windsongwrite – Tyleril Silversword

Bitter: The Painter’s Quarterly

Part 1 (Mildly nsfw)

(NSFW for some gore below the keep reading line.)

Dawnfeather declined to let me walk him home.

They hadn’t been involved in a long time but when Dawnfeather had lost his arm to Keeland’s diseased blood he’d revealed he was an empath. He could sense her guilt, even if he was unaware of the source. He’d seemed to melt into the shadows and within moments his presence vanished. The important thing, i tried to tell myself as I snuck out into the ally once more, was that I have a little over a day to find the killer before Silvermoon took action.

What was unexpected however, was the shadowy whisper that spoke into her ear. ‘You were wrong about the killings. There’s been several that took place in the Ghostlands. All ‘animal attacks’- torn apart and eaten. The most recent murder took place in the Court of the Sun.’

‘Several? And we weren’t told? Several killings didn’t make it into the reports that go to the city?” As Dawnfeather’s whisper finished she turned a hard left and wrapped her illusion around her, striding down the street. It was the same illusion she had grown so fond of during the Solidarity festival. The guide of a Magister with shoulders a touch to wide and average height. The red clothing remained the same but the face beneath the cloak, the hair, the hands- it all changed subtly as she moved. Blond hair became orange, and then changed to red in moments. It changed just enough to make someone question what they’d seen if they were following her, giving no hint to Windsong’s true identity beneath the illusion.

‘The Painter’s Quarterly’.

“Didn’t it get destroyed in the Festival?” The Painter’s Quarterly had been a popular art gallery for artists of the magical inclination. It had held works of art that were beautiful. Sculptures made of Light, mirrors that showed something about the one gazing inside it, marble sculpted so perfectly you could see the stone cloth as it it were truly real. In the chaos of the riots the second and third stories had burned and it had been declared unsafe. After the mess of the riots the students had begun to collect funds to repair it slowly.

Outside of the building a magical [Do not enter-CONDEMMED] sign was displayed on a shimmering barrier to keep out civilians and eager looters. Without glancing at the barrier I walked through, ignoring the feeling of the magic pressing against her until it just…vanished and I walked through the barrier. Being a Courtly Investigator had its perks- my hand pressed against the silver-wrought spider that hung from my necklace. Very few ‘official’ barriers and other magic in Quel’thalas would deny her entry as long as I had the spider. It had been made for me so I could do my duties unhindered.

Looking around the dusty and broken remains of the first floor I felt a feeling of warning making my shoulderblades itch. Several ruined paintings lay on the floor, light sculptures dim and flickering. Mechanical inventions fueled by mana struggled to work, seems like they weren’t able to be shut off. The workers that had come to start repairing and restoring the building had left buckets, cloth sheets, and several small arcane golems there.

‘Song, you’re stepping in blood’ Dawnfeather chided in her ear. “I don’t like how you’re doing that.” I complained to him as I stepped back. A lot of blood. Too much. I stepped back. It started where she had stood and looking as it it had spilled out across the room. “That’s to much for one elf.” There were three piles of what had once been elves. Piles of meat, torn cloth, and – ‘Arcane art supplies. We had guessed that some of the students had returned and tried to work on their own.’

“Are you inside my head?”

‘Yes.’

“Get out.” Now that i’d seen the blood and meat piles my stomach threatened to make me puke. I moved to the closest body, keeping away from the blood. "Tall arcane student… he had long hair once.” It had been removed. The student was curled up in a ball, arms over his head and attempting to cover his abdomen. Something had a field day with the student, had torn as much of it away as it could. his nose was gone, lips torn to the point I could see his bloodstained teeth. “…It sapped his mana.” I hadn’t seen a withered in a long time but I recognized the signs of withering.

Moving to the other pile of meat she found similar signs of withering, more claw marks. This student had short spikey hair in life, defense wounds on their forearms. They’d been gutted and she could see their innards. Thrown on top of the closest marble statue. ‘Don’t vomit on the evidence’ Dawnfeather’s voice whispered as the sickly rotting garbage sewer stench of death from the insides made her dry heave. “You didn’t come here because you didn’t want to do this.” I accused, pointing a finger at the doorway. Dawnfeather’s amusement rose up from somewhere in her mind. ‘Yes.’ “Gods, I hate you.” Somewhere Dawnfeather was chuckling. He was in the forefront of her mind, giving her some privacy. The inside that decorated the statue had clearly been placed with care. The elven maiden the statue was modeled after showed no signs of disgust at the flesh ornamentation. “Looks like they gave the statue a new dress.”

The remaining student was the luckiest of them all. Their neck was at an unnatural angle. They had been gutted as well but I only saw one set of innards decorating the place. They hadn’t bled as much as the others, the pool of blood much smaller. ‘Look around more Song. Use your divination if you need.’ “No. To see how they died might kill me. The mind is a stupid thing Dawnfeather. If I see how they died it might kill me to.” Leaving the corpses of the students I looked around the room. Careful and soft steps from my enchanted boots sounded profane in the silence of the room and in the glowing magelight the blood had a sickly shine to it. At the edge of the room, almost obscured by a torn curtain there was no dust or ash. It was surprisingly clean.

A glint of bronze showed beneath the curtain and I picked it up. A ring. Holding it carefully I pulled the curtain open. The stairs had seen a thorough cleansing recently.

“Well this can’t go wrong.” I told Dawnfeather and after testing the stairway I carefully began to go up the stairs.

Bitter: Pretending

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Today I sat and watched you for a while. You’re an enigma to me now. Someone I once knew so well who became as distant as Argus. A star in the sky that i can see but never touch. I watched you work, shop in the Bazaar- strange how you do not linger in our old haunts- and at the end of the day you went to his grave. Both of their graves. First to your friend’s and then to our brother’s grave. Strange how, in death, They have become saints, absolved of all sins and you’ve become their most devout worshiper. It does not matter you do not know how they died or why- they became more precious now. I saw you toss my flowers away, clean away the dried offering of blood droplets left at the foot of our brother’s grave.

You didn’t listen the first time I explained them to you so I suppose the offerings I leave are clutter and trash for you. I kept waiting for it to sting and wound me. But it doesn’t bother me in the same way now. A mild irritation rather than a bleeding wound you left when you stepped out of my life. You called me a monster.

I agreed with you. I knew what I did and I know what I will continue to do.

I have a room mate now. Another of Tyleril’s friends. It’s interesting watching him. One day it’ll kill him to keep giving and pushing so much, to be so kind and hide so much pain. He breathes in broken glass and it stays in his chest, never quite healing and waiting for the right moment to hurt anew. He needs to find a way to get them out. His friend is fine. Quiet. I do not mind him and in turn he allows me to be. I have kept the apartment stocked with more food now and coffee. Menders seems to need coffee or tea to survive all they do. Tyleril’s friend hides secrets of his own, but we have an unspoken and silent agreement not to pry into the other to much.

He is quiet. Reassuring as it is to hear the sound of his limping. The few days of the week that I stay at my apartment now I do not worry as much over sleep. Ensuring the windows and door is blocked, spelled, and can withstand attacks. Having someone else there is an assurance that should the undead come again I will hear it.

You left the Isle after you had thrown away my offering to the dead,snapped open your umbrella when the rain began to pour. You were not paying attention to the rooftop of the three story mansion you passed. I sat on top of the roof and this time, I let you go. You disappeared in sheets of rain and thunder. When you were well and truly gone I slipped off the roof and blinked to the ground. I stay here now. Inside dust and old memories fill the home. A family used to be here but the Scourge took them to, just like they took away our brother. I see the family portraits on the walls, left for time and dust to consume.

I leave them offerings. It is not my house and the man I sleep with in of it is someone dear to them. I leave coins and offerings of flowers and incense. It has tempted me many times to find their bedrooms and see what they were like. But, like the house it is also not my room so I abstain. I have cleaned the kitchen and the hallway, the bedroom and the rest of the areas that are frequently used. Barely three rooms, four if the hallway and bathroom count. Sometimes i come here early or stay while he leaves. It’s nice to see the door open and his scowling rain soaked form comes into the house. He irritates me, I irritate him. We go back and forth. Sometimes he eases up and falls into silence and other times it ends with dinner forgotten.

I look forward to this to much and the days I am not there I miss the reassurance someone is watching. Strange isn’t it? Sometimes I feel happy and not annoyed to see him.

I have been considering. I don’t think you’ll talk to me again. I don’t want to spend time watching you and knowing that either. So that time was the last. I like this ruined house with it’s guardian- the tall and crumbling knight. I like my apartment with the limping mender. If this is what it is to be a monster than I will take it.

You will never get this letter before I burn it. But I hope you know I’ve never once wished you ill. I hope wherever you end up you will do well. Maybe someday we can speak without rancor. Maybe. But until then I will stop pretending and accept reality for what it is.

Love,

Your older Twin

Bitter Elfbruary: Acceptance

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You killed him. Elivan.

Windsong sat in the kitchen of her other resting place, drinking and thinking. The bottle of hard liqours in front of her were opened as she mixed drinks for herself. It had been a long time since she’d heard that name.

Monster.

It was said with such venom. So much venom that had built up over such a short period of time. Windsong had no idea who her sister knew that had given her that report. But when she downed the small shot decided it didn’t matter. The damage had been done already. The distance between her and her sister had grown to far to be repaired. Any bridges she had attempted her sister burned and tore into her with words. There was no defense Windsong had offered up. No need to give any information on more things her twin should have never known.

You’re a horrible mother.

That one did sting. More than Windsong thought it would. The house was quiet save for the sound of the wind caressing the outside of it. “Do I care?” She asked the kitchen. It offered her no answer, probably for the better.

You’re not going to say anything?

“No.” For her twin’s own good and to preserve her sanity. “Not for your comfort, not for mine. Some things we are better staying ignorant.” Her twin’s eyes were hard and watching her in her anger was like seeing the sky darken and clouds roll before a severe storm. It was coming whether it was wanted or not and when it broke free of the sky it would mercilessly pelt the rooftops and howl out its anger.

You comforted me at his funeral. We all thought he’d gotten sick.

Windsong shrugged at stared up at the kitchen ceiling as her mind relived the memories from the morning. “He was a murderer. The state gave orders- is what I would have said if I didn’t want to throw oil onto the fire.”Windsong wished, not for the first time, she could have seen it coming. But she had never done divination purely for herself. It was too dangerous.

The ability to learn secrets, peer into the future and past, different futures. It grew tempting to try and see your own, to see… so much. How to do better, to always win, to have the best of everything and never suffer hardship. “But such is life that without hardship or sorrow we become fat and complacent. We forget to struggle, forget what it means to be who we are. Those that do not suffer have never lived. Combat is one thing. To rely so much on seeing solely for my benefit…comes with so many downsides and difficulties.” The wind outside the house drew noise and the sky had darkened considerably. It was soothing.

Monster.

“That I am.” She agreed with her sister’s last word. But no regret welled up inside of her, no anger, or bitterness. Just acceptance of her actions. The liqour dulled the edges of the world, enough to allow her less pain. Briefly. So she stayed in the kitchen, listening to the storm outside. the ghosts of the past that lingered in the home were not loud enough to dull out what was inside of her mind tonight.

Liquor and time would take care of it.

Bitter: New to Town

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(Mildly nsfw.)

It was stupid to keep going forward. But she was angry, furious enough that it drowned out the fear and healthy self-preservation. Keeping low she moved through the derelict building, sticking close to the walls until she could see light outlining an open doorway. It burned her eyes, stabbed her mind with needles as she moved towards the doorway, red light pouring around her.
It was stupid to keep the spell up as she moved, focusing on that one possibility she wanted so much she didn’t see

The blow coming that drove her to the ground, concrete pressing against her chest, gravel digging into her ribs. The spell broke with her concentration and immediately the world felt better as the burning pain faded from her eyes and needles stopped stabbing her mind as it no longer needed to process countless maybes. The cold sharp tip of a sword was pressed against the back of her neck. “Let go of the daggers and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Windsong was stupid but it had its limits when a sword was pressed into her neck. Slowly she held her hands out, setting the daggers down and kept her fingers straight. “Hands behind your back.” He said coldly and she barely had time to move her hands before something cold grabbed them, encasing them in ice and tugging her hands behind her back, arms pressed together until her elbows touched. The sword lifted from her neck and she was roughly turned over as.
“Song?”
Windsong squinted upwards, recognizing the voice. “Hello Dawnfeather. Nice to see you out of the infirmary. Did you miss me?”
“I can’t believe you.” His voice was harsh as he sheathed his sword and with a snap of his fingers the shadow priest’s magic dissolved. “What were you doing here? This place was shut down.”
She rolled her shoulders now that they were freed, taking Dawnfeather’s offered hand and pulling herself up with it. “Following a lead on the hottest new killer in town.”
The end of the Solidarity festival had brought relief to the city as chaotic elements briefly subsided, slipping into shadow. It was a pyrric victory at best. The state had tried to clean house. But Murder’s Row, with all the loss, was thriving, albeit quietly.
Much of the chaos might have subsided but it had also drawn other things from the scum. A serial killer was on the loose.

“Dammit Song. Nobody left the building.” Dawnfeather’s pocketed face turned to look around the alley. “Did you check the roof?” He turned and went into the building, not seeming to need a light to make his way through the darkness. “Hey, Dawnfeather, you can’t follow them and take him on. It’s not just a deranged blood shaper this time or some necromancer.”
“Them? Who is doing it then if not ashaper or necromancer?” He stopped and looked at her. Even with one arm and the breathing problems he retained from the incident Dawnfeather was still a force to be reckoned with among the inquisitors. He listened to her summary of the murders with a grim face, purple eyes serious.
They had started in Eversong, at first simply chalked up to animals. But the Farstriders had investigated, finding evidence to connected them and the trail leading towards Silvermoon. Nobody had liked what they had sent in their report.
“Worgen? We have a list of known infected but they’re kept watched. Can you find anything? We’ll need whatever we can get before we start-.”
“I saw the worgen.” She interrupted, cutting him off. “ The last scene where the body was strung up and partially consumed was where I found blood by the broken window. I used the blood to try and find the killer and it’s lead me on a merry go-round trail all over the city. But we can’t start harassing the infected. The city already tried to clean unwanted elements from it.”

He looked around the dark room, one arm moving to rest over his chest. Violety eyes were as hard as gemstones as he looked up to her. “The city will clean them out for good if it’s discovered a worgen is involved and it’s not the purist’s gone mad.”
“Which is why I need you to search quietly and buy some time for me. If the city starts purging the infected we’ll lose good people. People with families that already comply with the demands the city makes of them.” Dawnfeather knew her to well, could sense her emotions. “What will you do if I can buy you time then?”
“You haven’t been out towards Gilneas Dawnfeather. You have no idea, none at all, how dangerous they can be. A worgen can lop faster than you can ride your hawkstrider through Silvermoon. It’s jaw can snap your bones with one jerk of muscle. It can see the heat of your body and with only starlight could count the stray hairs on your head forty paces away. The worgen only needs to be half that close to hear your heartbeat. They’re six feet tall and their claws can tear through the best leather armor.”
“Learning about how easily the worgen kills doesn’t help convince me to buy you time Song.” He didn’t say it but they both looked to his left arm, missing just below the upper arm. Ignoring the guilt that rose up in her chest she sighed.
“Because this worgen is eating them. They’ll play with their victims like cats and paint the area with ribbons of flesh and blood. This one went unnoticed in the forest because of the chaos from the Solidarity festival. But it didn’t have a reason to move here and it certainly didn’t lop through the front gates. Whatever is going on it’s not another ‘they got bit and went mad’ cases. I don’t need a lot of time. I just need some time.”

“Fine. But only until tomorrow evening. If you can’t show me anything by then I’ll have to report and look at the list of infected. But you will have to bring me that information so we can catch the killer before anyone else dies.”

“I can do that.”

Maybe.

Possibly not.

Part 2: Painter’s Quarterly

Ethics and Charm Spells

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Scribbled onto a few napkins, Windsong’s words cover up the entire piece, even when they are unfolded, her handwriting small and tight.

I mention it far to often but divination is a school that has no offensive skill. We are diviners of secrets, balacing the ebb and flow of incredible and powerful mystic energies. Being a Diviner is dangerous, the regents are some of the rarest and most expansive out of any branch of magic. Powerful divinations let you see targets from a distance or view what is invisible. Scrying another plane of existence, the past, the future- though some will tell you it’s a combination of divination and chronomancy. A transmuation of spells so to speak.

A mage of that school can be terrifying. But it doesn’t allow for time to learn offensive spells , especially the ones that are often told around the campfires or the local inns. Eventually most choose another school or the few that stay with it as their primary school often have to make do with the small spells we can learn. I picked illusions as my secondary school of study.

Charm spells are spells not taught to apprentices. They learn lesser versions for animals but learning charm spells requires ( Or did when i studied in school) ethics. A charm spell is all well and good to save your life from a brigand or to convince another you’re not worth murdering and instead a nice kindly friend. The issue with charm spells is that you can so abuse them so easily. There was the case of Jerinthus Greyblight that captured gossip and the news for years after he was caught abusing charm spells. He used it not because he needed it but to abuse his magic and walk over others.

You cannot simply stamp over someone’s will. It is a violation. A appalling act to another sentient to abuse charm spells.

Charm spells work by altering thought and affecting feeling. The feeling is the important part. How it works when cast differs from mage to mage, but for me the charm spell looks like pink mist and I breath it out. It just needs to touch or be inhaled and it causes a rise of emotion. A spark to ignore a fire of raw emotion that’s enough to make the simple suggestion that we’re friends, good good friends, best friends. Overwhelmed by the emotion the magic stirs it’s easy to agree to almost everything I say.

Generally a charmed person will not violate their ethics or morals but you can do so much damage with even innocent suggestions and overpower their will with your own. I don’t need to write and elaborate how much BAD can be done with that.

I will do whatever Quel’thalas needs of me, regardless of ethics. But I do not, will not use charm spells. I’d rather torture a man than see him looking up at me like-

Well.

They look at you like you’re their sun and moon. When it’s someone you care about it means something. But charm spells and the rare mass charm spells turn them into something less than elves. They care for you, they want to help you and protect you, get you what you need because they feel, they KNOW you’re their best friend. The most important person.

The more you apply the spell, the stronger the effect gets. or you can use up enough mana to do the same effect for one spell.

I write on and one wasting up space on napkins of all things.

I’ve used a charm spell before to save my life. But in my job as a courtly investigator I am mostly the executioner of the state’s will. But in this case I was the judge, the jury, and the executioner.

I’ve killed for the state. I’ve done many things for the state. This time I saw a chance- they could be of use to me, the state. Especially now. So i charmed them until that Reformer was willing to follow me into a den of wary snakes that would just as happily see them dead.

I forgot something important and the inqisitor who was putting a mental leash on them suffered. Dawnfeather will lose an arm. Who knows what else? His face was pocketed where the holy light had burned out the poison the reformer spat.

It turns out they had scratched a trigger word on their finger. Just enough to remind them they were charmed to break free. LIE.

The situation was controlled and for a day I’m sealed away in this room with them. I will not speak more of it other than I gathered my remaining strength to charm the reformer a third time. They’re practically walking on cotton candy clouds at this point. Dawnfeather lacking an arm with his skin pocketed bothers me less than this reformer showering me with the same reverence you’d show a god. I could use them anyway I pleased and I doubt they’d bat an eye.

I hate seeing slavish devotion. Did I use my judgement to make the best call? I’m certain. But this time it stirs my heart with revulsion to see them ready to kneel at my feet if I so much as hint at it.

I can’t decide what bothers me the most as I watch them sleep. I want to go home to the simple calm. I don’t know if my clean apartment or the ruined manor is more of a home nowadays. I don’t need to say anything. He understands. I think. We argue and fuss but the reassurance of his arms around me makes me calm. I don’t know if he likes me. Maybe he find sit reassuring as well

<The letter cuts off on the final napkin. She’s simply run out of room to write.>

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tyleril-silversword:

SWC – Day 7

What is the biggest trigger for stress in your character’s life?

Looking forward to what you guys create!

Hair? Check. Makeup and clothing? Check. neutral expression on her face? Check. Windsong pressed her hand against the door, pushing it open. The familiar smell of mint and sage assaulted her nostrils. Heat from the fireplace warmed her face, turning her cheeks red. Her heart began pounding as the invisible hand of stress squeezed it. The desk was stacked with papers.

The Magister turned and smiled. The pounding migraine and mana exhaustion became a certainty. “Windsong, I’ve got a lot of work today.” A gesture of his hands and he turned away.

You mean I have a lot of work to do.

The Magister tinkered with whatever was in his hands, ignorant of the world or the way her fel green eyes almost bored holes in his back.

Someday I won’t be there to do your work for you.

And I’ll watch you choke on it from afar.

Bastard.

She relished the thought of his sudden demise as she picked up the first paper.

SWC – Day 30/31 “Tainted, Infected, and Rotting Memories”

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I’m going to have a Hawkstrider ranch one day, he had told her.

Taller than she was with green-brown eyes. Aleneth had always wanted to be a Farstrider. He had hit that phase when he was a child and never grew out of it. He had problems breathing, couldn’t make the physical requirements he’d need to make to become a farstrider. Every morning and ever night Aleneth took medicine to help him breath. It took a long time and countless trips to the healers before Aleneth was able to run a three stones throws without breaking into a coughing fit.

Overjoyed. that’s what it felt like to know a cloud of dust wouldn’t take away his breath and that he could finally go to the stables as often as he wanted. With a love for hawkstriders that almost rivaled his desire to be part of the farstriders. but with the possibility of becoming a Farstrider nonexistent he choose to start training the hawkstriders instead. He wanted to contribute towards a dream he couldn’t have.

He did far better than she had ever thought. It got to the point where he had been considering buying land to breed and raise his own from the eggs. A gentle soul, Aleneth caught the eyes of several girls. But Windsong knew he had his eyes set on the clergymen’s daughter. When he remarked he didn’t need to look up to Windsong now that he was taller she casually woulds tell him to fuck off.

He hated cussing and it often lead to several minutes of gentle scolding and informing her she could use other words. She never paid the scolding any attention. It was fun to annoy him. An honest, down to dirt man. They had an easy relationship. he looked up to her and she refused to be a good example. he scolded her, she cussed to annoy him. She spoiled him, helping to fund his work. Someday he’d be famous, breathing problems be dammed.

But until then he’d continue to be happy with his hawkstriders and chasing after the clergyman’s daughter.

Some things were permanent. You couldn’t take it back. You could sell your soul and still be left with nothing. Memories could become tainted by loss, turning into an infection beneath the skin.

Aleneth had such kind eyes, a good smile. He was a hard worker. When the Fall came he had went to her inn to seek safety.

The scourge didn’t kill him. Someone else did. They left him in the inn. He never saw the Scourge run over Quel’thalas like the plague, was never raised into undeath.

It took over a decade before she was finally grateful for that one small thing.

It took even longer for his memory to stop feeling like an infected wound, tainting her memories and the things he loved that were still around.

But it was just time.

It was a sad reminder with so many dead.

‘Does it hurt to be alive and so old when so many people are dead?’

‘Yes.’

Was the answer she should have given. Yes, it hurt. It hurt like a gaping wound that refused to close. But looking down at the graves, the many many graves, it was a realization.

They were gone. As much as she wanted them to not be. They were. Could they be resurrected? There were people capable of the task.

But Aleneth was to gentle to survive in the world that existed now after the fall. She had to become bitter and hard to survive. Angry and seething with spite. The things she’d done to ensure peace. Things that would never see daylight.

Maybe it was better he’d never had to do any of that. To see his sister change from an aimless mage to this.

“I hope somewhere you can hear I miss you. All of it. I… have friends now. I work for the state. I’m… I’m not a good person anymore buddy. I do a lot of things that aren’t good. You’d… you’d be very unhappy I think. I don’t know if you’d have made it here. It hurts to not have have you far too much. I’ve considered trying to have you resurrected. Somebody would have a price I could pay. But after the Solidarity festival I’ve been thinking.”

Does it hurt to be alive when they’re gone?

“Maybe it’s for the best if you don’t come back.”

As much as it hurt when you can see everything they could have become. As much as it hurt to know they would never say your name again or you’d never again hear his laughter or see the stupid clothes he wore.

“It’s… time I gave the idea up. Let you go. As much as I like the idea of you being here again, I don’t think you should be. The world has grown more harsh since you left it. I’m not the same sister you knew. But I hope someday, whenever we meet again you’ll still hug me and ask me where I’ve been. I miss you. I really do. But I can’t let your memory rot away beneath my skin. It needs to be whole again and it can’t be whole again unless I let you go.”

For a brief moment she swore she felt someone grasp her hand and squeeze it. But that was just her imagination.

But for once she let herself think otherwise. It was his approval.

SWC 29/31 – How does your character soothe themselves when they are upset?

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‘Does it hurt?’

‘Does what hurt Samiel?’

‘Seeing all the people dead while you’re still here.’

The child kneeled respectfully next to her in front of the shrine, looking around to see all the new graves. There was no harm meant in his words. The curiosity of the young.

‘I didn’t know any of them Samiel.’ She lied. Samiel’s eyes studied her, cutting through the uncaring air she had wrapped around herself. Visions of the dead ran through her mind. Letters sent, friends lost. It never stopped, hurting like this when someone was gone.

Samiel’s gaze turned away and he pushed himself up to look at the new graves. ‘Sorry. I just thought- doesn’t it hurt to be so old? Like this guy here-’ His hand reached out to touch the grave with all the respect a child had. ‘You kept sending him letters, right?’ The words stung. Windsong knew he asked out of curiosity but the words stung nontheless.

‘You can send enough letters to fuel all the campfires of the world and it doesn’t change what the cold and heartless grip of time and death will take from you.’ She drawled out in a dry tone. ‘But no. I’ve over a thousand years old and it’s never easy. Never ever does death hurt any less. It hurts even worse when you can see the possible roads they could have taken.’

Less than twenty, less than eighteen but more than ten children. The images stung at her heart. But what always hurt the most was seeing so much and wondering if one word could have made a difference. If more power spent had been the way to go, to find that right path. Her fingers dug into her leg until the pain forced her thoughts to go elsewhere.

‘You see, Samiel, the best thing we’ll ever have is choice. We’re not mindless. We choose. The people that died during this…celebration, especially in the last few days, died for something they believed was important. Worth more than what they were. You might not understand it now, it might takes a while, but someday you’ll grow to love something enough that what that thing is worth is beyond meaning. It’s worth any sacrifice you can make for it. The biggest sacrifice is always this’

She gestures to the newly dug graves.’Your life. Because you aren’t just valuable to yourself. What you do affects so many people. You have so much more value and are loved more than you’ll ever truly know. So when you sacrifice yourself that loss is keenly felt. Because there’s no coming back from that. No more memories you can make and those that you leave behind will feel your loss as sharply as if it had been cut out of their own heart.’

‘You didn’t know any of them.’ Samiel stated. He didn’t believe she didn’t know any of them. Briefly the image of Vyntael came to mind- how many times had she tried to scry his future to help the man?

He wasn’t even three centuries old. She was over a thousand herself. It never hurt any less to see the young pass away. When they had so much power, potential, when they were friends.

‘No Samiel. I didn’t know any of them.’ The last memory of Vyntael came to mind. His incorporeal form fading as she threw the Blood Star he had posthumously received towards him. ‘They wouldn’t even let me have the last spiteful gesture’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Did you want to head off to the inn for lunch?’

‘Yeah!’

‘Alright, start going then.’

As Samiel turned and left Windsong began to hum softly. When she was younger she knew of a cult that worshiped a spider. Her parents had followed it and though she had not she kept some of those teachings. One dagger was pulled free from its hilt as she reached into her pocket. ‘Short was your life’ The familiar words came to mind, briefly easing the pricking at the back of her eyes.

‘Yet you lived it with strength, truth, and fought with honor. Reaching from the ground until your fingers touched the sun. Strength holding brightness. Power, burning, glory unsullied.’

Did the Spider Goddess watch even now? She felt eyes on her from somewhere a judgmental gaze.

‘You chose to make the the ultimate sacrifice rather than to turn back. But you do not go alone. You would not let your King journey into that next world alone. As you should- every king needs an honor guard’

A bloodred and black cloak was set on the grave. ‘Your marching orders given. When he you are cold take this cloak.’ A mana potion set atop the cloak. ‘When you hunger, let this sate you.’ A small book was set onto the cloak. ‘When you need entertainment, let his entertain.’ It was a simple book but she had always loved the happy ending.

‘And to give you some of my strength as you follow your king, I give you some of my own self. The final journey is the hardest to make. But you who have sacrificed so much and can finally rest at its end.’ The dagger flashed, pain shot up her arm, burning and sharp as blood welled up from the cut in her arm to freely drop onto the cloak.

‘Time goes one. But you will be remembered. Sink into the darkness and follow the path to the next world. Follow your king knowing those you left behind will miss you.’

The real ceremony was formal but she couldn’t recall it now as she watched her blood drip onto the cloak. ‘I tried- i really tried to help. But- we made our choices and we stuck with them. Until we meet again Vyntael Springbreeze. May Belore keep you warm.’ When the blood slowed and Samiel’s impatient yells sounded down the road she rolled her sleeve up.

‘There’s naught else to say but- I’ll miss you. You were fun to talk to. Maybe we could have been closer friends with time. But- all I can do now is wish you a good journey with your allies and King to your final rest.’

She rolled her sleeved down and put her dagger away. ‘See you soon.’ A sarcastic salute and she was on her way.

It wouldn’t be until much later she went home with Thallus again for the night and cleaned to soothe her feelings. To ease the pain in her soul. It was soothing beyond measure not to be alone, to clean, to have someone else there. Soothing to sleep with the knowledge someone else was there, arms around you to keep themselves safe.

After she’d had some drinks in silence. Just enough to ease the pain.

SWC 25/31

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Silvermoon City.
The air was cool and moist, the clouds heavy and ripe with rain. As I walked down the streets I heard the soft rumble of complaint- would the Magisters let the rain fall or make it wait? The shady street workers were taking no chance and as I passed them by i saw the rain shields and umbrellas ready. At least the wind had died down. Where the city lights failed to keepit away the cool, black shadows would cling to you like something real… a black tangible fabric of smoke, deceit and murder. We might have all nearly been wiped out because of the Fall but it made those of us that remained were… different.

Stronger and not always in a good way.

It had been a bad month, the promise of a bad year. Maybe a bad decade. The Arcanist’s Imperium was calling it ‘the worst crime spike’ seen since the Fall. I had little to go on. There were to many suspects, to many trails and to many all to willing to let some poor shmuck take the fall for them. It had sent to many of the city’s workers into overtime.

I was tired of the overnights. Tired of working because the Magister got waxed. Got the autopsy report not more than a hour ago.

All of this before noon. I cursed my luck. I cursed my Magister.

I hated politics. He said, she said. I’ll make things better, this isn’t enough. What did these people expect? What did any of them expect? We live for thousands of years. We’re not human. Things don’t change overnight and suddenly you get a handful of optimists who think the Sunwell was made in a day. And fanatics and people who need the next Kael’thas as desperatly as a man in Silithus needs bug spray.

Silvermoon was… outwardly a city of wonder and beauty. Floating pots, arcano scrubbers, magic, eternal spring. But she hid her problems better than any other woman her age I knew. She simply…was. I didn’t know if she was good or worse now. But there was something about her that was alluring, bringing me back time and time again no matter how hard I tried to leave. I loved the city in all of it’s grim glory and reality. I liked going home at night to the promise of warmth, safety, and a infuriating smirk that could charm my cloaks off.

The letter that I opened after the Magister’s autopsy report drained away even that small bit of happiness that coffee and that memory had brought me. I stood up from my desk, dusted off my cloak, sheathed my knives, and left the office. It was never simple here.

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SWC – Day 11
HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER ACT WHEN THEY ARE AFRAID?

To my children now and those that might come-

Fear.

It is an instinctive thing fear. Both our teacher and the chains that hold us down. When we cut out selves with a knife or touch a hot stove it is our reminder. Danger, it tells us. That hurts. Don’t do that again. It is what helps us survive. Only a fool does not fear. The one that lacks it is one who has lost something valuable.

And then there is fear when we let it do more than just teach. When fear controls you it becomes your chains. Whether it is because they cannot master that fear or because they have never had their mettle tested, that is when fear becomes your chains. They hold you down, fill you with terror.

Do not deny yourself fear. But do not let your fear master -you-. Every soldier on a battlefield had felt that fear. But they do not let it chain them down. I’ve felt it before. A warning to tell me I am in danger, who is more dangerous than I am.

When you feel that fear try to take hold it is difficult to shake. But everytime you fight your fear you grow stronger. When you grip your daggers or continue to walk on the battlefield. When you cross blades and magic with your unknown foes. I turn that fear into anger. How DARE they fight against me and my cause? Love and your cause will also help you. I fight for Quel’thalas and that bond between my home and people and myself is strong.

I want to survive, to show my enemies I should be feared, to get the peaceful future for our home and people so much. There’s many who deserve that future. Through fighting, purging corruption- I think maybe someday I’ll find it.

I don’t know why I write this. Perhaps I feel some responsibility for you children. For Kassandra,Alexandra, and Samiel and the others that remain a possibility. Perhaps this is how i make up for the motherly instinct that I do not have. By giving you these words when you are older so that you have some comfort. Some idea that, even though I lack the instinct of a parent, I cared for you in some manner.

For whatever it’s worth. Until such a day as you get this it will remain hidden under Thallus’s bed with my bag. I do not desire to head to the city now and here, in a home of memories I am safe as Thallus grumps in another room.

But that, children, is a story for another time.

Stay good, be kind, love the people who would die for you, respect the wisdom others give but take it with salt. Do not give up your freedom. Fight for your people and home but do not be needlessly cruel. I would rather you all grow up kind than cruel with a black heart. Do not let bitterness consume you as I was consumed.Fear but do not let it control you.

These are all such simple words on paper. But I do not know what else to impart to you. I hope when you are all given this and read it you understand I wanted you all to be as good as the people who raised you.

Except me. Somebody has to be a bitch.

@razxion and @shampoocommercialelves for mentions