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duraxxor · 7 months ago

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Nestled in the safety of a homestead, the Batlord had chosen to go into a stasis of calm. Settled in the comfort of a king-sized bedroom where the only noise within the dimly lit room was the pitter patter of a heartbeat that followed in breathing. A peaceful rhythm to one such as him who was damned. That heartbeat came from within the bosom of none other than his recently beloved wife. Arrydhalia’s black tangles encompassed the entirety of his chest cavity which was exposed to the elements. Elements that he no longer felt the same as the living. And speaking of elements, it seemed the Gravekeeper had finally decided to use the kinetic link that was never fully bonded to communicate with Duraxxor. “I’ll leave the Gravekeeping to you, my toothy friend.” The darkness of his right eye suddenly flared to life, a singular ember of crimson growing widely as the inanimate body remained perfectly still. The ocular lantern shifted to the right, turning to a peripheral as if seeing through what little the connection could offer. The lips of Annaliese Handhour continuing her declaration. “Come and claim my Dirge. Just for a little while. “The ember quickly grew into a sanguine flame. His lips curled into a sadistic smile as he awaited her final words as her will. “And we’ll have that cup of tea again when I return, I do think. “He could feel it within her, her irritations and wrath that had been bubbling. Someone had truly agitated her more so than even he potentially had. And the fact that she had called upon him for aid held promise.

Within a few moments, he would carefully lift his right hand pointing into the air with a singular finger upward. His lips delicately uttered an incantation that followed with a flow of dark aura, causing his red eye to sizzle when he brought said hand to create a single snap that echoed through his home. And with it, his words rippled across their link with a joyous reply. “As you Desire, it shall be done. Do return safely wherever you may be heading on your path. “ Arrydhalia stirred just as the flow of magic died down, movement of unrest followed as she faintly reached to find his hand. A hand that would find her own, looping his sharpened talons that nearly encompassed her own. He shushed gently, reaching with his four fingered digit to caress the top of her head as a means to soothe her discomfort.

But what was unseen was within the distance something that occurred with his machinations. The Dirge. The tool of the Gravekeeper would not be left in solitude for long. Within minutes of her departure, a pool of black ichor would suddenly start to form beneath the trademark shovel. Its radius is growing, puddling with thickness. A trail began to flow to the wayward side as another object floated to its surface. An estrange, faceless masquerade that was missing an eye panel emerged, stained with residue from this substance.

And then, it bubbled. Fingers appeared from within, stretching a set of hands to grasp upon the handle. The puddle slowly took a shape, growing in height and starting to form curves. A feminine frame that adjourned the mask. Lengthy, dark hair attempted to curl on one side while the other was a complete, silver mess. A pale complexion now begins to form around the exposed eye socket that suddenly opened widely. A bichromatic gaze of cyan blue was embedded into a bloodshot eye which stared at the clutched shovel possessively. So possessively, that she began hugging the object like a child had found its long-lost teddy bear. The eye closed as wrinkles formed beneath them, hinting at what was hoped to be a joyful smile before this mysterious entity immediately sunk back into its puddle of goop. A goop that would slink away as if it were never even there.

[ In response to @gravekeeper-anna! That was a very good read, dear! And also @arrydhalia for the softest mentions ]

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 }

#ic #duraxxor #gravekeeper anna #arrydhalia #Faceless

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safrona-shadowsun · 1 month ago

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Top 10 friends :P (for Saf)

Ask me my "TOP 5/TOP 10" anything!

'Friend'. It is a word a Courier could say so easily, but it rarely held the weight she thought it should. She slowly let the word slough from her regular vernacular, refrained from its use in the office, on delivery, in public spaces where her face became forgettable next to her role, where she was little more than a wine connoisseur, or self made woman, or at worse, solely identified by the Void. She had many acquaintances, and that was suitable. Not everyone had to be a confidant.

Acquaintances were safer. A friend earned that pedestal...and gradually the unexpected idiosyncrasies that came with it. And her demon's interest.

(In no particular order, beneath the line for length)

Leon Ambroce, or "Fizzy Chef", as she affectionately has come to call him. A man that is too easy to speak to and confide with, by who's heart she thinks strains its ribcage. He makes her feel welcome, cared for, loved even. His voice makes her smile. ( Three demons are dangerously curious, and their desires are profane, manipulative and destructive, as the Sayaad tend to be. ) @mremaknu

The cherished Lady Naralinthe, Lioness of Silvermoon. A splendid soul that saved her from certain death, a voice of confidance and compassion that stretches past the aggravation of political lines. Safrona let's the professional veneer drift away so easily in her company; the lady has always known how to divest her from it. (The incubus senses the Golden Goddess' temptations, wonders at how she prefers her worshippers, and how to bring her to her knees. The Wrathguard and Shivarra desire to provoke her fierceness in battle, and to shatter her like a chandelier.) @themadamelioness

The unexpected Archdruid who hired a Courier and earned the trust of a friend, who had put himself in the line of harm for her, who welcomes her at the table of his family. An endless friendly taunt of a caretaker, she is quietly thankful for his care. To a degree, his cousin Sharyssa is very interesting, and an avenue of connection to talk in magic she feels more capable in. ( Various demons are 'scholarly' curious on the Archdruid's worth, cut down to pieces. A vial of potent blood, the rarity of his amber eyes. Pushed into demonic evolution, perhaps quite the powerful Satyr? For the little Arcanist, Elernia desired at one time some vengeance for the brutality, but the Elder Sayaadi has larger fish to fry. ) @asharinhun

A predator garbed in gentlemanly manner is what Safrona took Lord Daevara to be for some years since taking him on as a client. But in very recent times he has proven a similarity through Confession, and perhaps beyond this, a start to the carefully cultivated threads of understanding, and friendship. (The demons are riled by the predatious interest in the mistress, by the miasma of dark magic the Lord of Bats seems to choose to exist by. Their hungry interest is held at bay for by the Warlock, save for one rebellious Elder Sayaad that knows truths that he is not told. She bides her time, watching, listening, waiting for a bat to see the shimmer in reality that marks her hoofprints, and give chase.) @duraxxor

The Soulsinger, the First of the Perished. Her closest confidant, her dearest love. Her anchor to sanity, and yet a maddeningly sweet obsession. He shares her soul, her very heart, and she aches to make him feel alive again in his state of in-betweens. (Most of her demonic menagerie are intimidated by the depth of their bond and Orchid's ties to a force that can undo them. They are wise to not interfere. Except for the Elder Sayaad. She despises him for what he 'stole' for himself in her mistress, hates that his death-cursed mind cannot be manipulated, desires revenge. But Elernia is patient as she is conniving, and the permanence of death is too sweet for the likes of him.) @thefirstperished

The Nethermancer, a confidant on the Dark Path, a cunning menace too some, a brilliant mind to others. He has been both to her through the years, years that have culminated in the nature of trust, and friendship. A courier bears pride for the dependence he places on her, and she suspects few know as many secrets as he does of her, and keeps them to himself. ( She disallows her demons to mingle with his own, as much as they would enjoy that connection to gossip and scheming. Elernia remembers him as clearly as the day her fractured mistress' memories attempt to hold him...she exalts in the small set of eyes she has taken from him, beneath his nose. What would such an infamous head cost on the black market...? To his enemies? ) @nixalegos

Madam Goya, the Black Market mistress that set her on her path as a Courier, mentored her and gave her the opportunity to remake herself from ruin. A Courier will always be indebted to her, and in secret spaces still exchanges information and trade with her, over tea. Goya knows enough of her story, and gives her respect for what she has survived, and made her own. ( A demon or two finds the Madam's savvy very amusing, Goya indulges their curiosity and natures more than most mortals would, despite Safrona's deterrence. )

A Knight of some memory, one of a symbolic heroic complex, one that had trusted her and respected her profession. A name that she had not at once thought to count her as more than an acquaintance, and name she has failed in his trust in her. A soul she does not yet know how to name because all she hears is the cold, dark bite of the voice that puppets his flesh. ( Her demons tell her to let it be, let it go, to surrender the Voidwalker it has lactched to just to torment her, but she will not let that chance of a reaching soul to be cut from her. He has the lighthouse of her attention, he only needs to swim to her shores and banish the darkness...but even she knows she cannot swim out to reach out and pull him to safety, lest she is taken beneath the wave of the Entity's influence too. @allasticus }

The Mercenary, or 'Tattoo' as she came to know him. From the first day he found a dutiful Courier in Silvermoon, Revarik Velanthius was a force to be reckoned with in wit and charm. He did not so much crack through her professional mask as steal it away and tease her with it with a game of constant keep-away through her life. The day he tracked her down to save her from the torment by an underground kingpin was the day a friendship was fully forged in stone. And just a little bit of chaos. She knows, even in his retreat to the quiet life, he is her 'ride or die'. (Perhaps the only confidant all of her demons tend to be amused or entertained by, Rev's antics always kept them on their toes. He never sought to back down from a challenge when presented...suffice it to say her demons never went without a duel, if indulged. The profane suggestions Elernia offered were never allowed to be voiced, for very specific reasons, but there were a few times the succubus glamoured herself to tempt a fire Safrona was always trying to put out. ) @revarik

Madam Gampre, a woman of self-styled success in the oldest profession; she easily has the Courier's respect and admiration. She is charmed to be included in a deeper scheme to rid the Madam of enemies that would try to take her success and those she protects from her - a worthy Harvest. The Tigress reminds her of life before success found Safrona as a Courier, where having a woman of such unapologetic savvy and ruthlessness would have benefitted the whole of Booty Bay and those victimized by the criminal underground. (Some of her desire demons have been eager to ply their trade in the bordello, but Safrona forbids their interest, however easy it would be to slip in among the crowd.) @susan-gampre

#Long post #Friends of a Courier and more #safwriting #About Safrona #actually VERY hard to pick names ugh

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thehopelessyouth · 5 months ago

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DWC February 2025 - Day 5 - Holiday (And likely Annoy)

This was the day. The day. The day of love.

It came but once a year, yet it was the pinnacle of yearning whispers, poetic musings, and carefully scripted declarations designed to set hearts aflame. Selithar twirled around his chamber, giddy with delight, his own heart swelling with anticipation as his mind danced between the many beauties who had captured his eye. But whom would he choose? Who, among them, would he name his greatest desire?

He sank into his chair, quill poised in one hand while the other absently ran through his raven-drenched locks. He reached for a sheet of parchment. Then another. And another. How could he confine his affections to just one?

No—he would not. He could not.

He would write to them all.

And thus the letters were sent and received as such: @themadamelioness - My lovely Lioness. The object of my endless desires... how I crave your touch, your words that flux between harsh need and softening despair. You opened my eyes to a path I did not believe existed and thus, I am yours. Yours to mould and shape to your will. Do you know you haunt my dreams? I see nothing but shapely legs, white silks and golden tresses that frame a face more pure than any religion. And like any religion, I fall to my knees for thee! I long to await our next physical encounter... let me be the Lion and let us start our own pride. @nahisummerhold - To the Singer. The Temptress. I have seen your dark skin. Your violet eyes. Your beauty knows no bounds. No limits. When I saw you I was spellbound. Silvermoon holds true to many beautiful things but none can compare to thee. Hearing your voice wafting through the air brought a stillness to me that none other can replicate. I pray that the binder collection of my photographs spurred a sense of need within you as well. Perhaps we shall meet. Perhaps we shall kindle this spark that clearly both of us feel... @kelzthalasbandtherion - I called you something terrible. For that, I apologize. I was blinded by the light you shine so brightly upon me. Were it to be different, I would have you're lips against mine instead of your fist - which, given the broken jaw I sustained, tells me you are laden with need just as I am. Let me placate that. Let me show you the whims and wonderment of desire that no other man can. @safrona-shadowsun - My beloved Courier. I would have you deliver your desires unto my doorstep so that we may imbibe upon them in a heated exchange of the physical nature. You are oft hooded but I would say let fly your facial beauty and allow Azeroth to gaze freely upon perfection. If you do, then I will apologize ahead of time as I will not stop myself from singing my praises unto your porcelain perfection. @serenas-dawnsinger - Strange. The address is the same as the Courier. Ah well. We do not know each other but I have seen your golden eyes blaze like the sun from afar. Your hair... dark like the night just like mine. We look almost as siblings would... only we don't because I am attracted to you intimately. I would like to know you more. To hear your voice speak longingly to me just as mine would to you. ...Also are you kidnapped or something? @sanguinesorceress - You are... scary. However, there is something ethereally beautiful about you. The way you're ghost-like apparition floats eloquently across the ground. I wonder what lies behind that crimson cowl? Perhaps you might savour me the opportunity to find out? @duraxxor - Even the month of love somehow has me penning a missive to you, foul knave. This is not a note of affection but an underlining statement: you and I shall do battle and I shall mete out your evil from this realm. Your pointy, scary teeth do not scare me. Nor does that sausage face! I will cast you asunder like the knave you are. Then all the maidens shall flock to my side in reverence and joy as I have dispatched a monster most foul. Until then! @kharrisdawndancer - We don't know each other but I was transfixed upon your visage when I saw you from afar. I could you dance as you stepped so lightly across the stones as if music was embedded within your very soul. I profess to you: I am an able dancer. The two-step and I are very familiar with one another and I offer my hand to thee. Dance with me and let our loins coagulate in splendour. @lostofwyrmrest - Beautiful one. You do not know me. I do not know you. But I have seen you and I crave to know more of you. Soft skin atop pale-laden eyes of pure milken joy is but a small sampling of how my own eyes devour you with need. So remove yourself from that smelly companion of yours the undead are unsavoury after all. Then come to me and I will show you what a -living- man can do. ...wait you're not undead as well are you?

@susan-gampre - A Madam of a brothel. My elegance demands I dismiss you for your choice of profession but my eyes drink in your form all the same. Run away with me. Run away from your whores and your "Sisters of Sin" and come with me to a world of pleasure that you have not experienced. I would bed you for an unyielding time of 3 to 4 minutes and leave you breathless for an eternity. @eluviannaa - Kissed by the Void! No... made love to by the Void! How transfixed was I when I lay eyes upon your soft, pale, skin. Skin that I long to caress with my slender digits and thin lips. And your purple-infused eyes. I lose myself in them like the void. So I beg of you... let me dive into your nightmare. Let our loins become as one as our planes of existence come crashing together in love for one to two minutes. ---------- Each letter was signed with the initials "SD" and a photograph was also enclosed:

@daily-writing-challenge

#dwc #Im sorry everyone

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duraxxor · 6 months ago

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🍁 - What is a failing that has always haunted or eaten at Dura?

🍁 - What is one thing they hope to achieve above all else (even if it's a bit OOC as they may not even realize it themselves)?

🍁 - Lastly, The Faceless Title/Name I saw mention, I may have missed the origin story on that. How did they end up with it? Did they pick it out or was it given?

(Giving you several cause I can't remember if I've sent you anything proper! Hope one of them resonates for you/Dura!)

[[ My goodness the leaves are falling! And falling they shall! ]]

🍁- Duraxxor as the entity that he isn't a perfect creature. Ever since his inception into he has always been a character about trial and tribulation. Where he wins, he also loses. I am sure a lot of you beautiful writers understand those circumstances! It starts in the beginning with the moment he hurdled his way into public, appearing like many undead clad in plate armor. His mental association with reality has always haunted him due to the fact that he was an amnesiac monster. He was given a chance to actually prove that his kind couldn't be all that bad and was under the supervision of others to ensure he never acts out of line.

That was, until he actually went feral and came across his own child, Raven. Now his eldest daughter did what any child would do that was relieved to see their father. In the process of trying to reason with him, he attacked her and took some of her blood from a bite wound. This is how Dura learned to partake from certain memories based on the intense emotions one harbors in the heat of a moment. And in her case, it was out of love. The first flavor of love he had partaken since his freedom from the Scourge.

Art above by @handhourgalleries of Ravlynn Daevara ( Raven )

Ever since that day, he has always harbored this failure to be who he was and also more than just his hunger. It was the event that set him in motion to start path. His biggest failure in his eyes was the fact that he never quite remembered, and he honestly didn't understand why. It is what lead to a lot of fissures between him and his children, specifically on the subject of his recently returned wife. This entire paragraph also brings us to our next falling leaf!

🍁- For the longest time, Dura's personal goal was to conquer his hunger whatever means necessary. A hungering beast that even to this day plagues him in numerous ways. He would toy, experiment, and play around with every little idea his mind could come up with in the essence of blood itself. And yet, it would never be enough to completely conquer it. So, what does one do with such a thing?

They utilize it to their advantage and adapt.

Sometime after he died a second time, he made it his goal to turn himself into an experiment just to see how far he could go. The first stage began when his exposure to void energy upon his third damnation had warped a few things. More on that section in the final leaf. But for now, I will continue the process of evolution. One of his biggest things was his association with bats and his ability to commune with them. Much like the blood memory ability, this was another learned tool through the companionship he shared with one all those years ago. And because of that, he eventually played into that being a stem of his evolutionary processes. They way bats adapt to their environments, flight, etc. The bat is a representation of this.

From death and blood, to void, and then eventually the power of the Shadowlands graced him with another trial when he had his soul severed and split up. Through the years that he was unaware of, he was working on reforming that miasmic soul's fragments into one being again. And during this he learned much about the way anima, afterlife, and even Domination magic seemed to possess. And in doing this, Duraxxor had evolved once more. But to what... well, that's a mystery that is to be found out in the future.

🍁- Now, with our final leaf, you asked me about the Faceless. This title and name refer to his time when he was resurrected by a certain Lady in Red that some of you are quite familiar with. He was bestowed this by the @sanguinesorceress when he had joined forced with an organization that was once known Panzer, a ranking that were underneath her heel. (With a little kneeling in there.) That chapter in his double deader life was a time where he began to take to theatrics of names and titles a little more seriously. And so, with the rank given to him, he referred to himself as Faceless and bore many masquerades to hide the truth in his wounded state.

Art by yours truly of Dura wearing the first of several mask during his Faceless era

It wasn't until the organization separated again that this name would begin to dwindle down to merely a chapter in his life and he progressed into his Myotis era, which was a means to perpetuate his own thoughts and opinions while mutually assisting with like-minded individuals. But that ultimately resulted in another severance where all involved went their separate ways, which included Duraxxor straight into the Shadowlands whether he liked it or not.

However, the Faceless name will eventually return in time. And it has even already showed glimpses of such through something entirely different. For the Faceless masquerade was not one of Wrath or Gluttony, it was of Desire.

[[ Thank you @dinthoqaf I greatly appreciate all of these leaves you bestowed to me. It gives me a chance to give some more background on Duraxxor's personal history.]]

#ooc #Duraxxor #so many questions #so little time

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