Guild Wars 2

Hi Selena,

Exceuse me for asking, but you have been riting this for how long now? Oo

Thats what i call dedication.

I promise im going to read it all.

Any chance you have a .txt ready so i can download, print and read it?

TY.

Please, do reply to me, for how long you have been writing this story?

Author’s Note

Hello, Clerigo! I have been writing Traveling Circus for over two years now. I didn’t anticipate writing it for this long, myself, but here we are!

Unfortunately, I do not have a .txt document. I’m not entirely sure how to make one; however, it is possible to take a copy of the forum-text, paste it in a Word document, and print it. It will take a while, but it’s what I’ve done- just remember to delete anything that isn’t story-text, and be sure that it’s formatted properly.
I used to have a Word document containing all of the chapters, but over the course of its writing, I have changed quite a bit through editing, rewriting, etc.

Thank you for your compliments! I will be trying to write some more later- but I think that my creative juices are at a bit of stagnation… e_e

~Selana Firestone

Chapter 5a:

Meanwhile, under the disappearing fog of early morning, Gryphon Radwing and Logan Thackeray continued their journey to the house of Gryphon’s contact. The cobbled streets led them to a rather ostentatious mansion which reared its impressive balustrades high into the air, lending an atmosphere of majesty and secrecy to the place.
“Is this the place?” asked the captain, looking rather skeptically at the regal building. “Doesn’t seem too secret to me.”
“That’s precisely what makes it such a good meeting place,” replied the mesmer with a small smile. He walked up to the knocker and gave a few taps on the door. After a few moments, a maid opened the door.
“May I help you?” she asked politely, inclining her head slightly.
“Yes; we have a meeting with the lady of the house and her pet dog for tea,” answered the lord. To the Seraph, such a statement sounded entirely too loony to be coming from his mouth; however, he was quick to realize that it was a passcode. The maid smiled, opening the door to admit them.
“Welcome. Lady Istairiea will be with you shortly. Please wait in the main hall.”

For such a regal building, the interior was sparsely decorated. Though the items used accented the wealth and elegance of its owner, they did so in such a way that was not gaudy or haughty. The mesmer had seen plenty of ministerial homes where the occupants were fully aware of their excessive riches- and they made sure that everyone else knew it, too. Here, though, the simple decorating bespoke a life of charity mixed with elegant comfort; there were no signs of prideful excess, and everything seemed to have a function, practical or not. The Seraph felt slightly out of place in his ornate armor, but he paused to look at the fireplace’s mantle, inspecting an emblem of another guild.
“Friend of yours?” he asked, gesturing to the inscription, which stated that her allegiance was to the Pious Knights.
“Not directly,” he replied, stroking his goatee. “Although I’ve heard that her story is similar to Selana’s, the only contact I’ve had with the lady of the house is in writing. The main reason I’m here is to speak with two others.”
At that moment, another set of knocks was heard, and shortly afterward, the other contacts arrived. One of them was a woman, fair blonde waves cascading lightly down her back and around her shoulders. The other, looking unusually haggard and uneasy, was Lord Faren.
“What’s happened to her?” he asked, taking a seat next to the mesmer and running a hand through his hair. It must have started raining, for his leather jerkin was lightly sprinkled with water, and both his hair and those of the woman were wet.
“You should know, of all people,” Gryphon replied tautly. Faren winced, and the Seraph had the distinct image of a schoolboy being reprimanded by his teacher.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but I had to know if her mind was really showing signs of recovery. She hasn’t been the same since –“
“I know she hasn’t.” The older lord’s eyes were once more steel-cold, and his usually-jolly smile was instead flattened into a taut line of anger. “And you know full well that it is for the good of Kryta that she isn’t.”
“But is it so good now?” Faren cried, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s been almost twenty years, Lord Radwing, and with all due respect, I think that her psyche is more important than what some stuffy Minister says, conspiracy be-”
“Hold your tongue,” came a feminine voice. Though the captain briefly wondered if the blonde woman was the speaker, this turned out to not be the case. Instead, walking from the same hall they had entered was another lady. Her dress was one of white and black, elegantly accented with blood-red rubies. All stood and inclined their heads towards her.
“Lady Yalora, I presume?”

Chapter 5b:

“That would be correct,” the elementalist replied, nodding slightly. Like Selana, her hair was a brilliant red color, though not as fiery, and her skin was as pale as cream; despite some differences in stature and face, the two had been mistaken for relatives more than once. One thing which Selana did not know about her friend was that she was but one of many who were aware of and kept knowledge of her past hidden from her. Some of that knowledge was to be discussed for the first time in many years. Gryphon was certain that this could change history.
“It appears that we are all assembled,” Yalora stated, seating herself at the head of the table. The others followed suit, sitting back in their chairs. “Now, what is the reason for your call, Lord Radwing?”
“As you are aware, there are certain memories that Selana has had repressed for almost twenty years. This was under order of the Shining Blade, and by that extention, the Queen herself. It was for the sanctity of the crown and Kryta that these decisions were made, and little regard was made on the part of the child at the time. However, even a skilled mesmer such as myself may have difficulty in suppressing natural memories, especially ones which are as potent as what lie hidden behind her mind’s walls. Over the past several months, I and other members of the Order of Whispers have noticed that some of the walls which were protecting her mind have begun to deteriorate, despite constant reinforcement. If she is to find out what has been hidden, the reprecussions may be dire.” He steepled his hands and rested his chin on them, staring grimly at his audience. “I of course speak not only for myself, but for the greater part of Tyria as well.”
Captain Thackeray was in shock. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but what makes you think that the fate of one woman, noble or not, will change the fate of the world? It seems a bit over-dramatic, don’t you think?”
“In this case, no,” Faren replied, glowering sullenly at him. The Seraph recoiled slightly.
“Am I the only one who’s not sure of what’s going on here?”
“Excuse me,” the blonde interjected gently, raising a hand, “Lady Kasmeer speaking. Sir, I honestly don’t know why you are here, but rest assured that we will bring you up to speed in due time- provided, of course, that the Queen gives her permission to release the information.”
The captain bristled. “I am her first-in-command for the Seraph, her largest and most loyal force. If there was something this important-”
“-Then the Queen would be very cautious with whom the information was entrusted,” Yalora finished coolly. “With all due respect, sir, remember who the Queen’s bodyguard is. You know of her prowess in the mesmeric arts as well. She is better at concealing her emotions than you are, and quite frankly, I am not certain that many citizens would be comfortable with learning the information which you might hear tonight.”

Chapter 6a:

She was shadow, a thought flitting from rooftop to lamp-post. Barely seen by those still awake, her silhouette was easy to dismiss as naught but a figment of drowsy imagination. Times like these made her think of the old days when she had discovered her prowess with blade and bow, making sure that all who oppressed the weak knew of her tale. Though she stepped lightly from place to place, following Selana’s flaming head, her heart was twisted with pain. Myrie hadn’t had a proper swing around the town since she had left Rurikstead, leaving her former second-in-command, Two-Blade Pete, in charge. His death had cost the life of her most trusted companion, her childhood friend and too-late love, Quinn.
”He would love this,” she thought, relishing the sting of night air on her face as she slung her body to a final corner. Landing gracefully, she looked for the other woman in her impromptu party. It took a while, but she soon was able to spot the faintly-glowing sylvari woman, staggering drunkenly under a ragged cloak towards a wall, where she sank with a heavy slump onto the ground. Either her acting skills were greater than she gave credit, or the warrior had already made use of her payment of Blood Legion whiskey. Her slurred, incoherent mumblings seemed to indicate the latter. Myrie grimaced. “I just hope that overgrown salad doesn’t get us killed,” she prayed. It struck her as greatly amusing that her parents once told her that her life was blessed by the goddess of truth, Kormir the Blind. Perhaps there was honor among thieves, though; why else would she be helping a woman of uncertain sanity to recover snatches of what could very easily be nothing but dust and echoes?
At that moment, Selana stopped her stride. Her eyes flicked to the locations of her hidden companions. Myrie gave her a nod; she was ready. She couldn’t see what signal the sylvari gave, but the flicker of frustration on Selana’s face indicated that it was either ignored or improper. It was time.

“Come out; I am alone,” the elementalist said quietly. A thin corona of flame circled her wrists. If her informants had plans on harming her, they wouldn’t leave without some scars to identify them.
They strode from the Dwayna High Road to the central plaza, not bothering to cover their faces or make any attempts at hiding their progress. One flag given- if their information was so important, wouldn’t they be more cautious? Selana tapped her forefinger lightly against her skirt; to the group approaching, it could easily have been mistaken for impatience or fidgetiness. Myrie knew better and strung her bow in anticipation, sliding an arrow onto the string.
“We have a message for you. Do you have proof of your identity?” a man asked, face illuminated by the ghostly glow of the moon.
“I do,” Selana replied, fishing her necklace from her collarbone and showing its broken pendant. The man across from her was dressed like a noble, though she didn’t recognize his face. His eyes widened fractionally- flag two. Her left hand moved to unsheathe her staff, and in the faint, flame-lit corner, Sylfia’s fumbling fingers steadied on the grip of her longbow, and her hazy eye cleared as she drew two arrows, nocking them.

“Is that what you needed?” she asked, tone impassive. The man stroked his mustache and smiled, nodding.
“Yes. And now our part of the bargain.” He waved one of his companions forward, and she extended a rolled-up parchment to her. “We have a message from your parents.”

Chapter 6b:

“What you will learn tonight is to be kept secret, and it is of utmost importance that nothing be breathed of it outside these walls.” Gryphon placed an ominous lavender disk on the center of the table. It was shot through with pulsing, neon magenta veins of ancient magic, and it radiated torment. Everyone sitting at the table instinctively flinched away from it. Even Captain Thackeray had to stifle a horrified shout at its presence.
“This is an ancient Mursaat token, given to me from my ancestor from whom I take my name. As you have no doubt noticed,” Gryphon explained with a wry grin, “it is still very much imbued with resonating Agony. Anyone who touches it is subject to its influence. Even though I can control it, because the current enchantments are not as potent as what was required in the past, I am not immune to its effects. It is, in essence, the perfect seal of trust.” He picked it up again, grasping it firmly until his knuckles were whitened from the pressure. He suddenly hissed in pain, dropping it back onto the table with a sharp cling!. A thin wisp of smoke rose lazily from the coin; Captain Thackeray’s stomach churned as its center deepened to an unmistakably blood-red hue. Gryphon passed the coin to Faren, who took it only after a slight hesitation. After undergoing the same event as the mesmer, he passed it on to Kasmeer, who then gave it to Yalora.
“Perhaps we should leave him out of this,” she suggested, rubbing her sluggishly-pulsing hand firmly. “I doubt that the Queen would want her favorite captain to be muzzled by such ancient magics.”
“She already knows of our meeting,” Faren replied, clenching and unclenching his fist. “Though I don’t think she approves, she said that she would leave the decision up to him.”
“I want to know what’s going on here as much as anyone would,” the Seraph replied, steepling his hands and looking warily at the malicious token. “What I want to know is, will it help me to better protect Queen and country?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Gryphon replied. “You must know this, though, Captain- should you partake in the pledge of the Token, you will be branded as one of our kind until this information has been decided as properly unsealed and safe. If you speak of what you learn to anyone outside of our group, even on accident, you will be wracked with agony. Remember what happened to Myrie when we first found and destroyed that Mursaat Quinn found in your headquarters?”
Thackeray shuddered. “I wish I could forget. I thought she was dying.”
“She was,” Kasmeer replied. “I’ve not seen Agony’s effects firsthand, but suffice it to say, if she had not been protected and healed by Gryphon, it’s pretty unlikely that she would be as hale and hearty as reports make her to be. Mental disintegration at any level is torturous, and the Mursaat had perfected it.”
He swallowed, glancing back at the ominous coin. It seemed to blink hungrily, lazily at him; it reminded him of a large drake, waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey to wander into its open jaws. Every fiber of his being screamed at an instinctual level to deny this burden of knowledge and flee the scene, to forget everything he had learned about this place and its people’s secrets. His mind, on the other hand, was desperate to know what the Queen had deemed so important that she would involve every level in which she had influence in order to keep it secret. Steeling his nerves and setting his jaw, the captain reached out to the Mursaat token and gripped it in his gauntleted hand.
“Guess I’m in.”

Chapter 7a:

Selana looked at the extended paper with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation. If this was truly a letter from her parents, who knew what it contained? Details of their experiences in centaur territory? Maybe they had known if or when they were to die and decided to send out their missive only after their death. Or… could it be a note detailing where they currently were? Her hands trembled as she slowly reached toward it.
“Wait.” Her irate glance twitched back to the informant’s face. “We first have another message to tell.”
“Please, can it wait? I’ve not heard from my parents for years; I don’t even remember much of them,” she begged, gritting her teeth in frustration.
“Surely you can wait but a few seconds more,” he smiled, a sinister glint flashing in his eyes. Myrie’s hackles raised, but she did not loose her arrows. Selana was not yet in danger, but the eerie grin that she saw flickering in the moonlight was not reassuring. She cast a glance towards the inebriated sylvari, who was grimacing either from her drink or from her own unease.
“Very well,” the elementalist replied tautly. “Please make it quick.”

~~~

“Selana’s parents, Arcon and Deirdre, were soldiers who fought in the Centaur War,” Gryphon stated, leaning back in his chair. “After the battle was over and the humans had reclaimed the contested area, they returned to Divinity’s Reach. Aside from being Seraph, they were also members of the Shining Blade. Selana Firestone the First, matriarch of House Firestone, was one of the members who helped Queen Salma regain her throne after the Guild Wars. Our families have been tied for centuries by this event.”
“You mean-?” Faren’s eyebrows rose, and he nearly choked on his wine.
The mesmer nodded. “Yes. Gryphon Radwing, my ancestor and namesake, fought side-by-side with Selana’s ancestor. Our families were bound by this event and the guard they formed. In fact, there is another family in this town who is linked to it, but that is another tale.
As I am sure you know, the Shining Blade are not only the Queen’s protectors, but they are also used to find and exterminate pockets of White Mantle cultists, who foolishly worship the Mursaat as gods.”
“The Unseen ones,” Logan murmured, brows furrowing. “I’ve heard that phrase used before.”
Gryphon nodded. “The Firestones were quite talented at rooting out these gatherings, and they had gained a reputation among Shining Blade and White Mantle alike. After the war, they were given permission to leave so that they could focus on raising Selana. She was three by the time they returned from duty, and they were determined to give her the best education and life which they could offer. Shortly after their return to domestic life, Deirdre began feeling suspicious that they were being watched. Arcon had full confidence in her concerns and decided to post guards around their house, becoming even more protective of his wife and daughter- especially after learning that Deirdre was pregnant. Selana was thrilled at the idea of becoming a big sister and eagerly looked forward to the infant’s arrival.
Though Deirdre’s pregnancy and birth went well, the newborn fell suddenly and deathly ill. Selana did not understand what was happening to her baby sister, and was very distressed at her failing health. Deirdre, desperate to see her child- who she viewed as a symbol of their new lives- brought the infant to the priests to see if there was anything they could do. Arcon and Selana followed, supporting her and taking turns holding the feverish baby. When they arrived, a priest of Grenth informed them that their daughter had been cursed; the child’s life would slowly fade from her body in a matter of days. A priestess of Lyssa revealed that there was a symbol cast into the young flesh- a message of revenge from White Mantle survivors.”
“What… what happened to her?” Kasmeer stammered, knuckles white around her goblet.
“After consulting with all of the priests to see if there was a cure which might dispel the curse, they came to the conclusion that they would need to seek a drastic alternative. A priest of Melandru told them of a distant tree which could supposedly save their daughter at the price of her losing her body. This tree had recently borne fruit of the most unusual kind- the sylvari.”

~~~

“Your parents would be very proud of you,” the informant sighed, fingers drumming on his scroll. “In fact, this message is as much for you as them.” Before she could react, his hand swept toward a dagger he kept sheathed in his belt, and he lunged toward Selana, casting aside the parchment.
“Glory to the Mantle, and death to the heretics!”

Chapter 7b:

Selana’s eyes flew open in shock, and though she stepped back to avoid the dagger diving towards her chest, she knew as soon as her attacker leapt forward that she would have no time to dodge. She flinched in anticipation of the metal’s hungry bite and wondered who she would see waiting for her in the Mists.
PING! The steel rang out sharply as it flew from the “informant’s” hand. He let out a yowl of pain and frustration as he stumbled towards the ground. Myrie grinned dryly, nocking another arrow onto her bow.
“Can’t die so easily on us, Fire-head! Keep your guard up! We’ve got your back.”
Selana gave a slight smile in reply, arcing her hand out in a deadly curve of fire. Her combatant skittered back on the loose pebbles, pointing furiously at her and shouting, “Kill her! Kill her now before the guards notice!”
“Oi, you think yer lazy oafs can getter’ way with murder?” Sylfia gave a savage snarl of glee and leapt upon the shocked attackers. Howls of terror erupted from their mouths as her face, devilish in the light of the moon and her own luminescence, filled their faces.
“It’s after me- it’s going to-!” The horrified screams were interrupted with an abrupt, pasty crunch. The sylvari threw back her head and gave a feral roar.
“Stand and fight, you bleedin’ cowa’ds!” she raged, leaping towards some other hapless foe. Selana let loose a bolt of fire, melting the flesh from one of the attacking women’s faces. Her shrieks of pain and rage were stopped by an emerald-flecked shadow- Myrie’s deadly dagger danced among the ambushers, and she was a shadow-plague among them.
“Hey, Flamey-locks! Bit of help?” she cried hoarsely, grunting in pain as a hammer thudded dully on her armor. Selana’s eyes flashed with recognition, and she flung her hand skyward, summoning a healing cloud of mystic rain overhead.
“Ah, that’s refreshing,” Myrie sighed blissfully, pausing to bash a charging warrior in the skull with her dagger-hilt. “But do you think we could finish this up?”
“Certainly,” the elementalist replied, dodging the main speaker’s blow and leaving behind a scorching trail of flames. “Just let me finish catching this son of a skritt.”

~~~

“What on earth are you talking about? The Pale Tree?” Captain Thackeray’s head spun. “But… why on earth is there no documentation of this meeting? Surely something so historic would warrant commemoration.”
“Yes, I am speaking of the Pale Tree. The solution offered by her was risky, though, and many would have considered it heretical, so the Queen ordered that the meeting be kept private when she approved of its passing.
The sylvari were a new race, but we had already established that they were friendly for the most part. Deirdre was desperate for any chance that her baby could receive and was thus prepared for any shock which could be conceived to encounter. Selana, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly withdrawn and frightened. Children are much more perceptive than we give them credit; she knew that something was wrong with her sister even if she didn’t fully understand the reasons or how they were affecting her. All she knew was that her happy, laughing little sibling had become sickly, weak, and pale in the shadow of this unknown affliction. Even though her servants and family tried to reassure her that her sister would be well, young Selana saw through their hopeful lies. She was as desperate as her parents to see her sister made well, but she didn’t know that the Pale Tree’s solution would be as radical as it was. The Firestones travelled as quickly as they could through the asura gates from Divinity’s Reach to Lion’s Arch, and from there to the Grove, the home-city of the sylvan race.
By now, other member of the nobility had heard rumors of what was to happen. However, most of them didn’t care enough to ask or seek aid for the young family. The incorrect rumor in the Reach was that this family, desperate to break a curse on their household, was going to some twisted vision of Melandru to sacrifice their sick daughter. The truth, however, was different. The Pale Tree had offered a risky solution to break the curse. The Dream holds the sylvari conscious before they emerge into their bodies; Lyssan priests had speculated that the mesmeric arts could transfer the baby’s mind into this Dream, possibly allowing her to be reborn as one of their kind.”
The only sounds in the room came from the flickering snap of candle-flames and soft breaths of those who had only just remembered their importance.
Gryphon ran a shaky hand over his face. “I was there when they started the ritual.”

~~~

Selana was like a firestorm unleashed, fury coursing hot through her veins. She reached down and grabbed the jabbering man’s collar, hoisting him to her eye level and skewering him with her gaze. Sparks of lightning and flame snapped off of her skin.
“Who sent you?” she asked calmly. Her breath was like a dragon’s, and the squirming man’s face broke into a heavy sweat at its heat.
“I won’t tell you,” he hissed, clawing at his throat. “Your entire line deserves to be purged for its destruction.”
“Look at me!” she snarled, bringing his face closer to hers. A whimper escaped his blanched lips. “Do you see me? I, I am the last of House Firestone- I am all that is left of a once-proud legacy! Why else would you bother with me unless my parents are dead?”
The man let out a nervous giggle. “Finally figured it out, witch? They died horrifically, you know. Broken hearts and all that. So sad, so sad…”
The elementalist dropped him in disgust, stomach roiling. “No,” she whispered angrily, fists clenched in defiant rage, “they wouldn’t die like that. They were always to…together….encouraging each other…” Her head started to pound, and she leaned heavily against a pillar, breathing unsteadily.
“Sylfia, please stop digging through those corpses’ pockets and hold this man still. Feel free to use any force necessary to keep him in pl-“
Two wet, sharp cracks answered her unfinished sentence. Myrie’s eyes flew towards the warrior, who had casually crossed her legs and was using the now-crippled Mantle as a screaming footstool. She bit off and spat out the cork to another cache of wine.
“Wot? He’s not goin’ anywhere,” she stated defensively, chugging heartily from her bottle. She gestured towards the bloodstained, slightly-ragged parchment. “Aren’t ya’ gonna read that? Even if it is bait, it might be useful,” she remarked between swigs, her orange pulse deepening. “Per’aps it’ll clear yer mind or sommat.” She shrugged, leaning back and fiercely nudging her footstool with steel-shod heels when he tried moving. “Oi, I jus’ got comfort’ible. Stay in place, rotter.”
Selana swallowed the bile which had been rising in her throat. “Perhaps you’re right,” she mumbled quaveringly. She reached down to pick up the note.

Chapter 7c:

Though it had been trampled underfoot, stained with fresh blood, and teased by the wind and dust, the parchment was still miraculously-legible.
“I’ll see if I can get any answers out of this lout- see if I can find out who his higher-ups are,” Myrie muttered, casting a concerned look towards Selana. “You need to be able to read this with your head clear.” Although she would have never admitted it, seeing the normally-calm elementalist so greatly shaken worried her immensely. She rubbed the ring below her collarbone, once more feeling a calm coolness wash over her, and stepped towards the prostrate agent. Kneeling by his face, she sighed and looked him in the eye, making sure that Selana was out of earshot.
“All right, you. Let me say that although the sylvari has incapacitated you, I can assure you that she’s been restraining yourself for the sake of the highborn. I will give her full permission to test her hammer on your fingers one by one until we get some answers as to who sent you and why. If, after all of your phalanges have been pulped, you are still unwilling to speak, I will begin using you as a test dummy for my pistol practice.” She stood, loading her pistol with a slow deliberation.
“So. Let’s talk.”

~~~

“We were taken into the upper bower, where the Pale Tree’s avatar had manifested itself. Her calm demeanor helped soothe the distressed family. Even though we knew of the gravity and dangers of the situation, she managed to explain that the process was likely to succeed since the infant’s mind was clear of any major memories. The Dream would cradle her consciousness, developing it and allowing her to emerge later as a sylvari. However, she stated that it was very likely that due to her unusual origin, she would be uncomfortable in her skin of leaves and vines; her basic mind would still wish for its human flesh. What memories she did have would be suppressed; it was unlikely that she would remember her human family until much later, if at all. Even with these risks, the Firestones were still willing to proceed. I went forward with them as they brought the feverish, sleeping infant toward her clearing. Selana wanted to go with her, but she did not fully understand what was going to happen and had to be restrained from going forward.”
“She was only a child,” Faren whispered. “What would anyone expect?”
“Yes, imagine yourself in the same position- your sister whom you have only known for a few days is suddenly whisked away with you and your entire family to a strange land where the trees walk and the forest speaks.”
She was increasingly hysterical, and when the sleeping baby began to be covered by the Tree’s vines, she had to be removed even further from her sister.” The mesmer’s voice cracked, and he took a shuddering breath. “Do you have any idea how it felt? Telling such a small child that her sister would be fine, even as she seemed to be covered with the roots of the grave? All of that stress of not seeing her parents for so long, of seeing her newborn sister taken from her and dying so soon, of feeling her happiness and joy become shuttered beneath the shadow of things which she did not understand- her mind was nearly broken, as young as she was. Even as her sister’s mind was being prepared and eased into the Dream, her own required immediate attention. Countess Anise focused on-”
“Wait, you never mentioned Countess Anise before,” Kasmeer gave a nervous hiccup. “She was involved in this, too?”
“Yes; if you recall, her parents were high-ranking members of the Shining Blade. The countess had a high respect for them, even if she didn’t know them personally. So when the Queen sent out a secret missive asking for trustworthy, skilled mesmers to aid in this mission, she volunteered her skills. I doubt that the ritual would have progressed as well as it did without her assistance. But Selana was not calm; she was hysterical, and Anise remarked that her mind required immediate attention if she was to have a possibility of normalcy in her later life. As with her sister, I was charged with suppressing the recent memories to reduce the strain and stress of the past, theoretically allowing her to carry on with little negative impact.
Faren snorted derisively. “And that worked well, didn’t it? She completely forgot those years of her life. She forgot about her sister, her friendship with me-”
“Faren, enough,” Yalora reprimanded, fingers splaying on her table. “I understand that you are emotionally-invested in this, but I must remind you that you are not the only one who was affected by these decisions. Gryphon, if you are willing to continue?”
“Thank you, Yalora.” The mesmer took a long drink from his goblet. “Faren, you know that she remembered at least part of her friendship with you; you were both able to build it back up from what little she remembered. In fact, if you had not tried to get Kasmeer to divulge her progress, it is more than likely that Selana would not have broken off your recent engagement.”
“But it’s because of her suppression that she acted the way she did! Surely she would know that I had no intention of straying from her if she was able to fully remember her early childhood instead of being forced to live with what fragments are left in her mind.”
Gryphon pierced the lord with another frustrated glare. “Faren, consider the fact that only recently you were considered a shameless skirt-chaser. With your past, it would be easy for anyone to think you had taken on a lover.”
Kasmeer huffed irately. “People are entirely too quick to make judgements.”
“No, she…” the young lord swallowed, grimacing. “She made a reasonable decision. I suppose if I were in her shoes, I would have thought the same thing. I just worry for her.”
“We all do. And that is precisely why she cannot leave House Firestone until this has been resolved.”

This is getting dark I like it

Chapter 7d:

“What’s our next course of action, then?” Faren asked impatiently. “I know I’ve messed up before, but I still need to know what the state of Selana’s mind is. You can’t possibly continue with these…” He briefly flicked a frustrated hand outward, searching for the proper word. “These treatments forever. You’ve pretty much stated already that her mind is starting to build a resistance to them, and that she seems to be starting to show signs of strains because of them. I know you were trying to do what you thought would be most beneficial, but that was then. Surely she would be able to better process and think through the trauma now.”
“Perhaps, but the possibility still remains that her mind would shatter due to the sudden information overload. We must be caref-“
“I’m tired of being careful, confound it all and Ministry be hanged! If their dirty laundry gets aired in the process, then so be it! We are allowing an innocent woman to live with a caged mind. Is that really less important than the secrets of some stuffed shirts up in Ministry? Perhaps this is a good thing! Maybe we’ll even oust some of the more corrupt folk in high places.”
Captain Thackeray’s head was once more spinning wildly, and, not for the first time that night, he wondered why he had agreed to participate in this madness. “You never mentioned anyone in the Ministry! Why on earth- oh, don’t tell me….”
“We have ample reason to believe that at least one or more Ministers are in connection with the same Mantle operation which led to the curse on Selana’s sister. However, lack of any concrete knowledge has prevented a firm case with which we could accuse and remove him from his positon of power.” A thoughtful look entered Gryphon’s eyes. “Actually, your position could make this little mystery of ours a bit easier to solve. Have you ever been led to conduct any investigations on any of the Ministers? Do any of them strike any warning bells?”
Shock spread slowly across the Seraph’s face. “Yes, actually. Now that you mention it, Minister Caudecus has been spreading dissent against the Queen again. He seems just desperate enough to try contacting anyone in connection with the Mantle to bring her down. If she can’t protect one of the oldest families in the Reach, how can it be expected that she can care for her people in more distant lands?” He slammed a frustrated fist on the table, earning a brief, freezing glare from Yalora. “Grenth take him, it makes too much sense. I’ll assign a security detail to him tomorrow and see if they can find anything.”
“But what of the Ministry Guard?” Kasmeer protested. “You must know that with your position, any attacks on Caudecus will be seen as nothing more than an overprotective assault on behalf of the Queen. That would be bad publicity for both you and her, and it would lend credence to his arguments.”
“And we definitely don’t want that,” muttered Gryphon, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully.
An uneasy silence dominated the meeting. Finally, punctuated by a dry chuckle, Faren remarked, “You know, wouldn’t it be funny if she discovered all of this by herself?”

~~~

It only took two fingers for the man to break. Whimpering with pain, he quickly stammered out what he thought the madwoman and the crazy tree wanted to hear before subsiding into tears.
“Please, no more,” he hiccupped, inserting the bloodied, bruised appendages into his mouth. “I’ve told you what you wanted- just… just let me go! The pendant is genuine!”
Selana walked from across the courtyard and rejoined the sylvari and thief. Although briefly confused and disturbed at the man’s sudden change in behavior, she stated, “The letter claims that my parents are currently being held captive near some of the ruins in Nebo Terrace. Should this be true, I may be able to…” Her vision swam, and a dull pulse throbbed through her head.
“Oi, fleshy, you aw’right?” The pale green eyes were narrowed into slits. “Do ‘umans normally do that?”
“The swaying, face-holding thing? Nope. Hang on, there, Selana, let’s not crush your short friend by falling on them, yeah? Oh, and Sylfia, if you could call the guard and let them know that a Mantle cultist was recently found trying to assassinate Lady Firestone, that would be perfect.”
“You really think they’d listen to a talking tree,” came the skeptical reply.
“A talking, drunken tree, and yes. They’ve had to listen to gate-keepers state even more improbable and dangerous things, so you’re probably not the most odd of complainers.” As she spoke, the pale elementalist slumped onto the chair, clammy, trembling hands resting quaveringly on her lap. Myrie cast a nervous look at the woman, noticing that, despite the darkness of early morning, Selana’s pupils were constricted into pinpricks. Something wasn’t right.
“Might want to try finding a priest of Dwayna afterward, if you can,” Myrie muttered, trying to stabilize the tall redhead without being squished. “I think Selana may have incurred a head wound.”
Perhaps responding to her name, the elementalist’s eyes closed briefly; pausing to open them as if in a dream, her hazy gaze narrowed with drowsy confusion and frustration.
“I can’t see you,” she whispered. “Where have you gone?” Then, just as abruptly as she had spoken, the woman relinquished her remaining consciousness and slumped against the back of the pillar, mouth slightly ajar and breathing shallow. A stab of fear slugged Myrie in the stomach. Though she would have never admitted it, she viewed the orderly, proper elementalist as something of an older sister who was fun to tease yet who could be counted on for sound advice. For a woman who had very few family members or close ones remaining, to lose one more person would be even more difficult than before. There had been too much pain in her life already.
“Hurry up, you bleeding cabbage,” she whispered fiercely, struggling to keep herself from being toppled by the leaning elementalist’s weight.

Chapter 8a:

She was walking through a swirling haze of mist, unable to see more than a few feet in front of her. Though she was unsettled, the abstract shapes and uncertain noises seemed oddly familiar. “Hello?” Selana asked, cautiously stepping forward. From a distance, a soft sob reached her ears. A spike of fear jolted through her. “Hello? Are you all right?” she asked, walking more quickly in the direction of the child’s cry.
“Mommy?” came the tremulous sniffle. “Mommy, where are you?”
“I’m not your mommy,” the elementalist murmured soothingly, reaching her hands out and trying to push back the more solid banks of cloud that appeared. “Just tell me who you are.”
“Where are you and Daddy going?” the child cried. “Take me with you!”
“Wait!” Selana called, trying to run towards the sound of her disappearing steps. “Let me help you!” She looked down at her feet in shock, where slashes of violet electricity were binding her in place. A thick cloud of ominous mist began roiling slowly towards her.
“Come back!” she shouted desperately, fear starting to cloud her voice as she strained against her prickling bonds. “If I can’t help you, then please help me! Please!”
Her voice faded into the thick fog, leaving only the noise of her voice and that of the fleeing child echoing in her mind.

She sat up with a sudden gasp and a groan. “Oh…” she moaned, rubbing her head and trying to get a grasp of her location.
“Hey,” came a strained laugh. “You’re up.” Myrie’s brown head dipped into her field of vision, a worried smile on her face. “We thought you might not make it.”
“We?”
Gryphon Radwing walked into the room- she appeared to be in a temple or hospital of sorts. “Thank the gods,” he sighed, walking to her side and giving her a slight hug. “How are you feeling?”
“As though I’ve had a steel spike driven through my entire head,” she replied, groaning and squinting her eyes shut. “Could you please close the window?”
“Too bright?”
“Yes. What happened?” She peered around the room, confusion muddling her vision. “Where’s Sylfia?”
Myrie gestured towards the shuttered window. “Probably out getting roaringly drunk again. She claimed that her adrenaline burned off what she had consumed before and during the fight, and that you owed her for saving your life.”
“Both of you saved my life,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t see you running off and drinking.”
The thief gave a short bark of laughter. “Call it nobility if you must. Your face was pretty funny, though.” She gave a slack-jawed imitation. Returning to her usual appearance, she gave a smirk. “Don’t think I’d leave that for a moment.”
“Careful now,” came a familiar voice. Selana slid her gaze over to the foot of her bed, where an unnoticed Lord Faren sat on a stool. “She might take that the wrong way.” He gave a weak grin, which she returned with a grimace.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she remarked crossly. Returning to the mesmer, she continued, “What happened? Why are you-?”
“Myrie told us what happened,” Gryphon replied sourly. “What on earth made you think that you could take on the White Mantle by yourself?”
“I brought backup, but I didn’t know it would be the Mantle,” she replied defensively. “Or that there would be an ambush. Why on earth they would target me is… oh.” Her eyes opened a bit more widely. “Myrie, where’s the parchment?”
“Last I knew, you’re the one who had it, Flamey-locks,” came the casual reply. The sound of streaming water and the smell of herbs alerted her to the presence of a steaming cup of tea. She accepted it with only the slightest amount of hesitation.
“What? Don’t forget that I was once a noblewoman. I know how to brew a decent cup of tea, still,” Myrie smirked. Then, puckering her lips in confusion, she added, “Never could figure out the way silverware was arranged, though.” She sat down again. “What happened to you? One second, you were roasting the laggards with the best of us, the next you were swaying like …”
“Like Sylfia?” a light smile played across her lips. Myrie laughed again.
“Yeah, like her. Drunken tree’s probably still-”
The door was suddenly and violently swung open. “Oi…. ‘ave nowt been this drunk since…” A slurred hiccup interrupted the warrior’s reminiscing.
“Hush!” Faren hissed. “Selana’s still trying to recover from … well, whatever the priest said happened.”
“An acute psychic attack,” Gryphon replied. “She seems to be suffering from some sort of Spectral Agony which is very similar to what has been documented in the old days of Queen Salma the First. I’ve not seen it happen so greatly before- Myrie was the closest I’ve seen it happen, but yours was without a doubt the most severe. She might have survived a few days without treatment, but the priest says that it was fortunate that you arrived when you did. Any longer and the damage it wreaked could have been permanent.”
“What triggered it?”
The sylvari shrugged. “H’all I know izzat one moment you were starin’ at that parchment o’ yours, and the next, you turn’d really pale and kinder collapsed on Myrie. Whatever was on it must’ve been quite shocking.”
“I’m sure,” Myrie replied. “And while I and she are eternally grateful for your invaluable assistance, could you please step back? My eyes are watering.”
The sylvari gave an exaggerated shrug and stepped back, nearly stomping on Lord Faren’s shoe. “Watch it!” he yelped, yanking his feet back.
“I can’t just stop, though,” Selana muttered, leaning back on her pillow. “Whatever information they know, they don’t want me to discover it. And now that I know where they’re hiding my parents, I can go help them. I’m sure they’ll be able to explain everything. Perhaps they even know about these strange lapses in memory I get.”
Myrie and Sylfia smiled encouragingly at her, but one thing that the inebriated warrior noticed was an uneasy glance between the two lords. Her pale eyes narrowed, and though she dismissed it temporarily, she decided to ruminate on the look later. Something, she thought through her wine-soaked haze, was most certainly up.

Chapter 8b:

“Well, it’s obvious that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” remarked Myrie, leaning against the shuttered window casually. “And this problem probably isn’t going to disappear. If the Mantle have targeted you and are desperate enough to attempt an assassination in a fairly open area, then it stands to reason that they’ll do so again.”
“Captain Thackeray has already been notified of the situation,” Lord Faren replied, looking up from his laced fingers. “And I’ve offered a reward to anyone who sees anything indicative of a Mantle plot or group.”
“Well, that’s all well an’ good,” came the sylvari’s voice, “but what if your incentive goes a bit overboard? If erryone gets suspicious and jumpy, stan’s to reason that people will start gettin’ a bit more… violent.” She grimaced, swallowed, and continued. “Think of it this way. I know it works diff’rently with you humans, but I’ve seen similar things ‘appen in the Grove. Sylvari who’ve experienced trauma at the ‘ands of the Nightmare Court are often quick to point the finger at their neighbor should they do somethin’ even slightly suspect. If the situation’s not quickly diffused…” she mimicked an explosion with her hands, smiling cynically. “So we’s got to be careful lest we want chaos to rule ‘ere. That’s what they want, anyhow. A people divided are more likely to attack each other than the true foe.”
“But how should we proceed?” Faren huffed frustratedly, glowering at the tree-woman. “Surely you’re not recommending we just sit here and wait for someone to say, ‘Hello, I’m a Mantle and I’m here to kill you for the Unseen Ones!’?”
“H’I didn’t say that,” she growled, her orange glow pulsing in the setting sun. “Simply sittin’ ‘round does no good. What I recommend iz moderation. Don’ let yer feelings cloud yer judgement. Keep a clear head- and I want no comments about my sobriety. I’ve out-thought norn drunker than this and whomped ‘em in fights more harrowing.”
“Yeah, but these aren’t norn, and they’re most certainly not drunk,” Myrie replied, frowning. “What we’re dealing with are pocket groups of Mantle who are highly-organized, intelligent, and adaptable.”
“Not to mention well-funded,” muttered the warrior. “I’m still frustrated that that fellow didn’t know the name of his provider. You’d think after-”
Myrie’s eyes widened, and she made a quick cutting motion to her throat. She doesn’t know, she mouthed. The sylvari’s eyebrows rose, but she got the message and managed to turn her statement into an incoherent mumble. Gryphon had been quiet for a long while, lost in his thoughts.
“The priest has given strict orders that you are not to move for at least three more days. If you experience any more unusual pains or headaches, let us know. It could be a sign that the Agony is deepening or that you’re undergoing a relapse.” He walked over and gently brushed her hair away from her eyes, giving her a stern yet concerned look. “Do you hear me? If you start having odd headaches or if you experience pain that is out of the ordinary, tell the priest. Don’t try to tough it out.”
“For our sake,” Faren smiled weakly. She shifted her gaze back to him. “I can’t exactly raid your pantries to provide a welcome-home feast if you’re not alive to enjoy it.”
Despite her irritation, the elementalist gave a small laugh. “Fair enough. But the parchment… my parents…”
“If you want, we’ll investigate it.”
“You don’t think it’s serious enough to warrant an investigation.” It wasn’t a question; despite her state, Selana was still remarkably astute. The mesmer sighed, standing and moving back towards the door.
“I think that if someone is willing to use it against you, it is worth inspection. I don’t want you getting hurt over something that’s nothing more than wishful fantasies.”
She was silent. After a moment, he continued. “If you would prefer to seek this out for yourself after you have recovered, feel free to do so. I will not intrude upon your journey. But,” he said, holding up a finger, “I request that you bring at least one more member alongside you for this expedition should you decide to go.”
“Who?”
“Another sylvari; a necromancer known as Nettle Viridia. She’s already been summoned here and is expected to arrive within a few days. Her skills in spectral sensitivity are very astute; nowhere near as renowned as the Firstborn, Trahearne, but she’s nonetheless quite good. If there is anything amiss about the letter, or if there are ghosts who might tell more to the story, she’ll help. But be warned; she is rather…eccentric.”
As she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, a low groan interrupted her question.
“Oh, no,” Sylfia moaned, knocking her head on the back of the wall in frustration. “No, no, no. You are not referring to that obsession of hers, are you?”
Gryphon’s eyes widened marginally. “You know her?”
A sneer spread across the sylvari’s face, twisting it into a terrifying mask. “Of course. Word tends to spread fast when you’re a blood-drinker.”

Chapter 9a:

Lion’s Arch. What an unusual, bristling, bustling city. So full of life… and death. The pale, slender sylvari smiled, drawing a deep breath in through her nose and exhaling contentedly. The scent of seawater and rotting detritus near the outskirts of the city were only barely subdued by the smells of the inner hub. As she walked through the main plaza towards the asuran gates, she gingerly stepped over piles of rubbish, dodged screeching children, and ignored every single hawking merchant who begged for her coin.
“Pretty lady!”
Almost every merchant.
She looked back to see a hylek, hopping desperately after her and shaking a set of carved beads at her face. “Please, please look at these beads. Surely the sun god would be pleased if such a magnificent creature were to wear this necklace made in his honor! You are the only one whose frame and face would suit these so well. Just one try, and I’m sure…”
Her lips flattened in displeasure, and she sighed lightly. “I’m sure the sun god would prefer one who is a bit more colorful than I am, silly frog-man,” she replied, increasing her pace and walking briskly in the opposite direction. “Such as a sylvari who doesn’t look like a sun-deprived asparagus.”
“Oh, no, lady tree! You don’t look like such a poor, bland thing! Your hair is like the gentle green of pale jade, your eyes the same, yet sparkling with…”
She suddenly whipped around, bending down and smiling coldly at the frog’s quivering eyeballs. “Sparkling with what, exactly?” she asked. Her voice sent jagged tremors of fear down his tiny spine. “Tell you what,” she continued, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll give you an exchange- the necklace for a diagnosis.”
“A…what?” The hylek licked his lips nervously. Her smile widened.
“A diagnosis. Surely you’ve heard that diseases have been running rampant throughout the Arch as of late.” She tapped a pale, cool finger against his forehead. “Skritt, for example, can carry a form of rabies which affects your kind in an extremely terrible way. Do you know that it starts out with the simplest of symptoms? First, the infected hylek tend to experience a quicker rate of skin evaporation.”
The frog-man subconsciously itched at his arms, running his tongue over his lips again.
“After that, they become increasingly-twitchy. When the twitchiness reaches its highest point, the next part of the disease, chills, comes into play. And when the chills-”
“Stop! Stop; please tell me what can be done. How can I be certain that I don’t have this disease?”
The sylvari straightened, her smile turning into one of angelic approval. “Meet me in about an hour in the upper level of the city. We can perform the test there.”

The sun had started its slow descent as the hylek made his way to the rocky cliff-side and up the rickety stairs to the bar, a former ship converted into a pub and anchored into the sheer stone. Like the rest of the city, the nautical atmosphere left the air with a slight salt tang which mixed with the smells of strong alcohol and cheap food. It made it easier to dismiss his nervous sweat as nothing more than the atmosphere. He sat at a table, ordered a glass of water- had his skin always been this dry?- and waited for the sylvari to appear. Soon enough, he spotted her gracefully striding toward him, nodding in recognition as she seated herself by him. Her skin glowed with a neon green luminescence, lighting her leafy hair and eyes with an unsettling glow. She signaled the barkeeper and ordered a rice wine, sipping delicately at it while watching the hylek with interest.
“Well?” she asked finally, pausing in her refreshment. “Do you have the necklace?”
Fingers fumbling with nerves, the frog-man pulled out the string of beads and set it on the table, sliding it towards her. “It is all yours,” he croaked, webbed fingers trembling. “Oh!” he gulped nervously. “Please hurry; I think the tremors are becoming more violent.”
“Patience,” she replied smoothly, draining her glass with casual ease. She set the empty container on the table and reached towards him. “Your hand, please,” she purred, her calm voice soothing him.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he burbled throatily. “Now, how can you tell if I have the disease?”
“Hm…” she sighed. “I’m not entirely sure you’ll like the idea. Some would prefer the risk to the treatment. But if you’re certain-“
“Please! I have tads at home,” he stuttered. “The sooner this is done, the sooner I can rest knowing that they are not at risk.”
Her lips curved into a smile. Such a pretty, innocent face, he thought, his breathing slowing. Her hypnotic eyes blinked lazily at him, focusing on his slick-skinned arm.
“Reach out your hand, please,” she murmured, grabbing his wrist and flexing it, displaying its prominent veins. He winced slightly.
“Please, pale one, hurry. My wife will be worried if I do not return.”
“Patience,” she purred again, causing prickles of unease to rise on the back of his webbed feet. She removed a dagger from her belt and quickly slid it along his wrist. A cry of surprised pain popped out of his mouth. “It’s all right,” she hushed, tipping his blue blood into a bowl which she pulled out from her pack. Once it was two-thirds full, she released his arm, swirling the thick vitae and staring at it intently.
“Well?” he asked, squeezing below the cut to staunch the flow. “What can you see?”
“Oh, it’s not what I see,” she replied distantly, glancing up at him dismissively. “The best place to obtain results is at my lab. This way,” she called, gliding towards the back of the room. No one stood to block their path.

He followed the willowy woman through the door into a dimly-lit room filled with an assortment of magical and alchemical paraphernalia. As he glanced about it, his bulbous eyes caught sight of an ominous-looking splash on the floor. He gulped nervously.
“Ink spill,” she explained casually, not bothering to turn from her desk. She set the bowl of blood on the table, walked back toward the door, and locked it. “Now that we’re in private, I can better perform the experiment.”
He knew better by now to not ask what her plan was, instead busying himself with arranging his spindly limbs on a short, splintery stool.
“Eat this, please. It should help with the blood flow,” she said, offering him a small bunch of lavender-colored flowers. Gulping them down, he watched with fascination as she flitted around the desk, pouring a small amount of his blood into a vial and mixing it with other compounds. Seemingly-satisfied at the result of the tincture, she set it down on the table next to several similarly-shaped vessels.
“I would like to thank you for your willingness to come here,” she smiled, sitting across from him.
“Anything for my tads,” he replied, pulling on his collar. Was the air getting stuffier? “How soon can we expect the results? Is there a cure?”
She laughed, waving his concerns away, and reached back for the bowl which still contained a portion of his blood. Dipping her fingers into the thick liquid, she gave the dripping fluid a delicate sniff before deliberately licking it off of her skin.
“Hmmmm,” she mused, running her pale-green tongue around her lips before tipping the bowl back and drinking the rest. She smacked her lips lightly, pursing them in concentration. The hylek had to resist every urge in his body to leap back in terror.
“What…why did you do that? Doesn’t what’s in the vial indicate if I have the disease or not?” he stammered in confusion.
She tapped a blue-stained finger on her pale lips. “No,” she replied simply. “That, my good frog, is an experiment. Thanks to you, I now have definitive proof that your blood provides an excellent binding ingredient for two otherwise-incompatible compounds. This is an amazing turning point in my studies,” she declared, grasping his hand firmly.
“My disease! The rabies?” he asked pitifully. “I must know! Am I sick?”
The light of excitement slowly faded, as if realizing that she had left an important task unfinished. “Oh,” she smiled condescendingly, “I suppose I never told you the whole truth now, did I? You see, Mr. Hylek,” she said calmly, placing the empty, blue-stained bowl in front of him, “I have a bit of a problem. As I’m sure you are aware, I am a necromancer. My fascination with disease and the anatomy of Tyria’s creatures has led me all around the world for my studies. However, a good amount of “professionals” I meet are firmly convinced that one illness is exactly the same as another, despite some slight yet important differences. How can I tell which is which?” Her smile widened, and in the flickering, dim light, the sight of his blood on her teeth nearly made him scream. “The same way in which I satisfy my curiosity as to how blood tastes. Yours in particular,” she continued blithely, watching as his movements slowed, “is particularly rich. A good amount of copper overtone, very healthy, but tinted with a slight bit of adrenaline. You may want to reduce your salt intake. Never a good thing when I can taste the fish you’ve been eating. But altogether, you are quite delicious, well-fed, and with a healthy bit of life in your veins.”
His jaw fell open. “You… you are a madwoman. Let me go!” With fumbling fingers, he reached his webbed hands toward the door. To his horror, his movements seemed slowed. His eyes glazed as the beautiful, deadly sylvari laughed again. “Don’t you see? What you have done is an amazing sacrifice- truly fantastic! Your blood will save hundreds of asuran progeny from scalebane. Doesn’t that make you happy?” She smiled excitedly, bending down to stare into his bulging eyes. “I will be certain that your name is remembered in the annals of history. Science will never forget your contributions. Sadly, the best way for you to be truly immortalized is if you’re gone. But don’t worry! I won’t let a precious drop of your blood go to waste. You won’t even feel any pain.” She flipped through a calendar on her wall and beamed at him for the last time. “And I should be able to keep my appointment in Divinity’s Reach. But let’s finish your misery first, shall we?”

Chapter 10a:

They had been waiting at the asura gate for the past half-hour and still had no sign of the necromancer’s arrival. Just as Myrie was about to abandon the group and head off in search of some plump noble’s valuables, a black-booted foot stepped out. The foot, of course, was followed by the rest of the sylvari. Her skin was a grayish-white, but her large eyes and bobbed, leafy hair were both a bright neon green. She reminded Myrie of a soft, gentle plant- perhaps a bean sprout- with wide, curious eyes and lightly-curved lips. Her form spoke of a lithe, gentle sensitivity, quite different from the sharp angles of Sylfia. Whereas the warrior looked as though she had been through a fire, the necromancer appeared to be as fair as a newborn. Even her voice, when she spoke, did not carry the rough, rasping accent of the warrior, but was instead soft and lightly lilting, as if humming to a song only she could hear.
“Lord Radwing, I presume?” she asked, stepping down the stairs and shaking the mesmer’s hand.
“Nettle Viridia,” he greeted, giving the cool hand a firm shake. “Excellent to meet you. I was beginning to think you didn’t plan on coming.”
She laughed- a clear, silvery sound that rang through the air. “What, and miss out on all of the fun? No, sir, I think not. I was merely delayed by a very important project.” Her gaze suddenly whipped from the mesmer to Myrie. Immediately the thief’s senses were on guard.
“You’ve got quite the protective amulet,” she said slowly, stepping towards her with head tilted. “Whoever gave you that must have loved you very much.”
An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “His name was Quinn,” she choked, gripping the ring tightly. “And I learned too late that he did.”
“Ah,” the necromancer sighed, smiling sadly. “I’ve heard of such imbued objects, but never had the chance to see one for myself. Rest assured,” she murmured soothingly, giving a light touch on the thief’s shoulder, “he is at peace, guarding you from the Mists. Few magics are as strong as love.”
“Thank you,” Myrie whispered raspily.
The sylvari smiled once more, straightened, and turned back to Gryphon. “Now, where’s the patient?”

She had just awoken from a fitful sleep. Try as she might, Selana found it impossible to recall the events of her obviously-disturbing dream. Gryphon had taken his leave, stating that he had important business to attend to and asking to be notified in case of any unusual developments.
“You can’t remember anything at all?” the necromancer asked curiously, bright eyes fixed unblinking on Selana’s pale blue stare.
“Nothing,” she replied, plopping her head back onto its pillow with frustration. “And my head still aches from this… Agony,” she huffed.
“How inconvenient,” the necromancer mused, tapping a pen on her lips. Was she seeing things, or did Selana see the sylvari cast a knowing smirk towards Faren’s direction?
“Why is she here?”
Selana glanced towards the door, where a significantly-displeased Sylfia stood leaning against the frame. Pupil-less green and neon lime eyes met each other, and Myrie could swear that she saw sparks starting to whiz through the air.
“Ah, Sylfia,” the necromancer smiled, a predatory look shadowing her face. “How nice to see you. Tell me,” she continued, turning back to Selana and peering into her ears, “are you still afraid of fire?”
The warrior growled. “What’s it matter to you? You’re here for the human, not me.”
“But I worry about you, sister,” she pouted, though seemingly-satisfied with the elementalist’s appearance. “After all, your birth was nothing short of a shock.”
“You’d be shocked if an Inquest firebomb was dropped on you.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Pity, you could have been quite pretty.” She sniffed the air delicately and clicked her tongue. “Still have that smell of smoke about you, Sylfia. How sad.”
The warrior strode towards her, hammer lifted. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pulp you into paste and feed you to the dogs,” she snarled. Myrie noticed with a shock that the nigh-permanent odor of liquor was almost unnoticeable around her. She’s sober, she thought with surprise. The necromancer did not back away or even flinch.
“One reason?” her voice took on a cold, distant edge, and her eyes, when she raised them to Sylfia, seemed to look through her. “I can give you several. But allow me to state the most important, and that is because I am one of the few hopes this woman has of living a normal life.”
“Forget this,” Sylfia growled. She stalked towards the door and pointed at Selana. “Either you see to it that the necromancer leaves, or Oi’m out. I need a drink.” With that, she marched out the door and towards the tavern.
“Pleasant, no?” Nettle beamed sardonically. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”

Chapter 10b:

“I am most certainly not going back,” the warrior snarled, snapping back another shot of firewater and hissing at its burn.
“Look, Gryphon said that Selana’s going to need all of us, so whether we like it or not-”
“Oi’m a bleedin’ mercenary, for grief’s sake,” cried the sylvari, slamming her fist on the bar. “Why should I care if some bloomin’ human ‘mentalist has a few screws loose. Who cares! Not I. Oi, barkeep! Another drink- and this toime, bring me the ‘ole bottle!” She shoved her coin towards the poor man’s face and grimaced as he returned with another drink. “Ah, that’s betta’,” she sighed contentedly.
“You can’t possibly plan on drinking the whole night away, can you?” Myrie fumed. “At this rate, your lungs are going to be so full of alcohol, you just might burst into flames!”
The force with which the warrior hammered the bottle onto the wooden bench was so great that cracks appeared in the glass bottom.
“Oi’d wotch wot you say, fleshie,” Sylfia replied heatedly, voice taut. “Something’s aren’t meant for jokin’.”
“Well, neither is another person’s life! If Gryphon says-”
“Yak yak yak yak! It’s all just, ‘one human said this!’, ‘another said that!’, and wot good’s it? Nuffin’! You lot are all stuck in the ground in fewer and fewer years! Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Sneak Thief, Oi am off to finish cleaning out this man’s cellar.”
Sylfia rose unsteadily to her feet and hefted her hammer over her shoulder, knocking back her bottle again. Myrie stood, staring after her dumbfoundedly as she staggered over to another table.
“And then what?” she called angrily. “Drink some more, get some more random jobs, and get drunk again? You can’t run from your problems or others’, either!”
“Wotch me!”
“Oh, I’ve done enough watching in my life. You, though- you seem so high-and-mighty! ‘Oh, lookat me, Oi’m the greatest thing to walk this side of Tyria! Wotch me fall drunk on my face- oh, no, a candle! Oi’m buuuurning!’”
“You…. You shaddap!” the warrior grated. “Or Oi’ll get ov’a there and knock yer block straight to the dragon itself!”
“Make me, then, blast you!” Myrie roared back, placing a foot on the stool and drawing her pistol.
“If you pretty likkle fing think you’s can strike me dead, Oi’ll break yer ‘and before you can think it!”
“Big talk coming from a smoldering twig!” snapped the thief.
“Say that again, Oi dare you!”
“Fine! Smoldering… pansy….twig!”
The warrior’s mouth dropped open. Then, with a bellow of fury, she charged at Myrie. The thief nimbly leapt out of the way, landing with a wham on the sylvari’s head. She instantly fell unconscious, and Myrie took that opportunity to straighten the upturned furniture and reassure Andrew that he would not need to worry about his bar being vandalized for the third time by either her or her companions.
“Honestly, it’s a wonder you still keep the doors open when you see me walking by,” she sighed apologetically. “I probably would have banned me from the whole town by now. And if you’ll excuse me…” She bent down and picked up the sylvari, slinging her over her shoulder and stumbling towards the hospital.
I hope I can make it there without dropping her- or passing out from her fumes, she thought, wrinkling her nose. Hopefully, Nettle’s having better luck…

Firestone your a GW2 treasure. Much respect for your work, your style, and the color it brings to the community canvas.

Please tell me your on Tarnished Coast? /salute

Author’s Interlude: “And now a word from our sponsor!”

Hello, Kamara! Thank you very much for the kind words. It’s really encouraging to see that you appreciate my work.

I’m not on TC, but I am on SoS- which means that I often get served a steaming plate of death by people from TC if I go in WvW. No hard feelings, though. x’D

I hope you continue to enjoy what I write, and I’ll let you know when my muse returns from its holiday…

~S.F.

Chapter 10c:

“Well, I suppose that answers how well you’re doing,” Nettle purred, not bothering to turn from Selana’s bed to see Myrie as she stumbled through the door. She removed a cotton ball from the elementalist’s arm and placed it in a bowl before putting it back on her skin. Faren had apparently left, but Nettle informed the thief that he had stated his intent to return later. “I’m not entirely sure why,” she mused, tapping her lips thoughtfully. “I thought it was rather obvious that Selana was resenting his presence…”
The elementalist twitched under the sylvari’s cool touch. “I wasn’t that blatant with my irritation, was I? I would rather not give him the idea that I outright hate him…” she sighed, wincing as Nettle pierced her skin with a cyan-tinted needle.
“Hold still,” the necromancer replied frostily. “I only recently came up with this concoction, and the less it is wasted, the better.”
“For the record, she’s the one who tried attacking me,” grunted Myrie as she heaved the unconscious warrior onto another pallet. Nettle’s nose wrinkled.
“Was that before or after having a go at the bar’s whiskey barrel?”
Myrie gave a dry chuckle. “After, but she was still somewhat with it,” she replied. “I think I managed to rile her up just enough for her cups to start talking.”
“That doesn’t take much.” She tilted her head, brow furrowed curiously as she glanced at the sleeping warrior. “What concerns me is that strange lump on her head.”
“I may or may not have jumped on it.”
The necromancer shrugged. “She’s seen worse. She’ll recover, but I warn you, she’ll wake up groggy, grumpy, and sober, which means that she’ll remember what you did to her.”
“Just so long as I keep a distance from her and make sure she can’t reach her bow, I think I’ll be fine.”
Nettle gave a low laugh. “Suit yourself. I’ll see to her after she’s awoken.”

Myrie ducked as a simple wooden nightstand whooshed by her head and crashed through the window behind her.
“You didn’t tell me to remove anything that wasn’t nailed down!” she yelped accusingly at Nettle, who was calmly administering another dose of medicine to the flame-haired elementalist.
“Well, I thought you would surely know to do that,” she replied demurely, corking an empty bottle. “Sylfia’s been hefting that hammer ever since she was born. Naturally, her arms are quite strong- which means that she can toss a great many things which are nearby. Careful, please!” she snapped as a copper goblet clanged on the stone wall behind her ear.
“Oh, Oi’ll be careful, a’right- careful to hit that thief’s bobbin’ likkle head!” Sylfia had propped herself up on one elbow and was using her free hand to snatch and throw what was near her at Myrie, who was so far evading all of her attacks with fair ease. However, all other occupants were more concerned with keeping their own heads and bodies unpelted, and Nettle was becoming increasingly irritated as the tossing continued. Replacing all fragile items in her bag, she bent by Selana’s ear and whispered, “You should be able to walk around after tonight’s rest, but for that to happen, it must be a wholesome sleep that you have. So you’ll excuse me if I take some matters into my own hands.”
She stood, drawing a staff from her back, and batted one of Sylfia’s flying objects back at her, causing the warrior to whip her hands upward in defense. In that split second, Nettle was at her side and had jabbed something into her arm. The warrior gave a rough yelp in protest and jumped back, wincing and rubbing the wound.
“Sedative,” Nettle stated primly, sheathing what appeared to be a neon purple thorn.
“Unnecessary and painful!” Sylfia snapped, glowering at her.
“I beg to differ,” Myrie’s voice came from behind a dresser.
“What was that all about, anyway?” Nettle asked politely, watching as Sylfia slumped resignedly back onto her pillow. The warrior closed her eyes and grimaced.
“Nettle, you already know, but Oi suppose everyone wonts to ‘ear my sad likkle story, right? Well, Oi’ll make it short.”

Chapter 11a:
“Imagine the most wonderful day you could ever think. The birds are singing, and sunlight filters to your eyes through a golden, leafy curtain where shadows dance and excited chatterings are going on. Oi suppose you ‘umans could compare it to a … whaddayer call it? A birthday party. Only it’s secret. Yer still dreadfully excited, though. There’s just a bunch of chattering. Yer mind’s still a bit foggy since it’s only recently started emergin’ from the Dream-”
“That’s where we acquire our knowledge and experience before we awaken into the world,” Nettle explained. Sylfia shot her a look.
“Oi’m tellin’ the story, not you!”
“Thanks,” whispered Myrie. Nettle nodded mutely.
“Now it’s a bit odd, but Oi can tell that it’s about noon. At the very least, it’s not dawn or dusk. Whatever cycle we’re born in will often determine our personality- at least some of its traits. Noon blooms- those of us born sometime after six in the morning and before noon- are often … well… to put it in others’ words, and no I’m not referring solely to myself, we tend to be a bit impulsive. Fighters and warriors are our lot- we prefer to leap before others speak.
When you wake from the Dream, everything is a thousand times more intense than it will ever be, and nothing is dull. Your senses are awakening, and the world teems with potential. Then… something starts arcing out of the sky. You’ve heard others talk of shooting stars in your Dream, but this one’s different. Something’s wrong. With those new limbs of yours, these wonderful new senses, everything beautiful and wonderful and bright turns suddenly into your worst nightmares. I lasted for ten minutes in this world before I learned what pain was. Eleven minutes and helpless was added to my dictionary. You’ve never known what hurt is, and it’s suddenly the only thing you are able to know. The stunning skies turn into an inferno of fire and smoke, and your lungs and voice are ragged from screaming. The sap within your veins boils with heat, and the smell of wet leaves and fertile soil turns to the burnt-salt of scorched magic and acrid smoke from your own flesh. All around you is chaos. You almost wish you were still Dreaming- or in the Nightmare. Some sylvari are staring, your brothers and sisters sitting in shock and horror and your personal bonfire. Others are trying to find menders and water. By the time the fire is out, your body and voice turn into reminders of that torment.”
She once more looked at her blackened hands, a bitter smile forming.
“It taunts you. You remember everything so well… you recall how amazing everything seemed. And it all seems like a bleedin’ lie. The menders did what they could. Oi’m still strong, and I dare say that the fire hardened me. But hardly anyone would look at me. My face,” she said, tracing her fingers over her angular jaw, “was hardly the same. Suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if Oi still kept my eyes lookin’ normal, or if I didn’t’ have these burn marks. But there you go. Mender Aife later found what caused my sudden immolation was some sort of Inquest bomb. No one’s still quite sure how it got into the Grove without anyone noticin’ or anyfing. But there I was, burned like a piece of wood snatched from the fire, and there it was, a burnt-out shell of destruction. If you had a memory like that, wouldn’t you try drowning it?”
Myrie grimaced. “Don’t think that I’ve not had my share of torment, either. You know the saying that it’s better to love and lose than never to be in love? Yeah, I don’t know about that one. For one thing, I kept running from him and refused to realize his affection, and then when I finally accepted it, he was butchered. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. And you know what? You can’t run from that. It’s always in your mind. Sure, some days you think you’re fine, but I can tell you this- if it weren’t for Selana’s interruption, I would probably have started a very bad cycle.”
The elementalist’s gaze flickered to her. “Wait, was that when I came to ask for your help? But you said-”
“I lied.” Myrie shifted uncomfortably. “I was so tired of it all. I just wanted it to be done- to forget how unfair I’d been to Quinn, how much he’d loved me despite how I treated him… I thought that if I descended into the bottle, maybe the alcohol would dull my senses and memory. Maybe I could move on without this guilt and shame. But …” She sighed. “I remembered after you came in that others tried the same. They told me it never worked. They always remembered. So I decided to keep going. After all, Quinn would have wanted better for me, and it would have been spitting on his memory to deny what happened. That’s why,” she said, turning back to Sylfia, “I said that you can’t ever outrun your problems. Sometimes you’ve just got to keep moving forward, taking one step at a time, and not get stuck in the past. Let yourself learn from it, but don’t stay there. Oblivion isn’t worth it.”

Chapter 11b:

Selana lay still in her bed, thinking over the events of the past day. As she considered what had happened in that short span, she realized that Myrie was even more broken and strong than she had realized. So, too, were the depths of the seemingly-simple Sylfia. The only people who she had encountered in the past twenty-four hours whom she didn’t know as well as she might like were Nettle, Faren, and herself. Although the necromancer seemed to be acting out of concern, there seemed to be too much detachment from any actual semblance of care for her to be fully comfortable with her presence. There was a strange, unsettling atmosphere about her that made her skin crawl, even when it seemed as though she couldn’t possibly intend any harm. And Faren, who she had thought she knew, seemed to be hiding more and more secrets from her. It was as if he was a completely different person.
But who am I? she thought, turning over and staring through the recently-repaired window. A priest of Dwayna had arrived shortly after Sylfia’s tale and hired an asura to repair the shattered glass, but some cracks were still visible. An hour after that, the warrior had left, shortly followed by the thief and the necromancer. It was fitting, she thought, that a window which to some appeared whole was not as sound as it seemed. Perhaps she should be concerned that she related so much to a simple pane of glass, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Whatever medicine Nettle had given her was quickly tiring her, and she eventually succumbed to the powerful need for sleep.

Her eyes flickered open. She realized that she was having the same dream as before, but this time, she saw something other than the purple haze she had previously seen. A forest clearing surrounded by lush plants and teeming with life greeted her mind’s eye. In front of her were the tall backs of her parents, standing in front of an enormous tree trunk. Selana realized with a start that she was much shorter than she would have been, and her voice, when she spoke, was that of a young child.
“Mama, where is Sister? Why are we here?” she asked, chewing on the edge of her shirt. Her exposed stomach was tickled by a warm breeze, and though the air was humid, it was not unpleasant.
For a moment, the woman did not respond, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Her father gently wrapped her in his arms, and she leaned into him, burying her head in his neck.
“Deirdre, you know this had to happen. We had- we had no choice…”
“But will she recognize us? Will she ever see us again?”
“She is but a newborn,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head and blinking his eyes against tears which rose to blur his gaze.
“Where’s Mr. Thackery?” Selana’s child-voice questioned. She had stopped chewing on her shirt, and the warm, wet edge was rapidly cooling on her stomach. A slow, unsettling fear began to snake around her mind. “Daddy, what’s wrong?” She tried to lean over and bend around their legs, trying to see past them. As Selana looked towards the trunk, she saw other figures- two women, one man- and a small bundle at the base of the roots. Her heart leapt to her throat. Why was she so upset by this? As she tried to analyze what the dream could mean and attempted to discern what she was seeing, a wave of purple once more surged over her, choking and filling her nostrils. She returned to her regular size and form, now viewing the dream as one would view a scene from a play.
“You cannot know this yet,” came a voice. It sounded familiar, yet unlike anything she had heard. She gagged on the tendrils which snaked around her head.
“Please, stop,” she begged. “I have to know what’s going on! What am I seeing?”
“Forget,” the mist whispered. “Forget until it has been revealed once more.”
“I cannot forget!” she cried. “Why is this so important to me?”
“The letter,” it whispered. It almost sounded regretful. “Read the letter and ask your companions what it means. You will need their help.”
Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she awoke in a cold sweat. Though Nettle had recommended a restful sleep, there was no way she would be able to rest after another dream like that. What letter could this strange mist refer to? And why did it always seem to arrive before an answer to her questions could be received? She braced herself against the bedpost and stood. Informing the priest of her intent to return home, she wrapped her coat around herself and began walking back. In the morning, she would seek out the sylvari and Myrie and ask them what they had found during their scuffle with the assassins. For now, though, she decided to begin preparing for a journey. She felt as though she would need to be ready in case the answer to whatever letter they had was elsewhere. She paused in packing her backpack and looked up at the silvery moon. How peaceful the night seemed. If only her mind was so still.

Chapter 12a:

A calm, amused voice broke into Lord Faren’s absent thoughts. “She’s remembering,” the speaker purred. He looked up from the depths of his wineglass into the very close face of Nettle Viridia. He restrained himself and prevented a yelp from escaping his lips; however, he still jerked back in surprise.
“Don’t do that!” he shuddered.
“I was here for the past two minutes. The fact that you only just noticed me says something about your observation skills which is not exactly complimentary,” she replied smoothly, pressing down on her skirt and removing some wrinkles. “Firewater, please,” she ordered. Faren watched as the bartender on-duty walked back towards the cellar before returning to his wine. As he was still in his thoughts, he didn’t fully realize Nettle’s statement until he had begun drinking again. Shock rippled over him, and he spluttered weakly in his drink.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘she’s remembering’?” he asked, blinking away the tears which swam in front of his eyes. He mentally cursed the sylvari’s unflinching calm and how she had made him appear so ridiculous in the space of a few minutes.
“Tell me,” she stated, ignoring his question pointedly as she stirred her drink, “are you always playing the part of the fool? It really doesn’t suit you.” She knocked back the liquor, giving a pained smile at its burn. She then turned and squinted at him a bit more severely. “No, I take that back; it does suit you. I’m sure that’s why she’s not yet caught on to your ruse.”
The lord’s skin crawled. “What are you talking about?” he asked, trying in vain to keep a tremor from his voice. An ominous, unpleasant tingle was beginning to itch just below the nape of his neck.
“There you go again,” she declared, eyes glittering. “You’re denying your knowledge of what I speak through feigned ignorance. Truly, you pull it off quite well.”
“Honestly, I have no idea-”
She slowly removed a wrapped parcel from her backpack and placed it on the bar. “Don’t lie,” she hummed. “My companion doesn’t like it when others lie.”
“You…your companion,” Faren stammered, thoroughly confused.
“Yes- an ancient fellow I know,” she replied, and though her voice was cheery, her face had a look which bordered on malicious. “He’s quite good at sorting truth from lie, and speaks to only one other necromancer of whom I am aware.” She tapped a finger on the silken lump, producing a sound similar to the hollow clicking of a fingernail on wood. “If you keep trying to evade my question, I think I’ll let you see him.”
“I think you need to head home and rest, madam,” he replied, laughing weakly. “Truly, I have no clue as to what you want me to say.”
Her eyes burned dully in the dim light of the bar. He swallowed loudly, clearing his throat and staring at the sediment in his wineglass.
“He says you can’t speak of it,” her voice came slowly. “There’s some sort of seal on you that is older than he,” she murmured. “Fascinating.”
“Well, I’m off!” Faren declared, quickly rising to his feet. “Nice meeting you, Miss- what was it? Nettle? Let’s do this again never.” He turned toward the doorway but was stopped from leaving by a hand gripping his shoulder.
“You can’t speak of your secret, but you can listen, and I can read your expression. So don’t think about leaving just yet, human. You will answer me.”
He sighed, taking his seat again and running a shaky hand through his hair. “Fine. What do you want?”
She smiled excitedly. “I already told you: Information.”

“The patient has had her memories suppressed for quite some time- I’d say somewhere around twenty years- but the restraints placed on her mind are beginning to deteriorate. Actually, they’ve been breaking down for quite a while, but only recently have the cracks become something of a concern. I was able to discern a taste of mesmeric influence from a blood sample I took.”
The lord realized that he was grinding his teeth. “I told you to keep your daggers away from her,” he growled, eyes flashing.
“You know nothing of my methods,” the sylvari retorted acidly. “You’re so blinded by your prejudices and emotions that you overlook anything which you consider unimportant, and you fail to realize that the smallest thing may mean the difference between life and death. My colleagues were like you,” she hummed, a strange calm returning to her voice. “They were terrified of how I operated, so they began acting quite poorly to me.” A contented look slowly spread across her face. “They eventually were quieted when my research proved more conclusive than theirs. And do you know why that was the case, hm? Because I have a talent. Most creatures can taste only so many things, human. I, however, have an aptitude for discerning the unusual- but only if I can taste the blood of the affected creature. That is how I was able to tell that there is something magical obstructing Selana’s memories. You didn’t give away anything in that regard, but from the way you are stiffening, I’d say that you weren’t expecting me to discover this.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to feed on the blood of a patient,” he retorted, neck blazing with anger.
“You’d be surprised how effective it is to discover what ails them,” she replied simply. “Now if you’ll silence your impudent screeching, I have some questions to ask. Don’t say a word, lest you interrupt my train of thought.”

“What is the nature of your seal? Before I question you, I’d prefer to ensure that it doesn’t result in a corpse.”
“I thought you necromancers liked corpses,” huffed Faren.
“Most do. I don’t mind them, but I prefer live subjects. Quit jumping like that; you’ll make me spill my drink. You needn’t worry; I have no plans on using you or any of your companions as test subjects anytime soon.”
“I’d prefer to have them never become your lab rats, if it’s all the same to you.”
“And if I find my answers satisfactory, I will avoid that. But as I said before, aside from knowing that it is an ancient and magical bond, I have no idea of its specifics. Can you speak openly of your knowledge?”
“No.”
“False,” she declared, lip curling. “Your heart-rate indicates that you just lied.”
“I didn’t!” he protested. “Well, I suppose I could talk about it, but only to others who have the same seal as I.”
She nodded. “That’s better, though it is disappointing. If I were to have you write down the answers to my questions, would you be able to reply in kind?”
The unsettling burning sensation on the back of his neck prickled again. “I think not,” he said nervously. The feeling faded.
“Fascinating,” the necromancer murmured, staring at him once more. She sighed lightly. “Well, this is so far quite unsatisfactory. Could you reply in any nonverbal ways, such as consciously-given facial or bodily cues?”
Faren’s skin burned again, and this time, he was aware of a presence of sorts that lingered hazily in the back of his mind. If it had a voice, he was certain that it would be daring him to try. This ancient magic was hungering for a chance to stretch, but he was in no mood to give it an opportunity to do so.
“I’d best not,” he replied, feeling the seal recede another time.
Nettle frowned. “This is going to be difficult,” she huffed.
“You could always go your merry way and wait,” Faren suggested. “I’m sure this mystery of Selana’s will be solved shortly.” He gave a hopeful smile.
The one he received in return was significantly less warm. “You are an impulsive, stubborn man,” she beamed. “Though I currently have no intention towards harming anyone near to you, perhaps causing some seeds to be sown would motivate you towards compliance. Really, I would have hoped that Lord Radwing would have given me more background information on my patient before assigning her to me.”
“You’re one to talk,” the young lord muttered peevishly. “Word around town is that you murdered a hylek merchant in Lion’s Arch. So if you try to smear my good name, know that I-”
“You will have absolutely no proof or grounds on which to sow that little tale.” She sat back, contentedly sipping from her glass.
“What do you mean? He had a family- children!”
“So did the asura whose progeny he willingly allowed to become afflicted with scalebane. Oh, don’t look so shocked; your face looks much less idiotic when you keep your mouth shut. Contrary to some of these rumors, I am not some madwoman who goes around eating people. I will admit that I have an unusual compulsion, but everything I do has a reason. By selling products which contained hazardous material and ignoring the complaints of his customers, this merchant spread the disease to dozens of innocent- well, relatively-innocent – progeny. For some, scalebane was nothing more than an excruciatingly-painful flaking of their delicate ears and a mild fever, but for most of the afflicted, the flaking would eventually lead to infections and other unfortunate results, further compounding their fevers and becoming quite frequently deadly. By eliminating the factor in this equation- I of course refer to our dearly departed merchant- I have not only halted the distribution of hazardous materials, but I have also provided a cure to those still suffering.” She placed her empty glass downward on the bar. “Are you still convinced that I am nothing more than a lunatic?”
Faren’s thoughts decided to be extremely unhelpful and scattered in his brain like a flock of startled moa.
“That’s what I thought. You do well to fear me, but be warned that if you strike, I have no qualms whatsoever of retaliating. Now, for my actual questions…”

Chapter 13a:

In another part of Divinity’s Reach, Myrie was having a morning which perhaps rivalled Faren’s in terms of its unpleasantness. While most of the city’s citizenry were waking to the light of dawn, or perhaps a rooster crowing, she was awoken by a foot being planted firmly in her side and shaking her roughly into wakefulness.
“Oi, gerrup,” her tormenter’s voice grated.
“New shoes,” Myrie mumbled, turning over and pulling the blankets over her head. “What happened to the steel ones?”
“They got uncomfortable, so I grew my own. Now get up, fleshy.” The nudge that proceeded was significantly harder than the previous one.
“Ow! Fine.” The thief rolled out of her cot, fingers fumbling for her weapons and shoes. “Couldn’t this wait until a more decent hour?” she groused.
“What Oi’m more concerned about is how you di’nt notice my arrival. Oi could’a been an assassin, and where’d you be if that were the case?”
“Sleeping peacefully or probably seeing Quinn again.”
Sylfia was briefly stunned into silence.
“You’re not the only one who has dreams of the past,” Myrie sighed. “I keep seeing him… well, parts of him… that the Seraph didn’t find until later. Two-Blade Pete was ruthless in his vengeance.”
“Oi’d say he was a bit of a nutter. Didn’t you off him?”
Myrie smiled tightly, yanking her boots on with unnecessary violence. “Not soon enough. Now, why in the world are you rousing me at this hour?”
“Selana. ‘Said it’s important. Remember that letter?”
“I thought we weren’t talking about that! How did she even know about it?”
“Beats me. Point is, she knows, and she wants to see it. You do still have it, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” She pulled out the bloodstained paper. “It’s still legible, thank goodness.”
Sylfia grimaced. “We’ll see if you’ll say that after our little excursion…”

“Where’s Nettle?” Selana asked after greeting the warrior and thief. She offered them some tea, which both accepted.
“Isn’t that like cannibalism to you?” Myrie asked, arching an eyebrow and sipping her drink.
Sylfia narrowed her eyes and gave her tea a violent slurp.
“Manners,” Selana remarked absently.
“Beats me where the creepy pale salad is. Maybe we should just go without her,” the thief suggested, scooting her chair away from the flame-colored sylvari.
“No. Gryphon was explicit; any journey pertaining to me requires you two and her, despite any misgivings we may have. If he believes her to be trustworthy, then we should have no reason to doubt her.”
Sylfia snorted. “She’s good at that. Word h’of advice- no matter how sweet or friendly she may seem, keep yourself as far away from her as possible.”
“I was recently her patient,” Selana replied calmly. “I do not believe that there were any injuries I received which could have been expected outside the normal realm of treatment.”
“Yeah, well her ‘normal’ treatment gives most people a case of nerves.”
“And on that note, here’s the letter,” Myrie remarked loudly, thrusting the paper forward. Sylfia glowered at her and gulped down the last of her tea.
“It’s not a shot; you sip it,” the thief sighed.
“Oi added a bit of kick to it,” the sylvari replied. “So Oi can drink it as I please.”
Selana opened the letter and read it. When she was done, she closed it, gave it to a servant, and sat at the table across from Sylfia and Myrie.
“How long have you known that my parents were keeping a secret from me?” she asked quietly.
“Sylfia only recently joined our little circus, and I found it when we were fighting off those would-be assassins. Since that was about a week ago, that’s how long I’ve known.” Myrie replied. Setting her teacup on its saucer, she folded her fingers and continued, “Honestly, if you’d been in a better state of mind, I would have voted to show it to you ASAP. But since you seemed a little unsettled after the fight…”
Sylfia snorted. “A little unsettled would be an understatement. You could barely walk- thorns, you collapsed shortly after- so we thought that you’d need time to recover before reading their letter.”
“What I want to know is how the White Mantle got their hands on it,” the elementalist murmured. “I’ve asked some of the older servants, and they’re bringing out some samples to compare, but from what I’ve seen, this is definitely my mother’s handwriting. Of course, any member of the nobility could have ties to them, and it’s not out of the question to think that there may be Mantle sympathizers in the highest levels of the court.”
“But the question still remains as to who would have the audacity to steal a letter from another household, and even more important, who would be willing to have you killed for it.”
“Members of the White Mantle are said to have an incredible amount of patience and hatred for those who have wronged them or their organization. If I had to guess, someone in my lineage was instrumental in bringing them down either in recent or ancient times.”

Chapter 13b:

“They wouldn’t be that devoted to vengeance, would they?” the warrior asked, shocked at the concept.
“You underestimate their zeal,” Myrie replied, frowning. “They’ve been known to harbor hatred for some of the most ancient households who have connections to the War in Kryta. It’s no secret that even Gryphon has had his own assassination attempts.”
“What happened?”
“They failed, obviously.”
Sylfia pinched the bridge of her forehead. “Honestly, I still think Oi’m too sober to deal with this…especially at this hour of the morning.”
“Well, keep your lids on and stay away from your cups. I mean, Gryphon’s smart- crazy smart. He knows that he’s targeted by the Mantle and is constantly on-guard just in case. I can’t help wondering if he does have outside sources, though, since there are times I think something is so completely out of the know that he has to have external information,” the thief mused.
“If he’s got all these resources, then, why isn’t he helping us?”
“He is! That’s why he sent Nettle and myself. We’re just fortunate you’ve decided to join us.”
At that moment, Selana walked back into the room from an adjoining chamber, followed shortly by her eldest servant, Samuel.
“Really, Sam, you needn’t trouble yourself over fetching those. I was about to get Nancy and ask her to do it,” she was protesting.
“Nonsense! Nancy takes too long, and by the time she would have found it, I’d be in the Mists chatting with Grenth.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” the elementalist sighed worriedly. He waved her concerns off.
“We all die at some point or another,” he declared, old hands shaking as he placed a locked wooden box on the table. “There’s no point in denying the truth of it.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less pleasant to think about,” Selana replied reproachfully. She gently took the keys from his trembling fingers and unlocked the box.
“Thank you, Sam,” she smiled, bending down to give the old man a kiss on his cheek. “Please let Delilah know that the tea was delicious.”
The aged face crinkled in a sea of smiling lines. “Of course, Lady Firestone. Do be careful.” With that last parting request, he took the tea tray and tottered back towards the servants’ quarters. Selana removed an old, yellowing paper and set it next to the bloodied letter.
“As I suspected,” she murmured, gazing intently at the writings, “this is definitely my mother’s script. Where did you find this?” Her glance immediately went to Myrie, who found that she had something on her pants which she forgot to clean.
“Well,” the thief hummed nervously, picking at the spot, “we actually found it after our little scuffle with the assassins. I think it dropped out of the leader’s pocket after you knocked him down.”
“’E probably had it for legi’mancy reasons,” Sylfia mused. “Couldn’t question if they were keeping them in Nebo Terrace if he had infallible proof, yeah?”
“Fair enough, but this paper appears to be artificially preserved,” the elementalist answered. “And next time, I would prefer to be personally notified if you find something like this.”
“What’s it mean if it’s been well-kept? They could be keeping your folk in a place that’s not exactly clean,” Myrie pointed out.
“Yet it was stained by blood when it fell. Preservation spells aren’t new, and they’re most often used on sentient objects. To try keeping something as fragile as paper from becoming ruined would require a very specific spell. This would keep it safe from harm until the magic weakened, after which, weaker areas would be more-easily exposed to foreign materials.”
“What’s the point?” Sylfia huffed, throwing her hands in the air. “So a little old paper gets some blood on it. It’s still able to be read!”
“I think I see where she’s coming from,” Myrie said slowly. “With all of the blood that was around it, the letter should be in even worse condition than it is. If there’s an old preservation spell that’s still trying to work, then there would be mostly-unharmed. But that means that this letter wasn’t recently written, since even the old preservations could last for a decade or two.”
“So this letter could be much older than the one the Mantle wrote.”
“Exactly,” Myrie confirmed, pouring another cup of tea.
“What’s it even say?” Sylfia asked, pulling out a hip-flask and taking a swig.
At that moment, an out-of-breath servant came charging in, stammering and jabbering a slew of incoherent phrases which sounded like a drawn-out apology.
“I tried to- she wouldn’t listen- claims it’s-!”
“Oh, hush, you silly thing,” Nettle’s voice followed the courier’s apologies almost immediately after he began spewing them. She strode in confidently. “My deepest regrets for my late appearance. I was simply gleaning more information on our future journey. We are going out soon, correct?”
“Yes.” Selana folded the letter and placed it in her pocket. “Gather up your gear, gentlewomen. We’re going to make a trip to Nebo Terrace.”

Chapter 14a:

Countess Anise was quite unhappy, to say the least, when she heard of Selana’s plan and destination.
“Why didn’t you try to stop them?” she asked her informant, who looked rather worse for the wear and very much breathless.
“You know my cover,” he gasped. “If I were to try stalling them, they’d get suspicious. I’m pretty sure Samuel, her eldest servant, already has figured out who I really am. Old man’s been having me rearrange the furniture in the upper dining room for the past month!”
“Is that all, Jethro? You should be glad he didn’t pull out one of the family heirlooms. I’ve heard some of them are extremely dangerous.” She turned towards a globe and spun it with a finger. “When was Lady Firestone’s last treatment?”
“Lady Kasmeer said she performed an emergency intervention after the necromancer left.”
“Hm. Dangerous. That necromancer is unpredictable, and we have too little knowledge about her to construct a solid evaluation. Inform Kasmeer that any further interactions pertaining to the maintenance of Firestone’s mind are to be done in the company of no fewer than two guards. We don’t want the sylvari to become curious as to how her blood suits her. When did Selana’s traveling party leave?”
“Just this morning, Exemplar.”
A flicker of irritation briefly crossed her face. “Please tell me that we at least have a unit tailing them in case of any psychic flares.”
“We do not, Ma’am. I’ll send out a scouting party as soon as-”
“No,” she interrupted, brow furrowed in thought. “We want this to remain as secret as possible. The fewer Blades out, the better. I have no doubt that her group can hold its own in a fight, but without an in-depth reworking of Selana’s mind, it is likely that the closer she gets to the source of her trauma, the less-stable her mental holds will become.” The countess stalked away from the whirling globe, eyes sparking with grim determination. “Send Gryphon Radwing to follow the party, and keep me informed. We cannot lose an ally to the Queen in this time where she could be seen as vulnerable. Minister Caudecus and others would certainly rally towards having her deposed.” She glanced back up at him, lips tightening. “Didn’t you hear me, soldier? Send your message and go!”

Chapter 15a:

“Do we even know what a Mantle hideout would look like?” Myrie huffed, stretching her neck upwards and cricking it. “I mean, I don’t think they’d advertise. ‘White Mantle cultists, here for your top-of-the-line lunacy! Petty vengeance included!’”
“Oh, shaddap,” Sylfia muttered irritably. She rubbed her temples. “Drink’s talking back right now, and it doesn’t need any more shouting.”
“Why did we agree to bring them along, again?” Nettle asked cheerily, plucking the petals off of a flower. “I know Myrie was part of the plan, but according to my informant, Sylfia was a bit of a bonus deal.” She tossed the naked stalk aside. “Do we use her as bait?”
“No, we are not using her as bait, Nettle,” Selana replied calmly, striding through the wooded forest. “Gryphon taught me better, and you should know that’s not how we operate.”
“On the contrary, that information is quite new to me. What do we do if we find this group?”
“S’posed’ly, they’re all nutters,” Sylfia slurred, tipping and shaking her flask over her open mouth. She made a face. “Empty,” she sighed, slinging it into the nearby brush.
“You’ve had enough to drink already, Sister,” Nettle declared reproachfully. “And if we want to have any element of surprise, it’s best if you keep quiet.”
“Right, and what do we do if we find them?” Myrie asked slowly.
“We kill them,” Selana replied coolly.
The thief blinked. “Would you like a moment to think on that one, Flameylocks?”
Selana looked down and gave her a very calm stare. “I have already done so. If they fight us with deadly intent, we’ll do the same. They’ve kept my parents for who knows how long. Such inhumane treatment deserves punishment of the highest order.”
Nettle’s eyes narrowed, and she smiled. “We’re closing in,” she purred. “My companion says they’re holed up in the hunting lodge.”
“Yeah, about that,” Myrie drawled, drawing her pistols and readying them, “when are we going to meet this mysterious accomplice of yours?”
“As soon as we see combat,” the necromancer replied.
“There’s the lodge,” Selana whispered, drawing her staff. “Weapons at the ready. On my mark…”

Chapter 15b:

Sylfia broke down the door with a resounding crash.
“So much for stealth,” Myrie sighed.
“Well, she did say ‘charge’,” Nettle replied, ducking a cultist’s swinging strike. She whipped her hand at his throat, crushing his larynx and sending him choking to the ground. The warrior roared and leaped on his prone form, ending his misery.
“If you don’t want a charge, you don’t shout it,” Sylfia hissed, golden sap leaking from her nose.
“I did, actually,” Selana answered. She rained a flaming meteor on the head of a squealing attacker and struck his companion in the abdomen with her staff before nailing him on the head.
“Then why were we being so bloody quiet on the way up?” Myrie shouted irately.
“You never know what kind of wild animals are lurking around here,” Selana replied demurely.
“That’s your excuse? Wild ani- Why are you smirking? Please tell me that you didn’t do that just for the sake of a giggle at my expense!”
“Oh, loosen up, shortie,” Sylfia grinned, bashing another two cultists into the ground. “You’ll get an ‘art attack otherwise!”
“We are in a literal den of assassins, and she decided that now would be a good time to joke?”
“Diff’rent strokes, I suppose,” the warrior shrugged, charging after a few fleeing Mantle who screeched in terror at her approach.
“By the way, didn’t you say you’d be unveiling your ‘companion’?” Myrie shot a trick arrow at the cultists, which bounced around and knocked them on their heads.
Nettle had been backed into a corner, gracefully weaving and dodging the assassins’ attacks. For a few seconds, she did not reply, her smile predatory.
“Nettle!”
With barely a glance in her direction, the necromancer flicked her hands outward, gripping a dagger in one hand. In the other, she held an ancient skull. Its hollow gaze burned into an attacker’s mind as she channeled her energy through it and greedily devoured his life-force. A moment later, he toppled onto the ground, writhing as black smoke streamed from his eyes and mouth.
“This is Adam,” she answered, sneering at his withered corpse before returning her gaze to his terror-struck companions. “And he would prefer that you be a bit quieter.”
Myrie watched in awe as the pale necromancer quickly went from hapless victim into powerful predator, leaving her enemies howling in agony and flaying their exposed skin in bloody ribbons. The strength was sapped from their bodies, leaving the easy task of elimination to Sylfia and Myrie. Soon, there were only a few cultists left. They scurried towards the cellar-room. As they reached its door, one of them bellowed, “Don’t let them reach the basement!”
“Well, there’s an idea,” Sylfia grinned.
“Follow them!” Selana ordered. From within the basement, the sounds of an argument could be heard.

Sylfia once more proved her hard-headedness useful by breaking down the cellar door. The few cultists who remained or had retreated there whipped around in shock and rage, eyes glittering under the lanternlight. The room itself seemed quite furnished. Almost like …
A base of operations, Myrie realized. She had been expecting a cell, but an entire base? Eliminating it could lead to greater security for Tyria- if they made it out alive.
A blonde-haired woman dressed in gold- and red- accented white robes was raging at the bruised and bloodied informant. He cowered at her anger.
“And not only are you incompetent and unable to bring our target down,” she snarled, drawing a ruby-tipped staff and whirling towards the group, “but you decided to bring them here?” Turning towards her gathered men, she pointed at them and shouted, “Leave none of them alive!”

Chapter 16a:

“I thought you had said that she was supposed to stay in Divinity’s Reach!” Faren sputtered angrily. Although he had arrived at the meeting with his usual sense of pomp and flair, once he sat in his chair around the table with Kasmeer and Yalora, he deflated, showing signs of stress that no one on the street would have seen.
“Good gods, when did you last sleep?” Kasmeer gasped.
He waved her concerns aside. “I just was informed by Samuel that she had gone out of town with two sylvari and that thief, Myrie Ward. Why wasn’t I informed?”
“It was an emergency decision,” Yalora replied calmly. “Countess Anise herself sent out a missive that only one of us was to follow her, and that he would have to be a Shining Blade so as to keep the security of the kingdom at peace.”
“Gryphon? Oh, no wonder he’s not here,” the lord groaned, grinding his palms into his eyes. “When did he leave?”
“We don’t know. Gryphon didn’t say. The only reason we know is because a servant sent us a letter last night telling us that he had left to follow Selana and to confirm her mind didn’t undergo any further complications.”
“What do you mean, ‘further complications’?” He narrowed his eyes at Kasmeer, who gave a nervous hiccup. “You had told me that she was doing fine,” he accused.
“Well, she was- I mean- oh dear,” she gulped. “I may or may not have been slightly deceptive with you. Selana is physically showing little to no signs of stress, but her mind is rapidly displaying cracks. She’s starting to remember at a rate which is both painful and detrimental to her psyche. If she has a sudden breakthrough without immediate aid, it’s very possible that her sanity will dissolve.”
“We didn’t want to rush,” Yalora continued, arching an eyebrow and silencing Faren’s unspoken question, “because the amount of treatment she had to undergo was so strenuous and long that a sudden attempt to break through the barriers would undoubtedly result in permanent damage.”
“She still seems to hold on to the belief that her parents are alive,” she continued, almost musing to herself. “This coincides with her treatment; although we know that they are dead, finding this out suddenly will definitely have a negative impact on her. In a way, her mind is still very much like a child’s. She operates on surprisingly-simple truths that she knows.”
“Which is ironic, considering that most of what she recalls or has been told is a lie.”
“Faren, I understand your frustration. Truly, we all wish that she could remember what she needs to know. But while the Mantle still operate and work in the higher seats of Kryta, it is too dangerous for her to know that her parents were Shining Blade.”
“What matter is it? The Mantle already know about that!”
“If she suddenly remembers who are responsible for her parents’ deaths- and the disappearance of a sister she didn’t know she had- it is very possible that her shattered mind would operate on one principle only: Revenge. She would not stop until the entire Mantle is razed to the ground and smoldering in the ashes of their fallen companions.” The elementalist sighed, leaning back in her chair and running a lightly-shaking hand through her hair.
“It would be a suicide mission. And I fear that her current allies would help her- they’re just blind enough to her that they would see her mission as justified.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? The White Mantle has done enough damage throughout the centuries. I would be more than willing to take up the sword and strike down those vagabonds myself!”
“And there is the problem- overeagerness. How would you be able to tell which person would be innocent and who would be guilty? The Mantle are nothing if not adaptable. They have learned how to blend in with the general society. Anyone who is accused of having ties with them would easily become subject to her wrath. Would it be worthwhile to kill many for the sake of destroying one? No; we cannot let her mind recover unsupervised. I only hope that Lord Radwing is able to mend the cracks he senses, for I fear that their number will only multiply, and he will need all the strength he has to keep her mind intact.”

Chapter 17a:

The corpses were still. Nettle had gleaned the information that they had, and the results were disheartening. She turned back towards her companions, her eyes half-closed, her thoughts and mouth tight in a grim line. Selana had withstood the battle well for the first few, chaotic blows, but she shortly collapsed after throwing but a few spells. Sylfia had fallen back to protect her, and Myrie and Nettle managed to struggle through the encouraged cultists, sustaining several wounds in the process. The necromancer’s pale tongue snaked out of her mouth, licking up the golden sap that oozed out of a cut on her arm. Didn’t taste any poison, thank the Tree, but her blood-loss could be harmful if it wasn’t staunched. She glanced over at the humans and the warrior. Although all seemed fine aside from their cuts and bruises, Selana’s gaze was glassy and distant, her breathing ragged. Perhaps she had sustained another psychic trauma. Nettle’s eyes narrowed. This could be a result of the mysterious “barrier” that Faren had begrudgingly leaked. It seemed oddly familiar. Her throat tingled with burning curiosity; she had to taste that magic again. Despite her desire to attempt discerning whatever magic could be contained within Selana’s veins, the necromancer realized that there was a tangible suspicion and caution against her. Sylfia, bless her scorched, half-blind heart, had probably spread heinous rumours about her curiosity. This would make her goal significantly more difficult. However, she was nothing if not resourceful, and the recent battle had provided ample opportunity for her to satisfy her curiosity. She swayed to her feet, reaching for her pack and pulling out a roll of gauze and herbs before kneeling by her injured companions.
“You’ve all sustained some wounds. I’ll patch them up, but you’ll need to rest.”

Selana’s gaze was unblinking and unseeing; she was oblivious to all around her, knowing and viewing only that which was in her mind. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears, and through glassy eyes she saw herself as a child running on short legs after her parents, who were walking toward an enormous, white tree. It was as if she was viewing her past through a cracked window, hearing only muffled voices and seeing only flashes through the glass. An ethereal lightning storm whited-out the spiderwebbed window, blinding and deafening her from seeing the whole image. Despite the difficulty and the fact that the snatching mist was already beginning to whirl desperately around her, Selana braced herself and steeled her determination to listen to the shattered memory.
“No! Don’t go,” her younger self wailed, running after the slumped, plodding forms of her parents. “Don’t take Sissy with you! She’s got to be okay! Mommy! Mommy, stop! Daddy!” Her voice was choked with hysterical, childish sobs, and her halo of bright red hair was unkempt- had she been pulling it?
A familiar form bent down and scooped her up, preventing her short legs from carrying her towards the clearing and following her parents and hushing her soothingly.
“It will be all right, Selana, it will be f-”
“Mr. Radwing, you’ve got to help! Make them-”
“Stop,” the mist hissed. From behind the window, Selana turned to face its source. It spoke with desperation in its voice. “You must not continue. Your mind is at stake,” it pleaded. “Forget what you have seen for now; in time all will be revealed.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” she replied coldly, arcing her hand out and conjuring a bow of ice. She pointed an arrow at the mist’s covalescing shape. “Give up your attempts to hold me back; I will find out either way.”
“If you keep pursuing this path, you will risk losing your mind!”
“I have already lost my childhood,” she seethed. “What else lies hidden here? Who is this sister?”
“Are you sure you want to remember?” The mist’s quiet question gave her pause. As if sensing her hesitation, it continued. “There is much more at stake than your own health, and there is so much more pain than you realize. You have already lost much in this pursuit. Stop trying to reconcile your dreams with what you know. Take it slowly; follow the path you have been traveling in the waking world. Turn back from your immaterial pursuit while you may recover, and you will recall your past at a safer ra-”
It never finished its sentence. An arrow whispered through the air, hissing with cold and scattering the mist.
“I have waited too long,” Selana repeated, tone grim. “I will find the truth, and I will pay any price to discover it.”

Chapter 17b:

She awoke to dull bruises and sharp cuts in her flesh. Her body was stiff, her joints sore from battle. She blinked, shaking her head lightly to clear the remaining cobwebs. When she opened her eyes again, her stomach jolted in shock at the pale-green, glowing face of Nettle, which was unnervingly-close to her own. The necromancer’s orbs glimmered, illuminating her giddy grin.
“I tasted it,” she purred. “Your burden is lightening, isn’t it? The magic- this curse of yours- is rapidly fading.”
“What are you talking about?” Selana asked, forcing herself to calm down. “Moreover, how would you become aware of this?”
“I tasted it in your blood. It has remarkable properties, you know; several strains of magic arc through it, some of which seem centuries old. Tell me, do you know if you have any non-human ancestry?”
“I wouldn’t know- but what ‘curse’ are you speaking of? And what do you mean you’ve been… tasting my blood?”
Nettle glanced around, frowning at what appeared to be nothing in particular. “Pfaugh. I was going to tell you, but someone is lurking nearby, and there’s only one reason he’d be here. Well, I suppose it is for your own good. But before I let him do his work, answer me this: Have you been dreaming of yourself as a child, perhaps in a forest clearing?”
Before Selana fully processed the meaning behind this question, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she slumped onto the floor unconscious. Nettle pouted, glowering at the invisible spot.
“Confound it, Gryphon,” she sighed. “If you want me to help her, you’re going to need to let me in on this little tidbit of yours.”
The cloaked mesmer’s mouth twitched in disapproval. “How did you find out about her memory suppression?”
She let out a giggle. “It’s obvious to anyone who dabbles in magic. You should have known with my talents that I would find out sooner or later.”
“I knew that you would, but I also thought that you would have the prudence to realize that drilling her on her memories might cause them to fracture or scatter. If she loses what little is starting to be pieced, there’s no telling what might be lost. If you want to know more, you’ll have to take her to the last location her parents resided.”
A purple mist covalesed into his shape, and the ghostly mesmer stepped towards her. “Close your eyes, and I’ll transfer the information.”
“Ah, yes, but will that put me in any risk of frying my brain? I am rather fond of it.”
“If you want answers, you’ll have to do as I ask.”
“Well, would whatever ancient seal you’ve got on yourself fry you?”
The flickering figure smiled. “Not while I’m in this state. And before you ask, I’ve left my body in a secure location, so you don’t need to worry about my connection being severed.”
“Oh, I would have known if you’d died. Necromancy and all that. Adam would have told me, too.” She tapped the ancient skull’s polished bone. “Give a focus like him a century or two and they’ll absorb enough magic and knowledge to become rather chatty.”
“Gryphon?” Myrie’s groggy voice broke into their conversation. She rubbed her eyes and squinted blearily at the transparent figure. “What’re you doing ‘ere?”
“Why are you up?” Nettle hissed, reaching to grab her arm and drag her back to her makeshift cot. “The grown-ups are talking and you’re still recovering; go to bed.”
“Just because I’m short doesn’t mean that I’m not an adult,” Myrie scowled, pulling her arm back. “And just because you look full-grown doesn’t mean that you’re older than me. You probably were born only two years ago.”
“Three,” the sylvari sniffed contemptuously.
“Nettle, it doesn’t matter much that she’s here,” Gryphon stated simply. “It just means that she’ll need to be careful with what she’ll learn. Where’s Sylfia?”
The thief jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “Nettle tried patching her up and using some medicinal brandy on her wounds.”
“She drank the brandy,” the necromancer frowned. “I should have known better that the word ‘medicinal’ would not deter her. Honestly, I think she’d drink alcohol from Orr if given the chance. At least she won’t wake for a while.”
“Good; she seems to be trustworthy, but I’ve no doubt that she’d be less than discreet with this information, especially if she were in her cups.” The regal figure straightened, taking a moment to look intently at both women. “Now, you must realize that you are to speak of this to no-one but me until Selana has recovered her memories. Do you swear to keep the knowledge of what you will learn a secret?”
They did, and the mesmer proceeded to tell the tale of Selana’s sister, her position in the Shining Blade, and the reason behind her fainting spells.
“Remember,” he warned, “she’s already showing signs of instability. Therefore, you are charged with reporting to Nettle,” he said, addressing Myrie, “if you see something extremely unusual or unnerving. She will relay her information to me.” He turned back towards the necromancer, who was smiling easily and swaying as if to a song in her head. “And Nettle,” he said coldly, an edge in his voice, “if you keep drinking Selana’s blood, rest assured that I will break your mind until you have the mindpower of a carved chair.”
Myrie’s spine jittered with nerves at this warning, but Nettle only sighed. “Very well. So where will we be heading next?”
“Selana’s parents stayed in a small safehouse briefly after leaving her sister with the Pale Tree. After they were killed, were buried there per their request. The house is doubtless in disrepair, but within it should lie the secrets to unfolding Selena’s mind.” His ghostly eyes blinked. “I’d best return to my body; daylight is coming, and bandits are most likely lurking around where I last dozed off.”
As his hazy form began to trail away in the mist, Myrie quickly realized something. “Wait!” she whisper-shouted, “maybe we’ll find Selana’s sister when we’re traveling to the lodge. What was her name?”
The phantom turned his head, pausing briefly before continuing walking and fading into the dawn.
“Her name was Llumin. Travel safely, be careful, and keep Selana safe for both of their sakes.”

Chapter 18a:

“So….Flame-head has a sister.”
“Correct.”
“Somehow I don’t feel bad for her. I mean, Selana’s nice and all, but I think if she took my stuff, I’d just let her keep it.”
“You find her intimidating?”
“Don’t you?”
“We’re all corpses in the end,” the necromancer shrugged. “Some are dead sooner than others, so if you already think of them as food for the greater life-cycle…”
“You know, I wish I hadn’t asked.”
“Hush! She’s waking up.”
For some uncertain reason, the elementalist’s gaze seemed suspicious when she woke up.
“You don’t think she heard us, do you?” Myrie hissed nervously.
“The winds are couriers to all but the most subtle of whispers,” Selana interrupted frostily, narrowing her eyes at them. “But as to what you were discussing before I woke, no, I have no idea what you were saying. Why?” She stood slowly, grimacing at the pain from some of her deeper wounds. “Is it important?”
“Oh, definitely,” Nettle chirped. Myrie’s heart jolted in terror at the responding glare Selana gave them. “But all in due time,” the sylvari finished, a smile spreading across her lips.
This bleedin’ cabbage is going to get me killed…. Myrie thought, closing her eyes and fiddling with the silver chain around her neck.
“What did you discover from the Mantle?” Selana asked, leaning heavily on her staff. “Anything useful?”
“Yes, actually,” Myrie replied, cutting off whatever Nettle had opened her mouth to say. Sorry, lettuce-leaf, she thought, but I want to live just a bit longer than where the path of your speech was going. “We’ve found out where your parents’ last resting place might be.”
“Resting place?”
Myrie immediately regretted her choice of words.
“I mean, where they might be in hiding,” she corrected, biting her tongue. Maybe she should have let Nettle speak. “You know, place of rest.”
“Oi’m not gettin’ moi rest,” came a familiar and extremely-groggy voice.
“Ah, there’s Sylfia,” Nettle beamed. “How are you feeling after drinking all of my very hard-to-maintain medicinal brandy?”
“Loike there should’ve been more.” Although she had been closer to the combat’s center and sustained more blows, the warrior appeared to be in better shape than Selana. She closed one eye and scowled at them. “Oi don’t like the looks of this,” she grumbled. “You’ve all got those traveling faces on. Where we goin’ now?”
“Not too far, actually,” Nettle hummed, packing her loose supplies and rummaging through the corpses’ pockets for any useful materials. “There’s a little place down the road where we might be able to find some more information.” She glanced up at Selana, whose wary, befuddled gaze bored suspiciously into her own. She smiled easily.
“You’d best get ready,” she purred, lifting her pack over her shoulder and heading towards the door. Before she exited, though, she turned halfway back and remarked, “You know, this many bodies is going to attract unwanted attention. We’ve already got what information we need. Selana, would you have any qualms about destroying this … cozy lodge and its occupants? I don’t think the hunters would mind too much about building a new one that doesn’t have the rot of Mantle assassins about it.”
Dull blue eyes flickered at her through a thick haze of rage. “It would be my pleasure.”

Myrie jogged quickly, avoiding falling pieces of wood and other debris from the burning building as she ran after the other women. Despite their wounds, they all were keeping a remarkable pace.
“Couldn’t you have waited until we were further away from the lodge? Given us more time to, oh, I don’t know, survive?”
“The less evidence the Mantle are able to infer from the bodies, the better,” Selana replied flatly. Myrie was silent; she had seen the grim pleasure with which the elementalist had lit the fire.
“Fair enough,” she replied after a moment. They had stopped running, and Sylfia had paused to stare at the blaze.
“You don’t seem afraid,” Nettle remarked. There was a hint of surprise in her voice.
“Oi can’t avoid fire forever. I might not like it, but it’s there, so I’d best take my medicine and take a good look.”
For that second in time, it seemed as though the world centered around the one defiant sylvari staring at her mortal enemy. She slowly pulled out a flask, raised it to the pyre, and drank.
“So, too, must that old life of fear be destroyed,” she murmured softly. She turned back towards the others and walked alongside them. “Perhaps you, too, will have a new life made, Selana,” she said with a contented smile.
The elementalist’s returning grin was humorless and dark. “Perhaps,” she said.
The group continued their walk in silence.

Chapter 18b:

Gryphon watched them leave from a distance until they were out of sight. He grimaced; from what little he had been able to read from Myrie’s lips, Selana’s mind was fracturing at a rate that was most concerning, and her recent treatment had been barely enough to restrain it. Her sense of confusion and fear were evolving into a vicious storm of suspicion and hatred. She already suspected that Myrie and Nettle knew something- he regretted informing them of the situation, despite its potential for future aid- and her usual clear-headedness was suffering. If this wasn’t resolved soon, he had little doubt that her stubborn determination would cause her to turn on her companions. He offered a prayer to the gods that her mind would be preserved and that no further deaths would be caused.
He would already have a hard enough time explaining his spies’ deaths to the Master of Whispers.

“This must have been really something, once,” Myrie sighed to herself. Although nature had begun to break and reclaim it into the soil, the cottage still seemed to evoke an atmosphere of calm solitude and the safety of family. A protective air lingered about the place.
“My word, the ghosts here certainly don’t like me,” Nettle chuckled, waving at a seemingly-blank clearing. “But they don’t mind you, Selana.”
“Unless they have information on my parents, we need to keep moving.”
“Oh, look! That one’s making himself visible. Hello!”
“Turn back, all who are not of this blood,” the specter boomed, aiming his sword at the group. “There is nothing here for you but sorrow and pain. The torment of those who lived and died affects all who enter.”
Selana’s hand grasped a lightning bolt, and she stepped in front of her followers. “I know these people well. Stand aside.”
The apparition’s eyes widened. “You! You should have come sooner; they’ve been waiting!” He stepped aside. “Please, enter.”
The group moved forward. The ghost brandished his sword and snarled at the plant-women and thief. “Not you!” it howled.
“All righty then, I’ll just head back home to Div’s and-”
“If they don’t enter, I won’t come in. I have seen and been through too much to believe that I can simply walk in and find the answers I need.”
The ghost’s face furrowed in frustration. “This was not the plan.”
Nettle shrugged. “Sometimes the best ones require alteration. We mean her no harm.”
“You have drunk her blood and caused her pain; you have harmed her already.”
“A necessary evil,” she replied, sounding genuinely remorseful. “How else would I have known that her memories are suppressed?”
“What are you talking about?” Selana’s gaze whipped back to the necromancer, who smiled cheerily.
“Memory suppression? Oh, don’t mind me, just teasing.”
Sylfia rubbed her temples. “Can we just get in there?”
The ghost’s eyes blazed with indignation. “A drunkard? How dare you interrupt the sanctity of this home with-“
“This sylvari has proven herself to be a loyal and honest companion. All have my trust- or at least, my allegiance,” the elementalist stated. “They are here for my safety.”
The specter’s face softened, a sad smile on his face. “Child,” he sighed, “you have never needed to fear this place. Very well. Enter. The other guards have removed all remaining pests; they are no longer necessary.”
As they walked into the building, Selana heard a sighing whisper in her ear.
“Welcome home.”

Chapter 19a:

Dust bunnies swirled in the breezes from their cloaks. A plain, empty table was in the middle of the room, and the nearby pantries had obviously once been plentifully-stocked. Vines had crept through the window, winding through and down the basin and perfuming the air with delicate blooms.
“This is obviously the dining area,” Myrie murmured. “They have pretty good tastes in decorating.”
Selana was silent, staring at the disarray. “Why is it so uncared for?” she whispered, eyes darting around in confusion. “Where are the servants and guards?”
“Let’s keep moving,” Sylfia huffed. Her nose twitched, and the resulting sneeze caused a braid of dried flowers to disintegrate.
“No one’s home,” the elementalist murmured. “No one’s waiting.”
“Maybe they had to leave quickly and are now returning,” Myrie suggested hopefully.
No one believed her.

The other rooms were equally-empty, although there were some signs of former occupants and their tastes. The master bedroom had a tarnished silver mirror standing in it, and on the walls were ancient torches, flickering with soft lights from enchanted flames which never had gone out.
“It’s like the Ascalonian flames,” Myrie said. She held her hand close to one of them. “They’re not hot,” she remarked.
“They’re illusions,” noted the necromancer. “Amazingly well-maintained, but old.”
They continued their journey through the cottage, admiring the various architecture and horticultural remnants. Selana was becoming visibly more upset.
“Why aren’t they here?” she muttered. “The Mantle said they were here.”
“The garden’s outside,” Sylfia declared. “I can sense the old cultivation, but most o’ the plants have grown wild.” Her head tilted to one side, black-red leaves shining dully in the sunset. “Except for three of ‘em. There’s something special about those ones. Magical, Oi’d say.”
“Then let’s look outside! If they’ve just arrived, there might be a path they’re taking. Maybe those trees are checkpoints.” Myrie’s falsely-hopeful voice did nothing to dispel the thick aura of gloom that was condensing around the group.
“They’re not here,” Selana whispered quietly to herself. No one heard her, and they walked outside.

Chapter 20a:

The garden was in disrepair. Wild flowers mingled with vegetables, and trellises became casualties of the greenery’s war on containment. The scents of musky earth and spicy vines lingered in the air, swirling with the odors of nutty vegetables and ethereal flowers, their heady smells assailing the nostrils with a fragrant bouquet.
“This must have been beautiful once,” Nettle sighed. “Reminds me of the Grove.”
Selana walked slowly through the plants, gently bending stalks and brushing aside blossoms and immature fruit as she walked towards a distant wall, where two enormous trees stood their ground. The garden’s reckless romp through its containment field had not touched or come near them; in fact, the area around the trees was clear- a semicircle of plain grasses. She walked into the clearing, her steps reverent. There was something about it that seemed almost holy. She looked near the trunks, and her breath caught.
Three engraved stones rested beneath the trunks. The oak held one and the willow cradled another. Between them was a smooth, round rock, almost a pebble, which was surrounded by delicate blossoms of red iris.
The elementalist knelt, reaching with shaking hands towards the stones. Beneath the oak was a stone of granite- reliable, steady, and subtle in its beauty.
“Lord Arcon Firestone,” it read. “Devoted to Queen and Country, his love for his gods and family knew no bounds.”
“Father,” she whispered. Her trembling fingers raised the stone to her forehead. She exhaled a shuddering breath, lowering it to her lips and pressing a kiss onto its cool surface before placing it back on its natural pedestal. She reached towards the willow, heart breaking and hoping futilely that she would not read the name she knew she saw.
“Lady Deirdre Firestone. Lovely in mind, heart, and form. An inspiration to the failing and devoted mother to her children.”
Selana paused. “Children?” she wondered. She reached for the third stone, so delicate and small. She only hesitated briefly before she read it.
“Llumin Firestone. The light of hope we wished to see live to illuminate the world. You were taken too soon. May the gods have mercy on us.”
Her body was shivering violently. Shards of her dreams came hissing back- the laughter, the fear, the hope, the loss.
Loss…loss…loss….children… Children!
“Sister…?” she whispered. Her eyes flew open.
She remembered now.

~~~

Her mother was beautiful. Her father was handsome. They both were radiant on the day they told Selana that she was going to be a big sister. The newest member was going to be born soon; her mother had waited until she and her husband had returned from duty to announce it to their daughter.
“It wouldn’t have been right for her to lose three people in her life,” Dierdre had told Samuel. “If I …if we had died out there… she would have lost more than just us. We had to make sure she’d be able to look forward to a new life instead of another loss.” Her mother caught sight of the young Selana eavesdropping. She’d been shooed out of the sunroom, leaving her confused and curious. Later, she had dismissed the conversation. Her sibling was coming soon; she hoped it would be a sister.

It was a sister. She was beautiful, and her parents were happy. She was a symbol of something new; a return to life, to family, to home and hope. She was a light after a long night.
“Llumin,” her mother whispered, cradling the soft, pink, wrinkled lump of new human to her chest. “Our lovely light of hope.” Her father kissed her mother’s forehead before bending over to kiss the new baby.
“You’re a sister,” he told Selana. The girl’s face was a halo of awe and joy.
“Can I hold her?” she asked reverently.
“Not yet. She needs to sleep.”
The child was quiet for a moment. “Can I sleep here to make sure she’s okay?”
“Mommy will be with her, and the servants are on guard in case the bad people come.”
“Will you go to fight them again?”
Her parents’ hearts broke at the fear and sorrow in her young voice. Her father scooped her into his arms.
“No, sweetie,” he replied softly, kissing her head gently. “Mommy and I are staying here now. The only reason we’d leave is if the Queen herself showed up on our doorstep. And even then, she’d have to convince us that there was something very wrong in Kryta before we left.”
Selana giggled as he showered her head with kisses.

Two days passed before the giggles and laughter were stilled. A palpable fear and heaviness lurked around the manor like an unwanted visitor. Baby Llumin had gone from a bright-eyed, happy infant into a sickly waif, whimpering and crying softly. A hushed chaos slithered about the room as her parents conversed with the servants. Strange people and priests came and went, but none of them could bring back Llumin’s laughs. Finally, an old friend, who had been checking in on the family over the past couple of days, came with another priest and his last idea.
“Lord Firestone,” the man stated quietly, “you know of my prowess. You and your family are brothers of battle, and while we may have defeated much of our enemy on the field, I do not believe the war is over. If our foes knew about Deirdre’s pregnancy, I fear to say that Llumin’s sickness may not be a simple instance of misfortune.”
Her father’s eyes blazed. “The justicars have been driven into hiding. If this is an attack by the Mantle, it is a brazen one.”
“This is an attack of vengeance. Priest Veratas has confirmed that the magic he sensed around your daughter is of foreign origin. There’s nothing we can do for her that will guarantee her survival.” He gently placed a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Arcon… your daughter is dying.”
An anguished cry tore from his lips. In the adjoining room, Selana stopped her quiet playing and tiptoed to the hall’s doorway, peering in with eyes fearfully widened.
“There is hope, though,” the lord continued firmly, shaking Arcon’s arm lightly. “But it is risky. You might never see her again. If you do, she will not be the same as she is now.”
“Just tell me, Gryphon,” he begged. “Let me know what needs to be done.”

The priest and mesmer had told her parents that the only cure for Llumin’s curse dwelt within the Grove, home of the recently-bloomed sylvari race. Even though the plant-people were less than twenty years old, they spoke and moved with the wisdom and grace of the ancients. Selana was entranced with their alien forms, so similar yet so different. The sylvari, in turn, seemed curious about them. One of them met with the small family as they stepped from the gate, introducing herself as Caithe, firstborn of the sylvari.
“The Pale Mother has never had to deal with anything like this,” she cautioned, her smooth, low voice a balm to their ears. “But she says that if it successful, your daughter will be cured. Be warned; whether or not this succeeds, there will be a steep price.”
Her father’s jaw clenched, and her mother’s eyes sparked with determination. “We have already gone through hell,” Dierdre uttered, clutching the quiet baby to her. “Anything that can save her must be tried.”
“You would not have come as late as you had unless this was your last resort. That is good,” the woman stated. “Follow me. The Pale Mother will seek audience with you in the upper chamber.”

She remembered the beautiful tree-woman with her body and dress that were formed from delicate, golden petals and glowed with the soft light of the rising sun. She remembered Countess Anise standing nearby, warning that any outbreak of this information could be regarded as heresy by some of the other families in Divinity’s Reach.
“They could see it as an affront to Dwayna for squandering her life. Others might see it as robbing Grenth of his due. Still some may interpret this act as blasphemy against Melandru.”
“And what about you, Countess?” Her father’s voice was strained and taut with anger, daring her to speak against him. “If you had a daughter, would you not do the same? What would you not do to save her life?”
“Do not misinterpret my caution as judgement, Agent,” she replied coolly. “Know that you and your family have been invaluable to the Crown. All I ask is that you remain vigilant; once the Mantle learn that their plans have been foiled, it will only be a matter of time before they strike again.”
“They cannot hurt me any more than they already have,” he replied angrily. The Pale Tree’s eyes flashed with compassion.
“I am sorry for this,” she sighed softly, a sympathetic smile on her beautiful features. “I, too, know the pain of watching your children suffer. I and the menders will do what we can.”

She remembered the reassuring words of Lord Radwing as she watched her parents take her baby sister towards the Pale Tree’s hollow where she once stood. She remembered watching in horror as thin vines snaked over her sister, some digging into her flesh, others winding around her like a leafy coffin. She remembered screaming at the sylvari to stop, at her parents to take her from this beautiful, horrible place and bring her back home to the healers. She remembered kicking and squirming past the famous captain, Logan Thackeray, as she rushed forward to save her sister from being consumed by those terrible, twining vines.
She remembered Gryphon Radwing scooping her up in his arms and walking away.
She remembered that he told her that what he was doing was for her own good.
She forgot everything before and after he told her this.
She even forgot that when her parents died a year later, she did not even shed a tear. She had looked long and hard at the potions and poisons in her parents’ locked chest and wondered which one she could take to join her family in the afterlife.
She forgot that Gryphon had locked away her memories.

Chapter 20b:

Selana’s sobs slowed down, turning into choking, shuddering breaths. Only a minute had passed since the locks on her mind had finally broken. The waves of information were almost too much; it was as if her consciousness was drowning in the sea of old memories. She struggled to sift through the new knowledge that flooded in, mind straining under their weight.
A breeze sighed through the trees of her parents’ graves.
“Selana,” her mother’s voice whispered. “I am so sorry, honey.”
She looked up in confusion, eyes widening as the spectral forms of her parents appeared.
Her father’s regal ghost smiled sadly. “Remember how we had said that the only thing which would have torn us away was the Queen?”
“She had one final mission for us. It was a splinter cell,” her mother explained, reaching with trembling hands to smooth down Selana’s disheveled hair. Her touch was cold, like a fog bank. “We were called out to track them down and bring them to justice.”
“But there were more than we had thought. They were expecting us,” her father continued. “I had thought that with the loss of your sister, we had suffered enough by their standards. I thought we could live in peace. We just had to make sure that they wouldn’t bother us again.”
“We were outnumbered. Gryphon had ethereally scouted the area ahead, but it wasn’t enough. The night had covered the more cleverly-hidden traps. Our undercover mission had turned into a suicide run.”
“I tried to protect your mother and snipe the leaders before we were killed. Instead, their necromancers weakened my grip on my weapon, and the most I did was shoot one of them in their shoulder. I was killed first for my audacity.”
“You were so brave, love,” her mother smiled, spectral tears slowly streaming down her face. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I couldn’t protect my family, and my failure to see the signs of a trap caused your death. I have every right to be ashamed,” he whispered unsteadily.
“But look at who returned home.”
“This wasn’t really our home, Dede.”
“It was our field house,” she agreed. “Whenever we had a mission outside of Divinity’s Reach, we’d stay here. We hoped to eventually turn it into a retreat where we could go in case it got too chaotic in the city.” Her voice trailed off, and her lips quivered. “Oh, Arc,” she sniffled, pride and sorrow mingling in her voice. “Look how beautiful she is. Our little girl is all grown up.”
“You forgot us, though, didn’t you?” her father asked, brow furrowing. “You were so young…”
“Yes. I couldn’t remember anything.” Selana finally found her voice again. “You would think that I could never forget your deaths- or that of Llumin.”
“Llumin?” Her parents looked at each other askance before her mother let out a gasp of understanding. “Oh, love,” she smiled. “Even though there was so much taken from you, we can tell you that there is one thing which remains.”
Selana looked confusedly at her parents. “But there are three gravestones. Her name is on one of them.”
“When we took her to the Pale Tree, we were trying a last resort to save her mind. She died to our world when she went into the Dream.”
“But,” her mother continued, “she still lives.”
Her companions had remained silent, but at this, Myrie spoke up, confused.
“Wait, are you trying to say…?”
“Llumin is alive,” her father confirmed. “This was our last message we wanted to tell you. We didn’t learn until after our deaths that her ritual was a success.”
“Now you know. Your memories have been restored, and the truth has been revealed. All we ask is one last thing before we move on into the Mists.”
“Move on? But I just found you again! What…why…?”
Nettle cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Lord and Lady Firestone, but you have been waiting for nineteen years, correct?”
The ghosts nodded, eyes narrowed at her. “Why have you been drinking the blood of our daughter?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why does everyone bring this up? It’s not as if I had killed or poisoned her.”
“Well, I can tell you that my parents wouldn’t be terribly thrilled if they found that out about me, either. It’s a bit of a personal invasion to have your vitae removed unwillingly.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, terribly sorry. Anyhow, nineteen years, yes?”
“Yes. And do not harm our daughter again. We will haunt you from the Mists if you do.”
“I’m not sure how threatening that’s supposed to be, since I will always be able to sense or see you.”
Lord Firestone’s ghost gave a smirk. “Let’s just say that all of your lab equipment would be sent flying at the most inconvenient of times.”
The necromancer’s eyes widened in terror, and she was silent.
“I’m sorry,” Selana apologized. “I suppose it would be rather selfish of me to force you to stay. What is it you need me to do?”
“Find your sister. A great evil threatens this land- Zhaitan is growing stronger. You must join forces with her and face this destruction together. If you do not find a guild loyal and determined enough to face it, the dragon will destroy all that we have fought and waited so hard to defend.”
“Do not let our deaths be in vain, Selana,” her mother begged. “Remember that we love you.”
“I will do what I can. Thank you.”
“Before you go, there is a stone buried under your mother’s gravestone-tree at the base of its roots. Take it with you; our family has used its powers for generations, and we believe that there is something there which you must see.”
“More like someone. An echo of our ancestors. Speak to her, and she will help you begin the journey to unlock the secrets of our bloodline.”
“Can my friends come along?”
“The sylvari cannot. This stone is attuned to humans only. You can bring back the knowledge of its treasures with you, though, and they can use them as you see fit.”
She went over to her mother’s tree and dug for a few inches below the ground before finding a smooth, blue stone which flickered with ancient magic.
“This is a portal stone,” her mother explained. “Once you find your sister, use it. There are items there which our family has used for over a century. They will prove invaluable to you as you fight against the dragons. Simply concentrate and it will teleport you to the hoard, where you can take what you need.”
“Llumin is only now awakening from the Dream. In death, we have maintained a connection with her.”
“She may not remember who you are,” her mother cautioned. “That was the price Caithe had warned us about. She might be uncomfortable in her sylvan form, but at heart she is a human.”
“Go, love. We are dead and can no longer help you, but your sister still lives. Find her.”
The ghosts smiled at her for one last time, joining hands. “We will always be proud of you, love,” her father whispered, bending down to kiss her red hair. “Never forget that.”
With that, their forms disappeared in the breeze. Dusk had fallen.
Selana straightened. When she looked behind her, Gryphon Radwing was there. He smiled sorrowfully.
“Your mind would have broken if we hadn’t taken action,” he explained. “I never wanted to keep the treatments going for this long, but Countess Anise insisted that it was for the greater health of her and the kingdom. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never would have-”
She went over to him and gave him a hug. “I forgive you,” she sighed, hugging him tightly. “I understand.”
His voice broke, and he gently stroked her back. “Thank you, Selana,” he said comfortingly.
They broke their embrace and wiped at their faces.
“My parents left me with one last mission,” she stated.
“Llumin,” guessed the mesmer. She nodded.
“She supposedly is emerging from the Dream. How are we supposed to get there?”
“You don’t go to the Dream,” Sylfia replied. “It lets you in, or it births you out. The quickest way would be Lion’s Arch. Depending on how her mind transitioned, her emergence could take a while. Might want to hurry, though.”
She drew her staff and smiled. “I might be able to help with that.”

They raced with the winds back to the town, and Gryphon came along with them. Selana didn’t know what she expected to find, or even if her reborn sister would recognize her, but if there was one thing she knew, it was that she had a promise to keep.

END OF ARC 2.

ARC 3:

Chapter 1a:

She was formless, weightless- barely a conscious thought among the minds around her, clustering curiously at her presence.
“Who is this?” one of them asked curiously.
“What is it?” another queried.
She felt their probing stares and wished that she had something to hide behind. She was an outsider who did not belong. An urge from somewhere deep in her belly rose up. Protect me! it wailed. The consciousness curled around herself, trying to make herself as small as possible. Where was she? Fear and confusion tore at her mind. There was too much sound, too many voices. She wanted….what did she want? The consciousness extended outward, reaching to see what she could find or touch. As it reached, she noticed her arm form. Was she human? She stared at it. After a second, her skin rippled. The appendage had been damaged somehow, but the exposed bone was quickly mending itself. She let out a cry of pain- apparently the reparations were not made from her original material. Thick, sturdy vines- more like rods than coils- were growing from the shard. Slender tubes of veins sprouted from the fused wooden whirls, connecting to another layer of thick, succulent leaves. Finally, softer, more pliable leaves wrapped around her, acting as a second skin the color of light sandalwood.
“She’s changing! I can see her now,” came a new voice, friendly and warm. “She’s forming!”
The consciousness blinked in surprise. Already she was growing taller, maturing into a woman with willowy arms and strands of small indigo leaves for hair. She caught a glimpse of herself in a translucent panel of something that wasn’t quite glass. A gasp escaped her lips, and her cheeks flushed as she scrabbled around for something to wear.
As if the strange world responded to her embarrassed state, she soon found some clothing nearby. She grabbed the cloth and paused, briefly confused. How was she supposed to wear them? A distant image of a blue-skinned plant person – sylvari, her mind whispered- floated into her mind. In it, the lithe, bark-skinned woman pulled a shirt on with practiced smoothness. After that came the rest of the clothes. The sandalwood-woman carefully followed her movements, fitting the clothes on her own skin as she had seen the other sylvari. She frowned. The clothes seemed rather….breezy. She didn’t see how well they would protect her against any blows if she had to fight.
Again, she blinked in surprise. Why would she have to fight? She looked around and noticed that she was in a verdant clearing with ghostly outlines of other sylvari. Some had green skin, others yellow, still more were pink or blue or any other color of the rainbow. They were all very different.
“Hello!” one of them waved. Her hair formed from auburn leaves that grew until they reached the top of her head, where they fluttered down like a ponytail. She jogged over cheerily, extending a hand. “My name’s Donni! Donni Lynn! What’s yours?”
“Llumin.” She was surprised at how easily the name flowed from her tongue. She reached her hand out awkwardly, mimicking the other sylvari’s movement. Donni grabbed and shook the extended hand vigorously.
“What’s your talent?” she asked perkily. “Mine’s fighting.”
“Fighting? Like, with fists?” Llumin was becoming increasingly-concerned that this was all a strange dream. She wished she would wake up soon.
“Yes! Well, sometimes. I like using magic, too.” Donni beamed, her smooth face widening with her grin. “I’m a guardian!”
“What’s that?”
“A fighter who uses magic,” she replied, as if the answer was obvious. “So what’s your specialty?”
Llumin was quiet. This was all terribly confusing. She imagined that somewhere, there was a place with delicious fruit trees, and singing. Maybe a minstrel….
“Oh, wow!” Donni’s gasp broke her from her thoughts. The guardian clapped cheerily. “A minstrel! But he wasn’t here before. Wait…” She stalked up to the man, who was singing horribly off-key. “Boo!” she shouted, tackling at him. She landed on the ground, laughing. “A mesmer!” she declared. “You, Llumin, are a mesmer!”
“I am?”
“Yes! You made your thoughts real! Only mesmers can do that.”
Llumin hummed thoughtfully to herself. “I wonder how that happens,” she mused.
“Who knows?” Donni chuckled. She turned around. “Do you hear that?” she asked suddenly.
“Hear what?”
“Well, maybe you’re not hear it, but you might feel it. Your Wyld Hunt. Do you feel a sort of buzzing in your bones?”
Llumin concentrated, trying desperately to concentrate on hearing or feeling anything unusual.
“Yes,” she gasped. “It’s like a bee or something. Whirring on the inside of my head, right by the back of my skull.” Her long, pointed ears twitched. “And there’s a sound, too! A trumpet.”
Donni gave a low hum of curiosity. “Mine’s more like drums,” she said slowly. “Must be our Hunts are different.”
“Must be.”
As if hearing something else that was new, Donni suddenly whipped around. “I am called!” she cried. A weapon materialized in her hand, and she brandished it, charging forward. “Wish me luck, Llumin!”
The sylvari stood dumbfounded, arm half-raised in a confused wave. “Goodbye,” she said softly, watching her only guide fade into the distance. The omnipresent light that diffused the clearing was brightening.
“It must be noon,” yawned a green-skinned sylvari with maroon leaves for hair. “’Best get back to learning.” He noticed Llumin and smiled, beckoning her over.
“Come on, Ventari’s giving out more advice!”
So much to learn, she thought, and followed him towards the greater opening.

Chapter 1b:

She absorbed the information from the old centaur, Ventari, on her newly-discovered race. She learned about the seed of the Pale Tree, which was planted by a battle-weary human named Ronan and the reformed centaur who stood before them now.
An olive-skinned sylvari with leafy branches for hair raised his hand.
“Excuse me, Ventari,” he asked. “If you are, as you claim, dead, how can we see you?”
The white-haired centaur laughed. “An excellent question, but you needn’t worry. You are in the Dream. It is here that you will be prepared for your life in the waking world of Tyria. I’m not entirely sure how I became part of it, but I think that the Dream allows me to exist in this plane for the sole purpose of teaching you before you wake.” He raised his muzzle and snuffled the air, black eyes narrowing.
“Danger comes. The fight before your birth arrives.”
“Fight?” cried a large-eyed sylvari with a head like a mushroom-cap. “Why should we need to fight to live?”
“Because if you do not survive here, there is no way that you will be able to last in Tyria.”
The saplings were silent. From what they had heard and what shadows of that place they had experienced, to miss out on such an opportunity would be a tragedy.
“The memories of your brothers and sisters will aid you,” he reassured them. “I fear to say that there are those who have turned to Nightmare, infecting this Dream with horrors, terrors, and unimaginable cruelty. Ignore those whispers, my children. Dawn is just a heartbeat away.”
With that, the old centaur stood and looked down at them. A smile wrinkled his face.
“Who would have thought that such noble creatures could have come from such a small seed that I found in a cave?” He chuckled, a strange mixture of a man’s laugh and a horse’s nicker, and then he disappeared.
The green-skinned sylvari who had led her to Ventari grinned dryly, loading his pistols with some bullets from a pouch.
“Well,” he said as he closed the bag, “let’s see what Tyria is like for ourselves.”

Chapter 1c:

Elmfrond, as his name turned out to be, was a fairly-decent shot. Although he seemed to possess very little skill with magic, he was acrobatic and lithe, dodging the swipes and bites of thorny Nightmare hounds and disappearing in the shadows when need be. Llumin envied him and the ease with which he quickly flowed into battle. Whereas the thief needed to simply listen to his instincts and reflexes, the mesmer found it more difficult to attune her mind to her surroundings and force others to view her reality. She stood beside two illusions of herself, facing down one of the last remaining hounds. Thick, black spines arched over its dead-wood body, and when it snarled, its thorned teeth curved wickedly in a grimace.
“There, there,” she shivered, backing away from its advancing steps. “You don’t really need to fight me…”
The hound growled, and its yellow eyes glowed dully. It was heedless to her words. With a savage leap, its jaws clamped down on the sylvari’s slender throat-
-and it shattered into shimmering fragments. The hound yelped as shards of illusion bit into its mind, writhing in agony before Llumin finished it off. She was breathing heavily.
Her guide, on the other hand, seemed almost unfazed. “That wasn’t so bad,” Elmfrond chortled. “I can feel myself…floating, I suppose. Do you think that’s a normal feeling after battle?”
“You’re fading!” Llumin yelped.
“Oh? Somehow I feel more alive.” His voice and image began to grow more faint. Before dematerializing completely, a look of realization spread across his face. “I’m waking up! I’ll see you soon, Llumin!” The last she saw of him was his excited grin. Even that faded into the mist of the Dream. She sighed. She felt terribly alone. Why wasn’t she waking? A rustling noise caught her attention, and she tilted her head curiously at it. Slowly, she tiptoed towards it. A bush was trembling violently. Her brows furrowed in concern. There didn’t seem to be anything caught in it, so why was-?
With a powerful thrash, the bush, followed by a thick, branching wing-finger erupted from the ground. The wing was attached to the body of a muscular plant- dragon with teeth like great trees of thorns and eyes that blazed with hunger. It towered over her, lips curled in a sneer before it loosed a shriek that sent a terrifying chill down her spine.
“Will I die before I wake?” she wondered. The massive beast ripped free from the ground and snarled. To her horror, she realized the reason behind her continuing slumber: She had to defeat a dragon. She swallowed her fear, grasped her blade more strongly, and braced herself for battle.

Chapter 2a:

“Is Lion’s Arch always this busy?” Myrie asked, ducking behind Selana and keeping her eyes close to her pockets.
“Not always,” Nettle replied. She smiled warmly at the oncoming traffic, which seemed to move them out of their path more than Sylfia’s groggy glower.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that when I give people my most intimidating glare, they don’t pay me any heed, but when you smile, they scurry right off?”
“They’re used to glares,” Nettle answered. “Smiles tend to disturb them.”
“Especially when they’re from you,” Myrie muttered. She zipped out from behind Selana, having noticed that the crowd had thinned. “Can’t we rest for a bit? I’m parched.”
“Did someone say drinks?”
Selana shot Myrie a glower. She eventually relented, sighing and turning to Nettle. “Where would you recommend a tavern?”
She beamed. “I know a place. Come on!”

The four women were crowded around a dingy, grease-stained table. Sylfia had gleefully ordered several drinks, downing them in short succession upon their arrival.
“What?” she asked defensively. “Was I supposed to share?”
“I’m just concerned for your liver, that’s all,” Myrie said, eyes wide in shock. “Have you won any drinking contests?”
Her proud slash of a smile flashed in the bar’s dim light. “I’ve been banned from returning to sev’ral establishments. Sore losers, the lot of ‘em.”
“Why’d you choose this place?” Selana couldn’t quite keep the disgust out of her voice. She flicked a small bolt of lightning at a curious rat, sending it screeching off in the corner, its fur sizzling.
“Privacy. I thought we could all use some friendly girl-bonding time!” Nettle spread her hands in a friendly gesture. “And since everyone else here is either passed out, drunk, or trying to hide, no one will be listening to her conversation. So! I’ll open up our little session with a game of regrets.”
“Regrets?”
“Well, things that you wish you had or hadn’t done. Something you miss. Can be as personal or impersonal as you’d like. I’ll start.” She took her drink from the golem waiter and sipped it. “I regret the sloppiness in my work. It has cost too many priceless ingredients and too much time.” She set her empty glass on the table. “Who’s next?”
“Oi’ll go,” Sylfia slurred. “Oi h’regret… not tryin’ to move past my fear sooner. It’s grand, bein’ free o’ that.” Her tankard was happily and quickly drained.
Selana replaced her half-full wineglass. “I regret not searching for my parents earlier, when my first insecurities and questions began to rise.”
The three looked expectantly at Myrie, who paused mid-drink. “What?” she exclaimed exaperatedly. “Can’t a woman whet her whistle before she speaks?”
“Yer stallin’,” Sylfia chortled. “Come on, we’ve all told somefing.”
“This is silly,” the thief protested.
“Which is exactly why we’re doing it! We’ve got to have something to laugh over; dragons seem less horrible when you’ve got something to joke about.”
After a few good-natured jabs and teasing, she finally relented. “Just let me think about it!” she laughed.
“Better hurry- as soon as Sylfia’s done with her drink, we’re continuing our journey.”
“Don’t even think about stalling,” Selana smiled, eyes glittering with mirth.
A frustrated groan escaped the thief’s mouth. “All right, all right, you warmongers. I’ve got two. You know the first- I wish that I had the courage and sensibility to tell Quinn how I felt before he died. The second is one I haven’t told to anyone outside of my family, so I’d rather you keep it close.”
The other women leaned in. Myrie took a bracing breath.
“I regret the fact that I never pursued my childhood dream of joining the circus.”
Sylfia broke out in spluttering laughs. “Th-the circus?” She keeled over the table and was incomprehensible for the next several minutes.
“What? It’s better than your silly habit of outdrinking all of Tyria! Besides,” she huffed, making a face, “I kind of already got that chance.”
“What do you mean?” Selana asked, failing to keep her lips straight.
“Part of the reason I wanted to join the circus was so that I could travel throughout the world, having adventures and meeting interesting people.” She paused. “And, I’ll admit, I did want to see what I could steal. Imagine the treasures you could get if you had an Elonian prince in the audience! But it turns out that I didn’t need to get painted in ridiculous shades or wear silly costumes to travel and see new folks. We’re our own little traveling circus,” she said. “And let’s be honest, some of us are pretty odd already.”
“Oi’ll second that!” Sylfia cheered. “To the traveling circus!”
“To the circus!” the others cried. They drained their drinks, steadied the warrior- “Oi’m fine!”- and resupplied. They continued their journey to the Grove in much higher spirits.

Very clever I can’t be live you had that moment planned from the start to call it what it is.
Great work

Chapter 3a:

Llumin gasped as the cold air struck her skin. Although she wasn’t warm-sapped, she could still feel the cool, damp breeze of dusky wind as it gently whispered by. Her head swam, and she groped blindly for anything to steady her shaking legs.
“Easy there, sprout,” a voice reassured. “You just woke from the Dream.” Firm, tightly-coiled branches and smooth arms supported her, and someone draped a warm blanket over her shivering body.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“I know it’s not as warm when the sun goes down,” the voice continued, pressing something warm into her hands, “but we’ve helped plenty of Dusk blooms, and few of them were trembling as badly as you were. What happened? Did something happen in your Dream?”
She nodded slowly, raising the cup to her lips and gingerly sipping it. “I had a strange vision- a dragon of vines and branches which hungered for the world. It tried to eat me,” she said uneasily.
“What happened?” Her eyes finally adjusted to the soft moonlight, and her white-blue eyes saw two armored Wardens by her side. She was in a mossy, forested area that throbbed, pulsed, and glowed with life. Other newborn sylvari stumbled out of their pods in various states of confusion. Some wept, while most seemed pleasantly-surprised at the world into which they had awoken. Those who neither wept nor mused seemed sullen, absently absorbed in thoughts whose echoes made Llumin shudder with unease.
She looked into the warm, concerned eyes of the nearest Warden.
“I won,” she said simply.

She had been supplied with clothes and food- hunger was new to her- and had been assigned a place of residence. Other sylvari lived above and below her housing unit, which was formed from leaves that had been sculpted into a residence. It was suitably-homey, yet left enough plainness to allow for decoration. Despite the comforts of this home, she felt uneasy there, as if there was something in the back of her mind she had forgotten. Tales of the world beyond the Grove tickled her ears, and she finally realized that her call was elsewhere. But what of the dragon? A frown creased her face. She hadn’t heard of anyone else who had seen it. If she was the only one with that Dream, did it mean that she was to face it alone? She picked up her sword and leveled it, practicing a few thrusts on a dummy. Her strikes had become more accurate, and her grasp of mental manipulation had made great strides, but were they enough? Surely no-one could take on a dragon by themselves. She sighed and walked out of the terrace, back into the Grove. As soon as she stepped out, a Warden ran up to her, out of breath and an expression of shock on his face.
“You have been summoned. The Pale Mother wishes to speak with you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, somehow managing to keep her voice calm. She wondered what had happened to allow such an important event to occur. “I will be there shortly.”

“You are but one of a very few sylvari who have dreamed about the dragon,” the avatar spoke. Her honeysuckle skin flickered and shimmered as if it was an illusion, and Llumin had to concentrate on the image to keep it steady.
“Who else has dreamed of it?” she asked, fingers absently toying with the grooves on her sword’s grip.
“I have.” A pale, green-skinned sylvari with white hair and dark, leathery armor stepped from the shadows. Her eyes bored into Llumin, who flinched at the intensity of her gaze. “Tell me, Llumin, what did you do when the dragon appeared?”
“I first was very afraid,” she answered honestly. “I had not heard of such a creature from either Ventari or the other Dreamers. Before I had faced it, I thought that something was wrong, as I was the only one against it.”
“You were alone?”
“Yes; all others with whom I had been faded away into the waking world where I stayed behind to fight.”
The Firstborn’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing to thoughts that the young sylvari couldn’t quite follow.
“She will need more training if she is to face a dragon, Caithe,” the Pale Tree smiled.
“I am not suited for such a task,” the Firstborn replied, a frown marring her features.
“No, you are not. But guide her to those who can. Caledon Forest has plenty of people who could train her. In time, she will be able to move forward. I will have them report her progress to me. Perhaps later, she will meet another whose Hunt is twined with hers.” She gave a gentle smile. “Do not be afraid, my child. I sense in you a great power, and a destiny that will change Tyria. Go forth with courage, and remember that home is never further than your thoughts.”

Caledon Forest seemed quite large compared to the Grove, which had in itself seemed astoundingly-huge upon her awakening.
“This is only a small corner of the world- not even that,” Caithe said. She had guided her just past the gate of the Grove and stood there, arms crossed and head tilted. “Whatever the Pale Mother sees in you must be buried deeply; there are secrets and shadows here that you may not yet know.”
“Do you know them?” Llumin’s brow was furrowed with confusion and concern.
The Firstborn’s smile was dark and secretive, almost severe. “Yes. I have no doubt that you shall discover it soon.” She turned around. “I have business to attend to elsewhere. Good luck, Llumin.”

After she had finished training with the Wardens, she was informed of greater dangers- evils that lurked even outside the area closest to the Grove.
“What are Risen?” she asked. The fear from the gardener was palpable.
He shuddered. “Terrible corpses, taken by the sea and given life by the Elder Dragon, Zhaitan. They know not pain or fear, instead charging with the blind hunger of a parasite, seeking to destroy and consume all for their master.”
She was silent for a moment, and in the quiet where only the leaves rustled, the gardener wondered if the sapling even considered going against them. “Can they be killed?” she finally asked.
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. They’re that way,” he pointed. “We sylvari are immune to their corruption, but the grubs and animals aren’t. When the corpses finally are dead, be sure to burn them- Zhaitan has a way of making them rise again even worse than before.”
“Got it,” she smiled. Already she had taken on sadistic Nightmare Court, gigantic mosquitoes, and terrible spiders. How bad could these Risen be?

The slick, slimy, rotten head broke the surface of the water, its gaping, wet-rattling throat wheezing for air. It was instantly met with the pointed end of her sword, spreading its maggoty brains into the water. A foul scent polluted the air, and Llumin gagged. No body, no corpse had ever smelled that way- her former foes had always been living creatures. Though their eyes had glinted with cruelty or animalian hunger, they had lost their lives with the final breath being as pure as their first. Not so with these festering corpses, whose eyes blazed with hunger and rage, and sometimes- worst of all- a semblance of their former intelligence.
“I’m sorry,” she would whisper to those that weren’t completely gone. She whirled around, gasping as an abomination of corpses, mangled and molded into some gigantic creature, gave a gurgling roar and charged at her. She concentrated, flashing from one point to another and dodging its attack. The clone she left behind shattered into dozens of flickering shards, and the abomination swiped at its misshapen head angrily.
“This one,” it growled, bubbles popping in its putrid throat and turning back towards her. “Kill.”

Chapter 4a:

“So, do you have any idea how that thing works?” Myrie’s voice interrupted Selana’s reverie. She had been turning the polished blue stone over in her hands, fingers absently running over its smooth surface.
“It almost resembles an asuran crystal,” she mused. She shifted her gaze towards the thief. “They said that all I had to do was concentrate, but on what?”
“Sometimes the answers are simpler than we make them out to be. Maybe all you have to do is concentrate on the stone, and it will, I don’t know, concentrate back?”
Selana gave her a skeptical look. Myrie shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t say it would be guaranteed to work. It’s just a suggestion.”
“Very well; I suppose it’s worth a shot.” The elementalist shifted her shoulders and focused on the smooth stone, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. Behind her lids, she became aware of a white light which grew in strength until, no matter how scrunched her face was, it rendered her temporarily blind. When she opened her eyes, the burning sensation had faced into a more comforting, almost homey glow. She blinked the afterimage from her eyes, and her face slowly became overtaken by an expression of awe.

She was in a hall filled with crumbling statues, creeping vines, and ancient stonework. Her shoes echoed their clicks through the vaulted stone ceilings, and the back of her robe whispered as it stroked the worn, ash-stained stone. Her eyes drank in the tattered tapestries, the still-flickering torches, and the clear blue sky which flashed through holes in the roof. She gasped as a sudden cold front brought her to a standstill, and when she blinked, a ghost dressed in ancient Ascalonian armor was in front of her. It was as if she was staring at an anachronistic- if slightly shorter- mirror image of herself.
“So you are my namesake,” the ghost hummed. A faint accent graced her authoritative tone. “I have been waiting for you, Selana Firestone. Behold the ruins of the once-proud Eye of the North, bastion of human refuge and the first meeting-place of the human, asuran, and norn races. We have much to discuss.”

“The source of your power and all who are descended from me can attribute their increased elemental capabilities to my husband- Jameel Zawba’a. His name meant ‘beautiful storm’, and he was as capricious as he was amazing. Of course, he was arrogant. Any djinn is. And yes, he was a pure force of nature and has returned to that state, whereas I am but a shade of my former life.”
“How did you meet him- and how on earth did you manage to convince him to stay with you?”
The ghost laughed. “One thing I can say that I’ve passed on is my stubbornness- and that played a major role in our relationship. To make a long story short, I once was traveling to Elona to help defeat a fallen god and restore a country that was in civil war when I met him. Gryphon and another friend of mine, a ranger by the name of Ryan Arrowswift, had already moved on from a point where I stayed to inspect a cache of treasure. When I went closer to investigate, Jameel and several other djinn appeared, laughing at my foolish curiosity. They thought it was hilarious that I would ignore the warnings they had placed around the loot to risk a chance of earning a fitting reward. They convened to decide my fate while I secretly sent messages on the wind requesting aid and warning my party members of my situation. For a while, I assessed the situation and was silent while doing so. After I had discerned that Jameel was the leader and had overheard his name, I challenged him to a battle of wits. Amused at the thought of a mortal elementalist challenging his immortal self, he agreed. We dueled for quite a while, and when Gryphon finally informed me of his approaching location, I had managed to stump him. Rather than bow to his threats and displays of anger, I offered to have him allow my removal of some of their enchanted treasure. He agreed, and for a while, I considered myself rid of him. However, several years after returning to Kryta, I heard tale of a sailor who excelled in riddles and always sought the answer to one that he had never solved. He had offered enormous rewards to the one who could give it to him and had beaten intellectuals from around the world in his quest. Though he had learned more riddles and had countless philosophies added to his repertoire, he still had but one riddle which no-one could answer. I went to see if I could solve this conundrum and was surprised to find that the riddler already knew my name. We engaged in another war of the minds until dawn of the next day, after which he finally demanded to know the answer to a riddle which I had posed to only one creature years before, where the blazing sands and battle of thoughts burned as hot as the sun above. At that moment, I knew whom I dueled, and I finally gave him the answer. I was impressed by his determination, and he by my memory. After several other matches of wits and elemental caliber- some of which went on for months at a time- he and I were wed and had a rather wonderful life up until my death. When I passed away, I did so with the knowledge and sense that the end of my life was not the true discontinuation of my tale. I felt as though some of my possessions from my travels would prove useful to my descendants and elected to haunt the Eye of the North, where I met many other friends. Jameel eventually returned to his elemental form, and I stayed here, waiting for those who would use the portal stone to visit and claim what I have kept for centuries.”
The ghost smiled proudly at her descendant. Selana, for her part, was impressed yet confused.
“But how does that relate to unlocking this ‘power’ you referred to?” Her ancestor’s specter tilted her head.
“To be quite frank, the answer seems different for all who have asked the same question,” it hummed. “For you, though, the fact that you are so similar in appearance and temperament to me when I was your age seems unusual. The rage of the tempest that is contained within you is astoundingly-strong. Do not forget your heritage. Remember my tale, and that of your great-ancestor-father. Though the answers to life may seem impossible, know that there are few things which cannot be solved through determination, hard work, and the aid of those around you.”
“Aid?”
Selana Firestone- the ghost, that is- winked. “How do you think I managed to come up with an answer that stumped a djinn? Never fight alone, child, and go with my blessing. Your sister needs a calm mind and welcoming heart to see her towards the truth of her conflicting emotions.” The specter closed her eyes and sighed, shaking her head with a light laugh. “Who would have thought that one day I could claim a tree-child as my descendant?”

Chapter 5a:
“Again!” The Warden’s voice broke into Llumin’s thoughts, shattering her concentration. She flinched, and her opponent’s sword hissed by her ear. A kick to her stomach sent her reeling back, and she coughed sap. The sylvari strode across from her, sneering down at her prone form.
“Pathetic. You think you’ll be able to take on the dragons in that shape? If you keep flinching at every little thing and noise that startles you, you’ll be dead before you go back out there. The Pale Mother must have been watching over you for you to have survivied that assault on the Wardenlight trees.”
“I had help,” she coughed, steadying herself and rising shakily. “Mother said that we should never fight alone.”
“But what if your foes are around you and your allies slain? There will be times where the only blade you’ll be able to trust is your own. You Dusk blooms really ought to get your heads out of your books and train more.”
A high-pitched chime reached Llumin’s ears. She smiled. “I’m sorry, but I do believe that was your summons, wasn’t it? Thank you for the lessons. I’ll keep your concerns in mind.”

She limped back to the Dreamer’s Terrace and sat down heavily, wincing at the bruises she had sustained. Although she had put on a brave face, the truth of the matter was that her injuries were much more painful than she had let on. If war was a mind game, then let her foes believe her to always smile. Sometimes a laugh could be more intimidating than a war-cry.
A shout of pain echoed loudly through the corridors. Startled, she raced towards its source. A male sylvari with pale white skin and dark green leaves for hair lay prostrate on a mender’s table. His teeth were clenched in agony, and his eyes were squeezed shut.
“You!” A mender had noticed Llumin’s presence and pointed at her. “Bring me some water; his fever’s increasing. Hurry!”
She rushed out and grabbed a pitcher plant, filling it with the cool liquid and giving it to the mahogany-skinned healer. She sprinkled some dried blue flowers into it and scooped up the rehydrated blooms, smoothing them into a paste and spreading them on her patient’s forehead. Almost immediately, his screams ceased, settling down into quiet moans of pain. The mender sighed in relief.
“Thank you. We found him at the edge of a Nightmare Court’s camp. He had been badly wounded; it’s a miracle that he’s survived this long.” She gestured to his armor, which grew in thick, bark-like plates from his chest and shoulders. “He had no forms of identification on him, save for his shield. Do you recognize it?”
Llumin glanced at the mender’s pointed direction. The crescent-shaped shield was made of black branches that glowed from the inside with the pale light of the moon. A black tree graced its center. Her brow furrowed.
“You know, I may have seen something like that in my Dream,” she murmured. A memory flickered beneath a hazy surface- a guardian rushing into battle, brandishing that very item. “The Shield of the Moon,” she whispered. The patient stirred once more, eyes blinking slowly.
“He’s coming to! Easy, now,” the mender soothed. “You’re safe.”
“Ysvelta,” he muttered, eyes hazy. “Where is she?”
“Don’t try to sit up,” the sylvari scolded, holding his shoulders in a firm grasp. “You seem a bit overeager to rush back into battle. Rest first.”
“They have her; they’ve taken her from me,” he whispered, his glassy eyes dancing skittishly about the room. “She’ll be doomed….”
Llumin took a deep breath. “Hello. I know your face from my Dream. Perhaps I could help you find this Ysvelta?”
His eyes locked on hers, piercing through her unsteady smile. She suddenly felt very inadequate for whatever task he had attempted, and at the same time, a surge of pity rose in her.
“You love her very much, don’t you?” she said softly. “I can see that. If the Nightmare Court has her, I’m sure she’ll endure for you as you are doing right now for her.” She slowly held out a hand. “I’m Llumin.”
He hesitated before extending his own and shaking it. “Tiachren,” he replied. His gaze was clearer. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Those cowards poisoned me with nettlebane before leaving me there to die. Ysvelta is my wife; we were married about a year ago. We had been on a picnic to celebrate our anniversary when the Court ambushed us and kidnapped her. I tried to hold them off- to save her from them…” His fist clenched in frustration. “There were too many. They kicked me like a dog, lashed at me with words and swords, and left me for dead. I cannot give up on her, though. If the Court thinks they can dissuade me from rescuing my love through simple means of pain, they are wrong.” He grunted and sat up, swinging his legs over the table.
“Careful!” the mender snapped. “I just reset those ribs. You’re going to need to wait for them to-”
“If I wait any longer, she may be dead,” Tiachren retorted, eyes blazing. “How would you live with yourself if you knew that the death of your truest love and greatest friend was caused by simple inaction? I appreciate what you’ve done, but I’ve already lost time.” He grabbed his helmet, hands shaking as he placed it over his head.
“Wait!” He glanced back at Llumin. “I noticed you for a reason; the Dream shows us what is important to our future. If I saw you, than it must mean that you require my aid. Let me join you. Perhaps together we can rescue Ysvelta.”
Tiachren’s jaw shifted as he thought about the idea. For a long second, Llumin thought he may turn down her offer. “Very well; I could use another hand. Come on; I overheard them saying they’d be taking her to Bramble Pass. Prepare yourself quickly; we leave in minutes.”

Chapter 5b:

“They told me you’re a mesmer,” he said, pushing aside a branch to let her pass through.
“I’m only just getting the hang of it,” she replied humbly. “It’s hard to master the manipulation of reality.”
“The fact that you are advancing instead of giving up is a good sign.”
“To say that I haven’t considered it would be a lie.”
“Ah, but you haven’t,” he said. He smiled as he trudged forward. “And that is what matters. As long as you keep pursuing, you are certain to find your goal.”
Llumin was silent for the next several steps, mulling over the idea. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “I hope that it will be the case with Ysvelta.”
Tiachren gave a strained laugh. “If it isn’t, I don’t know what I would do.”
“I’m sure she’s-” Llumin hushed herself as the low crunching sound of passing boots stalked by her. The guardian followed suit, crouching in the shadows and peering out with wary attention.
“What a raid,” one of the Nightmare courtiers laughed, thrusting his sword into the ground and sitting on a nearby stump. “I didn’t think there would be so many unprotected.”
“Refreshing, isn’t it?” his companion smirked. “So innocent. So new from the Dream.” He gave a satisfied sigh. “How easily they should turn to Nightmare.”
“Perhaps.” A third member of their party spoke up, her haughty voice pricking Llumin’s mind with unease. “Some of our captives aren’t quite so fresh to this world, are they?”
“Who, the picnicking wife? Pah. She’ll forget her dear husband soon enough.”
“Hopefully the memory of his broken corpse will linger just a while longer, though,” laughed the first. “Such delicious agony! So potent.”
“Do not dwell on your victories and spoils just yet, my dears,” the woman purred. “The task ahead shall still be delightful and even more delectable.”
Llumin laid a hand on Tiachren’s straining form, holding him back. “We cannot rush out there,” she hissed. “We shall be slaughtered.”
“They are speaking of my wife,” he whispered back fiercely. “They talk of her as if she is some… plaything or experiment! If we rush out now-”
“If we rush out now, we waste any further chances of learning the protection around her cell. We cannot afford to lose this opportunity. Let them rest. Hopefully their arrogance will cause them to slip up.”
He gave her one furious glare before gritting his teeth and settling back onto the ground. “One hour,” he growled. “If they do not speak of her again by willful carelessness, I will force her location from their lips by other means.”

Chapter 6a:

“Thief!”
Selana’s head jerked up at the cry, and instantly her gaze snapped to where Myrie had been but moments ago. Though they were no longer in Lion’s Arch, they had somehow managed to run across a merchant’s caravan upon their arrival at the Grove. Nettle had constantly been the cause of crowd dispersion and suspicious whisperings, and Sylfia was already in a shouting match with a Warden. The last thing the elementalist needed on this humid afternoon was for Myrie’s thieving ways to make a reappearance.
“Someone stole my brooch!” the anguished victim howled. Selana gave Nettle a glance.
“I’ll see if I can calm her down,” she sighed. “Although I’m not sure that’s something you’ll want me to try.”
“It’s better than what Sylfia would be able to do,” Selana grimaced, glancing over at the fiery sylvari.
“Fair enough.” The necromancer craned her neck, peering on tiptoes over the crowd. “Found her. I’ll be back.”
As the pale sylvari disappeared into the throng of plant-people, the human walked towards Sylfia, where the warrior was currently continuing what seemed to be a combined string of protests, insults, and wheedling.
“…and you can’t possibly think that yer pretty little ‘ead would stand a chance against my fist, wouldja? C’mon, you barking stick-spine, lemme ‘ave just a sip!”
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Sylfia, the last time you were at this establishment, you destroyed several years’ worth of careful shaping, three kegs of nectar, and two chairs- not to mention you nearly lit Firstborn Trahearne’s writing corner on fire.”
“Oi, one corner with pens is just a mess to someone like me. And Oi thought someone said there was poison in those kegs!”
“I’m sure someone with such a grand scholarly view would be an expert on such a thing.” The Warden rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “But no matter how much you shout or threaten physical violence, you will not change my mind; you are not getting into this bar!”
Sylfia gave a shout of frustration. “Oi apologized! Oi’ve offered to pay, and-”
“Sylfia.”
“Oh, ‘ey there, fleshy. Miss Bramble-knickers and Oi were just-”
“Arguing about the legality of your entrance into a bar into which you have been banned?” The elementalist folded her arms and tilted her head, smiling slightly. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re going to win this one. And unless you want to end up in prison- do sylvari have prisons? I thought so. As I was saying, unless you want to get arrested, I suggest you drop this one.”
The warrior snarled, hefting her hammer over her shoulder. For a moment, Selana thought that she was going to attack. However, she simply turned on her heel and stalked away, muttering that she would try finding another place to get a drink.
“I apologize,” Selana said, turning back towards the Warden.
“You don’t need to,” she replied, running a hand over her leaf-plated head. “She’s always been like this. I’d keep an eye on her, but I think that she’s good at heart.”
A distant shout reached their ears. The Warden grimaced.
“That is, if you can bear to break through her thick skull.”

Nettle wove deftly through the crowd, slipping through the people as easily as a silk ribbon. Though the greater population of the Grove did not know of her … eclectic hobbies, there was enough of a psychic resonance that those who were especially attuned to her race’s empathetic tendencies would shudder or glance in her direction when she passed by. She didn’t mind or pay them any heed; for now her concerns were elsewhere.
“Excuse me, but have you seen a short, brown-haired human around here? She’s kind of jumpy, got green eyes, and slightly-dirty pale pink skin.”
A maroon-haired, green-skin sylvari twitched slightly at her hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she smiled. “You just seemed as though you were searching for something.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” he laughed. He peered over her shoulder. “I hope you find your friend. If you’ll excuse me….”
He tried moving forward, but she slipped in front of him, tilting her head. “I’m sure you’d be able to help. What’s your name?”
He wove around her again before being turned around by her once more. “Elmfrond,” he replied, trying to keep a civil tone. “Is there anything else you need?”
“You certainly seem twitchy, sprout,” she grinned. “Got somewhere to be?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he retorted, pushing past her again. “I recently sold a bit of jewelry at the trader’s, and I’m off to pick up my profits.”
“Oh? What kind of jewelry?”
His golden eyes narrowed. “What matter is it to you?”
“Quite a bit,” she purred. “A friend of mine just told me that you’re a thief- and I do recall hearing a shriek about a missing brooch. Since my recent companion seems to have a rule against thievery from common-folk…”
“What are you implying?”
At that moment, a familiar voice called out.
“Hey, Nettle! Just thought I’d get some supplies and see if we could find some lodging. I think there are some apartment-things we’ll be allowed to stay in and…”
“Myrie! So good to see you. You haven’t had a brooch recently come into your possession, have you?”
“What? No. I mean, I craft them from time to time, but I haven’t got one as of late. Why?”
Both women turned to Elmfrond, who was fidgeting with his gloves.
“Well, this is awkward. You seem to have caught me in a rather sticky situation. So if you’ll excuse me…”
With a sudden jerk, the sylvari ducked Nettle’s grasp, rolling onto the ground and out of the crowd.
“Hey! Get back here!”
“I found the thief!” Myrie called. “And he wasn’t me!”

Chapter 7a:

Llumin suppressed a shudder as Tiachren finished cleaning his blade. Although she had considered it dishonorable, he had insisted that by reducing their numbers down to one, the resulting intimidation of being the last man standing would cause the Nightmare Courtier to be much more willing to speak on Ysvelta’s location and that of the other captured sylvari. He had stalked over and slit their throats in their sleep, covering their mouths as soon as his blade slid over their necks. It was a cold, efficient job, and Llumin couldn’t help but think that love, though surely it was spoken of as wonderful, must also be a terrifyingly strong force.
“He’s waking.” The guardian’s voice interrupted her stunned silence, shaking her out of her shock. She nodded mutely.
At first, the Courtier did not realize what had happened. He rubbed his eyes once, twice, and looked up at them, his eyes flashing with cruel recognition and glee. He saw them as prey, and he reached for his weapons, calling out to his allies- only to realize with horror that they were dead at his side. Tiachren gave a triumphant snarl and crouched over him, planting a boot on his chest and causing his foe’s sword-grasp to falter.
“Talk,” he demanded. “Unless you want to end up like your companions, you will answer my questions. Any lies, and my friend will slowly peel your mind apart layer by layer until you are nothing but a jabbering stalk.”
A jolt of terror flashed through her mind. Was she really expected to do what he said and use her abilities, fledgling though they were, to cause this kind of pain? Was she able to?
The Courtier sneered and coughed, scrabbling to push the oppressive foot from his chest.
“You’re the husband, aren’t you? You’re harder to kill than we thought. Coward. If you think that you’ll be able to make me talk-”
His broke off his boast, screaming in pain as Tiachren shoved his foot harder onto him. A sharp, wet crack echoed like a thunderbolt in Llumin’s ears.
“Where is my wife?” he hissed.
“Renvari!” the courtier gasped. “Renvari has them! They’re in the holding area by the Wardenlight tower. I heard him speak that he planned on converting them to Nightmare soon- that some were already breaking from the lie of the Dream! Please, that’s all I know!”
Tiachren’s lips thinned into a grim line. The courtier squirmed beneath his boot.
“Tiachren,” Llumin spoke softly, as if to a wild beast. She took a cautious step. “He has already told us what we need to know. Let him go.”
“He is Nightmare- the personification of evil. He stole the most precious treasure in my life, and who knows how many he has caused to fall?”
“Yes, but remember Ventari’s sayings. ‘The blossom is brother to the weed. Everything has a right to grow.’”
For a long second, the only sounds she heard were the quick beats of her heart and the rapid, shallow breaths of the guardian across from her and the slow, sluggish groans of the man beneath his boot. The eternal minute finally passed, broken by Tiachren’s sigh.
“Very well,” he said, stepping off of the broken chest. “I will let him go.”
Llumin closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. Finally. She would feel better with the knowledge that-
A sharp, hissing cry echoed through the wood, and her eyes snapped open to see the courtier fall to the ground, clutching at his chest as he sank onto the forest floor. Tiachren stood defiant, sneering at the dead sylvari.
“No-one like that,” he said slowly, turning his eyes to hers, “deserves to live.”

Chapter 7b:

“You said you were going to let him go!” Although she already knew he was dead, she still tried to stop the flow of blood from the dead man’s chest as some illogical corner of her mind echoed with two words that repeated themselves over and over: Save him! She finally stopped trying to stop the bleeding and set him down slowly, running her fingers over his eyelids to close them.
“I did. I freed him from that cruel frame of mind he was trapped in.” His mouth twisted. “Why would you save him?”
“Is that not what we are called to do- to save even the most despicable? By killing them, are we any better than they?”
A cold edge bit into her throat. Tiachren held his blade against her neck.
“And if they were to kill you first, would you be heralded as a martyr for a greater cause?” he hissed. “What if they threatened to take away everything good in the world? Would you defend them then? What if they burned the entire Grove and killed everyone inside? Sometimes for the blossom to grow, the weed must be culled.” He removed his sword from her neck and stalked away. “I did not allow you to come with me to slow me down. If you insist upon saving every wolf who preys upon the sheep of this world, than you are too naïve to travel by my side. I cannot wait for every courtier to have a change of heart, were that even possible.”
Llumin closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath and swallowing. She had heard the Nightmare courtiers boast of their conquests and kills, speaking of other sylvari as if they were nothing more than entertaining insects or playthings.
“Perhaps you are right,” she finally called, standing and walking back towards him, “but let us not descend to their ways. If we can spare them or if we have promised them freedom, let them escape with their lives. In the heat of battle such things are obviously impossible, but isn’t there enough violence already?”
Tiachren was silent, although he did not object to her presence alongside him.
“You haven’t experienced what they are capable of,” he murmured coolly. “We can discuss this later. For now, we go to Renvari.”

They killed the guards outside of the cells quickly and quietly, taking their clothes and disguising themselves. When the next group of courtiers passed through the gates, Llumin and Tiachren blended in with them and slipped in unnoticed.
“They won’t even suspect what’s going on!” one of the guards laughed. “Isn’t it delightful? Using their own friends against them! Those Dreamers won’t have it in them to raise their swords against their old loved ones.”
“They’ll see soon enough- but hush! Lord Renvari is heading this way.”
Llumin strained her neck to caution a glimpse of the courtier as he descended the thorny stairs and walked their way, stepping with the cool arrogance of a lion. His skin was a bright gold, and the leaves of his hair were swept into a tall line of spikes down the center of his head. Although he was handsome, there was something about his presence that made the mesmer shudder. He smiled at one of the guards in the front of her group, tilting his head.
“I see that you have done well with those Dreamer whelps,” he purred. “Already three of them have turned to Nightmare.”
The courtier in front bowed her head hurriedly. “It is with pleasure that we hear of this success, my lord,” she murmured. “How quickly the others should-”
“What I want to know,” he interrupted, “is why I have not heard the report from our gate guards about the newest captures?”
Tiachren’s gaze locked onto hers. Make no sound and be quiet, it seemed to command. To have their cover blown now would be disastrous, and she doubted that the Nightmare Court would let them live after their infiltration.
“Newest captures?” the guard stuttered. “We haven’t had any new catches from our recent raids. If there had been, I am sure the gate watch would have let you know straight away, my lord.”
“Oh, I know there haven’t been any new ‘recruits,’” Renvari said. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a flaming blade and buried it to the hilt in the guard’s chest. The horrid scent of charred magic and the sweet-bitter tang of burning blood filled Llumin’s nostrils, and she held back a gag as the guard toppled to the ground, clutching at her chest and choking on her boiling blood. An uneasy silence filled the air.
“Gather this one for my pyre,” he snapped. “And unless I hear that we have caught any new Dreamers by sundown, all of you will burn!”

Chapter 8a:

Elmfrond squirmed unhappily as Sylfia held firmly onto his wrist.
“I don’t even see why it was so important,” he huffed.
“Personally, Oi don’t think it was. We’ll all die sometime, anyway, but the fewer shrieking people, the better.”
“You seem awfully distant.”
“Oi’m nearly sober. Everything’s distant and loud.”
“Well, maybe you should try being drunk less often.” He smiled at her.
She grimaced. “Dare suggest such an ‘orrible thing again, and I’ll knock that noggin of yours into next week.”
Myrie jogged up to them. “Selana’s got good and bad news. The good news is that we were able to find the victim who had lsot the brooch. The bad news is that we can’t retract the sale and are now landed with this fellow’s debt.” She jerked her thumb at Elmfrond. “And we’ve lost Nettle.”
“Well, we can resolve one of those.”
“How’s that?”
Selana strode stiffly towards them, the back of her cloak snapping with her stride. “Sylfia, please release your grasp on him. We wouldn’t want our newest guildmember to be bruised, would we?”
Myrie gave a snort. “How many billets do you intend on buying? Surely you can’t have that much money left.”
The elementalist closed her money pouch with a sharp click. “What makes you think I have any to spare? You vagabonds are ridiculously expensive to leash.”
“Leash?” Myrie’s eyebrow rocketed upward. “Are we some sort of expensive dog, O Grand Lady? If you’d like a trick, I could disappear.”
“Oh, shaddap,” Sylfia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose and scrunching her face. “Right now, we’ve got to focus on finding Nettle. Who knows what that batty necro’s up to now.”
“For all the bellyaching you do, she seems relatively tame.”
“You haven’t known her for most of your life,” the warrior retorted, giving a glance down at Myrie. “And I don’t know what conversation she’s had with those other nobles, but I can tell you she’s been restraining herself from tasting any of your blood.”
“How can you tell?”
The smile she received in turn was taut like the string on her bow. “She’s been baring her teeth. Every breath she takes, she claims she can sense the blood of those around her. She says she can taste the magic lingering in the air, and that certain people have more of it than others.”
Elmfrond cleared his throat. “Well. That sounds unpleasant. You bought her billet, didn’t you, Miss…?”
“Firestone. Lady Selana Firestone. And no, I have not.”
Sylfia gave a rasping laugh. “Well. Be prepared to find a body soon. This diversion may have gained us a new friend, but we might need to answer for a missing person.”
“Speaking of missing person,” Myrie drawled, fiddling with her dagger, “how on earth do you plan on finding Llumin? This will definitely slow our search down.”
Despite the raw nerves and the hazards presented by the missing necromancer, Elmfrond perked up.
“You know her?”
“Do you?”
“Yes; I met her in the Dream before I woke. I’m a Noon bloom, but she was born later at Dusk. She’s rather different, but what do I know?” he shrugged.
Selana’s face had drained of color. “You know Llumin,” she whispered.
Elmfrond raised a brow. “Yes?”
“Llumin is…Well, I know how this will sound, but … she’s my sister. I need to find her.”
The sylvari narrowed his eyes. “Hmm,” he murmured. “You don’t seem like you’re lying, but how is that possible?”
“Long story,” Myrie interrupted, moving past him. She straightened her collar. “Where’d you see her last?”
“Well, I didn’t see her,” he said, “but last I knew, she was heading to the Nightmare Court with Tiachren. Some other saplings- that is, newly-awakened Dreamers- have gone missing, and they’re trying to rescue them.”

Chapter 9a:

She had slipped back through the portal to Lion’s Arch and strode across the pavilion to the Black Citadel. Salt tang and must gave way to the smells of hot metal and oil; if the Grove was an enormous forest, the Citadel was a thrumming, groaning machine. Beneath the scent of industry, the distinct aroma of blood rose from below, where arenas held fights between some of the city’s more explosive tempers. This was the heart of Ascalon, where the feline, bipedal charr lived. She appreciated their tenacity, but disliked their musk, which was rather odd and reminded her of a strange mix of bear and panther- heady and very wild.
A gate guard had noticed her passing and gave a low, throaty laugh. “Hey, sprout,” he called, “you’re in the wrong place for someone of your kind, aren’t you?”
She stopped in her stride and tilted her head, not bothering to turn around. “Someone of my kind?” she repeated curiously. “What do you mean? Are you saying that I am weak? I am not. If you are implying that I am ignorant to the ways of war, that is also incorrect. And if you think that I am simply stopping here for a stroll in the steel, you are wrong. Now, if you think that because I am sylvari that I do not belong…” Here she turned slightly to him and gave a small smile. “I believe I would be more cautious before insulting someone. Your armor seems oddly bare, so what place does a rankless, warband castout of a gladium like you have in spewing such unkind words?”
The guard gave a snarl, bearing his weapon and stomping closer. His tail lashed the air furiously. “Why, you-!”
“Ah-ah!” She held up a hand. “What would your supervisor say if he saw you abandoning your post, soldier? You’ve already been cast out once. Do you really think he’d be so lenient as to allow a risk such as yourself to go unpunished?”
He gave another growl, his ears pinned back, and slowly, deliberately turned back and stalked to his post.
“I’d be more careful, mouse,” he rumbled, scraping his claws against the hilt of his sword. His eyes were burning slits. “I don’t care if you’re the most powerful walking cabbage in the world. No-one insults a charr without consequence.”
She simply turned back to her original path and continued walking. There was someone she had to meet.

The sylvari pursed her lips and sipped from her ale once more. Of all the establishments that her contact could have chosen to meet, the Serrated Blade was perhaps one of the roughest. The charr liked their drinks the same way they enjoyed their machinery – with plenty of strength and iron to them. She was glad to have ordered the smaller brew; it felt as though she was drinking oil that might leave her with a pounding headache later. Despite the scent, there was something addictive to it, and she finished it with a determined swig. The rising aftertaste caused her to cough, and she blinked away tears, clearing her throat and blinking rapidly. A low, amused chuckle reached her ears.
“You made a good choice, sylvari.” A sleek, black-furred charr stalked behind her and settled on the adjacent stool. “Not many can stand the Iron Legion’s specialty.” She held up a claw, and the owner set a mug of the thick brew in front of her. She nodded once, causing the gears in her horns to flash dully in the light of the braziers. Nettle watched her calmly as she drank the ale in a quick succession of gulps. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” she sighed contentedly. Her voice was slightly raspy, and her golden eyes inspected the sylvari shrewdly. “You’re not the kind to socialize much, are you?” she hummed with a low rolling sound in the back of her throat.
“Are you?” she asked curiously. The charr sighed, sliding her mug back to the barkeep and resting her muzzle on her hand.“You know, after all this time, you think you’d remember how our transactions work,” Nettle said.
“Perhaps if it was less shady, I’d be more inclined to work with you.”
“All I request are a few of your delightful concoctions! You get paid, and I get what I want. Isn’t that how business transactions work?”
The charr shifted her gaze to the sylvari, leather armor sliding against itself. “What you are ordering,” she growled, her ears laying back against her horns, “are high-grade toxins. For the past month I’ve complied with your requests without saying a peep, but my superiors are beginning to get a bit twitchy about my shipments. Ingredients are beginning to be noticed as missing, and those who used to know about them are also gone.”
“Ooh, knifed them, did you? I like that.”
The charr snarled, and her mane of black fur trembled with rage as she hunched over the sylvari. “Warbands do not knife themselves, mouse,” she growled. “I’ve had to pay off inquisitive minds for too long. What are you using my poisons for?”
Nettle sighed, looking at the greasy metal ceiling. “I should have known you’d eventually ask. Experiments. I’m using them in experiments.”
“What kind of experiments?” The scent of lion and the tang of metal assaulted Nettle’s nostrils. “Answer me, sprout- you don’t just use those on simple fieldmice, do you?”
“And of what matter is it to you, charr? I thought you were fine with our arrangement.”
“I was, until a member of our Legion was found dead with a vial of my brew pumped into his skull. You were careless.”
“He deserved a public death.”
“He may have used unconventional means to find his information, but had he not made the decision to send his troops into Fireheart Rise, we would have had no opportunity to discover the encroaching threats of those human Separatists!”
“I’m sure the surrounding villages were very thankful for their crops being burned down. Winter killed the innocents of that raid.”
“And you killed a commanding officer!” The charr was standing now, and her hackles were raised. Some of the other patrons had paused in their drinking and were giving them curious looks.
Nettle cleared her throat, and the charr flicked her eyes at the spectators, who returned slowly to their mugs.
“Perhaps we should take this someplace more private,” the charr muttered. She hefted a large, flaming rifle over her shoulder. “If you still want my business, there are some things we’ll need to sort out.”