#day132021

[kharrisdawndancer]

She had gone for classic: blonde hair pulled sleekly up, ruby red lips, perfected cat eye liner, red nails to match lips, heels that added to her already noteworthy height, and a Little Black Dress. Though perhaps not that little, after all. Her train trailed behind her luxuriously, and even when she bustled it late into the showing the hem still kissed the ground behind her. The back of her dress was all silver beads and crystals in delicate, organic shapes suggestive of spines and ribs, or perhaps insectoid limbs. Her earrings were simple bone and gold wire wrapping.

Tinnaire had flanked Fiorenze with Xylaes as they entered, a stunning trio, she thought, but had left the pair to themselves not all that long after. It had been good to see Xylaes again, especially having heard enough hints of his trouble in the Shadowlands.

A lovely young woman by the name of Kara, animated and knowledgeable about art, gave her good cheer even as they admired the macabre artwork.

She was pleased to see Caythaes and spent a few paintings in the maze moving with them. A compliment on her dress from Sana, the upcoming fashion designer she had met a handful of times, made her smile wide with pride.

A quick, affectionate hello to the Starry Knight. And she saw Camliri swan by smiling at her companion.

Maeskia was busy wrapping an unsuspecting noble around her finger with ease, leading him through the ‘fire’ on the floor to the last room.

Red, that charismatic rascal leading the Body Modification Faire, was there and she’d smirked hello from across the room--he’d winked back, knowing she’d recognized him in that painting in front of her.

The rooms had been filled with elegant, delightful company. She floated through all their company again a few times in the night and as the gallery presentation was closing. Some had said their farewells, and some had arrived across the street at the after party.

Wistfully, she glanced back toward the gallery building, her mind lingering on the capstone piece Vixannya had presented. Tinnaire had seen The Maw in person; and while a painting was not the same, she had let herself experience the art. It was a painting that would stay with anyone who had seen the enormous canvas. Everything about the Maw stayed with you. The taste of the air was ashes and something you couldn’t help but call despair. She could practically hear the painting--screams, forges, howling, weapons, the rough sound of metal scraping across the stone, cage doors slamming shut--yes. It was something that stayed with you, no matter the source. She had lived through that place, and she was proud of that accomplishment.

Her eyes were drawn back to a young man, wall flowering and nursing his drink. Aerden. They had met before, but tonight she thought could see it on him. It had been even more evident when she’d happened to catch him in that final room, too, staring up at the painting. He’d survived the Maw, too.

She rose and approached him, for some amiable quiet. A little conversation, but no pressure.

@daily-writing-challenge

Day 13 Pride/The Maw

Her dress:

name drop mentions: @vixannya @fio-renze @xylaes @maeskia @dawnweaverestates @themagictrick @karaamberlight @mekandawn @aerdendios @twosidedsana @tristennedarkmorn

[vixannya]

Day 13 - Pride @daily-writing-challenge​

The swell of pride she felt as she stared at her reflection in the full length mirror wasn’t just about her looks. She looked fucking fabulous, as always, but this was more of a culmination of months of hard work and planning, all finally coming to fruition in a very fabulous, very stylish way.

The gown had been a gift from one of the top designers in Dalaran, and in return that designer would get the VIP treatment at the exhibition opening and after party. These types of ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine’ relationships were important in this world and she was more than happy to play by those rules if it would continue earning her such lovely garments. The sheath-styled gown really was gorgeous and it fit her like a glove, hugging and pronouncing her feminine curves to their fullest. All she was missing now was her ‘crown’. 

She gestured for her stylist to bring over the final article of her ensemble. This particular piece she commissioned herself from one of her favorite artists. They did a lot of work with bone, mostly sculptures, but she wanted something she could wear. The spine and the combined neck piece fashioned to look almost like wings were delicate and probably the most intricate work she had ever seen done from this artist; it was perfect. The gold spent was worth it, this was a true statement piece and something she would later proudly display on her walls.

Of course, she was going to don a completely different outfit for the after party. Something sexier and easier to move around in, but no less fashionable. After all the months spent buried up to her neck in her work, the party was her time to completely let loose. She had big plans for tonight!

More exhibition/party shenanigans to be continued on other characters...

[luminashdawnwing]

DWC Day 13: Pride/The Maw

(Sort of) continued from here (Day 4).

Luminash had aided the Venthyr in many rituals of absolution now, seen the murky depths of souls dredged, all their vices and all their hubris drawn to the surface, excised, and banished. He had seen the repentant slump with relief as the weight of their crimes was lifted; he had seen the recalcitrant try in vain to stand tall as they were ravaged, only to cry out in the end. 

He had heard their screams, echoing off the cold stone of Revendreth, and every groan of pain he felt, knowing his own ancestors had experienced the same. Few were the Avowed who themselves did not shudder to hear those cries as well, for they knew the cost of their task, memories of their own rising to the surface with each summoned vice.

Now, he was to see the end result of the Avowed’s work, a special guest at the ritual of judgement. Souls who were lightened of their burdens over the course of time immeasurable were brought forth, the Accuser herself in attendance, many of the Avowed standing by, including those who had brought Luminash into the Venthyr fold, Nelyne and Grigori. Curiously, the magister noted, the Accuser had brought the shade of Kael’thas this day, who stood to the side of the ceremony. Likely meant to learn another lesson in humilty, Nelyne had noted with a laugh.

“Bring the first soul forward. Bring forth Theradan Sevine,” the Accuser decreed from the balcony overlooking the court, “Come forth judges, those who have journeyed alongside this soul, and render your verdict!”

Four Avowed stepped forward, cowls and robes obscuring their forms, as they always did in the rituals. One by one, they raised ritual daggers, tethers of anima binding blade to soul.

Theradan, despite the weakness of his amorphous form, frayed at the edges with year upon year of hubris torn from his fabric, seemed braced for battle, much like a cornered beast.

The first judge spoke, “I condemn this soul to the Maw.”

The Accuser remained silent, standing above the proceedings. Luminash thought he saw a look of displeasure flicker across her face, quickly wiped away. Also present was a look of resignation - he too, could see how Theradan carried himself.

The second judge spoke, “I condemn this soul to the Maw.”

“You have no right to condemn me!” Theradan shouted, his voice strained from his soul’s condition, but still strong, still a voice accustomed to command.

The third judge spoke, “I condemn this soul to the Maw.”

“The things I have done are your crimes too, Venthyr! I reject this court of hypocrisy! I reject your verdict!” Theradan continued. The words sounded to the magister to be rehearsed - or spoken before, in life, perhaps.

The fourth and final judge spoke, “I condemn this soul to the Maw.”

Theradan screamed, a primal, animalistic cry of fury. The anima channeled from the judges wrapped around him, crimson threads binding thrashing arms.

“The judgement of Theradan Sevine is unanimous,” the Accuser intoned, “Despite all our efforts, he clings to his crimes. I hereby decree hubris his undoing. Cast this soul into the Maw!” Her voiced, sharp and commanding, carried throughout the court as the judges dragged their bound charge away.

Luminash’s gaze followed until Theradan was out of sight, snapped back to his immediate surroundings only when the Accuser spoke again.

“Bring forth the next soul awaiting judgement!”

@daily-writing-challenge​

[ainsley-f]

Pride / The Maw

Day 13, DWC 2021

CW: Death, Scenes of a medical nature

She had only heard of the Maw and it’s horrors.

Where life after true death was only speculated on before, it was now given a definite answer since the very gates of the afterlife opened up above them.

As citizens of Azeroth themselves began to traverse into its domain, the stories began pouring in, too. Turns out the afterlife is much like regular life, for the most part.

Except the Maw.

Think of the most torturous kind of hell. A place where souls go for eternal torment, consumed by rage, fear, and pain—pain so unbearable and inescapable, and torture so unimaginable that the stories themselves could mollify even the worst of criminals.

Apparently it was worse.

Then more information started pouring in. Death itself was broken. Souls had no chance to find eternal rest where they truly belonged, instead being sent straight to the depths of the Maw. No judgment— souls good and bad being subject to torture they didn’t deserve.

As soon as the medical network caught wind of this, their jobs became a lot harder. Saving lives was tough to begin with, but now, knowing where these souls would end up if they didn’t succeed?

The pressure was enough to see even the most hardened of doctors crumble.

It was all Ainsley could think of as the loud resonance of the heart monitor echoed throughout the room, the screen glowing with irregularities, and her patient laying unresponsive. Hovering over her them, hands clasped together over their chest, glowing with the Light and pumping down rhythmically, all she could think of was the eternal darkness of the Maw.

Her eyes flitted to the shaman across from her, their hands charged with electric energy, and waiting for their signal.

“Ready.”

“Clear!”

As the shaman placed their hands over the patient’s chest, a quick burst of energy jolted the body. The monitor continued with no change.

“Increase,” she ordered. Ainsley resumed her position, continuing with chest compressions.

Please, you do not deserve to go there.

Her patient was kind, and funny. They were a dock worker that worked at Tradewinds Market. They had a wife. Two kids. They were a happy family.

You cannot go, please.

“Ready,” the shaman indicated.

“Clear.”

Another jolt. Another moment of nothing. No sign of life sparked from the body. The sound emanating from the monitor became one long, continuous beep.

“Asystole.”

“Come on, come on!” Ainsley urged under her breath, glancing over to the nurse beside her. “Push epi.”

Sweat lined her brow as she continued to plead internally, keeping a steady rhythm with her compressions. She could feel her arms starting to get weaker and weaker.

Nothing. Time felt like it had simultaneously stopped and was rushing forward too fast. Desperation licked at the room.

“Push another milligram of epi. Take over compressions,” the priestess ordered.

As another nurse took over chest compressions and another dose of medication was given, Ainsley stood over the patient, placing her hands gently over the body and allowing divine energy to radiate out and surround it. She closed her eyes and a prayer began to flow out of her lips, hushed and quick.

The Light was a kind new magic that the Kul Tirans had to get used to with the increase of mainlander priests. The miracles it afforded couldn’t be denied, and it was all Ainsley could do but hope that today they were afforded one of those very miracles.

“Light, grant them the strength to push though. Flow life through their body once more. Give them a fighting chance. Grant them your grace.”

As the holy energy began to grow stronger, Ainsley felt her body being drained and exhaustion began to seep in. She used all her power to hold on. She had to.

Seconds.

…Seconds.

…Another minute.

It had been too long.

Nothing. Only cold emptiness as the body remained unresponsive and the flatline continued. It had already been a few minutes, and the energy in the room began to dim.

Her eyes opened, and she shared a grief-stricken look with the rest of her code team. Her jaw clenched as the glow of the Light faded slowly.

“Time of death. 8:45PM.”

There was a moment of stillness before Ainsley moved aside to allow the post-cardiac arrest process to begin. Tossing her gloves out, she took another moment to take a few deep breaths.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the Maw.

Whatever was happening in the Shadowlands, she simply hoped would resolve soon. Because as she looked back to her patient’s lifeless body, all she could imagine was endless pain, rage, and fear.

And she hoped that one day their soul would find peace somehow.

@daily-writing-challenge​

[lordrethandus]

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 13

Pride ( @daily-writing-challenge​ )

World: Warcraft

Content Warning: Minor blood and gore.

It was busy in Zaldrannar: the Black Judge. The accursed depths of the floating black citadel belonged to the dead, and lately these desolate halls have been bursting at the seams with all manner of vile reanimated creatures.They had no need for light or warmth, finding solace here in the dark. Filthy abominations lumbered around in the choking shadows, with ghouls and geists crawling along the rafters. Right above them lurked a hundred Death Knights in the dim frostfire torches on the upper levels of the undead sector, and in the center of it all was a sea of countless corpses, and an angelic Val’kyr aglow in a sickly blue light; in silence she worked, either raising them into service for her living elven master, or leaving them to be used as compost for the black citadel.

Rethandus found solace working at the giant blightforge with the mindless skeletal smiths; the monsters were mute, and perfect company for someone who didn’t like talking. Hammering away with his tools helped curb his violent tendencies too -- but like all other Death Knights, eventually he would have to leave and take on missions to slate his thirst for murder, lest the Curse of Undeath purge him of what little sanity he had left. The pile of scrap metal and broken weapons beside him began to shake from approaching footfalls. But the Harbinger didn’t bother looking up to see who it was; only one bastard threw his weight around so shamelessly.

CLONK!

Without warning a bent blade almost as big as Rethandus was tossed at his feet. “Fix my sword.” Grunted the hulking brute. Thurok the Depraved was big, even for a tauren, and his body was made even bigger by the swelling power of blood magic coursing through his rotten flesh. His long black mane remained disheveled, likely since the day of his first death, with cracked horns and a mangled snout. Ugly doesn’t even begin to describe this monster, who continued to surprise everyone with his ability to even speak without half of his lower jaw, and that gaping hole in his throat. Absolutely disgusting.

“How will you be paying for it?" Asked the Harbinger. A gurgled snort bubbled up from his throat-hole as he peeled his lips back in a grotesque attempt to smile. Immediately it got under the Harbinger's frozen skin.

"You fix for FREE." Thurok snorted indignantly. "Or I shove down throat and turn little elf man into popsicle."

Rethandus clenched his jaw as he glowered up at the audacity of this beast. Had he retained his old rank, this halfwit wouldn't have dared demand him for anything; but his usefulness to Councilor Zerethel had waned, and he was replaced by someone more willing to do his dirty work. Now he was just like everyone else in this unholy barrow of titansteel and bones -- except he was still the best blacksmith aboard Zaldrannar.

"Get someone else to fix your sword." Rethandus remained as calm as he could manage. "I'm too busy for charity."

"You fix sword NOW!" Thurok croaked, kicking at his anvil with his peeling hoof. The Harbinger slowly rose to his feet, the air around him freezing as icicles crept along the ground from his boots. He was barely a third of this tauren's weight, barely standing tall enough to headbutt the brute's bloodied snout. Other undead began to take notice and gather around to watch, but at a distance; everyone wanted a good show, but no one wanted to participate. Thurok's meaty finger jabbed Rethandus in the chest. "Angry?" He asked, gurgling with delight. "Try me, little elf. Your kind thinks they're so great… Lich King showed your worth in 'High' Kingdom. Come then… pet project. Show me what a 'Harbinger' can do." He jabbed him with his greasy finger again, and Rethandus almost snapped.

Fights between Death Knights were commonplace even back in the good old days of the Scourge, but using your runeblade against your brothers and sisters in death has been forbidden and strictly enforced since the first pillaging of Naxxramas.s always been a forbidden rule; killing fellow undead didn’t help curb the curse, and the fighting power of your unit has grown weaker as a result. Thurok was unarmed -- he saw no reason not to be. Rethandus was too small to be any real threat without his weapons, and all he had to do was grab hold of him and snap him in half. The Harbinger tightened his grip on his blacksmith hammer partially hidden behind his thigh. He was ready and willing to cave in this bastard’s skull, and he only needed one good swing to do it too. But as he was about to kill him, the memory of the promise he made just a few months prior popped back into his head.

“Mr. Andy? Can I ask you a question?” Said the six year old girl. She ran her tiny fingers through her auburn hair, tucking her locks behind her soft pointy ears. In the warmth of the Eversong Woods, aglow in the orange light of the setting sun, her bright golden eyes shimmering in the growing shadows almost put a smile on the Harbinger’s face. Her mother wasn’t too far behind, letting her spunky daughter put on a good show for the frozen killing machine. “What are those symbols on your swords?”

“What are those symbol thingies on your swords?”

“They’re Frost Runes.” He calmly answered.

“What do they do?”

“They allow me to use powerful magic to fight my enemies.”

“Why?”

“Because we tap into the runes to release their power.”

“Why?”

“… because Death Knights like me need the advantage in combat.” She fell silent for several moments, her soft round face contorted with confusion.

“Why…?” Rethandus clenched his jaw, causing bits of frost to snow from his chin.

“It’s how we were designed, I guess. See…” He paused to think of the simplest way to explain this to a child. “We are bad people. But we also fight bad people, so you and Mommy can live in peace. Do you understand?”

“You’re not bad anymore!” She squeaked defiantly. “You’re good! Do you understand? Promise me!”

Slowly Rethandus crossed his arms and tilted his head. He didn’t know the difference between good and bad anymore; it had been so long since he had to question his own moral standing that he probably couldn’t recall them. But he would humor his ward, at least so she would stop asking him so many questions. “I promise.”

She didn’t look convinced. She reached down and picked up the straightest stick she could find. “Kneel before me, and make a sodomy vow!”

“Solemn.” Rethandus quietly corrected her, before glancing over his shoulder to see her mother not far behind. Thankfully she wasn’t paying attention; if she heard the words coming out of her daughter’s mouth, she would be absolutely livid. Hesitantly he dropped to a knee and bowed his head. The little girl approached him as regally as she could manage in her bulky coat, and placed the end of the stick onto his shoulder.

“Brave sir knight, you are now forever good. You must use your swords for good things. Never bad things.” She then tapped the other shoulder. “Now rise, Mr. Andy! Rise and be good again!”

“Be good again.” Rethandus thought, staring into the pale grey eyes of this bulking Death Knight. His anger was calmed, for now, and he slowly turned his back to begin walking away from this situation; better to let Thoruk have his little victory then to stoop down to his lev-

“Coward.”

He stopped mid stride. He could feel the ice on his teeth splintering from clenching his jaw so hard. Heat rose from his frozen guts, such as it was, until the Harbinger was just about ready to explode. “Ice in pointy ears?!” Taunted Thoruk. “I call you COWAR-!”

Rethandus spun around and whipped his hammer so hard across Thoruk's face that his metal nose ring and a chunk of his snout went flying into the onlookers! Frost runes glowed on his gauntlet in the dim light when he blasted the staggering tauren with rime! Then the Harbinger jumped on him, with one hand firmly gripping a horn as the other raised his hammer high above him! Just as he brought it down to bury into his brains, Thoruk bucked forward to shake him off! Blinded by frost and rage alike, the tauren charged forward and carried the Harbinger across the room to slam into the wall!

THOCK!

Even clad in reinforced elementium from the neck down he felt his ribs and pelvis shatter! Rethandus bucked over, using his runes to refreeze his bones back into place. A fist the size of a cannonball came crashing into his back, snapping a shoulder blade! A hoof whipped upwards and knocked him onto his side! Rethandus swiped his hammer off the ground and brought it up to uppercut the tauren, but with his broken bones it didn't land nearly as hard enough to kill him!

The other Death Knights huddled around them, shouting and cheering for either man in this twisted battle to the death! Thoruk was still struggling to keep his balance from the first swing, with blood shooting from his ruined snout with each exhale. "Kill you!" He grunted, lifting a massive hoof. "Crush you!"

Rethandus barely had enough time to raise his arms before Thoruk stomped him, his right elbow snapping like brittle firewood beneath the surging unholy strength of this beast. Even if he had his helmet the Harbinger knew he wouldn’t survive another stomp, so he grabbed onto the disgusting hoof and overloaded his frost runes, freezing himself to the ground and Thoruk’s lower half. At this angle he wouldn’t be able to reach Rethandus with his own two meaty hands, and before long he would either have to submit and relinquish the fight, shatter his own legs just to kill him, or be entombed in ice until someone with authority could thaw them out. Thoruk in his maddened rage chose the fourth option. His hand stretched toward the forge. Black lightning lashed out from his fingers and yanked his bent runed greatsword from the floor. “KILL YOU!” He bellowed, raising it high above his head! Within the ice Rethandus closed his eyes and prepared for decapitation, ready to see his parents and older brother again before he was doomed to the void…

The voice of a woman calmly but loudly clearing her throat made Thoruk freeze before he stabbed downward, and the crowd of Death Knights parted like a theater curtain to let her pass. Her boots clicked and clacked against the floor as she walked, the sound echoing through the chamber from the dead silence. The tauren turned to look with his pale eyes widening in fear, and he dropped the sword like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Thoruk, Thoruk, Thoruk.” She sighed, shaking her head. “What exactly were you planning to do with that busted blade? I’m dying to know.”

“N-nothing, Istrys…!” He lied, gurgling from his throat hole and his face hole. “Rethandus tried to kill me! I was defending myself!”

“Rethandus.” The woman started, crossing her arms. “Release the cow before I let both of you remain frozen here until the end of time.” Rethandus could barely hear her beneath the ice he made, but he knew what she wanted. A low hiss came from the thawing, and as soon as he was able to lift his hoof off the Harbinger and stand normally, he did. She turned her attention back to Thoruk. “Turning your runeblade against kin is forbidden. Would you like to come with me back to my quarters to learn firsthand what happens to traitors who can’t follow the simplest of rules?”

“No, Istrys! I-it won’t happen again…!” The once hulking beast was reduced to a sniveling coward in her presence, but Rethandus didn’t blame him; Istrys was a true monster. She delighted in the suffering of living and undead alike, and was solely in charge of disciplinary actions within Zaldrannar. She was the one that replaced the Harbinger as Councilor Zerethel’s right hand, after all.

“Get out of my sight before I change my mind.” Her tone was uncomfortably gleeful. Abandoning his greatsword Thoruk did exactly as she commanded, pushing past the crowd to vanish into the black tunnels. She looked down at Rethandus with a cruel grin spreading across her dead lips. “Seems you’re injured, Andy. I guess that means you’re coming with me. Heh heh heh heh…”

[rosecrownreserve]

DWC, Day 13 - Pride, The Maw

When Leo'mar joined the effort to help in the Shadowlands, nothing could have prepared him for what awaited. While Maldraxxus and to a lesser degree Revendreth left him unsettled, Bastion had given him an eerie peace and Ardenweald had impressed him the most.

The Maw, however...

Leo had hesitated to bring his animal companions with him to the Shadowlands. While he eventually brought them along, he drew the line at letting them follow him to the Maw. Spending any amount of time there only left him wishing he had been able to excel at stepping into the shadows the way others could. He could slip into them only briefly, yet he wasn't confident that it mattered in such a hellish place.

It was if anything a very dangerous refresher of sorts for his old training. Leo had spent so long serving in ways that involved as little combat as possible, but it quickly came back to him as he ran. His way with a bow had always been exceptional, and it had absolutely been worth the cost of having it enchanted to automatically conjure up an arrow as he drew the string back.

Yet arrows were only so useful against some of the creatures of the Maw. Each visit, thankfully there were very few, became challenges to how he both moved and fought. A matter of pride when he would return, especially if he had avoided conflict altogether. As monstrous as many of the Maw's population might be, it was something of a blessing that most weren't especially intelligent.

@daily-writing-challenge