In Search of a Homeland - Part Seven: Memories

Figments

She was home again. Grandmama was sat in her chair, and Papa was coming through the door, smiling. She looked around, for the first time in weeks feeling at peace. Everything here was familiar, even down to the smell of food from the kitchen, and the smoke rising from the candles at the family shrine.

“Tiersu dear, it's good to see you,” Grandmama said, but the moment she spoke something in the atmophere changed. It wasn't...wasn't right, somehow. Tiersu felt sick of a sudden, and turned anxiously to see her Papa's expression contort suddenly to one of anger.

“Get out of my sight!” he yelled, striding forward. He raised his hand to slap her. “You bring disgrace upon this family and it must stop now!”

Tiersu ducked and ran, the house dissolving into a dark mist around her. Behind her, his voice echoing, she could hear her father shouting: “I have no third daughter!” again and again until she fell to her knees sobbing, her hands over her face.

The voice stopped and she looked up. She was standing in a wooded area, the sound of water close by. She stood, taking in her surroundings, the strangest sense of deja vu coming over her-

A hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm wrapped around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. She kicked out with her feet, but they felt sluggish, as though she dragged them through tar. Hot, foul air rushed past her face and she gagged, the hand over her mouth not budging a millimetre. Something wrapped tightly around her legs, pinning them in place and she struggled harder, terrified. What would happen next, where was her staff... her staff!

There in front of her, but a shadowy figure held it in oversized hands. It was bending it, bending her staff and as her eyes widened in horror it snapped it in two, the crack echoing around her like a clap of thunder. She moaned deep in her throat with despair. Not the staff; not her one link with her ancestors!

With renewed vigour she struggled against her captor, writhing against that which held her helpless. She searched deep inside her for something to fight with and felt the hot, sharp heat of lightning simmering and cracking there. Well, if it killed her she would fight back. What had she to lose now, after all?

CRRACK! The bolt flew and Tiersu's world exploded into light. Bright and electric, it burned through her eyelids, illuminating the veins. She opened her eyes and saw wood above her, fabric around her, and felt, scant moments later, the pain of burning. Shocked to wakefulness she rolled, fumbling with her magic to draw water out of the humid air. A few more seconds of rising agony and a burst of water sprayed out across the room, dousing the flames and drenching her in one. She gasped, finally free of the traces of sleep which had clung on past waking.

Her hair hung damply across her face, and she had rolled out of her bed onto the floor in a tangle of blankets which were now both singed and sodden. The tiny room with its leaky roof and draughty walls was a small comfort to wake to, but at least it was real.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Six

City of Dashed Dreams

It all hinged on the city. She hadn't realised until she'd arrived just how much she had banked on finding the branch of the Kellith family which had settled there in the last half century or so and being reunited. Perhaps they would have information she could use, perhaps they would not. But they would welcome her, and the staff she carried, and they would set her on a path to her goal.

They hadn't. Hadn't been there, hadn't welcomed her, hadn't offered her advice or a headstart, or food or stories. No one had heard of a family named Kellith. No one would help her without money, or without favours she was not about to provide.

For the first few nights she had slept on the streets, half awake and clutching her belongings close by. The noise and the people were terrifying; fights broke out and were left to end on their own, and people of all races mingled in numbers far greater than she had ever seen.

Her purse, already small, had dwindled swiftly, and by the end of her first week she was faced with the very real possibility of starvation. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not the plan she'd had when setting out from Divinity's Reach, brimming with anger and ready for anything. Everything had gone...wrong.

Sheer desperation sent her down to the docks, where she found a one-off job as a mercenary on a trade ship travelling along the coast. The work was foul, and the pay not much better, and she vowed to never work on a ship again.

No one in a city made of wood wanted the skills of an elementalist specialising mostly in fire and air. As her purse grew empty for the second time, she changed tact, and looked around for tailoring work. She'd never been especially good at it, but at least she had a bit of an edge from growing up in the business.

After several days of fruitless searching, she was taken on by a woman who Tiersu could have sworn was a thousand years old, and as mean as they came. But the offer of not only a job but a bed with it was too good to turn down, even if that meant, when she'd bought food as cheaply as she dared, she was left with just a few coppers at the end of each day. Saving enough to travel again was going to take some time.

The work was hard, and demoralising. She'd never wanted to go into the family business in the first place, and taking on tailors' work dented her pride and her spirit. But as the weeks went by, it was hard to foresee a way out of it. Her 18th birthday came and went without fanfare or word from her parents, though she had scraped together the money for a letter to Kinu to let them know that she had arrived in Lion's Arch and was “hale”. Whether the letter had actually reached them was another matter of course, but she had held out a tiny shred of hope that at least her sisters would keep up contact with her, if her parents wouldn't. Now that had been dashed as well.

A week or so after her birthday, a letter finally arrived. It was short, and Kinu's handwriting was rushed and untidy.

“Hey 'Su, glad to hear you are doing well. I wish I could send good tidings, but I don't dare show Papa your letter, although Mama sends her love. Papa is not well, and I fear his meeting with Grenth draws ever closer. I did hint to Mama that they ought to write to you, but He will not hear your name spoken in the house. I am sorry, sister. I write this at the messenger post. With love, Kinu.”

She snapped. Saving and saving and never going out had netted her pitifully little thus far, and had made her downright miserable. Well, gods be damned, she needed to get out of her alcove in the attic for one night, and do something to take her mind off things. She made for the cheapest tavern she knew of, and burned through half her savings on a single glass of wine.

The next morning was awful. Nursing a headache – that had been her first drop of alcohol in months – she got through her work, then went to buy breakfast. A storm was brewing offshore, and the air was even more thick and muggy than it usually was away from the docks.

She didn't have time to go down to the beach, instead eating her meal as she walked back to Edith's shop, which was far sturdier than the shack she rented out to her staff. Once there, she tried to take her verbal beating for being late with good grace. The old woman was some kind of demon, after all. The shock should be if she wasn't a vicious bully on any one occasion.

The storm struck as she made her way home, dousing the streets with rain, and whipping her hair about her face with the strength of the wind. Reaching her room, she realised with dismay that water was coming in in about a dozen places, and her bedding was soaked through. She stripped the sheet off of her bed and poked it into the biggest hole, then rummaged in her pack for her sleeping roll. She spent the night curled up inside it, sleeping only when the storm blew out in the small hours of the morning, and she could spare a little energy to light a fire and dry her bedding a little.

Early the following morning, dripping wet, she wrapped as much of her bedding and extra clothes as she could handle into a large bundle, and lugged them down the narrow staircase to the street. Still grumpy from lack of sleep, she shook them out one by one and started drying them, calling a stiff breeze to blow as much of the water out as she dared this close to other people and their homes. It left her tired, and old Edith was unhappy enough with her work that she docked her the day's pay.

Fuming, exhausted and above all hungry, Tiersu made her way home. The streets were still riddled with puddles, and, distracted, she tripped and fell face first into a muddy patch. Her temper, which had been fraying all day, snapped. Standing up, she shook with rage, wiping her face and flinging the glob of mud to the ground with a scream. She followed it up with a bolt of lighting, which blasted the mud, baking it and the ground around it solid. Then she turned her attention to the puddle, boiling the water off and baking the mud hard.

Passers by were staring at her, and she flushed red, disguising her embarrassment by zapping another puddle dry. They watched on, and realising they expected a show, she turned her attention to her clothes, brushing the mud off more conventionally. After a minute or so the crowd moved on, except for an asura who waddled up to her, an odd look on his face which Tiersu couldn't exactly place, but which she knew she didn't like.

“You. Bookah. Girl. I have a proposition for you which it would be in your best interest to pay close attention to. I shall be embarking shortly upon an expedition to the Black Citadel, and from there into the territories skirting its outskirts, and I have reason to suppose that the skills which you have exhibited her will be of benefit to my cause. I'll pay you, of course, and there will be a moderate allowance for any expenses you incur so long as they are within reason, not including expenses incurred for behaviour deemed illegal or unwise. I won't add leniency for your age and your race I'm afraid but those are the terms I offer.”

Tiersu stared at him, taking a moment or two to catch up due to the speed at which he spoke. Then she was nodding, agreeing to anything as long as it included the prospect of money and a way out of Lion's Arch, however brief.

Tarnished Rose - Part Two

Recollections. Part the first.

I was “home” again, as home as I ever get. Back at the grove, where at least the Mother Tree doesn't judge me, even if everyone else does. Passing through, from killing things south of the Grove to head out and kill things further north. Time for some new foes, some new battlefields. The churned up earth and the pyres just fascinated me then.

She was there, as I made my way along the path, sitting by a pool of water with her back to me. Pale, white-blue leaves, and delicate, so delicate. There was this, this feeling about her – it filled the air nearby, so calm and sweet and pure. I stopped walking. Heck, I couldn't help myself, I walked right up to her and asked her name.

“Ifanwy,” she said, not even looking round. And then – and she still hadn't looked at me you know – she said: “You've come a long way to reach me.” She looked round then, and her eyes... There was no judgement there, just something else, something I didn't understand then and still don't, not really. She never did tell me what she was thinking that day. I still wish I'd asked.

She took me as I was though. Never did judge me, not even though we were like night and day. Even her skin was soft - soft and smooth from her youth and her life, all of it spent under the branches of the Tree.

We used to sit and share our memories, talk about what we'd seen, and what we thought. Well, I guess I did most of the talking. I was six years old by that point, and she barely one. I'd seen battle, and other races and places, and she had spent her time tucked in the safety of the Grove, learning and helping those who came and went. But she was never as sweet with the others as she was with me. She never gave them that look in her eyes, or held them close, not moving, not speaking, just standing there, arms wrapped round me, head on my shoulder.

I used to watch her as she patched them up, those travellers who came home sick or injured. Once or twice it was me getting the poultices and bandages, but even though she never understood why I went out there, put myself in harms way, she never asked me to stop, never asked me what I was doing.

She was my hope for the world, there waiting for me back home after the blood and the death and the fires. But I was a damned fool. Oh, I told her what I did, how I mowed down the undead with bullets and blade, how it was kill or be killed, how it was dangerous. But she...She never understood all that. She never got hardened to it like I had, never got used to the constant watch you put up for danger, the way your senses sharpen to danger until you can smell it on the air.

She just followed me one day, and like the fool I am I didn't make her go back. Of course they got her. They were hot on her trail the moment she left the shade of the Pale Tree. Someone as sweet and bright as her, how could they damn well resist? I should have made her turn round, walk right back into that Grove, and damn the argument. But, I could never be hard around her. She brought out that last little softness, the light and the joy, and I loved her for it.

They knocked me on the head first. Took my guns, took my knife, tied me good and fast. It was half over by the time I woke, anyway. She would never have been the same. But they weren't done. They're not like anything else. Not like battle. In battle, you go to kill. You kill one, then then next; you're a machine, killing without thought until there's only one side left. You don't play around with death, drawing it out, making them scream, making them weep. Ain't how a person ought to be.

I snapped. Nothing was going to hold me down, not even the ropes around my wrists. Not even the pain as my hands were scraped and battered by pulling them from the knots, and from loosening the bonds around my legs to move.

He never saw me coming, never saw until I grabbed my gun and cocked the trigger. Turned round just in time to see who did for him. Just like I got there in time to hold her as she died. I think she smiled there, right at the end. But she didn't speak. She never got a chance to say those last words people talk about. Just died in my arms as I reached her, before I even managed to say goodbye.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Five: Memories

Festivities

Tiersu sat on the steps, watching the celebrations start. Her sisters sat beside her, and around them their friends; young men and women waiting for the dancing to really begin. Finally it did, and in small groups and couples they wandered down to the fairground. Before long, only Tiersu was left watching the dancers, with an expression that could be mistaken for thoughtfulness or a deep concentration.

Although one of her sisters had gone without a backward glance, Kinu, the oldest of the three, kept returning to the silent girl on the stairs. Finally she came and sat beside Tiersu, not speaking.

“She wouldn't be cross, 'Su,” she said at last. “Not about you enjoying yourself, or laughing or thinking of other things.”

Tiersu didn't reply. Kinu sighed, and carried on:

“I know it's hard now she's gone, but... Grandmama would want you to be happy, you know. To live your life, not wait to join her in the Mists. Our people here in Tyria have lost their abilities to speak with our ancestors, but that doesn't mean they're gone forever.”

Tiersu looked at her sharply. “I know,” she said at last. “It's... it's just hard to focus now she's gone. This is me, and I can't switch off knowing I won't hear her voice; won't kiss her cheek, or blow on her soup. It's hard to forget, even though it's been months now.”

Kinu nodded. “It is hard, 'Su, but that's why carnivals and festivals are so good. You dance, and get caught up in the mood. It helps – even if only for a while.”

Tiersu looked up to see a pang in her sister's expression which matched her own. She sighed, and stood, dusting off her clothes. They merged with the crowds until they found themselves with a group of their peers dancing, drinking and laughing. Kinu brought Tiersu a drink of spiced wine; a “don't tell Papa” treat to celebrate the holiday.

Tiersu smiled a little and took a sip; it was a sharp but not unpleasant taste. By the time she had emptied her glass by sips and small mouthfuls, her cheeks felt warm and she was able to smile with more feeling. The dancing was picking up, and before long she had a partner she vaguely knew; the elder brother of Emille, an old friend she had drifted apart from over the years.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, couples wandered off in slow but steady numbers. Despite herself, Tiersu had been caught up in the excitement and euphoria, and compliments from her dancing partner had gone straight to head. She'd been kissed before, and knew the intentions behind his embrace when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

Tired, both emotionally and a little physically, she leaned into his shirt. It was exciting in a way, to let go of the grief for just a while and let kisses make her happy again. She had no objections when he led her away from the dancing, to somewhere they could be alone.

*

It was just after dawn when she crept back into the house. Her parents, blissfully, were asleep. That was a blessing Tiersu thanked the Six themselves for. Kinu had left a note on her bed, which she read slowly and carefully in the morning's light.

“Told Mama and Papa you were staying with Emille tonight. It's even true, in a way. Love Kinu.”

Tiersu felt a weight ease from her mind. Things were bad enough without her Papa getting involved.
She sat on the bed and furiously blinked away the itch in her eyes which promised tears. After all, it was no one's fault but her own that she'd misunderstood.

Tired, and a little sore, she curled up in her bed and let the grief back in, to take the sting of humiliation away. Of course it was only a one-off. Everyone did it, it seemed, so why had she thought it would be anything more?

Because you wanted the first time to mean something, her treacherous brain informed her. Because you made a mistake and you feel like an idiot. But you don't have to make that mistake again.

As she drifted off to sleep once more, she promised herself she would make sure that next time, everything would be right. No matter how long it took.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Four

Traveller


The sunlight peeked through a crack in the shutters, and fell onto the sleeping Tiersu's face. She slept on, unheeding, until it made its way down her face and to her eyes. She frowned in her sleep, disturbed, and awoke from troubled dreams. Daybreak. Time to go.

She dressed in silence, not paying notice to her run-down surroundings. All inns were alike, or at least, those that she could afford were. The ill-fitting shutters and sagging bed were inconveniences she had grown accustomed to. It was better than a bedroll in the cold outdoors, with the pre-dawn chorus to waken her, and a cold stream to bathe in.

Her bag bulged uncomfortably as she slung it on her back, and she rolled her eyes. Sighing, she upended it over the bed, and prepared to re-pack it.

Her bedroll, spare clothes and sewing kit she placed at the bottom, re-folding the clothes so they sat neatly around the needles and thread. She hoped she wouldn't need those any time soon. Next came her sceptre, inherited from old Matthias when he'd passed into Grenth's hands. He'd said she was his best student - his only student, mind - and had earned it. She smiled a little as she remembered the first time she'd used it to practice with, and almost set his house alight. He'd set her sweeping his house for a week in return for that one. Her focus was newer, with no sentimental ties, but it did the job. She didn't often use them, in any case.
Those were the big items, the easy ones. She looked at what remained on the bedspread. Odds and ends; trinkets that she kept for small convenience or because she hadn't gotten round to discarding them. She made a pile of the things she could discard - loose threads, scraps of this and that, the detritus that gathered in the bottoms of bags everywhere - and swept it to one side. What was left?

A small knife, twin to the one in her belt. Into the bag it went. A polished metal mirror and a comb, her last scrap of vanity. In. Some animal teeth and claws. Well, she could always peddle them if she got desperate. She glanced down at the last item left on the bed and closed her eyes, breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't much. A small necklace - a carved wooden charm strung on a leather thong. But suddenly, momentarily, she had been a child again, getting dressed ready to go out and play with the other children in the district. Suddenly Grandmama was in the corner again, smiling a wrinkled smile and running her hands over the knots in the staff. Father was-

She shook her head sharply, and looked at the floor, refusing to acknowledge the sting of tears in her eyes. It was over. She couldn't go back. She wouldn't go back, not now.

For a moment she considered throwing the necklace away. She didn't wear it, after all. Then she softened, and picked it up, stroking the familiar shape absently with her forefinger and thumb.

"Ten years," she whispered to herself. "Ten years, and I have changed so much."

She fastened the thong round her neck, and slung the bag on her back. Now it was time to go.

The Masks We Weave - Part Three

Hate and Ambition

Ingrid stared bleakly into the polished metal, hating the face that returned her gaze. But hate was good. It was a hard feeling, a strong feeling. You did things when you had hate – it was a motivator. And it was always better than fear.

Her mother had gone on a Hunt, and wouldn't be back for some days. Ingrid was glad of that – it meant she could put off the inevitable argument until it was settled. There was a knot of hope in her heart that might yet be dashed, and Gudrun would trample right over it without even noticing.

Looking down, she straightened her tunic, skelk claws neatly fastened onto the trim as she had promised herself those weeks before. She clung to that satisfaction, trying to drown out the memory of her mother's exasperated face when she had dumped the head of the thing beside the hearth.

“There, you're not the only mother of a thirteen-year-old who's never made a kill. Happy now?” she had said, in a rush of boldness that had taken them both by surprise. Her mother had responded with that deep frown which she saved for special occasions, and Ingrid had turned on her heel and stormed out before her nerve could fail her and the argument start again.

But today would be different. A whole new challenge, a whole new set of obstacles – fears – to overcome. And without the hate, that warm, constant undercurrent of loathing, she would never manage to get through it at all.

Mesmers weren't exactly common in Hoelbrak, and those willing to train youngsters were even fewer. Ingrid had learned by listening from nooks and corners that they tended to be a proud bunch, but then she had also seen warriors such as her mother look down their noses at them, and jibe that they dealt in illusions rather than real battle. To Ingrid, their pride looked all too familiar.

In the end, she had settled on asking Old Sigrid for tuition, in exchange for doing chores. Sigrid was ancient to Ingrid, and even her mother didn't remember a time that her face hadn't been lined with wrinkles and her hair the grey of snow-filled skies. But her eyes were lively, and although her hands were arthritic, they were danced over by illusionary butterflies and sparks when she waved them while telling some fellow twice her size to carry her ale over to her carefully.

The hulking norn ambled away muttering curses under his breath about the “old witch”, but Sigrid was no longer paying attention to him. She was watching Ingrid, who had emerged from a behind a nearby pillar, and, biting the left side of her mouth to pull it up slightly, walked quickly over, hands clasped in front of her. Sigrid was wizened with age, and sat hunched so far over that Ingrid towered above her standing. So she knelt, and looked up at a wrinkly face which caught her in its gaze and held her, frozen in place.

There was pressure on her head - not painful, but not gentle either - as though she was being poked in her mind as the students of warriors were prodded by hand when their masters took a look to see if they were worth the bother. Sigrid's face remained neutral as she looked Ingrid over, and Ingrid felt for a moment as though they old norn could see into the tiny recesses of her mind – or could she? The moment was fleeting, and insubstantial – was it just another illusion?

“So,” Sigrid barked eventually, in a voice as cracked as dry leather. “You're too old and cowardly for stories, so you must be here for training.”

Freed from the grip which had held her, Ingrid gulped. Sigrid looked her and broke into a broad grin.

“I may be old and weak child, but I'm not blind yet, and nor am I deaf. Oldsters like me hear all the stories, good and bad, and I'd be a fool not to have heard of Gudrun and Oddr's daughter when your face and your attitude mark you so. It's no mystery that I know who you are, and it's not much harder to guess why you're here.”

Ingrid blushed, and looked down, letting her hair fall in front of her face.

“You want me to teach you tricks of mesmerism, no? You think it will be easy, or fun?”

Ingrid shook her head. “No, Sigrid. I don't. But if I have a way with it, is it harder than making a face like this talk properly, or than learning to be silent as I move so the others don't see me? I'm not a shirker; I'm not lazy. If I start a thing, I'll put the work in, both studying and paying my debts.”

Sigrid nodded. “Well, I've had a look at you. You'll do. You won't be catching the best at their game, but you've a raw strength and a stubbornness in you, and there's a hint of a calling as well. You want this, child, for your own reasons as well as the little spark in your gut, and that's half the trick, I say. Very well. Come back in the morning, when I've less ale in my belly, and we'll get started.”

Ingrid said nothing, too relieved to speak. She simply nodded, backed up a few paces, and ran all the way back home to stare at her reflection in her father's old shield again. Soon, she thought, stroking her lopsided face. Soon I can say goodbye to this face forever.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Three

First Blood

The campsite was a well-used one, that much was plain. A prime location by the side of the road, it would likely be in use every night. At mid-morning, however, Tiersu did not expect to see signs of a hasty departure - still less a recent one.

She stood up, brushing the dust from her knees, and looked around warily. A jug had been knocked over, spilling ale over part of the campsite, and preserving a clear footprint in the soil. It suggested that whoever had been here had not gone towards the road, and that they were human; most likely male by the size.

Tiersu wasn't a tracker. The rest of the assorted scuffs and prints would probably make sense to someone, but just looked like a mess to her untrained eye. It was significant though - when she left a camp she had made a habit of leaving it as she had found it, and most were neat, with the stones around the fire neat, and the ashes cleared or scattered somewhat. A stone here had been knocked from its place in the circle, and half-burned sticks still smoked.

This wasn't just recent; had she arrived a minute or so earlier she must surely have seen the camp's occupants leaving. She looked back at the road. The day was passing, and Lion's Arch wasn't getting any closer by her standing here nosing about. On the other hand, what had happened? Generally people didn't up sticks without a pressing reason, and those were rarely good. What if someone needed help?

Mind made up, Tiersu adjusted her bag, and set off in the general direction of the footprint. Not far from the site, the ground sloped up to a crest, and back down into woodland; she was blind and exposed all in one as she reached the hilltop. Ducking to a crouch as she made her way downhill, she heard the sound of water up ahead. A stream, it sounded like, running over pebbles. There wasn't much other noise.

She heard the clink of metal at the same time as she spotted the man, stood by a tree. He had his back to her, a pack at his feet, and was fumbling at his waist. He turned suddenly and looked at her, flushing scarlet a moment before she realised the truth of situation and followed suit.

"I...I..." she stuttered, looking away as he straightened his belt.

"Saw me dash off, eh?" he asked, apparently cheerful. "Yeah, I musta looked a fair old sight. All that ale caught up with me of a sudden."

Tiersu struggled to make her mouth work, or her legs, or something - anything - to get her away from the agonising shame of the situation.

"It's alright, girl. I can see you're a good sort. Concerned for old Adam were ya? Well, no harm's done.”

Tiersu looked up, to see a broad grin on Adam's face. "I'm that touched," he said, offering his hand to shake. She was about to step forward and take it when an arrow sprouted from his chest. He didn't move; just looked puzzled for a moment, mouth twitching slightly, then slumped to the floor.

She stood transfixed for several long seconds, her mouth agape, before reality finally sank in. He was dead? How could-? What had-?

A hand clapped itself around her mouth. Hot breath reeking of alcohol rushed past her ear, and another hand pinned her arms to her sides. Her staff fell to the floor with a gentle thud. Stubble grazed her cheek. Too shocked to resist, she was pulled behind a tree, in time to glimpse a sword-bearing centaur appear.

Her assailant cursed, breaking the spell that seemed to have fallen upon her. She squirmed, thrashing with her legs since her arms were pinned to her sides, and the man cursed again – louder - and let go. There was only the briefest time to marvel at the ease of her escape; a moment later the centaur attacked, making straight for the man while Tiersu ducked down and scrambled for her staff. Grasping it, she whirled round in time to see the centaur run him through.

She retched this time, stomach heaving violently, but held her own and managed to fire a lightning bolt at the beast. It reared, and turned about, but got tangled on the branches of the tree nearest to it. She fired another bolt, which seared it on the rump, and it gave a screech of pain. Disentangling itself, it ran.

She darted over to the man it had attacked. Maybe he had just been trying to save her, and she had, indirectly at least, caused the centaur to find them. Crouching down she saw that he was alive, for now at least. The centaur had aimed high, and the blade seemed not to have penetrated his lung, instead taking him near the shoulder. He had a cloak beside him, which she reached out for, meaning to stem the bloodflow. As she leaned forwards, he grabbed her wrist with the arm on his good side.

"Came back for more, eh?" he rasped, leering at her. "I like a girl wiv spirit."

She tried to pull back, but his grasp was surprisingly strong. "Oh, I ain't lettin' go of you a second time," he said. "I'm not so badly done I can't control a filly like yourself." He tightened his grip, and raised his other hand to grab further up her arm.

Tiersu's blood ran cold. With her free hand, she grabbed at her staff, and swung it round. It hit him in the side, and he roared in pain, letting go. She fell backwards, and scrambled quickly to her feet, looking at him again as she backed away. There was a quiver on his back. She felt sick anew thinking of the innocent man he had killed.

The man – bandit, she realised at last – struggled to his feet. He had to have been hampered by his shoulder wound, but didn't seem to regard it as serious. He leered again, and took a step forward.

"I'm not such an easy target," she said, stuttering. "L-leave me alone...I mean it!" She pointed her staff at him. "I'll do it! Don't make me hurt you!"

He grinned, and let out a snort of laughter. "You ain't hurting no one, girly. I know your type. Now you just come along nicely." He reached into his belt and pulled out a knife. "No one else has to get hurt today."

She fired a jet of water at him; her warning shot. He roared in anger and threw the dagger, which missed her by scant inches. Reflexes took over, and she shot him with a sustained blast of lighting. He had life enough for one more cry of pain, and then collapsed in a heap of seared flesh.

A moment later Tiersu collapsed too, bringing up her entire breakfast. She had killed a man. Her second day on the road, and she had both seen death and been its instrument.

Tarnished Rose - Part One

Observations


They say I'm not much like my old self, these days. Well I'm damned if I care for what they think of me, now or then. When you've seen the things that I have...there's something wrong with you if you haven't changed.

It was the damned curiosity that did it for me, you know. Huh, I guess you could call it a stereotype, but I poked my nose in one too many places, and these days I consider myself lucky to still have the thing attached to my face. War and death changes you; makes you hard, makes you tough. And we need to be tough, because those battles aren't going away for a long time.

My first battle was on the Tarnished Coast. The undead were massing along the shore, and we fought them back. I'd seen fighting before, many times in fact, but this was my first time up close; my first time claiming lives. The cut and thrust of their onslaught was brutal, or so the others said, but I was more curious, you might say. These creatures were not alive, not sentient, and their borrowed bodies made interesting sounds as the combatants shot and hit and mauled them to a final oblivion.

It was the aftermath that was hard, really. Most of the remains were indeed undead, but people had fallen on the field as well, and there they lay, the life gone from them. Some had eyes closed, others eyes open, but all had a look of horror upon their faces, one which echoed in my mind for many weeks. But as I say, I was different then. Weaker, I suppose.

I get some strange looks now and then, too. Mostly from the people who shake their heads and tell me I've changed. Well, once you've changed there's no going back, so I don't see why they keep going on about it. And so what if I smoke, and drink, and take risks? There's nothing like that big hit when you pull off something big, something risky, and for a moment, you feel something good.

But those people don't see that. They just see me sat in the corner of whatever dive I've rolled up at, my boots all dusty and my trousers worn. They see the guns at my hips and the long leather coat at my back and well. I guess I just don't fit the picture someone put in their head of what a sylvari should look like. Because you know, they sure don't give the other hard folk sitting nearby the same kind of look as they give me.

And you know, sometimes I get tired of it all, of all the standards and expectations these people have of each other when out there they all die just the same. A bullet to the head and they'll drop, be they flesh or plant. Maybe you just have to see the bodies on the pyre a few more times, and look at the ashes left behind. Because when all's said and done, when we're gone, that's all that's left these days. Dust, not too different to the stuff on my heel.

The Masks We Weave - Part Two

Finding Her Fears

The snow was left behind as Ingrid made her way down into the foothills. It was a long walk, but the path was well laid, and the sound of the wind twining through the trees helped her relax. She should make more effort to come out for walks like this. Too often she stayed in the lodge, not daring to pass the gauntlet of stares and not-so-subtle elbow nudges to escape the population of Hoelbrak. But it was peaceful here, and empty enough that she didn't have to keep her chin tucked a hair's breadth from her neck all the time.

The weather was cold but clear, and the air was fresh with the scent of recent snow melt and earth. When she spotted the clearing ahead where the training encampment was, she knew she's gone far enough, and turned off the path into the trees. The ground was still soft and springy, and her boots left clear footprints which she wrinkled her nose at – but no matter. Who would be tracking her? It was she who was the huntress, though she would barely admit that, even to herself.

After all, she wasn't hunting to make a name, only taking a walk alone, and if she happened to make a kill and prove she wasn't a coward – to Gudrun, so she could put an end to that line of her mother's complaints – well then, so be it. But she didn't care what other anyone thought of her, not really.

What was a reputation, anyway, if not a way of putting others down? All her life people had spoken of their great deeds, and in the same breath mocked her for what was beyond her control. Slow to talk and slower to talk without a slur, she had let them get on with it, forcing herself to care less and less each time the insults came her way. Kill or be killed, her mother tended to think, and why shouldn't she? Life worked out just fine for her. Even losing her partner had been a tale of note; she had carried his battered body on her back for a day and a night so his funeral pyre could be lit in safety.

Ingrid hadn't envied her that task and still didn't. There were other ways to gain glory, she thought as she spied the tracks of an alpine skelk and sank into a predatory crouch. Skills learned at the insistence of her mother, and honed avoiding other young norn came into play, and she moved noiselessly through the forest. Eventually she caught up with her target, and raised her pistol slowly; sword at the ready just in-case she had a misfire. The skelk stopped, and raised its head, sniffing the wind.

Exhale she thought, her father's voice echoing in her mind. Fire. The skelk dropped, a bullet lodged in its spine. The thrill of triumph Ingrid felt at her first solo kill was quickly dwarfed by regret that her father wasn't there to give her a bear hug or pat her on the shoulder, and then a lack of direction. What now? She'd killed the thing – and skelk were egg-stealing pests, so someone somewhere would benefit from there being one less of the dratted things – but it wasn't exactly something she could go home and boast about. Skelk were killed every day. She stood, and strode over to the carcass, no longer caring about the noise she made. Quickly and carelessly she beheaded it with her sword, and then spent a little longer over removing the claws. Cleaned, they might make a nice trim for a skirt or tunic.

She turned to go back the way she had come and nearly jumped out of her skin. Behind her stood a Raven shaman, eyeing her critically. She cringed, and turned her face away, then risked a look back. He was still staring at her, arms folded.

“Well, I see why they call you the Coward, Ingrid Gudrunsdottir,” he remarked eventually. “Cringing little thing, aren't you?”

Ingrid turned red with shame, and hung her head, saying nothing.

The Raven shaman spoke again. “I thought as much. You let your fears dictate you, child. Until you master them, norn everywhere will scorn your name.” Ingrid looked up, scowling. “Raven thanks you for slaying that egg-thief, and offers this advice: 'We all have fears; dark thoughts that eat away at the courage in our hearts. But until we seek those fears and learn their names, we cannot hope to banish them. True courage lies in facing down your flaws.' Think upon Raven's words, young norn, and find what it is that you fear. Only then will you be able to conquer it.”

In Search of a Homeland - Part Two

Parting

Tiersu stood at the gates to the city, biting her lip. She was seventeen, and all alone. True, she had been preparing for this moment for the best part of two years, but she hadn't expected the finality that had accompanied it.

Why did you say it? she kept asking herself, each repetition hitting her like a blow to the gut. Why couldn't you just hold your tongue? 

So, she was foolish and childish, was she? Doomed to failure in this dangerous, dragon-blighted world? She subconsciously gripped her staff tighter. No. I might be young, but I'm made of sterner stuff than that.

She swallowed, and walked down the hill, deliberately not looking back. Her eldest sister Kinu might have sneaked out to say goodbye, and she couldn't face another goodbye. Not now. Now was too recent, too raw; she needed time to collect her thoughts and work out how she really felt about the rest of her family.

The wagons and carts that ferried goods from here to there, beyond and back again lumbered past her with rattles and creaks. Their drivers and attendant staff nodded casually at everyone they saw, cheered by the good weather and the prospect of making money. Some called ahead to family members who watched for their return, and Tiersu found herself getting increasingly tense.

She adjusted the pack of her belongings slung onto her back; her focus was poking her below the ribs. She never had liked using the stupid thing, but it was good for protective work. Definitely something she would need on the road.

And what a road it was. Winding down into Shaemoor so invitingly – promising safety which she knew all too well was in short supply. Hadn't that been part of the problem, that it wasn't “safe”? As if she didn't know that – as if she wasn't careful - how dare he talk to her like that!

Her temper was flaring, and she bit her lip. She wanted to hit something, hard, but there was nothing to hit. Instead, she held out her palm downwards, and flexed it once, which brought a pebble up on a shockwave of air to hit her hand. She gripped it reflexively, and squeezed until her fingertips turned white. It would have to do until she could get off the road and just...scream or something.

Her staff thumped the ground solidly with every step she took, and the small segment of her that still cared about things was glad she had fitted a protector for its foot. It would never do for it to be damaged. As her temper calmed, she remembered its value, and carried it instead, stroking the ancient wood with city-soft fingers. There were no splinters after all its years of service. Six or seven generations of polishing had seen to that.

She looked it over once more, wondering what it would make of this change in its circumstances if it were capable of thought. More than two centuries sat propped in a corner, and here it was again; off for good hard use. May it grant me the protection it gave my ancestors,she thought. I'll need it.

The Masks We Weave - Part One

Ingrid the Coward

A young norn sat cross-legged some distance from the fire, head resting on her left hand; fingers splayed over her cheeks up to her eye. The skaald regaling her and the other youngsters with a tale of heroics and cunning watched her out of the corner of his eye, shifting slightly to face her.

“And as he slew his mighty foe; felt the breath leave those lungs for the final time, he felt a moment of sadness. For he knew that his greatest foe was now defeated. His legend had been made, and there was no deed great enough left to equal it.

“He learned, as all must, that the greatest joy in life is the fight not yet won – the challenge still to best. What good is a life wherein your proudest moments are all behind you? When all your foes are gone, what is left to strive for? A life hard fought is the best life. Battling the odds, and overcoming our disadvantages are how the greatest stories are made.”

He nodded imperceptibly to himself as the young norn – Ingrid – cowed slightly during his last sentence. There was something different there. She just didn't seem to respond as the others did. Thirteen and yet to seriously attempt a hunt? As the youngsters thanked him and drifted away in groups, he shook his head to himself. Any other norn would have worn a face like that with pride; have deemed it a mark of individuality, the better to be remembered by. Ingrid hid herself away with a downward stare and mass of hair swept over her cheek.

*

Ingrid sat on her bed with her knees resting just below her nose. Gudrun, her mother, was on a roll again, proclaiming her shame that her one daughter should turn out to be so unlike her, so cowardly-

“I am NOT a coward!” Ingrid yelled, cutting her mother off. She stood up, so furious at the insult that she held her head high. “Take that back.”

Her mother didn't bat an eyelid. “Is it a wonder folk call you a coward when you've yet to even try for a hunt? Oh, you tuck yourself away at the firing range with that pistol of yours, and you'll turn out with a sword now and then in the evenings, but I've yet to see you test your mettle against a foe.

“You should be out in the mountains with your gun and your sword, facing down foes and building your courage. It's no life sat here in Hoelbrak all the time, hiding from the others. What will you do with yourself? How will you be remembered – as Ingrid the Coward? Is that the legacy you wish for?”

Ingrid felt hot tears brimming in her eyes and blinked them away, furious and shamed in equal measure. Her mother came and put an arm around her, awkwardly. There was a silence, and then:

“I don't want that for you. I want you to be proud of yourself and your deeds. Wolf's fur, I know you have it in you somewhere, but who else can say that? Can you? Face down your fears and find something to be proud of, something you can build a legend around.”

She patted her daughter on the shoulder, and strode quickly from the room. Ingrid slumped as she left. Face down her fears? She wasn't afraid; certainly not too afraid to go out on a Hunt. But what was the point? No one would remember her deeds, only her face, her spirits-be-damned face, with it's stupid eye that wouldn't open all the way, and a mouth that could never smile on both sides. Ingrid the Coward? Hah! Ingrid the Ugly, more like; Ingrid Squint-eye, Ingrid Lop-sided. That was what all the others called her. And how was she ever to ride out a name like that?

A Life on the Road - Part One

Confrontation

Lion's Arch market. Wares of all shapes and sizes for the buying and the selling; high prices and low. Here were food stands, there were weapons dealers, tailors, armour suppliers; specialists in goods of all sorts and qualities.

One such stall carried a range of jewellery; earrings, necklaces, bracelets and brooches. They were middle-market goods, not of a quality to attract the more discerning buyers, but not gold-painted copper, either. A young woman loitered by the stall, dressed in clothes of worn but serviceable quality. She eyed the goods, longing in her gaze, as though she dreamed one day of owning something of this sort. The stall-holder watched her suspiciously for a moment, then turned to deal with a customer interested in a selection of bangles.

She seized her chance, an arm darting out to snatch one of the necklaces nearest the stall's edge.

“Stop, thief!” the stall-holder bellowed, reaching out in vain to catch her as she bolted away. The small crowd nearest the stall stopped and stared after her.

She didn't look back, just ran, tucking the necklace into her shirt as she went; ducking and weaving amongst the thick crowds. Easy pickings, she thought, slowing, then spotted the Lionguard behind her.

“Shit!” she muttered, and picked up her pace again, pushing past those who wouldn't get out of her way, and jumping over obstacles which might slow the armoured guard down.

The crowds were even thicker by the docks, and she was slowed somewhat, taking only the slightest shred of comfort in the fact that her pursuer would be more than hampered too. Reaching up, she pulled the leather thong out of her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders and change her silhouette as she ran, slowing slightly to shake her hair out of the loose bun it had been held in.

Past the memorial and along the quayside; now she could double back towards the market and pick another target. She shook her head again to let her reddish-brown hair fall more naturally and help disguise her face. Then she straightened, smoothing her shirt and checking that the necklace was safely stowed in the same movement. She melted between a few more people, blending back into the rest of the crowd. Right, now for the next-

A gloved hand clamped down on her arm and pulled her back, its owner breathing heavily. She looked round to see a short, stocky woman wearing armour but no helmet, her rich brown skin glistening with sweat.

“Why, hello there Allyn,” the Lionguard said, smiling cheerfully. “What say you give that old trinket back and we can get on our merry old ways?”

Allyn started, too shocked to speak for a moment, then replied: “Miri? You're not seriously asking that, are you? To me? We're friends, Balthazar damn it!”

“Aye, so I'm asking you as a friend to give it back now, and consider this a warning. Don't
make me take it Allyn.”

Allyn snorted. “Miri, it's no good. I know you.”

The Lionguard sighed. “I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, you know,” she said, her voice wistful. She reached into her belt and pulled out a set of shackles, deftly jerking Allyn's arm behind her back to immobilise her.

“But... Miri... Miranee! What are you doing?” Allyn shrieked, ignoring the stares of those around them.

Miranee fastened her other hand, and spun her around, reaching into the neck of Allyn's shirt to fish out the necklace.

“I'm doing my job, Allyn.” Miranee said quietly. “As I told you all I would. I help my friends, but...” She paused a moment, and her wistful, almost friendly gaze hardened. “I have my limits.”

In Search of a Homeland - Part One

Childhood

Tiersu sat with her back to the fire, skinny arms around long legs, gazing up at Grandmama Kellith. It was getting dark, and the shutters had been closed – story time. She had heard them all before – knew most of them by heart, but there was something in her grandmother's way of telling the stories which brought them to life. A knack for storytelling, combined with her faint trace of an accent, perhaps.

The old woman wriggled slightly in her chair, getting comfortable, and laid her staff gently across her knees. She gave Tiersu an indulgent yet piercing look, and frowned a moment. The girl was tired. A shorter tale for tonight, then. She cleared her throat, and began:

“Now, it was your five times great-grandfather Yiko who brought the family to Kryta, fleeing the cruel Emperor Usoku. He brought with him his wife and his children, but they left because of his mother, your six times great-grandmother, and your namesake. That name has been in the family for generations, but it is to honour her that we pass it along now.

“She travelled with a band of heroes when Cantha faced mortal peril, and she stood by them through thick and thin, fighting alongside them as they struggled to defeat Shiro. Hers was not the part of glory and everlasting fame; that would go to those who struck the killing blow, but she was there, and she fought to free her nation. And when those heroes travelled again to fight great foes in other lands, she remained behind, for there was yet work to be done to make it safe.

“The Emperor, father of that same Usoku who would prove to be so unjust, did not have full control of his country. There were yet afflicted in the great city, and the rival clans of the Luxons and the Kurzicks caused discord despite their brief alliance. Her love of Cantha kept her to its shores, even though greatness was, for a time, within her reach. None yet knew how well the Echovald Forest would regrow, or if the Jade sea would return to water, and while these lands lay locked to expansion, the great city, Kaineng, remained dense and crowded.

“Her gift lay in communing with the spirits. She was a Ritualist, a gift foreign to these lands, and her power was great. She considered it her duty to return the souls of the afflicted to rest, and worked tirelessly. When the Ministry of Purity made its great push against them, she rallied to the fight, and earned the respect of all those around her.

“After the last of the Afflicted were defeated, there were many celebrations on Shing Jea island, and among the revelry, she conceived a son, bowing out of active duty so as to raise him safely. Whilst pregnant, she journeyed to the relative calm of the Echovald forest to raise him. It was there that she met her future husband, Gervas, and together they had two, no, three more children. He accepted Yiko, and supported him, but there was always tension, as the boy did not feel the ties to the forest that his half-siblings did. By the time Usoku came to the throne and turned on the Kurzicks and Luxons, he had moved to Shing Jea island, and married there.

“That war could only ever end one way – with Usoku claiming victory over the two peoples, and uniting them into one. Many said that it was for the best, that it would end generations of bloodshed, but Usoku, he wasn't finished yet. His foes defeated, he turned instead on the non-human people of the continent, and began to turn them out.

“Tiersu was old by then, older than I am now, but she did not sit back and let the armies bring her into submission all peacefully. Nor, however, did she fully side with the Kurzicks, and for that reason, in part with her Imperial heritage, the children she had had with Gervas disowned her, and she was forced to flee the mainland and join Yiko and his family on Shing Jea island. Even that was no guarantee of safety for her, so Yiko booked passage on a ship bound for Lion's Arch.

“It was the breaking of Tiersu, and she died but a few months later, with her son and her grandchildren around her. Her dying words, that a descendant of hers must surely some day walk the Canthan shores once more, have been passed down through the family, along with her staff, that I carry with me to this day.”

Grandmama Kellith stroked the old, gnarled staff as she spoke, and smiled down at Tiersu.

“There. You've had your story; off to bed with you! If you're good, tomorrow I'll tell you about the time Gran'ther Yiko was surrounded by angry Tengu, or maybe even the story of your namesake's fight against the Afflicted. I know you like that one. Go on, bed!”

Tiersu stood up, and kissed her Grandmother on her wrinkled brow. “Pleasant dreams, Grandmama Kellith. Dwayna watch you while you sleep.”