53 replies to this topic

[meredith]

Winterclaw said:

The Great Destroyer was dead.

As a doornail.

Blondette really wasn’t sure why things were called dead as a doornail, doornails aren’t alive to begin with so you can’t really kill them.  But she was sure that the Great Destroyer was as dead as she is blonde because she killed it all by herself… well, with her friends too.  With sword in hand and shield… in other hand she hacked and stabbied it to death, only occasionally stopping to cast healing breeze or vigorous spirit on herself occasionally.  But she could handle that because she learned the tricks to warrior’s endurance awhile ago to deal with such high energy burdens.

But the important thing is that that big thing was dead and she needed a bath.  The only bad thing about being a warrior is you’re always getting covered in blood and gore and always needing a bath.  But Blondette liked bathing a lot so getting a little dirty wasn’t too big a deal.

As she and her friends were leaving the cave of their last battle, Blondette noticed something shiney out of the corner of her eye.  It was some large metal thing with a big red button and a note attached.  She went to investigate it.  

The note read as follows:

-Whatever you do, do not push the big red button-

-Signed, Me-

Blondette looked at the button.  It was so big.  And so red.  And so buttony.  How bad could it be if she just gave it one little push?  Blondette glanced around to see that her friends hadn’t noticed she stopped yet.

Blondette pushed the button.

The big metal thing started vibrating and making machine sounds.  There was a flash of light and the glowing image of a forgotten appeared.  Blondette was impressed with the display.

“Thank you for choosing Draconicorp,” the forgotten said.  “Tyria’s leading provider of dragons for all your dragon needs.  We at draconicorp offer a variety of dragon solutions from little ones for children’s parties to giant world destroying dragons.  If you know which kind of dragon you are interested in, please say so now, if not please wait while we give you a list of dragon options.”

“Giant world destroying dragons,” Blondette asked, those sounded interesting.

“You have chosen giant world destroying dragons,” the glowing forgotten said, next to him a number of mean looking dragons appeared.  “In our quest to be the leading provider of dragon solutions, we at Draconicorp have developed a number of giant dragons for all of your devastation needs.  Each dragon was have is specifically tailored to vigorous specifications in order to provide the widest variety of calamities possible.”

“That sounds pretty cool,” Blondette said.

“We at Draconicorp would like to thank you for ordering a giant world destroying dragon,” the forgotten said.  “However we regret to inform you that we are currently understaffed and the dragon reanimation process will take approximately 50 years.  We are sorry for any inconveniences this may cause you.  Please take this plush Draconicorp stuffed animal as a consolation, and remember if you need dragons, choose Draconicorp.”

A stuffed purple dragon appeared before Blondette.  She picked it up.  It was very soft and very cuddly.  It looked like it was made out of high quality materials.

“And I shall call you Drakey.”  Blondette gave Drakey a big hug.  The forgotten was saying something about a cancellation process but Blondette wasn’t paying attention; Drakey was so soft.  Blondette decided she was going to start sleeping with Drakey by her and went to catch up with her friends.

“There you are,” Gwen said.  “We thought you’d gotten lost again.”

“Aww,” Blondette said.  “I didn’t mean to upset my Gwenny-pooh.  Don’t worry I’m fine.”

“For the hundredth time would you please stop calling me Gwenny-pooh,” Gwen said.  “It sounds weird and it creeps me out every time you say that.”

“You really must take care not to wander off,” Mhenlo said.  “We may have defeated the Great Destroyer but other dangers may be lurking these caverns.”

“Sorry about that, but I found this,” Blondette showed everyone the stuffed dragon.  “Isn’t Drakey the best!?”

“Where did you find that,” Devona asked.

“In a vending machine,” Blondette said.

“Why would anyone leave a vending machine with stuffed dragons in a place like this,” Devona asked.

“Dunno,” Blondette said.  “Maybe it is a reward for killing the Great Destroyer.”

“That makes no sense,” Devona said.

“There is little sense to what people leave in dungeons,” Eve said.  “I found this awhile ago.”

Eve showed everyone her Hello Kitty backpack.

“Devona,” Mhenlo said. “By know you really should know not to ask questions like that.”

“Sorry,” Devona said.  “Somehow I was hoping there would be a little common sense left in the world.”

“That looks kinda cute,” Cynn said looking at Drakey.  “Good construction too.”

“Aww, he’s soo cute,” Tahlkora said.  “I’d love to have one of those for my collection.”

“If you want I can run back and try to get you both one,” Blondette said.

“Really,” Cynn said, hoping to get one.  “That’d be nice of you.”

“Please,” Tahlkora said.  “I’d love to have one of those as well.”

“Okay give me a minute,” Blondette said and then ran off.

“You two shouldn’t encourage her,” Gwen said.

“Be quiet you, that doll is cute,” Tahlkora said.

“Yeah,” Cynn said.  “Besides, what harm could come from a vending machine with stuffed animals?  It’s not like it was some primitive device that will awaken some horrible beasts to ravage Tyria.”

“I suppose you are right,” Gwen admitted.  "I mean what are the odds of that happening?"

Blondette ran back to her vending machine.  Three more times she pushed the button.  Three more times she asked for a giant world destroying dragon.  With stuff animals in hand, she returned to her friends.

“For Cynn,” Blondette said giving Cynn a dragon.  “We have Purple Passion!”

“Purple Passion,” Cynn said and held it to her chest.  “That’s not a bad name.”

“For Tahlkora,” Blondette said presenting a dragon to Tahlkora.  “We have Himeko!”

“I love my little Himeko,” Tahlkora gave her dragon a big squeeze.

“And for my Gwenny-pooh,” Blondette said.  “There is Mr. Cuddles!”

“I didn’t want a stuff dragon,” Gwen said.

“But you look so sad,” Blondette said, trying to speak in a Mr. Cuddles voice.  “I just want to give you a magical dragon hug and cheer you up.”

“No,” Gwen said flatly.

“But every lady needs at least one stuff animal,” Blondette said, still speaking as Mr. Cuddles.  “It’s a rule and it’s cute.”

“Fine, fine I’ll take it,” Gwen said.  “Wow, this thing really is soft and cuddly.”

“See, isn’t it great,” Blondette asked.

“I guess I can have one stuffed animal,” Gwen said.

“If everyone is done,” Mhenlo said. “We really should get moving.  It’s a long walk back to the Eye.”

And with that, the brave, bold band of baddy bashers returned unaware of their blonde friend’s epic blunder.

:DThanks for sharing it with us.

[Kalidri]

Epic silliness! Started this while on hold with a bank and I soldiered through and completed it. I do question my sanity when I really do have work to do!

Griselda Irunsdottir's Tale

We norn ice-brave and ice-forged
We norn the aurora first blessed
Bear’s daughter and leopard’s son
We norn speak and are not forgotten

From far and lost Sifhalla I came
My mighty deeds brought me fame
I eschewed armor’s weakling clasp
A heart free of steel, fear cannot grasp

No hunt’s quarry evaded my quick bow
No nighttime chase’s chill ate my bone
I slept in the mountain’s shadow
The snow my bed, the rock my pillow

Listen to my tale as I grow old
Foolish death, mirthless and cold
You cannot silence valor and honor
Hear me, I am Griselda Irunsdottir

Scores of years in echoed time
Have passed since I was in my prime
Follow me on my path, from peak to glen
To the bright ice lake and sodden fen

I liked most to wander the ice lake
To gaze in wonder upon the drake
The enemies upon its icy shore
I hewed and tormented by the score

One evening by starlight’s icy stare
I roamed that land, hunting without a care
Then, ringing through the midnight land
A great crack, a glow like a burning brand

I knew of Jormag’s mighty curse
To put a norn’s power in reverse
I fled up the cliffs but not in fear
But to see what might appear

The ice shivered and shattered asunder
Shards shimmered, a great thunder
The mother of waters spilled from the lake
And roaring its might arose the drake

To see its majesty, the crown of its might
The width of its body filled all my sight
Even in my valor I could not begin to know
How a mite such as I should battle such a foe

Jormag rose further still, whipping its great tail
The water frothed and leaped, rising ever up the vale
From the first I had thought myself invulnerable
But as waters roared, wild beasts fled innumerable

I ran among them, with centaur and reindeer
I ran with my shame upon me, I bowed to fear
The waters roared from the deep, rock broke
It was as if Raven had unveiled his final joke

All that terrible night I recall as a nightmare
I outran the beasts - all fell to Jormag’s snare
Even when dawn revealed the reformed world
I kept to my heels, my voice wailed like a girl

Where is my family? I cried to the peak
Now there are few of Sifhalla who can speak
I journey alone with the burden of shame
I am Griselda who let fear sully her name

Locked in ice, my kin shall not grow old
They’ll be long remembered for being bold
Listen now to the lesson that I tell
The coward lives on, but none too well

[Volkon]

Adventurer lost
Final words caught on the wind
"What's this lever for?"

[Kalivan]

Last words before he hit the floor, "ugh touch rangers "dieing breath"

[Amannelle]

I wrote the intro for my Mesmer, Alice Thorn.

(And may I say it is HARD writing from a female perspective! Lol I had to ask my sister for advice over and over xD )



Alice Thorn
Dawn, breaking over the walls and towers of Divinity’s reach, made its presence known by the songs of birds and sudden bustle of townspeople outside. Though my eyes opened, I feared rising, hoping that somehow remaining in my bed would postpone the inevitable.

It did not.

“Come quickly Alice, we are due to attend a meeting with the ministers, and you must look your best if you are to one day work at the ministry as I do.” called my father from downstairs. The ministry… filled with so much hot air I’m certain it could lift Divinity’s Reach without such effort that it would rival even Rata Sum’s levitation technology. Yet, my father, Gregory Thorn, being of noble blood and prestigious position, expects me to walk in his footsteps and be of the ministry as well.

I had tried to move more slowly, in hopes my father would give up and go without me. The stubborn man that he is, he remained firm. Having less willpower than him, I finally just gave in, and went to my bedroom mirror. I decided nightgowns were probably not the most elegant of fashions in the ministry, and began to hold my hands out. With a flash of magic, my long nightgown seemed to melt away, revealing an embroidered gown of the deepest ivy, with ribbons accenting the back, and running up the corset.  My golden hair seemed a mess as well, so I quickly rubbed my hands over it, and as I did this it became straightened, with the back forming into gentle curls which collected along my shoulders.

Such illusion magic often saves me time when I am in a hurry. Despite my father being a Mesmer as well, he seems to insist it should be used only for “significant tasks”. He clearly has not suffered the burden of trying to brush long hair as thick as mine, for if he had, he would realize there is no task as significant as this.  

I made my grand exit, slowly walking down the steps to the first floor. “Keep your back straight.” reminded my father, suddenly walking into the foyer from the dining hall before. With a quiet huff I held my shoulders back as I had been taught since a little girl, and preceded the rest of the way with the regal bearing of the Queen herself.

My father nodded in approval, and as I followed him, we made our descent down the stone steps in front of our manor.  The city was indeed alive and thriving, considering how early it was in the morning. Merchants called out their goods as we passed by, and some children ran in front of us, almost knocking me over. Apparently whatever had died in Shaemoor was more important than my gown—those ruffians.

We approached the Chamber of ministers, and as I walked past the giant pillars, I could faintly see my reflection in the shimmering map of Tyria engraved on the floor. The smell of roses and daffodils drifted past my nose, and I glanced at the queen’s gardens behind, looking so peaceful and relaxing. Oh how I wished I could just run off and hide under a tree with a good book. Instead I was stuck learning documentation and systematic organization; things the ministry considered “essential skills”. I entered the dark doors, afraid of what I may find inside. No, I do not fear monsters or dragons… I fear the condescending ministers, who I am supposed to join someday…
So often I wish I could do more with my life; I feel like I’m supposed to be doing something great, yet here I am, wasting away. Once when a circus had visited, the ringleader said I was rather good when it came to Mesmer Magic, and even offered me a job with them… however, I did not accept his offer at the time, for I was afraid of leaving everything that was so familiar to me—notably my father. I really haven’t traveled anywhere or even done anything special. However, my father says I can go visit Shaemoor tomorrow, so maybe that will be fun?

I am Alice Thorn, born unto high nobility and student in the chamber of ministries. This is my story.

[umyeah]

Amannelle said:

I wrote the intro for my Mesmer, Alice Thorn.

(And may I say it is HARD writing from a female perspective! Lol I had to ask my sister for advice over and over xD )



Alice Thorn
Dawn, breaking over the walls and towers of Divinity’s reach, made its presence known by the songs of birds and sudden bustle of townspeople outside. Though my eyes opened, I feared rising, hoping that somehow remaining in my bed would postpone the inevitable.

It did not.

.....

do you have any expierence in writing? Because i think this stuff is really good! Except for significance of brushing hair, that is :p

Edited by umyeah, 12 February 2011 - 05:14 AM.

[Oww]

So I decided to post his poem here, sorry if its not very good.

Spoiler

My Revelation
The tattered twilight still clung to the sky
A faint memory of the night
Fading faster as time ticked by.

Now the stars that once hung so proudly in the sky
Were all but gone, diminished by the triumphant light.

Soon the sun peaked in the horizon, the pinnacle of dawn
Its rays reached out tearing down the cloak of night.

My breath stopped, taken back at the beauty and cruelty of light
For in the night things are hidden, and that is not a curse.

It is a blessing, for those whose souls cannot bear the tragedy of our time.

For in my vision my eyes sought what my heart did not
And scene that lay before me, wounded me beyond my fragile skin
To strike out at my fragile mind.

A tear slid down my bloodied skin.
For out before me emblazoned in light
Was a land now shrouded in death’s dusk.

My comrades, my friends, my family, my life
Where dead before my tired eyes
Victims of a dragons rage.

Their time here extinguished, by one merciless foe.
A rage rose up inside my battered body
Pumping fire through my once cold veins.

And a thought pierced through the cloud of pain
That now it is our time to rise together
To combat the foes that shadow our home
For Tyria is our land and not theirs.

So what to you guys think?
This was in no specfic style by the way.

Edited by Oww, 27 March 2011 - 06:43 PM.

[Deimos-Ironmaw]

[This was actually a roleplay I had with two other people, and I've gone through and tried to fix any typos they would have made. I myself love these 3 charr so much, they are all so hilarious. Also, 'bas-tard' is written that way because it censored it here and I don't think it's really that bad of a word, considering it was in one of my G-rated games...]


"Hmph, they were holding me back anyways!" came a young, gruff charr voice. He was an adolescent, rather small bodied in terms of a charr, and his fur was a mix of dark browns and blacks. He wasn't exactly dressed to impress, and he was armed with an old gauntlet and dragging a sword on the ground with him, and strangely, he was alone. Anyone who knew anything about charr could see 'gladium' written all over him.
He started swinging the sword around recklessly, "I'm a one charr warband!! YAH YAH!!" His ears flattened as the sword easily went flying out of his hand and spun in the air, smacking against a cliff in the open woodland area. It was moments later that he was running, unarmed, from a mob of angry Grawl who had been resting in the cliff cave.

The noise of the running was overheard by a bitter looking charr clad in a chain vest, padded leather trousers, and a iron pauldron on his left shoulder that went down to his forearm. He had an orange tiger pattern, and had a broad and well muscled build. He growled to himself as he tried his best to ignore the noise, adding another log to the fire in front of him, adjusting the spit over it, "Stupid grawl...probably smell my food..." he muttered to himself as he leaned his hammer closer to where he was sitting, prepared to fend off any would-be attackers.

Seeing a light, it was the young foolish charr's first instinct to run towards it. This would have been fine, except that he made the mistake of constantly looking behind him to the grawl pursuing him. "Do these things ever give uuuuppp!?! WAGH!!" His lack of attention caused him to trip on a stone, sending him flailing forward and out of control. He tried to skid to a stop to adjust his balance, regrettably getting his foot right in the fire that the other charr had been tending to. "HOOOOTTT!!!" he yelped as he stumbled off to the side, between running from grawl and rolling from stepping in a fire.. it really wasn't his day.

      "My food!" The older charr exclaimed as the other charr caused embers and his dinner to scatter "What in the world is wrong with you?!" he snapped at the young charr.

      "That's what's wrong!!" he yapped, pointing at the grawl who were bumbling towards him, as he stumbled up to his feet and backed away. He held up his gauntlet and mumbled pathetically, "Aw there's no way I can kill that many with just this dumb thing..."

       "Grawl...you were being chased...by grawl...?" he asked in a flat voice. Without hesitation, he grabbed his hammer and gave a heavy vertical swing, taking one of them out with a single blow. As it flopped dead to the side, the others stopped in their tracks, the older charr readied a battle stance, daring the others to try and get near him.

        "Shut up, I lost my weapon!!" he crossed his arms and pouted, glaring at how easily the Grawl was killed. The other grawl stood still for a moment, before making a few grunts and grouwls as they turned to run.
The young charr swiftly picked up a rock and tossed it in their direction, yelling "Yeah and don't come back or we'll eat all of you!! HAH!" He stood proud, despite doing absolutely nothing.

"Don't coax them back, I won't help you again" he said as he grabbed the dead grawl by the scruff, dragging back to the smoldering fire, sitting back down and adding logs to rekindle it. "Bah...took me forever to catch that moa...and now it's grawl again." he glared at the younger charr accusingly.
   "Moa? Those are easy!!" he bragged, trying to redeem his stupidity. "Ahh, I would have been fine if.... Those grawl didn't sneak up on me when I'd put my sword down!" He finally groaned and slouched, defeated by his own lame defenses. "Sorry...."



Elsewhere in an outlying city, a market caravan was preparing for its journey to the next major city, which lay beyond the open woodland and treacherous forest. Because of this, the caravan was looking for any brave swordsman that would dare venture through these perilous roads for a sack of silver. A young adult charr walked through the city, trying to mind his own business. He was pure black, and mid-range in his build, fit, but not bulky.
As he walked passed the announcer, one of the caravan leaders noticed the blade this charr was carrying and pointed out to the charr. "You there! Charr! You hold a blade...care to do a job?"
        "M-m-m-me? O-oh I am just passing by...I don't mean to-," The young charr tried to explain to the man, shying away from getting involved.
        "You hold a blade sir...surely you can handle this job?" The leader remarked.
Another caravan leader came to the two and noticed the blade as well, "We will pay you for your services....I am sure you are a fine swordsman."
The young charr looked at them a bit with shakiness. While it was true he had a sword, the compliment that the caravan leaders gave him was something he felt that he shouldn't be given. Because of this he tried to muster up courage to say, "W-well I do have a sword but-"
The main caravan piped up, "We'll pay you for your trouble... Two bags of silver and some of our food rations for your swordsmanship."
       The charr looked down and placed his right hand on his stomach. He didn't eat for days and the promise of food was too tempting. He felt now in inner turmoil between honesty and survival. The growling of his stomach made him concede to their request.
       The caravan set off with their new sword for hire out for the journey. The charr walked alongside the wagon as he ate a good bowl of meats and rice, downing it with a mug of grog. One of the caravan merchants asked the charr, "Oi. What hails thee, wanderer? Your name and origin?"
       The charr looked at the merchant, a bard of his trade, and replied, "M-my name is Wrath. Wrath Bloodclaw."
       "Ah, Bloodclaw! Does that mean thou hails from a powerful blood clan?"
The warrior softly said, "W-well you could say that-"
"Splendid! We are saved! This journey should be no problem then now that we have a Bloodclaw on our side. A fine swordsman to boot!" the merchant declared.
Wrath sunk a bit. Was he truly a good swordsman? Could he actually save the caravan should things go awry?




Back at the small camp, the elder charr was rolling his eyes as he got the fire back up, pulling out a small knife as he proceeded to skin the dead grawl "You should probably get back to your warband" He said idly as he saw the younger charr just standing there, watching.
"Uhh..." He looked away, scratching his nose and huffing, "I left mine, they were a bunch of idiots." He looked a little tense when he spoke.
The older charr looked up, examining the younger for a brief moment. "If all of your band were idiots, then I dread to see how they represent charr, if you are a step up above them." he said sarcastically.
"Haha very funny, I told you I just didn't have a sword on me, that's all." He inched closer, "Say, maybe I could just stick around until I can get a new weapon? They might attack me again if I'm on my own. Which I'm fine on my own by the way! .. Most of the time."
He glanced back at the darker furred charr. "Fine, whatever." He muttered "Just don't get in my way, do you know any skills besides running away and destroying fires?" he asked as he carved up pieces of meat.
"I can fight!!" he insisted, "I'm Deimos Ironmaw, I'm great with devourers and tactician, and a sword. Which I lost. Feh, it was an old rusty sword anyways, who needs it!" he sat down roughly, making an 'oof!' sound.
"Iron...?" He began, but couldn't help but burst out into laugher. "IRONmaw? Are you that vain to think you can just name yourself after my legion?" He said as he kept laughing.
"Your--" he shut his mouth and glared at the fire. "Well it's better than Coppermaw." he mumbled with spite in his tone.
"Copper... So you are a gladium." The older charr said, not finding it surprising given his physique and his handling of attacking grawl.
He looked away and snorted. "You don't gotta say it like that. It's not a big deal. I'll make my own warband."
"I don't think you'll be leading any warband soon, with that kind of attitude" He commented, placing carved meat on a spit and beginning to roast it.
       "What's wrong with my attitude?" he looked up with a challenging expression, but he wasn't budging from his sitting spot. "I'm confident and ambitious, isn't that important?"
        "No, being a legionnaire is much more than that." He said, not taking his eyes off of the cooking meat "Get confident, and you get in over your head. Get too ambitious, and you get in trouble." he concluded.
     "Ehh, what do you know?" he rested back, "Well anyways warband or not.... Hey, speaking of warband.. You a gladium too? I don't see any comrades around."
     "My comrades are gone..." he said, looking down "They met their death because our leader WAS 'confident and ambitious'."
     Deimos quieted down, "Oh um..." he twiddled his thumbs. "Well....Hey, sorry about that." He gave an awkward cough, "Ok so you do know about it. Well maybe I can START a warband at least. Hey I got it!!!"
       "Forget it" He said instantly, catching on easily on what he was going to say. "No way am I following you." he said as he took the spit of meat from the fire, handing it to him.
       The young charr gawked, crossing his arms again. "Well fine!! I don't need ungrateful--- Oh, hey, thanks!" without another word to his argument he started to scarf down the meat he was given. "Umff I neegig fhat."
     The tiger charr just rolled his eyes at the sudden disposition change, grabbing another piece of meat to cook. "You can follow for now, but we're not a warband, got it?"
    "Yeaf thaf fuin, whakeffur." he gulped his food. "That was the plan anyways. Hmph."

     Suddenly, the two charr that were enjoying their feast would be treated to the sound of gunfire. Frightened birds flew in the air in all directions from the location, the treacherous forest.
     In the forest, the caravan was under attack by bandits riding forest spiders. The charr that was paid to protect his supplier was too cowardly to draw his blade willingly. In his mind, the terrible massacre he led his clan into seeped ever so. The horrors, the agony, the humiliation, but most of all, the lives lost, their deaths marked in his soul. With a weak cry, he finally mustered the courage to pull out his blade, rushing into battle with a sort of determined terror.
      Deimos perked up, then stood quickly. "Hey there's something going on over there, let's check it out!!" without any thought or opinions from the older charr, he was up and running towards the direction of the noises like an excited puppy, not even considering that he didn't have a proper weapon.
      "Hey! what are you-!" The older charr started, sighing "Another meal lost..." he grumbled as he grabbed his hammer.
       Every time the charr felled an opponent, their blood seeping his blade, the cries of death from both his enemies and allies rang through the forest. He closed his eyes, in hopes to force the bad memories of his past back into the recess of his mind.
One of the caravan leaders, in due desperation, blew a horn that cried for the assistance of any who could hear its call, only to be fallen to the blade of a bandit.
      Deimos skidded to a halt when he came into view of the fight, now dawning on him that he didn't have a proper weapon at all. He crouched and murmured, "Maybe if I sneak in and snag something of theirs... Hmm...."
      The older charr made his way near Deimos, crouching next to him "Are you mad? you're unarmed!" He said quietly. "You're gonna get yourself killed!"
      Before them was the black charr. He had just slain another of the ambushers with a blade that was not of Charr origin. It was a curved blade, meant for single precision strikes. His form was rusty, his movement was rather stifling. However he did possess some amount of swordsmanship and fighting tactics.

    Deimos frowned and whispered back, "I know that, that's why I stopped...! But look, another of our own. And he's with a buncha humans. Yuck." he watched the bodies and seemed fixated on them, more interested on what the dead were carrying over what the living were doing.
         The charr sighed and pulled a knife from this belt, handing it to Deimos "Here, use this, it's better than nothing, and don't lose it, it's the only one I got!"
         Deimos took the knife and looked it over, then to the older charr, he gave a quick nod. He stood up from the bushes and shouted to the warrior, "HEY!! Need help there?!" When he got the attention of some of the attackers, he didn't back down this time, seeming more confident with a dagger as he ran out to charge.
         The charr looked to the direction of the one who called him. Pleased to see that aid had heard the horn, he called out to the fellow charr, "Please! I need to protect the caravan up front! They need help and these ambushers blocked my way!"
          Part of the older charr wanted to just leave and let the impulsive one get killed, but his training nagged him to help fellow charr. He reluctantly gripped his hammer and ran out next to help the others.
      With the aid of the elder charr and the young outspoken ambitious charr covering his rear support, the charr swordsman ran as quickly as he could to aid the caravan and attack one of the three bandit vanguards near it.
         Deimos was a very easily distracted fighter. When he'd managed to down an opponent, he saw a shiny sack of money and a wand, which he quickly kneeled down to grab. He was totally unaware that he'd kneeled down just as someone else was leaping at him, and even more unaware that he accidentally ducked out of the way of a swinging axe.
        The older charr fought with the indication that he's seen his fair share of battles, capable of taking on opponents without hesitation or fear, easily crushing foes underneath his hammer.

     The charr swordsman fought his vanguard opponent to the best of his ability. He was at a disadvantage, for his foe wielded a great axe. To make matters worse, the bandit was on a spider which had a set of fangs.
     The older charr stood next to the swordsman "Get the spider! I'll take the rider!" He shouted as he swung his hammer back, throwing it at the rider.
       Acknowledging the elder's command, the swordsman ducked to a low stance and struck his blade against the fangs of the spider. As he pulled away, he slashed at the spider's legs to bring the bandit down to the older charr's hammer.
      As his hammer hit the rider, the older charr lept forward over the distracted spider, towards the fallen rider, disarming him of his great axe while he was still in a daze. His hammer in in arms reach, he wrapped his hands around the attackers neck, attempting to strangle him.
     The bandit fell to the elder charr's iron grip. His throat clenched, his spine broken from the pressure.
     The charr swordsman killed the dazed spider by stabbing it from above.
         Deimos dodged another swing without realizing, as he was tugging at the sack of coins from the dead body he stumbled backwards. He saw the axe go between his legs at that point, eyes widening. As the bandit was trying to pull the axe from the ground, the young charr sliced the dagger at the man's legs and rolled away from him, stabbing again and yelping, "You scared me you bas-tard!"
    The other two vanguard bandits retreated, knowing they had failed, save for a few scraps of loot.
        Deimos didn't really seem very aware he was in a fight at this point, or if it was over, as he was mostly patting around the dead bodies and snagging any goodies he could find. He seemed fixated on one of the bodies, kneeling and poking around at it, and bluntly he started to yank on the leg, kicking the body over and over until he tore the leg off. "Perfect length!"
     "Hmph, cowards; get them in low numbers and they turn tail..." The charr started as he recovered his hammer, looking over to his younger cohort "What in the world are you doing...?" he asked as he saw the young charr obsessed in a leg.

      The caravan and its inhabitants came to inspect the damages and lives lost in the raid. The only surviving leader looked and took record. Gritting his teeth he looked to the Charr swordsman, "FINE SWORDSMAN YOU ARE! You cost us four days of pay!"
       Deimos ignored the elder charr's question, and ran at the yelling man, waving the leg around, "Hey shut up, you're alive aint ya?!! Stupid humans, show some gratitude for once!! It was your own stupid fault for going this way and hiring someone who couldn't handle this job!"
     The charr swordsman was offended by the comment that the ambitious charr made. He was also feeling disgraced for not protecting most of the lives lost.
     The leader retorted, "Aye. And damn proud you helped, the both of you. Save you both weren't promised pay..."
        "I'm actually in agreement, while this youngling seems to be formidable, he's in no shape to be guarding lives." The older charr added, "Maybe you humans shouldn't be so quick on decisions and look for an ADULT next time." he hoisted his hammer onto his shoulder.
      The human leader retorted respectfully to the elder but disdainfully to the charr swordsman, "Aye. I will keep that in mind. My brothers fell this night, and this bas-tard charr claiming to be a Bloodclaw has their deaths on his soul. Kryta be praised that their trade will make it here, but not in the quantity the asked."

     With this the caravan leaves, disbanding the charr swordsman without any more food or pay.
Deimos merely agreed, waving the leg around and giving a roar. But he was getting impatient with the human, and shouted when they left, "Ahh humans never shut up, always giving speeches like they're important! Huff!!" He swivvled in the direction of the warrior, tucking the leg under his arm. "Hey, you a gladium?"
      The warrior Charr looked to the ambitious Charr youngling and softly said, "W-well you could say that, but I just-" He couldn't say anymore, not after recovering from what the caravan leader told him. The word disgrace echoed in his mind, the fate that happened after the massacre vivid in his mind.
        "Don't feel for a human, they'd turn on you for a silver coin" The older charr comforted. "Your fighting however, was hesitant, you show fear in your actions. What was that?"
      The warrior charr looked to the elder. "I-..........I don't know. I-I-I was trying to do my best and....I tried to tell them I wasn't that good, but....I was hungry and I had no other choice...they needed a blade and I-"
        Deimos piped up, slapping a hand on the sputtering charr's back, "Well you're in luck, you can join our warband! Who needs humans!!" he didn't consider the elder charr's opinion once more, but according to him they were a warband and that was final. "I'm Deimos!!"
      The word "warband" sparked a wide-eyed shocked expression from the charr warrior as he got up and backed away a bit, "WARBAND?! O-oh nonononono, I couldn't possibly join your warband! I-I'm d-d-d-disgraced."
        The older charr looked over to the younger, hitting him in the back of the head with his free hand.
       "Ow!!" he rubbed his head and glared at the bigger charr, then pouted off at the warrior. He mumbled, hoping the older charr would hear him, "Who ever heard of a charr letting another charr go hungry...?"
       "We're NOT a warband, ok? We can travel together for now, but that does not mean we're united" He said bitterly.
       The warrior charr bowed politely to the elder as he said, "M-my apologies. I had no idea. I-I was just wandering to the next town you see. I d-didn't-"
       "Well fine but I'm still Ironmaw!!!" Deimos interupted, he tapped his foot and fiddled around with the human leg. "So they said Bloodclaw for you? And what about you, anti-warbander?"
      The warrior charr replied, "My name is Wrath....Wrath.....Bloodclaw" The last bit he was hesitant to say.
       "Bloodclaw? Am I just encountering the younglings who think they can have high and mighty names today?" He asked no one in particular
        Deimos frowned, "And what's your name? Grumble Bittergrouch?"
        He sighed "It's Kindle Flintlock"
        Deimos grinned and held the leg up in the air victoriously, "Deimos, Kindle, and Wrath!! The 3 wandering gladium charr!! No rules and no one to stop us!!"
          "I'm not a gladium" Kindle corrected "I'm a lone survivor"
           Wrath, "A-a-a-and I'm a disgraced wanderer...."
           Deimos, huffing his chest out and giving his cheeks a little puff of a pout, "Dammit, gladium sounds cooler and you guys messed it up.."
         "There's nothing cool about 'gladium'" Kindle stated.
         Wrath shyly spoke up to Kindle, "I-it is a lot better than what I have though..."
         "That's not the point!! It's just a matching title that sounds like some awesome fate brought three unlikely and outcast charr together to conquer the world!" he stops to breath, as in his excitement he'd forgotten to. "...Buuut... well you both lack vision, so you don't deserve it anyways. Hrmph..!"
          Wrath held up a hand, "Um....D-deimos, wasn't it? You are a charr, b-but...you don't.....well....act...like....one?"
           "What's that supposed to mean? What else am I acting like?" he gives a clueless and slightly offended look to the two of them.
           Wrath looked away, "N-n-nnothing. I just was p-puzzled." He got up slowly, swiped his blade clean from the blood that rested on it, and sheathed it accordingly. "It....was a pleasure meeting you two....but I must simply be on my way to the next town so-"
       "You're coming with us" Kindle stated "The way you two handle yourselves in battle..." he glared at Deimos. "You wouldn't last long on your own."
        "I'm fine on my own, I said!!!" he grumbled and gave Kindle the dagger, "Here I don't need this stupid thing, that guy over there has a nice axe and I want it." He didn't have the politeness to clean the blade at all, and he stomped over to the dead man with the axe, struggling a little as he lifted it up and propped it on his shoulder. "Hnf."
        Wrath to Deimos, "B-but didn't you just say we could be a w-w-war-"
         "Shut up, a warband is a cool bonus!!"
          Wrath shut his maw, but mumbled, "....what bonus? All I see is a charr spouting contradictions..."
        "We're not a warband, but someone has to look after you two or you'll get yourself killed." Kindle said.
Wrath spoke softly, "I a-appreciate the offer, and will gladly walk with you two until the next t-town." He said this because even he knew that this forest was an area he wasn't familiar with.
      "Hah, you don't have to worry about me! I just wasn't on the top of my game today. I'm a real fighting machine when I've gotten good rest and a full belly!" He looked silly, wobbling a little from the weight of the axe with a disembodied leg tucked under his other arm, especially with his small stature.
       Wrath couldn't help laugh at the sight of Deimos, "Y-you look a dwarf who drank a lot of grog and can't hold his axe!"
        Deimos merely responded with a growl and stomped his feet, "This handle sucks, not my fault, I'll be fixing it when we aren't surrounded by dead humans."
         Kindle sighed "Let's just focus on making camp for the night." he said, walking to where his previous fire was
         Wrath, "Y-yes sir!" he said, following right behind the elder.
         "Yeah, whatever, Bittergrouch." Deimos grumbled, dragging his feet as he followed. He muttered under his breath to himself, "Still think we should be a wandering trio... Those jerks."

Edited by Deimos-Ironmaw, 27 April 2011 - 07:27 PM.

[Akembo Mehtani]

O People of this thread, what constitutes a short work?
If a short work can be really short, then this sticky is pretty well upstaged by
What's your story?

So maybe that one should be stickied too? Just wondering for the sake of interested Library-ers.

Edited by Akembo Mehtani, 07 June 2011 - 06:32 PM.

[Elan]

Although it's in the What's Your Story Mk II thread, I'll repost this one in its entirety here, since it's long enough to be considered a story in and of itself.


The Children of Grenth

Spoiler

The keep loomed in the distance, basking in the light of the full moon. A tremendous structure fashioned in the effigy of Grenth towered above it, small columns of smoke rising from the ever-blazing flames in its eye sockets. It was a beautiful night, with few lazy clouds and myriad stars polluting the sky. The conditions were terrible.

Ashaver kneeled under the cover of an oak tree, taking stock. His equipment lay before him in tidy order; a vial of concentrated poison, a wire cutter, a small unmarked bottle containing pills, two small barbed grenades of charr make, twenty feet of thin-coiled wire attached to a hooked spike, a lock pick, a pair of double-ended daggers, a pocket mirror, and, of course, his beloved pistols.  Tonight, a bulbous protrusion extended from each of their barrels.

The sound of chattering behind him drew an ear. Niyya Ashbreaker, the warband’s token Mesmer, was having a conversation with herself as usual.  If he hadn’t been raised in the fahrar with her, he’d find her warped grasp on sanity disconcerting, never mind her cursed magics, but he knew the figments the sorceress saw was just as real to her as any living thing – and half as dangerous.

Sighing, he tightened the shawl around his neck.  At least Niyya didn’t need to be in the front line.  She’d be back here, out of harms way.  Him, on the other hand?  Rechecking his gear, he stowed them where they'd be most easily accessed.  He didn’t need to be a prophet to tell it was gonna be a long night.

The Children of Grenth, they called themselves. As far as Ashaver was concerned all humans were cultists, but for a human cult, these were a well organized threat to the treaty's stability. They made it their business to attack charr convoys, burn farms, or ambush guard posts.  The high command knew they had to have some sort of leadership base, but it was only a week ago that a scout reported back having traced them to the keep.  Corroborating intel from interrogated prisoners indicated the leadership was housed somewhere in the statuesque tower that eclipsed the rest of the keep’s structures.

With the keep exposed in the open and its double-walls studded with watch towers, a direct approach by a band of charr would have been suicidal. Even more so given the night's conditions; they'd be spotted a mile away if they tried to sneak in.  Any charr would be shot to pieces long before they reached the walls.

____________________________________________________


His skin was crawling.  It felt like every hair on his hide twitched with static.  Ashaver glanced down at his hands; human hands.  A human body.  It was a flimsy enchantment, but so long as Niyya’s illusion held he’d appear as human as the next ape.  All be it a dirty, ragged, and tired one.  He didn’t like using the mesmer’s skills this way, but more and more these days he found it effective – whether or not most charr could stomach it.  But as the saying goes, whatever gets the job done.

Shuffling towards the keep’s gate, he was suddenly illuminated by an aetheric beam of light.  Shielding his eyes with an outstretched arm, he fell to his knees before approaching guards.  “Oh thank the gods!  People!”

“You, stranger! What are you doing here?”

“My village, it was attacked.  Destroyed. My friends, my … family….  By those mangy beasts!  The charr!  Those filthy savages!”  He slumped.  “They’re all gone….”

The guards gave each other a look, as if they’ve been in the same shoes before.  One guard whispered in another’s ear.  He nodded before running off to the gate, signaling for it to let them pass.  A guard reached down to help Ashaver up.  

“Oh, no… no, that’s… quite alright.  I managed this far.  What’s a little farther?  I’ll be fine.”  He made a show of struggling to his feet.  Flanked by a pair of guards, he was lead inside.

Beside him, a baby-faced defender of the keep was babbling excitedly.  Something about revenge and how he couldn’t wait to die - something naïve like that anyways.  Ashaver wasn’t sure; he was too busy dissecting everything he could see of the keep.  His eyes jumped from the gate supports to the barracks, panned to the central yard’s water well and the stables behind it.  The scent of roasted duck wafted to his nostrils, guiding his eyes to a nondescript building and issuing a grumble from his belly.  Must be the mess hall.  Stopping, his eyes rested on the great tower of Grenth.  

Baby-face grinned.  “Impressive, isn’t it?  Grenth gives us the strength we need to avenge the fallen by putting those beasts on a one way express trip to the underworld!” Ashaver just nodded.  “Oh!  I know!  Maybe you’ll join us!  You must hate the charr as much as the rest of us.  You could get your revenge, how cool is that?”

“I might like that….  I’m sorry, but I’m just so exhausted.  It’s… been a while since I could rest.”  The guards nodded, sympathetically smiling, leading him towards the guest quarters of the base.  As they neared the structure, passing under the shadow of an overhanging catwalk Ashaver’s vision flickered.  

In an instant, the static sensation in his fur discharged.  To the shocked guards, it was as if his human form unraveled like old tapestry, being pulled up and away into nothingness, revealing the monster beneath.  Before the stunned silence could be broken, Ashaver threw an elbow into the larynx of the guard behind him followed by a well placed kick into Baby-face’s diaphragm, slamming the young guard into the residential structure’s wall.  Swinging his arm around with the momentum, he slashed his talons through the staggered guard’s throat before spinning the winded youngling’s neck beyond its natural limits.  Looks like you got your wish.

Eyes darting around him, there were no more guards to be seen.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Damnit Niyya, he cursed, more warning would’ve been nice!  He poked his head into the residential hall, confirming he was free from prying eyes.  Grasping the arms of each of the fallen guards, he dragged their corpses into the unlit rows of beds before carefully placing each corpse oh so naturally under the covers of a bunk.

According to his mental map he wasn’t more than a short dash to the stables, and from there the tower.  Not a far way to go, but he’d still need to avoid the guards making their rounds.  At least the watch towers faced out, not in.  Oh, but what a terribly convenient gap in their defense!

Willing the light around him to bend with his form, Ashaver stepped from the cover of the residential hall.  Padding swiftly towards the stables, he was little more than a faint outline; a specter of barely distorted air.  He reached the horse enclosures and paused, seeing the silhouette of a guard - too much movement and he’d be noticed even now.  Horses whinnied their disapproval of the invisible predator amongst them, smelling what their eyes couldn’t quite make out.  Ashaver waited, knowing even if he wasn’t directly discovered, if too many guards went missing, an alert would be sounded.  He also knew there was only so long he could afford to stay invisible, the technique being a draining one to maintain.  

Slowly crouching behind a bale of hay he let himself reappear; keeping a pair of ears on the guard outside.  Well, damn.  I can’t stay here forever! It seemed an eternity of waiting, uncomfortably kneeling in the moist hay, before the guard finally moved off; a glowing ember falling to the floor from his shadow-darkened hand.  Smoking kills, Ashaver grinned, but who?

The tower wasn’t far now, but he doubted he could just walk through the front door of a cult’s headquarters without being seen.  Tracking his eyes up the robe of Grenth, Ashaver spied rents of yellow light – windows.  Some of them looked like they might be big enough….

Phasing back into transparency, Ashaver peeled from the shadows of the stables.  Unzipping a compartment by his tail, he withdrew the weighted spike and wire.  Swinging the end in a circle for momentum, he let it fly; taking aim near the largest pane of glass he could see.  A dull thunk resounded as the tip bit into the tower’s stone hide.  He gave the wire a yank, testing the tension before, satisfied, he pulled himself up; hind claws digging into recesses in the mortar.

Dangling on the ledge below the window, he propped his head up, gazing through the portal. A shrine?  Figured.  What giant statue of a god would be complete without a place for worship?  Looks about as dead as a crypt in there.  He snorted, stretching a paw out for the window’s catch.  Flipping it open, he rolled inside before retrieving the wire and quietly resealing the window.

I’m in.

Ashaver glanced about, confirming his solitude.  A smoky, poorly lit and dingy room filled his eyes.  Concentric arcs of pews, split down the middle, framed a short marble pillar topped by a simple stone bowl upon an altar.  Glaring down behind it, etched into the stone wall, was the figure of Grenth himself.  The scent of incense stung his nose.  He allowed himself to quickly investigate further – he rarely got a chance to explore humanity’s condition of religion.

Sauntering towards the curious bowl in the center, Ashaver lightly touched a talon to the liquid within.  He brought his finger to his tongue for a taste. Some sort of ceremonial water?  Reaching into his equipment pouch he retrieved the unmarked bottle and extracted a pill, crushing it into powder above the holy fluid.  Its white remnants dissolved into memory.  

The echoes of armored footfalls abruptly tore his mind back to the task at hand.  Flame lit rooms, he mused, must have air flow.  He scanned the walls, searching for- There!  A grate, half way up a wall, was partially obscured by a brazier.  Quickly padding over to it, Ashaver lifted the cover, exposing a shaft beyond which vanished into shadows as it rose above the hallways beyond the chapel.  He glanced down at himself, patting his belly.  Seems a little tight, though….

Shrugging, he fell to all fours and forced himself into the orifice, pulling the grate shut with his hind paws.  The walls of the shaft pressed on him tightly, making breathing difficult.  As he squirmed his way through the darkness, Ashaver’s mind pictured himself getting stuck and forgotten – until the scent of his long decaying corpse would draw in a puzzled investigation.  He stupidly grinned thinking of the shock he’d no doubt inflict on the poor janitor who’d find him.

The air shaft wasn’t completely dark.  Occasionally there would be a grate sunk into the ceiling of an underlying hallway.  The light from below would dully ooze through, coating a small patch of the darkness in pale illumination.  These were oasis of more than light, but of sounds; sounds apart from distant dripping and Ashaver’s own labored breathing, anyways.  Muffled voices of passing guards chattering filtered through to his ears.  Most were just the noises of the bored and restless; discussions on hobbies, hopes, dreams, or a neighbor’s attractive wife.  However some were of some possible use.  Like the whereabouts of their leader, General Neugen's chamber, for instance.  Top floor, you say?  In the head of Grenth, you say?  Taken to bed for the night, you say?  No kidding!

Continuing on in the almost dark, Ashaver reached the terminus of the shaft.  It exited to a central stairwell, spiraling the height of the tower.  The grate popped loose so easily he failed to catch it in time.  Ashaver winced as it clattered upon the stairs before carefully lowering himself from the vent – silently cursing himself for his sloppiness.  He paused, straining his four ears listening, half expecting a wave of armed and angry cultists to be swarming after him.  Nothing.  Sighing with relief, he continued up the torch-lit stairwell; every step taking him closer to his objective.

Reaching the top of the stairs, a large wooden door barricaded his path.  Pressing an ear to it, he could hear breathing.  Backtracking, Ashaver extinguished the torches illuminating the stairway for a good two levels masking himself in the shadows.  Unsheathing a dagger, he rapped on the door, ducking against the wall as it swung open.  The guard, light blinded, could see nothing beyond the portal.  Nothing, that is, until a clawed hand appeared and pulled him into the darkness.  His startled yelp was silenced by the sound of Ashaver’s poisoned dagger penetrating his temple; its blade skewering the cultist’s brain.

As short lived as it was, the commotion caught the attention of another guardsman.  Squinting into the stairwell from the safety of the corridor, Guardsman Harris stood with his axe held at the ready – poised to strike at anything he saw move.  He wasn’t foolish enough to get closer; he certainly hadn’t survived long enough to become one of the great General Neugen’s personal bodyguards out of blind luck!  Oh no, he was staying right here in the light, and whatever it was in there would need to step into it to face him!

“I can smell you from here, Charr.  Why don’t you come out of those cursed shadows and face me?”  Harris sneered.  “Or is the p*ssy cat afraid of a little scuffle?  I thought you beasts had pride!”

His only answer was a puff of smoke and the muffled sound of metal cracking.  Sagging backwards onto the floor, Harris lay there, blinking in confusion, surrounded by a widening pool of blood flowing from his chest.  Easing from the shadows of the stairwell, Ashaver holstered his pistol, the barrel attachment destroyed from the inside.  He paused, kneeling by the fallen guardsman.

“No scuffle sustains my pride, mouse.  Only a mission,” he whispered, reaching out and snapping the guardsman’s neck, “successfully completed.”

Ashaver glanced at his expended pistol.  Great, one left.  One shot and these quieters wreck the barrel!  Wish they’d fix that….  Shuffling forward, he planted his back against the wall and pulled out his pocket mirror.  Aiming it, he took a quick peek of what was around the bend.  A short but well lit stretch of hallway.  Two more guards flanking an inlaid door; one with a rifle, one with hammer and shield.  Must be it.

He didn’t want to risk wasting his grenades – they could be useful trying to get out.  He just had to get in first.  Folding the light around him, he faded back into semi-invisibility.  It wouldn’t work well here in this lighting.  They’d still see me, sort of, but maybe it’ll confuse them enough to get closer?  He breathed deeply, grabbing his wired spike and second pistol before stepping into the hallway.  

The guards saw him immediately, but he must have seemed a mirage because it took them a moment to process what their eyes were seeing.  And by that time, Ashaver had already stretched his pistol at the rifleman, squeezing the trigger.  The shot zipped through the air on a column of smoke and sparks before smacking into the guard’s rifle, ricocheting into his trigger finger - shattering the weapon’s mechanism as easily as the man’s hand.  Almost simultaneously, Ashaver tossed the wire at the guardian’s legs.  The barbed spike wrapped around the guard’s feet before he was toppled over by a hard tug on the line.

Taking the initiative, Ashaver charged the guards, tossing his ruined weapon aside.  He was steps away from the disabled bodyguards before a trap door yawned open beneath his feet, plunging him, once again, into darkness.  His last scrap of consciousness was the sharp pain of his leg breaking as he slammed into a hard floor far below.

____________________________________________________

A blast of ice water shocked him awake.  Ashaver sat shivering, tied to a chair.  His leg throbbed and he could feel a knot burning on his head.  How long was I out? Ashaver’s blurry gaze panned the room.  It was small and vicious looking tools of a vicious trade lined the walls.  The floor was stained with the rust of old blood.  A man, well dressed, stood before him.  He reeked of the kind of pompousness that only a self-entitled desk jockey could generate.  His colors were that of regality.  Yet, something seemed off about him.

“General Neugen, I presume,” Ashaver croaked.

“You presume well, Monster.”

“How… did… you know?”

“Oh, you do not think we would just let your people find us, would you?  You found this place because I wanted you to.”  General Neugen smiled in self-satisfaction, though beads of sweat dotted his brow.  “I knew full well your people would send an assassin to eliminate me.  Well, you have prisoners, now so do we.  And, as a member of your, what was it?  Ash legion?”  He coughed, “I am sure you are positively chock full of exquisite information to extract.”  General Neugen idly kicked Ashaver’s broken leg.

Ashaver winced in pain.  Still, he couldn’t help but enquire. “Are you a religious man, General?”

General Neugen laughed, before coughing again, more violently this time.  “I created a freedom fighting force called The Children of Grenth to retake our rightful land of Ascalon, and you ask me if I am a religious man?”  A small rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, spoiling his smile.

“So you take to praying, then?”  Ashaver managed a weak grin.

“You are an odd one, Charr.  I should not bother with your questions, but as a matter of fact, yes.  Yes, I pray.  Daily.  As do all my men!  I am sure the thought of it makes you sick to your very core, you godless beast.”

“My core?  No.  No, I think it’s quite the opposite.”  The general began another coughing fit.  “It’s tomorrow already?  My, my, General.  I didn’t know humans came in shades of green.”  He ran a claw against a restraining rope around his wrists

Coughing uncontrollably, General Neugen stumbled back against a wall, leaning on it for support.  Red flecks of blood stained his shirt and lips.  A pallor was cast upon his skin.  Feeling weaker by the second, the General slid to the floor – body quaking in a ceaseless cycle of hacking, coughing, and wheezing.

“You’ve got it all wrong, General.  You love your gods so much, and I respect that.  I was only sent here to help you!”  Ashaver chuckled.  “With all your loyalty to Grenth it only seemed polite to grant you an audience with him!”  His claw was starting to cut through now.

Ashaver’s bindings snapped as realization dawned in General Neugen’s eyes, and with it, horror.  “What.  Did.  You do?”

“Devourer poison.  Dehydrated.  Extremely concentrated.  Extremely lethal.  You’ve such a lovely chapel to Grenth, my dear General.  It takes a little time to kick in, but when it does….  Well, I’m sure you feel it.  Your lungs and throat are liquefying, and, well, you know the rest.”  He tested an arm before getting to work on his good leg before looking up with a quizzical smile at the man.  “Or you will, soon enough.”

Ashaver ripped an arm off the chair, lashing it to his broken leg with the remnants of the restraining ropes.  He wasn’t armed, but he was a wounded predator in a falling fortress full of dying prey.  The sounds of the sick echoed through the hallways as the General’s act repeated itself all throughout the keep.  The Children of Grenth, taken unto Grenth.  

May their gods have mercy?

[Agrestal]

Hi guys, copied is part two of a fictional lore-based blog I've started. I'm adding this post in here in particular mostly because it's in celebration of sylvari week and I do plan on playing a sylvari!

It is nice and short and depicts a sylvari female and human male adventurer within Lion's Arch after they have started on a particularly daring quest together. This post really only covers the sylvari's awakening, but I wanted to keep it very lore-centred.

Hope you enjoy.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sylvari: noble, beautiful, plant-like. No other race in Tyria has come to be like the sylvari. The youngest of all the races of the world, less than twenty-five years since the first sylvari’s birth, they dwell amongst the sanctuary of the Grove. That is unless they are called to the Wyld Hunt.

  A large majority of the sylvari are barely twenty years of age and many of their population have branched out into the rest of Tyria. Their emergence came with mixed reception; the asura abusing the sylvari’s innocence and taking some as slavish workers. The lesson was learnt quickly, and since then the sylvari have been wary of the small creatures from underground.

  The plant-like sylvari arrive into the world fully grown after emerging from the Pale Tree, their mother. Before their birth they exist within the Dream of Dreams and seemingly float above the events of the world in a spiritual, spectator-like state. The things they see and learn from the Dream go with them upon their birth and the things they see and learn come from sylvari who exist within the world. As such, each generation gains more knowledge with their awakening.

  Honour, curiosity, empathy and the Dream make up the true essence of the sylvari and create both strengths and weaknesses for the young race. But do not underestimate these seemingly timid and naive creatures – it could very well mean the death of you, especially if they have turned to the Nightmare instead of the Dream.

“I remember my awakening from the Mother Tree. I recall the cries from my brethren calling out amongst the Grove. An attack was coming from the Sea.”

  Agrestal and Alastair were perched on the ledge of a boardwalk that overlooked Sanctum Harbour. The water sparkled brilliantly in the afternoon sun as it tinged the sky with a potent pink. Wisps of clouds hung along the horizon after a day of rain while a small fishing boat made its way past Molokk’s Spit nearby.

  Their talks with the Captain’s Council hadn’t gone as bad as they had thought they would, yet their plans were no closer to completion than before they had spoken with the Council. Alastair had been amazed at how the young sylvari had handled herself and controlled the direction of conversation while they had spoken with the Council. His initial perception of the plant-like woman had changed dramatically as the afternoon had passed and his scepticism had slowly but surely turned to awe.

  “They had never completely reached the Grove before that. Tutors and my Dream both confirmed that. But on that day, on my awakening, they broke through the Mother Tree’s defences.”

  She lowered her head slowly and stared down past her feet at the green-blue sea water that sloshed quietly beneath. Her leafy ears caught the afternoon sun and Alastair caught his breath as he saw the veins within pushing golden sap along the designated paths. Her eyebrows had been forged of five different leaves and her hair made of dozens of copper-brown fronds of plants turned to a rich red in the pink sunset. Everything about her was so natural and innocent, but Alastair could see that the rumoured innocence of the sylvari was absent from Agrestal.

  “What happened?” he asked before she could speak again.

  She could feel his wonder growing through her undeniable empathetic connection which she shared with most beings, especially her own kind. It was something she had seen as a curse, her own levels of empathy seemingly greater and more potent than many other sylvari she came across, but after several years she began to find its strength and usefulness. It was, after all, how she was able to manipulate Alastair into letting her go with him in the first place.

  “What happens when undead attack? They ravage, destroy and take.”

  She responded slowly but her voice rung with the pain she felt. It was a massacre.

  “I am sorry,” Alastair replied timidly, averting his staring gaze from Agrestal’s eyes. She had continued staring at the water below despite being aware of Alastair’s gaze, but she could not look back into his. The overwhelming empathetic waves of apology from him would have frustrated her, and frustration was not what she needed whilst sharing such a story.

  “I was with my house, the House of Day, when the first wave broke into the Grove. From the Dream I had seen only a few of the undead, yet their cries were undeniable even to a newly awakened such as myself. For however long I had existed within the Dream I had seen the Elder Dragon, and as soon as I heard the first of the horrific cries of the undead within the Grove, I knew where they had come from and why they were there: to steal and turn the sylvari into minions of Zhaitan.”

  Alastair suddenly noted how her demeanour changed as she finished what she was saying. Instead of looking down at the darkening water beneath her feet, she looked up to the horizon and the silhouette of the risen peninsula of Orr and glared. Her eyes thinned and her chin rose while a shiver passed along her plant-like physique; sprouted leaves and ferns hissing quietly as they rustled in time with the shiver.

  “But they failed,” she continued, a distinct note of pride added somewhere within her graceful voice. “Sylvari cannot be turned. We will never be turned. Many, including myself, believe we were created to fight the Elder Dragons. Because of this we are protected by some unknown power that will not allow us to be manipulated into one of Zhaitan’s minions.”

  She turned slowly to look at Alastair who gazed back in wonder; his usual facade of confidence and determination having been melted away by Agrestal’s revelation. He had never known.

  “Instead, we die. But we would rather die than become one of them, or one of the Shadow, because death is just as fascinating to us as life.”

  She smiled as her bark cheek bones lifted slightly and her leafy ears moves in sync. Alastair stared in wonder at what sat before him. From what he had learnt of the young sylvari, they were both around the age of twenty, yet it was painfully obvious to him just how wise Agrestal was, and just how naive he was. All of his pre-conceived notions of the sylvari melted away with the setting sun, and as the city of Lion’s Arch turned into a glittering mass of shadowed structures behind them, he knew he chosen the right companion for his undertaking.

[Amannelle]

Oooo so enchanting. :D I love how it ties in what we've just learned, yet makes it all seem so fresh as though I'm learning it for the first time alongside Alastair. :D Can't wait to read more! I got chills when she was talking about the moment the attacks came.

[Agrestal]

Amannelle said:

Oooo so enchanting. :D I love how it ties in what we've just learned, yet makes it all seem so fresh as though I'm learning it for the first time alongside Alastair. :D Can't wait to read more! I got chills when she was talking about the moment the attacks came.

Why thank you Amannelle! I really wasn't expecting a reply, but it's nice to know it's been read :o  I aim to write another in a few more days and will post it when it's ready.

Although, Gamescom might take my attention for a week or so... ;)

----------

Part three from my blog. Not as "soft" as part two; this explores Alastair's past and his motivations for the undertaking he has started.

Hope you enjoy and don't mind my potential spamming.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Sea of Sorrows, once known as the Bay of Sirens, is a sea surrounded by Kryta, the Southern Shiverpeaks, the Tarnished Coast, Orr, and the Strait of Malchor. Its hub and northern most stretch reaches to the mouth of Lion’s Arch, the renovated remains of a corsair’s haven and shattered city from hundreds of years ago.

  Within the Sea of Sorrows linger dark enemies other than Zhaitan’s undead minions. The bloodthirsty and ravaging krait, the frog-like and alchemically excelling hylek, the stout and peaceful quaggan and many other of the usual creatures of the ocean mingle, fight and exist with another in the waters and along the coastlines.

  The rising of Orr turned their ecosystems into havoc as Zhaitan’s chaos ensued. The hylek were forced inland along the coastal regions and have spread vastly in numbers and size while the quaggan have opted to move further inland through rivers to lakes and shorelines around the Maguuma Jungle, Steamspur Mountains and Kryta to avoid trouble.

  Despite the fight for survival amongst these races and environments, it still appears as though the truly dominant races of the land have the hardest fight to win. Human, charr, asura, norn and sylvari alike face the undeniable threat of the Elder Dragons in each of their respective places of Tyria, yet even within the shadow of their darkened wings, the fight for supremacy, revenge and life continues in ways that can never be completely traced.

A heavy downpour fell from the canopy of dark grey clouds as though the land needed the rain. All around the small fishing boat waves crashed and caused the vessel to groan in agony. A younger adolescent and his father worked hard to hold the boat on its course as the farthest eastern island of the Dominion of Winds disappeared behind a thick curtain of fresh rain several miles away.

  They had been out fishing among the Sea of Sorrows since early morning and had let themselves drift far too south. It had been the boys fault, but his father had not criticised him – the storm was enough of a consequence as a tongue lashing, maybe more. The clouds had appeared faster than usual for the bay and had caught them off guard before they had a chance to redirect their course. In the end they simple resigned to the fact that it was going to be a long slog back to Lion’s Arch.

  The boy went to grab a flailing rope but lost his traction as a frighteningly large wave collided with the side of the fishing boat. He toppled over, threatening to fall head first into a large bucket of fishing spears, but at the last moment a strong grip swung him around. His father’s fingertips lost their clutch and the boy slammed painfully into the deck of the boat with his shoulder.
  “Get up, son! No time to feel sorry for yourself! I need you to fix those lines!”

  The boy groaned and pushed himself up as the boat swayed on a sickening angle. Tools of the fishing trade spilled over the deck and over the sides as another massive wave threatened to flip the boat, throwing the boy off balance for the second time in a minute and sending him careening towards the port side of the vessel. Just in time he threw out his right arm and hooked it around the mast pole and held on for dear life, grunting with the effort as his energy quickly drained.

  Mercifully the boat levelled out and the boy’s father quickly picked him off the deck, leaving him instantly to leap into the air and capture two flailing pieces of rope to bring into submission. The boy watched his father in wonder as cold rain pelted against his sodden body and gale force winds pushed angrily against him. He hung onto the mast as a sharp pain jolted from his shoulder up his neck, determined to not be more of a burden to his father than he already had been.

  The storm continued as they sailed north, its ferocity barely dimming as the first hour crawled by. Both fishermen were robbed off whatever energy they had had and were left feeding off the adrenaline that kept them alert. Shadows of distant islands lingered beyond the hazy layers of pelting rain and every few minutes both looked north in the hope that the magnitude and shadow of Lion’s Arch would become visible through the rain, a beacon and symbol of hope amidst the storm.

  The father barked orders frequently as the storm began to slow and allow the boy to move more freely without danger. Slowly but surely the seas levelled out and the wind quietened. The rain continued to pour in flooding quantities, but somewhere through the thick haze a growing wall of darkened shadows was growing to the north.

  With a wide grin the boy pointed towards the silhouette of Lion’s Arch with his unhindered left arm, turning to his father as he did so. But as he turned, his smile quickly changed to a gaping mouth as his elation turned to dread.

  Slithering over the handrails on the starboard side, a large snake-like creature armed with swords and strange armour appeared. The boy’s father had his back to the creature, and before his son could even utter a word the creature had the man’s head in an iron grip, its slimy skin oozing over his father’s leather tunic and stubbled chin.

  A look of horror filled the father’s eyes as the creature began to retreat back to the handrails, the human unable to get a solid grip on the creature’s slimy hold. The boy ran forward instinctively, not out of braveness but out of foolishness, and attempted to help his father with his able left arm. His smaller fingers fumbled and slipped over the glistening skin of the creature and seconds later he was kicked aside as his father’s upturned legs smashed into his head. The boy recovered instantly as his awakening fear pushed him beyond the concussion he had just incurred and watched as his father’s boots dipped beneath the surface of the churning water.

  “Father!” the boy screamed, frantically searching the surface of the water for a sign of his father’s return, slipping over the handrail as ooze from the creature mixed with the rain water on the wooden surface.

  But as the minutes passed and the storm continued to calm, his father never returned. Miraculously he had been able to sail the fishing boat one-handed back into the harbours of Lion’s Arch, but as he sought for assistance to find his father he was only met with resistance.

  “Boy, it is unfortunate, that is true, but no one could hope to follow that damned creature. Not the krait. The best you can hope for him is that his death is swift and painless.”
  Alastair opened his eyes and sat bolt up, frantically wiping away the sweat that had pebbled on his forehead. His eyes were dilated and he searched almost desperately through the small room with his eyes, a faint glimmer of hope shining through the fear.

  Nearby a shadow moved and he reacted, rolling off the bed and reaching for a staff that he had left leaning against a bedside table.

  “Alastair!” A familiar voice called.

  The results were astounding. Agrestal’s call cut through his hazy dream in an instant and brought him to the place he stood, half-dressed and panting, a staff at his fingertips.

  Her silhouette filled the doorway in the dark pre-dawn shadows. He could feel waves of empathy coursing from her towards him as he silently returned to the bed and pulled the sheets over him despite the heat he felt.

  “Is everything alright?” she asked, not bothering to enter further.

  Somewhere outside a snarl cut through the night, no doubt some charr having nightmares.

  “It will be,” Alastair replied, staring out to the grimy window and towards the faintly glimmering stars beyond. “It will be.”

Edited by Agrestal, 15 August 2011 - 10:19 AM.

[Raena Arvalle]

Lovely reads =) This thread is sort of new I saw, I posted my Raena-stories in the old one a few months ago, but I'll just post my latest here :)

Spoiler

The old, weathered centaur pulled his hidden muzzle in a smirk. On both his flanks, his younger companions mocked their fallen victim with their cold, hoarse voices, and they trampled away a few feet to form a small circle. Inbetween the three lay a human, grey and of age, agility and wit long gone. The old centaur cracked his thick neck and stepped closer, his fearsome spear held in front of him. He looked down at the human and stomped his right hoof into the dry sand beneath them.
'Scared, are we?'
He smirked again, and his fellow raiders laughed in their own cruel way as the human looked around him panicky, hoping to see help draw near that would never come.
'P-please, let me go, I have nothing to give to you...'
'No?'
The old centaur raised a dark bristly eyebrow as he looked at the small cart to his right.
'That looks like grain to me, human.'
The human stuttered and raised his hand in protest. Despicable, the old centaur thought. What was the point of humans, at all? They were weak, pathetic, and those who did fight had a stupid sense of honour. He glared at the human as he stumbled over his own words.
'Y-yes, but that is for my family..! Please, please, let me go, I have a wife and three children...'
'Gah, be quiet old fool!'
One of the younger centaurs kicked one of his hooves into the human's back. A cry of pain shrieked through the small glade through which the human had peacefully, or so he thought, walked his way to the nearby village, pushing his cracking cart of grain. The old centaur sighed and tightened the grip around his spear. He was a veteran of his tribe, had led many a skirmish and raid upon the human race, and he was not one for honour and mercy. These were actually his favourite encounters – of course he would never back away from a fight against anything or anyone, but simply robbing a lone human of his belongings before ending his life was quick and easy. He wanted to get to the point now. He aimed the sharp spear towards the human's chest.
'Enough of your squirming, human. Pray to your Gods, if you think it h-'

'Let him go, at once.'
The whole group fell silent, even the human who had been squealing in fear. The old centaur turned around to the one who spoke. During that brief moment the commanding tone of the voice had raised his guard fully. This was why he blinked in unbelief as he looked upon the one who had said the words. Before him stood another human, but this one was female. The old centaur had never bothered to learn much about the human culture, simply because he despised them so. Yet even he could see that the female was one of nobility. She was young still, too grown to be a child but too fragile to have reached full maturity. She had her chin lifted, and she stared straight into the centaur's eyes with her own, irisses of an iceblue colour. A long mane of red hair fell on her shoulders and back, and her modest frame was clothed in thin fabrics. The old centaur gritted his yellow teeth. This was no warrior, this was a puny child. He stepped towards her and pointed his spear in an aggressive gesture. Yet something – and he did not know what – kept him from thrusting it into the female's heart, and when he spoke his voice sounded less confident than he wanted to.
'Who do you think you are, human, to stop us? Your bold move will cost you your life as well!'
The female did not flinch. This confused the centaur. Most humans ran in fear as soon as they saw him. Yet this little thing smiled coolly at his words.
'I said: let him go.'
Something in her softly spoken words made the fur on the old centaur's back stand up straight. He snarled, and his companions trampled closer now. Either more stupid or bolder than him – and the old centaur knew them well enough to realise it wasn't the latter – they pointed their spears towards the female human as well, clearly ready to attack.
'Best start running, little whelp!' groaned one of them. 'I like my prey afraid!'
The female simply curled her lips at this comment. She, again, did not flinch, did not move, showed no fear. The old centaur tightened the grip around his spear. Something was terribly wrong.
For the first time in his long life, he felt the urge to run. To run from one puny human. He did not even notice how the old human behind them was crawling towards his cart to hide behind it.
'Shut up,' he mumbled to his younger companions. But they did not seem to listen, and trampled their hooves into the dusty earth, ready to attack.
Then everything around them went quiet. Birds flew from their nest, fleeing. A lone deer jumped away, deeper into the woods. Suddenly all three centaurs felt the urge to run as well. The old centaur saw how the female narrowed her eyes and suddenly broadened her stance, and she seemed to breathe in deeply. Her entire frame bowed forward as she sucked air into her lungs. The two younger centaurs looked at each other in confusion, uneased. And then the old centaur noticed something that mortified him. The air was growing warmer. Hotter. And in that brief moment of horrid realisation he understood why the young female had frightened him so. He screamed out to his companions.
'An elementalist! Back! BACK!'
It was too late. As the old centaur turned and jumped away, hoping to escape what was coming, he felt the scorching heat of fire on his back, like a dragon's breath. His tail went up in flames, the fire consumed his fur and flesh, and his last screams could be heard miles and miles away.

The old centaur was dying. He would not survive his wounds. He lay on the sandy ground, feeling the life fading from him. Suddenly he heard voices, and the sound of many human feet running closer. Through his scalded eyelashes he looked at the female, the elementalist, who had slain him and his companions. She simply stood there, eyeing what she had done. One of the last things the old centaur saw before his final breath was an older human, a male, with white hair and a frantic demeanor, who walked up to the female and yelled at her.

'Raena Arvalle, what in Dwayna's name is the meaning of this?!'


*


'It is interesting.'
Raena looked from her scroll to the creature next to her. A human form, and yet not so. She had skin of a silvery green colour, and upon closer inspection one would see that her long flowing hair, of a very dark green hue, consisted of hundreds of strands of grass and long thin leaves. She was clothed in greens and browns, and her attire begged the question whether it was actually clothing, or part of herself. Everything about her was organic, plant-like, and she had two large, silver eyes which looked upon the huge garden of the Upper City in wonder. She repeated her words with a voice as clear as the sound of falling rain.
'It is interesting indeed.'
Raena smiled somewhat and rolled up the scroll she had been reading.
'What is so interesting, Seophre?'
The creature lifted her palms towards the glass dome over their heads, the sun shining through the countless windows.
'Your kind has built a city of stone, yet you have made this place, creating nature within a stronghold. If you want nature close, then why use all the stone?'
Raena chuckled and placed her scroll next to her, on the small pile of reading she still wanted to go through. Seophre was a Sylvari, the young race of The Grove, filled with countless of questions. Of course she wondered about these things.
'We like the protection of stone, yet we love the serenity of plants. This way we get the best of both.'
Talking to Seophre was like talking to her younger sister Rue at times – she had to keep her answers simple and uncomplicated. Yet Seophre was no powerless child, and Raena knew it well. For a Sylvari, she was one of the more grown and wise ones.
Seophre had been visiting Divinity's Reach for two years now, coming and going as she pleased, and her vocation was the reason Raena had become acquainted with her. Seophre was a mesmer, like her mother Luvaene Arvalle, and Luvaene's curious nature had driven her to befriend the Sylvari and to introduce her children. Now Raena and Seophre sat in the gardens of the Upper City everytime the Sylvari visited. Luvaena used to join them at first, but not anymore. Raena tightened her jaw in grief for a moment as she thought of her mother. Luvaene hardly left her bed anymore.

Seophre linked her small silvery fingers and looked up at the sky they could see through the dome.
'If you like plants, you should come with me sometime, to the Grove. Maybe when I leave?'
Raena stifled a sigh.
'I'd love to Seophre, truly. I simply doubt my father would let me go this soon after...'
'Ah, the matter with the centaurs.'
Seophre smiled. Raena however did not. It angered her.
'I saved someone's life, did not come to harm myself, and yet he keeps me in chains. When will he see? I'm his eldest daughter. He needs to stop coddling me'
The Sylvari tilted her head to the left, like a pondering child. This was a habit of hers.
'He will not do that soon, because from all his daughters, you look the most like Luvaene. And he loves your mother very much, and he's afraid.'
As usual the Sylvari had said in a few, childlike words what Raena had thought herself so many times. She did not reply, and instead the two sat on the bench in the sun for a while, looking at the gardens.

They looked up when they heard some commotion on the stairs of the ministry. There they saw a young man playing with some of the young noble children. Raena narrowed her eyes. He was tall, with a tanned complexion and dark locks of hair. He was far away from their bench, but she knew that under the dark strands of hair on his forehead, two striking blue eyes looked into the world. She heard the laughter of the children as he was clearly entertaining them, throwing a small leather ball from one hand to the other, catching it whenever it seemed he would miss. Raena could not help but smile. Of course that was him – doing that which seemed impossible, and always doing it with a grin. Seophre smiled as well, showing a row of silver teeth.
'It's your friend. Cyrus, no? I thought he had left the city.'
'He had. But he always comes back.'
'Yes, that is true. Because he comes for you.'
The Sylvari did it again. Raena looked at the pile of scrolls to her side. Seophre looked away from Cyrus and his games, and tilted her head left once again. Raena held her breath silently, waiting for more words, or a question, that would ring a truth so true it would cut like a knife.
'I don't understand, why don't you two become a pair? Because you clearly love each other.'
Raena cringed. She quickly jumped off the bench and grabbed her scrolls.

'There are things, Seophre, you really should not ask.'

[Positive]

Oh nice!  This got stickied.  That's good

[Agrestal]

Raena Arvalle said:

Lovely reads =) This thread is sort of new I saw, I posted my Raena-stories in the old one a few months ago, but I'll just post my latest here :)

Spoiler

The old, weathered centaur pulled his hidden muzzle in a smirk. On both his flanks, his younger companions mocked their fallen victim with their cold, hoarse voices, and they trampled away a few feet to form a small circle. Inbetween the three lay a human, grey and of age, agility and wit long gone. The old centaur cracked his thick neck and stepped closer, his fearsome spear held in front of him. He looked down at the human and stomped his right hoof into the dry sand beneath them.
'Scared, are we?'
He smirked again, and his fellow raiders laughed in their own cruel way as the human looked around him panicky, hoping to see help draw near that would never come.
'P-please, let me go, I have nothing to give to you...'
'No?'
The old centaur raised a dark bristly eyebrow as he looked at the small cart to his right.
'That looks like grain to me, human.'
The human stuttered and raised his hand in protest. Despicable, the old centaur thought. What was the point of humans, at all? They were weak, pathetic, and those who did fight had a stupid sense of honour. He glared at the human as he stumbled over his own words.
'Y-yes, but that is for my family..! Please, please, let me go, I have a wife and three children...'
'Gah, be quiet old fool!'
One of the younger centaurs kicked one of his hooves into the human's back. A cry of pain shrieked through the small glade through which the human had peacefully, or so he thought, walked his way to the nearby village, pushing his cracking cart of grain. The old centaur sighed and tightened the grip around his spear. He was a veteran of his tribe, had led many a skirmish and raid upon the human race, and he was not one for honour and mercy. These were actually his favourite encounters – of course he would never back away from a fight against anything or anyone, but simply robbing a lone human of his belongings before ending his life was quick and easy. He wanted to get to the point now. He aimed the sharp spear towards the human's chest.
'Enough of your squirming, human. Pray to your Gods, if you think it h-'

'Let him go, at once.'
The whole group fell silent, even the human who had been squealing in fear. The old centaur turned around to the one who spoke. During that brief moment the commanding tone of the voice had raised his guard fully. This was why he blinked in unbelief as he looked upon the one who had said the words. Before him stood another human, but this one was female. The old centaur had never bothered to learn much about the human culture, simply because he despised them so. Yet even he could see that the female was one of nobility. She was young still, too grown to be a child but too fragile to have reached full maturity. She had her chin lifted, and she stared straight into the centaur's eyes with her own, irisses of an iceblue colour. A long mane of red hair fell on her shoulders and back, and her modest frame was clothed in thin fabrics. The old centaur gritted his yellow teeth. This was no warrior, this was a puny child. He stepped towards her and pointed his spear in an aggressive gesture. Yet something – and he did not know what – kept him from thrusting it into the female's heart, and when he spoke his voice sounded less confident than he wanted to.
'Who do you think you are, human, to stop us? Your bold move will cost you your life as well!'
The female did not flinch. This confused the centaur. Most humans ran in fear as soon as they saw him. Yet this little thing smiled coolly at his words.
'I said: let him go.'
Something in her softly spoken words made the fur on the old centaur's back stand up straight. He snarled, and his companions trampled closer now. Either more stupid or bolder than him – and the old centaur knew them well enough to realise it wasn't the latter – they pointed their spears towards the female human as well, clearly ready to attack.
'Best start running, little whelp!' groaned one of them. 'I like my prey afraid!'
The female simply curled her lips at this comment. She, again, did not flinch, did not move, showed no fear. The old centaur tightened the grip around his spear. Something was terribly wrong.
For the first time in his long life, he felt the urge to run. To run from one puny human. He did not even notice how the old human behind them was crawling towards his cart to hide behind it.
'Shut up,' he mumbled to his younger companions. But they did not seem to listen, and trampled their hooves into the dusty earth, ready to attack.
Then everything around them went quiet. Birds flew from their nest, fleeing. A lone deer jumped away, deeper into the woods. Suddenly all three centaurs felt the urge to run as well. The old centaur saw how the female narrowed her eyes and suddenly broadened her stance, and she seemed to breathe in deeply. Her entire frame bowed forward as she sucked air into her lungs. The two younger centaurs looked at each other in confusion, uneased. And then the old centaur noticed something that mortified him. The air was growing warmer. Hotter. And in that brief moment of horrid realisation he understood why the young female had frightened him so. He screamed out to his companions.
'An elementalist! Back! BACK!'
It was too late. As the old centaur turned and jumped away, hoping to escape what was coming, he felt the scorching heat of fire on his back, like a dragon's breath. His tail went up in flames, the fire consumed his fur and flesh, and his last screams could be heard miles and miles away.

The old centaur was dying. He would not survive his wounds. He lay on the sandy ground, feeling the life fading from him. Suddenly he heard voices, and the sound of many human feet running closer. Through his scalded eyelashes he looked at the female, the elementalist, who had slain him and his companions. She simply stood there, eyeing what she had done. One of the last things the old centaur saw before his final breath was an older human, a male, with white hair and a frantic demeanor, who walked up to the female and yelled at her.

'Raena Arvalle, what in Dwayna's name is the meaning of this?!'


*


'It is interesting.'
Raena looked from her scroll to the creature next to her. A human form, and yet not so. She had skin of a silvery green colour, and upon closer inspection one would see that her long flowing hair, of a very dark green hue, consisted of hundreds of strands of grass and long thin leaves. She was clothed in greens and browns, and her attire begged the question whether it was actually clothing, or part of herself. Everything about her was organic, plant-like, and she had two large, silver eyes which looked upon the huge garden of the Upper City in wonder. She repeated her words with a voice as clear as the sound of falling rain.
'It is interesting indeed.'
Raena smiled somewhat and rolled up the scroll she had been reading.
'What is so interesting, Seophre?'
The creature lifted her palms towards the glass dome over their heads, the sun shining through the countless windows.
'Your kind has built a city of stone, yet you have made this place, creating nature within a stronghold. If you want nature close, then why use all the stone?'
Raena chuckled and placed her scroll next to her, on the small pile of reading she still wanted to go through. Seophre was a Sylvari, the young race of The Grove, filled with countless of questions. Of course she wondered about these things.
'We like the protection of stone, yet we love the serenity of plants. This way we get the best of both.'
Talking to Seophre was like talking to her younger sister Rue at times – she had to keep her answers simple and uncomplicated. Yet Seophre was no powerless child, and Raena knew it well. For a Sylvari, she was one of the more grown and wise ones.
Seophre had been visiting Divinity's Reach for two years now, coming and going as she pleased, and her vocation was the reason Raena had become acquainted with her. Seophre was a mesmer, like her mother Luvaene Arvalle, and Luvaene's curious nature had driven her to befriend the Sylvari and to introduce her children. Now Raena and Seophre sat in the gardens of the Upper City everytime the Sylvari visited. Luvaena used to join them at first, but not anymore. Raena tightened her jaw in grief for a moment as she thought of her mother. Luvaene hardly left her bed anymore.

Seophre linked her small silvery fingers and looked up at the sky they could see through the dome.
'If you like plants, you should come with me sometime, to the Grove. Maybe when I leave?'
Raena stifled a sigh.
'I'd love to Seophre, truly. I simply doubt my father would let me go this soon after...'
'Ah, the matter with the centaurs.'
Seophre smiled. Raena however did not. It angered her.
'I saved someone's life, did not come to harm myself, and yet he keeps me in chains. When will he see? I'm his eldest daughter. He needs to stop coddling me'
The Sylvari tilted her head to the left, like a pondering child. This was a habit of hers.
'He will not do that soon, because from all his daughters, you look the most like Luvaene. And he loves your mother very much, and he's afraid.'
As usual the Sylvari had said in a few, childlike words what Raena had thought herself so many times. She did not reply, and instead the two sat on the bench in the sun for a while, looking at the gardens.

They looked up when they heard some commotion on the stairs of the ministry. There they saw a young man playing with some of the young noble children. Raena narrowed her eyes. He was tall, with a tanned complexion and dark locks of hair. He was far away from their bench, but she knew that under the dark strands of hair on his forehead, two striking blue eyes looked into the world. She heard the laughter of the children as he was clearly entertaining them, throwing a small leather ball from one hand to the other, catching it whenever it seemed he would miss. Raena could not help but smile. Of course that was him – doing that which seemed impossible, and always doing it with a grin. Seophre smiled as well, showing a row of silver teeth.
'It's your friend. Cyrus, no? I thought he had left the city.'
'He had. But he always comes back.'
'Yes, that is true. Because he comes for you.'
The Sylvari did it again. Raena looked at the pile of scrolls to her side. Seophre looked away from Cyrus and his games, and tilted her head left once again. Raena held her breath silently, waiting for more words, or a question, that would ring a truth so true it would cut like a knife.
'I don't understand, why don't you two become a pair? Because you clearly love each other.'
Raena cringed. She quickly jumped off the bench and grabbed her scrolls.

'There are things, Seophre, you really should not ask.'

Very nice! Your description is really good :) I wonder if this story will continue further?

[Raena Arvalle]

Agrestal said:

Very nice! Your description is really good :) I wonder if this story will continue further?

Thank you so much, am glad to hear you liked it =)

And well, believe it or not; Raena's stories are something I've been writing on quite a bit, and one could say it got out of hand ;) I'm up to 23 pages now (not all is mine, there's bits in it from Cyrus :D), but I have the feeling that if I post the full thing it won't really be an "easyread" xD I however have posted two stories about her before in another thread, that's basicly the style I continue to use; some form of happening--> flashback. ^^

[Neveris]

Raena Arvalle said:

(not all is mine, there's bits in it from Cyrus :D)

Spoiler

He opened his mouth, a last urgent plea on his lips. The words never left his tongue. Cyrus Neveris raised a gloved hand to caress her cheek; just a moment’s touch before it was a memory. A peal of lightning sounded through the sky and he was out of sight.
“There you are. Lyssa's mercy, child, why didn't you open the door?”
He heard the voice of Weraldon Arvalle, of course it would be. The man couldn’t bear to have his daughter from his sights for even a moment. It was only going to get worse now that Luvaene had passed for uncanny is the semblance between mother and daughter, Raena Arvalle.
With a sniff he set his jaw and leapt from the balcony, soaring elegantly before catching a stabilising handhold on the wall as he descended, enough to slow his descent to a soft landing. The streets slick from rain, however, presented another problem. Cyrus stumbled, his balance gone, before crashing into the ground to the tune of another thunderclap. Cursing and glad none could witness his blunder thanks to the storm he rose and tugged his scarf up over his mouth before setting off in a brisk walk, though with a slight limp.
His insistence was uncharacteristic; he would have to keep his distance for a short while. Let things settle, let the flames simmer. Let the family mourn, as he would in his own way.
Upon his scarf was a scent, detectible even after the briefest of contact. The sweet smell of orchids and summer fruits, his Raena was with him now. As he walked he lost himself in thoughts, the smell overpowering all his senses until he walked as a ghost… His steps guiding him to his destination, yet his thoughts in the past.

It was midsummer, the sound of laughter and brass music energised the air with life and revelry. Spirits flowed readily and freely, songs and tales spun before crowds who never grew tired even after the fourth recital. Everybody was cheery and alive, even the stiffest of upper lips found room to let their hair down and hobnob with the other citizens of Kryta’s jewel. Amongst the throng of merrymakers was beaming pair, a lass of standing. She carried herself well, wore fine cloth and beautiful jewellery and her striking features enhanced with the subtle tricks of a talented makeup artist; though all the finery wasn’t necessary to make this figure impressive. Beside her stood a man, tanned and handsome, his face sporting a light dusting of stubble. Blue eyes framed by long, shaggy dark hair. He wore a blue waistcoat over a white shirt, short sleeved. Brown slacks met their end to his leather boots. He was also striking to behold.
Their minds were clouded by the wines (hers) and spirits (his) that were so freely poured at this festival; for a festival it was! Oh the carnival of Divinity’s Reach came alive by night, and this night especially!

“Come on Rae, let’s get away from the noise for a while” Called Cyrus, straining to be heard over the music and laugher. He took her by the hand and led her away, her agreement lost to the noise.  
They came to the outskirts of the carnival, past the dodgy peddlers and those lovers who thought to find privacy. They climbed the steps beside the shooting range and sat themselves on the wall overlooking the revellers.
“Thank you for tonight, Cyrus, you know it isn’t often that I get to stay out after dark.”
“The summer festivals are an occasion none should miss, milady,” he replied only half-mockingly “I’m glad you could come, I really am Raena. We rarely get to spend time as we used to.”
Raena Arvalle nodded sombrely, her studies as an Elementalist of the upper city occupied much of her time now. Cyrus was kept busy as well, dodging work as well as he can and training with his father in the art of swordplay (At his own insistence).
Whatever time they had together was usually under the watchful eye of Weraldon or some other ‘guard’.  
“You know I don’t choose to be so-“, Raena was replying before the young man set a finger upon her lips, hushing her.
He smiled at her, his usual half-smile or smirk notably absent.
“Don’t worry about it Rae, it makes the moments we CAN share alone that much more enjoyable,” He said “And special.”
Cyrus rose to his long legs, standing upon the wall and turning to look down upon the crowds who cheered as a familiar ballad began before they launched into a rehearsed dance.
“Careful! You’ve had a bit much ale to be trying to impress me now, Cy!” The young woman called out, a wry smirk on her lips; yet touched by his honesty she was. These words only sparked that he pretend to stumble, arms cartwheeling in a mock attempt to retain balance. The ruse would’ve normally only prompted laughter from his childhood sweetheart, but her senses were also dulled from the summer wines. Raena stood, alarmed, and dragged him back from the ledge.
“Don’t do that to me Cyrus, don’t scare me like that!”, distress was audible in her voice.
The man only smirked, amused by her concern.
“Raena you shouldn’t worry, I wasn’t going to fall. I wouldn’t let myself, I-“, It was Raena’s turn to hush, setting fingers upon his lips as he did to her.
Cyrus lapsed into silence, gazing at her at length before uttering simply.
“I wouldn’t do that to myself let alone you, I hate being without you Rae; and if I fall I would lose you for good”

Their silence lasted long and a pit grew in Cyrus’s stomach, had he said too much? He was about to shake his head and ask her to disregard his words when he caught the look on her face; her lips slightly parted, eyes eager and determined. As one, they leaned towards one another, so close that later on Cyrus would swear he felt her flesh brush against his own lips yet he could never be sure. Alas they turned their faces aside, instead embracing one another softly. Both their minds ran, their pulses were elevated. Was that truly happening? Was it right? What did it mean? They left their embrace and smiled at one another shakily, awkwardly.
“Then don’t fall, you fool.” Said she calmly, though her heart was pounding against her ribcage.
In sync they pushed themselves from the wall, and left the scene hand-in-hand.

They let the past decide their intentions, and the future decide their fate.

Cyrus walked through the asura gate and was hit by the humidity immediately. The shock enough to shake him from his reminiscence. By the gate stood a man, shorter than Cyrus yet stockier. Ginger hair flowed down his shoulders, a stylised goatee on his chin. He was dressed similarly to our protagonist yet wilder. His coat adorned with patches and trophies, his belt bore a thick cutlass and a pistol. He wore a wide-brimmed hat bearing a single peacock feather.
He smelled weird.
Cyrus Neveris lowered his scarf from his face and grinned at the man. He should’ve known.

“Come on then Rad, if you’re so eager to wait all night by this gate then go on… Show me your new ‘business opportunity’. It’ll be your head if I come out broke again”

Here's one of them ;)

[Agrestal]

All so good! I really enjoy the talent that is on here and what sprouts from the Guild Wars 2 story! It's hard not to though when it's so rich.

Here's my latest from my blog, titled "Tarnished". I for one am extremely happy with how it turned out and hope anyone who reads it enjoys :D

Spoiler

The Tarnished Coast follows the southern border of the Maguuma Jungle. Along this coast reside both capitals of the asura and sylvari within the dense forest, whilst the border meets the Sea of Sorrows. During Zhaitan’s awakening and the rising of Orr, the Coast suffered much as tidal waves pummelled against it.

  Yet what came after the tidal waves was much worse. Waves of undead began to relentlessly appear from the water to make their way to settlements renovated by the asura and attack sylvari and hylek areas as well. Undead corsair ships and coral-infested, soulless husks appeared from the darkened horizon and seabed. Since then the attacks have not stopped; an entire century of conflict that has engulfed the Tarnished Coast.

  Many have lost much, sylvari, asura, hylek alike. Even the rat-like skritt have suffered in the wake of the undead. Yet despite the never ending assault, these races defiantly defend their beloved lands and Jungle, and will continue to do so – even in the face of Zhaitan’s champions.

It was the heart of the night as three figures huddled quietly within the thinning edges of the Maguuma Jungle. The bright moonlight sparkly sadly high above and cast an eerie light over everything. Long shadows from a few lone palm trees stretched over the sandy beach before the three figures. Noises of the jungle at night hissed and squawked loudly around them like a constant buzz, but their attention was too focused on the pale stretch of coastline before them.

  It had been nearly three weeks since Alastair’s horrifying nightmare and they had made it a long way south west since then. The morning after his vivid memory he ferociously attacked his personal endeavours with Agrestal by his side. Within two days it was clear that they would not have the support of the Captain’s Council, and so Alastair took matters into his own hands and began to recruit for what he had planned.

  By the fifth day he had only gained one extra enthusiastic member who had been foolish enough to find his endeavours interesting. He was a young and relatively naïve charr, adept in the ways of an engineer who had originated from the Iron Legion. Upon meeting each other, the furry young mechanist introduced himself to Alastair and Agrestal as Tyron Flamefist. His lightly charcoaled fur covered a muscularly lean frame with two sets of small double horns protruding from his jaw bone and temples.

  In the dead of the night he looked like one of the large cats from the Jungle, however his clothing and large backpacks of tools and weapons would have given that away in an instant. Tyron had smelt the stench of the undead barely minutes before, somewhere out towards the water. All three of them keenly searched over the flat sandbanks towards the softly crashing waves where the Sea of Sorrows met the beach. Agrestal remained relatively poised despite her growing anxiety whilst Alastair and Tyron were peaking.

  Even after two weeks along the trail they had barely come into contact with undead, let alone skritt or krait. But as they crouched in silence, staring beyond the thick fern they hid behind and along the silvery strand of coast, they knew they were in for a fight. Tyron’s nose was unbelievably accurate with scents and Alastair himself could have sworn he could smell the acrid, salty stench of Orrian undead.

  Tyron sniffed sharply and louder than he had before and suddenly moved back instinctively, his eyes fixated straight before him towards a sandbank that rose high enough so that they could not see the water beyond. The others could not see as well as Tyron in the night, but his reaction and the soft growling that sounded from deep within his throat meant only one thing: their enemy was nearby.

  The three of them shifted as quietly as they could to prepare for the incoming battle. Alastair carried the staff he had kept by his bed the night of his nightmare and wrapped his fingers tightly around its shaft, Agrestal unsheathed her sceptre and focus and brought them around to her front, and Tyron began to load the necessary ammunition into his favourite rifle. The whole while they kept their eyes focused on the sandbank and by the time Tyron had completely readied his weapon, the beginnings of their enemy had begun to appear.

  The first thing the three of them noticed was the sudden silence as the Jungle itself went quiet. The squawking and buzzing of critters died away and was replaced instead by the mindless groaning and grunting that quietly carried across the open beachfront from the dark shapes that mounted the sandbank and continued towards the Jungle. The second thing that was noticeable was that clouds seemed to appear in the sky and shroud the moon so that its silvery light disappeared. Within a few short moments the entire atmosphere had changed and the few initial undead that had been visible began to grow in numbers as more appeared atop the sandbank.

  By the time the first of the mindless beings were fifty feet away from Alastair, Agrestal and Tyron’s position their numbers had swelled to a small horde. Alastair quickly counted as best as he could and quietly whispered his estimate to the other two, “At least thirty.” Their bodies were dark and shaped grotesquely as though a thinly fleshed skeleton hobbled awkwardly forward. Some of them had bits of coral and sea life attached, while some still managed to have strips of their original clothing or armour garbed over them. They carried crusted weapons of swords and daggers and moaned into the night. It sent chills down the three onlooker’s spines.

  The horde was twenty feet away when Alastair shifted in his spot, looking between Agrestal and Tyron with a sudden fear in his eyes. He had never anticipated his first skirmish would be against thirty or more undead. Opening his mouth he paused as though he was going to say something before slamming it shut and closing his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and opened his mouth a second time, but this time the fear in his eyes had been replaced by a fiery determination that Agrestal had never seen before.

  “We fight until we need to retreat. I will not let them turn us into one of Zhaitan’s minions – even if that means forsaking a warrior’s honour.”

  He flashed a mischievous grin as he always did when he knew he was right – or crazy.

  “Right, let’s make them taste fire and brimstone!”

  Standing to his feet, Alastair pulled his staff up and above his head as the air around him seemed to hum with churning energy. Looking skyward, Agrestal watched as three large fiery boulders plummeted from the sky, appearing from nowhere. Each crashed into the beach with a loud explosion that rippled through the night leaving craters where they had landed on top of advancing undead.

  Tyron dropped to his four paws and jumped forward beyond their forested hiding place, his tail flicking wildly behind him as he did so. Rearing onto his haunches he pulled his rifle around to his front and fired the first of his shots at the closest coral-infested monster. It stumbled before falling, a cloud of sand spraying skyward as he did so. Victoriously he roared into the night as he fired off another shot, his sharp teeth glinting orange as a fireball soared through the sky overhead.

  Agrestal moved to stand beside Tyron as Alastair unleashed magical hell upon the coming undead. She summoned the necessary power she needed and with a sweeping movement of her plant-covered hands created a wall of flames that sprouted effortlessly from the sand just in front of Tyron. Moments later, after Tyron sent a shower of flaming bullets towards the advancing enemy, she pulled energy from the air around her and released a great wall of wind that howled towards the undead. The gale screamed into the night before smashing into the front lines of the enemy, knocking them over and causing many behind to stumble. Seconds later she watched as ice crystallised across the sand where many had fallen.

  “Good!” Alastair called, sweeping his staff downward as the ice he had summoned solidified in the beach. “Summon your phoenix! We can do this!”

[Urdont]

So I figured I'd try my hand at this and wrote up a quick story on my planned GW2 rangers history - at least a small part of it. This is shortly preceding the centaur attack on Shaemoor. I apologize if this is the wrong place to post it. :P

Spoiler

The Assassin of the Unjust, an origin tale

A short, but round bald male roughly in their thirties paces back and forth in a murky cellar, the room lit by several lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the space occupied only by a pole in the middle of the cellar to which a taller, younger male has been tied to. His skin speaks of recent torture, the bruises and cuts forming a diary of his last few days. The hairless one walks closer, peering at the captive with disgust before ramming his armored fist into the prisoners abdomen, waking him up.

„Heinous scum.“ spits the captor, „If it were up to me, you’d hang.“

With a loud creak the rooms door opens, a robed figure who is standing in the doorway bellowing: „Leave him, Baratheon. I want to speak to our prisoner - alone.“ Baratheon huffs and bows his head towards the figure, exiting the room without a single glance back at the murderer. Janna, as she is named, steps closer.

„Diego“, she utters, „murderer and thief, but one with a truly demented sense of ethics“. Janna pauses, thinking for a second before continuing: „Quinn always did mention you were something of a follower of Kormir despite your ways. It’s unfortunate that your self-assigned task of ridding Divinity’s Reach of criminals through...’glorious, just slaughter’...as you described it to him...and gathering riches for yourself in the process lead you to being the captive of the ones you hunt.“, amusement sounding out in her gentle albeit stoic voice.

„Just tell me what you want.“, growled Diego, raising his head.

„Control your tone, murderer. You don’t want to throw your life away by speaking impolitely with your only friend right now, do you?“, Janna remarked as if she was trying to strike his cheek with words, „It would be such a shame, considering your proficiency with a greatsword and shortbow has drawn many eyes.“

„Just. Tell me. What you want.“ he announced, his voice growing ever more furious with each syllable that left his chapped, dry lips. He continued to stare at Janna, the gaze in his eyes betraying the fear that lies underneath his furious attitude.

„We want you to serve us, willfully or not. Your skills as a fighter and hunter mark you as the perfect assassin, one which we could use to great extent...and compensate rightfully“; she broke eye contact, standing to the left before circling Diego, step by step, her pace careful and calculated, „...Centaurs have been reported near Shaemoor, conspirators have been whispered of within the city and gangs are becoming more and more bold. Our business is in danger and we need someone to...straighten things out. This is where you come in.“

„I will not be your monster hunter or assassin, filth," Diego spat, "by Grenth and Kormir, I would rather let your blood paint the streets of Divinity’s Reach a wonderful crimson.“ he roared, starting to struggle and attempting to free himself from his bonds. His efforts, however, proved to be fruitless: the bonds were enchanted, draining the strength of whoever it restrains. His struggling ended up reminiscent of a child wrestling with an iron block

Janna sighed and shook her head, inhaling deeply before stepping to face Diego: „I thought you would decline...but I hoped you wouldn’t. Foolish of me to do so, it seems.“

Janna called forth magical energies, a deep frown forming on her shadowed face, striking Diego at his temple whilst uttering short words of power. She repeated the process again and again, Diego's bloody eyes becoming filled with malefic visions, his body seemingly rejecting his will, no matter how he tried to resist the illusions. The world felt as if it were shrinking around him, walls drawing closer while claws reach out of every surface to strike at him, stripping flesh from his bones before pummeling what remains into a fine pulp. Then they forced it into a chest and locked it, tossing it down a deep, dark well.

Once the visions had subsided and Diego regained consciousness, Janna's eyes were met with a blank stare, utterly devoid of emotion. Janna could only smile at the success of her spell, crowning Diego with the title ’Assassin of the Unjust’ – her idea of a joke on the account of Diego's twisted self-righteous ideals. He would serve Janna and her fellows as a hunter of both man and beast, hounding conspirators, entrepreneurs and acting as a widow’s fangs towards all who would wish to gain power.

* * *

Diego waited amidst the bales of hay inside a granary, quietly observing two groups of highwaymen approaching one another upon the quiet night time streets, only the dim glimmer from the Moon lighting up the cities open areas. Their leaders stood behind their cronies, with who appeared to be their right hand men sounding out only a few key words before shaking hands. They spoke, without realization of Diegos presence, of an alliance of different mercenary bands and criminal organizations within Divinity’s Reach in order to take down the mesmer Janna's operation and ransack whatever institutions her band owned, ridding the city of a consolidated criminal element. Diego had been ordered to eavesdrop on any meetings he could gain wind of...and assassinate the ones responsible.

An hour passed and the meeting was coming to a close. This was Diego's time to carry out the second portion of his orders, and so he did. Drawing his simple greatsword, he leaped from the granaries window and landed upon the shoulders of one of the thugs close to the leader of one group, using the momentum from his landing to jump into the air and in a somersault cleanly slice through the bosses scalp, landing behind him, holding his sword above his head before bringing it down on the chief and splitting his head, kicking the lifeless body towards the gang. Dumbstruck, the bandits stood without knowing how to react, only staring and trying to process what they had just witnessed. Diego took this chance to deliver a simple message before fleeing into the darkness, his voice having developed a suitably chilling rasp: „The Widow sends her greetings.“

* * *

Edited by Urdont, 06 November 2011 - 08:09 AM.

[Sinny]

I felt kinda sad when i found out that my guild wars character was gonna be killed off with no extra information than "fighting against the dragons". She slayed the demons of hell, brought down a god, and brought freedom to kryta, and now she was just going to disappear?. So this is my tribute to my guild wars character, so she can pass away fittingly. It also links towards my hopeful Guild Wars 2 character at the end(this is just  first draft, ill be editing it a bit more when i get some more time)

Spoiler

The last day

She had grown accustomed to silence in these last few years, but today the silence was different, it seemed to seek out any last shimmers of joyful sounds and consume them leaving only despair. The smell of mahogany that had once drifted through these old halls had gone, replaced by the musk of death, of what she would inevitably become.

Her friends and family had once danced merrily in the long courtyards that wound off to the shimmering shores of the krytan coast. They had left yesterday, there carts leading into the dawn of the future. She had long made her choice though. Years ago her choice may have been different, but her days of running were over, the future lay with her children. She smiled, as she realized that this was perhaps how that old king of Ascalon had felt, all those years ago.

The old monk's mind flashed back to the present and, with a determination that  her heart had not felt for decades, she decided she would not die under dark skies. Her staff, long ago looted from some dark place in the world, rose upwards one last time and from its spiraling peak glimmered the last spell this hall would see. At first a single ray tore its way through the shadows that had encased and betrodden this land for too long but then, like a river set free, more glimmering threads soared through the sky, as if the stars themselves were cascading down. As if it were some slumbering beast awaking after the long winter months, the land became alive once more. Flowers began once more to sing to the beauty of nature, trees began to whistle in the wind, a tune of great battles that had once passed through these forests. Birds soared, winding and whirling, dancing to the life beat of the planet.

Then the drum's started. The dark, twisted rhythms perforated the space around her, forming shadows that seemed to mock her every step. Murky silhouettes, animated but lifeless, trawled towards her with a cruel inevitability. All that she had brought back to sunlight was being driven back into sorrow before the soulless army. A single, final tear fell from eyes that had witnessed so much, and she turned, walking back into the empty archways of her own little castle.

As she walked, echo's of her past began to line the path ahead of her. Those who had fought with her, those who had stood with her against the world, those who had been her friends. Each bowed they're head as she passed, and she in turn let their memory go to rest. The tall wooden gates of the hall's final chamber rose above her, silent sentinels that would soon fail. The gates clambered shut behind her for the last time as the lone hero lay down and closed her eyes, waiting for the end.

Unholy magic smashed against the doors as seals and wards fractured and failed. Terrible screams and roar erupted through newly formed cracks as the earth itself seemed to shake. The final seal wore away and the old wooden guardians fell, taking they're resting place amongst the ruins of this once proud guild hall. And the monk knew that it was over, and with a sense of relief waited those final few seconds for her end.

However, the end did not come in those seconds, nor in the minutes that came after, or even in the next year. For when that old hero opened her eyes, she saw no army of undead at her gates, but a single figure, a figure she had seen before, in what seemed a lifetime ago. The figure outreached her hand, and with her staff on her back, the old monk accepts it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A young ranger falls exhausted in the cold, desolate peaks of the far shiverpeaks, the chills of a snowstorm wearing at his very soul. Lost and alone the young hunter close's his eyes, expecting it to be the last time he does so as feeling of warmth washes over him. The slow flickering of a campfire bring the young boy to consciousness, in a a small ice cave, sheltered from the storm.

Edited by Sinny, 27 November 2011 - 03:44 PM.

[Mendicant]

An asura writes an adventurer's advice column:

Spoiler

I don’t care how smart or strong or skilled you think you are, don’t get in a fight with a norn—especially not a high-ranking shaman of the Bear.  But let’s face it.  You’re probably a bookah, and that means you’re too stupid to resist.  If you’re not a bookah, then you’re almost certainly a disgrace to whatever race you belong to.

Remember, I do these things so you don’t have to.  Or at least that’s the idea.

In the event that you do find yourself backed into a corner by an eleven-foot norn-bear you have somehow managed to insult too deeply to live, here is what you should do, in this order.

If you have a weapon, it had better be in your hands.  If it’s not, put it there.  Good.  Now maybe you’ll still have a heartbeat thirty seconds from now.  No guarantees.

Now that you’re armed, your next objective is to not have your back to a rock face.  There’s a few ways to do this with magic, but if you’re fool enough not to use any, you should probably surrender yourself as a sacrifice to Bear and get it over with.  

If you are a mesmer, and you think you can fool a maddened norn with a few conjured images of yourself, you’re sore out of luck.  This lovely shaman can see into the Mist, and he knows ether constructs from flesh and blood.  Too late, you say?  Well then, shatter those delusions before he bats them away and you don’t get anything out of them.  You probably haven’t prepared a portal, because you’re a bookah and you don’t think that far ahead.  That’s alright.  If you have a torch, just cloak yourself in its smoke and run for you life.  No, don’t set the great sot on fire.  That’ll just make him madder.

If you’re a guardian, flash.

If you’re a necromancer, you’ve got plenty of options.  And frankly, you’re probably smart enough to guess.

Still with me?  Then you got around the norn and now he’s probably chasing you.  Face the facts now:  even if you’re also a norn, you’re not fast enough to outrun a norn-bear.  You need to slow him down or stop him altogether.  Walls are good.  Try one.  Again, if you don’t have magic, I can’t help you.  You’re dead, bookah.

You might be thinking at this moment, “Well I’ve got around him, maybe I can put him down.”  Don’t be an idiot.  How many times do I have to tell you this is a Bear shaman?  He’s trained to walk in the Mists with Titans and the likes of Grenth and Balthazar.

Okay, fine.  He’s still got a beating heart, right?  Those don’t like shocks.  Just aim real careful with your zap.  Didn’t work?  Run.  Try again if you’re still stupid.  Got access to bigger zaps?  Yeah, just keep trying, bookah.  Don’t forget you should be snaring with wards or trip-wires or something.  If you don’t have any of those, I seriously doubt you’re still reading this.

At this point, your best bet is to keep moving, and stay away from the head-sized claws of the angry beast man.  If you have any snark, use it.  If you’re a coward and all you have are apologies, you can try.  But if you got a norn this mad, there’s probably no turning it back around.  Punctuate your sentences with bolts of energy and don’t.  stop.  running.

The rest is just luck.  If you manage to get him to stop chasing you, call it good.  You may be tempted to double-check that he’s dead, knocked out, or otherwise not going to kill you when you turn your back.  Don’t.  Chances are some necromancer’s going to reanimate him and start the whole thing over again.

I told you, don’t get in a fight with a norn.

[vicevine]

I'm working on a story I'd like to either put into comic form or a possible machinima when the game is out. I have the full story laid out already, but I'm still working on it. I'd like to share this first chapter with everyone. (If this sounds like something you'd like to help out with in the future, like with providing a character or a voice over, feel free to let me know)

Spoiler

“Traitor...” The terrible raspy voice came from the dark furred charr. Embra wasn't sure she heard him right until he slowly drew closer. “Traitor!” He roared as he revealed the fire blazing in his hand and sent a flaming blast towards her. Embra rolled to get out of the way, but her tail was caught in the crossfire, burning the tip of it. Embra used her leather glove to beat out the fire and salvage what she could of her tail. Even if she loved fire it's flames still hurt like hell.
Another flame came dangerously close to her ear as she dodged another attack. It appeared as though another charr had entered the fight. She needed to get up before she couldn't fight at all.
“Traitor!” The dark female charr roared. Her eyes were blazing as she charged at Embra.
Embra aimed her rifle at the ground and fired just before the two charr got to her. She landed  behind them then turned to face them.
“What is this business about being a traitor?!” She questioned with frustration clearly in her voice.
They both turned around to face her, but it was a charr to the right of her who spoke. His appearance was less menacing than the other two, but his voice was just as scary. “You are...were one of us.” He corrected. “Now you're dead!” He used his rifle to jump shot, and instantly he was upon her.



Embra

Golden eyes watched as bright fire danced across coals. A soft pink nose took in the scent of fire and ash. It was a lovely smell. At least to Embra it smelled nice. She lived most of her life near fire, taught in the trade of the engineer to forge practical weapons like pistols and rifles. Ever since she was just a cub she loved to be around fire, so it wasn't a surprise to anyone in her warband when she fell into the profession of engineer.
Her love for the blazing hot cinders of the furnace often took her well into the wee hours of the morning as she stood so close her fur constantly singed. And as a result it had turned permanently black from the soot and burns over the years. Most would have thought black was her natural fur color, but upon removing her gloves one could clearly tell her fur was white. It wasn't that she was a dirty charr, but she figured she spent most of her days working by the fire so why bother.
The sound of clanking from a tool pounding into a slab reverberated through the walls of the weapon smith shop. It was one of the smaller forges, but still it's walls could contain several charr comfortably. A small opening at the top allowed for smoke and heat to rise and leave the small enclosure. It didn't matter to Embra either way. She liked the heat and smoke. It wasn't as much of a nuisance to her as it was to most charr. This most likely contributed to why she worked such long hours and the skill she now had in making weapons. She was very good, making intricate guns of fine detail that shot very well. But no one cared about the look of the gun. Every charr knows if it doesn't work it's not worth a skritt. So while the few charr she knew favored her rifles and pistols over most they never cared to comment on the detail she worked so hard to put into each gun.
“I might as well be making these beautiful guns for myself. No one else cares whether they're pretty or not. Just wasted work.”
She stopped etching a work of art into the gun just long enough to look out the opening of the smith shop. Darkness was beginning to fall. Normally this wouldn't phase Embra, but the sounds of charrs gathering could be heard just outside. This made Embra want to put down her tools and leave her work, but instead she sighed and told herself it would be just one more minute and then she'd head out.
Roars were heard just outside. They were roars of excitement and anticipation. The patter of feet rushing past her door, and then one set drew near as they entered the shop.
“Aren't you coming Embra?” An orange tiger striped charr stomped into the shop. He was quite a bit taller than Embra, his horns giving him quite a bit of extra length. The hair at the top of his head stood tall, mocking the mane Embra clearly did not possess. She looked up from her work, acknowledging him then quickly turned back, her claws gripping a bit tighter on the gun she was holding.
“Just a minute, Flynt. I need to test this thing.” She pulled the pistol off of the slab, pointing the barrel at Flynt.
“Are you mad?!” He ducked. Embra aimed the gun at a suitable target, a small tin can filled with soot, and fired. The room echoed with the sound of a bullet hitting metal. “Why did you have that thing loaded already?”
She blew away the smoke coming from the gun. “Never know when you'll need a loaded gun. Always have to be prepared.”
Flynt grinned a toothy grin and patted Embra on the back. “I like the way you think.” As he said this he directed her outside the smith shop and out into the city of Black Citadel.
Two years it had been since she'd moved from her sires place to the great city she'd heard him speak of. The Black Citadel, home to charr and the Iron legion. When she was old enough she was sent to the Fahrar of the Iron legion. Then soon after she became apart of a warband in the Black Citadel. Flynt was among the few who were apart of her warband. He was among the most ferocious and not bad on the eyes. His confidence and charm won Embra over and they soon became friends, which brought even more friends to Embra. It was when she began to show her talents as a creator of weapons that she was truly favored and other charr began to see her as her own person, and not within the shadow of the mighty Flynt.
“I can't see how you can stand that stuff.” Embra wrinkled her nose as Flynt picked up a leg of meat.
“You can only get skritt during these meat festivals. I don't see why you don't just try a piece.” He waved the piece of meat in her face. She held her nose.
“For all you know I have tried it,” she retorted with a snort. She walked off to another vendor and asked for something. Flynt followed behind her, taking large bites out of what must have been a skritt leg. She turned around with a smaller thigh sized piece in her paws. “Now this I enjoy.” She took a bite. Her sharp canines sinking into the juicy, cooked morsel.
“Always with the moa meat. So boring.” He flicked at the moa feathers on her outfit. “When are you going to finish that turret I asked you for a week ago?”
Embra finished the piece of meat and licked her chops. She looked away for a moment, contemplating what he had said. “It's finished.” She said plainly.
“Well then let's see it after the festival!” Flynt's voice rose with excitement. He was now gnawing on the bone. If it were up to him he would eat an entire skritt by himself.
“No...I'm still working on some final touches.” As she said this Flynt pulled the bone from his teeth.
“Oh come on Embra you know I don't need those silly squiggles on my weapons. Art is for sylvari and humans. I just need something that works!” He rose his voice toward the end of his sentence as he shook the bone in his claws. Immediately he placed it back into his mouth, then brought his teeth down, making a terrible crunch. Embra winced.
Just as Embra was about to answer war horns began to blare throughout the festival, signaling the meat festival's sparring competition.
“You want to come watch me bash some skulls?” Flynt grinned. Embra mustered a slight grin and nodded. Both took off in the direction of the blaring war horns.  
Ever since she'd come to the Black Citadel Flynt knew Embra wasn't much for sparring against her kind. He himself found anyone who didn't fight weak. But it wasn't that Embra never fought. She just didn't like to fight her own kind. When it was time to get out there and go at it head to head with ghosts of Ascalon or the Flame legion Embra was as ruthless as any other charr. Flynt saw this and respected her wishes to stay out of the sparring ring just as long as she watched him from the side lines.
Embra watched as Flynt fought against a charr from another war band. A white spotted female with very large horns and even larger muscles. She was bigger than the average female charr, but Flynt didn't seem to see her as a challenge as he easily dodged her hits.
Embra was so wrapped up in the fight that she hardly noticed someone walking up behind her. She picked up on the scent of a male charr and slowly turned her head to see who it was.
“Not participating in the sparring ring this year?” Rroarlyn spoke as he took a spot next to Embra by the railing. They both had a perfect view of the sparring arena down below.
“Since when have I ever taken part in sparring?” Embra asked as she turned back to the sparring matches. She didn't much care for Rroarlyn. He was arrogant, selfish, and not at all like Flynt who could back up when he talked of big game. “Why aren't you down there sparring?” She asked him snidely. He frowned, seeing a small grin form on Embra's lips.
“Nevermind that,” he said changing the subject. “I hear you make weapons like pistols.”
“...yes...” The grin disappeared from her face.
“I hear they're quite effective.”
Embra waited for the obvious question he was about to ask, though the question she heard wasn't worded like she'd imagined for someone as selfish as Rroarlyn.
“Allora Earthrider has been looking for a replacement pistol. It would really mean a lot to me if you could, perhaps, forge her one?” He finished with a toothy grin that was obviously trying to win Embra over. Normally she would have said no, but he was being unselfish in this situation. And even more important he was asking her to make a weapon for a centurion. Embra used her will power to keep the muscles in her face from expressing the excitement she felt inside. Never had she been asked to make a weapon for a centurion. Why a centurion would have a thing for this wretched feline known as Rroarlyn was beyond her, but who cares. Her weapon would be going to someone with true skill and valor.
“Why are you beaming so much tonight?” Flynt spoke with a laugh showing his huge canines. Embra looked up at him confused. She must have been thinking of what had transpired as the sparring matches were taking place because she wore the look of excitement clearly on her face.
“I was commissioned to forge a weapon,” She started with a smile.
Flynt broke in excited. “Oh really? By who?!” His eyes beaming as he stopped just outside of Embra's work shop.
“Rroarlyn Steamholder.”
Flynt's face fell into a frown. “What does he want from you?”
“Well, he wants me to make a pistol for Allora Earthrider.” As soon as the name left her lips Flynt's expression instantly changed.
“She wants you to make her a pistol? I mean...of course she wants you to make her a pistol! Who wouldn't! Wow what an honor, Embra!” He spoke with delight as he patted her on the back, though it was a bit to rough to be just a pat. Embra staggered forward to keep her footing. “Just think, you could be making weapons for the tribunes next.” He pondered the thought as he looked up wide-eyed at the sky.
“Wouldn't that be nice.” She chuckled as she headed for the entrance of the work shop. “Did you want to see your turret?”
“Nah, I'll pick it up tomorrow. Go ahead and etch in those squiggly lines you like to make so much. I gotta get some rest.” Embra nodded. Sparring had most likely worn him out. “Till tomorrow.” He beat a closed fist to his chest before leaving.
Embra entered the smith shop to find the fire in the furnace was down to a dull flicker. She used her feathery tail to fan the flames, not bothering to use an actual fan. This caused some of her fur to singe a bit, but she was used to it. She turned her body to face the fire and gazed longingly into it's hot core. She couldn't believe it. She was making a pistol for a centurion. She imagined herself becoming a famous, well-known weapon smith, constructing weapons for the mightiest heroes of her kind. Charr from other legions may even want to buy from her. She could expand her business and it would take off into a chain of weapon stores.
As the smoke rose, so did the sun as Embra worked well into the night.
Embra removed the bandana covering her maw. The fur covered by it was far less dark than the fur around it. The air near the furnace normally wasn't offensive to her, but after working all night her throat had gone dry and a bandana was needed to keep the smoke out. She had finished the final touches of the pistol when she heard someone walk through the doorway.
“Hows her pistol coming along?” The arrogant voice left the lips of an arrogant expression. Rroarlyn's fur was slicked back, making Embra look scraggly and unkempt in comparison. He gave her a disapproving look just before he walked to the pistol. He took it up roughly and began examining it. Charr were brutal, and often rough, but Embra had lived in the Black Citadel long enough to know a decent charr at least had manners. “You're making a fine donation, though this art is unneeded.”
“Donation?” Embra frowned. “I'd like at least some compensation for the long hours I worked to make this.”
“Oh, but this is Allora. She could get a pistol anywhere else. You should be glad she's accepting this.”
Rage was beginning to well up inside of Embra, and she was just about to pounce on the arrogant feline when a smooth, female voice entered the conversation.
“Of course I am willing to pay.” The auburn colored charr with long horns and an even longer mane made her appearance next to Rroarlyn. “Give it here.” She said firmly. Embra couldn't help but muster a smirk as Rroarlyn shrunk a little at her command. He immediately offered the pistol to her. As she examined the piece Embra began to grow quite nervous, but showed no signs of it while Rroarlyn was there.
“Such eloquent art.” Embra had never heard that word leave the lips of any charr. “These vine designs. They remind me of the sylvari race. Do you know of them?”
“Yes, I've actually read a few journal's about their race. They intrigue me, to say the least.” Embra managed to say the words without stammering, though she felt like her tongue would knot up at any second.
“I've visited The Grove once. Very beautiful place. Not many charr can appreciate it's beauty or story.” She aimed the pistol at a make-shift target. “Now let's see how this baby fires.”
Allora shot the pistol and found it worked to her liking. She pulled a pouch from her waist-belt. “I hope ten thousand gold is a reasonable amount.”
Embra nodded at the generous offer and took the bag, unable to hide the excitement of making her first real sale. Allora thanked Embra for making the pistol and her and Rroarlyn left the work shop.
Embra turned from the door and back to the fire, contemplating what she should create next and wondering if Allora would tell her peers about the pistol she had made her.  She found herself mesmerized by the flames as she fell deep into the dream of becoming famous. The flames danced and crackled, leaving a calming feeling within Embra's spirit. It was so calm it left her purring.
A loud shuffling took her out of her trance, and for a moment she thought it was Rroarlyn coming back to taunt her. Instead she turned around to find Flynt rushing in. She was about to ask if he was coming for his turret, but his expression told her something exciting was happening.
“A group of Flame Legion are attacking the Northern borders. The centurion above us is sending a few warbands to take the group out, including our warband. You ready to take out those flame worshiping fools?!” He finished with a growl, to which Embra grinned, picked up her weapon, and followed him to where their warband was gathering.
The warbands had all assembled when their legionaire informed them the battle was taking place a ways from the Black Citadel. The response was a chorus of mighty roars and then all at once, the warbands trekked to where the battle was being fought. The sound of heavy war machinery followed them, and when they arrived it was if the machines themselves were roaring with the charr. They charged into battle, most carrying rifles, others with swords and various other weapons.
Embra remained mostly in the back, strategically placing mines and throwing grenades and bombs over the heads of her warband causing her enemies to become disoriented and frustrated. Yet still they raged on, their will just as strong as any Iron legion charr.
Embra observed them from afar as she watched where to throw bombs and grenades. Some of the Flame Legion looked almost exactly like the charr she'd grown up with, but a greater amount had singed, charred pelts that had been burned down to the skin. Even Embra, with her singed fur, winced at the thought of fire burning down to her skin. There wasn't even fur left from what she could tell.
A group of Flame Legion charr were charging in from the rear. Embra took a glue bomb from her satchel and threw it in their general direction, causing them to become temporarily immobilized. She took the opportunity and pulled out the rifle on her back, making a clean shot at one of the charr. She watched as he fell to his knees and the others began struggling to get out of the glue. She shot another bullet in his head to finish the job, but the others were freeing fast. There were more of her kind coming into even out the fight, but the immobilized charr had already focused their gaze on Embra. One spoke to the other as they both nodded their heads. Once the glue had wore off they quickly tore through the Iron Legion charr and were headed straight for her. She saw in their eyes what she thought was vengeance. They wanted revenge on her for killing their kind and leaving them
powerless to stop her.
Embra put her focus on one charr and aimed her rifle for a net shot. While the shot hit it's mark, the charr easily sliced through it before it could ensnare him. He charged a few paces before the other and shot a blast of fire Embra's way. The shock waves sent her flying back, her feet nearly kicking up above her head. It took her a few seconds, but she was somehow able to prop herself up with her paws to at least see where her attackers were. She spotted them both, but the one who had attacked her was closer to her. Both were eying curiously and she thought she heard them talking to each other in a low tone.
“Traitor...” The terrible raspy voice came from the dark furred charr. Embra wasn't sure she heard him right until he slowly drew closer. “Traitor!” He roared as he revealed the fire blazing in his hand and sent a flaming blast towards her. Embra rolled to get out of the way, but her tail was caught in the crossfire, burning the tip of it. Embra used her leather glove to beat out the fire and salvage what she could of her tail. Even if she loved fire it's flames still hurt like hell.
Another flame came dangerously close to her ear as she dodged another attack. It appeared as though another charr had entered the fight. She needed to get up before she couldn't fight at all.
“Traitor!” The dark female charr roared. Her eyes were blazing as she charged at Embra.
Embra aimed her rifle at the ground and fired just before the two charr got to her. She landed  behind them then turned to face them.
“What is this business about being a traitor?!” She questioned with frustration clearly in her voice.
They both turned around to face her, but it was a charr to the right of her who spoke. His appearance was less menacing than the other two, but his voice was just as scary. “You are...were one of us.” He corrected. “Now you're dead!” He used his rifle to jump shot, and instantly he was upon her.
Embra barely dodged the attack then shot a net at the attacking charr. She quickly turned to the other two charr and threw her remaining glue bomb to hold them in place.
“Why are you calling me a traitor?! I am of the Iron legion!” She growled loudly.
“False! You are-- were one of us!” He growled back. “If you don't believe me look at your right back foot pad.”
“I knew she had to be, look at her charred fur.” One of the immobilized said behind her. She tried to shake the idea out of her head. Was this some kind of flame legion mind game? Well she wasn't going to fall for it.
“You can believe it or not, but now we know. And if there's anything more we hate worse than the other legions...it's a traitor!” His voice rose to a yell and Embra was sure most of those she could see had heard him. Even now some of the flame legion were beginning to turn their heads at the sound of the word “traitor”. They may have even attacked her had it not been for her own kind bringing their attention back to the fight.
Embra had been so focused on whether the other flame legion charr would try to attack her now that she hadn't realized the netted charr had escaped and so had the immobilized charr. They were heading for her. She could take one on but the other two would be on her soon after. She braced herself for the impact and took aim of one of the charr. She made a shot, but just as she'd fired a blur of light stripped fur fell before her as a blade swung, hitting all three of the charr, sending them flying back. Flynt didn't even stop to take a breath before he was on them again, swirling his blade and slashing it up and across their bodies. When he was done his brow was sweating, but his face was beaming. He ran back to Embra and placed a firm paw on her shoulder.
“Let's finish the rest of this battle. They're thinning out and I'm starving!” Embra nodded and they continued on with the battle.
The sun was setting when the flame legion began to retreat and the warbands were able to take refuge in the make-shift tents they'd set up for the night. All were very tired, but their stomachs caused them to all make their way toward the campfire where a meal of warhog was being served.
Embra ate her meal, but the words of the flame legion charr had gotten her thinking. As a result she wasn't able to eat as much and went to bed early.
The next morning Flynt called out to Embra from outside her tent. She allowed him to come in, but the answer was faint. He walked in confused as he saw Embra sitting on her mat.
“Everyone's disassembling their tents. We'll be leaving soon.” He spoke to her with a quieter voice than usual. He could see something was troubling her. “Are you upset about what that flame legion thug said to you?”
Embra turned to him with a surprised look on her face.
“Yeah, I heard what he said. He doesn't know what he's talking about though. I've known you all my life. You're of the Iron legion.”
“And what if I...somehow wasn't?” Embra's words broke. She couldn't look at her friend.
“There isn't any possible way you could be. I'd bet my sword on it. I don't even know why you'd even consider the idea.” He turned to her, but she still wasn't looking at him. Instead she had her hands placed at her feet, her head looking at the ground.
“I need to show you something.” She didn't wait for his to respond before bringing her right back paw up, exposing the pad. At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at, the paw was sideways. But when he tilted his head his expression grew grim. “I've tried to wash it off, but it's like it's been burned into my skin.”
He wanted to look into her eyes and tell her this was something else. That it had nothing to do with the flame legion. But he couldn't deny what his eyes saw. A branded symbol of a flame.
The warbands began to make their way back to The Black Citadel, this time with lesser haste than they took to get to the battle. The equipment on their backs seemed heavier due to their fatigue. Embra's equipment was the heaviest.
Flynt spoke to her briefly, but only about light things like how making Allora's pistol went and whether Allora had liked it or not. He was careful not to mention what had happened the day before, or the symbol on her foot. She was grateful for this and might have forgotten the whole matter, but as they walked she began to feel eyes watching her and words of gossip made her ears itch. It was obvious others had seen the spectacle that had taken place at the battle. Embra watched as eyes of curiosity turned to disdain. She could literally feel the tension in the air. Thankfully they were just getting into the citadel and she could get away from the baring eyes of her peers.
It was quiet for the next few days. But that only helped to quicken the madness that was slowly growing within Embra. She hadn't heard anyone gossiping about what had happened during the battle, which was good, but it wasn't the thing that kept her mind turning when she went to bed at night.
The words of the Flame Legion telling her she had been one of them still rang in her ears, making her question who she really was. One night the questioning was so bad she couldn't sleep. She hadn't seen Flynt much since the battle. She wasn't sure, but he may have been avoiding her. She didn't blame him. Even she was questioning who she was.
This is ridiculous, She thought as she sat up in bed. I know my sire is of the Iron Legion. Maybe visiting him for a week will ease my madness. I can do all the questioning I want. He's known who I was since I was a cub. If anyone knew the truth it would be him.
So she packed her things and set out for her sire's place. His place was a little over a days travel so she had to leave in the wee hours of the morning. And even then she didn't get there till the next morning.
As she walked up the hill she saw his house down in the valley. It was a quaint cottage with mere straw for the roofing, but it'd held together all those years. She ran down the valley and began calling for him.
“Marr...Marr?” She called out before she got into the cottage. She checked inside, but no one was about so she went back outside. Just as she was about to call again the ground began to rumble. She looked up at the land before her just as the armored creatures began crawling over the hill. There must have been twenty devourers, some as big as her, others not so big. Behind them a cream colored charr followed with a wooden staff. He made his way down with the devourers at a slow pace till he saw Embra, which quickened his pace. Embra ran to him and they embraced. Normally a relationship between a sire and his cub would not be so sentimental, but because Embra was his only cub he treasured her dearly. This was the first time since she'd been sent to the Black Citadel that he'd seen her. She'd grown so much, but her eyes were still the same firey gold he'd known since she was a tiny cub.
“Come inside,” he offered after they'd exchanged pleasantries. He lead the way and pulled a chair out for Embra to sit before finding his own. “After all this time why have you come back? Not that I don't want you here. It's just that I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”
“It would have been sooner if you went to the festivals,” She smiled, meaning only to poke fun at him. “I do have some important questions though. Something that's been on my mind for a few days now.”
“Well ask my cub, I'm sure whatever it is we can find a suitable answer together.”
“That's actually what I wanted to ask you about....you see, something recently made me question who I am, and if I'm really apart of the Iron Legion.” She spoke solemnly.
“Well of course you're of the Iron Legion. It's what you were raised to be.” He retorted without a breath.
“But I feel like I wasn't always of the Iron Legion.” Marr waited for her to finish. “Marr, am I your true cub. Did you really sire me?”
At that point even three seconds of silence could have been maddening. Embra waited for a response and watched her sire's expression fall a bit. She began to feel doubt at the way he now looked at her.
“Embra I care for you as dearly as any sire could for his cub. But truly you are not my cub,” He started. She could tell there was much more to the story and she waited with anticipation for his next words. “When I lost my warband I felt disconnected with the rest of the charr population. So I traveled to as far as I could go within the charr lands. Or at least I thought. I guess you could even say this is technically not of charr lands. I began to raise and herd my devourers and kept to myself save for a few travelers that came about to buy devourer meat. From time to time I'd see the Flame Legion running about so I figured they must live somewhere near. They never really payed attention to me. One afternoon the wind was picking up and I could tell there was going to be a storm soon.  I was making my way down the hill where my devourers were when my ears caught the conversation of two charr. I wasn't sure if they were of my kind or not so I quickly hid myself behind the brush. As soon as  I saw them I knew they were of the Flame Legion. I should have left so I didn't risk getting caught, but one of them was carrying something small and I began to grow curious. They were complaining about having to come all the way out to drop off this thing they were carrying. They kept talking about it like it was an object so I assumed they were just getting rid of a relic they no longer needed. But when I overheard them say it would be a matter of time before it was dead I began to make out white fur and tiny paws. After they sat it down I could see the tiny thing was a cub. It was you. Instantly you began crying, but they didn't consul you. Instead they turned their backs and ran as fast as they could to beat the weather. I'd never raised anything but devourers and a single Dolyak. The thought of raising a cub scared me. But you were so little and helpless. So I picked you up and I took you with me to raise as my own.”
By the end of the story Embra was both amazed and upset. “So this whole time I'm really of the Flame Legion? That shameful Gold Legion?!”
“You shouldn't let this affect who you are. You are still of the Iron Legion. Your allegiance is to them. Only you know your past.”
“But that's just it. The reason I came here is because my past was exposed.” She pulled her foot up to reveal the flame symbol. “One of the Flame Legion charr saw this symbol and called me out as one of them. My kind heard them. Now that I've confirmed it I don't know if I can go back to my warband.”
They both remained silent for a moment, then Embra thought of something. “Wait, why did they leave me out there to die?”
“I really don't know. As far as I know the Flame Legion don't sacrifice their young and they certainly don't leave them to die. They need as many warrior as they can to fight the other legions.”
“My sire, my...real sire, wanted me dead for a reason. I wish I knew what that reason was.” She scratched her head. “So many questions. But I can't go to the Flame Legion and ask. They'll recognize me immediately as a traitor. I can't risk dying just to know who my sire is or was and why he did it.”
“What if you went in disguise. I have goggles you can use to cover your eyes.” Marr suggested. He got up to fetch the goggles.
“No,” Embra thought for a bit. “I can't risk one of the charr from my previous battle being there to rat me out. They know my coat's not fully singed like there's is.”
Marr picked up the googles regardless and brought it with him as he sat down. “There is one way you could figure out your past. Remember the sylvari I used to tell you stories about when you were a cub?” Embra nodded. “Their mother tree, the tree that gives them all life, has been around for more than two centuries. It has seen more than anyone we know and it's roots gather information from all of Tyria. As you know each sylvari is awakened from this tree. But before they are awakened they go into a state called the Dream of Dreams where each Sylvari has a dream about an occurrence in Tyria. When they awaken a sylvari scholar asks each new sylvari what their dream was so they have a library full of events that have happened in the past.”
“And you think the reason for my sire's abandonment could be within this library?”
“Perhaps. You'll only know if you travel to The Grove and find out.” He said with a grin. He handed her the goggles. They were a bit old, but still in good condition. “Take this. I don't know what the Iron Legion thinks about what happened with the Flame Legion, but wear this just in case so no one will recognize you.”
“So to The Grove.” Embra sighed as she got up to place the goggles in her bag. With there being suspicions of her being of the Flame Legion and questions still fluttering about in her head the only logical step to take would be to head for The Grove and hope the events of her sire had been the dream of a sylvari.
She said good bye to Marr, then took up her bag and headed up the hill in the direction of The Grove, and hopefully to the answers she sought.

[The Casual Critic]

The Dream.
Imagine the most wonderful place you have ever thought of. Rosemary-scented flowers, gushing streams of forget-me-not-blue, shimmering leaves that whisper to you the most exciting stories, reeds growing in the marshy, mushy damp banks of the rivers. Nothing bad could ever enter the Dream, how could it? Evil, a thing of blackness, a dark monstrous hound facing you with its gaping jaws and low but palpable growl, how could such a thing enter the Dream? The Dream: where goodness and kindness flourished, where everyone was fat and rich and healthy, where all could speak their mind, and sing, and dance!
How could evil enter?
Nothing could infect the Dream: such an idea was preposterous, ridiculous, unspeakable. How could anyone suggest such a thing, and if anyone were to, well they should be looked down upon, as heads were shook and sighs shared. The Pale Tree protected them in the Dream, nothing could enter it.
In fact, they barely knew what evil was. It was unheard of, only occasional murmurings of the wind would tell them stories of such a thing: evil. It was like the air, infecting all who came across it, lurching across their skins, curdling their stomach, and twisting their hearts and mind until it had finished them, and all was left was an empty walking corpse, removed of all emotion, sensitivity, life. It had feared the young Sylvari greatly to hear this thing: evil. The singing mockingbirds hushed calm stories and reassurances into their minds, forcing them to believe against evil, making them believe that it would never infect them, corrupt them.
One day, however, it did.
"Tryston!"
Tryston arose with a startle. He had been lying by his favourite stream, the one next to the three willow trees where the bumblebees would often congregate and hum their adventures to him, and where the water was quieter, but even more alive, and would whisper stories of adventurers come and gone from the Dream. He had no memory of how long he had resided in the Dream, lying there next to the stream, chewing on a bud of grass, whistling thoughtfully, whilst all the time nodding to the bumblebees and the rushing waters, reassuring them that he would be there to stay, to listen to their tales.
And so he wanted to, but he knew well in his heart that one day he would have to leave the comfort of that place. The rustling leaves had whispered occasionally, but it had been enough for him to hear: of where the adventurers whom the bumblebees and the mockingbirds and the gushing waters spoke so long of: outside of the Dream.
Outside the Dream?
Such a thing seemed equally, if not even more preposterous to evil infecting the Dream. It would have been good, he thought, if he could lie there all day, without having to worry about leaving the Dream or evil or infection or anything complicated like that. It would have been much simpler if the whole world could lie down and listen to the gushing waters and the bumblebees.
"Tryston!"
There it was again! Tryston ... that was his name, right? He remembered of some distant time when Morcades had whispered it to him, smiling. Back then, he knew nothing of evil or of outside, and he would have preferred it if it had stayed that way too.
"Tryston!"
Wait, but he recognised that voice. It couldn't be - it was! Tryston got up quickly, and shouted back.
"Morcades!"

Will write more when I get time, all I can write for now