#xylaes

The apartment still occasionally surprised him with just how quiet it could be. Not because silence was rare in Silvermoon, but because for most of his life it had been temporary. There had always been another deployment waiting, another assignment, another fight. Even prison had its own constant noise. These days, Xylaes could sit in his small apartment in Murder Row and listen to little more than the distant sounds of the city outside his window.

A book rested open in his lap, though he had been staring at the same page for several minutes without reading a word. His attention had drifted elsewhere. Outside, someone laughed. A pair of voices carried briefly through the night air before disappearing around a corner. Music drifted from an open door. None of it demanded his attention or required him to react. It was simply life continuing around him, indifferent to whether he participated or not. 

His gaze eventually lifted from the pages and settled on the reflection staring back at him from the darkened window. The purple glow in his eyes remained impossible to ignore. Months had passed since the void powers first emerged, yet seeing them reflected unexpectedly still gave him pause. Not because he feared them anymore, that fear had faded long ago. Instead, they served as a reminder that he was no longer entirely the man he had once been. The military, prison, and loss had all changed him, as it does anyone. Now the void was changing him too, and he wasn't entirely certain where that road ended.

His thoughts drifted toward war, as they often did when left unattended. Not a specific battle, but all of them. The military, the undercover assignments, the mercenary and personal contracts, the endless conflicts that seemed to define his life. Looking back, he realized that some of his clearest memories existed on battlefields, and that realization had become increasingly uncomfortable with age.

The older he became, the harder it was to ignore the truth. He understood violence and war extremely well, and in many ways, he found them easier to navigate than ordinary life. Everything else was complicated: relationships, family, and especially trust. At least on a battlefield, objectives became clear and priorities became obvious. There was rarely time to second-guess yourself when lives depended on immediate action. 

That was what unsettled him about the void. The problem wasn't the destruction it could cause, the problem was how natural it felt. Whenever he allowed himself to fully embrace it, doubt disappeared and all hesitation vanished. Every instinct sharpened until action felt effortless. He thought back to recent battles and the moments he had surrendered to that power completely. Those memories should have frightened him, but what remained was the certainty he had felt. That certainty was alluring.

It had nothing to do with bloodshed, there was no thrill left in killing or death for him. What appealed to him was the simplicity. The enemy stood in front of you, the objective was clear, and the path forward existed whether you liked it or not. The void amplified that feeling until everything else seemed irrelevant. There were no complicated conversations waiting for him. No strained relationships to navigate. No questions without answers. There was only action. 

Perhaps that was why peace often felt more difficult than war. Peace required patience and vulnerability. War demanded competence. Xylaes had spent most of his life learning how to survive conflict. Learning how to live afterward had proven significantly harder. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had survived undercover operations, imprisonment, assassins, monsters, and enough battles to fill history books. Yet some days a conversation with someone he cared about felt far more daunting than facing an armed opponent. 

His gaze drifted around the apartment toward the record player, the framed photograph of Garren and he, and the weapons stored neatly where they belonged. None of it was particularly impressive, but every item represented something he once believed he would never possess again. Prison had convinced him his future was already written. It had been easier then to think of himself as a weapon, and weapons didn't need homes or families. But the years after his release had proven otherwise.

Outside, another burst of laughter rose from the street and faded into the night. Xylaes listened for a moment before looking back down at the book in his lap. The void remained where it always was, waiting patiently beneath the surface of his thoughts. He knew it would answer if he called upon it. The allure of certainty, power, and becoming exactly what he had been trained to be. 

Tonight, he left it alone. Instead, he turned the page and forced himself to focus on the words. Tomorrow would eventually bring another problem. For now, he had a home, people worth returning to, and a life that existed beyond violence. Those things were infinitely more complicated than war had ever been, but as he settled back into his chair and turned the page, he found that he enjoyed the complexity. 

TW: Drug use, blood, death, violence, guns

The Right-Hand Man Silvermoon City – October 31st

He had told himself not to do this again, not this year, but the thing about anniversaries was that they remembered you even when you tried to forget them. By sundown, Ouro An’dar was already halfway gone. A few crushed lines of dust burned his throat and senses like frost and fire combined, and in turn the world had shifted into that strange, quiet clarity that only came before disaster. 

He could still hear his boy sometimes, his laughter echoing in the back of his skull like a broken recording. Some nights it was that sound that woke him, but other nights, it was the deafening silence. He didn’t mark the years anymore, just the night that it happened. The Hallow’s End Massacre. The night his world collapsed beneath gunfire and screaming, the night his son’s small voice went silent forever. Time hadn’t dulled it. If anything, it had sharpened the edges and honed them into something cruel. Every October 31st wasn’t a date on the calendar, it was a wound reopening. Ouro believed the pain could only be erased by blood, by personally killing every person who had been responsible for that night.

The Right-Hand Man was still alive, still waiting to be crossed off his list. Ouro had confirmed it three weeks ago, a lucky whisper through a contact in Murder Row. One of the men who had stormed his house that night, who had put a bullet in him and another dozen into the rest of his family. A man who had walked away then, but not tonight.

The underground club where he knew the man to be was built beneath an old shop in Augur’s Row. Hallow’s End decorations hung from the ceiling in the form of black silks and enchanted lanterns shaped like skulls and pumpkins. The bass pounded through the floor, rattling bones, drowning out voices, and syncing everything to a single, relentless pulse.

Ouro crossed the threshold as if slipping into another world, his coat hiding the weight of his weapons: twin pistols at his ribs, a blade in the boot, and another up his sleeve. He wasn’t there to talk or to dance. The dust made the colors breathe, and everything swam in and out of focus. He had done this dance before, hunting through crowds while high enough to forget his name, but tonight was different. Tonight, the air itself felt like it was closing in.

He found the man easily sitting in the VIP alcove, surrounded by people who didn’t matter. Older now, hair going gray at the temples, but still smug, and still that same cold smile. The kind of smile that said he thought the world had forgotten what he did. Ouro watched him for a long time. Long enough for the drink in his hand to go warm, long enough for the pain in his head to become real again, a phantom pain where the old bullet wound had healed.

Then the man eventually rose, weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. Ouro followed slowly, trying to look like a man too drunk to be dangerous, but the dust betrayed him. Every sound was too bright, every movement too blurred. His boots struck the floor like thunder in his own ears, and the back corridor stretched too long while strobing neon distorted his already hazy gaze.

Halfway down, the man stopped. He didn't turn, just spoke over his shoulder. “You’ve been following me for three minutes, An’dar.” The voice was amused, teasing almost.

Ouro froze, his pulse quickening against his ribs.

The man turned then, eyes glinting under the intense light. “I thought you died. Guess I was wrong.”

Ouro’s hand twitched toward his gun, but the other man moved first. A flash of motion, the strike was brutal and practiced. His palm cracked Ouro’s wrist, sending the pistol spinning down the corridor. The silenced shot came a heartbeat later. Ouro felt the impact first, then serious blooming pain in his side that took his breath followed soon after. He staggered backwards, the wall holding him up while the music from the club pulsed on the other side.

The Right-Hand Man calmly and confidently advanced. “Should’ve left it alone, An’dar. You think this ends well for you?”

Ouro’s laugh was hoarse. “I’m not thinking about me.”

He moved with the kind of precision that only comes from old training and desperation. His knife cleared his sleeve while his other hand gripped the man’s shoulder, cleanly slicing the blade across his throat in one smooth arc. A brief, gurgling gasp followed, swallowed by the bass rumbling through the walls.

The man collapsed forward, his eyes wide and mouth opening and closing without sound. Ouro held him upright, staring into glossy eyes until life left them and the body went still. Then he let him slide down the wall, leaving a dark smear all the way to the floor. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, blood soaking through his shirt, the dust making everything shimmer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of red across his cheek.

When he stumbled back into the main room, no one looked twice. It was Hallow’s End, everyone was painted in blood and laughing behind masks. He pushed through the dancers, his steps heavy as he pressed a hand to the gunshot wound on his side. When he found the alley exit, the cooler air outside hit him like a slap. He leaned against the brick wall, gasping and trying to steady himself. The dust was burning out now, leaving behind only pain and a deep, shaking emptiness.

He fumbled for his comm, sending off a message with his location to the one person, the only person, that would come: Xylaes. His comm clattered to one side as he looked at his blood-covered hands. Somewhere deep in the haze, he thought about his son’s face, but couldn’t remember the sound of his voice anymore. That was the worst part. The pain in his side flared hot, and then dulled again. He let his head rest against the wall as the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and crimson. Maybe, for the first time in years, he could let himself rest.

Send me “💭” for my muse to blurt out a thought they’ve had about yours

Nahi laid in bed, the late morning sun streaming in through the windows warming the white bedding. She could smell coffee and heard Xylaes moving around in the kitchen. “I really like when he chooses to stay overnight, wish he did it a little more often.”

‘Xylaes has gone missing in the attack on Dalaran, I witnessed him being taken by the Nerubians prior to the explosion. There’s a chance he’s still alive, but we do not have the means of being able to locate him at this current time. As always, you are more than welcome to join us in our endeavors, but I cannot promise we will be able to search for him until we know more. I’m sorry for the bad news. I’ll send our location in the next message in case you wish to join or have any questions that need to be answered in person.’

Garren frowned at the message received from Stellan, a little unclear as to how he should feel at this moment given the uncertainty of the words. He assumed the message was slightly sugar-coated to make him feel the tiniest bit better, but it was more than likely that his father was dead. 

The two were still working through their often erratic relationship, but Xylaes was the only family that Garren had left at this point. He should be used to losing friends and family by now, yet he couldn’t stop the unexpected tumble of tears that fell down his cheeks at the news. He wasn’t very nice towards the older man in their last conversation, and there was instant regret in not trying harder to overcome the past.

He wiped at his cheek and threw the comm device onto his bed, then without thinking he began to pack for the trip even though he hadn’t decided if he was actually going to join again. It was something to do, something to keep his hands busy while his mind raced. If he did choose to go, he could at least get the full story from Stellan, and get a better idea of the entire situation. Surely Xylaes wasn’t the only one, and maybe being around others who felt the loss would be beneficial. It was better than sitting by and doing nothing. His work would understand, so many had already left to join the fray.

After about an hour, his rucksack and bedroll had been packed, his work informed, and armor donned. He took his mother’s bow from its display above his mantle and stepped out his front door to look over Bel’ameth. It was finally beginning to feel like home here, but family was more important - no matter how turbulent their dynamic could be at times.

“Have you heard from Xylaes?” 

It was a simple question, one that was simply too difficult to be tactful about asking. No, of course she hadn’t. 

They’d been so close once. She’d been always been so greedy with his time and affection, wanting more than he could ever give without any regard for how it'd make him feel — and then she’d been greedier still with magic, making her great grab for eternity. Selfish with a capital s. That had failed spectacularly, and all of her luster had fallen away.

He wanted space, so she gave it. 

At least she’d seen him one last time. Handsome as ever, in his element. He’d always been a fighter. The look he gave her certainly wasn’t pleasant, but he’d never liked surprises either. 

The wind off the sea carried a sharp scent of ozone as she sat and looked out over the fleet and remnants of the fallen city from a spot she’d found directly above the camp. Fiorenze ran her thumb over the elegant, sloping ridges of the orchid carved into the end of a bone hair pin that Callia, his late wife, had given her before they’d left Maldraxxus eight years ago. 

Xylaes, Missing - Presumed Dead. 

It hurt to think about, to the degree that she tried not to as much as possible. If there was any comfort here, at least they were probably together again. That was what he always wanted. Her orchid pin was as beautiful now as it had been then, and in the moonlight it gleamed with a cold sort of candor. She carefully tucked the weapon back into her bun, careful not to nick her scalp with the viciously sharp end. 

Garren was back in camp now, too. She knew by now that space was all he wanted from her — she’d give it. The road to hell was paved with good intentions and she had certainly made quick work laying the flagstones there. But she felt for him, too. Death had already robbed him of many relationships, and now the fledgeling and complicated one with his father.  

Was there a worse feeling than severed possibility? She wasn’t sure. 

Eventually she’d find her own time to mourn and grieve the man she loved, but not now. Not yet. Not when her mind needed to be focused elsewhere — on Pyraelia, on clearing the Coreway so more could be done to advance further down and find those who had robbed them all of Dalaran and so many loved ones. 

Of Xylaes. 

He was never going to know how much he’d changed her for the better. The best thing she could do now was continue on that path in his memory.

“Maybe it’s for the best? Never understood why she’d be so attached to that ugly mug anyways.” Pollux smirked over at his friend, clearly joking. Given their somewhat steamy history, it was fairly obvious that Pollux had never found the other man ugly. 

Xylaes rolled his eyes and took a drag from cigarette. “Maybe. She deserves bet–” Before he was able to finish that statement, Pollux had smacked the cigarette right out of his hand, “The fuck, Hale?”

“Don’t say that. You are a good person who has made some dumb mistakes that anyone probably would have made in your position. But for those that know the truth, and that truly know you, know you did the right thing. And those in charged fucked you for it because they didn’t want their own bullshit to get out in the open and cause a scandal. Light fucking forbid.” Clearly this was a topic Pollux was very passionate about. Xylaes had been his friend and his brother in arms for much of their younger lives, and at one point prior to the explosion that nearly took Pollux’s life, the two were almost inseparable. 

Xylaes leaned over to pick up his cigarette and relented that train of thought with a hand raised in surrender. “It’s been messy for a long time, neither of us have treated the other particularly well at times. Maybe now that she’s no longer in the position she was in, maybe it could be different. But I just…I can’t be there for her during this transition. Wouldn’t be good for either of us given the current circumstances.”

Pollux gave his friend a warm smile, nodding in understanding. While the two didn’t spend as much time together as they used to, they had become confidantes once more. “Maybe after your own transition hmm? As great as I’m sure you are at screwing strangers for the Red Moon, there’s plenty of opportunities to be using your other skill sets. Not just when there’s a war going on.”

“You know I’ve lost a good chunk of those skill sets…” Referring specifically to the arcane abilities he used to possess prior to having them ripped away from him as a part of his prison sentence.

Pollux reached out to give the other man’s left arm a hard pinch. Xylaes slightly recoiled at the action, but the duo watched as the invisible runes on that replanted arm shimmer to life. “But you have also gained some new ones, and some you’ve likely not even figured out yet.”

It was in Maldraxxus that Xylaes had found himself a subject of The House of Construct’s disturbing experiments. His included having his entire arm removed and replanted with that of someone who apparently had been a caster of some variety. Much was still left to mystery, but during the past campaign, he was able to produce various sorts of magic when he found himself in danger. There was a lot of promise there and still much to be explored, if he could ever get over the fact that this arm, even though he controlled it, was technically not his own.

Some art of Callia, Xylaes and Fiorenze that sprung up out of the big storyline we all worked on through the first year of the Shadowlands expansion!

“No worries. See ya soon.”

Dori smiled uneasily as she put her comm down. She was never really privy to what Xylaes’ current situation was, but she knew enough to know it certainly wasn’t great right now. Not that she could blame him for his lack of sharing. Not everyone was an open book.

He’d never boarded at the Moon. Until now. She didn’t go to meet him. Instead, she had her floor manager prep a room and greet him.

That didn’t stop her from watching for him on the security system. At last, he wandered down the hall. She leaned in to glean whatever she could.

With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair. Nothing too out of sorts. She’d have to wait until he was ready to talk to her. Knowing him, that would be a good wait.