grumpyoldfker

[grumpyoldfker]

Chrysalis

[ Cue the Music ]

Zathalt woke early to carry out the routine of repositioning Naralinthe in her bed.  He stumbled, half awake, into her room and spotted a young boy seated at her bedside, holding her hand.

“Hello Commander,” he said calmly. “I have been waiting for you.”

“Who… are you?” He questioned while rubbing his eyes, “…and how did you get in here without alerting the guards?!”  He marched assertively toward the bed where he came face to face with an elven boy, approximately ten years old, clad in ill-fitting armor that was obviously too big for him.

“I am the Warden Astheo,” the child-knight explained without flinching despite Zathalt looming over him menacingly.  Each eye was its own golden vortex, constantly shifting like sand in a desert breeze— yet miraculously independent of the other as he kept watch over the past, present, and future, all at once.

“According to my Lady’s account, you are supposed to be a fully-grown elf, not a child.”  He paused to study the boy, clearly confused.  “Furthermore, aren’t you dead?!  What assurance do I have to prove you are not some malignant entity looking for a body to inhabit?!”

Astheo patted Zathalt’s shoulder reassuringly, the gauntlet bouncing loosely on his adolescent arm, while chuckling dismissively.  Like a parent banishing the irrational fear of a child, he crooned softly to the hulking Guardsman.  “You have nothing to fear, ‘Uncle Zee.’  She is safely under my charge and will be until the day she dies, regardless of my physical state.”  The use of his nickname, combined with the Warden’s youthful exterior disarmed the Commander almost immediately.  “To answer your question, yes, that iteration of me is dead, and believe it or not, he was my younger, more naive self.”  He gestured to both Zathalt and the comatose Naralinthe lying motionless in her bed.  “Here, in this room, the two of you are children by comparison.  Do not be fooled by this body, as it can never age, but I have existed for several millennia.”

Zathalt stroked his beard and let out an exasperated sigh.  “I am going to need some strong coffee before we dive deep into this conversation, aren’t I?”  It was eerie to see such wisdom and calm misplaced in a child's body, but he would not deny the Bronze Warden an audience if it meant getting some much needed answers.

The blonde-haired boy smiled.  “We have nothing but time, and fortunately it is on our side… for now.”

Naralinthe opened her eyes to behold a clear, blue sky overhead.  She blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the light, and realized she was lying on a cold, marble bench.  She sat up cautiously, and discovered she was in the center of what appeared to be the keyhole of a circular hedge maze.

Where… am I?  The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in her own bed.  How did I get here?  Rising from the garden bench, she studied her surroundings.  Meticulously groomed shrubbery encircled her on all sides, stretching on forever in the form of an immense, verdant labyrinth.

What is this place?  The distinct aroma of moistened earth and lush greenery was unmistakable, yet something about the hedge maze felt… off.

Naralinthe was surrounded by nature, but it felt entirely unnatural to her.  The soil was perfectly level.  Every hedge was identical.  There were no flowers, mushrooms, exposed roots, or stubborn weeds, to provide distinction between pathways. All avenues appeared the same, save for their length and winding direction.  Is this a dream… or a nightmare?

There was only one thing to do.  One thing she could do, so she started walking.

“I still don’t understand,” Zathalt declared while raking his fingers through his hair.  He was clutching a mug of coffee far too tightly as he studied Naralinthe’s face, his brows knit together in an expression of concern.  “She is doing this… to herself?”

“Yes, and also no.  It is much more complicated than that,” the Warden explained.  “When she died over a decade ago, it sent a shockwave through this timeline.  In order to right the wrongs that were committed, the Bronze Flight had no choice but to bring her back, as she had not yet fulfilled her intended purpose.”

“Yes, I remember the story,” Zathalt interrupted, “But they never mentioned any risks.  Especially nothing as serious as this.”

“The complication arose when two souls were forced to inhabit one body.”  Astheo sighed, and despite the levity of his child-like voice, he was burdened by wisdom born from hindsight.  “There was no way of knowing the second soul would awaken, let alone try to seize control.”

“Is that what is happening?  This other iteration of her is trying to take over?”

“Not quite.”  He pressed a contemplative finger to his chin before offering a metaphor to help explain.  “Imagine a caterpillar in its chrysalis stage.  In order for a significant transformation to take place, its body must first be reduced to a liquefied state before it can be formed into a butterfly.  She must shed her spiritual ‘skin’ in order to reshape it into a hardened exterior that will better suit her purpose.  Our hope is that the two iterations of the Lioness will combine to form one soul.”

“Your HOPE?!”  Zathalt roared, shattering the mug in his grasp.  Coffee rained down his elbow while broken porcelain hammered the floor like over-sized hail.  “You mean to tell me you don’t know?!” He snarled between clenched teeth.

“Your anger serves no purpose here, Commander,” the boy chided while pointing to the mess Zathalt made.  “You would do well to exercise the patience she has cultivated within you, lest your actions cause more disarray than what is already taking place.”

“What good are those damnable time-keeping lizards if they can’t influence the situation?!” He loosed an exasperated sigh before taking a deep, cleansing breath.  His eyes slipped closed, and the Commander focused his attention inward, trying to find a singular drop of ‘calm’ within himself as he drowned in an ocean of crippling doubt.

“This is beyond our control, and it is still too early to predict the outcome.  Please believe me when I say I have tried.  Unexpected changes often create deviations from original goals, as we have witnessed here today.  Time is not linear, but cyclical.  Patterns are influenced by the decisions we make, with the added element of chronological development to carry it forward.  What this means is one thing must happen before a ‘routine’ can begin.  The introduction of complexities is what shapes our experiences from one parallel timeline to the next.”

“What if…” Zathalt’s hands balled into fists to mask the trembling as he choked on the whispered words.  “What if she never wakes?”

The child-knight frowned before casting a sorrowful glance toward the Lioness.  “The only person who knows the answer to that question is Naralinthe herself— her and her second soul.”

@talonoa @lukel-sunshadow @grumpyoldfker

(Special thanks to @revarik for proof-reading and allowing me the pleasure of writing for Astheo even after all these years.)

[grumpyoldfker]

Diminished

((This is in response to this event)) Haldir drew a slow breath as he stood before the main doors to the Patriarch’s study. The estate had suffered under the strain of recent weeks. The staff moved with hushed restraint, the guards stood more like sentinels than men, grim silhouettes keeping watch over a home that had begun to feel more tomb than sanctuary.

Whispers of the Heiress’s grievous injuries in battle had unsettled the halls. Her injuries, coupled with the Heir’s prolonged absence, cast a pall that even the seasoned Majordomo could not shrug. And now, with word that the Lioness had slipped into an unwaking sleep, that foreboding had curdled into dread. Its source lay just beyond the doors before him.

He gave a nod to one of the guards. The door creaked open.

Haldir stepped inside.

At the far end of the room, behind a desk littered with neglected papers, sat the Patriarch. Adonis did not look up. He was hunched, still, a man eroded at the edges. His brow was furrowed into something that had forgotten how to relax, and his aura carried the weight of someone quietly unravelling beneath the burden of grief.

When his gaze did lift, it found Haldir's without need for greeting.

Something passed between them: a flicker of acknowledgment, worn and wordless. The Patriarch straightened slightly, readying himself.

“Kal'ren watches over your daughter,” Haldir offered, his tone soft but resolute. It was true. The Hunter had not left her side, nor would he. Still, Adonis made a silent note of it... he would see to her himself, as a father must.

“Your son…” The words trailed off, unfinished. No news. None needed to complete the silence.

Adonis waited. Haldir did not disappoint.

“House Emberdawn has opened its doors,” he said slowly. “Visitors may see her now... briefly.” The Patriarch's expression dimmed, shadowed by a fresh pang.

“They say she is in a coma,” Haldir continued, voice low. “The cause remains… undetermined.”

Not an hour passed before Adonis rode hard for the Emberdawn estate.

He moved with steady purpose through the marble halls, exchanging only a few words with the vigilant Zathalt before being allowed entry into her chamber.

And there she lay.

Naralinthe, the Lioness, adrift in a sleep that felt too deep to be named. Her body was kept alive by tubes and whispered magic, but he saw none of it; his focus was on her face. Calm. Whole. Agonizingly still. At any moment, he half-expected her eyes to open and skewer him with one of her sharp remarks.

But they didn’t.

He knelt beside her and brushed his knuckles against her cheek, summoning the Light in a quiet prayer. Its warmth moved through her, but did not reach whatever part of her was lost. It soothed bruises, healed small hurts, but did not wake the soul.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to her brow.

That’s when he heard it. [music]

A harp. Distant, gentle. A phantom melody nestled in the folds of his mind. He welcomed it... not for comfort, but because it numbed the jagged edges of despair. Still, a thread of unease ran through him. Was this peace… or madness?

He said nothing. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t betray the quiet lie he was trying to live: that she would wake.

To speak aloud was to concede otherwise. That was a wound he would not open.

So he sat beside her, silent, watchful.

When a knock broke the hush, it came like thunder. Haldir entered, Zathalt remaining just beyond the doorframe.

It was time.

Adonis stood and gave her hand one last, gentle squeeze.

As he walked away, the harp’s song faded, each step dulling the memory of its warmth. But it never vanished.

He clung to it.

Buried somewhere within its notes was hope. Fragile, flickering, but real.

And for now... that was enough.

@themadamelioness @kelzthalasbandtherion mention

[grumpyoldfker]

Without a Trace

( A piece co-written by @grumpyoldfker with mentions of @allasticus )

[ Cue the Music ]

As Naralinthe strolled along the streets of Silvermoon, the walkways alternated between long shadows cast by shimmering spires, and blades of light from the evening sun as it crawled steadily toward the horizon. Dressed in her usual gold, she was a glittering star winking in and out of existence— blinding one moment and muted in the next. White marble blushed in the setting sun’s rays while cotton-candy-clouds hung lazily overhead, lending an ethereal quality to an otherwise ordinary evening.

Until she spotted the Patriarch standing in the Royal Exchange, looking oddly out of place.

He stared ominously forward, brow dipped— not in his customary frown, but one that would merit concern— with his gaze flickering from side to side as if searching for someone. His eyes finally settled on Naralinthe as she sauntered toward him. "Lady Emberdawn" he exhaled, sounding almost relieved while squaring himself toward her, indicating she was the one he sought.  “I pray your evening is not full enough to warrant a word or two?”

She would recognise that armor, and that frown, anywhere.  “Lord B’andtherion,” she echoed back, but upon seeing his pinched expression, paused to examine him more closely.   “Is everything alright?”  Golden irises scanned the old soldier from top to toe… and back again, searching for anything that might offer insight into his addled state. Had she done something to provoke his ire again?

He scanned their surroundings before taking a purposeful step forward, and it was obvious the following words were intended for her ears only. "Were it so, I would greet you with deserved formality, but," he shook his head, "given the nature of this conversation, I find my aim for decorum misaligned. I realize I should have called on you instead of plucking you from an evening stroll, but time is my enemy.” His voice lowered while retaining its edge, and he took a breath to calm his nerves. "My son, Allasticus, have you seen him? He has not graced his home in weeks.” Another breath, followed by a long pause as he considered the best way to deliver the news. “It is not unusual for him to wander for any length of time, as young men tend to do, but..." His face flickered, the concern of a Father undermining the discipline of a Patriarch, "…this is too long."

Naralinthe immediately frowned, the expression aging her both dramatically and instantaneously.  “I...” and the words caught in her throat with the weight of more than just curiosity, “I have not seen him.” She hated where this conversation was headed, and in such short notice, so she sought to comfort him. Long strides delivered her to his side, where she took his armored gauntlet into her delicate hands.  “When did you see him last, and where was he headed?”

Adonis expected her to respond empathetically but his expression darkened when he heard her reply. He nodded slightly, but was obviously distracted— his mind now trying to piece together a timeline of what happened in the days leading up to Allasticus’ disappearance. He did not resist her touch, though it was clear even as he stood confidently his grip lacked its usual firmness, betraying the tumultious storm now brewing in his mind. "He departed for Silithus with the intention of addressing a matter of concern. I spoke to him before he left less than three weeks ago. Yesterday I sent a group of Elites to search the location he provided but there was no trace of him… nothing whatsoever." His nostrils flared. "Yet even as I push for answers I am met with more questions. No one seems to know where he went."

Naralinthe ‘s gaze dipped toward his inattentive hand, and remembering the Patriarch’s distaste for public attention, she released her hold on him.  Both palms pressed to her skirt, idly smoothing the fabric of her gown as her gaze sought solace anywhere but in his eyes. The nature of their unplanned meeting and his addled state reminded her they were in a place where eyes and ears were always watching and listening. She took a step back, granting him space but also to avoid drawing attention to their conversation.  The last thing Adonis wanted was to give the rumor mill something to churn. “Silithus?” She whispered, “Why would he go there?”

His frown deepened with displeasure as she withdrew. The absence of her comfort made the space between them feel vacant, and Adonis rectified the issue by snaring her by the wrist before continuing with his explanation. "There was something causing issues with the archaelogical circles in that area. Explorers would go into the depths and return mad or not return at all. Something— or someone— was causing trouble, thus Allasticus went to neutralize the issue." He narrowed his eyes, "I question why they would send one into such peril alone, but the result speaks volumes. The madness has ended but my son is now missing."

Naralinthe felt the iron-clad clasp of plate cuffing her wrist, yet he treated her as though she were made of glass.  He did not squeeze, nor did he demand.  Instead his gesture pleaded with her to stay close.  Her eyes sought his, not out of pity, but out of a deep-seated desire to understand the turmoil roiling within him.  She had never witnessed the stoic Patriarch in such a vulnerable state, despite allowing him to see her that way.  “Something that speaks of causation as opposed to correlation,” she remarked with a frown.  They were both too old and far too experienced to believe in coincidences.

On the outside, the Patriarch maintained his stoicism, and to the untrained eye appeared as he always did, statuesque and unreadable. Yet beneath the glowing embers of his eyes was an unyielding tide of distress he battled to rise above. "I agree," he said with a grim undertone, "the only comfort I cling to is that he is missing and not gone. I have expended all my resources and no trace has turned up. Whispers... rumors at best, all leading to dead ends." He locked his stare on her, "If you see him, tell him to come home."

Naralinthe watched the storm clouds gather in his eyes, and she wondered how long it would be before the lightning struck.  Here was a man whose footfalls echoed like thunder, and his words summoned the rain.  To see him this way was unsettling to say the least, and a portend for the devastation he would unleash if he did not find his son.  “I absolutely will,” she assured him to the best of her ability, but she would not delude him with an empty smile.  “In the meantime, is there anything I can do to assist?”

 

He managed to keep his temper at bay for the time being, but one nudge in the wrong direction was all it would take for the raging Bull to run rampant and unchecked. His eyes lingered on the Lioness, and he tethered himself to the eye of calm her presence brought to his hurricane. "Yes. You are connected by social means that I am not. I would ask you to spread the word. Have others keep their eyes open and come to me if any new information arises." He nodded in her direction, "I understand you are a woman being pulled by many hands in several directions, but this hand begs for your aid. I ask as a father who cannot bear the thought of losing another son. Help me find him and bring him home."

 

Naralinthe was touched by his words, not because he pleaded with her, but by the authenticity that backed his plea.  It was a rare glimpse into the man’s vulnerability, something he shielded away from the rest of the world— something she was only starting to see for herself.  “I will start inquiring immediately, and I will have my Guardians do the same.”  Gingerly, she overturned his gauntlet to reveal the supple leather that housed its plate and pressed her fingers into the soft spaces between his.  “Stay with me tonight.”  It was hardly a request, yet she knew she could not make the stubborn Patriarch do anything he did not already wish to. “You should not be alone at a time like this.”

Weariness settled in as Adonis felt his eyes grow heavy, uncharacteristically so, and he blinked several times. Her request was met with a pause, but the usual resistance— whether from decorum or stubbornness— was absent. He felt strangely numb, devoid of all feeling, and that was reason enough for concern. His fingers curled into hers, and he opened his mouth with the intention of stating he should be out there looking, but days of searching without rest left him feeling exhausted. Fatigue took hold, and he acquiesced with a nod. "Very well," he sighed while guiding her hand to the crook of his arm. Anything was better than the numbness threatening to overtake him, so the old soldier grounded himself in the first thing he had felt in days— a sense of duty to walk her home.

[grumpyoldfker]

[grumpyoldfker]

“I want to pick your brain apart. Your heart. Your soul. Shine the good pieces, and gently mend the broken ones. Even the strongest shield, the most powerful weapon needs time to rest and be repaired.”

A brow dipped low—deeper still, if such a thing were possible on a face carved from iron and shadow. His expression tightened, subtle yet unmistakable, a habitual defense whenever someone—no matter how well-meaning—dared probe too near the locked gates of his mind.

“The strongest shield ceases to be strong if it must rely on another’s hand to restore it,” he said, voice calm, slow, but lined with the unmistakable edge of iron resolve. “You would peel back the layers of my soul? For what purpose?”

A shake of the head. A wave of a hand, dismissing the notion like smoke in the wind—pointless and presumptuous.

“Intent does not sanctify intrusion. Even acts born of kindness turn hollow when offered to those who cannot—will not—receive them. I am not yours to mend. I do not ask for solace, nor do I require it. Direct your mercy toward a soul that has not already chosen the weight of solitude.”

He leaned back, gauntleted fingers entwining, still and silent like the grave. His eyes hardened as he looked outward, betraying the scars of battle and time.

“My rest will come when the earth no longer remembers my name.”

[grumpyoldfker]

Eos

[grumpyoldfker]

☾ 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 ☾

[grumpyoldfker]

[grumpyoldfker]

“I want to dig into the depth of your psyche and learn your fears, hopes, and desires.”

“You would need more than patience—a steady hand, an unyielding will, and a shovel forged of something stronger than mere steel. For as you dig, your muscles will burn, your breath will shorten, and the weight of the earth itself will conspire against you. You will falter, weaken, wither beneath the relentless passage of time.

And long before your spade finds purchase upon what you seek—before it so much as grazes the depths of me—you will crumble to dust, lost to the very soil you dared to break.”

[grumpyoldfker]

I really, really want to release some geckos in your estate. Like...100 some odd. No reason.

"No...."

[grumpyoldfker]

Tell My Muse What You Want To Do To Them On Anon.

I don’t care if it’s cute, sexual, or violent. Just do it!

[grumpyoldfker]

Anon Day:

As the Lioness works her way into your household how do you see that changing your day to day?

The Patriarch furrowed his brow at the question, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features. "You speak as though she were a parasite, weaving through my halls, tainting all she touches. As if her presence is a force to be endured rather than acknowledged."

Seated at his desk, he leaned back into the firm embrace of his chair, his gaze drifting downward to one of the many drawers before him. With quiet precision, his fingers traced the edge before pulling it open, revealing a single feather resting within. He regarded it for a long moment, as if weighing something unspoken, before shutting the drawer with an air of finality.

"Little will change." His voice was measured, unwavering. "I am—and will remain—the Patriarch of my House. She will remain Lady Emberdawn of hers. Her presence does not alter my standing any more than mine alters hers. She may walk my halls, just as I may walk hers. That is all."

A single tap of his fingers against the desk punctuated his words. "A lioness does not 'work her way in'—she moves with intent. A force of change, yes, but not one that unsettles what is unshakable. My household stands as it always has."

A slow, measured exhale left him. Not weary—simply deliberate.

"Yet I will not deny the uncertainty of fate, nor the truths time may reveal. My words may one day be carved into stone, or they may crumble to dust. In the end, it will not be intention alone that determines her place, but action—hers and mine alike... if that takes a firm root or if she becomes another shadow in my fire... I cannot say. Neither can she."

@themadamelioness mention

[grumpyoldfker]

[grumpyoldfker]

unburnable the cold is flooding our lives, kaveh akbar. from calling a wolf a wolf.

[grumpyoldfker]

Absolution

Rocks fell. Blood spilled. Eyes filled with sorrow and love met his own, a soft smile lingering even as she was buried beneath the weight of stone. His beloved. His Aleria. Sealed away in agony, lost to the ruin of their home while he could do nothing but watch.

The battlefield was a chorus of suffering. Blood soaked the boot-trodden grass. The sharp cries of the dying merged with the thunderous roar of war. A troll, wild with bloodlust, charged toward him, a crude axe raised high to deliver the killing blow.

Then Adonis awoke.

The covers lay in disarray, kicked aside from a night of restless thrashing. Sweat clung to his skin, beading along his brow and chest as his breath came in harsh, uneven gasps.

Your nightmares are unrelenting, old man.

Slowly, he sat up, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose before swinging his legs over the mattress. The cool marble floor met his bare feet, grounding him in the present. Yet, the voice in his mind did not relent. It taunted him, whispered at him to surrender—to let go of duty, of purpose, to wither into dust like the forgotten.

Her memory stains your very being.

Rising, Adonis moved to the window. The moon hung high, casting the courtyard in silver light. The weapons of his patrolling guardsmen glinted as they moved through the night, silent sentinels of his domain. His gaze flicked back to the bed. Sleep would not return to him—not with the past clawing at his mind, not with the phantom voices refusing to fade. He longed for release, for a reprieve from the weight of memory. But what freedom could the mind offer when it was the very thing ensnaring him?

His thoughts drifted to his Majordomo and his wisened words.

"My Lord, you are a man rooted in war, but one who branches out in valour and honour."

His gaze wandered the room until it settled upon his armor, standing tall upon its stand, each strap fastened with meticulous care. Beside it, his warhammer rested, waiting. He stepped forward, fingers curling around the hilt as he lifted it, turning the raw iron over in his hand.

"Old friend," he murmured. "You have seen more of me than any other."

He lowered the hammer, but he did not release it.

Are you truly just an old fool, destined to die in the halls of a decaying estate?

His brow furrowed. He moved to the door, heedless of his state—bare-chested, clad only in loose trousers—before stepping into the torchlit hall. The guards at his door snapped to attention, their expressions unreadable. If they found their Lord’s dishevelled state unusual, they did not show it.

Adonis moved through the winding corridors of his home until he reached the front entrance. He pushed through, stepping into the courtyard. The patrolling guards halted, their eyes flicking toward him. Without a word, he jerked his head toward a familiar space.

You are mad.

The soft foliage and cobbled paths gave way to the dust and dirt of the training grounds. Adonis stood in the center, waiting. His retinue had already understood the unspoken command. They advanced, drawing their weapons—not out of defiance, but duty. Duty that outweighed hesitation.

Do you wish to die, then?

The first blade struck. Adonis came alive. His hammer rose, parrying the blow with a forceful deflection that sent the attacker stumbling. Another lunged with unerring precision. He twisted, slipping past the strike, then pivoted, driving an elbow into the assailant’s jaw. More came. More fell away.

I like watching you dance, my love…

Two shielded guardsmen advanced in tandem, one feinting left, the other charging head-on. Adonis did not wait. He met the charge, crashing into the shielded warrior with the force of a bull, sending him sprawling. The second guard hesitated—just enough for Adonis to turn upon him, blade and hammer clashed in rapid succession. Then, with brutal efficiency, he drove a boot into the man’s chest, sending him reeling.

You are nothing more than an animal, clawing at the history of your failures.

Adonis stilled. His guards lay scattered at his feet, clutching their wounds, gazing up at him with a mixture of awe and unease. He closed his eyes.

And there she was.

Aleria. Her hand outstretched. A whisper of calm in the storm, offering peace to his endless rage.

His fingers slackened around the hilt. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for her.

Who are you, my love?

Adonis opened his eyes. The ghost was gone. But his resolve remained.

His hand lowered as he exhaled, steady and sure.

"I am Lord Adonis B’andtherion—Patriarch of my house, the Bull upon the battlefield. Hear me well: no tide will drown my will, no storm will extinguish my fire. My lineage shall bear the weight of the fallen and stand where others falter. Let the world remember my name, let the stars bear witness—I am here and I am forever."

He turned to the men he had bested, watching as they rose to their feet, cradling their bruises and gripping their wounds with silent resilience. Not one among them faltered. One by one, they retrieved their swords, and then—without command, without hesitation—they struck their blades against their shields and roared. He roared with them in unity.

The sound rang out, deep and unyielding, a steady rhythm that surged through the night like rolling thunder. They encircled their Lord, their fealty absolute, their devotion forged in steel and blood. The echoes of their tribute carried across the Ghostlands, a testament to the unbroken will of their Patriarch.

[grumpyoldfker]

[grumpyoldfker]

Anon-Day!

~ Ask my my character anything you want ~ Confess something you would never say to my their face ~ Send them an anonymous letter ~ Give them unsolicited advice you think they need ~ Tell them one thing you like about them ~ Tell them one thing you hate about them ~ Tell them your favorite memory of them

Anything is welcomed on Anon-Day, as long as it’s on anon!