‘ i never thought i’d live past twenty. ‘
“mal yolos,” the dragonqueens voice strains with a numb ache, hurt that she has known a time too many. the fear of an inadequate response sits heavy on her, chest; it weighs her down, clips her wings, scars her feet. dawnstrider knows of such a weight – all damnation is the same, it only appears different, and she sees it. with every tired step, every fatigued exhale, every collapse into rest — alexstrasza almost sees how horribly and completely exhausted the half-elf is.
they are alike, too much so that it worries the dragonqueen. there is never the question of why? or what for? — she knows it is bo’dariels nature as much as it is her own. to protect, uphold, and safeguard the realm of mortals and immortals alike, to continue on a path less traveled from the rest, to diverge from all of the brimstone and rage and hatred that fuels the conflict that scars the land. ( O’ EARTHEN WARDENS, WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE? )
she would not deny that probing questions rob her of rest — as she is sure they do the paladin. ( how could you leave, who do you trust, why did you abandon them, what did you gain from it? )
everything shakes her down, rattles her bones, strips her to the bare essentials of character — but the life-binder simply offers the ghost of a smile, an emptied home, a nailed coffin, a whisper of the past.
“but you have, and that is the truest victory.”
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