#I hope you know like. This drawing specifically is imbued with my love 4 you

[wifiwuxians]

what if i cried. what if i laid down and cried

[unproduciblesmackdown]

some genius pt Musings i’ve been having this time around

1) the question of “is mytho’s hair white just from unknown decades of Time Passage within the paused story, like, his hair pigmentation Aged but nothing else lol” or “That, but his hair is white from the stress” (it’s that one lol. plus fr why would only his hair change due to Time) but i wanna introduce a Third Element: i think we can suppose in-the-story tutu’s appearance / disappearance happens just before or v shortly before the interrupted non-ending of prinz und rabe, and it sure seems like some or all or some Version of tutu’s Essence & part of the prince’s heart are like, truly Merged, and what if it’s that the prince got white hair from That b/c it was more swan-esque. a la the white feathery part of ahiru-tutu’s (& that one design of seemingly-prinz-und-rabe tutu)’s hair

2) again w/the matter of how at least part of Original Tutu seems to exist on in the prince’s physical heart: there’s the brief mention that fakir and mytho dance b/c Mytho Likes To Dance, which like, would be one of those Traits that transcends his emotions, like how he protects everything (so does tutu? emotionally? while the prince protects everyone physically (against a Metaphor for Despair so is that not also, in a way, emotionally too) like thank you power couple) but there’s also the brief mention that tutu is a Spirit Of Dance maybe so it’s like, again, did tutu becoming part of mytho pass something along in that way which imbues him with that proclivity to dance (although you’ve also got neko-sensei saying his dancing was not that Emotional earlier, which makes sense, but also seems like tutu protecting Feelings happens via dance. by “seems” i mean “this is a key aspect of literally every part of this series” s/o to me) or on another note: maybe drosselmeyer just wrote prinz und rabe For Adaptation lmfao. he was like “fuck yes they’re gonna make this into a ballet.” what with this series’ implication that like....the nutcracker is one of his stories where he just so happens to have a full self-insert who textually uses that power to make stories become reality. and that sure is a ballet. and from looking it up just now i’m learning that it was Based on a preexisting story, and, reading the wikipedia summary, i’m also remembering i’ve read an adapted-into-another-book version of this story, and it sure has another layer of “story interwoven with / becoming Reality” to it. anyways my point is i suppose, Watsonianly Speaking, prinz und rabe involving Ballet could’ve been Written Into It throughout all the characters, or maybe it’s just tutu who dances, which then becomes part of mytho’s character when her sacrifice like, bonds (part of? all? whomst can say) her to his heart. bless. doylean reason is this is a series about ballet and stuff

3) Another Briefly Mentioned thing when mytho talks about how he apparently could just naturally draw birds to him. and ahiru having that happen in the first episode/s is like, could be b/c she’s a bird or could be because she has part of the prince’s heart, as is emphasized like, immediately during the Bird Visit in ep 1. so i just had the thought like, a duck who cares about mytho gets to become tutu, but what if it was any other bird, surely it Could be. that fledgling canary he’s saving in episode 1 gets to become tutu mid-fall

4) i had some other Thought and i’ve forgotten it. well in the meantime thinking about how everyone dunks on Prinz Und Rabe Textual Lohengrin as the useless loser failure knight lmaooo but then like, that was just re: the One mentioned fatal raven encounter & also specifically about that lohengrin can’t protect the prince with his sword. but like, sure Behearted Mytho can probably exercise a little more discretion in risking his life to save whatever needs protecting, vs unsupervised heartless mytho diving out of windows, but can we really suppose he was That much more careful about staying safe vs impulsively throwing himself into a situation to save something at all costs. how much work did lohengrin do simply making sure the prince didn’t die in that sort of way. thank you lohengrin

5) oh right. i was thinking about Magic i think. s/o to the person who had the idea that when tutu sacrificed herself and turned into Light she might’ve merged with Good Magic in the story’s world, which the prince also had access to, and that’s how she kind of literally becomes part of him / they share powers / they share their Swan / Dance visual themes & stuff. & i was sure at one point wondering about the Forbidden But Granted Only To The Prince (own...?)-heart-shattering ability, like, maybe at some point an implicitly more specific verb was used like “taught,” or did the prince simply just Have the power by virtue of being the prince, or did it like, come from tutu who has the tie to the prince & Loved him & has those abilities to protect people’s Feelings, although maybe that’s just like, a choice and not inherently part of the magic lol. and then the Real World Magic we see is just like, inherited. but wait then there’s that bridge & ghosts & stuff, although there’s Stories about those too apparently. nvm this one’s really vague i’m just wondering if the Prince alone has that heartshattering Magic Technique through tutu or what. could be anything

6) but no really i think i had some other Thought, i’m sure it was great & ig i’ll reblog if it reoccurs to me, but i got distracted down another mental track so, you know, rip. in the meantime just thinking like, i have no imagination but was trying to muse on some sort of big Attack power the prince could have, b/c the classic thing to happen in the story (whether mentioned in its text or not) is for mytho to go ham with some such Power Surge [Magic Thing] to drive the raven away after lohengrin gets Got. even after he gets his full prince Abilities back he mostly only seems to Attack with his sword. damn wait a second and when he just like crashes Into the raven the big Swan Made Of Light appears first like hang on like is that Him? was it part of his Transport, can he like, Also turn into a swan of light or is it just how he Appears, was it tutu’s Hope Manifestation again since he’s being That to rue in that moment, oh my god. a lot to consider. anyways, but then the thing is, some sort of like Energy Blast move would go outside the realm of [fighting with the sword alone] and the prince’s Magic mostly seeming to be like, a mobility Boost, and how everything abt the prince is centered around Defense and Protection rather than going on the offensive. but then, who’s to say the Heart Shattering technique couldn’t be used as an Attack but was used by the prince only as a self-sacrificial protective thing, and who’s to say the prince Doesn’t have other powerful Attacks to draw from but refrains from using them if there’s others around to be hurt or whatever. i’m just trying to think of how the prince could just really go tf off and Immediately get the raven to fuck off after lohengrin is ko’d because that’s appropriately Tragically Dramatic & Emotion-Fueled Magic, not to mention the best case scenario vs still having to continue like 23 hours of battle when your boyfriend Just died. i mean like boom Light Blasts type situation i guess. or maybe he could just land a really good sword hit like Right Away. thinking about it. anyways

7) oh wait shit lmfao idk if this was The other thought but it was Another thought. that everyone in The Story (Within Reality) is like, locked in The Town (although they can leave if they’re not a Character / if they entered from outside? presumably) but in episode one this all kicks off b/c mytho was at The Lake which is Outside the town, right? i’m pretty sure. which like, is that something he Can and has been able to Do.....is this a. a liminal space. or did/does drosselmeyer like drop him over there sometimes For Some Reason, like having “stages” available around here, a la the s1 finale.....like, didn’t seem like he Knew if he put mytho in front of waterfowl that one would become devoted to restoring mytho’s heart. probably Does Not Matter, Actually, but it sure happened and much to Think about there. shoutout to mytho dancing en pointe whenever it’s magical and he can do so, e.g. when dancing naked on the surface of a liminal lake, or midair with tutu. iconic

8) the point is i’m sure just Thinking About Him (mytho)

[crystalsexarch]

Splinter - E

“Have you long been an untouched man, Exarch?”

-

Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Third and final part to the Muster/Free Day 4/Splinter trilogy. Hooded Exarch shenanigans. The Warrior of Light has received something from the Crystal Tower's keeper, and now he offers something in return.

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2020 FFXIV Writing Challenge

Bas’ir was panting. Cold from sweat. If he hadn't seen it himself, felt it throughout his whole body, he may have written it off as another half-dream. But no. Quite verily, he had come upon the regal floor of the Ocular. With the Exarch's curled fingers still inside him, he stared at his own leaking head and clenched his teeth to cut off a whimper.

He wanted to speak and explain himself, to iterate any reason he was just a pent-up warrior with the same base interests as any other man, but two truths tempered his biting tongue: firstly, he was coming to terms with the fact that he was capable of chasing the past as long as he blindfolded himself beforehand. He was willing to accept, to ask for pleasure from a shade of someone he had once loved—someone who had hurt him, someone who hurt to think about—as long as he could lie and tell himself he would take the same intimacy from anyone. Secondly, it felt very, very good.

Because it had been a while since someone else got him off? Because it was him? Or because it was anyone?

"You are...sly with your tricks," Bas'ir said, arching on the Exarch's hand, half-committed to holding it in place and shooting for another round. "As though you know what I'd have asked you for next."

The Exarch started, stopped, started again. He must have had at least as many words swirling beneath his cowl as Bas’ir had in his head. Couldn’t pick just one. “I’m...glad,” he finally said, “you haven’t found me lacking.”

“You can let go of my neck now,” Bas’ir said. “If you want. Unless perhaps…” He could’ve chewed his own heart it was so high in his throat. “You have changed your mind about developing this engagement further.”

The answer came too quickly in the form of the Exarch's choking hand of crystal slipping over Bas’ir’s shoulder. The fingers of flesh lingered for a tense ten-count more before retreating ilm by ilm, bending at the last moment then twisting out entirely. Bas’ir’s gasp echoed against those ancient walls when he was empty again. “Sorry,” Exarch said. Quiet. Unpowerful. Embarrassed.

“Why?” A shiver worked through his tail. “I liked it. I...would make myself useful to you, if you would allow me.” Yes, he had made the offer already, and even as his fingers fumbled at his buckle he wondered if there were a proper way to extend himself a third time. If only he could say I know. You don’t have to hide this body from me. My eyes are figuratively closed even as they are literally open. But he couldn’t. Wasn’t strong enough to start the first sentence, much less finish it. Kneeling with his back still turned to his impromptu partner, he cleared his throat and eyed the scarf he’d tossed halfway across the room. “I can...I can clean up, then. And be on my way for now. Exarch."

A weight dropped then on Bas’ir’s shoulder, a hand. The pleasure-weak Keeper nearly buckled over. He hadn’t even noticed the Exarch standing and now he had heavy fingers at his collarbone and a wobbling voice in his ears. “I would have you,” the Exarch said, clenching harder, so hard the implicit but never came out. But he did step forward.

Bas’ir kept his eyes down and turned his head back. This man was battling something. Perhaps he’d get his chance. “I will understand if you reject my advances,” he said. "After all, though I am...drawn to you, I can hardly say I trust you. I oughtn't expect you to trust me for anything but my aim."

“I should go no further.” The Exarch let go and stiffened his arms at his sides. Even through three layers of fabric, his erection was plain enough to see. He must've been speaking to himself more than he was speaking to the Warrior of Light. “Not after...everything I’ve—”

“I can close my eyes, Exarch. If that makes you more comfortable. Blindfold me.” Bas’ir shuffled his body around now. He was so close to what he wanted. Mouth open, his tongue hovered beneath white fangs. “I would not find that disagreeable, if you find it agreeable.”

The Exarch whipped his head to the side like he’d been slapped. His voice was a low, grinding sound. “I find you more agreeable than I ought to admit.”

“Heh.” Bas’ir blushed and ran his tongue across his fangs, wearing a crooked smile. “Just once I’ll do what you ask without complaining.”

-

G’raha wanted him so badly he didn’t care if he complained. And now, through some sick turn of fate, he was actually considering how far he might go. Couldn’t undress. Even covering the Keeper’s eyes seemed unwise. Fabric could be fickle. Perhaps some kind of glamour would work...but there wasn’t time to put that much thought into it, not with such an openly vulnerable face staring up at him with eyes like dark-rimmed saucers.

Battle had aged Bas’ir, but he looked younger when he wanted something that badly. He looked like the same creature who once hid beneath his desk at the Studium and sucked him off during office hours. And that memory certainly didn’t help the Exarch maintain his composure.

G’raha wanted to want something else—to turn him away and rush somewhere private where he could finish himself. That’s the most any responsible man would’ve done, but he couldn’t make it happen. Not after what he’d seen, heard, felt—Bas’ir’s pale skin lit with pink, the wet sounds of his hungry cock, the tight hole that both squeezed him and accepted his presence so easily. He nearly growled in frustration. “Your...your mouth should be enough.”

Yellow eyes glistened in victory. “Thank you, Exarch.” Like he’d been given a medal.

“Through my robes. That’s all.”

“If you insist…”

The Exarch felt the gaze upon the stiffness at his center and thought he should’ve been doing something with his hands instead of standing there like a horny mannequin. But Bas’ir, at least, seemed to know what to do with himself. He took one stretch of fabric in each hand and gently pushed them aside like he was drawing drapes.

“Have you long been an untouched man, Exarch?” Bas’ir said. “I trust you’ll stop me if my ministrations prove to be excessive.”

Anything would be excessive. They were far past that milestone. Now G’raha just needed to make it out alive and shrouded. “Of course.”

Bas’ir blinked slowly and started itching off his right glove.

G’raha jumped. “N-no,” he said. “Your mouth. Please, I’d rather you not…” Stumble upon my tail. “I’d...rather you not.”

“Very well.” The Keeper leaned on his hands and honed in.

G’raha closed his eyes.

Felt the first tap of tongue against him. Made it through the initial wave, bobbing beneath the pressure, the fabric’s friction.

Bas’ir sighed a tender little song when he wrapped his lips around the Exarch’s tip, wetting it with spit and sucking. His breath was warm like home. The hidden Seeker fought the urge to lodge himself too deep too quickly. This man knew what he was doing, taking things slow enough to slick the fabric first. He made his way down carefully until the wetness of the robe outlined G’raha’s long-neglected length. Bas’ir ran his flat tongue from tip to base, looking up into shadowed eyes. Then he closed his mouth around G’raha and drew back slowly, all the way back until his thin lips popped off. “Exarch…” he said with a measured pitch that would’ve passed as a lusty lullaby.

The Exarch gulped.

“I was afraid I would enjoy this this much,” Bas'ir said. Next, he set his lips on the target again and rocked back and forth on his hands. G’raha’s heart accelerated with every pass. On the first, he failed to suppress a tender sound. On the second, he had to tense his legs to keep himself from wilting away. And by the third—the Exarch had both of his hands threading through Bas'ir's hair, holding him as a lifeline, holding him too tight for comfort. And as he held, he bent his knees and fucked the lips around his stifled member, slipping easily in and out with spit soaking the bend in his robes. He thought he'd forgotten how to feed someone like that. But his body remembered, remembered so hard that even when he came he couldn't stop himself from working through each frame again. He lost the rhythm—became too sensitive to regain it—and spent no less than three minutes holding his lost love's head in place and unsteadily driving his throbbing, touch-starved cock in and out of a hole that somehow wanted him.

Bas'ir looked docile, his lashes long, his expression gentle. It belied how hard his tongue was working at G'raha's tip, flattening at the underside and flicking upwards, sometimes painting circles at his slit woefully hidden from direct contact. What finally made G'raha pull out wasn't his own hyper-sensitive hardness, but the realization that his partner was rubbing himself through his clothes.

G'raha let go and stumbled back and out, gasping.

Basir's eyes popped open and he wiped his mouth. "Is aught amiss?"

"I...I…" Wrong way to start the sentence. He looked left, right, then landed on his staff and dove for it. "You should go," he said now, as though the magic weapon had imbued him with a better backbone.

The Warrior’s ears drooped in time with a wince. He started looking side to side as well before standing and brushing off his pants. “I...I hope…”

“I know not whether your intimacy weakens or...or strengthens me,” G’raha said, fixing his red and white robes over that sore, suspicious spot. “Pray, let me reflect on what has happened here.”

“I don’t mean to leave you” —he gestured at the mess on the floor— “with more burdens than you had before my arrival.”

G’raha shook his head. “Be on your way, Warrior.” A smile briefly appeared on his face, then disappeared. “Worry not for me.”

Bas’ir shifted his weight and rolled his neck, but despite his noisy history, he said nothing but a simple farewell, preceded by three words G’raha could not recall the man ever uttering before.

“As you wish.”

Those soft words sounded awful coming out of his sharp mouth.

-

Bas’ir remembered to remove his prosthetic before drifting into bed this time, but he knew he would have strange dreams anyway. Dreams about conflict or curses or crystals or Exarchs. Perhaps all of the above, although his sleeping fantasies were hardly ever so direct a representation of what trouble him in the waking world.

What he remembered was a blank marble palace with swirling walls, ceilings, skies. He was sitting on a great white stair step when a blue figure sauntered into view and took his sweet time unblurring on his way from the horizon line. When finally his decorative gear fell out of the haze and into focus, Bas’ir rolled his eyes and offered a greeting before Bas’ir could speak. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve come to interrogate you,” the Bard Bas’ir said, propping one leg onto the staircase and one hand on his hip. His feathered cap looked unnaturally large. True Bas'ir hoped that in his own days as a musical warrior, he dressed more reasonably than this splinter of himself.

“What, pray tell, about?”

“About a poem you ought to remember. Do you remember it?”

True Bas’ir rolled his eyes. “Remember what? You haven’t even named it yet.”

“Why should I have to? It’s your bloody dream.”

“Out with it, you.”

“Royal Blood Royal Body.Living lightly and in haste, flowers have no time to waste. You don't know this? You haven't heard it?"

"I don't know if I've heard it, but I am quite certain I've no idea why you're dancing around with it like I’ve…" It started coming back to him. "...like I've left a stove on somewhere."

The dancer continued. "Like this, like this next. If they wish to live with love they must craft their petals of—"

"The finest of the rosy things, yes, yes."

"No." He shook his head and pursed his lips. "The finest of the fleeting things, I say. Beauty on their rosy wings. Do you see, now?"

Bas’ir sighed. “I seem to vaguely recall it.”

“The next line then. Two lines, if you can.”

He crossed his arms and furled his brow in annoyance. “Er...something about…loveliness is all you’ll see if with them you choose to be.”

This pleased Bas’ir’s other self, who nodded into the poem’s next part. “Yet there is another kind. Hardly searching you will find something that they call a weed. Yet it still grows from a seed—”

“Freshly blooming with less grace than the flower’s pretty face.”

The Bard raised his fist high and clenched it. “Do you wish for these things?”

Bas’ir answered dumbly. “Never. Only ‘cause they last forever.”

The Bard tilted his head left to right with an increasingly smug brand beneath his brow. “There’s but one more stanza, o, you who does not remember. Care to close us out?”

“No, not really.”

“Curse you, then. Curse your family!”

“You are insufferably…” Bas’ir sighed. “Perhaps though if you gave a chance to all the blooming garden plants, a certain precious thing would make its home just past your garden gate. A favored gorgeousness unending, its splendor always there befriending all the passing eyes it meets—every living being it greets would hear this endless beauty say ‘here forever I will stay.’” The Bard clapped and Bas’ir waited for the echoes of his two lucky little hands of flesh to finish booming throughout wherever they were before speaking again. "It wasn't even a very good poem."

The Bard tilted his head in slow motion with big, blooming eyes. "Then why...do you still remember it?"

“Because…” He squinted and looked at the ambiguously pulsing sky.

“Because...you…”

Like a bolt from the blue, it hit him. “Because I like it.”

“Because you like it.”

“And that’s okay.”

“That’s...okay.”

He decided then that he liked the Crystal Exarch very much. And that, perhaps, it was okay.

[knightofblades]

nighthold pt 4: doom of the doomlord

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 5 pt. 6

By the time they’d made it back down the stairs, the rest of their army had arrived. The noise of so many portals being opened at once jolted Reginald out of his reverie; Persicaria’s shared vision played through his mind still, and he tried not to let himself hope too much. It might come true. It is only a possibility now, one of many, and it depends entirely upon whether we succeed here. I cannot afford to act as though it is a certainty.

But then they were among the army, and such thoughts vanished. The far more important part now was arming himself, and for that he would need some very specific equipment. Since he hadn’t brought his own—they’d been given to Samric while he held down the fort at home—he would have to requisition replacements.

The Argent gunnery sergeant eyed him warily when he told her what he wanted. “With all due respect, Crusader, are you sure? I mean, your condition…”

Reginald drew himself up, closing some of the height difference between him and the night elf. “I am very sure. We face demons, do we not?”

“…I ought to make you sign a waiver,” she muttered, but obligingly handed over the gear he’d asked for—a blessed rifle, a belt of sanctified grenades, and a sack of bullets that stung his hands.

He couldn’t help the sigh of relief as he took them, sliding the gun’s carrying strap between his pauldron and breastplate so it wouldn’t slip. Being able to charge into battle sword-first was fine, but when you were facing demons it was much better to have options. There were some that inconveniently couldn’t be stabbed, after all.

“You’re carrying that into the field?”

He half turned to look up into Corporal Jenkins’ disapproving face, narrowing his eyes in response. “What’s wrong with it?”

The big felblood shrugged, wings rustling. “Nothing’s wrong. But…I could make some adjustments, I think. It wouldn’t be any trouble, I’ve already got my tools out working on Jameston’s pistols.”

He took a moment to consider. On one hand, the engineer’s gadgets so far hadn’t exploded or killed anything they weren’t supposed to. On the other…well. Thammuz was a felblood. Light only knew what he’d consider a necessary modification.

Wordlessly, he handed the rifle over and went to find Aya and tea. They would have some time before the next stage of the offensive; though he didn’t strictly need rest, his experience after the attack on Light’s Hope had proven that it was still useful. With her head tucked under his chin, it was easy to fall into a state of torpor.

It seemed like far too short a time before Thammuz was bouncing up to them, carefully proffering Reginald’s rifle in gloved hands. “Those Kirin Tor fucks are leading the charge; here’s your gun. I can’t do much with all the Light in this thing but it ought to be more accurate now.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Holy weapons though? Really?”

Aya’s ears settled at a very smug angle. “My Reggie is very resourceful.”

He knew he was probably turning bruised at the praise, but shrugged casually as he got to his feet. “You know some things can’t just be slain with swords.”

“…Okay, yeah, but you’re dead, isn’t that dangerous?”

He raised an eyebrow. By his side, Aya was starting to grin. “You have met my fiancée.”

Thammuz rolled his eyes. “Is it a dead guy thing? I’m going to ask Jameston. HEY, BILL!”

Reginald ignored him; rifle over his shoulder, he went to catch up to the squadron of Kirin Tor that were storming the felborne ahead of them. By the time he reached them—dratted mages, capable of moving many times faster than he could—a massive infernal had fallen to their spells, and he had to put on a turn of speed to ensure he was near the front of the pack. Whatever was ahead of them past the broken bridge, he was not going to shrink from it.

When Krosus burst from the water, he stopped so suddenly he almost tripped over his feet. No. Oh no, not again.

(Tirion, screaming, and he was too far away to help)

But it was already raising a fist, and in the next breath his horrified shock gave way to bubbling fury. Before he could think, he was charging; if he built up enough momentum, it would be easy to leap and clamber up into stabbing range, and it was so large it wouldn’t be able to stop him. If he could just—

Its fist came down, and half the bridge crumbled. The shockwave knocked him off his feet, and he had to roll to avoid shattering the glass of his holy-oil canisters. When he gained his balance again, crouching behind the rubble, he looked around for Aya and found that she’d fallen back; as he watched, she lifted her spear and sent a bolt of Light into its face.

Now to see whether Jenkins’ work is actually useful. Taking a deep breath, he loaded his gun and squinted down the barrel. A shotgun would have been more comfortable in his hands, but the added range of a rifle would put him farther from certain death; Krosus didn’t seem to be able to rise from the water, but those fists and the barrage of felfire it was throwing were dangerous enough that it didn’t need to.

He’d discovered it was easier to shoot after death, with no beating heart or too-fast breathing to distract him. As he adjusted his grip, he felt the wood warm through his gauntlets, the Light imbued into the bullet reacting to his intent. When he pulled the trigger, it wasn’t a flash but a beam of holy Light lancing across the battlefield and into the demon’s eye; the recoil almost jolted his shoulder out of the socket, but as it reeled and swung wildly around, he managed to scramble to his feet and draw his sword. Time to run interference. “For Tirion!”

And this, this was easy; he’d done this sort of dance before. Dodge and keep moving, never be where the fire was after it started seeping through his armor, always be just one step ahead of his opponent—he couldn’t do much more than sting its knuckles, but he didn’t need to as long as it was focused on him and not on his allies behind him. His only job now was to give them time to mount an offensive, time to focus their attacks and bring the monster down. Rage gave him energy; somewhere behind him Rythien’s voice was raised in a steadily chanted prayer, and it filled his mind as shadows coiled around him like a protective second skin. My hand is the hand of the Light, the strength of my arm is its strength, where I walk is sacred ground.

As felfire rained from the sky and Krosus bellowed, “Everything you love will burn!” Reginald barely heard it. Now that it was safe to do so, a shadow was spreading over him, and he didn’t need to turn to know it was cast by someone with agate-slice wings and a hide of glowing stone.

He felt his lips curl into a smile as he sliced sideways, severing a tendon in the demon’s wrist and pinning its hand to the stone. With the fury of the Light, I will scour you from this earth.

Superheated air, the desert’s inferno made manifest, wasn’t quite Holy Light, but it was close enough for the more practical, demon-slaying aspects. Krosus certainly wasn’t expecting it, which made it all the sweeter when he got to see the expression on its face right before it was messily obliterated.

As its body sank, he turned to see Aya mantling her wings in her dragon form. “Darling, have I told you I love you yet today?”

“Well, I could stand to hear it again…”

An arcane image of Khadgar was taking misty shape among the spellcasters, and he took a slow breath as the mage began to speak. He’s right; that was for the Highlord. But…it’s not over. True justice for Fordring and all those we’ve lost will only come when Gul’dan lies dead.