#SG Site Write July 2016

[goaprose]

.03: Symbiosis | SG SW 7.2016

3rd: A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.

He'd gone too deep. Pulled too far. Drawn in too much-

Like falling in a mud hole or being splattered with tar, he could feel the invisible weight of it coating him; an ache in the roots of his nails, a pressure behind his eyes, skewing reality five degrees to the left. It itched under his skin, gnawing at the back of his mind like an forgotten worry. Or a burgeoning madness. Lingering shadow and void clung to him like a parasite. Like the whisper of an Old God-

Working with shadow was like balancing on a knife's edge. You had control, or you split yourself open.

Shadow ravens swarmed around him, eerie cries ringing happily as they called their brethren out of the twisting nether for a feast. The circled close, snapping things out of the air around him that he could not see. Perching on open palms or a curved knee, deceptively affectionate carrion feeders that they were. Friendly, allied shadow versus infesting void. Their gestures were familiar; birds groomed one another, preened each other's feathers. Picking harmlessly at his hair and skin as they were, the ravens might as well have been simply doting on a flock member.

In their own way, they were.

Iiloridan took slow, heavy drags from his cigarette, watching the shadow ravens grow heavy and fat. Umbra, queen of his flock, cawed imperiously at the others from her perch on his chest. The itch of tempting void madness lessened.

He watched, too morbidly curious to look away, and too afraid of what he might see to allow his perception to focus fully. A shadow raven swallowed the squirming blot of void pulled from the air beyond his right ear, and he shivered, hair rising on the back of his neck.

But he felt lighter for it.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Lori's corvids #body horror #old writing

[goaprose]

.27: Remembrance | SG SW 7.2016

27th: How does your character define family?

"Now, what do you remember me telling you about your great aunt Relynni?"

"Ummmm... She liked birds?"

A chuckle. "No, sweetling. Normally that guess might work with us, but try again."

"Ooh! She was a jeweler!" Dalchirya chirped, picking up a several small glass beads made to looks like precious stones and tiny rings, holding them out in a chubby little palm. The table was covered with silken ribbon and golden cords; beads, feathers, and parchment scraps. An arts and crafts explosion, riddled with actual magic and a quiet sense of ritual.

"Exactly. Go ahead and add that to the ribbon for hers. Aen, how you doing, son?" Iiloridan peered across the work desk, where his smallest son was frowning over a candle, carefully slipping a piece of parchment under the jingling, decorated ribbon around the wax pillar before setting it aside.

"Good job. What name do you have next, kiddo?"

A'enlyndr frowned at his next parchment piece, squinting over the looping calligraphy of his uncle's handwriting. " Uh. Uncle Saaqyn?" The five year old's stare was more questioning than confident, and Iiloridan nodded after a quick glance.

"Yep. And what did he- ah, there you go. Good job!" Iiloridan praised the boy, who had already reached for a little charm of a bird of prey, threading it onto a new ribbon for his falconer cousin. Iiloridan fiddled with his own parchment aimlessly for a moment, displaying the name for his only nephew; the priest glanced around at his own happy, healthy children. The boy had never had the chance to reach even a full year of age.

"...Iirinar? Son?"

"I got 'em, Ann'da," the soft-spoken boy replied, gently adding another decorated candle to his crate, already filled with over a dozen be-ribboned wax pillars. His eldest son positively glowed when he received a pleased nod at his work, before Iiloridan glanced around, seeking his eldest.

"Bella?"

"Loading mine up now," Bella replied, the tough little girl proudly lifting the heavy crate and taking it out to their carriage.

By dusk, they had several crates worth of candles. The nearest 'gravesite' is just at the end of the road, but Brightquill didn't bury their dead. Ashes from funeral pyres are given back to the sun and sky. But a few nights a year, honoring their memory earned just a glimpse in return.

"Here, let Kaly put Aruenna's candle up at the front-

"Why does Grand Minna Aruenna have the same name as your sister, Ann'da?" Chirya asked, oblivious to her father's slight flinch.

"Well because my minn'da named my sister after her, of course."

"Wasn't it confusing?"

Iiloridan chuckled, palm patting red curls. "No, sweetheart. We knew who was who. And, we usually just called my sister Ruen, for short. Now let's finish getting these set up- it's almost sundown." Young faces nodded, and the small family of six slowly laid out over one hundred candles for their lost kin. The semicircle of candles completely filled the area around the memorial site; Kalyanar laid a bouquet of flowers from their own glass gardens to rest at the head of the display.

"Now, doesn't that look nice?"

"That's a lot of candles, Ann'da!" "How we gonna light them all?" the twins chirped.

"Well...Kalyanar?" Iiloridan glanced toward his cousin, offering him the honors. The warlock regretfully shook his head.

"No. I think, in this, your flames are more appropriate." Iiloridan could only nod in agreement.

Welding the Light with the intent of igniting holy flames was not his usual method of operation, but the task was simple enough. Focusing on each wick, the priest raised a brief burst of holy flame over each candle, lighting over one hundred little memorials all at once. The children 'oohed' appreciatively, several pairs of little hands clutching at his robes.

Iiloridan frowned when his cast wasn't perfectly done - only a handful remained unlit, though one sputtered before fading to a whisp of smoke - but setting the kids to the task of the unlit candles with their already burning sparklers set them all to rights quickly enough. Iiloridan carefully avoided looked for any name on the candle that sputtered out.

Once they were all lit, an air of calm expectancy began to build. Even the fidgeting, hyperactive kids stilled as the peaceful glow of the candles illuminated the area. The luminance seemed to brighten beyond what was natural as the sun set on the horizon. The glow around the wicks seemed to sink down into the candles, waxy columns glowing unnaturally bright from within. The children let out nervous little squeals.

Whether the music was from a music box Kalyanar had brought along- or something else, it was hard to say. But it built up so quietly that when they realized it was there, none of them could tell where it came from. Motes of light bloomed into being in the trees, stringing their way along like party lights. The humble dinner laid out on park tables suddenly gained the air of a party feast; like a friendly crowd was just in the other room, their conversation a muted rumble. Sharing a joyful glance that was suspiciously watery, the elders ushered the children to the table to eat.

For a single night, the six of them were not alone.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Caravan Court #Brightquill Clan #House Brightquill #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #Bel'alah Sunshard #Iirinar Sunshard #Dalchirya Sunshard #A'enlyndr Sunshard #dia de los muertos #old writing #feels bomb #a good one

[goaprose]

.11: Fledgling | SG SW 7.2016

11th: What's the best gift your character has ever given—or received?

"Well. A fine mess this is, eh Lori?"

Small, scrawny, and still bearing bandages from several severe injuries, ten year old Iiloridan only flinched at the reminder, curling up further in his seat. Sighing, the tall, red-haired quel'dorei took the open spot next to his great nephew, carding a hand through tangled black hair.

"I know you're still put out about coming along with caravan for this trip. But it's for the best, my lad," his uncle said. Iiloridan sighed wordlessly, glancing out the curtained window as the scenery slowly drifted past. The finely-decorated wagon rolled and rattled as they traveled, bouncing the two along with it.

"Well, no point in putting it off, then. Your Minn'da has you working with me now, kiddo. You're gonna be helping me with the coops and the cleaning for the trip- don't look at me like that," the merchant cut in, when Iiloridan's tired expression went indignant.

"That's not fair-!"

"It's not entirely a punishment. You did a dumbass thing, no doubt about it, but you got punished more than enough by the situation itself. You're gonna feel guilty about that poor friend of yours for a long, long time, no matter how it's not directly your fault." Young ears drooped, but the merchant plowed on despite it. "No, it's something we think should help you out. You've always showed interest in our birds before, right?"

"...Yeah," the boy sniffed.

"Here. We picked you out something to get started with." His uncle reached to his side and offered a small crate that Lori hadn't noticed. He gingerly accepted it. Something shifted inside, making scratchy, scrambling sounds against the straw sticking out from the thin slats. Glancing toward his relative only earned Iiloridan a shooing motion. Get on with it, kid.

He opened the box. A small, fledging corvid blinked up at him, cawing in mild alarm. Gaping at it for a long moment as the bird stared right back, Lori turned toward his uncle.

"She's yours, kid. Provided you can manage to bond with her and all that. Taking care of her should teach you some reasonability, and well... making a new friend couldn't hurt."

Carefully setting the box down, Iiloridan lunged forward, clasping his uncle's waist in a hug. The man laughed, patting Lori's head as the boy hid tears in the home-spun fabric of his shirt.

It took a while, but Iiloridan was eventually able to scoop the bird out of it's box without causing it too much further fright. It's feathers were still pockmarked with blood quills, eyes still clear and blue. But it was a clever thing, and took to wobbly perching on outstretched fingers with only a little coaxing.

"...Hey there, sweetheart." For the first time in nearly two weeks, Iiloridan smiled.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Brightquill Clan #House Brightquill #Lori's corvids #old writing

[goaprose]

.28: Ichthyophobia | SG SW 7.2016

28th: Visit TV Tropes and pick out a trope or three you like (or gamble with the random button). Use your story to explore and illustrate the tropes you've chosen.

Random button results:

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/InvisibleMonsters

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Tsundere

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FishPeople

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BoyMeetsGirl

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/RopeBridge

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IWantThemAlive

Iiloridan all but shoved Kenren across the bridge, ears twitching downward as the fiber ropes making up the thing creaked ominously. The jinyu in the water below shrieked and burbled at them as they ran, boiling jets of water soaking the hem of the priest's robes. Thankfully, not even the jinyu's powerful water columns could properly reach them, as high as they were. From the other side of the bridge, their leader's bubbly voice could be heard, angrily demanding their capture.

"Wow you really pissed them off!" Kenren shouted over the commotion, laughter nearly doubling him over despite the situation.

"It's not funny!" Iiloridan shouted back, ears and neck gone red. "It's not my fault the damn fish thought I was a girl!"

Kenren's laughter only increased at the priest's indignant objection. "A fish with a m-mammal fetish!" he howled, hilarity not abating even when Iiloridan gave him a vicious shove, pushing him past the end of the rickety old bridge. "I think you broke his cold, fishy heart!"

"Fuck off, Kenren!" Iiloridan snarled, turning to make a stand at the head of the bridge. A small squad of jinyu soldiers were in pursuit, armed with spears; but the soldiers were under orders to take them alive. Iiloridan had no such limitations. Shadows hissing as they curled out from around his feet, the priest let his indignation readily carry him into full shadowform. A gesture set all-but-invisible beings of the void after their pursuers, shadow ravens screeching as they swooped down under the bridge, harrying the ropes and jinyu alike. Hand reaching out, Iiloridan curled his fists in the air and twisted. Shadow tendrils curled around the support ropes and coiled taunt in opposite directions, misshaping the bridge and twisting it sharply to one side. The jinyu soldiers staggered. Iiloridan jerked again, shadow tendrils snapping the bridge lines the other way; ropes and wooden slats creaked dangerously, and the jinyu finally began a sudden, panicked retreat.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, violently flinging both arms down like he was snapping the reins on a mount, shadow tendrils mirroring his actions on a far grander scale.

-Crack-

Kenren blinked from his spot in the grass as the ropes snapped with a pop-pop-pop-pop, unraveled ends flopping limply back up on their side of the cliff. Rolling over to crawl toward the edge of the ravine, he watched the remains of the bridge and soldiers crash down into the water below.

"...Huh. Don't you think that was a bit of an overreaction?"

"'An overreaction'?" Lori sputtered, gaping down at the monk as shadows melted away from his form. "How the hell was that an overreaction?"

"You punched their leader, fought your way out of the court, and now wrecked the bridge."

"The slimy bastard called me his little black pearl and touched my hair!"

Kenren laughed as he stood up, dusting the grass off his pants. Glancing Iiloridan up and down with a smirk, he gestured flippantly in his direction. "Well... I mean... Pearls are made by sand and stuff irritating the inside of a clam. And you are pretty irritating.... So yeah, sounds like a good description."

Iiloridan's jaw dropped. "W-what? You- you little shit!"

Kenren laughed, slapping his own thigh and all but falling back down into the grass at Iiloridan's expression.

"Shut up!" Stamping his foot childishly when Kenren did nothing of the sort, Iiloridan stormed off ahead, though not without giving his boyfriend a parting kick in the shin, neck and ears still blazing with heat.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kenren Taishou #old writing #oh my gOD #a good one

[goaprose]

.16: Father | SG SW 7.2016

16th: Write an encyclopedia article for your character (or a related concept, like a place, organization, ancestor, or historical event) as though they are reasonably well-known. You may wish to study the oracular voices of existing encyclopedias. When you're finished, you could consider porting it to the wiki.

V'liyidan Sunshard was the heir and last true head of the infamous Sunshard mage line. Born within his family's estate in Southern Quel'thalas, the heir to the tumultuous family did not go out of his way to attract attention, and yet seemed to manage it through chance, conflict, and explosive rivalries. Though the bulk of his works sadly appear to be lost, like most things, with the sacking of Quel'thalas, this mage remains one worthy of note and additional study.

1 Personality

V'liyidan was the essence of reclusive, poorly-socialized magister. His often foul temper and lack of patience with the uneducated was well known by his academy days, and his superiority complex toward the arts of the arcane matched that of those with far greater fame than he. Despite all these poor elements, the mage was fiercely loyal to the few who managed to earn his trust, and the handful that loved him, loved him well.

2.1 Early History

While he studied and trained partially at the mage academy (see [x]), V'liyidan was heavily trained in the arts by his own father, the previous reclusive Magister Sunshard. (See listed works: [x] [x] [x]) This extra training allowed him to excel early on, and the momentum was readily kept throughout his time at the academy. The academy was placed in direct competition with the nearby training camp for spellbreaking, which of course lead to fierce competition between the two schools. Pitting them against one another ensured a prodigious rate of advancement, as nothing motivates quite like grudges and rivalry. The exchanges between the two teaching camps reaches epic proportions on his final year; V'liyidan barely escaped expulsion when another student was found culpable for a activating a untested and forbidden arcane rune-working that V'liyidan himself had constructed.

Despite his infamous nature, the mage was fairly reclusive, often isolating himself at his family's estate, Sunbreaker Coast, which is located somewhere on the western coast. The purposefully isolation allowed the mage family to practice their own arts without censure or mediation- and prevented the fallout from risky arcane experiments from poorly affecting others or attracting unwanted attention. The closest neighbors were largely of a human nature.

3.1 Works:

Despite the Sunshard habit of keeping their works and talents close at hand, V'liyidan Sunshard produced a handful of published works that are still highly regarded to this day. A number of his discoveries, including several properties of leylines, methods of mana-extraction, and arcane construction are now commonly studied and taught, despite their often controversial nature.

3.2 [This section continues on for several subcategories]

4 Relationships:

The relationship V'liyidan had with his parents is, at this time, under some academic debate. However, the relationship V'liynidan presented with his brother, Nieydrus Sunshard, was a close, if quiet one. It is commonly known that V and his brother conducted a number of experiments together, but the exact nature of such experiments is a closely guarded secret. It is implied that the pair had some responsibly for the Mana-Wrack, a large, arcane-tainted scar carving around a portion of the mountainous valleys around the border of their land, but remains unconfirmed at this time.

His relationship with future wife Shalyndr Brightquill was an interesting one. Striking up a fearsome rivially with the spellbreaker-in-training, the initial contact the two had with one another was far from positive. Indeed, most thought the two despised one another. But of such intense feelings rivalries or relationships are made, and the tension between them quickly turned to passion. While the relationship was often contentious, the two eventually found an honest love between one another.

With his children, V'liyidan was something of a distant father figure, who keenly felt the limits of his time and energy when it came to doting on them. He unashamedly gave his eldest son the bulk of his attention, passing along all of the spells and skills he had learned, and praising his progress. His second child, a daughter, and an additional son were mere afterthoughts that came in second and third after his beloved heir.

His relationship with his youngest child, the eventual priest Sunshard, was a contentious one fraught with unpleasantness. The relationship failed to mend before the mages supposed death, with the arrival of the undead.

5 Death:

V is believed to have met his end several days before the initial onslaught against Silvermoon and Quel'thalas. Sunbreaker Coast is known for it's proximity to old Lordaeron, if not for it's exact location. Contact with the mage ceased several days before Silvermoon fell, and it is thought that the undead stumbled upon the isolated area and set upon the mage without warning.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #V'liyidan Sunshard #Shalyndr Brightquill #Nieydrus Sunshard I #Nieydrus Sunshard II #Aruenna Sunshard #Iiloridan Sunshard #old writing

[goaprose]

.32 Finale: What fool would seek Love's flame so low? | SG SW 7.2016

Final Prompt:

Sift through some anthologies of English-language poetry. The Bartleby is available online; the Norton anthology is not, but the table of contents is and most work is in the public domain. Feel free to use whatever anthologies or collections are available to you, so long as the poems were written originally in English and are reasonably well-known. Seek out a handful of poems you want to return to, or choose old favorites. You should end up with five poems. Feel them out, choose their best lines, and squirrel them away.

Leave it alone for a few days.

One of these five lines will become your title. You can rescue pieces of the other four lines as you write your story—about someone trying to express a difficult thought.

He woke to a warm embrace. Brawny arms lain over his waist and curled at his bare back, lax in sleep. Adequately rested and pleasantly sore, Iiloridan stretched- only to realize with a start what had awoken him. Moist breath and a rattling snore- his lover's nose and mouth were all but jammed in the shell of his pointed ear.

Roughly shaking himself free in disgust wasn't enough to wake his lover, but Kenren still earned a glare to his slack face in the predawn dark, despite slumbering eyes. Disentangling himself, Iiloridan poised curled fingers over a nose, threatening to pinch and wake the snoring monk up most unpleasantly. But...he paused; Iiloridan's ire not what he expected it to be. Oh, indeed, he was vexed- but there was a uncomfortable lance of fondness growing in his breast, softening his glare like ice in the warmth of the sun. Hand still frozen in place, he watched his lover sniff and shift in his sleep, face snuffling further down into the pillow with a soft noise. Ice cracked. Without thought, dark fingers fell lightly across a cheek, curling fondly through scraggly sideburns mussed from sleep and their previous lovemaking. Kenren's nose twitched at the contact, but still he did not wake. The pang worsened and Iiloridan pulled back, as though burned. The glare returned twofold, long brows twitching as they furrowed.

Iiloridan was no fool. His heart sped despite his ire, not because of it. Their passions has ceased being simple lust moons ago.

"Many a day or so I have most dearly loved, but this foolish mind of mine straight loathes the thing resolved." he murmured, unfamiliar cadance rolling off his tongue like meltwater. Fingertips danced feather-light along Kenren's chin, unable to stray away long now that they had tasted his warmth, pad of his thumb brushing lips moist with breath. He'd had no desire to fall in love. Not again. Not with this...admittedly endearing yet ill-mannered slob of a Sin'dorei. He had refused, denied himself, for so many reasons.

Burned twice, he was leery of that addictive flame. His heart had been reduced to ash too many times to reignite readily. But Iiloridan loved like he breathed, drawing it in without thought, gathering it to his blood. Smoke can never burn they say; but the flame that follows, may. The pair of them had been but smoke, ephemeral and entwined only on the whims of the wind and their own lust. Smoke would do him no lasting harm- smoke was easy to discard, and was so quickly erased and forgotten. But somewhere along the way, Iiloridan had become careless; he'd breathed in that smoke that had so vexed him, and despite his caution, it had somehow sparked a flame among char. He'd struggled against it, beat it down to embers and ash, but-

He had been witness to his lover at his lowest. A dredge on their once fair society. A hopeless addict. A sloven glutton. Even if bickering and needling one another had become fond ritual, it had not started that way. Iiloridan had not been kind for the longest time, seeking to disparage or improve the monk with biting words and verbal barbs. With downward gaze he stands abashed, and sighs, remembering all his unworthy blames. He had called Kenren everything and more, to his shame. He slid fingertips down one muscled arm, lax in sleep, even as he curled close, pressing into the soft warmth of his lover's girth. Healthy and largely fit Kenren was now, it had not long been the case.

But that disdain had become tolerance had become trust- and in turn, affection. Respect. Embers reignited, despite his best intentions. Now, he was utterly consumed, and yet his voice remained stubbornly silent despite the roar of the flames. The words of endearing affection had never once been spoken; not by either one of them. He couldn't bear to allow the words free reign, and Iiloridan had no idea how Kenren felt. For all he knew, to his lover he was nothing but the smoke, easy to waft and discard.

"When Love was seen before me, in such might, as to remember shakes with awe my frame." He trembled despite the warmth of their bed, laid bare and chill under his own thoughts. The idea of confessing made him feel ill; warm and cold at once. He was afraid; the flames were strong, but a mocking laugh would be enough to smother them, stamping them out painfully. Kenren shifted against his sudden, grasping hands. Panic and impulse seized him-

"I love you," Iiloridan breathed, meeting his lover's awakened emerald gaze with fire in his heart.

Kenren blinked, dark brows pulling together in confusion at the unfamiliar words. Thoughts muddled by sleep, the expression on Iiloridan's face gave him pause. He frowned.

"Mmh? What was that, Lor?"

"...N-Nothing. It's not important."

Coward. Iiloridan shivered. His awe stood armed with flame against age-old fear- and it still lost. The fire was suddenly, harshly banked, and reality reasserted itself.

"Was that Common?

"Ah. Yes, actually."

"...You know I don't speak it, Lor. It's too early for teasin'."

Iiloridan shrugged, lips twitching up with a faint, sickly grin, chest pounding with bitter relief. He closed the distance between them, holding Kenren close and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, ignoring the bemused expression and the ringing cry in his heart.

" I- Sorry. I know. I'm not. I'm just...thinking aloud, is all."

Poems:

http://www.bartleby.com/334/96.html

http://www.bartleby.com/334/97.html

http://www.bartleby.com/334/94.html

http://www.bartleby.com/342/13.html

http://www.bartleby.com/342/18.html

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kenren Taishou #sappy fluff #oh my gOD #Lori you shit #old writing

[goaprose]

.31: Achievement | SG SW 7.2016

31st: Choose two prompts previously featured in Site Write (a complete list of all eligible prompts is available here; free writes, finales, and repeats have been excluded). Write one single story that fulfills the strictures of both. Please be sure to note the individual prompts you've chosen to apply.

Write a story consisting only of dialogue. You can tag your speakers and use descriptive verbs (“You know, like this,” she explained) but no adjectives, adverbs, or other narration. See if you can carry the action just through speech!

+

Does your character have a mentor? If so, what was the most important thing she learned from them? If not, how did they learn their trade?

"Describe it."

"I...its...hell, I don't know if I can."

"Don't be stupid. You're the poorest student I've ever had, but you're not a simpleton, Sunshard. Of course you can."

"...Wow. I bet you say that to all of your favorite students."

"No, just you. Now get on with it!"

"Fine! Fine. It's...like, well, light. But more than that. Real Light- that doesn't even make sense, but there is some kinda distinction there. Warm and brighter even than what I see when you cast, all clumped together and...alive? I'm seeing it...but not, at the same time? It's...I can't believe I'm telling you this but it's...well. Beautiful. I guess."

"That is because you are not seeing it your eyes."

"So I'm actually-"

"Yes. About time, too."

"You are so very generous with your praise. I'm all aflutter."

"Hush, and focus on it. Feel it. Get used to the sensation. The more your practice it, the more easily you will be able to sense to the souls of the departed. While some techniques are obviously superior, the Light reveals itself and wields differently for each individual person. We've discussed your methods."

"It's like threads. They're...broken. Unraveling?"

"Are you asking me, or telling me?"

"Gods, you're such a- telling you, sir. The edges of the soul are torn out from the body, like a ragged bit of cloth and yarn."

"Then stitch. Them. Back. Up."

"Right.... I- it's more like. Knitting, or weaving, than stitching."

"Hn. If the minor distinction means so much to you, then kni- ah. There you are. Yes, carefully now. You must balance force and delicacy, and carefully choose when you need which to mend the rift between life and the void. Yes, keep your touch and will delicate there. A soul is a living thing; too much force can affect it in ways you don't yet understand. ...Hn. Your hand gestures are superfluous and look ridiculous."

"But- its -hngh- working, isn't it-?"

"Stop talking and focus, boy. Yes, 'weave' the threads back into the body, if it works oh-so well for you. The soul needs it's proper anchors in place, or you might as well just banish it already. Yes. Yes. Continue there- Mind the death-wound, now."

"Hnffh."

"Keep your focus. Do not let up- you think you're exhausted now? You haven't even cast the final upwelling! Don't make that face at me, child. You are about to stuff a soul back into a corpse with enough holy force to resurrect its very being! If you expected this to be easy, I've clearly given you far too much credit."

"...you never...give me -nnh- any credit!"

"Then prove me wrong! Now! Push past your limit- draw on the Light like you never have before! You are the conduit, the anode; and this is the heart of the storm. Open yourself up to the Light with your entire will! More! More, I said, dammit! There! Hold it in. Remember this feeling, Iiloridan. This power you hold in your hands and with your very will. This is how much Holy Light is required to bring back a soul. Now, gather it- and push!"

"Gaah! Hnh. Hnh. H-holy shit!"

"Congratulations. You successfully resurrected a dog. At this rate, you'll be able to mend the soul of an actual person by the time you're as white haired as I am."

"...nh. Bleeding hells, would it kill you to throw around a little actual praise once in awhile!?"

"Hah. Perhaps. Your form could certainly use some work - a great deal of work, to be honest - but the upwelling was mildly impressive, I suppose."

"...Oooh, yay. Thanks so much. Now can you get this dog off me?"

"Why? It seems he likes you. You did just save his life, after all."

"-ugh! I hate dogs! Stop- licking me- you ugly bastard! ...Hey! Where are you going?"

"Your final lesson, for the day. Resurrection exhaustion, and how to manage it. Catch!"

"Ow! What is- a mana potion? That's it?"

"Yes. Mana conservation, food, meditation, and rest. Until tomorrow, that is."

"Uhgh."

"Get used to it. You're going to feel that burn out until you get more efficient at channeling that much Light at once. Now, I have other things to do besides baby you further, so I trust you can make your way back home just fine. Tah!"

"...gods I really hate him sometimes."

"Borf!"

"Ugh."

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Pontarias Whitesong #old writing #a good one

[goaprose]

.30: Dance | SG SW 7.2016

30th: Your character is invited to Azeroth's most fabulous party. Do they accept the invitation? How does the night go?

"I have the strangest feeling that I've been here before," Iiloridan said, something inside him shivering at the seemingly genial looking steward who checked their invitations. Sticking protectively-defensively close, his cousin Kalyanar nodded slowly.

"I agree. It's...strange-" Unfortunately there was no time to dwell on the queer feeling, as the sound of his words were readily swallowed up by the reveling crowd. The throngs of dancing party-goers were of every race and type, running all over the place, and the music was infectious. Iiloridan found himself swaying to the beat of the song.

"-it's just déjà vu. Surely we would have remembered all of this!" Kalyanar all but yelled in Iiloridan's ear as he gestured grandly, taking in the dance floor, the massive buffet tables, the bright lights and brighter, come-hither looks from their fellow partiers. The pair of them straightened, automatically putting on the charm; Kalayanar rubbed a hand over his chin as he took in the view, and Iiloridan winked at an impressive looking draenei. Then he happened to glance past the draenei.

"What are they doing over there? ...who plays chess at a party?"

"I don't know, but with pieces of that size, it actually looks like fun!" Kalyanar laughed, before finally slipping away from the safety of their little group to spin out to the dance floor. Despite the warlock's maimed leg and permanent limp, he suddenly appeared to have little trouble navigating the complicated steps of the song.

"...The hell?" Iiloridan muttered, words already lost to the noise as he watched Kal slip effortlessly amongst the dancers.

There was definitely magic afoot, but well- who was he to deny it? Throwing caution to the wind, Iiloridan greeted the nearest welcoming group with a toothy grin, and let the music guide his feet.

unedited; non-canon

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #non-canon #old writing

[goaprose]

.29: Hair | SG SW 7.2016

Site Write Day 29: Write an exercise in which you repeatedly use two different primary colors (red, blue, and yellow; I’ll also allow black and white). Describe these colors without naming them too often—and try to find effective synonyms for the colors without being too obvious about this disguise.

Sipping burgundy wine from the shade on the second floor balcony, Iiloridan watched the long crimson flags and ebon curls of his children weave their way across the property. From the distance, he thought they were likely playing tag at some point, but the small herd of children had since migrated over to the cheery, poppy-colored storage barn, chase instead turned to climbing and clambering all over everything. And from the way they were leaping between one old, rusty-wheeled caravan wagon to another, he had a sneaking suspicion the game had become some variation on 'the floor is lava'. The shrieking and sudden, dramatic death feigning when Chirya had fallen into a pile of vermilion leaves gave credice to his theory.

The young twins, Dalchirya and A'enlyndr, matched Iiloridan's mother's side of the family, with their rosy locks sticking out every which way. His mother's hair had been bright as the sun, before going icy white with undeath- Iiloridan shivered, severing the reminder before it could properly begin. No, they would have fit in perfectly with the rest of the Brightquill, had they still lived. The whole family had been warm in every way, bronze skin and bright hair colors of gold, citrine or ruby. His elder pair matched the Brightquill for tan skin, but Bel'alah and Iirinar had hair was as dark as night, like Iiloridan's own. Sunshard-obsidian, to the root, like Iiloridan's own ill-missed father. It matched their mother's look as well, but her hair had been closer to the look of coal, while Kalyanar often joked that Iiloridan could lose ravens in his hair, they matched the inky dark strands so well. Just to prove a point, priest had once done exactly that, much to his own amusement.

Iilioridan leaned against the railing, watching his youngest daughter terrorize her elder brother, chasing him around and around through the archways covered in russet and copper ivy, flinging handfuls of 'lava' leaves after him. He was grateful at least that they had the room to play in, but as soon as the call to dinner came, he'd be picking twigs out of sanguine tangles, and redoing sable braids. He couldn't say he minded all that much. With their little family, brushing hair had somehow become a pastime, a way to bond and connect with one another. He and his cousin Kalyanar, whose hair flowed down nearly to the floor like rich blood, could spend hours talking and complaining, all while grooming each other's hair. The children, of course, did not have the patience for such things for long, but they all appreciated the calming sensation of getting their hair carefully combed and brushed.

Iiloridan waved a hand down at the frolicking little horde, and received cheerful shrieks in return, much to his pleasure. He'd fix them all back up later. For now, he simply smiled fondly as he watched on, sipping sweet carmine and leaving them to their games.

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Bel'alah Sunshard #Iirinar Sunshard #Dalchirya Sunshard #A'enlyndr Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #Caravan Court #old writing

[goaprose]

.26: Vices | SG SW 7.2016

26th: Everyone’s addicted to something. What are the things your character can’t go without?

Iiloridan sprawled in the grass, double-wreathed in shade, the void-shadows covering his form rendering him almost insubstantial. The shade of the willow tree he was under did the rest, leaving him all-but invisible. He had no reason to be submerged in shadowform; the strangely addictive, surreal sense of self it produced when he hovered on the edge of the veil was reason enough. The shadow ravens were only a bonus, a full murder of the birds filling the air around him with soft caws and calls, wingbeats setting the golden leaves swaying. The near-weightless avians flitted around him, perching on raised knees or pressing dark heads under fingertips, silently begging for their head feathers scratched; dark beaks preened uselessly at his long hair in return.

 Cool and almost content, Iiloridan eventually sent the birds back into flight to fuss with a small stack of thin parchment, pulling out a single sheet and laying it flat on the grass at his side. A small, red pouch came out next, drawstring opening easily. Iiloridan gave the contents a sniff - ah, that smell! - eyes flickering briefly in bliss. Small red flakes were poured out into the middle of the parchment and then rolled up; the edge got a lick, sealing the cylinder. He brought it back up to his mouth, fingertips snapping. When nothing happened, he frowned, and snapped again; the shadows flickered, drawing away like oil in soapy water as a brief spark of holy flame sputtered into existence.

Bloodthistle and paper smouldered, crackled and finally burned, and Iiloridan took a deep drag. The lone light in the darkness was quickly smothered, but the priest seemingly gave no notice in how eagerly it was snuffed by shadow.

Lori blew out a smoky breath, turning the air a hazy red. The shadow ravens flitted in and out of existence around the vapors; they didn't seem to mind the smoke. Rather, they apparently enjoyed it, weaving around red smoke and embers causing it to trail after their insubstantial feathers. Iiloridan laughed and took another deep drag off his bloodthistle cigarette and let the smoke fill his lungs, the potent herb seeping into his blood and igniting his mana; rattled nerves settling down another notch. He exhaled, throat and lips working in four short bursts as he turned his head, smoke rings floating out and filling the hidden shelter.

The shadow ravens trilled pleased cries, inky wings folding as they dove through the rings, threading the needle. The cigarette slowly burned away as he leisurely repeated the trick several times, for the amusement of his flock. A touch of mana wove the thistle smoke into more unnatural, complex shapes: hexagons and cubes, and a rotating wagon wheel; a quill feather that sailed through the air like a little boat; a smoke snake that chased several ravens before being pounced and scattered by five birds at once.

Eventually he dozed, smoky air dissipating through the branches of the tree; stub of his cigarette safely smothered in the grass. Content enough to be forgetful and still submerged in shadowform, only the loyalty of his ravens kept dark dreams of the void at bay.

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Lori's corvids #Caravan Court #old writing #a good one

[goaprose]

.25: Reclamation | SG SW 7.2016

25th: Write a vignette told only in images—concrete, simple, visually efficient movements and details. This exercise does not ask you to eliminate people from your prose, just to watch what they do and what objects they interact with rather than what they say or think about these objects and actions. It may help to imagine your piece like a silent film.

Iiloridan crouched down, faded-fel green eyes narrowed and watchful. A beckoning gesture of his hand brought forth another Sin'dorei, slow and limping. The new arrival kneels with difficulty, limbs shaking and unstable, and side by side they peer out into the moonlit darkness from behind the shrubbery. Over a dozen wretched gather beyond the shrub, taking no notice of the spies. The hunched, spidery-limbed beings prowl with aimless intent, maws dripping black. The land behind them is dotted with gilded buildings; old, ivy-covered and dark. Twin stares linger on the buildings in open want, before narrowing upon the wretched. Black and red locks bob as they nod to one another, expressions determined.

Iiloridan gestures again, and the outlines of gliding crows appear out from nothing as he vanishes into shadow. Kalyanar curls long fingers, fel-eyes glowing as purple runes under his robe sleeves light up; a summoning circle appears at his feet, and a trio of fel-hunters step out of the twisting nether. The wretched mill in uncertain circles, ragged ears twitching upward at the lights and sounds of summoning.

Crows swarm out of the darkness opposite of Kalyanar, the cloud of wings making the wretched jump. Formless shapes lunge out of the dark, purple curves and living shadow striking wretched after wretched and drawing bloody ichor. The pale beings scatter.

Kalyanar raises a thin arm and points- the fel hunters burst through the leaf cover in perfect obedience, flexible tentacle maws latching onto bone-white legs and arms, dragging them down. Broken, dirty nails scrabble at black carapaces and fleshy red hides; bony jaws crunch down and thrash from side to side. Pasty limbs flop limply across the grass and grow still.

Bright orange and red bursts into being and lights up the night, making the former sin'dorei shield their sunken eyes. Kalyanar flings wreaths of flame at the wretched that are stunned, toppling them with the blows into flailing, smouldering heaps. Fel hunters gallop unevenly after the runners, pouncing when shadowy tendrils curl around shoeless white feet. None manage their escape.

Every wretched lies on the ground, dead or dying. Iiloridan sheds his shadowy guise, appearing beside the redhead and offering him the support of an arm; Kalyanar accepts only briefly, clutching at white robes as he catches his breath, winded and shaking. They rest, and wait, ears perked, eyes turned out toward the dark that surrounds them. The small flames on pale bodies are quick to extinguish. Nothing stirs but golden tree leaves swaying in the wind.

Iiloridan slaps Kalyanar on the back, white teeth flashing in the dark. The warlock grins in return, the wide gesture transforming his dour face. Together, they step over the corpses of the fallen, approaching the abandoned buildings with triumph in their eyes.

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Caravan Court #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #old writing

[goaprose]

.24: Priesthood | SG SW 7.2016

24th: Has your character ever pretended to be something or someone they're not? Have they ever been tempted? What prompted their deception? How did it turn out?

"And you! All your work, and for what? To join this?!"

Iiloridan paused mid-bite, pomegranate juices running red down his chin. Perched casually on a roof-ledge, sun basking and eating his lunch high above the bustle of Silvermoon's streets, the rogue's ears perked up instantly at the sound of a semi-familiar voice raising in anger. Wiping off his chin with the back of his hand, Iiloridan peered around the corner from behind some well-placed shrubbery.

An old man - a priest, by the looks of the white robes and golden staff - was surrounded by four warriors in bristling armor. -No, Iiloridan quickly corrected, Blood Knights, in their black and red livery. The new order was everywhere these days, blustering about with arrogant importance and high on the smell of their own bullshit. Iiloridan watched on as the priest stood proud against the Blood Knights circling around him, all bluster and intimidation against a cloth-clad willow. Iiloridan had long heard stories and rumors about how they gained their power, and was disgusted on a deep, internal level. Apparently the priest agreed with him.

"It is an afront to the Light, doing what you do! I'm ashamed to have ever called myself your mentor-!"

It clicked at the priest's disdainful tone. He knew that priest. He himself had been in a similar position as the damned Blood Knights not long before, all but begging for aid.

Iiloridan had done his research, when hunting for a surviving priest to train him. Pontarias Whitesong was positively ancient. His hair had long since gone as white as his name, nearly crystalline-transparent with age and reaching his hem-covered heels in length. Among all the potential trainers that had turned Lori down - and there had been a great many of them - Pontarias had been the one that had intrigued him the most. As long as the Light had been in Quel'thalas, Whitesong had been one of the movers and shakers of the faith. Known for his work in the wars and battles against the trolls, Whitesong was famous for healing, as his named implied, with song and hymn. Literally singing the dead back to life. Rumor said that he had coaxed the sundered souls back into over a dozen slain soldiers at once with a single song. In addition to his own deeds, he was well-known for training other priests, accepting and teaching only those who went on to wield the Light with great skill.

It was no wonder that the priest had looked at Iiloridan like he was something that had been scraped off the bottom of a boot, rejecting the would-be priest without the briefest of consideration. It still rankled, and Iiloridan couldn't help but smirk at the confrontation in progress. Watching the arrogant old bastard get his ass handed to him by some whelp a fraction of his great years would be a pleasure to watch.

"Please, sir! We could really use your wisdom in the Blood Knights!" The former apprentice pleaded passionately. "Your skills are greatly needed-"

"I want nothing to do with that arrogant blasphemy you call an Order!" The Blood Knight group bristled at the insult, the captain visibly hardening.

"Your students had abandoned you for the greater path, priest-"

"High Priest," Whitesong snapped again, even as the captain only raised his voice and continued.

"-and without students or followers, your teachings are obsolete. You can no longer serve Quel'thalas in this manner. Quel'thalas is in need of experienced men and women to lead us now. You can either serve- or you will be seen as...an obstacle."

"You. Wouldn't. Dare." Pontarias growled, ears turning red with fury. Like a dawning bell, Iiloridan realized he could get more out of this escalating situation than just vindictive pleasure. Abandoning both his front-row seat and his lunch, he ducked out of sight and fled the rooftop.

--

"You will serve Quel'thalas in some manner, priest. Idleness will not be tolerated."

"Idleness! Idle!? You think I sit around- I spend less time idle that you surely spend just polishing that ridiculous shoulder armor of yours!" The priest and Knight were yelling at each other in the street now, the captain's solider's hands resting uneasily on their blades.

"Master! There you are!"

Five heads swiveled in his direction as Iiloridan ran up, a guileless smile plastered on his face. He carefully only had eyes for the flabbergasted priest, running up and feigning breathlessness, as though having run too far.

"Sir, I've been looking for you for ages. I'm afraid I confused the location of my next lesson- I'm so sorry I'm late-" Golden eyes widened at Iiloridan's bald-faced lie- but he had to give Whitesong credit where credit was due. The bastard recovered quickly, even as the Blood Knights glanced between them.

"-Who is this-"

"A-h. There you are. I'd just about given you up. Completely irresponsible- " Whitesong slipped into a chastising tone all too readily, in Iiloridan's opinion, but he obliged the old bastard and allowed his ears to droop.

"It's entirely my fault," Iiloridan simpered. "I assure you, I take my training entirely seriously, sir-"

"Who is this?!" the Blood Knight captain demanded again, voice rising to a low boom.

"My apprentice. -The last one, apparently," Whitesong snapped, throwing a withering glance at the former priest in ill-fitting armor. The fresh Blood Knight winced.

"Iiloridan Sunshard, sir knight," Iiloridan answered just as quickly. He could tell that the priest recognized him, but he wouldn't put it past the man to have already forgotten his name.

"Apprentice?"

"Well, as you can see, I'd just about given him up as having run off to join your cause. But, as he is obviously still here-"

Iiloridan beamed, all clueless innocence. The Knights, as he expected, didn't seem to know what to do with themselves for a long moment.

"-you should be joining the Blood Knights, not wasting your time and any talents you may have with this- this false religion!" The former apprentice barked, the beginnings of zealotry glowing in his eyes. "It never did us any good! It's only let us down-" Both Iiloridan and Pontarias bristled at the same time.

"That is enough, initiate," snapped another Blood Knight, this not one Iiloridan had seen speak up before. She glanced between the initiate, Pontarias, and Iiloridan, before turning to her captain.

"Sir. I think we're wasting our time here."

The captain glowered at the confident look on Whitesong's face, before leveling his fel-gaze at Iiloridan. He couldn't hide his sneer.

"You intend to go through with this training, priest? The light will only let you down, unless you take the power you require. Take the power to help our people."

"With all due respect, sir," which is none at all, Iiloridan corrected mentally, "I feel I can do our people the most good if I follow this path. The Light has not let me down. Only my own ignorance in it's workings has."

"Tch! Blood Knights! Let's move out! Leave these light lovers to their fruitless endeavors, for now," he glared at the pair of them, remounting his snorting charger with a bound, despite the heavy armor. "You'll come to us eventually, Whitesong. All will know the true glory and power only belongs to the Blood Knights!"

Pontarias' wry smirk was his only reply, and the captain spurred his beast onward with more force than was necessary. The female knight gave them both the barest of nods, hidden respect in the gesture, and Iiloridan found himself returning it as knights departed in a noisy herd. The two that remained stood silent for a long moment, and Iiloridan finally turned, watching the priest expectantly.

"...I gather you expect a 'thank you' for all that?" The old man let out a tired sigh.

"Oh, I expect much more than that," Iiloridan smirked, innocence sliding off him like a shed skin. "I'm holding you to it."

"To what?" Whitesong barked, indignation blooming in his face.

"The whole thing. I came to you for training before. I expect to get it from you now."

"You cannot be serious!"

Iiloridan raised a brow. "I am completely serious. I didn't ask for it as a joke, Whitesong. I want to train as a priest. I know the Light."

"You don't even have a talent! No skill!

"I wasn't making up what I said before," Iiloridan hissed, looming toward the older man. "I found the Light. I used it during the sack of Silvermoon- my cousin lives because I healed him with it!" His passionate words were met with an incredulous stare.

"Why? Why do you want this?" Pontarias asked, face chill as stone.

"Because..." For the first time, Iiloridan was unable to meet the priest's gaze; he could hear his disdainful snort just fine. He swallowed, mouth dry. "If I had known more then, I could have done more. Helped more people."

".....I am going to regret this. I already do."

Iiloridan started, staring at the priest. His teacher.

"Don't look so smug. You're going to regret this even more than I will. I'll make sure of it."

Iiloridan only laughed, relief making him giddy. "You can try."

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Pontarias Whitesong #old writing #my favorite #STILL LOVE THIS ONE

[goaprose]

.23: Fairytale | SG SW 7.2016

23rd: Write a story consisting only of dialogue. You can tag your speakers and use descriptive verbs (“You know, like this,” she explained) but no adjectives, adverbs, or other narration. See if you can carry the action just through speech!

"Ann'da!"

"Ann'da, Ann'daaaa! Story!"

"Ha! Well come on then, sweetlings. Get up in bed now- oof, no jumping, Chirya!

"Sworry!"

"There, that's better now. Cuddle in close, you two. Bella and Iri are too big to join us, I guess-"

"I'm not a baby, I don't need a story!"

"Well that's fine, you can stay in your own bed, Bella. Iri, you coming ove- aw, there you are, my boy. Squeeze in over here, son. There we go. Now, what book did you pick out for us tonight?"

"This one. Me an' Chirya picked it!"

"Oh? Good choice! This is one of my favorites. I don't think I've read this one to you two yet, though Bella and Iri might remember."

"Is it really good, Ann'da?"

"Mmmhm. It's my favorite because it's true."

"Well lets see now. Be careful with the pages, my dears, it's very, very old. The pictures are very nice, though."

"Pretty!"

"Mhm. This is the story of your great-great-great-great grandmother, Aruenna Brightquill."

"That's old!"

"Yes, she was very old. But see here, there's a picture of her."

"She looks like a baby!" "She's got our hair..."

"Ahah, she was older than you two, here! And yes, she's how you go your red hair, you two. Though my own mother all the way back to her. But anyway

"Aruenna Brightquill wasn't always a 'Brightquill'. She didn't have a name, because it didn't exist-"

"How did she not have a name! Everyones got one."

"Well see now, she didn't have a name because her own parents had no names. They didn't have a family line to call their own."

"Why?"

"W-ell. Her parents lost their families. So much so that the didn't have names."

"Oh..." "That's sad."

"Indeed it was. But this is the story of how she got her name. Anyway. Aruenna lived with her parents, and they loved each other very much. But they were very poor and didn't own the land they worked so very hard on."

"...We own this land, right Ann'da?"

"That's right, Iri. It's small, but it all belongs to us. But Aruenna and her family had to work very hard for very little. They couldn't even afford to train her in magic."

"Why didn't they just teach her, like you do, Ann'da?"

"Well, because they had never been trained themselves, Aen. Aruenna was lucky enough to have talent with magic, and she was very, very clever. She picked up things on her own, and could use magic to shape the ores their family dug up. And then, one day, the King passed through the forest."

"The King? There's a king?"

"King Anastarian. He's dead now, my loves. But back then- which was three thousand years ago-"

"Wow!"

"-he was very much alive. And he passed through the woods near Aruenna's little home. He brought a whole small court with him, riding fabulous hawkstriders and carrying banners. But the king, of course, had the best mount of all - his very own phoenix!"

"Oooooh!"

"It was very beautiful, and Aruenna snuck off from her parents every day that the King was there, just to watch it fly. The guards were kind, and since she kept her distance, they let her watch."

"Why didn't she ask the king to play?"

"Aha- Chirya, you couldn't just ask the king to play-"

"Why not?"

"Because- he was very busy. Anyway, the fourth day she returned, only to sadly discover that the king and his retinue had moved on. Instead, all that was left, was a few broken quill pens- and a single, shining phoenix feather..."

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Iiloridan Sunshard #Bel'alah Sunshard #Iirinar Sunshard #Dalchirya Sunshard #A'enlyndr Sunshard #Aruenna Brightquill #Aruenna Brightquill and the Pheonix Quill #old writing

[goaprose]

.22: Things We Lost | SG SW 7.2016

22nd: Write a fragment of a story that largely or slightly concerns a popular song that tells a good story. You might consider starting by summarizing the song's narrative in prose in your own words, which you may then integrate or borrow from at will. Don't be afraid to snatch up lyrical turns of phrase, either. Consider including a link to the song that inspired you.

"-milling the tiger lily will create a rich pigment for your ink, but I personally find the Northrend flower poor when it comes to cost-effectiveness-"

"-draft hawkstrider feathers are just as good for quills as the 'fancy' hawkstriders, but those noble bastards will buy anything with a bit of fluff thrown on top, so-"

"-experimented with a new box design for the hive. Schematics on pg. 52. The improved ventilation seems to have helped, so the problem with the-"

"-added a mated pair of snowy owls to the Winter Aviary. The pair integrated well, and as of this writing, they are sitting on cluster of eggs. Their shed feathers make for striking quills-"

Iiloridan idly flipped through book after book. Each was hand-penned in a ink-colors and variety of scripts, and not all expertly done at that. Each, hand-bound, written on any number of subjects; quill-making, ink-milling, weaving, bird husbandry, caravan maintenance, stock and market selling. They all met a certain level of quality and standards, of course, but many different hands had been responsible for their making. Some had only written one volume, as per the Brightquill coming-of-age tradition; others had added to their initial contribution over and over again, creating volumes recalling the most minute details of their craft. Iiloridan knew every name. Kalyanar could probably recall everyone by their handwriting and ink type for how he doted over the library, which primarily fell into his care.

The hands that had written the hundreds and hundreds of books had long since burned on the pyres of Silvermoon's ruin. Their caravan trains, their vast stocks, the imports from all across the Eastern Kingdoms- long since turned to dust and ash. The list of things they had left short. Their library, the total sum of everything every Brightquill had ever learned for their crafts- was more precious than gold. It was knowledge and memory and future in one small room. It was no wonder that his cousin refused Esme access, possible family or no. His thoughts drifted back to a little lacquered box he kept hidden in his room, filled with dozens of tiny satchels; what jewelry he had been able to salvage from the dead, before personally adding them to the mass burial pyres. If Kalyanar could recall names by penmanship from their books, Iiloridan could recall faces by a single signature pearl earring or filigreed arm band.

Their family had come from nothing. A small group of four people had created a vast family line and wide-spanning merchant business. In terms of people, manpower, they had all but nothing left. His children would never know the same life.

It could never be the same-

Iiloridan sighed, and shoved the last book firmly back into place. It was never good for him to get this melancholy.

It would never be the same- but dwelling on it never did any good. They would build again. Someday, Iiloridan's children would be grown. And if four people could do it- six could certainly manage it all over again.

Depressing song for depressing writes

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Caravan Court #Brightquill Clan #House Brightquill #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #old writing

[goaprose]

.21: Urban Decay | SG SW 7.2016

21st: What makes your character's neighborhood unique? How much have they been shaped by the places they grew up?

It wasn't what it was like when he was a child. How could it be, when Caravan Court was well within the ruined half of Silvermoon? Every time Iiloridan looked out over his home, he was reminded of the fact that it was an oasis of life in an overgrown sea of broken homes. The pain of it had thankfully begun to fade over the years, muting into something that he could almost appreciate, eerily lovely in it's slow crawl back to nature; but the reality of it never went away.

Iiloridan watched his children play among what his cousin Kalyanar and himself had salvaged. The kids were happy to play amongst ruins, poking their freckled noses into places they didn't belong. They knew nothing else. Unlike most families, who owned only one or maybe two shops, the Brightquill had owned their entire road, the small strip of land behind it, and all the buildings. Five shops, four aviary/green houses, the carpentry barn, and the hawkstrider stable all belonged to his mother's family. But they were still only one small road, and Caravan Court was fully part of the bright hustle and bustle of a upper-middle-class artisan district. Trained artisans honing their crafts, putting out beautiful works; caravans of import goods flowing in, and well-crafted quel'dorei goods exporting back out again in a constant cycle as predictable as the seasons. The bright days were full of enjoyable work; the glowing nights full of neighborhood street parties and loud, joyous get togethers. Almost everyone lived in the upper floors of their shops; their crafts were their callings and in turn, their homes. Everyone knew everyone else. The Quartzsong glassblowers, the Goldgleam jewelcrafters; the Manatulle silk and satin clothiers. Families watched each other grow up.

Aside from Iiloridan and his small, precious family, no one was left.

The row that they actually owned was the best of the neighborhood, now. Not that Iiloridan hadn't always thought it was the best, but one of the shops and two of the aviaries still needed heavy repair; there was only so much two people could do, while still tending to four children and a small horde of birds at the same time. The surrounding roads had yet to be touched, by their former owners, if any still survived, or by the state of Quel'thalas itself. Only Iiloridan and Kalyanar had bothered to cull or tame the local wretched population, removing any sources of fel taint that remained. It was a solitary life, aside from the days they went to market in Silvermoon proper. But to the children, it presented endless opportunities for exploration.

Unlike the past, when the priest and his multitude of cousins and local friends roamed far and wide, only the next two roads over were safe enough for the children to play around in freely. Even more wild than Caravan Court, the children were constantly making forts in old shops and going 'exploring missions' along weed-covered paths, crafting their own imaginary adventures and dragging home broken nicknacks and water-strained tomes. His little 'treasure' hunters could hardly comprehend the fact that they were picking through the relics of the lost.

Iiloridan knew his children were growing a little wild from it all. It was like they lived in the countryside, rather than the heart of a city. It was their home, for good or for ill, but the four of them were four children all but alone; great family gatherings and street parties were something that happened only in stories now.

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Caravan Court #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #Bel'alah Sunshard #Iirinar Sunshard #Dalchirya Sunshard #A'enlyndr Sunshard #old writing

[goaprose]

.20: Mourning | SG SW 7.2016

20th: What cultural, ethnic, religious, academic or other kinds of rites of passage has your character gone through in their life? How meaningful were they to them? To their family? Why?

Their lady was dead, and her second consort with her.

Funerals were few and far between, given their long, blessed Quel'dorei lives. At just over fifteen years of age, this was the first funeral that Iiloridan could ever remember attending. It was not something he wanted to experience again any time soon.

The grief was overwhelming; the Brightquill had lost their founding lady and matriarch, and the entire family was floundering, choking on their grief. The death had been sudden, and completely unexpected; even at over three thousand years old, the matriarch and her husband had not yet been close to natural death. An 'accident' on the trade routes had ended two lives prematurely, and the living were left to cope.

Even with the investigation into the tragedy, the time for grief came first. The entire family had gathered, arriving swiftly from all over the kingdom and even further afield via hastily procured portals, to pay their respects to the dead. Great Minna was wailing, collapsed in the arms of Matriarch Aruenna's first consort. The huge bear of a quel'dorei was eerily silent, tears rolling down his face; the normally boisterous, genial grandfather gone sobre over the loss of his first love. Iiloridan hunched closer to his own mother as the cries hit painful notes, uncaring of the fact that he was 'too old' to be clutching at his mother's skirts. He'd never been as close to either of them as he could have been, but they were a constant in the lives of every member of the family.

The fallen pair were laid out for viewing not side by side, but crown to crown. The arrangement left pointed room for their other two in the married quad that were being left behind, momentos decorating the vacant places. Candles and glowing phoenix willow flowers, whole branches of them, were draped around the fallen pair; the managlow from the pink and purple flowers matched that of the setting sun. They were dressed in their finest, favored garb, gold earrings and traditional jewelry liberally applied to both the man and woman alike. Each Brightquill that arrived left a small token among the dead and their funeral pyre.

Funerals were held near dusk, when the light of the setting sun could guide the dead onward along with it. After rites had been spoke, the bodies would be returned to the sun.

Iiloridan's cousin Kalyanar stepped forward with three others, visibly nervous and composing himself, despite his own grief. The youngest of the four chosen for this final task, the junior blood mage's fire was just as strong as his elders.

The pallbearers let lose mana and flame, engulfing the bodies. With the fire super-heated with magic directed by four blood mages, the near-white flames made swift and disturbingly beautiful work of the remains. The fire swirled up into a tightly-controlled column, directing ash and embers up toward the setting sun. The grief of the mourners turned into something bittersweet.

There was a screaming cry, like that of a hawk; despite the iron control of the flamebearers, the flaming whirlwind surged near the top, where flame and embers reached far into the sky. For one, shining moment, the flames branched out, painting an explosion high in the sky. Ashy flames collesed into the shape of a vague avian body and splayed wings, beating in freedom and triumph. Another screaming cry, and the firebird arched into the sky like a shooting firework, trailing sparks as it slowly turned to ash, chasing the sun over the sea.

unedited

#goa writing #SG Site Write July 2016 #Caravan Court #Brightquill Clan #House Brightquill #Iiloridan Sunshard #Kalyanar Brightquill #Aruenna Brightquill #old writing