#novemberdwc2024

[daily-writing-challenge]

DAILY WRITING CHALLENGE 2024 IS BACK!

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO USE THE ACTUAL WORD FOR THIS CHALLENGE, YOU MAY SIMPLY BASE YOUR STORY AROUND ONE OF THESE IDEAS!

Choose one or both words/IDEAS and write a story, drabble, poem, or anything else once a day, every day, for a week!

Tag @daily-writing-challenge so we can reblog your stories.

Write the number day/challenge somewhere on your story.

LIST CONTENT WARNINGS VISIBLY ABOVE STORY! (Use a ‘read more’ line if content gets too graphic.)

Tags that will be used: #novemberdwc2024,  #novemberdayX2024 (X=whatever number day you’re writing for), #yourtumblrurl

There will be no optional challenges for the weekly DWC’s, but please feel free to make up some of your own challenges!

The next writing challenge will be in FEBRUARY 2025 and last one week!

CLICK HERE FOR OTHER IMPORTANT INFORMATION!

Good luck and more importantly, HAVE FUN! Encourage your fellow writers and show them some love and support with likes/reblogs/comments!

We look forward to reading some amazing writing!

((Written word list below the cut))

Day 1 - November 17 Haze, Sexy

Day 2 - November 18 Deceit, Eternal Day 3 - November 19 Morose, Strength

Day 4 - November 20 Surrender, Tranquil Day 5 - November 21 Captive, Skill Day 6 - November 22 Crack, Positive Day 7 - November 23 Peculiar, Theory

[theconstructsworld]

November DWC 2024 Day 4 - Surrender / Tranquil ((Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Raven' has always been a favorite, this is a little spin on it for The Construct!))

Long have I been serving, heeding; while this foreign soul lies pleading, seeking something sacred that it has not ever known before. Thus I worship in his splendor, yearning for a sweet surrender, of merciful affections well permitted in times of yore. Let this wanderer’s fate be freed or take him only to adore. This I desire, and nothing more. 

Now I’m drifting ever farther, losing sight of my departure, not surviving, only thriving in these ceaseless times of war. My path my own to be carefree, treading lightly out to sea, choppy waters were something I had never learned to abhor. I sink to the depths, never glancing upon the tranquil shore. Waiting, hoping, nevermore.

@daily-writing-challenge

[talonoa]

November DWC Day 2 - Eternal

Patience wears thin, but I shall remain diligent. Waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, yet it seems to grow  more distant and dimmer with every passing day.

Further and further pushed back into the eternal darkness. The familiar, enveloping black where the foulest of creatures flourish, unseen and unknown and feared by most.

A place of comfort, A place of advantage. I am not afraid of the dark, it is where I thrive.

@daily-writing-challenge

[fio-renze]

November DWC 2024 Day 1 - Haze/Sexy

Dornogal was gorgeous at night. The firelight flickers of the lanterns strung up in the great trees that grew on the crags in between the boxy homes and buildings contrasted with the street lamps and distant glow of crystals in the Foundation Ward. People milled about at all hours, even this late. Quiet laughter passed below the little balcony of her inn room, enough that it had drawn her out to enjoy the cool air ambiance of the strange city. 

Fiorenze flicked the end of her second cigarette, the bite of the thistle lingered in the back of her throat while she watched the ashes dance on the breeze. Multiple glasses of bourbon at After Dark and hours of dancing on a table with dear friends had left her flushed and uncomfortably warm, but not tired. She braced her arms on the cool, artfully worked stone railing that overlooked the hewn city below and embraced the solitude. 

In the past she would have considered ending the night alone a failure. What was the point of dressing to the nines, flirting and being charming all evening if there was nothing to gain from it? 

The evening, even if she was here alone, hadn’t been a failure in the least. She’d had fun, the performances had been enlightening and engaging, the after party a wonderful time in its own right. Here she was, alone, not minding her own company for once. 

It certainly would’ve been nice to fall into bed with someone familiar, especially after a show as hot as that one had been, but when would that stop being a rebound? And wasn’t it a little unfair to any potential someones familiar to simply be a distraction? 

Perhaps a bit. 

There was no shame in wanting. She wanted to be adored, coveted, desired. Loved, and lusted after. She’d come to terms with all that — and that the future was long and yet unwritten. What was the saying again? Another year older, another year wiser. 

Fiorenze took another long drag and smiled to herself as the subtle glow of dawn began to threaten the dark at the edge of the horizon. A new day, bringing with it endless possibility — what a wonderful thing to behold.

[musee-de-muse]

Anar'alah Belore

DWC November 2024

Day 4: Surrender/Tranquil

OC: Lilliana Whitedawn, Sin'dorei "Felblood"

@daily-writing-challenge

Art Source, Artist

The long, lean blonde rode the path to the Whitedawn estate at a slow trot... closing her eyes, giving Tiberius the reins - old as he was, the faithful charger knew his way home well enough. She could feel the heat of the afternoon sun prickling at her skin, as her leathers grew warm... and for a moment, she let herself simply bask in the sun, drinking in the scent of a garden in bloom – pausing only a moment to enjoy a spot of shade beneath orange and yellow leaves.

That's when she saw it – the crimson strider heading towards her at practically break-neck speed - which could only mean one thing. She swung a leg up and over the massive equine, hopping down to brace herself as the bird came careening towards her.

It still knocked the wind out of her, as the girl practically flung herself from the bird as it came to a halt – throwing her arms around her mother as she slammed into her, the older of the two rocking on her heels. She'd forgotten just how much bigger Caiti was now... no longer a little girl she could pick up in her arms and swing around; no longer climbing all over the couch with her mother, pretending to make Lily walk the plank – she would be a teenager soon. That thought alone made her chest tighten - and as she settled back onto her feet, she squeezed the girl tighter.

“Minn'da!”

The bird was upon her in no time – as was her daughter - the feathered creature having grown just as much as Caitiri had since she'd first received the bird as a gift... and a lesson in responsibility.

Caitiri squirmed, “Alright, alriiiiight -” wriggling her way out of her mother's arms, scrunching her nose up at the woman, “It hasn't been that long...” As if she hadn't been the one to race out to meet her mother, “Can I go back with you to Dornogal?”

And there it was. Lily supposed that, after all, this was not only her fault for bringing Caitiri along to the Dragon Isles, but... this was her daughter, after all... and they were cut from the same cloth. The heavy exhale through her nose was enough to see the preteen's features immediately crinkle in anticipation of the “No” that sound often preceded.

“Caitiri... this isn't like it was in the Dragon Isles. For one... I mean, you know that Eryth is busy – the Dragon Isles might be safe, for now, but we're not his only family – there's much the dragons still need to tend to. And he's really the only person I would trust to watch over you in a place like Dornogal – the only being powerful and trustworthy enough to keep an eye on my most precious treasure, hm?” She flicked the girl's nose, earning a faux-grimace, and a huff as the girl rubs at the spot. “Besides, it's more dangerous, as well. Even if Erythraestrasz were free to spend time with you and I every moment of every day... I still don't know if I would allow it. The things happening out there... not even the main city can truly be considered safe – and it's not peopled and guarded by dragons, either, like last time.”

The girl's crestfallen expression ate at her, as she brushed a strand of brunette hair back behind her daughter's long, slender ear, “I know... the taste of a 'no' on my tongue wounds me, as much as you.” How she hated those words – her own youth was not so far gone as to dull the memory of the ache of hearing such things, herself; no child likes the feeling of being left behind - of not being "enough," yet.

The young Sin'dorei rolls her eyes, however, and turns on a heel - to re-mount her bird – her mother quickly moving to do the same with her own steed, “It's so boring here with Aunt Ci. She's so stuffy, and never lets me do anything fun.”

"You know, what she's teaching you is important... though I admittedly didn't enjoy having to sit around learning most of it, either. Some battles are won by blade, arrow, and spell... and others are won with wit, words, and poise." And a little bit of cheating, if a certain red-haired rogue had instilled anything into the towering blonde during their time together - but that was a lesson that could wait until Caitiri was a little bit older, herself.

By the Light, but it was like her own memory come to life... the brown hair, the sullen expression, and the open complaints about her aunt – it was all too familiar. But at least, with all the years that had passed, Lilliana had made peace with the Aunt who had raised her. She had been a child that Cecily hadn't expected – the woman and the child having lost a brother, and a father, respectively... and neither were prepared for the hardships to come. Cecily had been harsh... even cruel in her expectations and punishments – but she, too, had been lost in grief, with the responsibility of a child thrust upon her that she hadn't asked for – and they had both suffered for their inability, and eventual unwillingness, to work things out.

But they were all the family each other had – and with time, and a concerted effort – they had reconnected, worked through the pains of Lilliana's own childhood... and she could confidently say that she felt safe with entrusting her own daughter to her Aunt "Ci," these days. The woman might be stern, and demanding – but she was no longer a broken woman, tormented with loss, struggling to raise a young child she'd never asked to bear responsibility for.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Typical of a preteen, the frustrated mutter – but she let her daughter have this moment of frustration. To be a child on the cusp of her teen years, denied what seems like the adventure of a lifetime? She could mutter under her breath a bit, as a rebellious little treat.

Lilliana urged her steed forward, to ride alongside her daughter perched upon her bird, and the girl shot her a frustrated look – brows pinched, lips pressed flat - before simply prompting, “Well... tell me about it, at least! It's a brand new place! No one's EVER been there, right? Do the Dwarves really eat rocks? Do they all live in caves? I bet that's why there's so many spiders.”

The sun kissed her leather-clad shoulders anew, as they rode out from under the overhanging branches, closing in on their home, while Lily simply listened – allowing her daughter to chatter, the woman answering the occasional question peppered in along the way - allowing herself to enjoy the tranquility of the moment. This moment that never should have been, with a child she'd never planned for. Caitiri had been an “accident” – the child herself not the mistake, so much as the time spent with the man who had fathered her - but for as much as she had long regretted letting him woo her... the one good thing that that bastard Dayne had ever done, was to leave her this child that made her heart sing – that gave her hope not just for herself, but for a brighter Azeroth, in time.

But first... they had to save Azeroth – and that... that she would not tell her only child - the weight of the world would be her mother's to bear.

[kharrisdawndancer]

DWC Nov 2024 - Day 3 - Morose/Strength - Tinnaire

She folded the paper carefully, intent on the straight lines and getting the proportions correct. The corners of her lips curled up in satisfaction. A tiny pressure applied and the new-made frog hopped once--quite gracelessly--landing on his side with a papery thud. 

Tinnaire laughed out loud; she could relate.

She righted him and got to work on the next critter. A small parade of animals marched at her feet outside her tent in the mercenary camp. It was soothing. Art was always soothing for her.

She tossed the rabbit she’d just made into the campfire. It went up in a burst of glowing embers and ash. Perhaps helped along by a little flash of anger-fueled arcane. She loved fire.

The wind picked up and danced away several of the colorful paper animals, along with a scattering of flowers and paper stars. Tinnaire watched them fly into the sky above the Isle of Dorn, grinning at her newborn constellations disappearing up into the clouds. It was a beautiful night. @daily-writing-challenge

(( Enjoy this pumpkin toadlet. He is so bad at jumping. Which is how I imagine the origami frog to have jumped.))

[dicenne]

November DWC 2024 Day 7 - Peculiar This is a bit of a combination story for @dicenne and @talonoa

Dicenne smiled brightly at the older man, “So what do you think?”

Talonoa crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair as he considered the request. It wasn’t a terrible idea, celebrating Pilgrim’s Bounty here at their camp and inviting family and friends to Dornogal to celebrate with them for a day. Not everyone would have been able to go home anyways, and the city itself was somewhat safe at the moment. No worse than a lot of other major cities, at least. Their mages could portal people directly into the camp as well to avoid having to walk through the entire city to get here. 

Naturally, the safety logistics were at the forefront of his mind, always wanting to ensure his crew was safe and secure. With extra people he would feel extra on edge, but at the same time nothing had happened to them in Dornogal. The city’s perimeter was well guarded and he had become well acquainted with the surrounding mercenary camps. 

Seeing friends and family was always a morale booster, and a lot of the crew would likely appreciate being able to show their loved ones what their work was like. It also meant he would probably have to meet all these people and make pleasant small talk for hours. Not his strong suit, but he respected his crew, and by extension their families, and wanted to show it.

“Fine, but the rest of you get to plan the festivities and you need to keep me updated with every step. I will take care of the extra security needed, but if something comes up between then and now, we’ll need to cancel it.” Talon offered his own smile in return. It may have looked a little peculiar coming from him given he typically presented a blank or slightly vexed expression, but he also tried his best to be friendly and fair with everyone. 

“Thank you, you’ll have a great time, I know it.” Dice departed Talon’s tent with a skip in his step, off to relay the news to the others. 

He would need to get a head count of how many people would be coming, coordinate with their mages to get some portals out at specific meeting points, and suck up to their head chef so he could at least be in charge of the turkeys and other meats (he was very specific about that, after all). They would need extra food and drink, tables, chairs, a large tent, some music, decorations, and much more. It was a lot, but it would be worth it. Luckily, the long-time member of the Succulent Tart had ‘just a little’ experience in planning such events. He wouldn’t have been able to host his usual open house in Ratchet for the holiday for all the strays having nowhere else to go, and this was an excellent alternative. Kara had been wanting to come to Dornogal for a visit and this was the perfect opportunity for her to do so.

@themercenaries @karaamberlight @daily-writing-challenge

[thedescatoires]

November DWC 2024 Day 6 - Crack tw: death, blood

~Years ago~

Ellarielle stared down at the dead body of her husband as a variety of emotions welled up within, but the one that prevailed was horror. There was no doubt in her mind that he was dead, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. She swallowed and looked up to her twin sister, Vienyos, both bloodied, battered, and in shock. 

Arlior Esh’ul was one of those men that was perfectly charming at first: Intelligent, well spoken, confident, and quite wealthy given his noble standing. The Descatoire twins had come from the noble class themselves, although not quite as prominent nor as established as the Esh’uls.  Both Ella and Vie studied vinification and worked at the Twilight Vineyards, although Vie’s real passion was in singing and could often be found doing so in various clubs all over Suramar. It had earned her the nickname ‘The Suramar Siren’ and she had become a sought after addition to any grand soiree. Ellarielle was content with a simpler life. She and Arlior had been a good match, set to carry on the lineage for both families and were, for a very long time, seemingly happy.  Vienyos knew better, and as time passed the signs became more and more apparent, especially after Arlior proclaimed himself a loyalist to Grand Magistrix Elisande when she allied with the Burning Legion. It wasn’t a surprise, the majority of the nobility had done so given they were already awarded and cared little for Suramar’s lower classes. But that was not how the Descatoires were raised, and they had found that their purpose in life was to aid those less fortunate than themselves. They happened to be just in the right place at the right time to do so.

“Wh…why did….what…” What do you even say after watching your sister murder your husband of thousands of years?

“Ella, he was going to -kill- you.” So maybe cracking a meat tenderizer against the back of the skull multiple times was overkill and made things messier than they could have been, but it was the most readily available weapon in reach of Vie. Plus, he was abusing her sister, and likely had been for a while, and she was no longer going to stand for it. Ellarielle was too much of a pacifist to take it into her own hands. “He was hurting you, I couldn’t just–”

“No, no…” Ella rushed over to her side and cupped Vie’s cheeks before pulling her into a tight hug, “You did the right thing. You …you saved me…thank you. There was no other choice.” She wasn’t going to make her sister feel any worse for doing what had to be done despite the currently mixed emotions. This was the man she loved, or had loved, for so long. They had built a comfortable life together, even if she had been sneaking around behind his back as a part of the rebellion. It wasn’t right to let anyone wither when she had access to the very source that would allow that not to happen. Unfortunately, he was too smart and had too many spies to not find out, but she was not prepared for this. She released Vie and wiped the mix of tears and blood from her cheeks, straightening her gown as she looked back down at the dead body, “What do we do?”

They weren’t exactly schooled in how to dispose of a dead body, but surely someone within the rebellion would know and be able to help out. Both women looked at each other and spoke in unison, “Margaux.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[inistellan]

November DWC 2024 Day 5 - Skill

Rumors say if you mark your door with a red stripe, you will beckon The Chameleon to appear the next night. The name of the target is all that he needs, the desires you speak shall always succeed.

Beware thoughts of betrayal, he shall see through your sin, The Chameleon adapts and always blends in. You won’t know his name, you won’t see his face, unless you seek death, stay in his good grace.

The price may be steep, but you will not regret, despite what you see, you are of no threat. The job will be done with much time to spare, The Chameleon’s craft is beyond compare.

Inistellan Volanthus is a man of many skills, the greatest of which is lying. He had been lying to everyone he had ever met ever since he could remember when his father, Lord Fin’endal, told him that he was to become the next Chameleon. The Chameleon was a figure whispered about only in shadows, one of the greatest assassins that seemed to transcend time itself. The Chameleon had been around for millenia, and in some circles anytime anyone of importance died in a suspicious manner, it was assumed to have been the work of the famed assassin. No one knew that there had been multiple versions of The Chameleon, except for the Fin’endal’s since it was, essentially, the family business.

Not that Stellan uses that name anymore. After passing on the title and parting ways with the moniker, it was typical for the retired Chameleon to take on a completely new life. That is exactly what he had done, multiple times in fact. Inistellan Volanthus was the fourth name and face that Cazmilan Fin’endal Senior had chosen, and quite possibly his last.

It had at first been a burden to him, having been taught and molded from a young age that this was to be his life. He ended up resenting his father in the end only to take the older man’s life while still accepting the family title. The world needed and still needs people like The Chameleon, at least in his opinion. Eventually, he grew to enjoy it. He still participated in everything he otherwise would have and held a completely ‘normal’ life outside of his secret life: Marriage, children, friendships, lovers, hobbies, routine. It had always felt as if he were two different people forced inside of one body, but perhaps that was just a part of the ‘family trait’.

Every Chameleon was meant to have a public face of great renown. His father before him had been a notable Magister, and his son who now carries the title is a principal dancer in the Royal Ballet of Silvermoon. Stellan himself was the piano player for the Silvermoon Orchestra during his first life until he ‘died’. That was one skill he still enjoys quite a bit to this day, practicing often on his own grand piano in his humble apartment.

His second life had him see work as a boatswain on an at-the-time well-known pirate ship. Othikess Starfall had always been good with his hands, excellent at carpentry and had a knack for melee combat. The open seas were so peaceful and calming after a lifetime of constant practicing and having to be perfect.

Vethan Sunsong was his third life, a vagabond who had oftentimes volunteered as a farmhand in return for a meal and a bed to sleep in for a night before moving on. Traveling everywhere, he learned about various cultures and struggles all over Azeroth and picked up new languages along the way. A favorite, if not for his desire for the finer things in life.

Every version of himself had taught him a lifetime's worth of skills, bringing him to the man he is today. Inistellan Volanthus was a Farstrider for some time before eventually retiring into mercenary and security work. It isn’t as fast-paced as some of his other lives, but he is getting older now and slowing down is natural. He still surprises many, especially in the sparring ring. It’s difficult to trick a man who had spent his life tricking others, not to mention a man that had been trained at his level. But they will never know.

For now, he is content and comfortable. His children thrive in ways he never did: Cazmilan Junior with his ballet and expertise as the Chameleon, and Vixannya Ana'diel with her macabre art. He has friends, beautiful lovers, a home, wealth, and security. Perhaps Inistellan Volanthus is truly the classy gentleman he was meant to be all along.

@cazthechameleon @cazmilan @vixannya @themercenaries

@daily-writing-challenge

[xylaes]

November DWC 2024 Day 5 - Captive / Skill

Taking leave away from the mercenary camp had been a necessity for everyone, not that Xylaes had a home to go to these days. The fall of Dalaran had destroyed both his place of work and his home, and he hadn’t had a chance to make alternative arrangements yet. Too busy being held captive in Azj-Kahet and then on his personal vendetta and rescue missions. Not that he had the funds to be able to afford a new home, a fact that didn’t seem to bother him. He had been homeless before, this wasn’t anything new and he had friends that would offer him a place to crash if need be.

Xylaes’s son Garren had decided to return to his home in Bel’ameth for a week or two for his own leave, and it felt like a good time for the older man to finally take his own as well. He hadn’t been invited over to Garren’s house, and honestly he didn’t expect it. Everyone needed their time alone and away.

It was difficult to know where to go now. Had he become a void elf? Would he even be welcome in Silvermoon City anymore? He didn’t look like the others with his tanned skin and dirty blond hair. Nor had his eyes turned blue like the majority of the void elves possessed; his now looked as if he were about to commit some major war crimes while laughing maniacally. His voice hadn’t developed the dark echo, nor had his blood turned purple either - except, oddly enough, in that one arm. That foreign, replanted arm taken from someone who had pissed off the House of Constructs in Maldraxxus all those years ago. 

There had been no luck in identifying the previous owner of this arm, there were no fingerprints and even a little bit of blood scrying gave no information, only more questions The runes on the arm weren’t anything he nor any historians of any races had recognized. It wasn’t until Pollux had mentioned that the Shadowlands were likely the afterlife for all planets in all universes that Xylaes had thought, that just maybe, this was from someone not of this world. It made sense, it was the only thing that made sense at this point.

Xylaes was just a wild blend of contradictions now. Void magic, but not a traditional void elf. Now also brimming with magic, but still mostly immune to it. Unpracticed with his new skills, but somehow knowing exactly how to use some of them.

He had some wild times in his life, but this was taking the cake and eating it too. Xylaes didn’t mind it. He was overdue for a shift in his trajectory and maybe this was exactly what he needed. He had been hiding himself away for the comfort of others ever since the change happened; he saw the uneasy looks and hesitation in some of their approaches. Maybe it was time to fully embrace whatever this new path would bring.

Taking out his comm, he typed out a message and sent it away to the one person that had already been helping him down a new path: Ouro An'dar.

‘Hey, I got some leave to take. Need help with anything?’

Mentions: @garrennorassin @polluxhale @ouroandar @daily-writing-challenge

[jacelandon]

November DWC 2024 Day 4 - Tranquil

He had assumed her to be a spirit at first. She wasn’t the first nor would she be the last unfamiliar soul that Jace encountered in these parts; it was common knowledge among the carnies that should you perish on Darkmoon Island, it was difficult, if not impossible, to leave. It wasn’t a frightening sight, nor unusual for the ghosts to gain enough energy and show themselves every now and then, especially during the witching hours. 

She didn’t notice him watching her, nor did she seem to have any qualms about stepping into that dark forest, hand extended in front of herself as if she were being led. Curiosity got the better of Jace and he quietly followed; he was one of the few that had nothing to fear here, and if she were just a spirit, neither should she. He wrapped his arms around his core to aid in keeping the warmth in, the forests could get chilly during the night and despite the thick canopy of trees and foliage, it had always felt colder here than anywhere else on the island. 

Her movements were graceful, almost like those of a trained ballerina, and her opalescent, sheer gown did nothing to shield her against the frigid temperature; not that she seemed to care. When she reached the clearing at the center of the forest, she paused, unblinking. There she stood and stared for what felt like hours at something unseen; light, wavy hair billowing in the breezeless space. It was completely devoid of sound here, almost as if one were inside of an anechoic chamber. The fauna knew to avoid this cursed place, making it all the more unsettling. Jace could hear the sound of his own heart beating and blood circulating through his veins, even with shallow breaths, he could hear his lungs and diaphragm expanding and contracting with each gentle rise and fall.

It was always uncomfortable, but he was mesmerized. 

Eventually she stepped closer to the center of the clearing, arm extending and reaching for something he couldn’t see. With a slight shift of his weight, a branch creaked beneath his boot and the spectral woman startled and stumbled backwards, an expression of horror replacing the previously tranquil one. But she wasn’t looking at him, she was still staring at something unseen to him and suddenly vanished.

Jace stood up straighter and briskly made his way towards the space she had previously occupied, looking around for something, anything. He wasn’t even sure what. 

She was gone.

He made his way back towards his camp with a melody in his head that demanded to be written down: Her theme. Everyone had their own theme, and sometimes it took a while for him to determine what would fit a specific person. However, once he had his empty staff paper in hand, the entire song flowed freely.

~ 1 ½ Years Later ~

Jace sat on the ledge at Fancy Cakes, sipping quietly on his coffee as he watched the other patrons. Indulging in some sweet treats was an excellent way to begin a night of busking, and he tried to make it a habit to come here at least once a month. 

The evening was relatively quieter than usual, but he never minded just chilling and being with others. Deep blue eyes watched as the blonde-haired woman wandered up the steps to give her order to Braedyn, and when she turned around he nearly choked on his coffee. He didn’t give himself away, his poker face had grown too strong throughout the years of working for Silas Darkmoon. It had been well over a year now, but he knew. The theme came back into his mind the moment he saw her face.

This was her. The ‘spirit’ he had seen in the Darkmoon Forest. Alive and in the flesh. How could this be possible?

This references a story you can read ---> HERE

@daily-writing-challenge @karaamberlight

[daily-writing-challenge]

COMING SOON

For more information, please see our FAQ page —> HERE!

It’s our fourth challenge of the year! We’re looking forward to writing with you all again, learning more about your OCs and reading your stories!

See you with a word list soon!

[taricdarkmorn]

November DWC, Day 2 - Eternal

Taric shielded his eyes from the blinding Booty Bay sun. He had missed this, but he also had forgotten how bright and humid this place could get in the afternoon. After spending months mostly underground, it was an understandable shock that he would get used to likely right before having to leave again. Maybe. He was considering staying for longer than intended; surely the crew wouldn’t miss him being there that much.

It felt good to be home, he was excited to share what he had learned with his other fellow alchemists and begin the process of growing all these new plants within his greenhouses. He was also very excited to see Pickles and was certain the cockatiel would have a few unkind words to say to him for being absent for so long. Stepping into his shop, he was about to speak when:

‘ETERNAL DAMNATION UPON YOUR MORTAL SOUL!’  

Taric dropped his pack and blinked, looking towards the angry, ruffled bird that now had his back turned. Wide eyes slowly shifted towards Tizzy, a goblin alchemist and his second in command at the shop. She immediately held up both hands defensively, “I did NOT teach ‘im that, I swear! But s’good to see ya boss man!” 

“You too, Tizzy. I’ve got a lot to share with you all if you wanna call the others in.” He went over to Pickles and did his best to hide his extremely amused expression.That was a new insult, and honestly quite impressive. “I’m sorry for being away for so long, Pickles. Will you forgive me?”

The bird turned his head and squinted, waiting. Taric pulled out a small bag of treats for the cockatiel and dumped some out in his hand. With as dramatic of a sigh as Pickles could muster, he hopped into the open palm, and then up Taric’s arm to his shoulder, giving his neck a nuzzle. 

“Aww, I’ve missed you too, buddy.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[rylandfalkov]

November DWC 2024 Day 1 - Sexy Cowritten with @dicenne

Ryland leaned against the doorway, watching as the other man woke up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The glamours he placed had all disappeared at this point: No more short blond hair, the tattoos had returned, but the muscles were still all his. As sexy as spending the night with Captain Azeroth had been, Ryland always preferred Dicenne.

“Morning, Cap.”

Dicenne startled a bit and looked over, raising both brows, “You’re still here.” 

Ryland was almost never one to stick around the morning after, but he hadn’t seen his friend much lately thanks to both of them being away on mercenary business in Khaz Algar. “Figured we could get breakfast before I had to get back. My treat?”

The incredulous look was evident even in Dice’s profile. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Ryland might have been a mooch, but at least he was a very handsome mooch.

Dicenne looked back towards the empty bed, pulling back the rest of his covers and furrowing his brow, “Did–”

“Yeah, gone. Left early. Took a page out of my book.” Ryland flopped back onto the bed and rolled onto his back to look up at the ceiling. “Fun though, huh? Unexpected.”

Dice shook his head with a grin, “I’m not as young as I used to be. …But yes, fun indeed. It’s been a long few months, and being stuck underground for a lot of it was not as thrilling. Interesting places, interesting people, but I’ve missed the sun, and unexpected fun.”

Ryland watched him from the corner of his gaze, pursing his lips together briefly. “How are you? Are you okay? You’re always asking others, but does anyone ask *you* how you’re handling everything?”

Dice glanced over, quietly considering. “Not many. I’m…” He looked towards the window and furrowed his brows. His, and most everyone else’s go-to was to say ‘fine’ despite the circumstances. Ryland always knew when he was lying, and was anybody really fine right now anyways? “Tired. I feel like I’m doing well with the shop, and with the Tarts, and the mercenary crew, but it just feels all too…cyclical sometimes. Never enough times of peace before we just jump right back into it, it’s exhausting. Then with what happened to Dalaran, who is to say that won’t happen somewhere else? Maybe not the same..” He waves a hand, Ryland knew what he meant. “Already living through bad shit happening to your home more than once, then watching it happen to the homes of others, there’s just never a feeling of safety anymore, is there?”

“You’re right, there’s really not. With all that, it’s hard to even want to settle down, start a family…” Ryland gives his friend a soft smile, he knew him well enough at this point to see the signs.

Again, Dice smiled and shook his head. Not because Ryland was incorrect, but because he wasn’t the first one to call him out on that. “There’s never going to be a good time for that, is there? I guess that’s the thing, you just need to keep on living and moving forward in spite it all.”

“Wise words from a man that should take his own advice.” Ryland flashed one of those oh-so-charming smiles. The one you either want to kiss or to slap.

“Easier said than done.” Dice looked down, “What about you, are *you* okay? How are *you* handling everything?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Time for breakfast now?”

@daily-writing-challenge

[fio-renze]

November 20 Day 4 - Surrender/Tranquil

It was easy to pretend. She'd been pretending her whole life. Fiorenze had been able to let it go a little, of late. There wasn't as much need to pretend in camp, and certainly not on contracts. Sometimes, though, it remained a lifesaver.

Something about Tinnaire saying that she had spent time with Xylaes after she'd seen the target of her own affection with another woman at After Dark sent a lance of… well, it was hard to quantify anymore. Certainly jealousy, with a bit of heartache on the fringes. The actress stepped in to pretend again, blithe and carefree. It certainly wasn't the time or place to shift the spotlight to herself. They were friends. That's all.

Was it surrender to let it pass by without a counter-strike? Acceptance was the final phase of the cycle of grief, and it had been nearly two years since they'd fallen out. Was it going to take an equivalent time to the time that she and Xylaes had spent as whatever-it-was-they-were for it to finally be fine? She was no stranger to being a complete hypocrite, and hadn't she just told Tinnaire that turning it over and over and over again only kept the pain fresh?

She didn't like hurting, and she definitely didn't have the time for that. Who did?

Sometimes it was better to simply choose not to. Sitting in the stifling silence and carefully organized peace in her tent let her pick at those fringes and put a harsh spotlight on them. How many times had she done that now in two years? Far too many to count, well beyond anything actually productive. Instead, she could pick a distraction and hunt it viciously to its end. Refocus the energy.

Camp was, itself, quiet. Less upheaval meant fewer contracts, but there were still some available to sign on to. Sometimes, more rarely than anything, fate threw her a bone. The mail courier who stopped by every few days happened to arrive at the same moment she stepped out from her tent and into the evening air. Most times they walked right on by, her sudden drop in society had precipitated a complete drought of invitations and overt courting.

This time an envelope with a black wax seal was handed to her.

Fiorenze smiled a bit as she read the letter — it was an unexpected kindness, one that shifted the trajectory of her small spiral.

She was going to have to think about what she wanted, and get her new measurements back from her armorer.

@kharrisdawndancer / @xylaes / @twosidedsana @daily-writing-challenge

[musee-de-muse]

Never Again

DWC November 2024

Day 5: Captive/Skill

OC: Rashka Bloodrinker, Orc, Warsong Clan

@daily-writing-challenge

Artist/Source; and some mood music, if you're into that!

The recent 'scuffle' in the Highlands had put her hackles up – because if this seasoned soldier knew anything, it was that humans would always find another reason to fight... and there were more than enough old Orcs with the fires of enmity burning hot in their hearts, as well.

And she was one of them.

But she was no fool, either – she respected the Warchief... and the Council that had sprung up, in the place of one. Peace meant a future where no one that looked like her ever had to pick up an axe, and die before they ever got to live... but she was a realist – and an old one, in a world where not many Orcs ever got the chance to get old.

It was a simple fact - war never changes. Rashka still carried with her the fact that her entire childhood had been stolen by humans - a whole generation of Orcs had lost that time. Her parents had managed to keep her safe from the warlocks, and get through the portal... only to face war on one side, and soldiers on their own furious that children had been brought through the portal -refusing to allow them to stay.

Out of the fire, and into the frying pan.

She'd been forced to watch as a young girl, as her grandmother faded away under the cruel boot of human oppression; she'd had to watch, as her parents couldn't bring themselves to mourn, even, when the elderly woman had simply stopped moving one day. The life had gone out of all of the Orcs, as they drifted listlessly about their enclosures. Even now, at her advanced age, it made the war scout's blood boil – no child should have to see those things... the desecration of her culture, of her elders - of their fierce, and proud spirits. She had been young, in the beginning - understanding... without understanding.

But she had become a woman under the watchful eye of Lordaeron – a woman denied a life, a proper family, knowledge of her culture... no Om'gora – the list of what they had stolen from the Orcs went on. The humans hadn't just won, they had spent years grinding their former enemies into pale, pathetic imitations of “Orcs.”

So it was, when Thrall came, that she had been ready – even if it might have taken a bit longer for those more senior than her to be stirred... she was a young woman in her prime, then. A young woman hungry to take back from those soft, pink hands of her captors what they had stolen from her: life.

In the here and now, Rashka set aside the arrow shaft she'd been working on, satisfied that she could move on to fletching, next, and sighed to herself – she'd been stalking the wilds of Azeroth since she was a child, and the old Orc had learned that more than half the hunt was simply... lying in wait. So she would do what she had always done: prepare. There was plenty of work to be done in Dornogal and its hidden depths, as it stood – and those Arathi rats they'd found scrabbling underground? The ones that made her fingers twitch, and creep for her bow, or her axe... they would be a problem, one day, as well – their “sincerity” lost on her, though she could see how the fanatics had begun to endear themselves to many others.

Thankfully, it had been far too long since Arathi blood had painted her face – so when they looked up from their holy crystal one day, and turned their blades on their former allies? She would be ready – there, again, to defend the Horde from the kingdoms of man until battle finally saw fit to claim her.