short I promise

The trees explode into colorful garb; scarlet, gold, and oranges, all with a backdrop of fading green and deepening brown.

Ah, Battle-Sister.  The Anchorites certainly preach the Light as they see fit.  Forgiveness and Redemption.  Care and Love for all.  Inner peace. 

And they are correct.  What they speak of is the Light.  It is warm and caring, a protective shield over the innocent and pure.  The healing power of the Light is unmistakable, strong enough to mend even the most dire injury.

But, that is only one side.  We of the Hand of Argus, the Vindicators and Exarchs, are wielders of the other part.

Lirriel studied the pages she held in her hands. One was on Dragoon parchment. The other was plain, bleached paper. Both had a few, neatly written lines marking their surfaces.

The priestess closed her eyes, lips silently forming familiar prayers for guidance, her small form rocking slightly as she knelt in the morning light coming through the bedroom window.

It never could be easy.

((Remember this writing challenge? I fiddled with it a few times in drafts and notes, but was never satisfied. Until I was doing new dailies and seeing how my passive spell abilities worked toward completion credit.))

The druid screamed in rage, bursting into a flaming cat to rake at Lirriel's shining bubble.

The dense heat of the Firelands made the priestess cough as she summoned a pillar of Holy Light down onto the fiery feline. Around her, the fallen Defenders she'd struggled to reach gasped as healing energies reflected off the spell and into their injured bodies.

First up was a trip to the Craftsmen's and Trader's Terraces and her various friends and colleagues there, armed with various new—or newly rediscovered—items and techniques to share and trade, as well as a cheerful, friendly disposition. Luckily, the latter came naturally.

There is no stray breeze for feverish skin. No teasing hint of water for parched throats. Sweat simply evaporates, steaming before it swiftly dissipates.

"I am rather sure that part of his problem with shifting is because he's worried that you will no longer enjoy his company anymore," October said.

That sounded ridiculous. "...Why would he think something like that? I told him he should try to get his shifting problem sorted."

"Because of how you treat all the other Human boys around here," she countered. I couldn't really argue that one.

((Following Until the Shadows Disappear))

It feels like a weight has lifted, while the heaviness of guilt for thinking such things presses on me.

My father has passed on; with a dear friend's help, he has been guided back to the Light and those who went before him. His illness was long and difficult. The release from his Broken mortal body is a relief.

But that doesn't mean this little girl can't miss her papa.

The sun is warm and welcoming, the occasional cloud shadow scuttling over the cobblestones. A light wind blows in from the forest, bringing with it the smell of fresh planted fields, blossoming flowers, and newly-mowed grass.

Aerie waited until the Matron had half a moment between children's crises to step forward. “Always such a busy time for you ladies,” the hunter said with a smile as she held out a mug.

Nightingale laughed and took the mug, gratefully inhaling the aromatic steam. “You always do make the best tea, Aerie. Thank you. Here to help a child this week?” She sipped from the mug, some of the nervous energy tension relaxing out of her shoulders.

Death is not usually so frightening.

It takes a long time to come to one of our people, but it does come. Too often with violence; sometimes with illness. Age is an odd thing, with so much suspension between worlds and our inherent magic granting us long lives. Even so, few seem “old” except perhaps the Holy Prophet. Even he is not infirm, the Light's grace granting him the strength to guide our people.

Cheridy's face had turned a darker pink than her tabard.

"All right, you little Gnomette, time for some playpen-time," Cheridy grinned as she placed the almost-toddler inside the cloth enclosure. "Mommy needs to get some work done. And maybe a drink or two."

Alynore picked up the practice blade and made a few moves with it. She didn't normally bother with two-handers, but she needed the practice, and felt the need to just beat on something anyway. The practice dummy in the training yard would do.

“Who is he, anyway?”
“He who?”
“That guy you were flirting with last night that got me shoved into a wall for commenting on.”

Daevra clasped her hands around her mug and listened to the buzz of the Exodar's market. The crowd ebbed and flowed around the table without her seeing individuals, or anyone seeing her. She was always amazed at how the larger the crowd, the lonelier one felt.

Skies filled with the colors of distant worlds and ribbons of stardust.
The tangy scent of arcane energy permeating ever-blowing grit.
The crack of lightning striking my ears, ground rumbling beneath my feet.
Giants made of crystal and stone lumber across tilted planes.

Lirriel ran the silky blue cloth through her hands, eying the other swatches of gold, silver, and brown. Her truesilver shears and needle were ready to work, but first came the crystalline vials on the table next to her dyes.

Inside of one vial was whirling air, the concentrated element made unstable in some parts of the world since the Shattering. She took the Wind and her elementium thread, mixing in a bonding agent that included the volatile rum popular with pirates and goblin-trained engineers both. That instability was exactly what was needed in this particular transmutation, even if it meant more careful handling.

There was always that feeling like you had been kicked in the gut after bad news. Anterian just stood there in my own living room, playing the part of the untouchable healer. He'd made sure Cerwis was resting comfortably in our bedroom.

“Lieutenant Elsbeth Forrester,” Harrigan said to Fanshen, pointing at me.

She was waiting for him when he came in, the shoulders of his dark woolen coat sprinkled with snow. Cerwis helped undo the double row of silver buttons and eased the heavy fabric off her husband's back before hanging it up, “How did the meeting go?”

Reggie hobbled to the couch, letting his cane support most of the weight on his left side, before sitting and relaxing back into the soft cushions as the fire crackled merrily in the large fireplace, “As well as could be expected. Half the team is dead, or still missing. Errin and Gale had me listed as next of kin on pretty much everything, probably as a joke, but... I got my last pay check as well as both of theirs. I don't think I'll be able to play if the season picks back up this year, then again, most of those capable of playing joined the war effort.”

People from Azeroth often compare the Naaru to snowflakes. Never knew what that meant, 'til I came to Azeroth and saw snow. There isn't any on Draenor; not anymore anyhow, not even on the tallest mountains, or in the coldest times of the year.

Here, though, it's mostly cold and wet; just frozen water, laying in thick piles or blowing across the roads. It hides patches of slippery ice and other uneven footing. It gets into your clothes, makes your feet wet like you've walked through a stream, laying in a chill to your very bones.

And yet...

((For some value of the word "choice."))

Rage had taken over.

Yauvni sighed, hugging Mr. Bunny to her chest and sleepily feeding him a carrot. "I met a nice lady, today," she told the rabbit, whose ears twitched at the incomprehensible noise.