Guild Wars 2

Chapter 15b:

Llumin’s heart soared. He had made his choice; the Nightmare would not claim him today. Although this was an invaluable boost to their defenses and chances of survival, now was not the time for celebration. Spittle flecked her face, and she turned to the side, grimacing as a snarling Courtier leapt towards her and landed on her drawn sword.
“Well, that was stupid of you,” she muttered, kicking his corpse off. A roar alerted her to a charging knight, and she quickly crouched, rolling to the side and dodging his attack. “Does the Nightmare Court make you an idiot in addition to a megalomaniac?” she shouted, punting him in the rear as he flew past. He fell to the ground with a yelp, which she cut short with her blade.
“Tiachren?” she shouted.
“Do not interfere!” he commanded, panting as he blocked Ysvelta’s wild swing with his shield. He was bleeding from several wounds on his face and arms. “This is my fight!”
Well, that’s all very good and fine of you, she thought, gasping as she whirled below a stroke that nearly cleft her neck in two, but there is a town to concern yourself with! Their defenses were running low; natural-grown turrets had been decimated, and the Wardens who remained were concerning themselves with ensuring the safety of the citizens. Oh, Pale Mother, she prayed, arms weary and lungs burning, help us.
A shadow fell from the canopy above, landing on a courtier’s shoulders. It fired two shots into his head, flipped off of his still-standing corpse, and landed behind her, still shooting at the surrounding enemies. A strange, fleshy face grinned up at her, eyes bright.
“Heya! Name’s Myrie Ward, and I’ve brought assistance.”
A red horror of a sylvari lunged from the shattered gate, roaring in fury and with a hammer of ancient stone. She was followed by another agile form, weaving through the air with a set of daggers and maroon, leafy hair. The last to follow were a pale necromancer who grasped a skull and a fire-headed ivory woman who rained fire upon the attacking forces.
“Don’t strike them and try not to worry,” the woman behind her continued, arms jolting from her pistols’ recoil. “The red one’s Sylfia, greenie’s Elmfrond, and pale leafy’s Nettle. I’m human, as is the tall one over there who keeps ashing those nasty Nightmare whatsits.” She swapped to a set of daggers and crouched low. “Excuse me a moment,” she said cheerily. With that, she leapt back into the writhing mass of bodies in the town’s center. Llumin nodded mutely, reacting too late to realize that the human had lunged into the thickest part of the battle. She blinked, refocusing on the task at hand. Tiachren and Ysvelta still struggled in the corner of the town, and Renvari was by the gates. Whoever these people were, they had seemed to turn the tides of battle; Nightmare Courtiers and Wardens alike were briefly stunned by their appearance, and it took a precious second for the attackers to realize that the newcomers were not on their side.
“Regroup!” Renvari snarled, pointing his sword at a nearby lackey. “Don’t let these simpering fools convince you they’ve won! We won’t give up until they’re all turned to Nightmare or ash!”
The whimpering Courtier turned to respond, but was thrust forcefully in the air from below. Renvari’s eyes widened as the screeching Courtier pinwheeled through the air, frowning in disgust as he landed heavily on a spiked tower. He whirled back to the empty space where his guard had been. “Who are you?” he spat, arching an eyebrow at the figure in front of him.
The stone hammer-head lowered, revealing an angular face whose features were twisted in a vicious snarl of glee.
“Name’s Sylfia Wyldcaller,” she grinned, hefting her hammer high. “And Oi’m gonna be the one to smash yer pretty likkle ‘ead into the ground!”

Chapter 15a:

The Nightmare Court did not announce their presence loudly. They instead slunk their way through the forest, only making themselves known when they let loose a hail of black arrows, tipped with deadly poisons which ravaged the flesh of those they struck.
“Get down!” Tiachren roared, conjuring a magical barrier to deflect the attack. “This is only the first wave! Brace the gates!”
The wood was reinforced with vines, but it still buckled under the assault. A Shaper turned to them, her face taut with fear.
“We can’t hold out forever! I’m using all of my concentration to strengthen the vines, but -”
An arrow dove from the sky, striking her in the throat, and she crumpled to the ground with a gurgling gasp.
“They’re upon us!” Llumin cried, leaping back as another arrow bit hungrily into the ground by her. “Prepare yourselves!”
The gate held for a brief few seconds before buckling beneath the assault. Nightmare courtiers swarmed into the clearing and were met with the swords and shields of its defenders. At the back of the chaos stood its two directors, eyes gleaming with mad glee and ravenous hunger.
Llumin saw Tiachren’s sword falter as he stared at them. Although she recognized Renvari, Ysvelta’s lovely features had been altered by the frenzy etched across them, transforming them into an unrecognizable mask of rage and bloodlust. Renvari stalked forward, his face grim and eyes dancing as he conjured a set of flaming blades. Ysvelta followed closely behind, cleaving through the defenders like an elegant thorn.
“I told you I would have you,” she called to Tiachren. “Whether or not you join me in death or in the Court is your decision, love. But ask yourself this- is it worth risking these lovely people,” she paused, gripping the throat of an orange-skinned sylvari, and gazed directly at him, “just to keep yourself ‘pure?’” She squeezed, and with the crunching of delicate vines and veins, she dropped his corpse. “Wouldn’t it be more pleasant,” she asked, sending mesmeric clones of herself forward, shattering them on a guard to his right, “if you were to simply come with me?” She was nearly upon them now, and Llumin was stuck fighting in a different part of the town, unable to reach Tiachren.
“Stay strong!” she screamed above the chaos and din of battle. “Don’t listen to her!”
He was silent, and for an odd moment, the battle quieted. Though the forms around them seethed and struggled, he stood still, his face unreadable. Ysvelta weaved forward, walking gracefully towards him and reaching to his face with a delicate blue hand.
“Come with me,” she whispered, her eyes seeking his own. “Don’t you remember what we once were? We were unstoppable.” She gently traced his jawline, smiling slightly. He reached up and grabbed her hand, his fingers shaking as he ran a thumb over the back of her fingers.
“What we once were,” he whispered uncertainly, staring at their twined fingers. A heartbeat, two heartbeats passed.
He snapped his gaze back to hers, eyes narrowing. Uncertainty and fear flashed upon her face, and her smile faltered. With a surge of rage, he cast down her hand, drawing his weapon. It was only her reflexes that saved her from death; she blocked his lunge with her sword and rolled back, eyes wide with betrayed terror.
“How dare you say that to me!” he snarled, voice cracking. “Would the woman I loved murder innocents?” He rushed at her again, shattering a clone which had taken her place. “Would the woman I knew kill for pleasure?”
“Tiachren –!”
“Do not speak my name, witch!” he roared. “You chose your path! Now let me choose mine.”

~~~
“And that’s our cue,” Myrie grinned, firing a shot into the trunk of her perch. “Let’s give those bad heads some knocking!”

Chapter 14b:

The Wardens acted quickly. After explaining the danger to them, Tiachren and Llumin helped with escorting civilians from the town. Those who remained shored up the defenses, readying countermeasures to protect the town from the Court.
“Do you hear them yet?” Llumin asked, breathing shallow as she hefted a panel onto a makeshift barricade.
“No, but keep moving,” Tiachren replied, pausing to direct a confused woman towards the safe area. “Don’t come out until you have received the signal,” he ordered. “We will do our best to save what we can. If you can find a willing runner, tell them to go to the Grove and bring healers in case of any severe injuries. We may not be able to treat everyone.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, and took off. An expectant silence smothered the town. Wardens stood at the area’s entry points, weapons drawn and eyes wary.
“Now what?” Llumin asked, peering intensely at shadows.
“We keep our guards up and pray that the Mother Tree watches over us,” he replied. An uncertain smile bloomed on his face; for what reason, Llumin did not know.

~~~

“We’re catching up to them. What should we do if we meet the Court on our way?” Elmfrond’s face was a shifting mask of confusion, excitement, and worry.
Sylfia growled. “Whaddayer think we’re gonna do, sprout? We’re gonna flank ‘em. If Llumin’s related to this crazy elementalist – ” here she nodded her head at Selana, “ – then she’ll probably already have gotten everyone to safety and prepared counterattacks.” She smirked with cynical respect. “It’s in their blood to look out for the people over their own kind,” she said. “Granted, if we try to charge in without any warning, even if it’s to offer defense of any sort, she’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later.”
Selana gave her a look. “Do you believe me to be so impulsive?”
“No, but this ain’t you we’re dealing with. If Oi were part of a defense team, anything that wasn’t on it would be marked hostile until otherwise proven. We fight ‘gainst the Court, we prove our mettle, and then we’ll ‘ave a lovely reunion where libations abound.”
Myrie rolled her eyes. “I sincerely doubt there’s going to be any alcohol immediately following a skirmish, you drunk log.”
The warrior shrugged. “Never know.”
“And I would be careful with any ideas of ‘reunion,’” Nettle hummed, pursing her lips. “If she has any curiosity or inclination towards Selana, or if she shows any particular interest in human culture greater than what is generally normal, then I could see the reason behind revealing her true nature. If not, I recommend we keep this one under wraps. Some things will only bring pain and confusion if brought to light.”
“You would know somefin’ bout that, wouldn’t you?”
“Balthazar’s beard, shut up!” Myrie hissed, barely managing to keep her voice from becoming a shout. The other members looked her way in shock. She ran her hand down her face and continued. “Look, if we’re going to have any chance of flanking these guys, we need to be quiet and go in stealthy. Elmfrond and I will let you know if or when they break into the town, but until then, I suggest everyone keep quiet and play nice. We’ll fire a shot to let you know to rush in. Are we clear?”
A rare smile played across Selana’s face. “Very well. We’ll remain at the ready for your signal. Go at ‘em, Myrie.”
Briefly shocked at such an informal statement from the elementalist, Myrie simply nodded and leapt back into the trees.

Hello! If you’re still taking practice commissions, please feel free to try my warrior, Sylfia Wyldcaller.

Born in the Cycle of Noon, she is true to the general characteristics of those born during that timeframe. She is brash, cynical, headstrong, and aggressive, frequently looking for a fight. However, she was burned shortly after emerging from her pod, resulting in a somewhat terrifying appearance. Though not blind, her eyes appear to be pure green with no pupil. It was only recently that she overcame her fear of fire, although she still has a healthy respect for it. She is known to have an affinity for strong drink.

Oh my word that gave me a giggle. How do you manage to make charr faces so expressive? Do you have one to study? ….erm, cats, I mean. Obviously, studying charr may result in loss of life and limb…

GscGunner.2419:

ooh great work, love the dark colours.

Do you happen to take commissions for gold? if so I would be interested to hear about it

I have to agree with what Gunner says. Your work is fantastic, and if you decide to take gold, please let us know!

~S.F.

Chapter 14a:

“Someone’s following us.” Tiachren’s eyes narrowed as he peered behind them and into the thick brush.
“I doubt that it’s the Nightmare Court. As far as I know, we didn’t leave any survivors that would know our destination.”
“Just the same,” he said, drawing his sword and continuing forward, “we’d best keep on our guard.”
Llumin nodded. She tried extending her awareness further ahead. After a moment, she shook her head, wincing. She had strained herself greater than she had before when she bent Tiachren’s will back to reason. Even now, though his thoughts were once more his own, she kept a wary sense on his mind. He was unstable; if he decided to try running back to Ysvelta, she had a sinking feeling that he would not return the same.
“Is there something you’re concerned about?” he asked. She blinked, turning back to face him. His eyes were stormy, and a jolt of pain rent her heart. If this was what he was like after the battle of wills, then how would he feel when he had to see her again?
“Nothing much,” she replied, brushing a thick, waxy leaf out of her path. “Let’s keep moving.”

~~~
“Did you see that?” Elmfrond squinted down from the treetops, focused on something distant on the lush floor.
“What?” Myrie wiped the back of her hand on her mouth, grimacing at an insect that she inadvertently smeared on her lips. “Gross,” she hissed, feverishly rubbing her face again.
“You aren’t even looking- hold on, you’ve got a spider leg on your cheek.”
“A what?”
“Kidding! It was a beetle wing.”
“Oh, that makes it so much better. What did you see, Leafy?”
He pointed down at the grasses. “Do you see that path? There are a bunch of broken and bent leaves heading towards Caer Astorea.”
“You mean that thin trail? Yeah, I see it.”
His eyes widened. “No, I was talking about the wider one. That one’s more interesting.”
“How so?”
He leaned away from the tree, holding loosely onto a branch and dangling out in the air. “We sylvari try to use paths that go with nature. Animal trails or otherwise-established tracks allow us to move through the forest while disturbing as few creatures as possible. However, that wide one,” he restated, pointing with his free hand to the crushed greenery once more, “seems more like something that would be left by a small army.”
Myrie arched a cynical eyebrow. “Your small army is rather efficient at hiding their steps, then. I would have thought it was made by an angry boar.”
“And that is why you are not sylvari.”
She whipped her head towards him with a glare, but he had returned his gaze to the greenery below.
“What if the bodies we found weren’t all of that Court’s occupants?” he wondered aloud. “It did seem like a small force that had been there.”
“What are you saying?”
His face was taut with solemn fear. “I’m saying that the rest of those Courtiers of that bramble-pit are on the hunt. If Caer Astorea isn’t aware of the danger they’re in, they could very well be slaughtered.” He leapt from the branch, ignoring Myrie’s shout of alarm, gripped a vine, and slid down onto the ground, landing heavily in front of Selana.
“Be careful!” she ordered.
“We are quite possibly running into or near a combat zone,” Elmfrond gasped.
The elementalist narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

~~~

Llumin had been as careful as possible to disguise her steps and those of Tiachren as well.
“Are we still being pursued?” she asked quietly. Her heart rumbled in her ears.
“I believe so, but we must shift our concern.” He pointed towards the town, where the citizens of Caer Astorea were milling about their lives, completely unaware of the danger that approached. “The good news is that we’ve arrived before the Nightmare Court.”
“But that probably means they’re still gathering strength,” Llumin mused, her face grim. The guardian nodded, his grip tightening on his weapons.
“Let’s get the word out and start organizing a defense. We may not have much time.”

Oh my goodness, thank you for the compliment! Your works have always been an inspiration to me, so it means quite a bit that you like it.

Yes, her hair was very difficult to do. I took 5-6 screenshots of her head at different angles in an attempt to find one that would provide accurate reference material. In addition, I researched others’ styles from what I’ve seen on Tumblr. That site may have some sketchy material (pun not intended), but there is some pretty amazing stuff out there. I hope to one day be able to draw with the simple yet clean execution that you and others are able to demonstrate.

You, sir, require at least three dozen cookies for the awesomeness that you’ve made. Well done!

Although I was limited by material, being not only out of proper drawing paper, but lacking my Copic markers, I still think that this is one of the best sketches I have done of Llumin yet. In reality, her skin is a bit more tan, and her hair a bit darker and bluer in shade, but nonetheless, it should give an approximation as to what she looks like.

Llumin is a sylvari mesmer of the cycle of Dusk. Though at times naive, she is loyal, thoughtful, and adventurous, and will not back from a fight when words fail to diffuse a situation. Her mesmeric abilities are constantly-growing, and some say it is only a matter of time before she becomes one of the Grove’s finest spellcasters. She spends her spare time honing her skills, reading, and exploring. A favorite tea of hers is rose.

Hello, Dolphin! (Fun name, by the way.)

Thank you for replying! It’s fun hearing what others think of my precious characters. I’m glad you like Myrie. One of the funnier stories I’ve heard about her is that one reader initially disliked her so much that he wanted to whack her! But in time, as you pointed out, she did smooth herself out a little bit. Like I said, it’s fascinating to find out who likes which one best.

Hm. I appreciate your honesty. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m writing, and see if I can make better use of Sylfia’s more sober moments.

Funny that you should mention the two other highborns. Both Gryphon and Yalora are based on two guildmembers’ characters. I may add Gryphon back in sometime, but for now I shall stick to simply brewing their stories in my head and seeing if or when they’d best be put back in.

Concerning your last question, I have only one thing to say.
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

~S.F.

Chapter 13a:
Myrie was used to being the first and fastest member of the “traveling circus.” With Elmfrond striding alongside her in the shadows, she found out that he may be just slightly faster in the wooded, lush jungle by the Grove. Her eyes narrowed, and she lunged forward, determined to keep pace. Their height difference didn’t help her very much. Although she was abler to dodge stray branches and vines, his longer legs gave him increased speed.
“Hold up!” she finally hissed, propelling herself forward and nearly kicking him in the back of his head.
“Be careful!” he replied, keeping his voice down yet still somehow managing to sound cheery.
She squashed her irritation. He reminded her of when she was young and had begun training her body, finding out how to test its limits. Back then, the sensation of the wind in her hair had been a new and thrilling sensation; although it still was exciting, nothing could match the first experience. She supposed that he felt as she once did. Even though she wasn’t bothered by his happiness, in a mission where search-and-rescue or retrieval were the goals, giddiness was the least of her concerns.
“I haven’t forgotten the mission,” he whispered as if reading her thoughts. She somehow managed to restrain herself and kept from jumping. “Even though I’ve only met her once, Llumin seems like a nice person. There’s something different about her, but it’s nothing too concerning. If she is near the Nightmare Court, I have little doubt that she’s not there to join them.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. What are these ‘Nightmare Court,’ anyway?”
“Sylvari who have rejected the tenents of Ventari’s Tablet, which acts as a moral compass for most of our race. The meditations and proverbs the centaur, Ventari, discovered were passed on to our kind through a tablet of stone which he had carved before his death. As the Pale Tree grew, the stone became cradled in her branches. If you get the chance to visit the Pale Mother, you can still see it, so some say.”
“You’ve never met your own mother?”
“She’s rather busy.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked down to the forest floor. “How are your companions keeping up so well?”
“Selana’s an elementalist. She’s probably using wind magic or something like it to keep pace. Do you see anything out of the ordinary yet?”
“No. Wait! Do you see that bramble-covered area over there?”
“It kind of looks like a black, thorny basket.”
“Yes, that’s it. According to what I’ve heard, Llumin and some other guardian were headed that way.”
“Well, then, let’s see what we can find.”

“All clear!” Myrie’s voice rang through the trees, startling a few flocks of toucans from their perches. “Might want to step carefully, though. There are bodies everywhere.”
Selana stepped gingerly into the clearing, eyes scouring the fallen. “What happened?”
Nettle slunk beside her, bending over a corpse and staring into its unblinking eyes. “There appears to have been quite a struggle,” she hummed. A long, white finger stroked the ancient skull at her side. “Adam says this is the result of two fighters. He can still sense their presence.”
“Who’s Adam?” Elmfrond had slid down a vine and landed softly on his feet.
“Her skull.” Myrie lowered her voice. “She claims it talks to her. Says she found it by an ancient Ascalonian grave.”
“Well, shouldn’t she have left it there, then?”
“You know necromancers. They can’t help themselves.”
“Actually, Adam said he was getting rather annoyed that his former companion wasn’t returning. Since he was tired of hearing her voice yammering on about her adventures in the Underworld, he made me his new bearer.” Nettle’s smile did not reach her eyes. “We necromancers hear more than just the dead, you know.”
Myrie cleared her throat. “So, does Adam have anything else to say about Llumin or this other sylvari?”
“Well, they’re not dead. Their essence is still strong, but there appears to be some psychic resonance here that’s muddling their steps. Sylfia, watch your big clunking feet. You’ll mess up the evidence.”
“Oi, I’m jus’ trying to see if I recognize any of these blighters. I think I remember hearing ‘bout one of their leaders a while back, but I’ll only be able to tell if- ah, there we are.” She pointed out one of the bodies, which looked as though she had a blackened hole burned through her. The corpse’s mouth was open in agony, and an amber-like substance, blackened at the edges, had bubbled out of its mouth.
“She’s been burned alive from the inside out,” Sylfia grunted, standing again. “Renvari’s the one who led this place. Pyromaniac and cruel to boot. If Llumin and whoever she’s with are still alive, once word reaches him of their infiltration, they may not be.”

Chapter 12a:

“You have to let her go. Whoever Ysvelta is, that was not her. Don’t let this Nightmare get inside your head.”
“That was her,” Tiachren replied, running a shaking hand over his brow. “I may have once believed that those who fall to Nightmare are truly irredeemable, but now…”
“Others have tried to return Courtiers to the Dream, brother. You know how it has gone.”
“They weren’t her! Ysvelta was the kindest, most gentle soul, and compassionate towards anyone who suffered. This…woman… is not her. It’s as if some other creature has taken over the body of my wife.” He kicked a nearby corpse with the toe of his boot, his face obscured in shadow. “Was that what happened to these souls? Is there truly no other way to free them but through death?”
“Tiachren, you must focus. Before she teleported, Ysvelta said something about meeting you in a place you first met. Do you have any idea why she would want you there?”
He sighed tremulously, swallowed, and replied, “Yes. She refers specifically to the garden where we were wed. She may want me there in an attempt to convert me against the Dream. If the Nightmare is puppeting her, I would find it horrifying to know that it is aware of so much.”
“The Nightmare has never truly been sentient, Tiachren. You must realize that this is what is left of her. If she’s trying to lure you to the garden, you must not go.”
He whirled around, eyes bright with pain and rage. “And why not?” His voice cracked, and his throat bobbed. “Without her, I don’t know who I am.”
“You are the Knight of the Moon.” Llumin stepped in front of him and pointed at his shield. “I saw that same weapon in my Dream, and though it was but a glimpse, we have already become a part of each other’s lives.”
“This shield,” he replied slowly, “was her gift to me.”
“And would you abandon the memory of joy for the truth of pain?” She bent to the side and stared at his downcast face. “Is the memory of love really worth its corruption?”
He was silent. She straightened.
“If you can’t think properly concerning her, think of Caer Astorea. In mere hours, without any warning, this corrupted Ysvelta is going to lead an attack on the innocents of that village. You can either go to the garden, or you can come and warn the Wardens. The choice is yours.”

She stood and began walking back towards the main hall. She could not let him see her insecurity, her worry that his mind, so heavily clouded by emotion, would lead him down a path where there was only darkness. Was love really so powerful? Could it somehow pull such a stalwart knight to the depths? She paused and turned her head back towards Tiachren, who stood still in the clearing, his stance like that of the accused and his back ramrod straight. Her throat tightened with unease. Perhaps she would need to direct him. She took a breath and cleared her mind. Ignoring her wriggling sense of guilt, she extended her awareness towards him. With a little effort, she sent an idea into his mind. Go to the Wardens, she thought. His head twitched as if shaking off an annoying bug. Ysvelta is gone, she pressed. Save the innocent. You are a knight; protect your people from that which would destroy them. He was resisting, his mind stubbornly churning on the thought of his wife. A spike of terror stabbed her spine. Deep in the darkest corners of his mind, she saw a tendril of doubt rising. No. Joining the Nightmare Court will not save her. Resist its call. She reached further in, feeling the swirling, conflicting emotions. His thoughts seethed with agony and torment, and in the center of his empathetic vortex, his image knelt, bent over and clutching at his head. She projected her consciousness deeper into his own and sent her own form towards him.
“Let her go,” she whispered gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The true Ysvelta is dead. Honor her memory, and protect the helpless.”
The inner Tiachren gazed up at her through a tear-stained face. He said nothing, his eyes dark with sorrow.
“You are the Knight of the Moon. This is merely a long night; remember that hope is just a sunrise away.” She slowly lifted him to his feet, sending one last influence to him. With that final push of thought, she felt his mind bend. She gradually faded from his thoughts, returning to her own body and opening her eyes. The Knight of the Moon had picked up his shield, and his gaze was steadily boring into hers.
“Caer Astorea holds no chance of survival against a surprise attack,” he said. “We cannot let them die because of my foolish hope.”
Llumin gave a weary smile. “Then let us help them. Lead on.”

Chapter 11a:

“There you are!” Myrie huffed. “Sylfia here thought you’d gone off and killed someone.”
“Oh, not yet, not today,” Nettle replied. “I simply had some business to attend to.”
“So you have offed someone,” Sylfia groaned.
Nettle shot her a glare. “Must everything I do relate to death and dying? That’s a rather negative stereotype, my dear drunkard.”
“Is everyone ready?” They all snapped to attention. Elmfrond raised his hand.
“Lady Firestone, what exactly is my expected position here?”
“You are here to fight, Elmfrond. If necessary, you and Myrie will be sent ahead to find out about an area, especially if we are uncertain as to what we will face.”
He nodded. “Not a bad plan. Myrie, if we do need to scout a place, should we stick together, or-?”
“We’ll split up. I don’t know about you, but I’m not half bad at dodging irate fighters.” She smirked at Sylfia, who pointedly ignored her and proceeded to mutter darkly under her breath. “Not only that, but we’ll be able to get a better view of what the terrain is like. Sound good?”
“It should work,” he affirmed. His eyes gleamed excitedly. “I must admit, I’ve never been terribly far from the Grove. I can’t wait!”
“You’ll have to for another few minutes,” Selana said simply. “Before we head out, I want to be sure that everyone’s ready.”
There was a brief clamor where all restated their eagerness and preparedness. Sylfia complained only momentarily about a headache and lack of alcohol before Nettle pulled out a flask of brew from her bag and tossed it at her.
“It’s strong stuff,” she cautioned.
The warrior uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff. “I thought you weren’t one for drinks this potent.”
Nettle grimaced. “I’m not.”
“All right, review time,” Myrie called over the slight clamor. “Our plan is to head out, see if anyone knows where Llumin has gone, and hopefully gain the quickest path to where she is. Elmfrond will make a positive identification. If she’s undercover, he, I, and Nettle will infiltrate the area, setting traps and helping her from the shadows. Should it appear as though her life is in danger, I’ll fire a flare, and Selana and Sylfia will come charging in with the rage of Balthazaar. We good?”
“I’m as ready as I believe I will ever be. Let’s just hope she’s safe and in one place,” Selana said. She used her staff to sling her pack over her shoulder and began walking towards the city gates. “Let’s move.”

Teaniel.9052:

Congrats on the milestone — that’s impressive! I just discovered your story and haven’t had time to read very far, but I’ve started a similar project and was wondering if you had any tips on writing something over such a long period of time. How much do you plan ahead? Do you tend to post on a fairly regular basis, or as you finish chapters?

Thank you very much, Teaniel!

Fair warning- it has recently become three tabs long, so when you do read it, I recommend not doing it all at once – you’ll be there a while. (I was not anticipating that, either!)

When I write, I often do it when my fingers are twitchy or when I have a bolt of inspiration. However, as those are fickle standpoints. If I haven’t written in a while, I’ll write when I have time. Sometimes, the simple act of writing can cause inspiration.

In terms of planning ahead, I have the entire arc planned out by its conception. Even in Arc 1, I already knew what I wanted done in not only it, but in Arc 2 and most of 3. Even though this means that I’ve had the entire thing planned for three years- and seeing it start to actually get there is thrilling- just having a simpler idea of what to do in chapters is a good start.

When you’re writing, make it manageable- go for parts of a whole. I’ve discovered that writing parts to chapters is much easier than writing the entire thing. I’m able to focus more on the characters and their development than any other distractions. A chapter is like a short story. Try to have at least one conflict- even if it is minor, such as the desire for a glass of water and the obstruction of obtaining said glass. If a chapter has no conflict, it will often bore its readers. However, don’t force it, lest it come across as oddly-written or squashed.

I post on a rather erratic basis. As stated previously, I usually write when I have time, and depending on how well I manage my schedule, that can either mean I have an entire weekend or not at all. Sometimes I’ll keep a chapter from being posted until I’m able to edit it or better refine the idea.

I hope this helped answer your questions!

~S.F.

Chapter 10b:
She found him on his knees with his head buried in his hands. A sky-skinned sylvari bent over him, smiling sadly.
“Why are you weeping, my love?” she asked, her light, musical voice somehow chilling Llumin’s bones. “We have each other now. I thought I had lost you.”
“Ysvelta, Ysvelta,” he whispered, his voice tormented. “Why did you do this? Why did you listen to them?”
“I don’t understand why you’re crying,” she replied. “We can be together now! I have had the veil torn from my eyes. The Pale Tree is lying to us, holding us back by the words of a human and a centaur who no longer are among us and who never understood our kind.”
“Ysvelta?” Llumin stepped forward cautiously. The sylvari’s eyes snapped up to hers, gleaming suspiciously.
“Who is this?” she asked. Her voice was still pleasant, but there was an undercurrent that crackled with magic.
“A… a companion.” Tiachren’s voice cracked. He still did not face his wife. “I thought we could save you.”
She threw her head back and laughed- a cold, ringing sound that felt like knives in Llumin’s skull.
“Save me?” she said incredulously. “Why would I need saving? I am the one who is truly safe. The Court has freed me from my old ways.” She bent down and held Tiachren’s chin in her hand, tipping his face up to look at her own. His eyes continued to avoid hers. “Join me, my love. Come, and learn what it means to be truly sylvari.”
“Tiachren, don’t listen to her,” Llumin cautioned, drawing her sword and stepping towards her. “She has been corrupted by Nightmare. We’ve already freed those we can. Let her go.”
“Oh, come now, who are you listening to?” Ysvelta turned to her and bared her teeth in a savage snarl. “This little blossom looks as though she can’t be more than a month old. In human terms, she’s practically an infant! Leave her behind. You know you belong with me.”
“Stop this,” he whispered. He finally raised his gaze and met hers. “Stop these lies, Ysvelta.” He slowly reached up and grasped her wrists, rubbing them gently. “Come home. Come home with me. The Pale Mother will understand.”
Llumin stepped next to him. “You cannot possibly think that inflicting this kind of pain and suffering on others is what we are truly meant to do.”
“Life is pain, young one,” Ysvelta retorted. “The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll be free. The citizens of Caer Astorea have been selected to learn this quite soon. In fact, I have been selected to lead the raid against the town!” She beamed excitedly.
A dull flame burned in Tiachren’s eyes. He dropped her hands and slowly stood. “You are not the woman that I married. These Courtiers have corrupted you.”
For a moment, Ysvelta was silent. “You still refuse to belive me? Very well,” she finally said, her voice trembling yet resolute. “If you will not join me in life…” She swept her hand in an arc, several shimmering clones appearing at her side. “I will have you in death!”
She faded into the shadows, and several Courtiers slunk into the light.
“It’s an ambush,” Llumin whispered. Tiachren stood rooted in despair and shock. “We must fight!” she shouted at him.
From around them, the clones spoke with the voice of the lost Ysvelta. “If you ever truly loved me, meet me where we first met!”
That is assuming we survive, Llumin thought grimly. Her mouth thinned into a line, and she shifted into a battle stance. Tiachren slowly raised his weapons, and in the choked light of that horrid place, she could have sworn that as he readied himself to fight, a single tear trickled down his lips and glimmered before plunging into the shadows below.
“I won’t lose her so easily,” he whispered fiercely. The Courtiers above them drew back their bowstrings and fired.

Chapter 10a:
“Don’t move a muscle. Don’t breathe, don’t look in the cages, and don’t say a single word,” Tiachren hissed. The few guards around them ran back to their original positions. Some went to the gate, others to the weapons. They had been fortunate enough to have been assigned to prisoner duty, though Llumin struggled with Tiachren’s order to stay away from the cages.
“What are those noises?” she whispered, her blue eyes glowing in the dim light. In the orange light running in veins through his pale skin, she saw his lips tighten.
“Like I said,” he replied, a far-off crack and a scream interrupting him, “don’t look.” His head suddenly whipped up, and his eyes widened. “I sense her,” he murmured reverantly.
Llumin’s heart panged in sympathy. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “She’ll be fine.”
“I know she is,” he smiled, hope lighting his features.
Despite his assurance, she couldn’t help but feel as though something was off. Her eyes slowly turned to the wall of prisoners next to them. Sylvari, some shivering, others mutely staring in defiance at them, were lined in thorned hollows. She briefly recognized some of their faces from her birth. Though she didn’t know their names, a surge of determination flooded through her. She set her jaw and glanced around before striding toward them.
“What are you doing?” Tiachren hissed in her ear as she walked by.
“We already know Ysvelta’s alive,” she replied, grip tightening on her sword. “But these Dreamers don’t know their own fate. You go ahead and find your wife; I’ll set these prisoners free.”
“What of the guards?”
“There aren’t too many. You heard Renvari; if he doesn’t get a new batch of sylvari by sunset, our skins won’t be the only ones burning. Everyone who wants a good chance at self-preservation is on the hunt- the Coil is desperately-low on numbers. If we want to free those who have not yet turned, this is our best chance.”
For a moment, she thought he would argue. Then, his face relaxed, and he nodded. “After you’ve freed them, follow me down the main hall. There may be more guards hidden there.”
“I’ll see you soon, then.” She smiled. “Say hello to Ysvelta for me.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” The prisoner looked up at her warily, seafoam green eyes gleaming from walnut-brown skin. “I won’t fall for it. I won’t go into Nightmare!”
“Relax,” Llumin whispered. She imbued her words with magic, sending the resonance into his ears with the gentleness of a spring breeze.
The prisoner’s shoulders slumped visibly. “You- you really mean it?” he whispered. Thin, twiggy fingers clasped desperately at her own. “Oh, Pale Tree bless you, bless you, bless you,” he sobbed quietly.
Llumin gently pried her hands free. “There will be time for thanks later,” she smiled. “For now, gather your senses about you and prepare to flee.” Her eyes caught the form of another sylvari curled onto the floor. “What of your companion?”
The light in the freedman’s eyes dimmed. “He is dead. The Nightmare Court thought that leaving his body in here would persuade me to turn to their side. They almost were right.” He smiled back up at her. “But you proved them wrong, eh? I’ll head down the other way and free the prisoners by the entrance.”
“Good. Don’t wait for me to leave. How will you pick the locks?”
He looked back at her, fierce determination in his eyes. “I might be weak from refusing their poisoned food, but I am still a Shaper. If I can direct a vine in this rotten hole, I can use it to pick the locks. It shouldn’t take too long. If it isn’t too much to ask, though, would you have any food to spare? Hope may give one strength, but…”
She pressed a skin of water into his hands and gave him a chunk of grilled fish. “It’s not much, but for an empty stomach, it should be enough. Be careful.”
“You, too,” he whispered, stepping unsteadily down the hall.
Llumin turned her attention back to the gates. She finally freed the last prisoner and was preparing to head down and check on the first when she heard a cry that echoed throughout the air with such terrible agony that her mind reverberated with its pain.
Tiachren, her mind whispered. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, readied her torch, and charged down the hall.

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.”

Uden Reavstone.3426:

Three years! Has it really been that long? Well, either way, keep up the good work, Selana.
As for your questions, I don’t who my favorite character is. They’re all good. Now, I wouldn’t mind seeing some characters that are not human or Sylvari, though.
I do a have a question of my own. I have noticed two very annoying obstructions thatt tend to get in the way often: writer’s block and the saying, “You are your own worsst critic.” How many times have these obstructions affected your work?

Thank you for the encouragement, Uden!
I’m glad that you like the characters so far.

Hm… not human or sylvari… I think I can manage that. Now the only question is, guns or pets? I’ll be trying to introduce another race/character later in this arc, although I’m not sure where she’ll be going. Heck, I might add another guildmember’s character! Oooh, I think I know where he could fit in…. Thanks! You’re spurring my writing sprees!

Writer’s block is best overcome by writing, even if you don’t feel terribly creative. Keep a varied mix of music to help stimulate your creative juices. Oftentimes inspiration will strike as you’re typing, and even if it doesn’t, a re-read may cause you to begin thinking more about what could happen next.

As for your “own worst critic”, I find it helpful to visualize them as a little ugly goblin. Proceed to stick tiny goblin under a glass and smirk as it pounds its fists in frustration on the walls.
For more concrete processes, I will close my eyes when I type. This requires a fair bit of knowledge as to the layout of the keyboard, but if I can’t see my mistakes while I’m typing them, I’m more likely to get my rough draft done in one shot so I can edit it later. Although it might cause you nigh-physical pain, try to avoid correcting the draft until it’s completely done; after all, you’re not immediately going to publish it, so it’s best to get your ideas out while they’re still fresh.

I hope this helps!

~S.F.

I asked a sylvari why she was doing laundry. She replied that she had to wash her underplants.

A charr and a norn walk into a bar- the asura between them simply laughs and has their golem remove it.

I thought I would try my hand at some of the finer details in facial expressions. Surprisingly, they’ve been rather helpful. Here are some of the results:

Expression Practice #1- Top: “Someone’s going to die!” (Khimma, asuran guardian) Bottom: Someone’s already dead. (Nettle Viridia, sylvari necromancer and hemophile)

Expression Practice #2- Llumin’s inner conflict (top) and Selana’s resolution (bottom)

Expression Practice #3 – Llumin- Contented smile (top) and laughter (bottom)
(Bonus: flustered Trahearne in the middle along with corner-lurking Sylfia)

Greetings! As some of you may know, I am the author of the still-ongoing fanfiction, “Traveling Circus.” What some of you may not know is that it was started three years ago, and I had no intention of continuing it for this long. Since you keep reading, and I keep writing, I thought it might be fun to do some questions. Feel free to ask your own, too!

My questions are,

Who is your favorite character and why?
What was the moment you realized they were your favorite?
Who is your least favorite character and why?
What characters would you like to see more of?
Are there any in particular who you would be interested in seeing a spinoff or short story based on?

As always, I hope you enjoy what I’ve written and that you will have fun with this little indulgence of my curiosity.

~S.F.

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 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!”

Oh my gosh, I love the expressions on the first and third shots. Without a doubt, the charr has the best face I have seen this year. Excellent work- keep it up!

~S.F.

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 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 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.”

While I have seen some roleplayers, for the sake of the general map, I recommend that any roleplaying is not done in “map” or “say” chat. When my guildies and I do a bit of it, we do it in party or whisper chat. So if you’re looking for RP’ers, might I suggest looking into a guild? That may be one of the better ways to find others who enjoy it- that, and inviting friends who have story-minds.

Wow! That’s amazing! Well-done- perhaps Gaile will notice. It certainly deserves some more recognition!

~S.F.

Thank you very much, guys! I’m glad you appreciate my works!

I was recently having a rather stressful time when studying, and decided to doodle out my frustration.

Thus, we have Example B: A slightly-maniacal, occasionally-homicidal necromancer who seems entirely too happy at the prospect of murder. Myrie assures me that Nettle didn’t actually cause the corpse, she just found it. However, she cannot explain the bloodstains and does not wish to think about them.

Hello! I was merely wondering if the results have been finalized; I have not seen an official announcement, so I was curious if you were still reading or if you had taken a break.

Please let us know the results soon if they’ve not already been given.

~S.F.

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.”

I decided to try my hand at my constantly-inebriated sylvari warrior, Sylfia Wyldcaller. This is how she appears currently, and how she will look shorter down the storyline. I hope you enjoy the art! If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

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 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 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.

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 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.”

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 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.

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 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 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.”

Recently, Knights of Gryphon finally got their guild hall completed. Very quickly, the tavern was built.

Approximately thirty minutes after that, the bar was cleared of all liquor. There are some suspicions as to whom the culprit is, but so far, the results are inconclusive.

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.

Your works are fantastic! What medium do you use? They appear to be almost pastel with their blending, but they also seem to show some well-used colored pencil. I look forward to seeing more of your magnificent works!

~S.F.

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 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 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.”