#dwc asks

[randommemestouse]

Post-DWC Blues Asks

Another DWC has wrapped up and I know we're all feeling it, so now is a good time for all those questions we had while reading the stories!

Ask IC or OoC questions about my stories or OCs! Tell me what your favorite story is and why! Tell me what you liked best about a particular story! Tell me what you'd love to see in future DWCs! Ask or say anything!

ANON IS ON!

*Remember to practice good ask/reblog karma! **Be sure to post a list of your stories below!

[lilyofporcelain]

What was YOUR favorite story to write and why? And because I know you're a reader, what were some of your favorite stories others wrote?

I think my favourite one to write was the Punish / Infinite. When I had initially seen this list right before we were beginning, I had a list written down with the prompts and who I was assigning them to. I had an incredibly loose idea about what I could write. Punish / Infinity became something I wasn't expecting and it was a result of discord and in-game roleplay that made it happen. I love how time and conversation and presence can completely change the course that I thought I was on.

I also think that what I wrote for Punish / Infinite wasn't really just for Laeynna. It was also for me. I have been in a lot of need for something that could help me centre myself and I think dissecting that notion through Laeynna's thoughts left me feeling very at ease and very much tranquil, neither of which are things that I feel often. I found it a very enjoyable experience and something much-needed. It was incredibly rewarding.

Now, onto this second thing...

It would be very difficult for me to pick favourites, because in earnest, I enjoyed everything and none of these pieces that any of us wrote are comparable. So, instead, I will pick pieces that are most vivid to me this morning.

Restless / Faith - Tycil

Placate / Graceful - Jace

Beauty / Cruel - Zenith

Punish / Infinite - Mae'Thyn

Restless / Faith - Tinnaire

Punish / Infinite - Avalear

Linger / Gaze - Keranna

Restless / Faith - Lukel

Placate / Graceful - Eluvianna

Placate / Graceful - Vaelsnipe

Beauty / Cruel - Veilos

Mentions for @tycildawnwhisper, @jacelandon, @zenithnightbane, @tumbleeintonothing, @kharrisdawndancer, @dawn-blossom, @keranna-zerine, @lukel-sunshadow, @eluviannaa, @vaelsnipe, @veilosdaigoa

Thanks, @turning-through-the-never! ♥

[dailyworldcinema]

hi, i had a quick question - where does ireland fall in this list? i was going to make a set from Caveat (2020), which is irish but it's in english so i wasn't sure...i tried to search previous things tagged ireland but i still couldn't quite decide. thank you!

hello! we do reblog irish films, even if they are in english. hope this helps :)

[leechaeryeonqs-moved]

Top 5 favourite Vernon eras?

ask me my top five anything !

( @ikigaisvt asked me the same thing [ wondering about your top five vernon era 🤲-sammy <3 ] whehjgrghsdjg i love u guys. i am smushing these together just so i don't post the same thing twice <33 ) ( all of this is retroactive becauseee fml was my first svt cb so i wasn't around for any of these but i have consumed an ungodly amount of content so i can reasonably confidently make this decision )

FEAR.

home;run

don't wanna cry (look. blond vernon can just be so deeply personal, okay)

black eye

hot

[incognitopolls]

Use this website to view an interactive map of Köppen climate zones.

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[luminashdawnwing]

DWC May 2025 Day 1: Cruel / Beauty

"How can any of our people have given themselves over to such cruelty?" Aneyah asked. She spoke in hushed tones as she sifted through the recovered belongings of a Nightfall cultist. Theras shook his head, the rasp of whetstone on the edge of his glaive offered in reply before the younger man spoke, "Father would say they are fools who have looked too deeply into the Void. That they believe its lies, and have become something else."

The Arathi's lips turned down at their corners, fingers tracing the delicate ornamentation of the cultist's befouled tinderbox, "But he is not here, is he? Tell me what you think, Ther."

The whetstone stopped for a moment. In the weeks they had spent rooting out Order of Night activity among the Sureki remnants, the cleric had gained his trust. Only in recent days had she started calling him something so familiar, and it still caught him off guard.

"You know how a lynx gets when it gets backed into a corner? I think they're scared." The ranger added quietly, "I don't think they're doing what they're doing out of malice. I think they're just...so, so frightened."

The tinderbox flipped open, revealing a darkened shard of crystal embedded within. Aneyah shuddered, clapping it shut once more, "What fear could do this? Could..." She choked. Months had passed since Wenren's murder, but the wound was still fresh, the embers the cleric once held within her breast yet warm.

"People will do a lot to avoid facing the unknown alone. If Renilash really is approaching, like you think, Aneyah, they...probably don't have the heart to face it alone." He eyed the edge of his weapon with satisfaction and stood, placing it with great care of its rack.

"Ther? If something should happen? If I ever lack the heart to..." She rasped a sigh, her shoulders trembling with it, "Please do not let me face it alone?"

The young Dawnwing nodded solemnly, though he found himself, as often, at a loss for words.

@daily-writing-challenge

[zenithnightbane]

May DWC 2025 Day 1 - Beauty/Cruel

The greenhouse was wrapped in the gentle thrum of rain, the heavy scent of loam and oleander clinging to the warm air. Zenith stood motionless near the threshold, but he wasn’t really here, not entirely. He was lost in a memory. 

The light was softer then, warmer. The lanterns had a brighter glow, and so had his heart. Beside him moved Ladoran, sleeves rolled to the elbow, damp strands of dark blond hair falling into his eyes, a mischievous smirk always half-formed. He was holding a small pot of foxglove, examining the cluster of delicate purple bells. "Tell me something, At what point did you look at a row of deadly plants and think, ‘Yes, this will be my sanctuary’?"

Zenith didn’t look up from where he was pruning the crossing branches of some wolfsbane. His long hair was tied back, eyes focused, “They don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. There’s honesty in that.”

Ladoran raised a brow. “And people?”

Zenith glanced up then towards his husband, meeting his gaze with that quiet intensity only the dead and those who have walked beside them carry. “People lie,” he said simply. “Even to themselves.”

Ladoran laughed, a warm sound that cut through the heavy stillness. “You’re too dramatic to be so good with plants.”

Zenith’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “That’s because you haven’t seen what they do when they’re angry.”

Ladoran stepped closer, setting the foxglove down as he knelt beside the other man. He touched Zenith’s smooth cheek lightly, grounding the moment. "You know what I see when you talk like this?" he asked, voice lower as he pressed his forehead to Zenith’s temple. "There’s a darkness around you that would make others turn away, but I find it draws me closer, like a moth to a flame. You’re beautiful. In that tragic, gothic way.”

Zenith turned to face him fully, something tender and unguarded crossing his expression. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that like it was a good thing.”

Ladoran smiled. “It was never not a good thing.”

The greenhouse hummed around them with quiet life while rain continued to trace its paths down the glass above. Between the rows of poisonous bloom, a serenity settled, strange and private. Cruel perhaps, to any other eye, but to them, this was peace.

That was then.

Now, Zenith stood alone. The memory slipped back into the shadows as he ran a gloved hand gently along the matured foxglove, its color more vivid than ever. “Still thriving,” he murmured, the faintest smile at the scarred edges of his lips. “You’d like that.”

And though the plants did not answer, the air around him seemed to pulse softly with presence, alive and listening.

@daily-writing-challenge

[dadrunkwriting]

DWC Housekeeping - Team NA/AUS/Asia

Hi all! our headcount is nearing Tumblr's tag/mention limit, so we're checking in to make sure that everyone on the active headcount still wants to be tagged.

We ask that you think honestly about if you intent to regularly partiipate in DWC when deciding whether to stay on the active list. Remember, you don't have to be active to participate in a one-off Friday, and you can become active again at any time.

If you would like to stay on the active headcount, please reply to this post with a message by Thursday, May 15th 11:59pm PDT. If your blog name has changed, please let us know that as well!

NO REPLY is necessary if you wish to go inactive. If you do not reply to this post, we will assume you want to be taken off the headcount.

Reminders

Inactive writers can become active again at any time! Just message an admin and we'll add you back to the regular headcount.

Inactive writers can always opt in for the occasional Friday! You will not be tagged in the headcount, but if you reply to the post before 4pm Pacific Time on Friday, we'll include you on the kickoff.

Regardless of whether you're active or inactive, DADWC members are always welcome to post and tag us on Friday nights. If an old prompt inspires you, write, post, and tag!

Note: please do NOT do this if you are not a DADWC member. If you'd like to sign up, message an admin!

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We will reblog this post throughout the week to make sure everyone sees it. Changes will go into effect this Friday, May 16th.

@anonymous-inquisitor @asexualtabris @broodwoof @championofthefade @contreparry

@crabs-with-sticks @dreadfutures @emmrichsvolkarin @exalted-dawn-drabbles @ghoulsbeard

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@transdreadwolf @vigilskept @virshiral @wickedwitchofthewilds @wishforhome

[veilosdaigoa]

May DWC 2025 Day 4 - Dangerous

~ Last Year ~

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Veilos had just finished his shift at the Shielded Mind clinic in Silvermoon, a hell of a day and he couldn’t remember the last time he got to sit down and relax. He was exhausted, body heavy, brain fogged, longing for a stiff drink and ten uninterrupted minutes in the bathtub. He got neither.

He hadn’t made it out of the Bazaar before the ambush. Rough hands, a hood over his head, and cuffs locked tight around his wrists with runes etched deep to dampen magic. His body ached from where they’d struck him, but they hadn’t broken anything. Not yet at least. Amateurs, maybe, or just overconfident.

When they yanked the hood off, the dim flicker of torchlight revealed a damp cellar: stone walls, rusted chains, and three men who looked like they’d walked straight out of a mercenary crew with too much time and too few scruples. The one in front, lean and sneering with a scar across his cheek, paced slowly like a predator trying to look casual.

“You’re Veilos Dai’goa,” the man said flatly.

“I was hoping for a better fan club,” Veilos muttered.

The leader didn’t smile. “You helped someone who shouldn’t have survive. A smuggler with a burned arm. My employer paid for silence, not recovery.”

Veilos gave a small shrug, lips cracked and dry. “I don’t ask who they are. I just stop the bleeding and patch ‘em up.” A quick punch caught him across the cheek. His head snapped sideways, the copper taste of blood flooding his mouth, but he stayed quiet.

“You’re going to tell us what he said. Where he went.”

Another strike to his ribs this time, Veilos exhaled sharply, but otherwise remained silent. If they thought a few hits were going to make him talk, they hadn’t done their research, because Veilos wasn’t just a healer.

He had always known there was something different about him. Even as a child, his words could quiet arguments, shift opinions, and ease panic. As he grew, so did the power behind them, along with erasing the need to have to speak the words aloud. It was more than persuasion, it was dominance. Most days, he didn’t use it, he didn’t need to and he knew he shouldn’t. There were rules and regulations set in place. But he was born with this magic, and when the moment called for it, he did not shy away from what he was.

The cuffs dulled some of his magic, he could feel that within, but this ability? It wasn’t something runes could cage so easily. His golden eyes, dulled by fatigue and pain, began to glow brighter and brighter. The leader stepped forward again, ready for another hit, but paused. Veilos lifted his head slowly, fixing his gaze on the man with a calm steadiness that cut through the tension like a knife.

“You’re afraid,” Veilos said, voice low but steady. Not a guess, a fact. “You’ve been afraid since the moment you laid eyes on me. You just didn’t understand why.”

The thug blinked, his posture faltering.

“You’re going to walk away,” Veilos continued, his voice frayed into something dissonant and raspy. “You’re going to open these cuffs. And you’re going to forget why you were ever angry.” There was really no need to speak aloud, but he wanted the other men to hear, and to see his orders followed without resistance.

The man’s pupils dilated, his hand twitched once. Then, in silence, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the restraints, dropping them to the floor with a soft clink. Veilos stood slowly, breath shallow. The other two hesitated, but one reached for a dagger. Veilos turned his eyes on him next.

“҉N҉҉o!”

The second man froze, his mouth slack, hand hovering midair like a puppet caught in indecision.

“I don’t need to hurt you,” Veilos growled. “But I will, and I will make you hurt yourselves if I must. You’ll sit. You’ll shut up. You’ll stay here and pray to whatever gods still pity you that I didn’t decide to end your miserable lives tonight. And you'll leave me alone.”

There wasn’t always the need for violence. This magic was part of him, ancient and instinctive, and he respected and controlled it. Honed it like a scalpel instead of a sword. He didn’t linger after they backed away in silence, leaving them dazed and blank-eyed in the shadows of their own fractured thoughts. Whatever memories they retained would feel like a dream, or a nightmare they couldn’t quite grasp.

Outside, Silvermoon’s midnight sky greeted him with its usual indifference. Veilos straightened his coat, ignoring the bruises already forming along his ribs, those could be dealt with later. He was dangerous, yes, but only when the situation called for it. And tonight, it had called loud and clear.

@daily-writing-challenge

[nahisummerhold]

DWC May 2025 Day 2 - Placate/Graceful (This ended up way longer than I thought it would) The afternoon sun cast warm light over the freshly turned earth of the Summerhold estate’s newly planted garden. Nahilvi Summerhold knelt among young shoots barely breaking through the soil, her gloves caked with damp dirt, sleeves pushed back and streaked with mud. The scent of rich earth and new beginnings filled the air. She was on a short break from her classes and wanted to take some time to come out and help with getting the garden back into shape. 

Soft footsteps on the gravel path drew her attention. “Lady Summerhold,” came a cool clipped greeting.

Nahilvi looked up to see Lady Sunspell approaching, her crimson robes pristine and her gaze sweeping over Nahi, seeing curls that had escaped where they had been gathered at the nape of her neck and the dirty clothes and leather working gloves. “Lady Sunspell,” Nahilvi greeted with a warm smile, rising and brushing soil from her sleeves. 

The noblewoman’s eyes drifted over Nahi’s muddy clothes, escaped curls, and worn gloves.. “I’ve heard troubling rumors, Lady Summerhold, whispers that you are building a brothel here on Summerhold estate.”

Nahilvi blinked at the older woman and shook her head, “You heard what?”

“You are not deaf Lady Summerhold, there are rumors that you displaced your family so you could build a brothel here.” Sunspell’s gaze sharpened. “I want you to know that I will not stand for such a thing, it is despicable that you would even consider it.” 

Nahi folded her hands with practiced calm, drawing on the patience she had once reserved for her mother’s darker moods. “May I ask who you heard this from?” The golden haired woman sniffed disdainfully, “I got it from the source, your uncle, Lord Hoovanil. He believes the Summerhold estate should not be in your hands at all after you deserted it for so many years, and that you would even think to pervert it is a shame to the Court.” “I can see why you might be bothered by such rumors,” Nahi decided to lead this dance, not be spun out of control. She gestured to the pathway away from where the other noble had approached, deeper into the areas that had been planted already. “I hope you do not mind if I address these rumors independently. I did not completely desert the estate, it is true that my mother and I did not return here after the Prince’s court fell. We barely made it out and The Diva was injured as the attack came in the middle of the night’s performance.” It was a bit of a dramatic emphasis on the last, it had not been her mother performing at the time, but reminding this woman who her mother was and the weight her mother had held in court was easy enough to emphasize.

“With her injury I felt it best that she be attended to by a physician we were comfortable with and his home was in Dalaran,” she looked to the sky as if she could see the ghost of the city in the sky now. “My father was lost and I hired people to search for him as seeing to my parents' well being was my first priority.” Again, she stretched the truth slightly, she had done all of that, but the search for her father was not something she had engaged in right away, his loss did bother her still and she made no effort to hide that, her eyes trailing to the house. The path led them steadily toward the modest manor, its weathered facade impossible to miss. Nahilvi said nothing, guiding Lady Sunspell to the veranda where fresh plaster veiled old cracks. She paused there, meeting the noblewoman’s gaze. The Sunspell family had once been frequent guests here, there was no chance she wouldn’t notice how far the estate had fallen.

“All the taxes and expenses for the estate were handled by me through solicitors. My mother’s decline had me focused on her and when the realization that an attack on Dalaran was imminent I moved her back to the estate where I knew she would be safe. She now resides in the Dowager’s home with full time medical care.” There was no way that she would mention Iren being her step-father, not with claims out there that she did not have a right to the estate. The woman had followed along with Nahi;  Lady Sunspell wanted to talk she had no real choice but to continue to move. “Your mother is here?”

It had been a gambit that may not pay off but Nahi was stalling, “She is, sadly she is not expected to last too much longer. I am having to pay for nursing staff for her. I chose the best available, of course, she deserves nothing less.” 

“Would you care for tea?” Without waiting, she led them through the front hall and into the dining room. The signs of decay were gentler here, scuffed floors, aging trim, but still present.The kitchen, by contrast, gleamed. The only room she’d managed to begin to restore. “Hot or cold? I also have lemonade.”

“Lemonade will do.”

Nahi poured two glasses, her gloves off, her smile effortless. “The gardens are my focus now, trying to get them back to the beauty my grandmother enjoyed.” 

“I remember her garden,” Sunspell murmured. “Her tea parties.”

“I hope to hold them again. In time.”

Lady Sunspell sipped at her drink and looked around more, not focusing on Nahilvi at all, “Your grandmother would spend hours talking about her garden. I remember all the tea parties she held out on the patio.” 

“I am hoping to have more, but I need to get things around here in order first,” Nahilvi gestured out in the direction of the gardens, though they couldn’t see them. Taking a long drink, she watched the other woman’s face carefully, reading how the tale she was spinning was taking hold. “It has been too long.”

Nahi had expected her uncle would do something to try and take the estate back, but  this? A brothel? Light… luckily Lady Sunspell had come to her, maybe she could outpace this now that the woman was caught in her weaving.

“As to the notion of running a brothel,” she said and let a pause hang there, “I would never dishonor my Grandmother’s memory in such a way. All I know about running the estate came from her, she was so gracious.” 

Now, Lady Sunspell’s focus landed on Nahi again, taking in the state of her appearance, “What is your plan then?”

That was up in the air in Nahi’s mind, releasing the estate back to the House of Nobles was certainly high up on her list, but not with her mother being cared for there. She looked into carving that part of the estate away and selling the rest, but her solicitor’s said that might not be possible, so for the time being she was working on the property with the plan that it was hers for at least the near future. The plan was to get the gardens ready and start using them as a small venue, but telling Sunspell that seemed like a bad idea now. 

“There’s still much to do,” Nahi admitted. “Contractors are adding seating to the orchard. If we’re lucky, we’ll get some fruit this year for cider.” A soft chuckle followed. “It will be good to share the fruits of our labor.” The pun landed gently, and Lady Sunspell’s mouth twitched.

That was unlikely, she thought the orchard was a loss but once they had been worked it was nice to see that a number of the trees had just grown wild. “I am looking forward to sitting out there with friends in the evening sharing the fruits of our labor,” she chuckled as she made the pun, inviting the older woman to relax in her company more. 

Lady Sunspell drained her glass and set it down. “I see. Well, Lady Summerhold, I’ll be watching with interest. Good day.”

Nahi led her to the front door, sparing her the garden path this time. She couldn’t tell if her performance had taken root, but the seeds were planted. She watched the woman depart, then turned back toward the house.

Time to call on The Courier. And perhaps send a bottle of something memorable, something that said, ‘Delighted by your visit’, and ‘Don’t believe everything you hear’ in equal measure. (Small mentions of @fio-renze and @safrona-shadowsun ) (Ooops @daily-writing-challenge )

[safrona-shadowsun]

Let's spread some writer love! Top 10 favorite writers on tumblr that you don't regularly interact with!

Oh, there are TOO MANY. But. I am happy to oocly lather some active tumblr writers I lurk on with love! I may be tagging multiple blogs that I know are written by the same player and count them as an entry!

No particular order here:

@theblackmourninquire - Magnificently poetic writing. I feel like I am reading beloved classical literature with the characterization of Charlyette and I have always been a little bit in awe of the talent of the writer.

@lilyofporcelain - In depth characters that are very well thought out, and as such gives wonderfully in depth answers to asks. Still learning about the characters and enjoying the journey.

@wraheathcliff / @wraaronsen - Though we've had our little casual taps on the shoulder and I had the honor of drawing one of their characters, I haven't really engaged in a rp centered way. I'm hooked on reading their characterizations and the worldbuilding they develop around them. (dracone castle sounds *amazing*)

@lillandyrshadowglade - Caught on to this great character and their rp with the characters before them, and I *love* a whirlwind of a lady. She is the sort of trouble you just need to read about.

@fio-renze / @pyraelia - I've always sort of lurked around this amazing writer for some years. These characters feel so well established, I feel like the rise and fall of Quel'thalas nobility is pictured expertly in their hands.

@bronzeandsage / @anunendinggaze / @embersoftheorder - Another fantastic writer that while I do hear from ooc and read a lot by and did art for, I haven't engaged on an rp front as much as I mean to...mostly because my brain checks out of things I try to start sometimes, heh. But I am so very drawn in to all of the writing behind these characters sequestered to these blogs. Superb.

@eluviannaa - Amaz-ing writer of a void elf and a dual threat of an amazing writer and artist that I have admired. I have been remiss in following up with rp plans and have not reached out as much as I really need to, but I will be fixing that. The wheels are in motion, Rp will happen!

@theconstructsworld / @zenithnightbane / @rylandfalkov /etc - Everything this writer posts to me is just gold. I understand they are quite busy oocly and it prevents them from interacting as much as they used to perhaps, but I always look forward to what they produce, whether it's an older established character or a new one to know.

@cavelloshatterstar - I'd started reading this knightly character's poetic entries for DWC this month and I was quickly impressed. Really lovely writing, definitely keeping a watch on this one!

@lothliervrask -- A character blog that recently snuck up on my feed and absolutely *had* me with the use of their FC. I find myself grinning a little at such a subtle and sly character playing the polite socialite, and I'm finding myself looking forward to reading more as they go.

[varistanveynesunmourne]

Go Fish

DWC May 2025

Day Seven: Punish/infinite

Tw: blood and violence

Varistan could not remember how he’d ended up in jail. Given that his head pounded and there was vomit on his shirt, he had a feeling it was due to him getting blackout drunk the night before. He remembered starting to drink, draining the bottle the courtesans had given him dry. And it was a blur after that. 

He’d been informed that, in his drunken stupor, he’d attempted to break into a lawyer’s office in the Bazaar and had thrown a big stone through the window. And yes, Ms. Nubbin was going to press charges. Of course she was. 

Groaning, he threw his arm over his aching eyes, trying to slide back into sleep, to be unconscious for the worst of his hangover. 

“Quit your bellyaching,” came a rough voice above him.

”And a cell mate too?” Varistan muttered to himself. “Wonderful.”

Varistan later learned his cell mate was a man who went by the name of Skinny Zeke. Skinny Zeke was the fattest elf that Varistan had ever seen though he thought it prudent not to question the man about his moniker not matching his appearance. Zeke had a face that looked like it was hit with a shovel, several times and less than a full set of teeth. He had…a tattoo…on his face. Clearly just common rabble. Criminal scum. 

Sitting cross legged on his bunk, Varistan looked at Zeke over his worn playing cards. “And just what did you do to get yourself in here, my friend?” Varistan asked, having decided over an hour ago to be very nice to Skinny Zeke who displayed a precarious temper already. At least he hadn’t commented on the state of Varistan’s face. 

Zeke shrugged. “I dunno. I done a lot of stuff. Could be for anything. Ain’t seen my lawyer yet.”

”I’m in here because of a lawyer,” Varistan said with a sigh. “Broke the window to her office.”

”Got any sevens?” Zeke asked. 

“Go fish, Skinny,” Varistan replied smugly. 

Zeke snorted wetly and itched himself. “Bad luck. Breaking a lawyer’s window. You’re gonna need a lawyer for that.”

Varistan sucked on his teeth. “Truly? Well, what’s your lawyer’s name then?”

”Swicegood,” Zeke answered. “Amrice Swicegood. He can get you outta anything, man. Got any diamonds?”

He plucked an ace of diamonds from his cards and handed it over. “Never heard of him, but I’ll keep him in mind. Does he do pro bono work, by chance?”

Zeke’s brow crinkled. “Pro what?”

”Free! Does he ever do work for free?”

Zeke laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, man.” 

Their card game was interrupted by a guard. “Zek’ethril Sunswallow? You got a visitor,” the man said with a very menacing smile. 

Varistan arched a brow, setting his hand down beside him on the thin, stale smelling mattress. He hoped it was that lawyer, Swicegood. Maybe he could plead his case, as it were. 

“Zeke,” said a very low, gruff voice. Varistan heard them before he saw them. Zeke had three visitors, in fact. The one with the low voice was the largest of them and had an eye patch. Beside him was a skinny, pale man in black robes with long black, slick hair. The third man was the smallest and best dressed. He was redheaded, freckled, and in a nice white suit. 

“Hey, Old Dog, didn’t expect to see you here–what gives?” asked Skinny Zeke as he stood up and threw his cards down. Varistan was able to see his cell mate’s hand.

“I came to tell you that I found out what you told Jack Scarletbow and I came here to give you a piece of my mind,” said the big man with the eyepatch. Whatever this argument was about, he didn’t sound very happy.

The guard’s keys jingled as he unlocked their cell. Varistan wisely kept his mouth shut. “You got five minutes, Old Dog,” the guard said. “Long enough for me to go out, have a smoke. Be gone when I get back, yeah?” With that the guard sauntered off. 

Skinny Zeke backed up, holding up placating hands. “Hey…no. I didn’t tell Jack nothing! I swear! C’mon, Old Dog…please!” 

Varistan looked at the three men. None of them looked like good, upstanding citizens to him so he shrank back into his bunk, until his back hit the wall. He noted he caught the dark haired man’s attention. He stared at Varistan with a strange expression. Varistan scowled, certain his horrific scars were the reason for the rude staring. 

The man in the white suit took a step back, grinning, showing off a gold capped tooth. “And I’ve come to tell you to get a new lawyer, Zeke. Old Dog ain’t paying your retainer, I’m afraid.”  Varistan assumed this was Amrice Swicegood, Zeke’s…former…lawyer. 

Zeke looked frantically between the ‘Old Dog’ and the man in the white suit with an open mouth and scared eyes.

“What?!” howled Zeke in surprise. 

The one-eyed ‘Old Dog’ immediately took Zeke into a headlock. Skinny Zeke tried to struggle as the one-eyed man began pummeling him. For a brief moment, there was chaos in the small cell as the two struggled while the other three attempted to press themselves against the wall out of the way.

While this was happening, Veristan felt uncomfortable. The man with the black hair, pale skin, and long robes kept STARING at him. 

Varistan flinched as his cell mate’s blood spattered on his cheek. He recoiled from the whimpering and the dull, wet thuds of the ‘Old Dog’s’ fist making mush of Zeke’s face. It made him a little nauseous and his mouth got the sweats. He looked away, forcing him to look at the freak staring at him. 

“See something interesting?” Varistan hissed to him as the old elf continued to beat Zeke to a pulp. 

“Actually, yes,” said the man with the long dark hair very politely. The fight was finished in a few seconds. Skinny Zeke howled and held his face as he curled up in his cot. The other three– the one eyed brute, the man in the white suit, and the man in black robes began exiting the cell.

“Wait a minute,” said the man in the black robes. He turned his unsettling eyes back to Varistan. “Do you think we can bail him out?” he wondered, asking his companions.

“What, Zeke?” the one eyed brute asked with annoyance. “No, I think not–”

“Not that one,” interrupted the man with black hair. “THAT one,” he said, pointing directly to Varistan as if he were picking out a pet from the store.

Varistan grimaced which pulled his still aching scars taut, but he knew his bail was wholly out of his reach and the court date was weeks away. “Yes. You can bail me out,” he said as he scrambled from his bunk. 

“Lord Varistan Veyne Sunmourne,” he said with a little bow. “At your service.” He gave the dark haired man a crooked grin, but let the expression fall when he felt his scarred cheeks tug uncomfortably. 

When no one said anything fast enough for him, he continued, “If…ah…service is what you have in mind that is. I can pay you back, of course.” He tried not to think of how ugly his face was now. Ruined. Freakish looking. He doubted his ability to charm without his looks. 

The trio paused as Veristan made his introduction. The ugly man that beat the crap out of Skinny Zeke nearly laughed but stopped himself short. The other two, particularly the dark haired man, didn’t even crack a smile.

“I want to paint him,” said the dark haired man finally. “Let's find out how much his bail is,” he continued, completely ignoring the introduction.

“We will figure it out,” said the one in the white suit with red hair. “Good luck, Zeke!” the red haired man hooted with amusement as the three turned away. 

Varistan did NOT want to be painted. He didn’t want to even look at himself in a mirror. But he wanted out of jail more than he didn’t want to be painted so after a moment of sputtering and going red in the face, he swore and trailed after the men. 

“Hey! Wait for me!” Before hurrying after them, he looked over his shoulder. “See you around, Zeke,” he said a little meanly, snickering as he trailed after the trio. 

@daily-writing-challenge

@wranubbin

@chiarosunscar

[lilyofporcelain]

I loved those pieces of Laeynna this week. Seeing a character I think I am acquainted with OOCly realky show more depth is a fun journey.

I feel like this comes up so often where I get to confess that Laeynna as she is in this moment, this growth and evolution of her character was not at all what I had in my books for her. It almost feels like it's as much a surprise to me as it might be to anyone else. I am a heavily adamant believer of organic roleplay and development. I really don't pre-plan things in general unless it's a case where I'm making a character alongside someone else and we have an established storyline that we want to tell together. (I don't have a lot of those and I don't exactly do that often.)

There are, of course, other exceptions to this. All it would take was someone saying they were open to working on a storyline or something like that and I would likely be open to it. (Good example being this introduction of the Light, which was an idea brought to me by Nara, who knew I was struggling in playing Laeynna.)

Laeynna is such... What is she. So much of her story has become unpredictable to me. Maybe that comes from over a decade of me being convinced she was going to have the most absolute horrible end that she could have. Not necessarily because that's how I planned it or because that's what I wanted. I just always assumed that was what would happen.

I haven't expected anything that has happened with her since my return in DF. It's a journey that I'm just as much on as everyone else who is a part of it or witnessing it. Of course I think about how things can grow and proceed, and I think about how I want things to go and proceed, but I know how fluid things often are and can be, and I know I have to remain open-minded to all of those possibilities.

It's been a unique pleasure to write the pieces I have for Laeynna and to see how much more to her there actually is. I think, even as her player, I underestimated her too.

Thank you, @nahisummerhold.

[dailyworldcinema]

btw i always love tagging yall bc you thank us every time it's honestly so ❤️❤️❤️

aww thank you for the kind message! we truly appreciate anyone who tags us in their world cinema creations 💖

[xylaes]

May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

Story Continued From ----> HERE

Xylaes didn’t move right away. He stood there, jaw clenched, arms tense at his sides like they hadn't realized the fight was already over. Not that there’d been a real fight. A punch, a kiss, and then nothing but silence swallowing the room. He blinked slowly and brushed his lower lip with his knuckles where the sharp taste of Ouro and his own blood still lingered. He hadn’t seen that coming, not from him. Maybe he should have.

He let out a breath, heavy and unsure. The air still smelled faintly of him - gunmetal, sweat, alcohol, blood, and the faintest smell of cologne. For a second, Xylaes imagined it clinging to his sheets. He paced a few steps into the room, then stopped short as he flexed his hands. He wanted a drink, badly, the muscle memory of it hit him like a ton of bricks. Something to ground him and to numb him, to blur out the weight pressing at his temples and tightening within his chest. He didn’t keep whiskey here anymore, and wouldn’t let himself have that kind of faith in old comforts. He already knew what was at the end of that rabbit hole.

Instead, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. The space was too quiet and he was too restless. Ouro had looked wrong tonight. Not in the usual way, either. Not just tired or guarded, but cracked open under the surface. Like someone had shaken loose the screws holding him together and he barely noticed. Xylaes had seen that look before, usually in a mirror.

He hadn’t asked probing questions because he knew damn well what it felt like to have someone attempt to peel back your layers without permission. He hated it, so he hadn’t done it to Ouro. But all of the pieces were there, the bruises, the look in his eyes, and the silence.

And still...that kiss.

Xylaes’s fingers traced over his jaw, feeling where the hit had landed. He hadn’t meant to say something that sharp. Or maybe he had, maybe he was testing the edge, the way he always did when things got too close. He could still feel the heat of that moment, Ouro’s knuckles slamming into his face, and then, before he could even retaliate, that mouth on his. All fire and fury and something terrifyingly close to need.

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. Ouro hadn’t planned it, that much was clear. Neither of them had, which made it worse. Xylaes leaned back slowly against the wall, one leg still grounded, the other stretched across the bed like he was halfway to getting up, like he couldn’t quite commit to anything, even now.

He thought, fleetingly, about Pollux. About that time in their lives, two soldiers, forced too close by war and chaos and never asking for more than what the moment could give. No one expected permanence in the field whether it be life or romance, that wasn’t what they were looking for. Yet somewhere in the spaces between, something unspoken had bloomed, and later died with changed circumstances.

They never talked about it. Pollux had found someone else now, a woman who made him smile in ways Xylaes never could, and Xylaes was genuinely happy for him. No jealousy, just this strange ache of something that never had a name, now passed on.

So perhaps that was why Ouro's kiss rattled him more than it should have. Not just because it had been violent, but because it had felt familiar in a way that Xylaes couldn’t pin down. Something echoed in it, something familiar but unfinished.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, jaw set tight. No promises, no meanings, that’s what it had to be. He had spent too many years building walls with his own hands to start tearing them down now, especially not for someone like Ouro. Volatile, closed-off, and impossible to read. The man was a ticking bomb with too much pain in his bones to carry anyone else’s.

And yet, Xylaes had let him in.  Even if just for a moment.

He swallowed hard, then rose slowly to his feet and pulled the curtain shut. The light dimmed and the apartment fell still. No answers were waiting in the silence, just the memory of a kiss that still burned within his mouth, and the shape of a man who never should’ve walked through his door, but had. And somewhere, behind it all, the low, simmering truth that neither of them was going to forget this.

@ouroandar @polluxhale @kharrisdawndancer @daily-writing-challenge

[inistellan]

May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

The scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and incense hung thick in the air as the afternoon light poured in through the tall windows that overlooked the city. Stellan Volanthus stepped quietly into the studio, his long coat shrugged off and hung on a nearby hook. The space was as he remembered: organized chaos, canvases leaned against walls, palettes of muddied color scattered about. His daughter stood at the center of it all, barefoot with brush in hand, her hair pulled up with two old paintbrushes skewered through it like pins.

She didn’t look up when he entered, too focused on the work before her. Her brush was moving in short, precise strokes over a canvas larger than most she’d invited him to see before. From where he stood, he could only make out harsh lines of red and gray.

“You said it was important,” Stellan said after a long beat, voice low so as to not startle her, “so I came.”

“Yes, thank you.” Vixannya’s voice was measured, but there was a charged undertone to it. Her brush paused and she stepped back from the canvas, finally turning toward him. “Do you know what I’ve been working on lately?”

He crossed the room slowly, his boots echoing off the hardwood floor. “Something dark,” he remarked dryly, glancing at the scattered paints and the sharp angular shadows in her latest piece. “Looks like you're angry at someone."

“Not angry, no, curious.” She motioned toward a finished painting covered with a cloth. “I’ve been painting killers, famous ones. Assassins, serial killers, some are dead, some still alive. Some I visited in prison, some agreed to sit for me. The ones who don’t, I don’t show their faces, only the ones who want to be known. I’m calling it ‘Monsters Among Us’.” If there was one thing that Vixannya loved, it was delicately traversing the edge of a sharp blade.

Stellan’s body went still. That gnawing sense deep in his chest tightened, the one that had never quite faded no matter how many names he buried or how many years passed in comfort. He kept his expression unreadable. “You always had an eye for the dark,” Voice quiet but steady.

Vixannya tilted her head. “You’re part of it.”

He studied her for a moment, unsure if she meant that in the abstract, or if she knew. But there it was, already gleaming behind her calm stare, certainty and recognition. “I assume this is where I ask how long you’ve known,” his tone betrayed a small crack of something darker. Not fear, but the memory of what he had always done when others found out.

“I figured it out a while ago. By accident, mostly. I had a vision of my brother’s death while he was playing the part. But don’t worry, I ensured that would not happen to him and his fate has changed.” The details were not necessary, so instead she let his mind wander. “Then it all just fell into place and made perfect sense. I started this painting with him in mind as The Chameleon, but then I stopped.” Her eyes softened. “Because he still is him, and he would never agree to this.”

Stellan exhaled slowly. That part was confirmation, not revelation. He’d always suspected she knew more than she let on, but hearing it spoken out loud shifted something within. “You’ve been keeping a dangerous secret.”

She raised an eyebrow. “From whom? You?”

He almost smiled. “Anyone else who’s ever known didn’t last long. You’re the exception.”

“I know,” she said, unflinching. “And that’s why I waited, I wanted your permission.”

“It is not just my permission you need. I am not the only one to carry the title.”

“Cazmilan would not dare come after me if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyways, I wanted this version to be you. Even if you all do look the same, there are still differences in mannerisms, moods, auras…colors. Things the vast majority would never notice. I do.”

Stellan moved closer to the easel, catching more detail of her rough sketch of him taking shape in shadows and jagged contrast. But no face, just the suggestion of power and presence. A shape-shifting ghost in motion, but his silhouette was unmistakable if you’d ever seen him kill. “You’re not showing my face.” Not that his face always looked the same.

“Of course not, never planned to. You would never give me permission for that, and I don’t quite recall how you looked back then. Just your presence, or lack thereof.”

He deserved that. “Why do it at all?”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next. “Because I want to paint the truth about what runs in our blood, I want to acknowledge the thread that binds us together. It’s not about judgment, it’s lineage. This is a legacy whether we like it or not, and maybe a part of me mourns the fact I was never a part of that particular legacy. I think the world forgets too easily who really moves it. What lurks beneath the names in history. I don’t want to glorify it, just show that monsters don’t always live under beds. You were a large part of that world, and still are in some ways, so I don’t need you to atone, just to sit.”

He was quiet for a long time. His fingers brushed the edge of the stool as he debated. Her voice was calm, but the faith she had in him, the kind that could only come from someone who had seen what he was and decided to love him anyway. That was far more dangerous than any blade. “I’ve seen what runs in our blood in the mirror for decades. I never wanted it to pass to you, never wanted the weight of it on your shoulders. But you’re right, legacy doesn’t ask permission, it just seeps through if no one stops it. If this is how you claim it, not with a knife, but a brush, then fine. I’ll sit. Just don’t pretend I was ever anything more than what I was.”

“A monster. You agree?”

His thoughts drifted back to his father and how ruthlessly he trained him, stripped guilt from flesh and bone, taught him to kill with a clean conscience and disappear just after the final breath was taken. He didn’t regret the things he’d done, regret had no place in a world that rewarded precision and silence. The man he was had not died, he just grew tired of the noise and that’s when he knew it was time to pass the mantle. Still, the restlessness never left. It stirred inside him now, whispering that the work wasn’t over, only paused. “Yes. But I don’t need to be forgiven,” Finally, he sat down on the stool. “And I won’t pretend I regret any of it.”

“I know,” Vixannya murmured, reaching for a brush. “Most monsters don’t.”

He smirked, “Am I still one to you?” 

She dipped the brush in paint and met his eyes with a small smile. “Maybe, but you’re not just a monster, you’re also a man who happens to be my father and I’m trying to paint both. Anyways, sometimes the world needs monsters.” With that, she began to paint.

For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to be still. Not vigilant, not armored, just present. Sitting for a daughter he hadn’t raised but who somehow still believed he was worth painting even after truly seeing him, and maybe that was the part that unsettled him most.

Collab with @vixannya Mentions of @cazmilan and @cazthechameleon @daily-writing-challenge