April Marathon - 3. Void
Apr. 3rd, 2026 05:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stormandozoneDylaine knows of this shadow in ways he wishes he did not.
Even far from the dark, churning storm, even tucked between the trees in an arcane hideaway, he knows the shadows. They’ve been building, Myro said. The cults. The Highlands. His network, all spies and brokers of intelligence, have been growing louder and louder– their messages fill pages now, the fear of what is to come making even the thriftiest of them share.
Now, it roils and rolls over Quel’thalas. Waves like slate reflect it, turn onyx and charcoal beneath the shadows. The far-flung isle which should glow now settles under it, a wounded animal beneath the belly of a yawning, hungry predator.
His tongue wets his lips as he remembers the taste of rage, when stirred by shadows. He remembers how it felt to bleed when Sofie and Rojan brought him down.
He remembers Prisa’s darkness in his veins and how it felt like the end of the world.
Dylaine turns his amber eye to Quel’danas, perched on the Lighthouse roof, the wind buffeting him and whipping his long tail of dark hair stingingly against his cheeks and neck. Below, the port of Shallowbrook seethes, too many bodies, too many questions as everyone finds places to high enough to see past the ridges and trees to the darkness. The brassy spyglass is cool against his hands as he raises it once more.
The tomb on the island.
The medical bay.
And now, here. So far away and yet far, far too close.
“What is it, lad?” The harbormaster’s voice chimes from the sendingstone, and Dylaine lifts it, keeping the glass pressed to his good eye.
“It’s void.”
“Void?”
“Aye, sir. Shadows.” He feels the ache of it somewhere under his sternum, where the lingering bits of Prisa’s nightmare still outrace the burning magic he took from his kin. “Lots of ‘em. Massive.” He should say more. But one of the titans of darkness lurches, and he feels like its him on those shores.
The elf curses through the stone, and the line quiets.
Reaching to his earring– a sun, today– he presses it hard enough into the pad of his thumb it will leave a mark.
“Myro.”
A beat. “Yes, Dylaine?” The voice is subdued. Maybe he’s seen it. Maybe he just feels it.
“It’s here.”
If he could steal the pain, the panic in those silent seconds, he would– he would bear them alone, or rip them apart. Instead, Myro breathes deeply, and even without seeing it, Dylaine knows the pages of his book have turned.
“We knew it would be. It’s time to get to work, then. When can you return?”
Dylaine feels the fire in him roar at the bravery in his lover, his friend, his everything. An information broker and a sailor, what can they do against the dark?
“Now. I’ll be there soon.”
Enough.
Even far from the dark, churning storm, even tucked between the trees in an arcane hideaway, he knows the shadows. They’ve been building, Myro said. The cults. The Highlands. His network, all spies and brokers of intelligence, have been growing louder and louder– their messages fill pages now, the fear of what is to come making even the thriftiest of them share.
Now, it roils and rolls over Quel’thalas. Waves like slate reflect it, turn onyx and charcoal beneath the shadows. The far-flung isle which should glow now settles under it, a wounded animal beneath the belly of a yawning, hungry predator.
His tongue wets his lips as he remembers the taste of rage, when stirred by shadows. He remembers how it felt to bleed when Sofie and Rojan brought him down.
He remembers Prisa’s darkness in his veins and how it felt like the end of the world.
Dylaine turns his amber eye to Quel’danas, perched on the Lighthouse roof, the wind buffeting him and whipping his long tail of dark hair stingingly against his cheeks and neck. Below, the port of Shallowbrook seethes, too many bodies, too many questions as everyone finds places to high enough to see past the ridges and trees to the darkness. The brassy spyglass is cool against his hands as he raises it once more.
The tomb on the island.
The medical bay.
And now, here. So far away and yet far, far too close.
“What is it, lad?” The harbormaster’s voice chimes from the sendingstone, and Dylaine lifts it, keeping the glass pressed to his good eye.
“It’s void.”
“Void?”
“Aye, sir. Shadows.” He feels the ache of it somewhere under his sternum, where the lingering bits of Prisa’s nightmare still outrace the burning magic he took from his kin. “Lots of ‘em. Massive.” He should say more. But one of the titans of darkness lurches, and he feels like its him on those shores.
The elf curses through the stone, and the line quiets.
Reaching to his earring– a sun, today– he presses it hard enough into the pad of his thumb it will leave a mark.
“Myro.”
A beat. “Yes, Dylaine?” The voice is subdued. Maybe he’s seen it. Maybe he just feels it.
“It’s here.”
If he could steal the pain, the panic in those silent seconds, he would– he would bear them alone, or rip them apart. Instead, Myro breathes deeply, and even without seeing it, Dylaine knows the pages of his book have turned.
“We knew it would be. It’s time to get to work, then. When can you return?”
Dylaine feels the fire in him roar at the bravery in his lover, his friend, his everything. An information broker and a sailor, what can they do against the dark?
“Now. I’ll be there soon.”
Enough.
