#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 }

[duraxxor]

🍁 - 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.]]

[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

[kelzthalasbandtherion]

" 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.”

[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 }

[thehopelessyouth]

Dear, hopeless youth,

Have you considered, perhaps, that you might be the foul knave? ...For no reason. Just for argument's sake.

Dear Foul Knave, I am no Foul Knave. For to BE a Foul Knave one must look evil and you, my tooth-laden, red-eyed, bat-adhering... sausage face... are the one who fits the bill beyond measure. I am valiant, brave, honourable, handsome, cherishable, loveable, kind, amicable, lovable, handsome and brave. How can you consider me to be a Foul Knave? Behold this photograph! What Knave would have such a sultry visage that would make all the women in this realm quake in lust?! ....which reminds me I must respond back to my other lady fair. She who would betwixt a moniker of hero and saviour. Perhaps I should introduce her to you and let her sing my praise! Good day sir!

-SD

@duraxxor @serenas-dawnsinger mention (sorry)

[fleeting-starshower]

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 🖤🎶)

@haichengtual (#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 💜📖)

@the-void-via (#via 💚🌟)

@blackcat2907 (#kat ❤️🦆)

@ethereal--haven (#haven 💛💉)

@clavateur

@day-night-darlix

@jojorice

@ratioaven

@zephyrrr-strike

@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!

[gravekeeper-anna]

Return to Tirasfal

Lady Handhour could not begin to know just how light her steps had become after spending the wintry holiday trudging through the snows of the Frigid North . She had learned how to train her new flesh to become a fortress with a deeper understanding of the icy touch of Oblivion. Finding the supernatural hold of her own gravity, she could satisfyingly break through glacial walls with only a few key strikes of her hands. It would come in quite 'handy' for her grave duties, now that she had returned to more familiar haunts.

She must have seemed like some spectral bride landing amidst Tirasfal as she slipped from the cradling saddle of her skeletal steed, a newly formed unholy sculpt of ashen, morbid elegance. Without the icy fortitude infusing her flesh, she felt light on the grass, strangely vulnerable without the chill winds biting at her. The near float of her movement took her mind away from this perception; feeling the slight breeze of the indomitable night lick at her skin. She could not remember when she felt so delightfully sewn into skin, molded so expertly to every sinew and slender muscle that ran beneath.

The new skin graft had been a full success. She knew the Nethermancer would desire a chance to gloat about the mastery of his contributing work, but Anna was not so quick to give invitation. She liked the thought of him stewing a little longer in his own anticipation. There were more pressing matters to tend to before even she could seek out her own resting place.

Gazing for a long moment at a crossroads sign that briefly manifested a spell of darker memory, Anna focused her drifting thoughts on what she desired and toward whom held that desire. And as if answering the call, a haunt seemingly made of blood and mist gathered to float before her.

"I've returned, Batfather," the Lady Handhour announced to her scarlet passenger, her dual, haunting tones charmingly formal. "And I've quite dearly missed my Threnody. Might I find you and relieve you of your...grave duty?" Her lantern-like eyes flickered ever so slightly with her usual bemusement. "I shall be quite bored here without such things."

The scarlet temptation writhed, twisting in its miasmic performance into a familiar-shaped claw. In retortion to her dutiful desires, it waggled its single, pointed finger. The hand gesture formulated into what those referred to as a finger-gun. Its firing animation recoiled as it mimicked a pistol shot. Despite the lack of sound effect, the dirt seemed to kick up as if a bullet had made an impact. And in that very bullet hole, black ichor began to seep out of the ground like a fresh wound. A premature geyser of ink that soon puddled.

The Gravekeeper’s sensitivities to dark magics would likely find that this puddle was more portcullis in nature. A handle ever-so familiar to her eyes began to manifest from its epicenter until the spade itself now stood on its own. With the swiftness of a shade, her requested audience manifested right beside Threnody, taking its handle within his talons. The funerary gentleman took a two-handed stance, bearing his crimson gaze into her lanterns. His steps, now silently striding towards her at her behest. Shadows gave way to his digits upon his summoning. The pool of black ichor collapsed in on itself in the Lord’s approach that stood two steps back from her. Ashen lips curled into a wry smirk as he reached out and extended her terrifying trowel to her. Untouched and unblemished it was. Perhaps even polished.

“Oh yes, quite the bore, indeed. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Not at all! “ A faint chuckle bubbled from his lungs in a hoarse wheeze. His own crimson gaze seemed to fixate on her features in addition to her request. “My my, did you get a trim behind the ears? Aren't you just absolutely breathtaking? “ Though, his nose crinkled a smidge on the matter.

"Indeed," the Keeper quipped back simply, taking a coy delight in the compliment, more in the playfully grim turn of phrase he indulged her with. Interest had initially rose in her at the beautifully morose way in which he fully manifested, rising from the black ichor that had been her own curse. He had clearly molded it into a part of his dread presence, rather than reject it or have such cleansed as she would expect most would. There were questions to be sure.

Yet as she took her beloved spade into her fingers, the mild curiosity fell away like loose webbing. At once, she was reconnected to each fettered presence it had been linked to, her awareness of undeath expanded, re-awakened, even. Perhaps it had been briefly freeing for the months she had went without, to be numbed to such a degree like the snow that had fallen on her in the North, but now, reconnected with her precious Threnody, a final part of her seemed now collected, and she was made complete.

"I am grateful for your Keeping. And though I'm quite sure we'll have our time again, my friend, for now I must be on my way," she explained with a formal cant of the head in farewell. One hand clutched around her treasured trowel, and the other winding around the reins of her deathstallion, the Gravekeeper started to step away down Tirafal's road, just as a dozen ghostly forms began to collect around her steps, fully reunited with their deathly Watcher. "I have a little Keeping to do myself, I suspect."

( Written with the assistance of the wonderful @duraxxor, and references made of the amazing @nixalegos! )

[re-nyyght]

@duraxxor

[duraxxor]

All these questions are from people trying to make us feel bad or insulted for what we are or what we do. I find it funny that their labels are so common, but what has someone called you that was an insult? Anything unexpected?

" Contrary to the beliefs of many, I have been called many things. Some as common as the opening that is the asshole. Others were more creative like a more recent one such as the lamprey shark. " The Lord would give a brief shrug on that one. But in that moment, he would bow his head, cascading ghostly tresses to veil his eyes. Calloused claws looped over one another with one being a subtracted exception. " But there has always been one word that I hold all ill intent towards. I word that I shall not utter even for an audience. "

Oh yes. A singular word that had always caused his blood to churn like an oily fryer. Centipedes skittering and crawling in his stomach that were ravenously attacking one another for supremacy. A word that held contempt not for the word's translation, but those that wore it on their sleeve and black hearts. Beings that shared a similarity to his origin and other elves of undeath. And there was one amongst them that had set that crude example of that would lay the foundation for this hatred. For not only was her indulgence insatiable, but her shame knew no bounds when it came to her possessiveness. And that word is...

S̸͚̦͈͉̠̭̫͉̋̉̆̅͋̈͠ͅ a̷̻̮̫̘̭̫͇̒̕͝ ṇ̷̺͔̟̪̦̺̓͜ '̶̨̛̘̥͈͎̜̣͕̪̍͊́̕l̵͎͎̋̈́̍̿͒͗ a̶̧̢̧͍̟̜̝̥̘̟̐̎͌̊́͌͘ y̴̨̠̱̭̼̗̪̥̎ n̸̨̮͖̜̗̯͚̤̦̖̅͊̂̑̄̊̚͝

[ @dinthoqaf hope it didn't suck all the fun out of it ;) He gets a bit touchy about this one word ]

[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!

[opliscadumere]

2. Things you said through your teeth

“My love,” As she lifted her head again to turn and look down on him, her words spoken with a vile mixture of hatred and sadness,” You are in hell, and I swear, I will never let it end.”

@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 }

[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 ))