It was so quiet. How could a place like this be so quiet? Even the crackling hills seemed muted in Quinn’s ears. The shroud tugged at her, worried—[color=black]Not safe[/color] it muttered, but it wasn’t the same certainty as before. It wasn’t a warning, it was just…afraid. It was very, [i]very[/i] afraid. And as Quinn continued to run, past the fires and rubble and the ichor, that voice sank down as well. The pain was fading, the panic, less so. 

Dragon lay like a dead mountain. A waterfall of black blood poured from its half-gone face, spilling down its throat and pooling on the earth, staining it deeper than rain ever could. 

As she drew closer, almost to the edge of that umbral lake, there was static in her ear. 

“[color=skyblue]Quinn![/color]” 

Dahlia. 

She was okay. 

“[color=skyblue][i]Quinn![/i] You’re—ohmygod—you’re alright! You—stop! Stay there, don’t come any closer to the ichor. I’m out, I’m on the—hold on![/color]”

Moments later,  Dahlia emerged into view, clambering over the Savior’s chest. She spotted Quinn, shrieked something unintelligible, and then hurried down. She was limping and as she drew closer there were clear bruises on her face, cuts from where the vents in her suit had snapped and broken. But she was alive, and so was Quinn. 

Dahlia hit her like a missile, arms wrapping around her so tight and so fast it took them to their knees. She shrieked again, and this time it was clear that she was saying Quinn’s name, broken by thin air and heavy sobs.