below deck, watching each step on his way lest the ship lurch and send thorns right into his chest. He brought it to a small room in the back, one where a pipe that safely carried away steam from the engine passed through. The room was essentially just a mechanical access point, something only ever used in case of repairs. The side of the pipe had a small release valve where sometimes it would let excess steam out to ensure there was never too much pressure, making the small enclosure very humid.
He normally hated being too close to the room, but it was perfect. The humidity. The space. It even had a nice enough window to provide enough sun for the goldthorn. His stubborn little charge now had a much better home.
"Well now at least someone will enjoy all that steam." He said aloud, carefully petting at a low hanging bramble.
Noticing the way the sunlight came into the back compartment, he briefly wondered about the time. Sunset would be in an hour or so, but that was all he could surmise. He had already lost track of how much time had passed on the ship, how many weeks it must have been.
Stepping backwards from the small room, he decided none of it mattered. For however long it lasted, this was enough.
Writing elves with @pinxiedust after a pretty crappy week makes things a little bit better. Tumblr wiped the extra line breaks I had to split where we took turns so have fun guessing where one author ends and the other starts. 3232 words.
Before Zel even entered the house, she could hear muffled giggling and something rustling around. Quietly opening the door and stepping, she looked towards the couch and saw vague shape moving about under a pile blankets. Quinnie's reading tent had returned.
Zel smirked at the sight of silver hair peeking out the only hole in the pile, just large enough to let light in to read what was very likely yet another smut novel Quinnie had managed to find at some odd book stall. Hearing Quinnie's gasp muffled under at least two layers of blankets, she knew was right.
Sensing an opportunity, she tiptoed over to the couch as silver hair continued to bob. Quinnie was squirming under the blankets as she flipped another page, entirely unaware when Zel leaned in and let her voice soften. "Getting any bad ideas?"
A little squeak preceded the collapse of the reading tent. Quinnie's body jumped with enough force that the book slid out of her outstretched fingers and tumbled to the floor. Bright blue eyes appeared with a fluff of silver hair as the blanket was pushed back over her shoulders. She stared at Zel with the greatest of pouts upon her pink lips, indignation written all over her face. She stared into the other girl's sultry gaze and slowly pinched her brows together. She curled inward and cautiously smiled. "I wouldn't do that! I'm an innocent girl."
Zel could feel herself nearly melt at the blue eyes that were peering at her, but that pout wouldn't be enough to stop her this time. She wound a few fingers into Qunnie's hair and smiled. "Oh, yes. Our perfectly innocent marshmallow. No bad ideas at all..." Pressing her nose against Quinnie's, she whispered. "I know you can never sit still when you have something you really want on your mind..." She left a soft kiss on her nose, but didn't pull away.
Zel's touch was like soft firelight dancing its way across her skin. It radiated from the tip of their touching noses, coiling its way along her neck and shoulders, and inching down her spine. A flush appeared on her cheeks; she held her breath, lips moving absently for a returned kiss that wasn't there. "That's not fair," she breathed, hazy gaze searching the color reflected in Zel's eyes. They were close enough to see now. The glints of vibrant color were like dancing embers, something unique to Zel that Quinnie had always envied. The girl was beautiful.
Her toes twitched. She bit her lip. Zel was right about the restlessness. She softly stroked her knees against the fabric of the cushions, shifting to lay on her side.
Fingertips crept along the mess of blankets, pulling them apart slowly as Zel pressed her forehead to Quinnie's. "Then consider it payback for the other day." She whispered, sliding herself in between the blankets and pressing her body against the smaller girl's with a soft giggle. She pulled the tangle of thick fabric around them both and wrapped her arms around Quinnie's waist. "Making me gasp like that in front of Len was definitely not fair..."
Quinnie's heart quickened its pace. She grinned mischievously, allowing Zel room with her on the couch. Their legs entwined, and Quinnie shuddered at the refreshing chill of Zel's legs against hers. Quinnie didn't even have to think about it; she leaned back, sliding softly off her elbows, and onto her back. She beckoned Zel with a nip of her nose, and an inviting squeeze around Zel's thighs. Her toes nudged Zel's ankles, and her fingers curled innocently where they lay, next to her head. She looked Zel squarely in the eye, a stronger glint of her impish nature finally appearing. "But did you see how bad he wanted you to? I think he liked it." She flicked her tongue playfully over her lips. "And I think you liked it."
Zel felt her entire body tense up as the sensations from Qunnie rubbing against her sent a rush of warmth coursing through her limbs. It took everything she had not to groan as her eyes drank in the petite body waiting underneath her. Suddenly out of breath, she gasped in reply. "Maybe I did..." Zel leaned over, eyes following Quinnie's tongue as it danced across her lips. A sudden hunger stole the rest of her words as she dove forward, pulling the smaller girl to her and pressing her lips to Quinnie's.
At last, Quinnie thought. Euphoria found her. It graced her lips as they parted to meet Zel's, a hot breath interrupting a giggle. She wasted no time helping Zel connect. Fingers reached up to cradle her chin and ears, gently sifting through golden hair to find soft, twice-pierced lobes. Her legs opened up to accept Zel between them. She pulled each one around one of Zel's long, shapely legs to hold them both together, a small gasp coming out of Quinnie between kisses as she pushed enough that they touched. Quinnie briefly broke the kiss and rubbed her hips aggressively against Zel. She traced Zel's lips with her tongue, teasing her. "But who does it better, I wonder?" She giggled, already knowing the only true answer. "I know what Zel likes...." Little hands suddenly left Zel's face and neck. They slid down Zel's shoulders and upper arms, carefully slipping underneath the straps of Zel's shirt. Quinnie pulled each one down masterfully, then deftly tugged the top of Zel's lace undershirt away from her generous breasts. Quinnie grinned, staring at them with as much awe as she had back when they were new to each other. She grinned up at Zel, giving a saucy wink. She began grinding her hips again, but now, her palms pressed flat against Zel's bare breasts. She arranged her fingertips gently around their shape, pulsing soft presses and squeezes all over as she moved beneath Zel.
For a long moment, Zel lost her entire grip on the world around her, everything suddenly gone as the mix of feelings from Quinnie's grinding and fondling overwhelmed her. The soothing yet agitating rhythm between her legs. The gentle touch of fingertips teasing her breasts. She felt drunk from it all, intoxicated by the familiar sensations, and was only brought out of it by the the sound she made as she lost control, letting an errant gasp escape into a moan. Heat radiated from her face instantly. Yes, this was something Quinnie was definitely better at and she could never resist it. There was no point in holding back her voice now. There were no words left in it. She whimpered as she moved her hips to grind with Quinnie, urging with her body for the girl to continue as her urges all threatened to overtake her at once. Swirling with too many ideas and too many feelings to take in, she returned to Quinnie's lips for solace, hoping maybe steal a few words along with another taste.
Quinnie cooed gently. "Aw, poor Zel," she whispered, peppering Zel's face with kisses. "Methinks you chose the wrong time to be top," she giggled. In a flash, Quinnie scooted down a few inches. She stopped when the soft flesh of Zel's uncovered nipple brushed her nose. Quinnie placed a soft kiss on the smooth underside, gently lapping her tongue out and against the skin. Slick, subtle warmth flicked against Zel's stiffening bud, encircling her and following up with a pair of eager lips closing around her. Quinnie fondled the other breast a little rougher now, suckling on the other. She missed the sweet, delirium-inducing pressure in her lap, but this was important! She would see it done. Her knees bent farther down the couch, and she brought them up to caress any place she could touch on Zel while she tended to... other things .
Zel scrunched up her nose and laughed, wanting badly to toss something witty back at Qunnie, but the attention was just too much. One hand wound itself in silver locks once more, holding on to keep Quinnie where she was, hoping her soft touches and suckling would not stop any time soon. Zel shuddered as a heavy sigh escaped her, releasing stresses she had forgotten she was still holding from before. Quinnie was making the entire day melt away. With what little sense of her surroundings she had left, Zel positioned her thigh carefully between Quinnie's legs, rubbing against them. Her warmth was tempting and made Zel anxious, not wanting to move and interrupt her but all the gaps in her mind between waves of pleasure filling with ideas.
Quinnie let out a tiny yelp of surprise at the contact, but she soon welcomed the touch. She giggled and gave Zel an extra nip, humming softly. She wanted to play it cool and let herself just keep going with Zel, but...the ache had been growing ever since leaving her previous spot, and Zel's legs were beautifully toned and strong. Quinnie gave an appreciative push, and then another. Her mind started filling with fluffy clouds and flower petals, and she sighed audibly. She started thinking. A soft body on top of her, luscious boobies to hold, a hunger to sate....it could only be improved if.... She blushed fiercely, suddenly feeling guilt creep over her. "Oh," she said aloud, turning her face away all of a sudden. "Zel, I...oh." She bit her lip. She'd started thinking of him ...but it was Zel time. Was it right?
It took a moment for Zel's mind to catch up and realize the absence. When she finally did, her eyes narrowed at Quinnie's retreat, hesitation moving through them both like electricity. The sudden stop took her by surprise and she fought with herself to not voice her disappointment as she moved to scan Quinnie's expression even as she looked away. Somewhere in the mix of red cheeks and blue eyes, Zel felt she understood. Nothing had stopped her before. Nothing had changed. Except one thing. Reaching one hand under Quinnie's shirt, Zel pressed her fingertips to the girl's belly and made circles, letting the squirm bring Quinnie's attention back to her. Finally connected with her words once more, she kept her voice smooth. "Feel like something's missing?"
Quinnie flicked her eyes up to meet Zel's. She looked stricken, like a thief caught stealing something they'd been freely given before. She swallowed nervously and shifted her eyes to the back of the couch again. "N-no, I just lost my pace, that's all. I'm sorry."
She was lying. Her body still pulsed with exhiliration and energy. She wanted more, and was ready to give more. Her breaths were still shallow, and her legs still fidgeted beneath Zel's. She frowned, feeling all too exposed. She turned her eyes back to Zel, hesitantly.
"...I love you, Zel. I always will. Nobody can come between us," she said softly, resting her fingertips on Zel's arm. She traced little lines along Zel's rosy skin. Her brows remained furrowed. "...but these little fingers aren't enough. They don't... fill like other...things can." She drew in a sharp breath just thinking about it. Her body still remembered the feelings of not long ago. "Don't you feel it, too? I heard you the other night. I know you like how he feels..." Her words became whispery, like a breath stolen from her lips.
Zel wanted to laugh again, but felt it wasn't right for the moment. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Quinnie's forehead, her fingertips playing more with the softness under Quinnie's shirt.
"I feel it too. It's a hard thing not to miss..." She let her voice lower to the same whisper Qunnie's did. "He feels quite like nothing else and some nights, he's all I can think about." Leaving one last peck, Zel drew herself away as her fingers gripped the bottom of Quinnie's shirt and started to push it up. Her lips pressed to the girl's stomach before she continued.
"But I feel the same way about you." Her voice pushed hot breaths over cool skin as she left a wobbly trail of kisses. "I love you and no one can replace you and some days, you're all I can think about. Some days, all I want is you, same as the first time I had you." She gave more uneven kisses and breaths as she couldn't help but smile against Quinnie's skin. "And if you can hold on, I'll help you get that fill you want..."
Her fingers fell to the edge of Quinnie's bottoms and tugged at them as kisses circled her navel. "But I want to be just a little selfish and have you all to myself for a little bit."
She watched Zel's movements with curiousity at first, and then with a growing glow about her. Her words were honey, sweet and intoxicating. The blue-eyed girl slowly smiled again, eyes closing in her moments of bliss as Zel pushed her buttons. Her heart fluttered with the sweet promises, and she wanted so badly to say yes, me too! The words wouldn't come, however. She had been rendered completely helpless in just a moment. She could pretend to be strong all day, but when all was said and done, Zel was the one with burning flames dancing inside her. She was neither fragile nor dependant, and it amazed Quinnie to the point that laboured breaths were pouring out of heaving lungs only for her. She curled her toes, stealing tiny giggles from the silence of the room. Zel's fingertips were hot on her snowflake skin; sun and moon, they were. Ice and fire. Quinnie lifted up her arms and allowed Zel to have her; she writhed with excitement at the pleasureable pettings. "Zel..." she murmured.
The sound of her name in that voice and the writhing under her lips made time nearly freeze. Zel felt the heat rise and couldn't wait any longer, smiling against Quinnie's skin as she slowly pulled at the edge of clothes, carefully bringing everything down Quinnie's legs and exposing her flower. Absentmindedly licking her lips, Zel forgot a breath as she pulled the garments off entirely and tossed them away from the pile of blankets and onto the floor in a heap atop Quinnie's forgotten novel.
Zel felt her arms shudder as most of her mind was overtaken by wildfire. All of what little focus she had was spent on controlling herself, the depth of her appetite gaining a voice in her mind. Hurry, it told her. The moment won't last, it tried to say. Slowly kissing her way back up the inside of Quinnie's thighs, every worry was silenced. The voice would not make her waste this moment.
She was going to treasure it, she told herself as her kisses moved higher and Quinnie's legs shook with anticipation each time. Soon her lips met familiar, swollen mounds and she smiled. Flicking with the tip of her tongue, Zel had words she didn't dare waste with her voice. She was going to write them with her passion and tell a story with every taste of Quinnie's blossom.
Quinnie squeaked in delight. Keep still , she reminded herself, no accidents! You're finally getting what you want -- just like the story! She closed her eyes in complete bliss as Zel's tongue slid beneath her folds. It was slick and warm, and knew just the right places to touch. A flick directly to the center sent a shiver through her, and then a slow return to the top finished breaking her resistence. Quinnie moaned softly, squirming to get away when the sensation was too much. She moved back in, hungry for more, as soon as she felt she could handle it again. It was so hard to resist putting her fingers down there to help out!
Zel smiled, finding new spots to tease and giving Quinnie room to 'help' and not be in the way of her dainty fingers as they worked to help her find some release. The sounds and squirms put Zel into a strange cycle, at the same time both burning for even more and doused with satisfaction at every new response she coaxed from Quinnie.
Feeling the smaller girl's movements slow again, her fingers giving up for a few moments on their chase, Zel felt the fires rage again. Suckling gently at Quinnie's flower, she was not going to give her any rest this time. She was content to slow down before, to let Quinnie give herself a rest and savor another long moment in the pleasure she was giving but she wouldn't let her get away this time.
Gently grasping both of Quinnie's legs, Zel raised them up and placed them on either side of her over her shoulders. With a better angle and more leverage, she dove to find more places for her lips and tongue to taste and deny Quinnie a single moment's rest.
Quinnie's lips fell open. Zel chased her with such fervor that the smaller elf was entirely caught off guard. She gasped, the tender kisses and long, slow probing of Zel's tongue igniting her last nerve. She arched her back and gave in, whimpering softly as Zel settled over her pearl and rolled her tongue against it. "Zel," she squeaked, "Z-el, please, it's too mu..."
A strong, enduring current straightened one of her legs. She let her voice go along with it. Sweet pleasure erupted from Zel's attentions, brightening her gaze and her smile until she feared she quite literally glowed. She held her tensed muscles as long as it lasted, and when they finally relaxed, she fell back upon the couch with a long, dreamy sigh. Her eyes threatened to close, but she kept them open long enough to search Zel's face. She stole glances at her, reaching tired fingers towards her to sift through her golden hair.
A delightful haze washed over Quinnie's bright eyes before her eyelids finally fell. Zel pressed her nose into Quinnie's hair and nuzzled, beaming with a wide smile as she waited for the first waves subside. She let the tips of her fingers brush across Quinnie's body, testing her in the afterglow and satisfied with the shuddering she got in return. The little sounds Qunnie made as she caught her breath were like music to her ears.
Reaching for the disheveled mess of blankets surrounding them and pulling, she wrapped them both in the warmth as she slid in to lay with Quinnie. Slowly, she settled in close, leaving gentle pecks on her cheek and an arm around her body, playing with the ends of silver strands as she listened to the mewling nymph beside her.
Quinnie curled into the embrace, gently tucking her nose under Zel's chin. She cooed softly. Her fingers found the waistband of Zel's leggings and slipped just inside. Even as sleepy as she was, Quinnie tugged them down. She caressed the gently sloping curves, settling at the small gap between Zel's legs. She led her fingers over the surface of Zel's panties, eager just to touch and feel the shape of her body. A smile played on her face as she slipped her fingers beneath the fabric. Zel's warmth flushed with her skin, and she gave as many pets as she was able. Quietly, she whispered, "Some days, you're all I can think about, too."
@pinxiedust told me about a character she’s working on and I couldn’t help myself. 894 words.
Ferranne braced himself against the gust, batting away at loose leaves and twigs as they caught in his hair. His latest experiment was wilting before his eyes, shedding the foliage that had given him so much hope over the last week.
He watched as another trail of leaves fell from the stalks and vines and were scattered to the wind. He could only sigh at the sight. For the third time in the month he had been there, he watched all of his work literally die right in front of him. He couldn't bear it any longer.
Dropping to his knees, his fingers gripped the earth, clawing into the dirt as if to clutch at someone's shirt. Why? The only word in his mind was that same constant, burning question.
Why had all of his efforts been for naught? Why was he able to do absolutely nothing? Why could he not bring life back to this place the way it had meant to be?
It was nothing like the other places he had heard of. The Plaguelands of the Eastern Kingdoms this was not. There was no rot or scourge to fight and steal away life from the land. Nor was this the Barrens, where far more stubborn druids than himself were seeking to supplant desert with life.
But this was Ashenvale. Here there was still so much life around him. There was nothing to stop it, nothing to fight it. But here the simple rules he learned in his youth, the very things he had known to be immutable were somehow not true. That life would always find a way.
The ground shifted under his hands, sinking away from him. His heart sunk as his eyes burned. The dirt was unstable. He could feel the whispers course through his fingers, the voice of the forest as it rejected something against the natural order.
He hated to admit it but he knew it was true. He had cheated. He had rushed, used whatever he could call on to move dirt and coil vines to keep it there. Despite everything he knew would fight it, he had his ideas still to shape the land how he saw it.
How he remembered it.
Surely this was how it should be. He had seen it with his own eyes. He had walked it in the Emerald Dream. It had to be true. It was the only memory he had. How else could it be? What else could be right but that perfect image he had dreamt?
In the corner of his eyes, he saw a wisp appear from behind a tree. It almost seemed lost at first, seeming to examine everything around it before taking off in a flash of light towards him. As it flew past, the ground under him shook once more. Getting to his feet, he quickly backed away, understanding all at once.
It was his answer, though one he didn't want to admit to himself. It never would have worked. The plants there would never have everything they needed, struggling to eke out an existence on uneven ground where the water would not naturally flow. Even if the ground settled, everything else around it would suffer trying to keep the balance.
The wisp knew. It was restoring that balance.
Standing with his shoulders low, he brought his eyes to the spirit and nodded. "I thought it was worth trying."
The breeze carried the faintest sound to his ears, that of distant chimes. Even without words, he heard. The wisp seemed to nod back before disappearing, flying with the wind as quick as it came.
Looking around, his vision was double. Even as he saw the holes, the gaps, the scars left behind by the cataclysm the Destroyer; he could still see that dream. The visage he spent so many years within still lingered, taunting him with glimpses and pulling at him with regret.
And that was the answer. He could guide and tend life, but he couldn't move the earth, he couldn't add what simply would not be there again. What he knew was how things should have been, but not how they would ever be again.
The hole in his heart ached as the countless years spent in the dream flooded back, his vision now showing a cruel reflection of himself. The gaps and holes were at once so familiar, resonating with his own past, with time that could never be reclaimed or filled. So much time spent looking at something that would never be…
The land itself whispered a harsh lesson to him, but true for more than just the earth beneath his feet. There was no going back.
To mend his beloved Kalimdor, and himself, he could not just fill. The things he sought to fix could not be undone. All he could do was hope to cultivate something new.
All at once the weight of everything pulled at him at once. Letting out a heavy sigh, he rolled his shoulders and wondered. Maybe there was another way. A better way to weave life back into the world.
At that moment, he didn't know what that way was or where he could learn it, but he knew it was out there. It had taken hold in some untouched part of his heart and tugged.
