#warcraft oc story

[witchlightdesigns]

How sensitive are they to their own flaws? (For any muse)

I've done one with a short story for Iseri! That's why it took me such a long time to answer~

She tends to be one who seeks perfection in herself. Because of this she has a struggle with succeeding on things when they pose a challenge. She is also stubborn as hell, and unwilling to give up when she really, probably should. A little pig-headed in her approach there's a reason she has such a great job with being what I've deemed a "Harrier", like a terrier dog but one that persists in the sky. Disrupting enemies both in aerial as well as landbound. These can be strengths, but the level of perfection she holds herself to is where they become flaws that she hasn't been able to reconcile with herself.

I haven't done any story aside from the one for Charlotte in ages, so appreciate the prompt for it! Thank you a ton @thundergodreborn for the ask! Read under the cut about Iseri's sensitivity to her flaws.

Iseri’s brow furrowed, the tips of her claws twitched, and Peri had to suppress a laugh. Her striped clutch-sister was trying, desperately, to focus on the handful of seeds in her palms. To get them to grow… To get them to bloom… To… Anything! Peri made the daring choice and broke her sister's “concentration”.

“You know, the spells don’t work better the more you frown at them, Iseri.” the green dracthyr explained, gently with the frustrated Harrier. “They work better when you remain calm and collected.” 

“I am calm!” Iseri snapped back, attention breaking and hands curling around the delicate seeds to cradle them more protectively. “And I am not frowning! You’re frowning!” 

The attitude from her sister didn’t surprise Peri, Iseri always was sensitive when she couldn’t get her magic right. For all she could tackle the fire and frost of the Red, Black and Blue Flights, the concept of healing through the Green or Bronze just didn’t click with her. Peri sighed, dramatically. “I only frown for fear that you might scare the seeds out of blooming at all with your scowl.” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time she scared something with her scowl.” drawled another familiar voice from behind the pair. The black dracthyr didn’t quite sneer down at his clutchmates, but there was a tone of superiority towards them both. “Your stubbornness is showing through again, Iseri. You must get a handle on that or you will end up either hurting yourself or someone else.”

“I am not being stubborn Volaan, you’re stubborn.” Iseri turned to face her “older” brother, wrinkling her snout up at him in the process. “I’d like to see you do better!”

Chuckling, Volaan shook his head, the chains on his horns making sweet sounds at the motions. “You know you’re still much better than I am when it comes to spellcraft. Both of you are. Don’t be so drake headed, you’ll be able to learn more when you aren’t.” 

“I am not being drake headed Volaan!” Iseri proclaimed, much to the amusement of her siblings. 

“You weren’t even trying Isi.” Peri told her, shaking her head. “Your horns didn’t even sparkle with your magic like they normally do.” 

The red and black dracthyr would stick her tongue out at her clutch-sister, wrinkling her snout at her and snorting. “It’s harder than it looks, alright? I was trying. The magic just… Wouldn’t come to me.”

Volaan would kneel next to the two, and offer to help with the casting, “We can work on it together, if you’re willing to listen to both of us, Isi?”

Snorting again, the smaller of the three nodded her head, ears flat against her skull in her own irritation at not being able to get the magic to work first try. The trio would spend some time working together to help Iseri learn how to work the Green Flight’s magic, but to the young Harrier’s dismay, they would all prove to be made with fruitless effort. 

[lemongrace]

"A gaunt, long face marred by the passing of time even more so than her own, withered and pale, framed by a dark mane of hair that fell all the way past his shoulders. Though one of his eyes blazed with a pale shade of violet, its twin was missing from the socket, the hollow pit encircled by a rune carved into the man’s very flesh– she knew that inscription. She had seen it before. The realisation made the entirety of his visage all too familiar, pushing millennia old memories long buried to the surface.

The memories of her father."

[erikailustra]

In her home in Ashenvale, Caerisia has a small room full of silk threads and webs, that gather moonlight droplets. Using them, she can compare the position of the droplets with the stars in the sky and have some kind of answer to her questions - it is a type of divination magic used by the Druids of the Silk. But the only answer she wants, she doesn't get. Caerisia and Verannor are searching for 3 lost green dragons, but they discover that another person is - for some reason - searching for them too. And not with good intentions. This is leaving her very frustrated, which makes Verannor worried. Caerisia can be very insistent and vindicative when provoked. And not because of the Night Warrior blessing - the elves who decided to carry it, made by their own volition, because it resonated with what they think and feel. She'll do wherever she needs to do to not let these dragons being hurt, which in turn can hurt her instead.

A (kind of failed) sketch which gained context, connected to the story of these two. I only have pieces of that story still, but I'll write in full someday.

[tristayranambrosio]

"Suppress/Pastel" Day 2 - February 19 DWC

(So unexpectedly everyone enjoyed the little peek into the cast around Trist's past, specifically Jezza inspired by one of my old DND partners and his interactions with my table-top bard. So maybe this DWC is just going to be more of their super dysfunctional relationship full of angst and unrequited feelings. Its tragic but beautiful and I hope it remains entertaining!)

I watch my tall brute suppress a smile as his thick weapon callused fingers brush the delicate pastel petals of Palehoof’s latest bouquets that decorate the Cabaret. The moment he notices I’m watching he stiffens and hunches, cutting a glare at me for admiring his secret self… I don’t know why he bothers, I’ve felt first hand who he really is, and no one here after closing would care if he was honest with himself. About me… Sometimes I allow that to itch at me, but then again… that’s not what I am. I promised that I would never let myself feel any sort of entitlement to their secrets, my many Sweethearts and patrons, that’s now what I set out to do… and I had fleetingly considered dropping the topic all together with Jezza given he was after all in the band now, but every time I pulled away, he’d seize me by the arm and pin me in some hidden corner and ravish me with the sort of Reckless abandon that he so vehemently flights to suppress. There’s so much passion in his brutalized soul, and I catch glimpses, fragments of the person he is… He loves the softer touches that answer his brutal ones, the gentle caresses that I follow his violence with. Sometimes I think he hates me, and this is all some outlet to soothe some hurt my people did to his, but then he’ll allow just enough of himself through that I see the admiration, the envy that I am unabashedly myself where he cannot be or thinks he cannot be…

Regardless, his glare never dissuades or intimidates me, if anything it emboldens me because being a ragdoll he can throw against a wall one moment then kiss hard enough to split my lip the next has a certain appeal and catharsis, for both of us… I realize that he’s still glaring and answer it with a smirk so wide it makes his face darken with what to everyone else would seem like outrage… I see it for what it is; He’s flustered, imagining the soft petals in his fingers were my lips given they match my pink… So I part them and wet my lips meaningfully and I pop one of my hips resting a fist against it. His dark magnificent skin flushed red tusks and teeth clenched in a snarl, and wide chest rumbling a growl at me, His jet black locks are still tussled from when I pulled them from their braids giving him this wild rugged handsome flair to his fury, He looks unhinged to the untrained eye… And yet I know he’s barely able to suppress the urge to touch me, and rip me out of my clothes. I belong to no one and everyone and yet I admit, my Drummer doesn’t let me think about belonging to anyone ever… all while never saying anything but holding me so tightly against him that he may as well be the stocks himself, like that could make me his… But that’s not what I am… Instead he lifts me by both arms. Restraint a forgotten courtesy that I’ve lost the ‘privilege’ to… and I live for it. He pulls me behind the Crimson curtains that our venue takes its name from and he palms my jaw as he has his fill of me and me of him… He’ll quit tomorrow, declaring that I’d conned him, tricked him into bed again… He’ll break new drumsticks, put fists through a snare, and before I even manage to fix them he’ll be back… awkwardly offering me a rose wordlessly and sitting to help me mend the damage he’d done on his way out, because that way he doesn't have to leave.

@daily-writing-challenge

[thecozykirin]

DWC Day 2 - Embrace

( Mild warning for the mention of blood! Wanted to do another piece inspired by a recent RP encounter I had during a guild event! )

————————————

@daily-writing-challenge

The copper was thick on Etheline’s tongue.

Metallic, yet sweet.

Yes!

The voice of the beast hissed within her ear, the only thing coherent to her at the moment as the rest of the world was in a blur, cacophonous sounds muffled as though water flooded her ears.

She didn’t want to give in.

Had not wanted to give in.

But she couldn’t lose her family again, not a second time. There were two types of bandits that struck caravans on the road. Those who left witnesses, and those who didn’t. When their eyes had flicked to each other, conveying a silent code Etheline knew it was the latter.

And then they just kept coming.

And coming.

And coming.

And her family started to get hurt.

Rip their throats, suck out their marrow!

Her mental stomach twisted a bit, but her now lupine maw craved the taste. So long as her family was safe she could bare it.

She could embrace it.

Just this once.

[meet-the-far]

I've been quite busy lately but I'm still trying to catch up on these prompts as I go! Prompt 3: Old OC - Krank! He's FAR from being my oldest, but it's been years since I last drew him and he deserves another spotlight. Still got those goblin skills baybee 💪

Prompt list here:

[thetantiger]

Character Insight #13: Cronia

Full Name: Cronia Dolores Wiltflower Gender: Female (she/her) Race: Forsaken Class: Druid Specialization: Death Orientation: Pansexual Relatives: No Known Relatives Age: 47 (26 at death) Height: 5'4 Voice reference: In-game female Forsaken player Theme: Angry Too - Lola Blanc

[BACKSTORY]

Cronia Wiltflower was born in Lordaeron four years before the opening of the Dark Portal. To those knowledgeable, they would understand that this is a very poor timeframe to be born into Azeroth. Cronia was exposed to the horrors of war very early into her life, as the orcs came charging through and clashed with those of her own kind. She was only ten when the Alliance Internment Act was passed, beginning to force orcs into internment camps in which they were abused, mistreated and starved. Cronia was always a rather empathetic soul and did not see the necessity in such acts, and as she grew into a teenager, her anger against these camps began to blossom. The orcish people were just that; a people. People, like her and everyone around her, though there was little she could do. As she grew into a young woman her spite against the Alliance only festered further, and she frequently left the city and her family to spend time in the woods instead, discovering a land her fellow Humans had grown unattached to. She planted flowers here and tended to nature to calm her nerves before returning to her city, where she'd spend any evening free time roaming the streets and spray-painting her disdain for the active internment camps on any surface she could get away with. She was disinterested in most of her society, only really becoming close with a friend that would be later known as the Ringmaster. Regardless, the first two and a half decades of Cronia's life were rather uneventful, except for the orcs escaping and creating a New Horde. She kept her sympathizing sentiments to herself, but truthfully, she was happy they had found a home for themselves outside of the internment camps.

Twenty-two years after the opening of the dark portal, however, is when Cronia's life--or unlife--changed forever. Arthas Menethil and his scourged forces attacked Lordaeron, plaguing the city and its citizens forever. Cronia's parents were not raised into undeath and remained dead under the rubble of the forgotten city. However, their daughter shared a different fate, and awoke as a Forsaken.

The Forsaken united under Dark Lady and former Ranger General Sylvanas Windrunner and took up their home in the sewers of their old city, now dubbed "Undercity." Their former Alliance brethren in neighboring kingdoms of Humans rejected them, calling them hideous monsters of the Scourge. So, they joined the Horde. Cronia admittedly quite liked the Horde much better than the Alliance--they were a collection of misfit races, brought together by their will to survive on this planet, and they were much less uptight, too. The other Forsaken, though.. Cronia still held disdain for from their time as Lordaeronians. So, again, she took to the woods to take breathers from her society, and, even in undeath, rediscovered her deep love for nature.

So, she studied. She studied and studied and worked and worked, and for ten years she sought to overcome her condition's separation from the natural order. What naysayers said was true. One overcome by such a plagued magic, in such a rotten state, could not make flowers bloom. She saw plants wilt before her and wither in her grasp. But she was determined.

And then she heard the news. That an old society deep in the lands of Kul Tiras named the Drust had been rediscovered. Their druidic ways focused on the end of the life cycle. Truly, death was just as essential to an ecosystem as life. So Cronia stopped trying to make flowers bloom. She stopped trying to grow the earth before her, and instead, she reoriented her vision, and surely enough the land responded to her touch. Trees cracked and groaned with age. Shrubs shriveled and died. She accomplished animalistic forms, however they were all decayed and rotting. Her rot would serve to feed the plants that would come after, and she mastered the art of death druidism.

[THOUGHTS]

Cronia is another one of those characters that actually has yet to be on-screen but I super love her concept! She's my rebellious death druid gal and I love her lmao. Hope it was a fun read! <3

[exodus4-12]

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑠....

𝑴𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 (𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏) 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕.

𝐴𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒!

[scourge-lover]

Pancakes

Pancakes were not the fanciest food, but they got the job done. The way Arthas made them, they were buttery crisp on the edges and fluffy on the inside. He created a delicious pile of them for the three kids he had to feed. He had learned how to cook oatmeal decently, but he preferred to make pancakes. 

He took the tray of pancakes into the newly renovated dining room. What used to be one of Arthas’s personal torture chambers and adjacent prison cell were now kitchen and dining room. The silk covered table hid the blood-stained drain in the middle of the floor, and the chains hanging above were convenient to hang lights from. 

Sapphire, Ethan and Chompers were all sitting scattered at the table. One cultist stood in the corner, ready to serve as needed. Sapphire had a bowl in front of her. Ethan already had a box of pastries in front of him. He was just about to bite into a golden pastry decorated with frosting when he saw Arthas. He immediately put down the pastry. Sapphire did not see Arthas until she scooped up a mouthful of Pandaren noodles. She froze briefly, then slurped them up. 

“Uh, we were just-” Ethan started.

Arthas set down the pancakes. “I guess I make pancakes a bit too much.”

Ethan started to put up his treat into the bakery box, but Sapphire stopped him.

“Don’t start feeling bad for him! You didn’t feel bad ordering at the bakery.” 

Ethan ate a bit of his treat, clearly enjoying it. He gave Arthas an apologetic look.

“Sorry, Uncle. But I needed a break from pancakes and military rations. Dalaran is so close!”

Before Arthas became too deflated, Chompers looked up at him with those large eyes and pounded her little paws onto the table. She bared her teeth dangerously. 

“Gimme pancakes!” She demanded. Arthas slid the entire plate over to the tiny little girl. Her eyes widened into saucers. 

“Not only do you get to eat as much as you want, but you can have as much syrup on them as you like.”

He gestured toward the cultist, who went off to get syrup. Chompers did not wait for it, snatching up the top pancake with both paws. She munched it noisily. 

“Pancake!” She said, spitting out wet chunks. Her little tail wagged furiously. She never complained about Arthas’s cooking.

Arthas gave Sapphire and Ethan withering looks. “Chompers is my favorite child today.” 

Sapphire rolled her eyes and slurped more noodles. 

[maxparkhurst]

Prologue

A bell tolled in the distance. It meant a ship docked in the harbor.

The evening tide rolled in, Smelling thickly of brine and electricity. A storm’s birth woven in gossamer threads.

Time felt so meaningless. Arbitrary. Void.  There wasn’t much left; yet, the moment lingered for near an eternity. The cold press of cobblestone warmed only by a steady crimson draught to accompany her through the gradual loss. She drew in a breath.

Where had that dagger of pain gone?

A gasp rattled from her chest, wet and ragged, as the world turned. No. She had turned. Onto her back. Copper-laced bile pooled in her throat. She spat it out onto her chest. The specter at the edge of her vision tensed. He didn’t need to see this.

For a moment, it was dark.    And good.       And quiet.

She found it hard to emerge. To breathe. Her gaze rolled up to the pain written deep in her brother’s brow. He held her close. Tried to shake some warmth back into her. She watched as he sputtered, red-faced and desperate, through tears.

Why did he speak in a silent voice?

She reached up and caressed his cheek. His skin felt as soft as shadows and light as air. A thread-bare smile crossed her lips. Sweet boy. Summer child. She would set the world aflame for him.

But then, it was dark.    And good.       And quiet.

She swallowed a breath. It lodged in her throat, and she could only manage to wheeze. His hand had found hers. He spoke silent, urgent words. She tried to settle him by giving his hand a subtle squeeze.

“I’m sorry.”    ‘I can’t hear you.’

A gentle haze, fringed with blended edges and murky memories, fell over her. Warm and euphoric, it coated her skin in goosed flesh. She did not fight the dark this time; instead, she welcomed it as a long-loved companion.

Time felt meaningless as the last of it bled away.

There was a single thought that existed apart from herself - a memory of sorts- only distinguishable by the colors of Crimson and Gold. Backdropped by the dark between the stars. It was a dance between flame and shadows. Such an abstruse arrangement. Bittersweet but always honest. For shadows never indulged in honey-suckle lies.

She brushed against the memory. And embraced it.

“I’m sorry.”    ‘For not returning.’

She relinquished the memory of seasons since passed. Released it into the night with a departing breath.

Then, all was good. And all was quiet.

As a darling fox finally went still.

[wyldhunt]

my friends keep telling me id really enjoy playing ret pally so i played around in the lightforged cc for one, fell in love immediately, and had to scribble her ✨

[lemongrace]

Mine, all mine

Content Warning: vague corpse description, grave-robbing (whoops!) The ancient stone cracked like ice as the spell that had sealed the tomb came undone, snapping along the lines her fingers had traced over its surface. The destruction brought her no pleasure - hands of a skilled artisan of a bygone era had chiselled an intricate bas-relief into its walls, vines of coiling ivy that choked out the crescent moons they seized; the Venomleaf family’s chosen sigil. The lid shaped into a silhouette of a sleeping elven woman rested on top, her features vague and unidentifiable; subtle enough for tweaks to be applied at the hour of the passing. Now she lay split in half where the stone had ruptured, her solemn visage marred forevermore.

But the dead didn’t so much as stir, and no voice rose to stop her– not even when Eluein pushed the lid aside, the whisper of death and decay not nearly harrowing enough to prevent the Highborne from desecrating the grave. Skeletal fingers still held onto dry blooms woven betwixt them, colour long gone from their petals. An elegant gown of once vivid crimson gently wrapped the remains of the elf laid to rest inside, wisps of dark hair sparsely clinging to the skull. The late Lady Venimeux, reduced to naught but bones and dust.                                                                                                             Canting her head, Eluein regarded the corpse– what was left of it. Though the marble was millennia old, the ward placed upon the sarcophagus sealed it for no longer than a few weeks - yet the body decomposed unnaturally quickly despite its protection, leaving only a skeleton to be found inside. She’d never seen bones so beautiful.

By all means, she deserved to be damned for the mere thought of it - hadn't she caused Idyssa enough grief already? Even in death, the Nightborne had known no peace. But the notion of what they would call her upon her return vanished the moment Eluein slipped the glove off of her hand, exposed digits grasping at the stone. Insults stopped cutting so deeply when the mere utterance of her name fell like a curse from their mouth. Like a graceless feline, starved, Eluein scaled the tomb of her late lover. The damaged lid groaned beneath her weight, threatening to break at any moment, but she cared not for its protestations. The gauntlet-encased arm propped her up while the other, bare and yearning, reached out for the bones within. Following the length of the spine with her fingers, she found it - the misaligned vertebra she had broken out of place, a part of it still stubbornly clinging to the skull. A firm snap of her hand was all it took to free the latter.  The surface of her felt familiar despite the deathly chill that had embraced the remains - the outline of her jaw, the curvature of her cheeks; elegant and timeless, more akin to an art form carved in ivory than just a simple piece of bone. Eluein’s fingertips traced the intricacies of the cranium with a gentle caress, sweeping away the ghastly remains of the Nightborne’s hair. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her. Slipping the hand beneath the skull, Eluein carefully removed it from within the tomb, not once breaking away her gaze from the empty sockets. Unbeknownst to the Highborne, her own features relaxed as she beheld it - frown that seemed permanently seared to her brow softened, thumb brushing against the skeletal cheek to wipe away a non-existent tear. If the ghost of her was watching, it had remained silent. Quiet even when Eluein leaned in, pressing her pallid forehead against the equally bleached skull. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her - not while the other yet lived.

[erikailustra]

The "other side" of the image below. Caerisia has her share of traumas to deal with. From abandonment to rejection and betrayal. She tends to isolate herself when they come to creep into her mind. But she has someone to help her.

These two care and take care a lot of each other

Verannor, to this day, still deals with nightmares from what he suffered. When it happens, it starts to snow and the place he is becomes very cold. Gladly now he has someone to take him out of these painful memories.

--------------------

Despite them being cute and happy in my drawings most of the time, Verannor and Caerisia are my most traumatized OCs. The poor things... ^^'

[tristayranambrosio]

"Flirt/Casualty" Day 1 - February 18 DWC

(This short story is told from the perspective of a former band Mate and how Trist and He met. You know before Trist was all Star-Void-Elfy. Enjoy <3: Note that its a little steamy and about a very tormented Orc who struggled very much with being himself until my Bard stumbled into his life) I nurse the sour ale in my tankard, I despise the flavor and would much prefer the tang of citrus and sweet mixed with some honey wine that I see the softer fellows in this den can be seen enjoying. Not me… no I have to sit and watch as the Crimson Curtain comes to life at the arrival of its star lutist. He is like a feast for my starving eyes, and I imagine if it was his lips I drank from… even this piss-water would taste like bliss. Instead I see him lean over a table and flirt with one of the affluent patrons and my tankard groans in protest under my white knuckled grip. Luckily for me an Orc bitterly suffering through the sorry excuse for a drink and scowling at this brazen display of flamboyant softness isn’t out of place here. In truth I crave the comfort of its magnificent colors, and the beautiful staff… I want to drink their sweet scents, roses and citrus… to bathe in them to bask in the relief it’d be just to live in their embroidered silks, rather than the oppressive Leather plates and spikes the Chief insists I have to wear to attract the attention of some she-orc to bear my sons. I snarl into my tankard and take a long furious gulp and attempt to swallow it with the revolting thought of using some poor female like that… knowing my mind would wander back to the laughing eyes of the Rose scented lead that has started in flirting with a fellow across the bar from me… Seeing how the soft beauty of an elf lightly squeezing the other Mercenary's arm and admiring the build sends my blood on fire and I briefly contemplate making the bastard another casualty of my fuming jealousy… No one else should be allowed to touch my Rose… none of them are good enough… fel neither am I… And yet… I flash back to the bright curtains while he grips them as tightly as I do my tankard. I imagine him screaming my name under my palm as I make him stifle it lest his boss hear what I’m taking from him… I imagine how it’d feel to pull his hair until he was panting and spent just so I could kiss his shoulder and tell him everything. That I’d never wanted someone as badly as I did him… I’d had my share of elven males, loved their tender perfect bodies for the pleasures they were to touch, this one though, he haunted me ever since I heard him sing… play… on Nestor’s old wine stained stage. He laughs again at something the jackass across from me says and I’m out of my Stool and about to storm over and yank my Rose away from this-this-... I halt when the Bard meets my eyes, struck with an overwhelming sense of terror, rage, and desire, with no idea which of those is reflected in my eyes. He’s unafraid, meeting me stare for stare, only in his Light Pink eyes I see… amusement, he’s not intimidated by the growl that I didn’t even realize was escaping me. “Easy, big guy, if you’re looking for a fight I’ll oblige, but Nestor told me you wanted to meet.” He extended a hand smiling… at -me- and I feel my face twist with glee and fury with a focus, that Bastard Busybody Ring-master I will kill him, “I’m Trist’Ayran Ambrosio, a pleasure-”

The way his tongue rolls over the last word has my body at attention and my nostrils flare… my anger at the meddling Cabaret Director temporarily dispelled as I’m being offered a hand I’d imagined on every part of me and I am once again glad that armor and leather doesn’t have much give as a rule and my state isn’t betrayed to be what it was, fixated entirely on this little Rose’s hands… eyes… lips… I grunt and force down my thoughts of how I’d like to hear him speak around parts of me I’ve only ever shared with soft sweet males like him… He waits patiently, his hand held out to what he must see as a brute of few words and even fewer kind ones. I make a show of crossing my arms and sneering at the Cabaret and despite loving every inch of it growl, “Did the Fop? Figures he’d send the Tavern Flirt at me. I’m -not- interested.” My body revolts and rails against my statement, the lie it was… I wasn’t just interested, I was obsessed… I had been for weeks… months… Trist withdrew his hand smoothly as if I’d not just looked at him with the well practiced disdain I leveled all openly true people with, and he smiled, “No one’s twisting your arm, big guy, not that I could… but you play?” I huff and keep my mask on firmly, indifference, disinterest, annoyance… even when within I yearn BURN to feel him -in- my arms… “Drums.”

Trist beams… and my heart slams so hard within my ribs I swear I feel it trying to burst from me into this Bard’s hands, like it was trying to escape, fly to him from the moment I heard his voice, then saw his face… Rose Quartz eyes and the most magnificent Autumn Maple hair that framed his perfect features in waves and curls that smelled like the Roses that haunted my senses ever since. “Well I’d love to see what you’ve got for me, Big Guy, but it’d be nice if you could give me a name… Otherwise you’re just gonna be some generic ‘big guy’ and if you’re joining up… well I’d like to be able to introduce you as you…” Oh what I could show him… what I had for him was a lust so intense it was making my blood power anything but my mind, and again I delayed my reply assailed with the image of showing just what I had for him… and hearing him say my name, “Jezza” My voice is a growl that I hope is intimidating and not giving away where my thoughts had gone… I needed to get a hold of myself… have this damned bard, and then put him from my mind forever. It wasn’t healthy, and if I can’t repress this need… this weakness for him and what he awoke in me, I was never going to be able to face my Tribe. It was not as if I could sire on him… but, Ancestors help me, my body certainly seemed to wanna give that a go with the urge building in me by the moment, not to mention the restless nights that showed my supposed lack of interest or virility with proposed brides was simply a product of them not being this soft bard… Get it over with, get him out of your head… this is not normal. “Jezza.” My breath stopped. My heart seized… say it again… I willed him. “Jezza…” He tasted my name testing the sound on that damnable tongue, “Handsome name for a Handsome Brute.”

He was- “Are you MOCKING me runt?” I nearly roar. “Nah. Just flirting. Lets see what you got.” With that he sauntered up… and tucked a pair of Drumsticks under my belt… and I could swear he did it to glance under the hem of my leathers… but I was too distracted by the proximity… how he somehow smelled even better than I imagined, and how my eyes nearly rolled back in their skull knowing just how close he was to me. It was over too soon. He pulled away and swatted my hip, “You coming?” The bard brandished his lute as he sauntered to the stage tilting his head to the Drum set in the back, but I was almost rooted to the floor. Staring at this brazen… cocky… magnificent -thing- that I was going to -make- mine. I rumble and to myself, “Not yet… but you’ll see to that soon.” I stormed up to the stage all bravado and seething outrage… but I play… and Oh… I bask in the first time my Rose really sees me and feels me in the beat. The novelty will get stale… and my Life will start and I’ll leave all this behind. Maybe after a few more songs. 

@daily-writing-challenge

[thecozykirin]

Day 1 - Casualty

( Husband felt super inspired and decided to lend him my account to write one himself ) ( Trigger Warning for Violence and Death of a child )

@daily-writing-challenge Do you blame yourself?

Yasashi's teeth clenched, fangs bared and reflecting the warm glow of the fire that rose on either side as his hammer caved in the torso of the swarm-born with a crunch that he'd have described as satisfying if he were in a different place. "Hold the line!" His commander yelled from his position. "Protect the archers!" It's just quite common in these situations for someone to feel a kind of guilt...he was your responsibility, wasn't he?

"Yasashi..." Yong Shi Jadespirit, a Pandaren woman of a gentle but stern disposition stumbled towards the armor clad behemoth as he quickly closed the door to the guard tower behind him. They had moved the injured and the acolytes into here, white scarves adorning the necks of cubs no older than thirteen and no younger than nine sat huddled in a corner. Yasashi's eyes swept over them and he froze. "Where's Yuz?" His acolyte was not among them, the brown and cream furred boy's absence immediately sending another spike of adrenaline through his body. "I'm...I'm not sure." Yong Shi bowed her head. "I think he may have slipped out, h-he was here one moment and gone the next." "Slipped out?!" Yasashi's head snapped towards his comrade. "Woman, how does he just slip ou--" Something heavy slammed into the side of the wall and the acolytes lost their nerve, their screams rising into the air. He was a bit on the young side too, wasn't he? Eight when he passed and twelve when he accompanied you to the wall. Such a tragedy, no one could have known they'd swarm so early.

The Mantid that stood over the boy was one of the tallest he had seen. This wasn't one who had been sent here to prove itself to the hive, but rather, some sort of overseer who must have gotten a bit too wistful of the days of its own trial to abstain. Yuz was pinned against the side of the wall by his arm, the pointed tip of one of the mantid's forelimbs cutting through the meat to hold him there while the overseer busied itself eviscerating one of Yasashi's comrades who had attempted to intercept it with its free limbs. Yasashi's eyes darted about, there were too many between himself and Yuz to reach him, but he could see through them just enough that his eyes met with that of his acolyte. And Yuz cried out for him with the same energy of a cub crying out for his father.

I imagine it must have been horrible for you. I've only heard stories of your family's brew. Is it true that the animal blood sends you into a blind rage? I couldn't imagine --

Paternal instinct had won out over logic and Yasashi fumbled for the metal flask that was looped to his belt. It hung heavy in his paw, and once he popped off the cap the scent of thick copper filled the air. Blood surged into his ears as raw and sweet rage filled his veins, leaving a syrupy sweet taste on the back of his tongue that mingled with the flavor of black blood and chitin as he abandoned his civilized weapons in favor of his fangs and claws. The world was red and black, and so too were his paws when he came to, the haze lifting from his eyes like a light shroud, and replaced with cold horror.

Mantid don't bleed red.

But it was just an accident.

Had he done this?

Yasashi?

He hadn't meant to.

Yasashi!

He gathered the broken body of the boy up from the heap that had once been the overseer, shaking him lightly, voice cracking from desperatio-- ----------------------------------- "Yasashi!" Yasashi snapped free from his thoughts with a sharp inhale through his teeth, and his eyes darted to that of his comrade, Kenichi, who had been patching up his knuckles and clipping the split edges of his claws. "Are you okay?" The question was a careful one, Kenichi leaning back in his seat slightly.

Yasashi blinked once, twice, three times before looking away. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine." he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "It was...it was just an accident."

[debaunart]

My World of Warcraft OC Satine Minn’Silaru! She has a very storied history and a special place in my heart c:

A sorcerer turned outlaw, a loyalist turned runaway, she is on a quest to find magic powerful enough to undo the arcane corruption that has destroyed her body and stripped away her ability to have children. Satine has gone down many paths to obtain and learn magics forbidden or otherwise, hurt many in the process. But her sister has never lost faith in her; even if Satine won’t come home, her sister Idrahi will bring her home. By force if necessary.