vyvienne

[vyvienne]

As our curios Mag’Har closed in on the gates of the human capitol city, he took pause just beyond the paths bend to reflect on his role here. His hulking form peered from behind a tree, no longer donning his heavy plate, but an attire fit for Draenic society. He felt silly, but he was here to observe and learn, not interact. Pulling two bottles from his ruck, one labeled Noggenfogger, and the other, a potion that would allow him to understand the common tongue beyond the walls.

Downing both without hesitation, he felt his body shift, his bones crack and rearrange, and his height only shrink slightly. His skin, going from the natural brown, to red, an Eredar. “Great…another goblin fiasco.”

Shrugging it off, he moved into the city and took note of what he saw, how he was treated, and what he heard.

JOURNAL ENTRY #2

“I have managed to infiltrate Stormwind, though I feel I would have been better off in my natural form. This..red skin, it is drawing attention from all but the seediest denizens, so perhaps it is not all bad. The so-called cathedral district, it is full of hypocrites. None of these peoples have a clue who walks amongst them, and nearly all are using religion for personal gain. I have seen more honesty from the makers of these alchemical creations.”

“Dwarves..these people I can relate to. Hard working, natural craftsman and masters of forges, and impressive drinkers. I still think Gnomes are weird…”

“I do not see how the Draenei walk with these hooves, I have almost fallen twice, and the stance is so unstable. Off topic, some of the women here are quite beautiful, and as I sit here across from a brothel, more than a few have tried to beckon me forth. I must remind myself I am here to observe and learn. Distractions are not wise here, for I am a wolf amongst sheep.”

“These elven races here, they remind me of the Sin’Dorei across the sea, they are also quite the visage of beauty, as they all are. I really must move away from this establishment!”

“This will be my last entry for the day..they really need to fix the steps to this brothel, they creaked beneath my weight..”

[vyvienne]

Did a starter today. I absolutely love the new questing zones and it was fun to write something atmospheric.

Crimson light fell over the priestess’s steps along the earth—though in truth, the soil was different here. Azj-Kahet’s crags had given way to a pulse of breathing flesh, writhing in sacred compulsion.

For now, she met indifference, but notice would soon come. The air was still and charred. Rivers of black blood twisted through the landscape, dimming to near darkness at an endless horizon. And a distant chittering, not yet offering concern.

Where to begin?

Masses of sentience slithered in formation, ones she decided to not engage for the time being. But a nearby pool caught her attention. Surrounded by abandoned goblin machinery, they too had been searching. Her curiosity began to focus.

Rounding the bank, she knelt at the edge of the ichor, palm hovering over the pitch—not quite meeting its surface. She was patient, allowing it to feel her presence.

A bubble began to stir, then rose to meet her hand. It was hesitant, assessing. It took a moment, then snapped in a ripple of retreat.

Layered whispers came.

This one will not yield just yet.

[vyvienne]

It was a rather bright and sunny day as Skormosh found himself walking through the Elwynn Forest. Why was he here, how did he remain unseen? All valid questions, but that is another topic. He rested on a stump and watched closely as the denizens of this continent moved about. He observed as a hunter stalked, killed, and dressed a deer, and this brought some curious musings. He removed a small leather bound journal from his ruck and began jotting down his thoughts. Thus, the Musings of a Warmaster was born.

JOURNAL ENTRY #1

“Very odd these folk are here, but it is nice to get out of Orgrimmar for a bit. I actually missed the green, the wind, the trees and rivers. Saw a kobold earlier, heh, I remember when those were intimidating, or so they thought.”

“I see leather working is still a viable source of income in these lands, seems any animal is a commodity. Furs, ivory, bone and meat, all are used. Can any fur be sold? Would they know? Why can’t Worgen be skinned and sold? Seems an untapped source of well kept furs, perhaps there is an illegal market for such things. Hmmm.”

“I will have to look into the illegal fur trades to see if Worgen, Tauren, Vulpera, perhaps even Dracthyr can be bought and sold. If you really think about it, I bet they would all sell for a decent amount. Each pelt would have history…”

“Well, better get back to it, until next time, wonder if there’s a decent place to eat around here. There’s a sign up ahead, but the roar of the crowd within is deafening. Wonder what it says…Goldshi—“

“I will take my chances with the squirrels, I think, that place is, rumor has it, a den of pure savagery and evil.”

[vyvienne]

Echoes of the Fallen: Shadows of the Resurgent Dead

The Ghostlands stretch out like a wound upon the world. A forsaken realm where the sun dares not linger. The woods, once a verdant tapestry of elven splendor, now lies cloaked in the eternal twilght. The canopy of twisted, skeletal trees claws towards the sky like the hands of the damned. The air is thick with a sickly miasma, a blend of decay and fel-tainted earth, carrying whispers of forgotten sorrows on an unnatural breeze. Faint, mournful cries echo through the underbrush, though their source remains unseen -- perhaps the last remnants of Quel'thalas' fallen, or perhaps... something worse.

Upon the ground is a carpet of ash and brittle leaves, crunching underfoot with every cautious step of the small regiment that had received reports of the Scourge's return. Gnarled roots burst through the soil like the bones of some ancient leviathan, seeking to bare audience to the battle that was to come. Luminescent fungi cling at the tree's trunks, casting an eerie, greenish glow that dances in the corner of the eye; tricking the mind into seeing shapes where none should be.

Soon the ruins of Goldenmist Village come into view, showcasing its many crumbling archways, shattered spires, and toppled statures of forgotten heroes. They just from the earth like gravestones, their once-gleaming surfaces marred by centuries of neglect and the claw-marks of restless spirits. This would be the staging area for the living to contend with the dead.

Yet it is the silence that truly unnerves the Commander of the Silvermoon Guard. The Ghostlands are not merely quiet - they are empty, a void of life where even the insects have fled. The stillness is oppressive, broken only by the occasional skittering of a starving rat or the distant, hollow clatter of bones. This is a land forsaken by the Light, a graveyard where the veil between life and death has worn thin, and the shadows themselves seem to pulse with malevolent intent.

And then, without warning, the silence shatters. A low, guttural moan rises from the earth, reverberating through the trees like the tolling of a death knell. The ground trembles, splitting apart as skeletal hands burst forth, clawing their way free from shallow graves. The air grows colder, the miasma thickening into a choking fog as glowing, necrotic eyes ignite in the darkness. A sea of baleful lights now advancing through the underbrush showcasing that the undead have awakened once more. Behind them a series of meatwagons roll into view, cresting over the hilltops with their catapults loaded to the brim with corpses.

The mechanical snap of the cantilever spring releases as the payload is thrown into the sky with the destination set on the living.

"Keep your wits about you and support your comrades!"

The Commander's shout rallies a nearby orc warrior into a frenzy.

"Lok-tar ogar!"

Ghouls, that just resurfaced suddenly lurch forward with unnatural speed. Their decayed limbs swing out from side to side behind them with jagged teeth snapping at the air with ravenous hunger. Amidst these initial waves of undead, the shadows seem to take shape in the form of drifting Wraiths. The spectral remains of once-living people come into view with expressions permanently etched in despair. Their hollow wails pierce the mind and soul alike, like a chorus of anguish that threatens to unravel sanity.

One of the payloads of a nearby meat wagon thrusts its payload into the sky again. Though this time, Faelarion, Kelz'thalas's steed could not outmaneuver the descending mass - forcing her to dismount hastily and roll onto the ground in a tumble of metallic clanking. Her armor had soaked the initial impact and protected her from some of exploding corpses.

Yet even as she hurried to her feet, a ghoul lunged for her. Their limbs clashed against her bulwark mainly, but one free swipe is made past it - scratching the exposed skin beneath her helm to adorn a new scar over her left eye. Unable to keep track of their force's efforts, she stood in contest with this ghoul, fearing that any surrender to its attacks could lead to an unwelcome demise. Yet the ghoul did not relent, forcing its weight along the surface of her shield's face.

Nearby, a mage comes into view and deliberately pulls forth a wand and channels a spell to the Commander's frame. The arcane ward materializes in a purple film, that acts as a second barrier to her and propels the ghoul away with a forceful arcane blast.

"You have my thanks," the Commander stated quickly as she sees another in their midsts about to be flanked by an unsuspecting ghoul. Pumping her legs to keep up with the rhythm of battle, she promptly sidebars the encroaching ghoul with a brutal shield slam before it can reach another fellow Sin'dorei. His thanks were offered alongside the growing chaos, and yet more ghouls continued to descend upon them.

Just as she turned to anticipate the attack, another claw scratched her right cheek, forcing her head to dip forward to shield for a second blow. A backpedaled step was taken before she grits her teeth and felt the fury of her rage rise. The glaive that had been a silent partner this time now chose to sing, sweeping deliberately for a horizonal cut. It's motion twisting alongside the Commander's movements as its sister blade pierced into the ghoul's chest to ground it back into its grave.

"Stand strong!" She calls out to those that felt their morale waver upon the onslaught. Even if the battle had just begun, there was some evidence that the tide was turning in their favor. Upon advancing on the next series of ghouls, one was larger than the others - basked in a series of spiked bones a more fortified body. This would be her next foe, and without hesitation their weapons came to clash. Reinforced bone armor easily soaked the initial bite of her glaive, enabling the undead the luxury of a second attack. The ghoul's arm broke through her defenses, making a horrible ripping sound against her tabard and cutting through the plate of her breastplate. The sting of blood could be felt beneath as she promptly righted herself.

The Ghostlands, which was long thought pacified, had become a crucible of death once more. The Scourge's legacy, or perhaps some new, darker force breathed unholy life into the fallen. Allies would quickly seek to aid one another until the initial wave no longer stirred. But it was a brief reprieve before the second wave of undeath came into existence.

This time there were abominations emerging over the horizon and their lumbering frames easily rivaled that of those meat wagons that stood idly at range while more ghouls reloaded those awaiting catapults. An iron meat hook was taken hold of as the Orc warrior from before was set as its indiscriminate victim. With hesitation, the Commander broke past the once armored ghoul to intercept the thrown hook. Her glaive thrust forward to catch the opening of the chained link and pinned its length to the earth. Though, the effort to stop it from reaching her ally caused the hook end to swing wildly back towards her, catching the brunt of it with her shield while the sharp end sank along the side of her frame.

The pain was nothing compared to the idea of losing this battle. And she ignored it before pulling her glaive from the ground and as the sunfire enchant upon her sharpened steel began to glow. The runes along it glowed in an inscribed thalassian that read: "By the Sunwell's Wrath, the Dead Shall burn."

In another adrenaline rush, brought her before the towering abomination. It's third limbed arm menacingly raised behind its head with a raised hatchet. And upon seeking a place in the Commander, it instead bit into the ground where she once stood. This newfound opportunity led to the quick disarming of the abomination as her glaive cut through the outstretched arm and severed it at its center. The heat of battle burned like a Phoenix flames, consuming all into the frenzy of war.

Another stitched monstrosity was not granted any place of mercy as she thrust her glaive into the flesh at its side, forcing a second opening to mirror that of its gaping stomach to emerge. The stitched organs spilt onto the ground as its ability to stay standing was greatly reduced.

"FOR THE GLORY OF QUEL'THALAS!" She bellowed over her recent success in conflict. Yet, the scourge possessed one last fight that would impress upon the living that they were not just a fleeting nightmare. A trio of Death Knights, mounted upon armored death chargers charged into battle. One of these knight's sought to impede on the Commander's path as she brought her shield to protect her from an oncoming death coil. The unholy magic bit at her shield's surface and splashed around her into the landscape. And as she brought it away to prepare for a retaliation, an empowered rune blade now swept into her like a battering ram. The ground left her feet as she was sent airborne some feet away. Her back hit the surface hard as blood was coughed up through her lungs as this was the second attack to her front. Ribs likely fractured now beneath her breastplate as she could feel the pain grow in intensity with her motions.

Her shield had no longer remained on her arm, and the fight was better suited for those who could still stand. The glaive that rested in her hand was gripped tightly in the event of self-preservation. Unsteadily, she rose to be unyielding like the cursed damned, but the meat wagons now launched another series of payloads. And upon seeing the dead use themselves as ammunition again, it felt cruely surreal to accept the outcome of its embrace. The feebleness in her legs glued her to accept the brunt of fallen heroes as her back became horizontal once more. A jaw now fractured, and her shield arm sprained, she lay still as the alcohol she imbibed generally made her to be.

Allied hands eventually sought to claim her and pull her body free from a temporary grave. This time she was aided by the worgen who had come to fight alongside them.

"Get to your feet," she growled and shouldered some of the Commander's weight. "You won't be dying today."

A smirk of relief settled on her face, but the pain made it subside as she hobbled alongside their retreating forces.

For those who dare to tread this haunted wood, the message is clear: the dead do not rest in the Ghostlands. They rise, they hunger, and they march - heralds of an encroaching darkness that threatens to swallow the world whole.

[vyvienne]

The Madam Susan Gampre

Mostly finished... It's been so long since Ive drawn anything; Haven't had the creative drive

I'm satisfied with the outcome of this though, sure to be tweaked in the future!

[vyvienne]

“I’m often difficult to love. I go through dark periods like the moon and I hide from myself. But I promise I will kiss your wounds when they’re hurting. Even if they’re in your soul, I can find them with the light in my fingertips. I will lead you to the river so you can remember how beautiful it feels to be moved by something that is out of your control. And when our dark periods match, we can breathe with the grass and look at the night sky. The stars will remind us of the beauty in our struggles and we won’t feel lost.”

— Emery Allen (via quotemadness)

[vyvienne]

Moving Day!

(Trigger Warning: mention of sexual assault)

I am back at the inn, packing up a few personal items to take with me when I permanently move to the Damp. My bedroom is finally complete and I am quite pleased with how it has turned out. Dark woods, deep reds, velvet bedding (for those cold nights because they don’t call it the Damp without reason), it is quite perfect. I collected the décor myself from around Azeroth and feel like it reflects my own sense of comfort and personality much as Autumnvale did before I burned it to the ground.

I regret that now. It was silly that in a fit of pique I burned the estate I spent literal years rebuilding and decorating to my own tastes. Then I think of the nursery. A labor of love, with friends helping to paint murals over the walls, build little toys and even an owl mobile for the crib. Those things can never be replaced. I am still surprised at how I reacted, but done is done. I have contracted to have the buildings restored, but it will never be the same. Perhaps that is the point.

I find myself debating on taking Angeline’s staff. It sits in the corner, collecting dust. Too tall for me, the grip too large for my hands and there is a slight crack in the wood. It is without power and unusable now, yet I cannot seem to let it go. I wonder why that is sometimes. I am slowly surpassing the power I was granted from Angeline, helped along by the Bloodcrest Font. I am enjoying the boost and no longer feel unbalanced from it. So why do I keep the staff?

I know the answer. For memories. It is one of my last links to my past with Drex. I hate him, yet I still love him as I suppose only a widow can. As time passes you begin to remember the happy memories and let the bad ones fall by the wayside. I think of his crooked smile, his lighthearted manner and yes, even his naïveté. Especially his naïveté. How in Light’s name did he survive before he met me? The man was shot numerous times, attacked randomly and not so randomly once he met me. Sheer luck is my only answer. Luck and power. Honestly, he was an incredibly powerful mage. One of the most powerful I have ever seen, even though he rarely used that power.

I cannot forgive him for leaving. I cannot forgive him for taking Emily away, for saying I was a danger to her. Mainly, I cannot forgive him for not believing me about the whispers. I sometimes find myself wondering if he rethought his views once he knew others around Azeroth were also hearing them? Or did he dig in, as he sometimes did, and refuse to believe me? ME, the person who showed him so much about my magic. It enraged me. So much so that I burned down my estate. I am also still uncertain my father didn’t have something to do with Drex’s behavior. But I am digressing.

Thorne will continue to stay in my suite at the inn while I am gone, refusing to consider joining the Sanctum but still willing to stand by my side and work my will in many ways. She has always been loyal, since I helped save her years ago from a brutal assault by a Death Knight. He had been her intended mate and died during the Third War. No one knew he had been raised until he found and tried to r*pe her in the forest.

I happened to be in the area on a job, heard the fight and investigated. Thorne was fighting him but it was just becoming obvious how much power a raised Death Knight had and she needed help. I helped and together we put him down. She was shaken and grateful. I insisted she owed me nothing. She disagreed and has been by my side and done my bidding ever since. However, I know her limits and do not ask her to push herself beyond them. Which is why I do not push her on joining us. She would not do so, and she often cautions me about how enmeshed I am becoming with the Sanctum. Yet I tell her I feel welcome here in ways I have rarely felt welcomed since Aeras and certainly unlike how I felt in the cloister. I never truly felt at home there.

Back to the present, I have decided. The staff will remain here. The past will remain here. I will go to the Damp renewed and refreshed, letting the past rest. It is a hurdle I am finding easier and easier to climb each time it rears its head and that pleases me immensely.

[vyvienne]

Moving Day!

(Trigger Warning: mention of sexual assault)

I am back at the inn, packing up a few personal items to take with me when I permanently move to the Damp. My bedroom is finally complete and I am quite pleased with how it has turned out. Dark woods, deep reds, velvet bedding (for those cold nights because they don’t call it the Damp without reason), it is quite perfect. I collected the décor myself from around Azeroth and feel like it reflects my own sense of comfort and personality much as Autumnvale did before I burned it to the ground.

I regret that now. It was silly that in a fit of pique I burned the estate I spent literal years rebuilding and decorating to my own tastes. Then I think of the nursery. A labor of love, with friends helping to paint murals over the walls, build little toys and even an owl mobile for the crib. Those things can never be replaced. I am still surprised at how I reacted, but done is done. I have contracted to have the buildings restored, but it will never be the same. Perhaps that is the point.

I find myself debating on taking Angeline’s staff. It sits in the corner, collecting dust. Too tall for me, the grip too large for my hands and there is a slight crack in the wood. It is without power and unusable now, yet I cannot seem to let it go. I wonder why that is sometimes. I am slowly surpassing the power I was granted from Angeline, helped along by the Bloodcrest Font. I am enjoying the boost and no longer feel unbalanced from it. So why do I keep the staff?

I know the answer. For memories. It is one of my last links to my past with Drex. I hate him, yet I still love him as I suppose only a widow can. As time passes you begin to remember the happy memories and let the bad ones fall by the wayside. I think of his crooked smile, his lighthearted manner and yes, even his naïveté. Especially his naïveté. How in Light’s name did he survive before he met me? The man was shot numerous times, attacked randomly and not so randomly once he met me. Sheer luck is my only answer. Luck and power. Honestly, he was an incredibly powerful mage. One of the most powerful I have ever seen, even though he rarely used that power.

I cannot forgive him for leaving. I cannot forgive him for taking Emily away, for saying I was a danger to her. Mainly, I cannot forgive him for not believing me about the whispers. I sometimes find myself wondering if he rethought his views once he knew others around Azeroth were also hearing them? Or did he dig in, as he sometimes did, and refuse to believe me? ME, the person who showed him so much about my magic. It enraged me. So much so that I burned down my estate. I am also still uncertain my father didn’t have something to do with Drex’s behavior. But I am digressing.

Thorne will continue to stay in my suite at the inn while I am gone, refusing to consider joining the Sanctum but still willing to stand by my side and work my will in many ways. She has always been loyal, since I helped save her years ago from a brutal assault by a Death Knight. He had been her intended mate and died during the Third War. No one knew he had been raised until he found and tried to r*pe her in the forest.

I happened to be in the area on a job, heard the fight and investigated. Thorne was fighting him but it was just becoming obvious how much power a raised Death Knight had and she needed help. I helped and together we put him down. She was shaken and grateful. I insisted she owed me nothing. She disagreed and has been by my side and done my bidding ever since. However, I know her limits and do not ask her to push herself beyond them. Which is why I do not push her on joining us. She would not do so, and she often cautions me about how enmeshed I am becoming with the Sanctum. Yet I tell her I feel welcome here in ways I have rarely felt welcomed since Aeras and certainly unlike how I felt in the cloister. I never truly felt at home there.

Back to the present, I have decided. The staff will remain here. The past will remain here. I will go to the Damp renewed and refreshed, letting the past rest. It is a hurdle I am finding easier and easier to climb each time it rears its head and that pleases me immensely.

[vyvienne]

Anon-Day!

~ Ask my my character anything you want ~ Confess something you would never say to my their face ~ Send them an anonymous letter ~ Give them unsolicited advice you think they need ~ Tell them one thing you like about them ~ Tell them one thing you hate about them ~ Tell them your favorite memory of them

Anything is welcomed on Anon-Day, as long as it’s on anon!

[vyvienne]

[vyvienne]

Silvermoon City, Eversong Woods

[vyvienne]

[vyvienne]

Graveyard Tea Time™ with the wonderful @sanguinesorceress ♡

[vyvienne]

Lost

Walking down the aisle led to her doom, in all sense of things. A preacher possessed by the scourge read the wrong ritual and *poof* suddenly her dreams were disrupted along with the lives of everyone in that cursed wedding.

So she wanders... the injuries to her fouled brain sometimes causing her to believe every day is the day before it happened. She'll be seen with her groom, a silent horror by her side as she finds a way to fuse the anima of his soul with the burned husk of flesh they left behind. So far she's been unsuccessful, and each time she peers into his anima she takes a wee little sip, just to taste a few drops of her former lover's soul. He won't notice a little bit off the top and it makes her feel so... powerful. Ok maybe one more sip. Last one!

Chains are gently placed around his bones to prevent him from attacking weary citizens in places they visit.

Her bridal clothes hang off in weeping clumps of lace. Her eyes glow with a secret ritual of bonding. A mangled bridal bouquet of roses entangles a strange staff she carries at all times. Rumor is that it's adorned with the skull of the former possessed preacher of her catastrophic wedding. Her skin is pale and cool, a bit more preserved as she feeds off the anima of her doomed groom. As he burns and withers, she grows more beautiful and alive.

She cannot remember her name. She introduces herself as "Lost", as it was the first answer to a question she was asked after wandering in shock from the wedding massacre:

"Are you lost?"

"I believe I am now."

Lost's Memories Her memory is swiss cheese, and she has nothing but flashes of the legendary romance between her and the hideous, unresponsive husk she leads on a chain. She knows of battles fought back to back with a handsome warlock with messy raven hair, a professor of the occult. She can see his flashing eyes rumbling with fel energy as he stole, absorbed, twisted demonic powers. His dark magic could conflagrate entire armies, as she also witnessed in her nightmares.

Countless excursions, half pieced-together flood her mind. A gentle hand turning into a blood-soaked one, then a burned husk. And his eyes... beautiful eyes that once held the universe, pools she could gaze into to see her future were now black pits of smoldering flesh. Frantic, chaotic anima holding him together.

Moments remembered of learning, growing with him makes her heart ache. Laughter in a private study, a desk being cleared for their bodies in haste, blood-magic rituals of bonding, entwining shadows poured from their souls together like vines, radiating pleasure when touched... torture her dreams until her mind drifts into one and gets stuck, holding on.

She now has eternity to remember his name.  She will find a way to break his fucking curse. Always, tomorrow. Right after this little sip of his anima... delicious.

Art on the left by Adam Schmidt at misteradam.com

Circular illustration by me (Nesnora)

Wyrmrest Accord screenshot of Lost and Found in-game.

[vyvienne]

Ruins of a Gothic chapel at full moon, 1868. ― Felix Kreutzer (German, 1835-1876)

[vyvienne]

Anon-Day!

~ Ask my my character anything you want ~ Confess something you would never say to my their face ~ Send them an anonymous letter ~ Give them unsolicited advice you think they need ~ Tell them one thing you like about them ~ Tell them one thing you hate about them ~ Tell them your favorite memory of them

Anything is welcomed on Anon-Day, as long as it’s on anon!

[vyvienne]

The Tiger's Teeth

DWC 2025; Loyalty/Rage Prompt

Trigger Warning: Blood and beatings

Screaming could be heard to the farthest reaches of the Sister's in Sin brothel. Blood curdling at times, but mostly a cacophony of multiple voices bouncing throughout the acoustic rich rooms in endless echos. It reches the Madam well before anyone could try to get a handle on the issue, and it had been enough to stir the woman from her paperwork -- Her eyes held a sentiment of frustration at the uncouth haymaker going on under her roof. She strode from her office with a purpose, skirts trailing as she made haste down the corridors toward the stair case, glancing over the banister to measure what exactly she was walking into.

A group of women stood gathered with a singular guard between them all, a few of the women Susan recognized as her very own sex workers, all dressed of varying modesty. They were all exchanging in heated debate with two women of extravagant gowns that she did not recognize. Accusations of grandeur flew from the mouths of the unidentified women, the younger of the two flashing her marital ring and spitting the worst insults of them all whilst her older companion only enabled. The whores responded to the challenge with their indiscretion, likely riling the women up further -- No one truly seemed eager to try and settle the matter.

Susan sighed with frustration. This was a scene she had witnessed before in her many-a years, honestly this was a scene she had personally been apart of more times than she had fingers and toes. Mothers, wives or sisters of men storming through the Brothel to bitch, moan and complain how the man of their life was ruined after their involvement with the Brothel and its whores. It was a never ending tirade of blaming the wrong party involved.

"So soon into the year?" She mutters beneath her breath, eyes moving to inspect the rafters now, series of catwalks installed between the upper level structural beams and walls, rafters containing sturdy nets... The design carried a collection of her tigers who, for the most part, seemed only as annoyed as she to all the ruckus. They had been lounging and relaxing with the space and freedom from the crowd of the brothel's ground level. But even from their height they couldn't escape the insufferable squabbles.

A sympathetic expression was sent toward her big cats, but ultimately it all seemed out of her hands. She had prepared to turn away as more guards stepped in to handle the rising frustrations of the involved parties, forming a wall to begin pulling the insulting party on one side away from everyone. She was ready to allow them to squash the issue; For all intents and purposes, Susan was certain it was over before it had begun -- Just to catch sight of a hand flying through the air to catch one of her whores straight in the jaw, sending the woman crashing to the floor.

As if responding to the Madam's sudden peak of fury the tigers in the rafters would all snarl, piloerection affecting the orange and black around their shoulders-- Indication to how tapped in they were to Susans reactions; Her emotions, to an extent, were their own. An attestment to the deep loyalty and understanding between feline and human. They stood at the catwalks and around the rafters in anticipation; A foreshadowing of what was to come as their amber and golden eyes were as wild as Susan's. She had finally registered that it was not just any whore, but the sweetest and the most well intentioned of them all. Esme Erynn lay in a crumbled pile of tears and blood, having been struck so hard by the maiden that the woman's rings had cut up Esme's lip.

There wasn't hesitation now. Her friend... a good woman had been attacked before her eyes. She had to respond to the dual challenge of a worker being assaulted as well as the fact it was someone she cared for. Without ever having to think about it Susan almost flys down the flights of steps to join the fray. She was practically seeing red, nostrils flaring as her breath became shallow; The adrenaline was pumping through her body and sending her rage to astronomical heights. From the rafters her oldest of companions made haste to dismount the catwalks and follow Susan's figure.

Once on ground level she ran through the crowd like a battering ram, surprising the guards in a red rover style slam through the shoulders of two men as they had made effort to contain the employees. The women were not quite as furious as Susan but were the more immediate threats to the well being of the two smug women come stirring up trouble, the Madam's involvement was unexpected.

The Madam, all five feet (with an added six inches from her tall heels) coiled her ringed fingers into the hair of the insulter, flinging her to the ground with a combination of her surprise attack and honed strength. The woman fell with a shout of confusion, but the Madam wasn't satisfied with this alone. Her own bejeweled ringed fingers caught and tore some hair from the woman's skull as she steadies her. Then, with a snarl of her own, Susan begins to swing her tightly balled fist into the woman's undefended face.

Before the guards or even the outsider's companion could attempt to stop it before the Madam got out of hand, the true throaty rumbling growl of a tiger causes them to freeze. That haunting noise would shake their very ribs, the big cat's noisy entrance a dare to them all to cross her. The loyal big cat of the Madam draws close to put her large and intimidating stature between her caretaker and those who'd attempt to intervene. Anthrel's greying and grizzled maw was open wide in a snarl of stained teeth, ears pinned in a gesture of her focus and fury (mostly stemmed from the Madam's infectious anger).

From the start she had completely blitzed the attacker, only further stunning her with every calculated strike of her fist, the other hand still clutching tightly to the blonde locks, occasionally tugging the hair to keep the woman on the ground whenever she tries rally. Blood and spit now sprayed the floor at the hand of Susan's viciousness. At some point Susan would tire of her upper hand, releasing the woman's tresses before sending her foot into the woman's stomach, putting abit of distance between them as she hollers at the top of her lungs:

"Not in my fucking house you gangly cunt! Don't you ever put your hands on someone, over a fucking whore hungry man? Pathetic!" She spits, venom seeping from her clenched teeth, the rage in her eyes burning like wildfire across a dry prairie.

The trespasser was completely at Susan's mercy now -- and the Madam wasn't in a forgiving mood.

Her fury was controlled now, focused. And she was every bit ready to continue this scrap until she'd been satisfied with the blood shed. "Get up and fight me like a woman, you bony bitch. I wont tear a defenseless woman apart unlike you."

@daily-writing-challenge