#duraxxor

[gravekeeper-anna]

A Gravekeeper's Respite

{Mood Music}

The lady phantom exited the flesh that she regularly inhabited with ease, and faced it. A thoughtful ‘hmm’ left her, studying like some spectral mortician might have reflected on the work of the prepared dead before its final presentation. In the bowels of the Gravekeeper’s mausoleum, coming into view of a ghost staring closely at itself in the flesh was not the strangest sight to be seen, but it was a memorable one.

{ Writing below the line for length. }

The transmutation of the new layer of skin had spread surprisingly quickly, a ripple effect that had stretched from the left side of the body and completed the chest trunk. The skin had already molded to completion through the face, throat and right shoulder. Pale of pallor, yet with the slightest hue of blue, like a corpse that had been denied breath for too long as it sunk beneath the water. Strange that it seemed smooth like real skin, even given an elasticity. Strange that it began to resemble her ghostly core, the amphora threads that went into the skin’s modification molding it further to her own spectral identity. The Korthic-touched threads had blended well with the necrotic magic that had remade her, adjusting with a hauntingly beautiful synchronicity.

Anna ached to hear the keys of creation when they were first slipped into her broken body by her benefactor; they had long been muffled as they melded into her, helping to tether the sinew and dead fiber to her new skin. She turned, floated to the small urn where she had kept her remaining gift - the four threads of creation itself. At her paranormal urging, the threads floated from their vessel, precious glowing strands that slowly drifted in the air, giving their soft light to the darkness of her lair. She touched them with little hesitance; unlike the Light they did not burn her deathly countenance, only gave her the tentative keys of query in response, like the musical chimes of a piano in gentle, questioning refrain.

The painfully rare building threads were contained in their matrix for every existing entity in Azeroth, perhaps even the unknown universe itself. Endless, precious potential in such delicate little threads. And they were hers, a token of pure possibility, given to a Handmaiden of Death. Gently, she willed the threads down around her body’s throat, like the all too delicate chains of a necklace. She would have to secure them on her person.

Lady Handhour knew she could never be without them again.

Sensation had already been less of a numb affair. A night breeze whisking across her skin was in itself an uncomfortable surprise: she had been dead to sensation for so long. It had created an uncertainty enough to drag herself down to the stillness of her mausoleum, and part from the body. To feel again – she was not sure she liked that. It was horridly distracting.

Still, she re-entered the flesh, letting her spirit fold into the form and merge. A fluid re-possession, perhaps more fluid than ever before. She lifted her arms, her hands, curling her fingers upward to touch the glowing threads now around her neck with an errant smile. Concentrating, she willed her skin to harden with a floe of ice and was instead answered with the skittering feeling of itching, beneath her skin, and over it. Like ants, crawling in and atop her damned new skin. A huff of dismay expelled from her lips. The urge to peel and scratch it all off was too tempting.

Of course after the Nethermancer’s hard work, she would do nothing but earn a quick anger for ruining it, she assumed. He had promised as much. She could do less with his presence, she decided, thankful as she was. He reminded her too deeply of old days, and left her somewhere between cautious fascination and querulous thought. More layers of her funerary garments and chain armor were slipped on to muffle and blanket the sensitive skin. She calmed the shadowy flow of her hair with her black veil, and felt better prepared in her physicality. 

The demon would be interested in him, Anna considered. Then again, the demon’s eventual curiosity could have ruined his willingness to help when she had needed it, perhaps. And it was likely she would still need the Nethermancer’s assistance in the future, the way plans had been made. It was far too soon to let such skeins be followed, let alone potentially entangle, though she herself was darkly curious to see where the consequences the demon left in her wake could lead.

Or perhaps he did not need to be a target of the succubus’ little games. Infuriatingly egotistical as the Warlock could be, he did know how to bat around a good joke with her without missing a beat. And that was something. It was a situation that required ruminating, perhaps for a good month in some icy tundra until her skin acclimated fully and stopped with the incessant itching. Even her icy aura was losing effect now, as he said it would.

The Storm Peaks did sound very nice around this time of year.

“Little Dove?” 

The Gravekeeper's attention was drawn away from her thoughts and to the familiarity of the voice and measured footfalls, echoing down into the dark chamber of her catacombs. A beat of footsteps that clearly had permission to enter before. An uninvited guest would have met with a great deal of resistance, many groping hands and all the unpleasantness of Maldraxxian traps.

The Doctor’s shadow stretched across her walls by torchlight as he paraded down the final flight to her, and already she felt her delight in his familiarity. But it was not the skeletal form that she had given him that took his final steps to the lowest floor of her lair. Standing now like a lurking omen was a plague doctor in traditional fashion, staring at her through the eye holes of a mask shaped into a beak. 

“Dr. VanDall?” she replied in something of a gasp. Her chuckle now echoed across the chamber, a humor born of both a natural and otherworldly design. “Quite the theatrical look now. Did you tire of looking at your skeleton?” she teased. The Gravekeeper drew close to inspect her ward, more fluid in movement than she was before. She had expected to feel the mark of her haunt on him, a mark that allowed her to keep all of her ghostly wards in check, until she knew they were ready to be released from her Watch. 

The mark was nonexistent, and it drew her to a stillness.

She could not feel the Doctor’s haunting presence, which meant he had slipped past the barrier of bone and soul, and into…flesh. Without her guidance. Her delight dwindled to cautious surprise. “You have possessed a body on your own?” The soft surprise quickly turned into an indignant offense. “You have shed the skeleton I made for you? Like trash, didn’t you? Picked up this slab of meat from the gutter?” Her arms crossed over each other, none too thrilled as she distanced herself. 

Ever the gentleman, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back and waited for her to finish speaking.  He could sense her ire, and he watched with a dose of patience as she spiralled out of her carefully held reservations and into a vortex of anger. This was an interesting scenario to participate in, and he desired to know its outcome.

“Well. It seems you are not in need of a Keeper anymore, are you? Why ever would you return to me?” Her lilting tone darkened as she became more incensed with assumptions, a mutter captured by the many layered baleful echoes of her own phrasing. “Or what, Doctor? Have you got yourself in some trouble? Thought you’d bring your bloody little mess now to me?” The thought made the Keeper volatile, little pebbles on the catacomb floor beginning to shudder under the power of the nascent supernatural influence she held of the grounds. “I will tell you now, I do not have time for the problems you have made for yourself!” Small objects would rattle around his feet, skulls rolling, a pebble or two violently pinging off of the Doctor’s helm. 

“Need?" he answered. "No, no I am not in need of a Keeper, but that does not lessen my desire to be near a lady whom I… [owe my life to]... am so greatly fond of.”  Warrick’s voice was a rich rumble, muffed slightly by the heft of his mask, but no less provoking.  The low cadence rolled off of his tongue with the practiced inflection of an educated man.

Thumb and forefinger rubbed together in his gloved hand, the soft leather whispering at his back, as he considered the implications behind her annoyance.  ���Trash, you say?  The gutter?”  The Doctor tilted his head curiously to one side, studying her further.  [I wonder if she knows she appears more beautiful when she is angry.]  His eyes traced the shape of her face, the wisps of her hair, and he found himself lost within the haunting ebony strands as they danced about, defying gravity. 

“I placed a great deal of consideration into which body I would possess, and admittedly I did it to surprise you.”  He stroked the chin of his mask, lost in contemplation.  He never fully considered his ‘initiative’ would have the potential outcome of evoking her wrath.  [I should have weighed the potential effect this might have had on her emotional state more carefully.]

“I would never rid myself of such a thoughtful gift.  It is a lasting reminder of my time with you, dear Anna and it resides in a place of honor in my study.  I tend to it the way I know you would have me do… with great care and attention.  I hope you do not mind the little spider making a maze of webbing inside the skull?  She seems quite content to stay where you placed her, and I could never separate her from her home.”  There was no trouble to be had, only burgeoning ambition on his part.

“Speaking of homes, I would very much love to show you my humble abode, but it appears you are already preparing for travel.”  His masked visage dipped toward her belongings.  “Going somewhere, little Dove?”  The sudden shift in the Doctor’s voice hinted toward his disappointment.

Skull, bone and stone seemed to drop from the vortex of her ghostly influence gradually as the Gravekeeper’s rage began to abate, though torchlight still flickered with their unholy blue influence. Something like shattering glass sounded, nearly deafening the lower floor as she surrounded herself in a veil of hoarfrost, her yellow eyes shifting to the icy blue of the torchlight. 

Courteous and pleasing as his words attempted to be, there was no full way to earn her grace in this moment. There was only the pervading, pensive sense that she had been somehow betrayed, and the wrong action or the wrong words could start the unholy tempest of her rage again in a matter of seconds. Her ire was a chilling sting – such passionate and volatile emotion did not abate so easily for a banshee. At least the Doctor was not thrown from his feet.

“The skeleton is no longer yours to keep, and I am not your “Little Dove”, she replied with a quieter, creeping tone, each word a virulent fall of sound. As she grasped the hilt of her runed spade, a dozen more phantom hands manifested from the necrotic core of her being, some aiding her to grasp the hilt, another finding a particular skull to fill its fingers with. 

He studied her, unmoving, even as pebbles plinked off his mask. The changes in her demeanor were something he considered more fascinating than alarming.  It brought about more questions than there were likely answers for, but he kept these inquiries to himself for the time being.  The Doctor’s was a brand of calm that had been cultivated by ages of professionalism and patience.

“I am leaving, Doctor, but that is not your concern,” she explained as she moved toward him with deceptively delicate steps, the head of the spade hitting the stone floor as she walked. Her black hair flowed all around her like the billowing shadow it was, the lichfire glow of her eyes fixed to the eyeholes of his avian mask. “All you need to be quite concerned with is making sure you bring that skeleton out of ‘your study’ and to my catacombs, where it bloody belongs. And all you need to understand is that if you go galavanting in your new flesh and cause full issues for our kind, or betray the Forsaken? I will hunt you down by the threads of your sad little soul, and tear you apart piece by piece myself as recompense.”

“As you wish, my Lady.  I shall have it returned to you immediately… glassweb spider and all.”  He bowed low, keeping one hand behind his back while the other outwardly expressed his apology.  Warrick would not grasp her hand, for he understood hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  He was no stranger to the tempestuousness of a woman, and he knew no amount of effort on his part would soothe her.  This was an ailment that needed to simply run its course and the Doctor was content to prescribe a time of rest and self care.  Experience had also taught him that inflammation was a symptom… and its cause required treatment if it were to improve.  [Something has changed.  This is not the behavior one would expect from a Dove.]

The Gravekeeper shoved past the Doctor, buffering with her many ghostly hands, and continued to the top of her mausoleum’s stairs to the outer yard of her small cemetery yard.

Warrick stepped aside, righting his posture as she stormed past him in a flurry of unbridled emotion.  Gloved fingers pinched the brim of his hat and he tipped it toward her in polite farewell.  If she was to be a hurricane, he would be the eye of her storm– placid and resolute.

[Though I do wish to keep the hat.]  He thought to himself.  He had grown quite fond of the gift she had given him.  It reminded him of her bubbling excitement, and he wanted to treasure that part of her.  “A safe journey to you, Anna.  Wherever you may choose to wander.”  A small part of him wondered if she planned to return, but the logical half understood she would not abandon her ‘haunt.’

“I shall remain here, eagerly awaiting your return.”  He was not so easily discouraged.  This might be a setback, but it was nothing he could not remedy.

Annaliese sighed irritably at what amounted to be promises that one would never keep, in her own mind. Once one had a form of flesh, their aims often became their own, she found. History had shown her that even the dead could speak many words and promises, but it was their own ambitions that became the driving force of their will. She could guide, she could befriend, and she could help her kind find their rest or start on their new life, but the Keeper was only a stepping stone that none required a return to when they had learned, or taken what they wanted. Perhaps it was why her ghostlings had grown to be such precious companions. They, in the interim, would always need her guidance.

The living were always less impressive with their promises, she thought, cementing her eternal grudge. It was a grudge that also included those undead that fully betrayed their own kind, convincing themselves they could be somehow ‘saved’ if they lived, ate and worshipped like the living. She silently credited the Doctor with finding a new corpse to inhabit - she had sensed no heartbeat in the masked form, and his eerie, calculating calm was intact. He had done one thing right, at least.

Beyond that, the Gravekeeper had a particular way for those Lost that sought her help, a series of steps to assure they were ready that were in place for logical reasons. And the Doctor simply fled ahead without any regard to her own system! He had seemed a logical soul. The least the man could have done was consult her before such a body hop! Unbelievable! Still she fumed as she latched the rest of her few belongings to the Undercity Plaguebat that made its lair in the deeper part of her haunted thicket. The creature towered over her, nearly as tall as her mausoleum itself. 

And of course, she was terribly, terribly itchy, and it made her as volatile as a Maldraxxian Flayedwing in some paradoxical heat. In time, she hoped, her new skin would not be in such a vexing condition.

The mutated Greatbat lowered one of its clawed hands to gently clutch her and help the Forsaken rider into the candlelit seat of its harnessed saddle. From her vantage point, she let herself be distracted by the foggy view of Tirasfal, spotting the transient glowing forms of Lost curving down the dense path to her resting place. She had marked each that did not directly follow her train with her own presence, assuring that she would have eyes in the Forsaken’s lands in her absence. It was possible that new lives would be lost in the place and new unbound phantoms made, but the others would keep them in check as far as they could.

The Keeper’s eye was drawn to the flickering crimson in her periphery, a single crimson phantom hand that did not dissipate with the others that had manifested. It seemed the stark reminder that she had one single thread of unfinished business before she could be away. Up in the air, she urged the monstrous bat, until it neared the Ruins of Lordaeron, and urged it to carefully land outside of its gates, far from the still rolling plague that occupied the city’s space. 

The Batlord was still one entity that she did not fully trust herself to anymore - a lengthy talk was needed to attempt to repair the rift that had formed. But she did trust him to wield her Dirge effectively, and bring unholy retribution down among those that would wrong the Forsaken, if need be. He had proven such things before with her return.  Gently, she placed her signature piece as a Gravekeeper at the gates where he once found it before, when he had claimed it in a rage with her fall.

“I’ll leave the Gravekeeping to you, my toothy friend. Come and claim my Dirge. Just for the little while,” Anna spoke to the red phantom hand, knowing the one linked by the blood-mist appendage could hear her. “And we’ll have that cup of tea again when I return, I do think.”

And with that, Gravekeeper took once more to the air, and left Tirasfal behind. The Storm Peaks, and hopefully a certain cold peace, awaited her.

{ Special thanks to @the-plagued-d0ctor for their part in collaboration. Soft mentions of @nixalegos and @duraxxor }

[handhourgalleries]

Headshot Portrait Commissions of @duraxxor's Warcraft Oc's, Fel'thamar (Left) and Solextras (Right). These commissions were gifted by @nyyght!

Commission Info Carrd || Ko-Fi

[duraxxor]

Harken ye wary soul, to the depths of the yesteryear. To the time before the monster and man. Who was he? What was he? How did he come to be what he is?

Come forth blooded one, show us who you really are.

Deep within the Sanctum of Solitude, the Lord stirred at his desk where he had chosen to often answer so many questions for his curious, little shadows. As of late, they had been quiet but not completely silent. There was one in particular that had tickled his hairs on the back of his neck. One of which possessed far more depth that he needed to think upon. A consultation of one’s inner self if you would. Scribbled on a note, the interest was placed upon him. Ashen lips began to read it off with amusement. 

“Harken ye weary soul, to the depths of yesteryear. To the time before the monster and man. Who was he? What was he? How did he come to be what he is? “The reciting twisted with a hint of laughter within his lungs. “Come forth blooded one, show us who you really are. “

The scribbled parchment was laid upon the treated, aged wood with care. Gloved talons carefully receding back into the darkness that shrouded his figure. Crimson glints peered off towards yonder as he kept his thoughts silent for just a moment. A gruff chuckle escaped him as he finally decided that it was time to answer this inquiry on his identity. 

“Quite the hungry one, are we? Though, in the simplest answer I may provide, you have already answered your own question. I have always been a man and monster. From the day I was born all the way to this very second you draw breath. “The lanterns of red seemed to tilt a certain way before a faint, hissing sigh was administered. “But I am certain that will not sate your appetite, will it? “

THWOMP!

Out of nowhere, a hunting dagger was jabbed into the old parchment dead center. The crimson eyes seemed to vanish just before they realized that on the end of the Thalassian designed blade was being held not by the hand of a child. The silhouette in the dark seemed to have dropped in height. Within those shadows, two azure eyes opened, staring vividly in towards the curious ones. 

“What is it most mortals start off as? “The voice had changed, striking a lighter pitch. An unaltered tone of youth. The sound is awaiting to bud into maturity in the years to come. Harsh years that were already seen in the span of merely a few decades. “Innocence. Ignorance. Dependence. Envious. Oh yes, most envious! “The young giggled, allowing it to repeatedly echo through the space. The twin jewels in the night turned wayward with the snap of a tiny, bony neck. Their hues seem to transition to a blue green. 

“The correct answer is a child. A young boy. Bastardized son of a mother. Cursed child with a scar. Troublemaker. Hehehehe… “The turquoise eyes went half-lidded as another giggle from his lips. The child-like hand now drags the blade of his knife across the table, carving a jagged line across it in a slow manner. But after a moment of giggling, everything came to a halt as the dagger approached the edge. A memory tickled his throat, bringing his eyes to grow into wide saucers.

“... A friend. I was a friend to one. One that wasn’t ripped from me as some before her. One that I would one day call my wife. “Once more, those eyes closed halfway, shaking left to right as indicated in their animations. “... You know, children are a lot like the Durian fruit. They can make one reel like the stench of hot garbage, but most of them are actually sweet on the inside like a caramel custard. It is their raising that leads them down the path to rotting on the inside. It is a gradual decay that festers and makes the most bitter, jealous creatures. “ 

The handheld dagger finally slipped into the veils of shadows once more, leaving nothing more than a sliced paper that was slowly turning into shavings, fine like sawdust. Something about it wasn’t quite right. Why would a slice cause it to break down into the original substance it was composed of in the lumber mill? 

“You referred to me as a blooded one? “The voice continued in its child-like manner, seeming to fall into a bittersweet tone. “That day was quite the bloodsport, wasn’t it? The day everything changed. A mother’s love stolen. A friend was abandoned. The life of a drunkard reaped. And a boy painted in crimson. That would not be the last time that child was made to paint. Wolves would not relent. And I am not referring to just the fuzzy ones. Hungry beasts take on the form of man. A man often has a bottomless stomach in their greed. “ 

The child grew solemn, eyes turning a sickly green. Their stance looked almost sorrowful in the slanted shape. “… I envy you all. You all have titles and belongings thrusted upon you. I had nothing. I devoured the fear and bile in my heart. The betrayals I had been given at birth. I am a Monster. Get that through your brains, you numbskulls. “Another cacophonous case of giggles escaped his throat, this time twisting in their octave as the sound of bone and sinew squelched. His laughter winding into a wheezing that threatened to snuff out his last breath, hacking and coughing up a lung as those glows of his eyes suddenly vanished into the night. 

The conversation grew silent. The mass behind the desk seems to return to its familiar shape. The azure glow slowly returned in a similar fashion to the crimson edition. They possessed a softness. A calm. A collection of variations if you would. And from within the darkness, a gloved hand reached forth and began to grasp the wooden dust between the ends of his pointer and thumb finger. The Lord’s voice billowed, "I hope you still have an appetite, dear shadow. Because there is more to the story. For my story does know of more love, sorrow, and anger in the various years to come. My return to the world was one paved on blood and stone, but not without an attempt to have reason. And that reason for the abandoned friend that I would call my wife. Stealing her from the hands of hungry wolves may have painted a target on my back, but they know of nothing more than under the table cowardice. And rest assured… they will all right the wrongs they have committed. In time. “ 

Fragments of the disenchanted note fell from his fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass, rejoining the pile below. “I became a man. A husband. A soldier. And eventually… a father of two. “And then it hit him, causing him to repeat another statement. “You referred to me as a blooded one. Perhaps you are even more accurate than you anticipated? Blood seems to follow me wherever I may walk. Perhaps my state of being is simply a punishment? For I had stolen the lives of those that were declared an enemy to another. Trained to be a weapon in the shadows that does not look back once the dagger is plummeted into the heart of the issue. If only I had chosen to not walk into that frigid war that time ago. “ 

There was regret in his words. The blue in his eyes faded in the recesses of his sockets. What remained of the light that was blessed upon the desk also slipped away. The spotlight came to a close and with it, the show was over. But you know what they say with every show? There must always be an encore. 

“Am I Alphus? Am I Duraxxor? Am I the White Lynx? Am I the Lord Myotis? The Faceless? A child? A man? A monster? “His words echoed in the chambers of nothingness. And when his words ceased to exist, he would leave the audience with a parting gift to think upon. “The correct answer is... All the Above. “

[[ Soft mentions of @arrydhalia for a tags]]

[kelzthalassunwhisper]

" You appear to be someone that doesn't quite understand where they are going? Yet, you have been here for some time. " A voice of worn baritone from what appeared to be a rather, grizzled elven man. A crimson scar wrapped around his entire jawline, paired with a patch of fabric over his left eye. A once azure gaze now possessed the depth of the oceans outside the walls. It was hard to say what age this man was. But one thing was for certain, he had the appearance of a veteran that chose to wear his old uniform that had seen better days. There was even a tattered cloak concealing his left arm. Lazily, he sat on one of the curled benches with a book clutched in his unconcealed hand.

The days had definitely lost their charm after the incident beyond the Shepherd's Gate. Her focus was unsteady due to the emotional burnout and physical exhaustion of her body and spirit. She drifted towards the bench, seemingly unaware of her surroundings as bare hands lifted to dig along the tresses of blonde hair. A deep breath was taken in before it was expelled in a weary sigh.

The words of the stranger caught her off guard, forcing her to straighten her posture and re-orient herself in her guardian regalia. With a brief glance she thought for a moment he might be referring to someone else. But his blue eye didn't seem to be bearing down on anyone but her. Seeing the eye patch and noting what uniform her wore, she cleared her throat lightly.

"Sometimes you don't know where your next steps will take you," she confessed as she leaned back against the bench to look outward from him. "But if you are familiar with my associations here, you would be correct. I have been here a while..."

Perhaps it was in this moment that she was considering her resignation with the Silvermoon Guard. But that was not a question to address now, but a thought for another moment in time. Instead, she turned to glance at him.

"Do you still serve?" She asked upon making that connection to his uniform and looking him over once more. "Apologies for not introducing myself sooner, Commander Kelz'thalas Sunwhisper." Her bare hand was offered to the man as she offered a small smile to offset any hesitation or suspicions on her part.

@duraxxor - ;3 thank you for the ask

[safrona-shadowsun]

{Excerpt from some ongoing rp with @duraxxor that we laughed at ;))

Plop.

The old fisherman had taken notice of the new arrival to the Tavern of the Mists, given him a long stare, then returned to his cast of his fishing line, content to watch his little cat-shapped bobber make ripples in the water. The younger Pandaren on the porch took longer notice at the crimson clad visitor, stopping mid-beat of a welcome rug. He turned to briefly yell inside the tavern in preparation. “Ah, new visitor! Put on more tea!”

The masked stranger watched carefully as the local folk didn't seem to mind even his appearance the slightest. Of course, who really could with the variety of people that came in and out of this remote area of Pandaria? There was a twinkle in his singular eye as the young one made a note to start new tea for him.

Duraxxor's voice picked up smoothly as he said, " I appreciate the hospitality but I seek the one you may call the Courier, Safrona Shadowsun. Have you seen her?

No eyelash was batted, no stare was given beyond the welcoming one the young Pandaren gave as he nodded indelibly, before stopping mid nod, and cocking his head with performative thoughtfulness. “I may, I maaaaay, traveller,” he spoke, stroking an imaginary beard as he ‘mused’.

He then grinned and in a most striking impersonation of Illidan Stormrage, boomed, “You are not prepared!” A packaged bean bun was suddenly tossed, and hip bumped to Duraxxor. “Now you are prepared! Maybe!” he stated with a full belly laugh. “What do I call you?"

There was a stiffness about Duraxxor in that moment as the child approached with his impersonating banter. That singular eye winced a bit, giving signs that beneath the masquerade was a smile. " You know, that was pretty good, young one. "

With an idle bending, he knelt down and procured the bean bun, softly opening it to apply it just beneath the mask. " I am a man of many names, but I wonder... what is it you wish to call me, friend? "

After finishing his statement, the bun vanished from sight, almost as if it were immediately consumed into the void itself.

The Pandaren blinked at the magically vanishing beanbun and then guffawed. "MagicMan! That is what I will call you!"

He leaned forward in a cartoonishly bold gesture, animatedly speaking with the cadence of a Southshore Pirate now: "Or do I call ye "HungryMan, lad?"

The masked stranger rubbed his protected chin in thought. Magicman or Hungryman? Hmmmm. Those were certainly traits that he possessed outside of what was best described as his identity.

This child was quite entertaining.

" Hungry Magic? Mungryman? " It seemed he was willing to play along with the vivid imagination this Pandaren had.

" Ahoy lad, there's treasure to be had. The Courier be hiding the stash of Rum on her flagship! " His own pirate came out in him, swinging his arm in his own cartoonish nature.

The boy had another hearty laugh for “Mungryman” as he started up the misty path from the humble tavern, pausing a moment to let his company catch up.

“She be doin’ no hidin’ of anyting, mon,” he smoothly shifted to another syntax, perfectly emulating the often musical accent of the Zandalari, or another tribe of troll.

“De lady be generous to dem who prove dey wort’, eh?” He then hunched over and stretched out his arm, pointed 3 furry fingers in Dura's direction, much how a troll might point.

“Ya be nice, don't make trouble when y'step inta her parlor, she may be givin’ ya a taste o’ de Rum, or any nectar ya like.”

A wide grin, and the Pandaren stepped into a swirl of mist that seemed to enshroud him.

“But de first test? Dat be gettin’ up de mountain to ‘er in de first place! Hah!”

And with that, the mist seemed to take Seon away, disappearing entirely.

The following of this strange Mungryman was fluid in steps. It was as if he were a bit of a shadow attached to the boy's back. He stared through his masquerade, finding the child to be intriguing with his own impersonations. What a coincidence, he was quite the impersonator himself. But to see this child going from pirate to Zandalari was quite the feat.

"Hmmmmmm. You seem to know the lady quite well. And dare I say, that is good to hear. " He bowed his head, feeling as though the truth of the matter was coming out and when Seon disappeared and made it a note to tell Mungryman that he was needing to journey up the mountain. A dramatic pause was offered before he howled out in laughter.

" Hahahahahah! Good show! Welp.. it seems it's time I made my way up the mountain then. I suppose I should not be surprised... "

And so, Mungryman went on his way up the first elevation in his step.

In the absence of his young host, the cold fog of the Veiled Stair seemed sharper, cloudier, inhospitable. It obscured Dura's path, directionless, a mist buffetting what seemed a stalking intruder rather than the invited.

Foreign noises haunted the cold mountain fog, threatening to lead him to a steep drop, should it see fit to lead a monster astray. Some percussive beat could be heard around him, alike a wardrum, and a voice boomed from that pattern heartbeat: a gravelly, strong voice of a famous orc Shaman.

"You stalk the elements like a hunter, but seek to sit at the table as a guest? If you think for a moment to draw blood, you will want to turn back here and now. You will not find what you want."

As playful as his host had been, clearly this 'game' was dead serious in delivery. The "Courier" was well-protected.

When the voice of a shaman made a note to call him out on how it is he approached, there was a pause in his step. Duraxxor's senses arose from their depths and began to pinpoint where the voice was at least coming from to some degree. For every sound had an echoing source.

However, considering that the orc was not directly attacking him, he ceased going on the offensive. His stance loosened and his head tilted to the side.

"Sharp eyes and rightfully so. However, I did not come to battle or to commit violence. I have come seeking an audience to exchange words and perhaps even an apology for an error, so to speak.

" His sincerity shown, possessing a calm that the mist itself could often bring another. But the Lord would not leave it at that.

". . . I will only continue if allowed. But if I am denied, then I will discontinue wasting everyone's time. "

The 'orc's voice could not be pinpointed from one source, awash on waves of mist that slipped from all directions of the obscuring fog.

"The elements judge you, and find you wanting..." the voice boomed again, and some crackle of jade lightning cascaded from the right, then left of Dura's periphery.

And then ...the mist cleared for the large ball of fur that rolled out before him, perfectly balanced in a martial pose that imitated a dragon. Just as it seemed the young Pandaren might strike, he shifted to a slumping casual stance and shrugged.

"--Wanting a drink probably! Hah! Okay, yeah buddy, you're clear!"

Seon laughed as the mountain mists further cleared for a pair of intricately carved gates, topped with the regal wooden heads of cloud dragons. Beyond that, a neatly curated garden cut an entrance way for a traditional Pandaren retreat.

"It's been real, Mungryman. Just, y'know. Don't bring in any weapons or cast offensives or other funny business, or they'll throw you off the mountain."

Seon bowed, both paws clasped in front of him in a prayer-like pose, then switched one of his hands to deliver a sideways peace sign. "PEACE BRO."

And again, the mysterious young Pandaren seemed to be enveloped in mist, disappearing from sight.

Duraxxor, aka Mungryman, had passed the test, and the Elysium Sanctum awaited.

[miss-niki-draculesti]

" I am so sorry about your dress. I will pay for it. "

“Oh, no. I’m the one that bumped into you..” She waved her hand. The young woman was just about to leave the bar when she, being distracted by her phone, walked right into the stranger before her.

“I should replace your drink.”

[renardsnoir]

" What will you do when you see the darkness that will soon be unleashed from me, Iseult? "

"What I will do…?"

Iseult remains silent for a moment. She doesn't think she remembers ever seeing his "dark form?" No, she doesn't. At least, she doesn't remember.

"I'll stay by your side." She takes his hands in hers and offer him a warm smile and gentle gaze."I'll look at you, not as a monster. But as someone very dear to me, Dura."

Iseult doesn't say this to reassure him, of course she does. But she also says it to remind him that he can trust her. It would be a lie to deny that she's now curious to know what he means by unleashing his darkness.

@duraxxor

[roselyn-ravenblade]

What if... you had to choose between Steak, Pork, or Chicken and your choice affected the existence of one of them?

"...."

Suspicion filled the wicker-woven bird, her head turning in odd, confused fashion as she heard out the out of field question. "What--?" she finally croaked out. " ....but why?"

It was in her nature to flee the intimidating specimen of undeath, but the curious charm of his question and presence kept her from entirely taking flight. And now the poor Druid was having an all out inward conflict of equation inside her mind regarding such a hypothetical decision. "...st...--no pork. No, chicken! I--I-don't think I could--"

Beak clicking, her talons dug into the branch she perched in above as she arrived at a harrowing decision. "CHICKEN. I dunno! I like chickens!" The announcement turned into an accusatory croon. "You're mean."

{ @duraxxor }

[serendipminie]

List of Minie's lovely mutuals!

If you find yourself on this list, it means I am sending you constant love and care (virtually)~

Main:

@faceglitchsworld (#teresa 🤍🌻)

@snoos-tattoos (#beedee 💙🌸)

@toxicrevolver (#obsidian 🖤🎶)

@takeutothemoon (#li 💙🪐)

@blak-ie (#blakie! 💙💫)

@asoulsreverie (#soul 🤍🥀)

@tighnaridabouken (#fenris💜🪽)

@bassguitarinablackt-shirt (#asher 🎧💚)

@worldsfromhoney (#bee 🐝💛)

@littlebookworm69 (#cami 📚🧡)

@clearcloudlesssky (#stella🌟💜)

@hachi-qo (#hachi! 🫧🩵)

@c-h-pictures (#chuuya 🪷💜)

@convictionblades (#evan 💜🦑)

@reminscingskylight (#ven 💜🕯️)

@robins-s0ngbird (#serenia! 💖🎶)

@manganyeh (#manga 💙🪭)

@lumin-arii (#ari 💜📖)

@clavateur

@day-night-darlix

@jojorice

@ratioaven

@yintsukareta

@zephyrrr-strike

@the-void-via

@ekacucumber

@v4miiii

Writeblr: (over at @serendipminiewrites)

@shadow-of-tea-and-tea (#teamaker 🍵💛)

@imslowlydisintegrating (#evvy🖌️💜)

@worldsfromhoney (#bee 🐝💛)

@bassguitarinablackt-shirt (#asher 🎧💚)

@briannaswords (#bri 🖋️❤️)

@littlebookworm69 (#cami 📚🧡)

@lordcatwich (#finn 🐈💛)

@clearcloudlesssky (#stella🌟💜)

@ashlovesfiction (#ash✨💜)

@c-h-writes (#chuuya 🪷💜)

@holdmyteaplease

@unmellowyellowfellow

@hansenesque

@macabremoons

@duraxxor

@isabellebissonrouthier

@lady-grace-pens

Please don't ever hesitate to let me know if you would like a personal tag!

[thehopelessyouth]

Foul Knave

Dear Dark One, I have seen you, flitting about. Baring pointed teeth as if you are a Lion.. but you are no Lion, I know what a Lion is for I have shared my bed with one. You are an abomination. One who must be cut down, culled, reaped. Thus I make it my solemn vow as protector of my beloved Lioness, my ethereal, golden Kelz'thalas... if you come to them, try harm them in any form.. I shall have my blade at thy throat and you shall see my grin before I cut and you fall at my feet. For I am Selithar Emberdawn Duskblade. Free of House B'andtherion and so my full potential is now at its peak and all dark creatures of this world will tremble at my name. So cower and repent. I shall have a close on you. -SD PS Here is a photograph of myself.

@duraxxor

@kelzthalassunwhisper and @themadamelioness for mention

[gravekeeper-anna]

“There’s no right or wrong way to mourn. Do what helps you.”

"And...what if their way to mourn is to scream it in your skin, stain you to the bone with their sorrow?"

"...and what if release from the pain is to see it flower in the flesh of who wronged you, rot their flesh to ash?"

"What if the way to mourn is to return again and again to the place where you ended, until that last repeating memory becomes a tribute to nothing but rage?"

"...what if you are in love with your tragedies, and willfully desire to spread it like a loving caress, just so you are known?"

"What if mourning is a stolen heart, bleeding in the hand, and the ritual to bury it? What if the mourning is never done...? What if mourning is an eternal shroud you are compelled to walk in?"

The Gravekeeper pulled her conscience thought from the madnesses of the Lost that haunted her steps, and directed her lamplight gaze to the ephemeral manifestation of blood that followed her, a red shadow. Her spade was drawn up for her next path, walking steadily.

"There are wrong ways to mourn, I do quite think. Ways that help nothing, no one. But most mourning can be molded to be of some use, if it likes to be..."

{ @duraxxor }

[handhourgalleries]

Favored Tier sketch for @duraxxor , who gifted a Hallow's End theme piece to @sanguinesorceress this month! I always have a little fun with creepy art like this - thank you!

[duraxxor]

Late FFAF:

Would you rather have someone stare at you in awe, or run from you in fear?

Crimson glints in the darkness narrowed. This question wasn't one he had expected to hear. Regardless, there was a matter of intrigue from it none the less. " There has always been a common middle ground between all throughout my life. But you asked of me a preference. I should not squander an opportunity to speak with a new face with such trivialities. "

Leaning forward in his chair, a glimpse of his face was now clad in spotlight. The details of his face now clear as the dark sclera focused the red light of his pupils. " People tend to run in fear when things get more macabre and violent on my end. But I also have a tendency to strike awe when it is appropriate. So, I suppose the yielded results gain my favor more so in being awestruck than fearful. Don't take it the wrong way, I enjoy a fear factor, but people learn more when they stick around for the show. " His left eye winked, causing the sanguine light to temporarily disappear.

[[ Thank you for the ask @nahisummerhold welcome to my little world! ]]

[azalora-the-azerite-dragoness]

What mortal delights does Azalora enjoy the most, in terms of food and drink?

"Hmm... I've only had two types of mortal food. Steak and grapes. Of those two, I'd prefer the steak." She took a moment to recall the experience and felt her mouth wet at the notion of having another.

"Perhaps I will have a new favorite next we meet! And I've only drank water!"

(( Thanks for the ask, Anon!

Mentions: @duraxxor ))

[safrona-shadowsun]

" Showers are better shared with Bad company. "

Washing & Bathing Starters

“Perhaps,” Safrona replied casually to the deviant words, though she eyed the San’layn with an unblinking stare of caution. Though the Lord Daevara had been one of her ongoing clients in the professional world, she had not expected the rogue to find her at her doorstep despite being open to any who might track the Sojourn to the Veiled Stair. She formed a territorial smile veiled as courtesy. “We do not offer specific company, however. Many can elect to use the open baths or sauna rooms, but they are paying visitors I am sure you will respect, yes?”

Lifting a hand, she caught the attention of a young Pandaren male who seemed to be loitering in the common room, waiting for something to do. “Seon, this is Lord Daevara. I’m sure you will not mind showing him to the community sauna and showers, male side?” She graciously placed a few extra coin in Seon’s hand, all the while keeping hold of Daevara’s eyes with meaning. “I am sure he will be a complete gentleman during his stay.”

In unseen shadows, she stirred a demon to follow some steps behind - she did not fully trust Daevara to not at least attempt to make trouble for her in her own home.

{ @duraxxor }

[grumpyoldfker]

" I see your choking arm is strong... would you like to try your lick? " ;)

"My... what?!" the Patriarch said, sounding incredulous at such a question. However, that initial surprise was quickly clouded with a fit of unbridled anger as the Patriarch saw who asked the question. His hand reached for his nearby hammer. "Begone from my sight, winged urchin. Lest I infuse your very being with enough Light that you will be a smouldering husk before the night is done." @duraxxor