#kharris

[kharrisdawndancer]

DWC Nov '24 - Day 5 - Skill/Captive - Kharris

A bird called.

Yes. Of course. A yellow-feather-footed-flippitbill. 

That meant she was close. She tapped her lip with a thoughtful finger before the satisfaction sized for a nearly four year old puffed up the chest of the little girl. She crept around another tree, looking in every direction like a tiger. Yes. A tiger. Stalking. Her eyes narrowed and she gave a silent snarl to the forest.

They would never find her. She was skilled in the ways of the forest. The Shadows. Ann’da had taught her. He was so good everybody knew that was his name. His Name-Name. The secret kind.

Crunch!!!

Kasari froze! A twig snapped! Had that been her foot, or someone else’s? Her heart beat loudly, thudding against her rib cage. Her sandaled foot eeeeeeased up and a small, broken twig rolled slightly away. That had been clo--AHHHHHHH!

She shrieked and leapt up into the air! Before she could think, her feet were pounding over roots and thin grass as she bolted through the thicket. Something--someone?--had TOUCHED her! Right in the middle of her back!

Silently, too close for her to stop, an arm shot out from behind a tree and scooped her up. She was laughing as the taller elf swagged back into the thicket. “UNCLE CASTIEN! Not fair! YOU TEAMED UP!” Even so, the tickling was fun and she wiggled, flopping out of his arms.

Before he could gasp at the escape of his captive, Kasari blurted out a small cantrip word of power and her fall arrested with the instinctive cast of her Levitate spell. 

Minn’da was coming. She could hear her. Karasi swam-swung in the air until she was hovering right-side-up again. It was the shriek. … But if Uncle Castien was HERE, who had THAT been. Her eyes narrowed and she peered into the dappled forest behind them. But Kharris’s bangled feet were close now and she turned to look at her. She needed to know the _mood_. “That was clever. Levitating so you didn’t cause any noise. Good job, hon.” Minn’da kissed the top of her head and Kasari beamed like the sun. “Yeah. It was.” Never mind she hadn’t done that. Mother didn’t need to know that detail. The adults looked back behind her, and then her father was there. So it had been HIM! His eyebrow quirked up. They spoke that way they did sometimes. Without words. Just looks. And in that look he called her a liar. Kasari grinned impishly at him. Asarel grinned back.

@daily-writing-challenge

mentions: @murmuring-shadows @castien-storm

[ooc-miqojak]

What's one thing she couldn't live without?

This inquiry earns a sigh from the long, lean woman at the bar-table - slouched as she is in her seat, her horned head now hangs backwards over the back-support of the chair - lengthy, leather-clad legs stretched up and over the dirty table.

"That's a good one, that is... one thing?" And she hums to herself, "I'm quite attached to my various little knick-knacks I've received or found over the years, and I daresay it comes down to two things, both from treasured friends. But... one of those friends is still around. So, I guess the battered cigarette case I carry would be the one thing; an oath was tested, once - one that says it doesn't matter if it's through thick or thin, you'll be there - and it's a good reminder of who weathered that storm and stayed true to their word." And it seems, as she says this, that the indolent air has gone out of the towering sailor - no longer a lazy cat in the sun, she sits upright - leaning over the table, booted feet firmly on the floor... a battered, silver case open in her long-fingered hands, her gaze intent on the inscription within that she does not share, "It's also a reminder to never take anyone at their word... no matter how long you've known them - actions will always speak loudest: never ignore the signs in front of you."

[kharrisdawndancer]

Kharris gave Asarel his favorite color this way, once! A bunch of colored jars/water with flowers in a window.

instagram | krissmacd

[blessed-by-umbral]

Violence

@daily-writing-challenge

Topic: Violence

---

Weeks had gracefully slipped by since Baetylus embarked on its voyage to the enchanting shores of Tural, and now, four days had passed since the intimidating vessel had anchored in this unfamiliar haven. The air was thick with the scent of adventure and the promise of discovery, a curious juxtaposition that enveloped Ondrea Cress in a cocoon of anticipation. The strangeness of being enveloped by the unknown was not a source of trepidation for her; rather, it was a vital embrace, a welcoming that whispered of new beginnings and uncharted paths waiting to be trekked.

The passage of time had woven a tapestry of curiosity as the allure of uncharted lands beckoned from the shadows of the past. Those privy to the secrets of the sea had embarked on a meticulous endeavor, crafting maps and devising plans for their ambitious voyages. Yet, for Ondrea, this pursuit appeared to be a futile exercise, akin to embarking on a grand expedition without the slightest hint of direction or guidance. It was only when a reliable course was presented to them, a beacon of certainty amidst the vast unknown, that they finally set their sails toward the horizon.

On this afternoon, the sun reigned supreme, casting its golden rays upon a canvas of immaculate azure. The heavens were devoid of any clouds, creating a breathtaking expanse that seemed to stretch endlessly. Yet, in the depths of her heart, she harbored a profound disdain for the sun. The relentless heat was an unwelcome companion, transforming her midnight tresses into a sweltering burden, while the sensation of her leather attire clinging to her skin felt akin to a serpent ensnaring its unsuspecting victim.

The accoutrements of freshly squeezed fruit juices was a welcome reprieve, as a particular concoction of citrus we dutifully set upon a table before an open window overlooking a breathtaking view of the lush greenery interspersed with the architectural elegance of the nearby buildings.

As the echo of a knock reverberated through her space, it disrupted the serene equilibrium she had cultivated, drawing her attention with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Ondrea's signature style, a blend of shadowy hues and intricate textures, spoke volumes about her character; she embraced the darkness not merely as a fashion statement but as a shield against the world’s judgments. The aura of mystery that enveloped her was both a source of intrigue and trepidation, ensuring that she remained an enigmatic figure, cloaked in the very essence of her chosen attire

As Ondrea opened the door, she was greeted by a visage that resonated deeply within the annals of her family. Cormac, a steadfast presence since his youth, stood before her clad in his signature ensemble—sleek, armored leather adorned with a distinctive bell sigil prominently displayed on his chest. This emblem, a testament to his unwavering loyalty and dedication, seemed to shimmer in the soft light.

It was evident that Cormac had taken the time to present himself with an air of refinement, embodying a sense of readiness for the day ahead. His hair, meticulously groomed and freshly washed, framed his face, which bore the marks of a recent shave.

Ondrea couldn't help but notice the subtle yet inviting scent of coconut that lingered around him, a fragrant whisper of tropical allure that seemed to complement his polished demeanor.

"My Lady." He addressed with a bow of his head. "All men are accounted for. Our ships are docked and being tended to as we speak. It's been recommended that we tip the service crew. I wanted to get your input."

Ondrea retreated a step, extending an invitation to Cormac as he entered her sanctuary. In stark contrast to his presence, the air within her abode was devoid of the exotic fragrances that characterized this new land; instead, she had meticulously chosen to fill her space with the familiar aromas of incense, carefully selected from her homeland. The delicate tendrils of smoke curled upward, weaving a tapestry of nostalgia that enveloped her, reminding her of of home.

Though she found herself amidst the unfamiliar, the longing for the essence of home lingered in whatever vestiges were left in her heart.

"Extend to them a generous gratuity, one that would comfortably sustain their needs for the forthcoming weeks. Should their circumstances demand further assistance, we shall delve into our reserves to accommodate their requests."

Cormac acknowledged the suggestion with a subtle nod, his gaze drifting toward the window. The vibrant calls of exotic birds echoed in the distance, their persistent cries resonating like a siren song, beckoning him to embrace the allure of this uncharted territory.

"-We've gotten word from some of the locals regarding some concerning news. Like many lands, they're wrought with bandits, enemies, those who would seek you out to cause you harm or your family harm simply because of your status. These warnings you're familiar with. I ask you now, Lady Cress---how would you like to proceed if met with violence?"

The interval stretched between them, enveloped in an almost palpable silence that seemed to linger in the air. In this serene yet charged moment, the only sounds that penetrated the stillness were the distant echoes of the bustling city below, a symphony of urban life, harmonizing with the sharp cries of seabirds soaring overhead.

"My father once said: "Violent excitement exhausts the mind and leaves it withered and sterile." I find it ironic, considering the means this House has taken in its past. Perhaps, in some way, he sought to extinguish that flame."

She paused without contemplation, but more so for effect. "Our words are "Light your candles". Keep them lit, guide the dead home, tolling of the bells--all that history you're intimately familiar with."

"Aye." Cormac affirmed.

"To preserve equilibrium in our interactions, it is essential to respond to hostility with an equally assertive stance. Those who seek to embody this principle to its utmost will find themselves confronted with a response that is magnified tenfold, ensuring that the scales of power remain justly aligned. This approach not only safeguards our interests but also serves as a testament to our unwavering commitment to resilience in the face of adversity."

Cormac found himself unable to divert his gaze from Ondrea's striking visage, captivated by the intensity that radiated from her. It was no revelation to him that her response would carry such weight; in fact, he had secretly wished for the tempest of turmoil that raged within her to find some semblance of calm.

Yet, he recognized the futility of such hopes, as the storm seemed to only grow more ferocious with each passing moment. She stood before him, a living testament to the void, and he could almost perceive the dark tendrils of it wrapping themselves around her very essence. Despite the overwhelming nature of the situation, he felt an unyielding determination to engage with her, to reach through the shadows that enveloped her.

"Might it be possible..." he ventured cautiously, "...that extending a measure of mercy could yield positive outcomes? We are in uncharted territories, after all, filled with diverse cultures and unfamiliar customs."

Ondrea's response was immediate, her thickly shaped brow arching in skepticism as a low, dark chuckle escaped her lips, reverberating with a chilling resonance.

"Do you truly think they would entertain such notions about us?" she retorted, her voice laced with a steely resolve. "I refuse to gamble with the safety of our people."

Cormac drew in a deep breath, savoring it before exhaling sharply through his nostrils. "So be it. Violence will be met with violence."

[blixvoronin]

dwc day 4: influence

read more about the daily writing challenge for this week here @daily-writing-challenge

summary: i had it all planned out before you met me / was gonna leave early and so swiftly / maybe in a fire or crash off a ravine / people would weep, “how tragic, so early”

word count: 1508

content warnings: suicidal ideation, completed suicide mention

Foreword: If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal ideation or planning to die by suicide, reach out for help by calling 988 in the United States, or by texting “HOME” to 741-741. Don’t wait. You’re worth it.

–

It wasn’t often that Blix did this, but she had to admit it was becoming more frequent. She sat, in a rare moment, on the roof of the manor and with her eyes trained on the sky – the sun dipped behind the clouds, and the stars were soon to make their presence known.

Some years ago, her life had been so different – an endless cycle of deployment, home, deployment, home, deployment, home, and she could swear she spent more time on the battlefield than in her own lands.

It scared her, the way those memories clung to her. The way the specific feeling of dread and helplessness she’d felt take root when she’d had half of her vision burned away off of the coast of Zuldazar never went away. Not completely.

Her gaze fell to a sheet of parchment clutched in her hands. Her own scrawl ran across the page, and Blix took a moment to reflect on the contents. She knew she’d never deliver this message to the person it was intended for. Some things were better left unsaid.

The rogue took a shaky breath, speaking in the softest voice she could manage, as if she were worried the wrong person would overhear. For all intents and purposes, the wrong people would. It was part of the curse, after all, despite the fact that – as Blix had heard, time and again, dead men tell no tales.

“Indy,” Blix croaked, forcing herself to start. Her therapist had told her that doing this – writing letters and reading them aloud – could help her process some of the trauma she’d gone through. Please, she silently prayed, Light, please, don’t let this open more wounds than it shuts.

“I honestly sat here and wrote this letter… four times? Maybe three? Regardless, it was a lot.” She pursed her lips, tempted to stop – no. This had to be done. She continued to read as a specter settled itself at her side, sitting and gazing out at the rising stars as Blix’s voice filtered through the Duskwood evening.

“There’s no one else I could think of to talk to about this other than you, but there’s been a lot on my mind. My life was really, really dark for a really long time – I mean, long to me, not necessarily long to you. But, I’m starting to realize just how bad it’d gotten. My uncle Jonathan – you know of him, I’ve talked about him enough – was the last person to carry the family curse before me, since he was eldest of my father’s generation. I talk a lot about how he lived – that he struggled with it, that it drove him mad – but I don’t talk a lot about how he died.

“Uncle Jon committed suicide when I was really young. Honestly, I don’t remember a lot from that time? I remember that I was a teenager, so my own manifestation was starting to pop up. I was scared. When he died, it took the wind out from under me, really. I remember feeling like I was alone in the world – now, you know, I was the only one in the family hearing ghosts, and I felt like I was going crazy. Like him. If I’m being honest, those were a few really, really bad years, if only because I suddenly had to learn everything on my own and – and deal with it. The military made it easier, I guess – I’d started to figure shit out, and it made more sense, and now I had this… structure. Telling me where to go, what to eat, what to wear, y’know. Easy stuff. Just show up and do.”

Blix paused, her eyes flitting away for a moment before she sighed heavily and continued. “Then… Kingsland happened, and I lost my vision in my left eye, and suddenly the world was so much worse. That kind of kicked everything off. I remember telling a friend of mine about what I was going through – that I was struggling – and the response was kind of to put me on the backburner on that deployment. Light duty and a watch over me constantly. I never really felt like I got help. From there, more people died, and the whole… all of second battalion was found in that awful camp, and I just – I dunno. I felt like there wasn’t a lot to hope for, anymore. My wife had fucked off to who-knows-where, and jumped off the deep end on necromancy. I felt like everything had just fallen to shit.

“The worst part was that, y’know, after we got back, I looked for help. I did all the things, I did the counseling, I did the emergency shit, and nothing – nothing made it better. More deployments, more damn combat deaths. Ceci died, and the light just completely went the hell out. There wasn’t a damn point, after that. I didn’t feel close to anyone aside from Kenorian, and what was I supposed to tell him, right? The guy’s an Illidari; he’s the epitome of ‘I gave up my entire life as I knew it for the sake of my mission,’ and he survived so much. I felt like I couldn’t talk to him, ‘cause he’d just think less of me.”

Blix reached up, wiping at tears she hadn’t realized had appeared on her face, and huffed a breath before coughing a few times as she refrained from a sob. “I had a plan,” she croaked. “The greenhouse was filled with all sorts of plants that’d kill you if you got near them without – without a respirator. Some of ‘em were quick, some weren’t. I knew which were which, and I was planning to just… accidentally make my way over there. I probably wouldn’t have been found until it was too late, and I thought it was foolproof, and I wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind, really. No one that needed me.”

Gritting her teeth, Blix’s brow furrowed as she recalled the memory. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before sniffing and clearing her throat to continue. “I, uh – I was just trying to find the right time, really, when I met you at that party. For a little while after, you know, I was still unsure. We had that first brawl in Darkshire, and that was… it was good to connect with someone. I felt seen, for the first time in fucking years. That talk we had in the inn… y’know, I put it off. I was like, ‘hey, let’s wait. Let’s wait a little bit, I don’t want to spoil the memory for her.’ Then one day – one day became another, and we s… started spending more time together, and all of a sudden, y’know, I realized I was developing feelings for you -”

Blix sniffled again, taking a breath. “I couldn’t follow through anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and what you’d told me about your brother, how much you wanted to find your parents. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wanted to help with that. I couldn’t help if I were dead, really. So I – I stuck it out. Then… the most amazing shit happened. You saw something in me I hadn’t seen – you thought I was worth it, despite how broken I was and how much of a piece of shit I felt like I was – you made me feel like that just wasn’t true. I know it took me too long to really get into therapy and start unboxing a lot of this, but Indy, you gotta know, you -”

By now, the tears were freely flowing, and Blix folded the letter in her lap as she took a shuddering breath that didn’t stand against the urge to cry that overwhelmed her. “You saved my life,” she croaked, her voice breaking. “You saved my life. You healed me without even knowing it, and you still don’t know how much, and I just – I’m so glad that I have you, and Asha, and that suddenly, shit isn’t so scary anymore.”

Wiping at her face, Blix let out a few sobs, burying her head in her hands. She sniffed, taking a few deep breaths to center herself, and blinked hard a few times before the feeling of a hand on her back startled her so badly she nearly lost her balance on the edge of the roof.

Her head snapped up, and wide, tear-stained eyes met the phantasmal image of Jonathan Voronin, who looked on his niece with a small, sad smile. Blix’s lip quivered, and she leaned towards the ghost as if to wrap her arms around him, the pang in her chest all too familiar when she realized he wasn’t truly physical. His voice rang around her, despite his lips never moving.

“I’m proud of you, Al, and I love you. You did better than me, and that’s all I could hope for. Stay alive. The stars are a lot prettier to you than they are to me.”

And he was right.

[kharrisdawndancer]

@murmuring-shadows

I love soulmates but also this-

[suethesocks]

In honor of black history month i wanted to do this tribute, every character on here is voiced by a black voice actor!!

From left to right theyre Cree Summers (this is a reboot character for those curious), Dave Fennoy, Bumper Robinson, Michael Dorn, Zeno Robinson, Kharry Payton, Kimberly Brooks, and Kevin Michael Richardson

Cree summers also voiced frightwig but i wanted to include captain mccabe as the reboots one contribution to this drawing, plus frightwig is most likely white so it was better to use an already black character

KMR is most well known for voicing emperor Milleous, but i felt itd be better to include one of his minor roles, Kwarrel, as opposed to drawing the evil facist dictator man doing the raised fist salute

[kharrisdawndancer]

DWC August 2024 - Day 6 - Fulfillment / Corruption - Khaeris / Kharris

Khaeris idly swirled the Shadows she had called with a finger, like a finger in a bowl. She had called them with ease and she had been able to do so for many years. Still, she glanced across the picnic blanket to see Kharris was fully wreathed in them, enough that the other elven woman’s hair danced with the sibilant power that they could both hear. Whispers.

The two women--alike enough to be twins--both let go of their Shadow at the same time. They blinked at each other, then laughed in harmony. Like they were reflections.

They drank the same types of tea and sometimes voiced the same thoughts. Khaeris had lovelier handwriting; she had never lost and relearned the ability to read. Kharris could call more deeply to the Shadow, but she had been lost to it before. Khaeris had no scars, her skin complete perfection; Kharris had one. Kharris smiled wide but slower than Khaeris, who felt younger and less tempered.

They were different versions of the same woman and there had been a satisfying sense of fulfillment for each of them when they had finally allowed themselves to have a friendship. They had done some of the simple tricks of twins; swapping responsibilities for a few hours. Asarel had caught her as an imposter right away. That man could be scary!

Kharris flopped back onto the blanket, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of the day on her face. Khaeris watched her openly before turning to look over the meadow instead, musing melancholy. Was she simply a corruption of the other woman? A Not-Quite Copy?

As if she knew what Khaeris was starting to ruminate on, Kharris tossed one of the croissants and snorted to hear it hit Khaeris in the head.

They laughed again, music together. What a weirdly wonderful world.

@daily-writing-challenge

[kharrisdawndancer]

@murmuring-shadows

[magicalgirlmindcrank]

Wow, thanks for reblogging that stuff about KHarris! She's so awful. You just convinced me to vote for Trump.

Thanks, friend! Keep spreading the news about that horrible woman!

🚨🚨LIBERAL DETECTED🚨🚨

[finnglas]

I can't wait for the literal surge of kids named Karris or Kharris to come out of this. It's a cool name, right? I'm sure there will be lots of Kamalas and Harrises too, but I just think Karris is cool...

[ooc-miqojak]

🐇- For a secret item they keep (stuffed animal, comfort object, etc)

Spill Your Secrets Meme

A cigarette case that @kharrisdawndancer gave her many years ago, shortly after Lily returned... a changed woman. In the face of so much rejection from so many others she looked up to/cared for, Kharris was one of the very few who stood by her, and the words that their crew had sworn by: "Once crew, always crew." And this motto is also inscribed inside the cigarette case - a sort of bittersweet reminder of a found-family that's more of a 'lost-family,' these days. That, and a constant reminder that she's really torn on whether or not she should reach out to K - as much as she would like to, she's always felt like a burden to the people around her... and showing back up in someone's life after a long time away could just cause more harm than good.

[7ooo-ru]

Пока вы спали: ненависть Байдена к Харрис и «неамериканский» поступок Трампа

Пока вы спали, Рамблер следил за новостями и отобрал самые важные. Читайте дайджест, подписывайтесь на Рамблер в соцсетях: ВКонтакте, Одноклассники.

Подробнее https://7ooo.ru/group/2024/10/10/681-poka-vyspali-nenavist-baydena-kharris-ineamerikanskiy-postupok-trampa-grss-347169641.html

[fratboykate]

why it's so hard for people to grasp that prosecutor is so not a cop? I bet 90% of them are all bernie stans and that's just an excuse for them to not specifically say 'I don't want to vote for somebody that is not bernie' and that's so fucking stupid, dangerous and selfish, because that really show what are your priorities, your own belief over literally people lives, and for that your are all disgusting. Not even 3 hours later they were already whining 'uuggh she's a cop, she's a literal cop'

She’s literally NOT a cop. What she is is the second most progressive senator only beat by Warren and a senator who has a record that matches with BS 93% of the time. NINETY THREE PERCENT. You can confirm all of this online. There are plenty of sources.

We have a super fucking liberal VP who is also a woman of color but because it’s not their ancient fucking white man cult leader they’re going to throw a tantrum. And this is why I don’t trust these so called “progressives”. It’s not about actual change, it’s about perceived moral purity and them feeling superior/right. If they wanted actual change they’d help elect the people who at least would CONSIDER passing the legislation they want because none of they shit they claim to want is surely getting passed under Dump so...it’s not about politics. It never has been. It’s about performative and selfish bullshit. That’s the only thing they stand for.

[kharrisdawndancer]

“A ship can never truly love an anchor.” dude shut up. a ship without an anchor gets dashed against the rocks. it’s useless, completely at the whim of the currents. a ship loves an anchor so much it carries it everywhere it goes. the anchor gives the ship the world to love. dude.

[ruecien]

Sharing Trouble

Three postal services between Pandaria and Silvermoon, nearly two weeks travel in the Eastern Kingdoms alone, all for one letter tattooed over nearly the entirety of its crinkled skin in innumerable stamps and markings; the crawling chaos of ink had grown with each stop on the long way home, but under it all a message in a familiar hand could still be made out in the upper corner, just beneath the address.

To the lovely Kharris Dawndancer,

from Ruecien,

with all fondness.

And inside?

Dearest Kharris,

There have been too many false starts for this letter, over the past month. I’ve finally decided to just begin at the beginning and end at the end.

First of all - you are dear to me, and to Sinobel, perhaps more than we will ever be able to express! Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you in some way. There’s a hidden humor in how the chime of precious metals summons your graceful sway to mind, or the slow coiling steam of fragrant tea winds its way into memories of nights and conversations spent with you. Too few of those, maybe, and too few letters from here, an error which I recognize with regret. Will you forgive me for not writing sooner? Or at all? I am ashamed. That feeling is all the stronger because of the circumstances under which I write, as I selfishly -

Apologies. I escape myself like an unraveling scarf. I’ll reveal the smallness of my character soon enough.

Regardless of my anxieties, it’s my hope that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits; maybe it will glide beneath your fingers as you saunter through the Exchange one evening, looking for another curiosity, or perhaps it may catch your eye at morning tea, one among many siblings vying for the warmth of your undivided attention. Part of me wishes that it reaches you quickly but is read slowly, patiently, saved for when the sun has traded stations with the moon and you’re safely enfolded in the darkness of your favorite, affectionate Shadow. That you’re happy in the deeply-rooted, painted-toes-to-tip-of-ears sense is what matters most and above all else.

It’s a concern about happiness that prompts this letter in the first place, as it happens. Sinobel and I are happy here, in the sun and the surf and the low drum of monsoon rains on our crooked roof. I never would have imagined how much one could love fishing before I met her, and now I take for granted being vicariously versed in all the little details of tackle and line and tides and so much more, now that she’s become an Angler proper. The community of Pagelites that live below our cabin recently inducted her as a senior member of their ranks, even. It keeps her energetic and up early - she’s kicked coffee almost entirely, did you know that? Wonders never cease - and helps me rise to the challenge of my own pursuits with the local apothecary. She runs, fishes, and lazes about in the sunlight like a hunting cat when I can entreat her to relax with me. Her hair has refined itself into a river of gold after hours under the sky here, a perfect marriage to the tan she now wears so well. It suits her, but she’s almost too beautiful to gaze on (You’ll agree when you see her). As for myself, you would scarcely recognize me now, if I had to guess; Sin says I’m finally a healthy weight, and she’s been quite the benevolent taskmistress in forcing me to cultivate a tan of my own - all over, and evenly shaded. “If you get burned, then what fun will you be? Ounce of prevention, pound of cure!”. Doesn’t that sound just like her? I was thoroughly scandalized at first, but like so much else here, there’s an ease and a wonderful comfort to simply lying in the sun and letting ones thoughts dry awhile under its rays.

Of course, it hasn’t all been sunlight. Rumors reach us of the world beyond, all dark murmurs and whispers of war. The worst of them cannot be true. I refuse to believe it or commit it to the page. My fits are no worse but also no better. Traditional Pandaren medicine, acupuncture, ‘alignment of internal energies’, all have proven as futile as any other treatment. Sinobel suffers new ailments. She has nightmares, now, that trouble me deeply; her face twists like a knife on the worst nights, while she wars against a past I cannot see to stave off a fearful future I cannot guess at. But we manage. She is always around me when I fall away, and I am ever at her side when the night is far longer than it ought to be. I am indescribably fortunate to have such a love as hers. Sinobel never once turns away from my brokenness, always putting her face to the wind and her shoulder to the wheel...

And, so, I will not turn aside from her growing sickness, no matter how painful the cure will be. I wrote to tell you this, and to seek assistance that only you can provide, Kharris: Sinobel is dying.

Don’t be immediately alarmed, but please, do not misunderstand me either. There’s no physical ailment, no lazily thumping heart or oozing vein, but she’s endangered nonetheless. Fatally so. I never did have a flair for the dramatic, least of all for its own sake. I’m saying the truth as plainly as I can, however, as honestly as I’m able. Sinobel, the woman who’s glove I return to like a trained hawk, your Crew, my Muse, is dying here. The sparking parts of her that make her who she is - “Trouble” - are falling away, and I fear that there will be lasting harm if I cannot steel myself to action. Or if you refuse to help me.

Kharris, I think Sinobel wasn’t built for this sort of pleasant idleness, in spite (‘because?’ is written and underlined, off to the side) of it being so idyllic. The same slow passage of time that deepens my roots withers her on the vine; salt water that invigorates me, strengthens me, seems to be rusting her passions; evenings spent leisurely make her anxious and bored; little routines of market visits bind her down and choke the life out of her without the contrast of another goal, another adventure, another moment of skills exercised towards a worthy end. She grew and grows listless. There has to be something more.

I discovered what that was, only a few weeks ago. I had the lock changed on the cabin, and her smile at picking us a way back in was the most complete I’ve seen in months. Later, I plied her with lockboxes - the fisherfolk beneath all contributed, and Master Ling provided me with two himself from the Interior - and basked in the glow of her focused glare, while she lost herself in the mystery of tumblers and pressure pads and locks and prybars. My answer came to me, then. I would write you and I would ask for a terrible favor, one that ends my sunny days and disrupts the heart of this peacefulness I’ve wrapped up tightly inside my chest.

I love her more than lif with all my he just as a drowning man loves

Forgive me. Words fail. I love her, and that is all. I trust you above all others to understand what it means to adore someone so completely, so inescapably, that their happiness is worth walking through fire, or burning for. To truly love another means recognizing certain expanses that may never be crossed or explained, and providing all the space for them to flourish in those places away from us even if we never truly understand their calling. This, too, you know intimately. And so I beg you, against the wishes of my jealous heart, to do what I would allow no other soul:

Take her from me.

You must steal my Trouble away, and soon. She needs to feel useful - you can find tasks to be completed. She needs a purpose outside of building a life here in Narsong Spires - you can inspire her. There is a yearning beyond all that I can affect - and I trust utterly, Kharris, that you can ensure that my weakness doesn’t shackle my Muse at my side until she wastes away, bit by bit, like sand sculptures at high tide. You love her in your own fierce way, as a member of your Atlas family. I vaguely recall that the salvaging company is defunct, but perhaps you could leverage old connections, or wrangle deals on the good reputation of the past as a reference? Anything at all. Please.

I know of no one else I could turn to. It’s an agonizing request, even if it weren’t so shameful to beg for your assistance after so many years apart from you, but it must be done before my will weakens. Selfishly, allow me to lean on your forthrightness and gentle, unyielding compassion once more, as I always did under the spires of Silvermoon. You’ve always been the very spirit of tenderness to me; honouring that spirit, I will find a way to repay you in whatever manner you desire for this undertaking. For her sake, there is no price I would not pay and no endeavour I would not attempt.

Well. There it is. I would fill more pages if I could, but she’ll return soon from the marketplace, and this must be kept a secret from her sticky fingers and cat’s eyes. Know you’re loved also, Kharris, for everything that you are to me. Writing to you seems to have unstopped something deep inside my head - or in the cage of my ribs - and I can feel as much as see the memories desperate to flow to the page. The nights spent drinking tea in your little home, Ylaise and Castien fluttering all about; Embraelle’s sudden visitations, unearthly air alloyed with authentic care; Cakes, even, Braedyn’s ever-adjusted hairpins, a stoop full of faces old and new, moderated by the Most High Xiuhteena’s gruff affection. You know, I even miss when she would tease me about my ‘cloud of women’, or hearing about Junarra’s latest energetic scheme? Acelynn, for as harsh a break as we had. There are other names, and faces, all spiraling out an-

Enough. My reverie has nearly cost me the stealth I require.

I have faith in you, and will await your response as Autumn’s seeds await Spring, and its unforeseeable changes.

Yours, Ruecien

(( @sinobel, @kharrisdawndancer, @embraelle, @saltsparkle, @xiuhteena, and @ylaisegreymist for mentions, with more tags missed because I don’t recall their blogs! ))