Private Character Introduction: Daylen Amell
Aug. 19th, 2015 06:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
daylen_amell_fadewalk posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
fadewalkThe sting of the sulfur was never going to leave his nose. Daylen scrubbed at it with the back of his hand, frowning when his glove came away tacky with blood. The cut in his eyebrow was bleeding again, sluggish, sure, but that's what happened when you started to run out of the stuff.
The fire on the bridge was starting to die down, and Daylen tried to feed it as a pair of genlocks managed to scrabble their way through, but there was nothing left.
Ever since the Battle for Denerim, he'd been an open wound, bleeding his magic into the Fade, simply less. There were a dozen small wounds on his body, including his scalp, none of which he wanted to spare the mana to heal. The only one that was dangerous was where his Voice should be, and after so many years of slogging forward alone, he was ready to stop.
The Calling was just an excuse. He'd been ready to stop for years.
He lifted his staff, drawing as much of his magic as he could, close and deep and with a slow, grinding screech the stones beneath the encroaching darkspawn twisted and crumbled and fell away.
Daylen fell too, but it was more of a stumble, one step missed, and he staggered onto a polished floor lit by soft torchlight. He blinked around him, at the long tables, the arching vault, the drapes and murals and stained glass and the throne at the far end.
He shook his head, shook it harder, ran his fingers into his hair and pulled in an attempt to get his thoughts to focus as he'd done a thousand times since the Calling had started. But the sweet poison of that song was simply gone.
"Sorry, my love, guess I'll be just a little longer." He thumped his staff onto the flags and scowled as the torches flared higher. That shouldn't have happened. "Well, fuck me."
The fire on the bridge was starting to die down, and Daylen tried to feed it as a pair of genlocks managed to scrabble their way through, but there was nothing left.
Ever since the Battle for Denerim, he'd been an open wound, bleeding his magic into the Fade, simply less. There were a dozen small wounds on his body, including his scalp, none of which he wanted to spare the mana to heal. The only one that was dangerous was where his Voice should be, and after so many years of slogging forward alone, he was ready to stop.
The Calling was just an excuse. He'd been ready to stop for years.
He lifted his staff, drawing as much of his magic as he could, close and deep and with a slow, grinding screech the stones beneath the encroaching darkspawn twisted and crumbled and fell away.
Daylen fell too, but it was more of a stumble, one step missed, and he staggered onto a polished floor lit by soft torchlight. He blinked around him, at the long tables, the arching vault, the drapes and murals and stained glass and the throne at the far end.
He shook his head, shook it harder, ran his fingers into his hair and pulled in an attempt to get his thoughts to focus as he'd done a thousand times since the Calling had started. But the sweet poison of that song was simply gone.
"Sorry, my love, guess I'll be just a little longer." He thumped his staff onto the flags and scowled as the torches flared higher. That shouldn't have happened. "Well, fuck me."
