#questions for dwc

[dwcmarshalarts]

Did Xever ever tell anyone about the "thigh high incident" or did Ewan threaten him at gun point?

(Figes is such a little guy, I wanna give him hot chocolate and gossip about the weirdest people in the ranks. I bet there's a bunch of rumors about the colonel.)

Hahahahaha xD Xever has his own things to keep under wraps, so he'd probably treat it like "Mutually Assured Humiliation," where the thigh highs would be in his truth nuke stockpile so to speak hahaha. That said, word about it would probably get out eventually.

I'm sure Figes appreciates the appreciation! He's a sociable guy, tho he knows when to keep his mouth shut about stuff if he needs to as well. He's a big fan of hot choco tho!

[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.

[veilosdaigoa]

May DWC 2025 Day 1 - Cruel

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shit.” Veilos couldn’t help the swear that spilled from his lips, immediately following it up with a, “Sorry.”

Kyrisa smirked as she touched his arm, “No, don’t. That was my reaction too. Shit. Indeed.”

They had only been married for about seven years now and planned on at least waiting a couple more decades before having kids of their own. But life does indeed find a way. Veilos smiled in a way that didn’t quite touch his eyes. This was something they wanted, but they had so many other plans that would now need to be set aside. 

He scrubbed his hands down over his face as the Panic began to set in. They only had nine months, no, less than that now, to prepare to bring a new life into this world. This often cruel world that made him question whether bringing in new life would ever be a wise decision. There was never a good time. He had seen some horrible things throughout his time spent in the military. Then there was the question of the military, he was going to retire after a couple decades, but what now? He couldn’t leave her alone if he had to be deployed, but he couldn’t afford to retire, not yet. Could they even afford a baby right now?

“Hey, come back to me.” She cupped his cheeks and set his focus on her. “Don’t go there.” She knew him well enough by this point to clock and know how to pull him out of his spiraling. “I know it’s sooner than we wanted, but we’re having a baby. A piece of you, a piece of me, wrapped into one perfect, tiny person. We will figure it out, we have time.”

Veilos closed his eyes and smiled as he allowed her words to sink in. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right.” She grinned a little wider. “I want to name her Zynia.”

“Her?” Veilos opened his eyes and leaned back with a raised brow.

“I’m not for certain, just a gut feeling. Do you think it’s a good idea? Or maybe it’s too soon? …Or maybe it’s too weird…”

Zynia had been his mother’s wife. The two met in the brothel in which they both worked, and she had always been something of a second mother to him. She helped raise him, protect him, and taught him much about the world. She loved him fiercely, as if he were her own. He had never seen his mother so happy as when they were together. She had, most unfortunately, passed suddenly about two weeks ago. Veilos couldn’t help but to blame himself for not being there when it happened. Maybe he could have brought her back, maybe he could have saved her. He could have done something, and she would still be here. Deep down he knew that were not the case, but he still felt it deeply. A bittersweet smile touched his lips, eyes misting as he tilted his gaze upwards, blinking a few times to stave off the welling emotions.

Kyrisa caught a stray tear with her thumb, directing his attention once more onto her. “It’s just an idea, we don’t have to.”

“No, I think it’s perfect. She’ll be perfect.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[cavelloshatterstar]

DWC Day 6: Negative & Relic

When an artist creates it is a labor, By no means does it compare to the act of giving birth, But it is an effort that gives life and can be painful. Labor itself implies the struggle, the effort, and the ordeal. Creation begs the question always if those labors are worth the cost. In a vacuum with no one to experience that art? Is expression in medium worth the process? Is the conversation begged by the work even a conversation without another? To answer… I would argue that what a blank canvas is to me; Is the first step of a dance. In the Negative space, I see the worlds beyond a captured image, For years and years pages filled with unfinished, unrealized labors of my creation gathered, Unshared, irrelevant, and forgotten, All relics of a time before I had anything to say. All a sketched and discarded history of what I fought with and abandoned. And yet for all my toil and disappointment in those cast off images, They tell a story. Not a narrative anyone can truly follow, There are too many winding studies and chaotic explorations, Experiments dropped in half formed figures or abstract interpretations, Lost shapes and ideas that even I cannot recall the point of… But a story emerges none the less. From coffee stained parchment, Ink and charcoal stained thoughts aborted in their infancy, The unpolished armatures and skeletons of what could have been; but never was, We are all a work in progress, Rough hairy lines and pages rubbed raw from attempts to correct, One perfect gesture but without the catharsis of completion. It is easy to accept all this as failure, That the efforts the labor, the conversation, is in vain, When they never see the journey that came before in those hidden sketchbooks, When you discount the value of that untold story, Life is a messy imperfect experience, We are brought into it screaming and wailing and often in chaos, And far too many are left behind like those artifacts of struggling creation. Left without the means to express the self. Too many of us abandon the journey before it even begins. Too many accept the surrender of ourselves before we even try. Don't allow the labors of creation to destroy the drive to attempt them, Fail a thousand times over to produce the first word, step, stroke, or note… Because even if you can't make yourself known, You left a mark. You took the step. You left something there. Even if no one else sees it, even if no one else understands what you meant, You created something real, because it came from you. The only way one can truly fail to be an artist, is to never try in the first place. Go make something. I promise it is worth the effort.

@daily-writing-challenge

[starforger]

DWC Day 1 - Cruel/Beauty

Turasil lay in her bed, dreary-eyed and fatigued. The night’s sleep did not leave her restful. In fact, it left her full of questions. She pinched her eyes shut, running a hand down her face in frustration. Did she truly agree to that?

She heaved herself upright as she combed her memories of the night prior. My star pupil, my brightest student… those words echoed in her mind. Galarisen Gale, her former mentor, had visited the night before. Or so she thought.

She recalled how he ran his spindly fingers through her hair, how his gentle voice spun old tales of her homeland while she lay languidly in his lap, drifting off to sleep. Why he was there, she couldn’t recall. She couldn’t recall a lot of things, let alone what she agreed to do.

A flush bloomed in her cheeks, and she rubbed it away. Did she ever think of him that way..?

It didn’t matter. In the present, he was nowhere to be found. Whatever visited her the night prior was a figment of her imagination. An illusion mercifully planted in her mind, to placate her. To make her compliant.

She was sick of it. Sick of these manipulations. The truth ever evaded her. 

She would not make the same mistake twice.

@daily-writing-challenge

[ouroandar]

May DWC 2025 Bonus Day - Armor, Snap

Follow-up to this story with @xylaes!

He didn’t even pretend to try to go home. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t care where the path took him, only that it led away from that apartment, from the city, from the heat still clinging to him like shame. Ouro moved past the last gilded spires of Silvermoon without glancing back. The gates were barely manned at this hour, and no one dared question him. He passed under the archway with coat clutched in one hand, bruises settling even deeper into his ribs with every breath.

The air outside was colder, crisper, and less perfumed here. He didn’t follow the road, instead, he slipped through one of the lesser-used trails that wove into the forest beyond the city. It was quieter here where the tall trees bent overhead to form a canopy, shielding the stars in patches. 

There was no destination, just motion until he felt as if he were far enough from whatever those feelings had been. Eventually, he came to a stop near a small rise overlooking the river where he dropped down onto a flat stone at the edge and let the silence take him.

Ouro exhaled roughly through his nose. Everything about tonight had been a mistake. He should’ve stayed away, should’ve kept the pain locked where it belonged, buried under routines and smoke and distance. Instead, he showed up bleeding all over the threshold like some broken thing.

And Xylaes had opened the door.

The problem wasn’t just that he let him in, it was what followed. The words and the weight behind them. The moment when silence stretched too long and Ouro saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, something mirrored. Something a lot like recognition.

He closed his eyes. There were thoughts he couldn’t afford to have, feelings he didn’t trust, a growing pressure under his sternum that didn’t know how to define itself. He wasn’t wired for softness, he never had been. And tonight, whatever that was, it had rattled him. More than the bruises, more than the punch, more than the kiss he hadn’t seen coming, even though he initiated it.

He dragged his fingers over his face. What the fuck was he doing? Ouro didn’t need comfort, and he didn’t believe in healing, it was all a lie that made people soft. At least that was what he had always been taught. People patched themselves up just enough to function and called it recovery, it was bullshit. The world didn’t wait for anyone to get better, it didn’t care if you cracked or snapped in two. All it left you with were brittle repairs and the echo of what used to be whole.

He didn’t know why he'd kissed him, it wasn't a desire or the want for affection. If anything, it was a violent need to feel something that wasn’t the crushing spiral of a negative space, that cavernous pit he walked around every day pretending it wasn’t wide enough to swallow him whole.

Xylaes had just been there. Solid, still, and dangerous in ways Ouro didn’t quite understand. For one flickering moment, Ouro had wanted to demolish the quiet between them, he wanted to tear it down and see what was underneath. Now, all he had was silence again.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and stared at the smoke until his eyes watered from forgetting to blink. The weight in his chest hadn’t moved, the ache stayed sitting in wait behind his ribs like a thing coiled and ready to strike. Tomorrow he would put the armor back on and go back to work, back to the orders, and the calculated distance.

Tonight, he just sat with the quiet.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

[lilyofporcelain]

DWC - 01 June - Bonus: Snap / Armour

Good morning, stars.

Laeynna brought her gaze up to the sky as she closed the apartment door behind her as quietly as she could muster. With a hand in skirts of purple and gold, her other held a few sheets of parchment, quill, ink, and the book that had so recently captured her attention in a way that had seemed effortless. She set her things down first, then herself with a careful shifting of weight and garments.

Lifting her hands, she swept back her long hair and pulled in a breath. For some moments, she leaned her weight into the same hands, fel-fire and peridot gaze fixed on the sky. She certainly did feel like she was walking in some trance, though the morning had told her that she wasn't. With a small smile, the smallest of smiles even, she lived in those moments.

She was certainly a fan of those earlier philosophical thoughts that anchored themselves to her. What a strange thing it was to enjoy thinking in her quiet before the city truly awoke. Laeynna looked forward to more days like that. With the thought in mind, her attention turned onto the parchment sheets in question and pulling one into her lap, using her book as support beneath it, she took quill into hand and began to write.

—-—-—

Ankalei, Did you have a nice time fishing with me that morning? I did. I think it was good. For both of us. Thank you for the conversation. For bolstering my resolve, what little of it I had held. I have thought a lot about the things you said. How fortunate I am to have a sister who cares so much about me and the health of my heart. The health and heart of my person. Perhaps one day, I will find a way to express a similar thing for you, in a way that I feel you most deserve. Until I do, however, know that you, in your way, continue to affect me greatly. I truly do appreciate the time we have been allowed to have together. I think, perhaps, it may be time to consider visiting the estate together. If you wish to. If you are comfortable doing so. It will not be the same as once it was. Neither of us are children, after all, and it is a place filled with those memories. I want to share my special place with you. I want you to see what I am working on. Laeynna

—-—-—

Tinnaire, I had a very nice time in your shop the other day and your company was truly lovely. Thank you for sharing your space with me, letting me look around, and being so hospitable. Thank you, most of all, for the conversation and your presence. I wanted you to know that just speaking with you, being around you, seeing you as you are, very much inspired me. I went to speak with Master Dai'goa, in hopes of finding some direction. Truthfully, the notion of doing so was a terrifying one, but there were things you said to me that day that I cannot stop hearing. That I cannot stop thinking about. Thank you, again. I hope that one day, I may be able to provide as comforting a presence as you were, and have been for me. You ought to tell me what your favourite wine is. The next time we get together, I should like to bring it. Laeynna

—-—-—

Master Dai'goa, I wanted you to know that I appreciated your time at the Shielded Mind. Your patience. Your understanding. Your compassion. I know that these are likely anticipated traits for those who work within your field, so perhaps to you, it was merely a bit like doing work. Thank you for it. For your insight on the notion of the Light and one's wielding of it, I am grateful for that as well. I still find it a challenging concept to understand, but I am beginning to think that mayhaps it manifests into something very different for each person examining it. I think, perhaps, I will be ready for our heart-to-heart. Or perhaps, merely my heart to another, as sometimes these things can be. I still worry terribly that I may burden you in a way I would not wish to burden one I would call of import to me, but I seek to overcome that. I seek to overcome this cowardly grace I wear. This coming week, if that should be agreeable to you. An evening of your choosing. These days, I largely do not have matters claiming specific parts of my time. There is nothing that I cannot readjust. I look forward to seeing you once again. Laeynna

—-—-—

As she studied each letter for mere moments at a time, she realised that on any other day that felt ordinary, she would have second-guessed herself. How she'd written. If she had been too honest, too sentimental, too open. Their people, in general, had been through so much that it was, perhaps, normal to doubt the sincerity of others. It dawned on her that she was not overwhelmed with the concern that any of the three might have perceived her as suspicious.

For once.

Laeynna Emberflame could only be Laeynna Emberflame, and she was a woman far too tired of the habits of old, those masquerades of one's self. In this, she too wanted the ability to share herself as she was. Not with one or two select individuals, but with all people who had and would come to know her.

With a hand pressed atop her heart, she realised she still felt like she was at peace. Her smile, small as it was, grew then as she carefully folded each sheet after ensuring it was dry and the dark ink would not run or otherwise be disturbed. Around each, she tied a thin string of neat twine. Then rising from the steps that led to the apartment she had hesitated once to consider 'home' she cast it a gentle and fond look over her shoulder before descending the rest of the stairs to send her letters on their way.

Good morning, stars. How lovely it is to see you.

— @daily-writing-challenge

(Mentions for @kharrisdawndancer and @veilosdaigoa.)

[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

[theconstructsworld]

May DWC 2025 Day 7 - Infinite

Warnings: Blood, death, abuse

As the evening bled into the horizon, bloated and waiting storm clouds loomed, mottling the sky like old bruises. Fog crept along the forest's edges while the trees watched on, motionless as tombstones, and an unnatural silence descended. Nestled where the earth sagged in a forgotten hollow stood a cottage that looked as though it had been gently reclaimed by the land. Its roof slumped under the weight of moss, and vines coiled up around the stones. From the crooked stone chimney, smoke curled lazily into the dusk air. One window glowed with amber light, casting the shape of a chair’s back or perhaps that of a figure just out of sight. 

C's pale face was partially illuminated by the fading light as he stood just past the treeline, motionless as a statue. He listened silently while the wind pulled at the hem of his long, black coat. Inside, there were sobs, pleas, and the ragged breathing brought on by sorrow. His curious eyes grew sharper, and he cocked his head slightly before moving. 

The door did not creak when he entered, it simply opened as if it had been waiting for him. Inside, the coppery, sharp scent of familiarity was immediate. The room was dim, lit only by a single oil lantern that sat flickering atop a small kitchen table. Shadows seemed to seep into every corner of the space, and in the center of it all, illuminated by the soft glow, was a man on his knees.

He was cradling a woman. His wife, perhaps. Her body hung limply in his arms, head lolled to one side and skin already losing its warmth and luster. A streak of almost dried blood splattered across her temple and forehead, and her shirt was soaked dark with even more. The man was weeping with a kind of animalistic desperation, his voice trembling with shock and unbearable grief.

“Please…someone help me,” he whispered to no one, rocking her slowly. “I didn’t…I can’t…this can’t happen.”

C didn’t announce his entrance. He merely stepped forward, each footfall unnaturally quiet despite the old wooden floor beneath him. He stopped a few paces away and regarded the couple with an expression of detached interest as those eyes of frozen moonlight shimmered in the lantern’s glow.

The husband didn’t startle, nor did he question the sudden presence of a stranger in their home. It was as if some part of him had expected this. “Who, who are you?” he gasped. “Please, my wife, she’s gone..please help...I do-” His words warped into something incoherence as the tears overtook him again.

C lingered a moment longer before speaking. “She is not quite gone.”

Eyes wide, the man blinked. He looked down at the woman’s pale, death-twisted face. “Wh-what do you mean?”

With effortless grace, C lowered himself next to her and then reached out to gently brush a strand of hair that was matted with blood away from her cheek. Something flickered faintly across his face, fascination rather than sympathy or fondness. “She is hovering, just beyond, caught between this world and the next. I can retrieve her.”

The man's grip tightened on her. "You're able to bring her back?"

C’s head tilted again, his expression almost serene. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the trembling of the man’s breath.

“But,” C added, voice quiet and sure, “there is a cost.”

“I’ll pay it,” the man said too quickly. “Anything. Please, bring her back.”

He held the man’s gaze a moment longer, absorbing the delicate shifts in expression that played across his features, and then he returned his focus back to the woman. He placed two fingers against her sternum, just over where her heart used to beat, and closed his eyes. Instead of speaking in a voice meant for mortal ears, he whispered in a language fashioned from violent edges, each word carrying a weight of intent that hung heavy in the stillness. The air thickened, the lantern’s flame flickered low, and the shadows crept closer, folding the room inward as if the walls themselves were drawing a deep breath.  Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a low groan stirred. An ancient sound awakened from its slumber.

Her body twitched.

The husband let out a cry and nearly dropped her as her chest hitched violently. Her unfocused eyes fluttered open and then landed on the man holding her. Instead of screaming, she sat up gradually, as if instinct had taken precedence over thought. She flexed her fingers and looked past her husband to the man crouching next to them in the tailored black suit.

C rose to his feet. “I kept my word,” he smoothed the wrinkles from his sleeves. “She is yours, again.”

She looked back at her husband. Her expression wavered between bewilderment and recognition, followed by a slow, creeping dread. "You," she inhaled. "What's causing your tears?"

The husband was already shaking his head, reaching for her. “I was so scared. I thought I lost you…I couldn’t bear it.”

C interrupted with a soothing, smooth tone, "You should tell her."

The man froze, opening and closing his mouth. Not in confusion, but in being suddenly seen.

“She deserves to know,” C continued, his smile faint, his tone almost warm. “After all, it was your hand that did this to her.”

Silence.

The woman recoiled, her eyes widening. “You?” 

Reaching again, the man stammered. “No!! It wasn’t...I didn’t mean... It was an accident…I lost control..and…”

C stepped back toward the doorway, his pale eyes shining beneath his dark lashes. “You asked for life and I gave it, but I left behind a gift.” He turned to the woman, whose hands were now clenched into trembling fists. “I gave you the means to decide what happens next.” There was no rage or condemnation in his voice, just a simple, immutable truth. He smiled, one he had practiced many times in the mirror, and lately, it had begun to feel almost natural. Then he was gone.

In the shadows of the cottage, the husband fell to his knees once more as the resurrected wife looked down at her bloodstained hands. Behind her gaze there was something new, something inherited, something infinite.  She rose cautiously, testing the feel and strength of a body reborn, then moved deliberately. While the tremble in her fingers faded, she could still feel the ache and echo of death pulsing faintly in her bones. Her skin was cold, but her mind was clearer than it had ever been.

He was sobbing once more. Crawling, tears slicing through the dirt on his cheeks as he reached for the hem of her dress like a man pleading at an altar. "Please," he muttered repeatedly. “Forgive me. I wasn’t myself. I was angry. I lost control. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t mean to–”

Whatever warmth she had once felt for him was quickly evaporating as she looked down upon him. Something unfamiliar had taken its place. Not retaliation or hatred, but something far more profound. A justice not bound by laws or gods, but born of the quiet rage that comes with clarity. A gift from the man in the suit. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the fire iron C had conveniently nudged ever so slightly closer before he departed.

Outside the walls, the fog lay still and the forest kept its watchful silence. Somewhere beyond the mortal coil, a figure in black leaned against the veil between realms, gazing through the chaos with eyes that glowed like frozen galaxies. He did not smile again, but there was a softness in the way he tilted his head as if pleased. Not because of the death that would follow, or even the justice.

But because she had chosen it. Because she had become something more. Because C was learning, even now, how to create his own stories, and how to end them.

@daily-writing-challenge

[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

[sirdolraan]

Looking into the Abyss

((DWC May 2025, Day 1, Cruel/Beauty, @daily-writing-challenge CW: None ))

"I just don't get it," Lorellai mused, tapping her pen on the paper where she was writing her journal.

"Don't get what, exactly?- 90, 91-" Spiru asked, not breaking pace with her sit-ups on the floor behind Lorellai's chair in their shared room.

"The old gods. The Void. They claim to be all possibilities, all truths. So why be cruel?"

That almost gave Spiru pause, but she resumed before losing count. "A peculiar question. Perhaps- 92, 93- cruelty is a part of their nature?"

"Maybe, but some might argue cruelty is party of many people's nature, and yet we can overcome it. But Xal'atath, and the old gods, they hurt people even when it would be easier to get what they wanted if they didn't! Xal'atath might have been able to help the nerubians actually win if she'd wanted to, but in the end she just used them as a distraction, and discarded them. Then again with Gallywix. I don't get why the dedication to being a jerk when it's causing her to fail."

"I think- 94, 95- that attempting to understand the methods and goals of the void- 96, 97- is what drives many people in history to madness," Spiru said. "Perhaps this is not a productive line of questioning?"

"Ach, you're probably right. Still, maybe a little understanding might be good, if only to make sure we can stop her.

Spiru kipped up after her hundredth sit-up, and laid a friendly hand on Lorellai's. "You are a good soul. Please don't spend too long looking into the abyss, I'd hate for it to look back, so to say."

Lorellai rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Now you sound like uncle Dolraan. I suppose you can't both be wrong though. I promise not to try and divine any void secrets without one of you present."

"Very good. Now, I do believe it is your turn for your daily exercises. I shall spot you." Spiru replied, smiling as Lorellai groaned but obediently got out of her seat to comply with her roommate's request.

[dwcmarshalarts]

How does it feel knowing you have the devastating power of making people cry with just an image of silly animals

Solidarity

[grueviolette]

Moss Armor.

May DWC 2025 Bonus Day - Snap/Armor

Mei stares at her quilen Guo, longingly. He's not normally this green, is he? How long has it been since she washed him? Questions pile up in her mind, frustration follows.

Right. No more thinking. Mei takes action. She grabs Guo and lifts him like a sack of potatoes into a small courtyard with a fountain. It's the perfect place to wash him.

But first, she has to tie him up. If she leaves him, Guo won't stay still. He'll wander right and left, even sprawl in a mud puddle. Mei is still mentally thanking the former monument restorer for advising her on what to use to clean the stone. It was a great help.

Of course, she attracts a few glances from curious passers-by. Quilen aren't exactly common. And even less so, a quilen that's friendly. Mei is well aware of this.

She washes him quickly and meticulously, using a hoof pick to remove the moss that had grown in the cracks. This has the effect of making him squirm on the spot, from one paw to the other, as if she were tickling him. The rest can easily be removed with a brush and soap.

To finish it off, she polishes him with a cloth. As soon as she loosens him, Guo dashes straight for a big mud cliff to spread out like a seal. It's a shame Mei couldn't stop him in time. Now she has to start all over again.

@daily-writing-challenge

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Threads of Gold

DWC May 2025

Day Five: Faith/Restless

TW/CW: vampire shenanigans, mention of past self harm

for context, this bit of role play is referenced in this short story: https://www.tumblr.com/lillandyrshadowglade/783498314003906560/blessings-in-disguise

Aronsen asked if she had no faith in him when she refused to return his memories. 

She pulled back, face streaked with tears. *His* tears were a horror and she frantically wiped them from his cheeks. “Faith? No,” She murmured. “Faith is too tepid a word. Belief,” she told him. 

Then she smiled a little because he was beautiful to her. And she knew what she must do. She understood. “I will…give the memories back,” she said slowly, though it hurt. It was a loss of control, but when she realized she didn’t need the control, she could let go. 

“I will…but you must know now that nothing is hidden from me. I will ache for you. Cry for you. But…I’m glad to, Aronsen. Don’t hurt yourself again,” she said, her voice a sharp command. 

“But first…I will tell you about the memories. So that when I give them back to you, it won’t be a shock. And we will carry them together. This…thing I did that brought our minds together,” she said, her gaze drifting over his face. She liked his eyes the best. That’s where the goodness of him was always peeking through in threads of gold. The shattered bits of his soul shining there for her. 

“This thing I did,” she repeated, “is a treasure that we must pay for. I can’t pay for it alone…can I?” She asked softly, a little bemused. 

She drew in a soft breath. “No matter what happens, Aronsen…we have this.”

Forever meant something different to Anya. It was not romantic. Forever was not beyond her ambition. It was no insurmountable obstacle. It was a puzzle to be picked open and laid bare. Every question had an answer. Forever did not look like some gauzy stretched out moment. It was a cold, empty horror and that would be hers too. Whatever form it took. 

Slowly, softly, she told him of his memories and spared no detail. There was no pity in her voice, because they shared this terrible thing and they carried it together. As she spoke, she neatly stitched the memory back into his brain in little, digestible pieces. She paused in the telling to promise other things. Terrible and beautiful alike. 

Anya told him she was grateful to have seen it. Just as she was glad he saw her own terrible moments. Her own agonies. She told him to speak no more nonsense of what a man should or should not do. In their minds they were genderless forms and such things simply did not apply to them. They were monsters and what a man should do and be? Didn’t apply. They were revenge and rage and terrible love. 

She gave him the gift of shadow slyly under the screaming noise of the returned memories. Not all of what she knew. Not because she wanted to keep it from him, but because it was not what he needed. It would unbalance them. She gave him enough that she would *NEVER* be able to best him. She gave him a defense against herself. Because he would need it. And if anything or anyone were to destroy her, she thought it should be him. 

What she felt was beyond trust. She did not question his motives because she knew and felt them and it was so strange…because while hers didn’t align perfectly, they ran alongside his. If she lost herself, she knew he would pull her back again..to ruin or redemption. It didn’t matter. The Curse would always tip the scales even. 

She told him it no longer frightened or angered her that he saw everything. Even that? Wasn’t enough now. Because nothing was *enough* for Anya. 

“You’ll know all of me before this leads to the inevitable,” she told him. “And I will know all of you.” It sounded like a threat and promise and doomed prophecy falling from sweet, smiling lips. 

She delivered the last of his memories with a kiss. It wasn’t passionate or rough. She was finally able to be gentle like she wanted to. Anya let it linger even though their lips were still. She breathed in his breath, like the chill wind spilling over a grave. 

If she could have consumed him, she would have. 

Anya was most certainly capable of love as it turned out. But it didn’t make her good. It didn’t stop the wanting and the rage. It fed those things. Things that quivered in the dark of her mind, restless, grew strong and unashamed. Love did not wash her clean, it dragged her down into this crypt under a wicked castle and covered her in the blood and guts of herself. It was good. 

She pulled back, her smile soft and so terribly wicked. Anya tugged up her sleeve and pressed her wrist to his mouth. “Now taste,” she hissed. “And know this part of me too.”

Whatever fear or horror she had at the state of him was gone. They were the *same*. He was a good soul trapped in a monster and she was a monster trapped in beautiful flesh. Together, she hoped they ruined the world. 

@wraaronsen

@daily-writing-challenge

[dadrunkwriting]

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[starforger]

DWC Day 2 - Placate/Graceful

“You can have whatever’s on the other side of that door. Just open it.”

Turasil was growing impatient. She was so close to an answer, she could taste it. And yet, as she had come to expect, Eclipse would not cooperate. The succubus eyed her nails idly, pursing her lips in a look of boredom.

“Mm… not interested.”

Water dripped from the ceiling of the highborne ruin, dew collected from ages past, eroding the stone walls and collecting into a bubbling pool in the basin below. A large, stone door stood in her path like a sentinel, with no obvious means of entry on its face. Turasil sighed- she was running out of options- but she knew, if nothing else, she must uncover the mystery of that place, and the answers she sought laid on the other side of that door. She was back there, retracing this memory for a reason, wasn’t she? 

Even if it did feel like she was experiencing this for the first time...

“Wait, whatever’s on the other side?”

Eclipse’s voice stirred her from the mire of her thoughts. She looked at the succubus and nodded, resolved.

“Yes.”

Eclipse grinned, and approached her. Holding up a hand, she splayed out three fingers.

“Three. You may ask me three questions, and I will answer them- with honesty- to the best of my abilities.”

Turasil frowned. What did this have to do with opening the door? And yet, it was rare for Eclipse to be so cooperative, even if she did have a sinking feeling about the bargain she had just struck.

She considered her options carefully, combing her memories with regards to the ruin they now found themselves in. Mentally, she retraced her steps down those winding corridors, over the old, dark, mysterious stains that coated the floor, across the stagnant water basin in the central chamber. Carefully, she moved back around the skeletal remains strewn along the ground, past the discarded sword she had found, its make both familiar and not. She passed the statues, guardians or watchers of that place, now broken and defunct. She entered the final chamber, gliding over the shards of glass upon the ground, strewn about as though they had been burst apart by a blast. And finally, into the opened coffer that awaited her at the end…

There, she found her first question. “What was in that coffer?”

“Ah, straight to the point, are we? Then I shall be the same. You were.”

Confusion. Was Eclipse trying to get by on a technicality, or was the truth really that simple?

“The stains... that was blood, wasn't it? Who died down here?”

Eclipse shrugged nonchalantly. “Lots of people did.”

Turasil grimaced as she remembered those stains. They had traced a sort of jagged pathway down to the bottom chamber. The bones she had found did not bring her peace, either.

Just before the coffer, she remembered a wide stain amidst the shards of glass, like a splatter of blood, as though someone had been slain in quite a spectacular fashion.

“Did I… kill someone?”

“How very vague. Is that your third question?”

Turasil looked up, glaring at the demon. The subtle glow of the door resonated at the corner of her vision, and she turned her head to gaze up at it. 

“No… just- how do I get this open?”

“The same way you opened the first door.”

The first door? At the entrance? How did she open that door..?

“How did I..? How did we get here?”

“I brought you here, remember?” Eclipse chuffed, returning to her idle examination of herself. “You look disappointed. I never said I was omniscient. I just know what you know- and not what you don’t.”

Turasil sighed, feeling her defeat for the time being. She had long known the fruitlessness of trying to recall a memory that was no longer there. She had even grown accustomed to this sensation, the feeling of so many holes in her psyche, where her precious memories of eld had fallen through. If they were gone forever, she could not know.

As of that moment, she had but one clue that would lead her forward. Upon the entry door was an inscription, and some time ago had she taken a rubbing of it- for posterity’s sake. But she had not kept it with her- it was sealed in a coffer above her fireplace. Turasil cursed herself for her forgetfulness- for what good it would do.

“Take us back. I can do no good here as I am now.”

“If that’s what you want.”

As the succubus opened a portal, Turasil combed her recent memories. The trails of blood, the bones, the old sword… the shattered glass as though something had burst, the stain, the open chest in which she was ‘found’… the nagging feeling that she had done something she’d regret…

She shoved it aside, grit her teeth, and stepped through the portal.

@daily-writing-challenge