Story description lyrics from Kenny Gibler (Play The Piano Like A Disease), by The Chariot.

Anathema

Pre-searing: A Minuet in C Minor

Author's note: This story may be discontinued… I'm not sure. I'm just uploading it because I did put a lot of work into it, and I suppose that the first two chapters could merely stand alone. I was planning on making it an entire story following the plot of Guild Wars (which would take ridiculously long, I know) but I probably don't have the time for it. Either way, enjoy—and I may add more parts later.

Thanks to Laura for giving me feedback while I wrote this :)

Coruscating lights flood my vision, my head vertiginous. I've never visualized anything so magnificent. And yet I know this is something to be feared. The sky is radiating, and it's then when I witness the balls of fire ripping across the sky, absolutely tearing through the fog of the morn. The fire turns the entire sky crimson. A feeling of disquietude overtakes me. I rise from the grass I lay in, my legs unsteady as the stream of fire continues to be fed through the sky. I brush adhesive blades of grass from my breeches, my chin raised to see the aerial view above me. It's then when I notice a dire detail of the scene taking place--these globs of flame are not natural. It's as if they're being launched from the forest. Precariously, I gather my paints and rush back to the City.

I rush through the meadows, having no time to enjoy the fragrant scents surging throughout my nostrils. Thorns prick through the agile fabric of my breeches, a few imbedding themselves in my calves. The worn leather of my boots is the only thing sheathing my ankles. The bucket I clutch containing my tubes of paint bounces unsteadily, forcing my pace to remain at the same speed. What I'm running from, I don't know. The lights are screeching closer, although I know they're not heading at me. It's then that a seemingly inadequate rock trips me and I lose my footing. The bucket I once held closely goes tumbling out in front of me and my face submerges into a patch of thistle. I cringe from the impact. I breathe heavily, letting the grasses settle over my body as I lay with my stomach to the ground. My ears perk, listening… listening. The haunting sounds grow fainter. I roll onto my back, gazing into the sky, the position I had maintained shortly ago. The paints are sprayed back in the grasses and my palette settles somewhere with them. I inhale deeply, contemplating everything around me.

I now lie in the lush meadows, outside of Ascalon City, or Rin. The wildlife throughout here has been a bit… Unsettling lately. Violent river skales and other small, fiendish creatures have lately been calling our kingdom home. I am to be attentive of my surroundings because of this. To be honest, I'm not very educated in any form of combat or self-defense. I have instead chosen the lifestyle of either an artist or artisan. Either-or, I practice my painting in the outdoors, while I practice my craftsmanship in forging materials at my home. I live with my mother and two younger sisters. Ellecia is fourteen, while my baby sister Efthemia is eight years of age. My father passed away when I was five, but I am still proud to bear the name Elias Helisson.

The gruesome fire continues to occasionally be shot throughout the sky, but wherever it's being launched from is some distance away. The balls seem to be growing in size, which may explain why I had thought them to be growing closer, but now at I distance I can see they're still coming from the same location in the forest. Surely a ballistae or even trebuchet is the cause of this. Our soldiers must merely be practicing their routine defense procedures against the Charr, a formidable beast that we've been at war with for half a century. The Charr are a race below Humans--yes, us humans do see every other race below us--but they still rise above all other creatures. Their intelligence is moderately high, although they speak a language entirely of their own. These Charr harness the power of fire for combat, so as father used to say, the only way to fight fire is with fire. To the Charr, flame represents their gods. The City has been a bustle with talk of blasting these damned Charr out of their homes and driving them from the kingdom of Ascalon for good.

With a grunt I sit up, thistle snagged in knots in my rust-colored hair. I run my fingers throughout it; I am then able to withdraw with a handful of stray weeds, which I dump back down the earth. I first stretch out my left leg and then my right. My fingers stretch to the tip of my boot and I wrap them around. My fingers are long and skilled at tying knots. I hold this position for five blinks and then repeat it on the other leg. Mother complains that my legs will become crippled with arthritis like Lady Theodosia, an elderly woman my mother cares for, if I remain inactive for large periods of time. I don't wish to go through as much agony through movement as she does, as I can't help but cringe whenever I see her hobbling around with Mother's help, so always take precaution.

Before getting to work on my painting, I spy an acorn near my tube of red paint. I pick it up and rub it between my palms. It stays intact. I then shove it deep within the pockets of my breeches. Carrying an acorn brings luck and ensures a long life. I then return to the task at hand and set up my art space. My prized possession is my easel, carved from an ancient oak tree. I set up my canvas, and gaze into the substrate, trying to picture what to place upon it. I pick up my brush, and finger the ferrule, looking at the landscape. It's then when my sight diverts back above me--at the flames, shooting out of the forest and across the sky, until they're out of view. This will make a marvelous painting. If I can execute it properly, maybe it will even fetch a large sum of money. Then, I can buy Ellecia her very own bow, and maybe some candy for Efthemia. Mother doesn't approve of women fighting, but it will cause no harm for my Eli to learn the basics of weaponry. The entire land of Tyria is having great technologic advancement, as well as morals and views. Maybe someday when Ellecia is grown, it will be okay for women to fight. Also, with the war against the Charr, anyone who can wield a weapon may be required to fight, if a siege were ever to occur on the Wall.

I squirt some paint out of my palette, blending warm colors together, to create a fiery tint. I then realize I have no water to wash my brushes with, whenever I may wish to change colors. I pick up my bucket, and rub the tips of my fingers against the small cracks in the sides. Profuse amounts of water have never seeped through them before, so I trust it to be a reliable holder. I swing the metal handle in my hand and run down to a stream. I look around -- just to be sure that the location I have chosen is safe -- and dip it into the water. Clear water trickles in, the bucket swaying from the force of the current as it's submerged. Once the water reaches the top, I raise it, and dump out the water overflowing the edge. Droplets of water run down the sides of the wooden bucket but none escapes through the small cracks. Trusty bucket. I begin to head back but stop when I hear splashing in the water. I turn around, and gasp to see a River Skale Tad. He glares at me through small, crimson eyes. He has a large jaw, with two slits for nostrils. The end of his scaly muzzle is the color of raw flesh, and razor sharp teeth tremble at the sight of me. He rises to stand on two feet, and looks to be only about the size of one grown man's foot in height. Scales cascade down his erect spinal cord, the same color that reminds me of raw flesh. All of his paws are webbed with this color, with nails as sharp as his teeth. The rest of his scales are adorned with a fading blue. We stand there, staring at each other for uncountable time. Man and beast. Is he curious at the sight of me, as I am about him, or does only think of sinking his teeth deep into my thigh?

"I am not very tasty," I say finally, although he wouldn't be able to understand me. I motion to the muscle on my forearms, and shake my head. "Not a good meal at all. I am still a young boy. I am only 16, although I will be 17 around Midsummer. It's then that I will be of age to wed. But, anyway… Sir River Skale, please find something of your own size to gnaw upon."

The River Skale Tad grunts, and lowers himself back to all fours. I release a breath I hadn't known I'd held as he stalks off. I carry my bucket back to my painting site, being cautious not to spill too much into the grass as I place it down. I now rub the bristles of my brush in the paint I had created earlier, and glance into the sky for guidance one last time. The fires have disappeared. I squint extra-hard, and stand on my toes, just to elevate my head further. There's no sign of them. I frown. The defensive drills must be over. I close my eyes, rocking on my heels, trying to re-create the image in my mind. I will just have to paint it by memory. With my eyes still closed, I bring the tip of my brush to the canvas, and begin to paint. I have the substrate memorized--I know everything textured bump on the parchment, and can tell where to guide my hand. I paint a vague outline of the sky, and end at where the horizon should be. I then darken the spaces where I plan to place the fireballs. I now use white to paint the clouds they temporarily soar over, with stray strands of fire disrupting their flow. Once I am done with all of the other details of the sky, I paint the fire. I use many flaming colors to portray what I saw, making them striking out in many different directions. Of course I have opened my eyes for this part, for I wish to make this flawless. Occasionally, I glance quickly in the sky, checking if the fireballs may have returned. They haven't. The day advances into the afternoon, bright colors beginning to cast across the horizon. They are no match for my fire, but it is still a marvelous thing to perceive. Late afternoon comes, and my stomach steadily aches, gaining more extremity than any of my other senses. I sigh, and glance at my painting. If I add any more to it, it may begin to look cluttered. I carve my family name into the corner of the canvas in a rather petite size, so it will take no attention away from my art. This painting will suffice, and is rather good, but still does not capture the impact of the fire.

I begin to pack up my supplies. Mother will have prepared our Midday meal by now and will be wondering what slows me from returning home. I cannot rush my art though, so I have an excuse, so I will not have to explain the events that took place. I will also tell her I painted the fire merely out of my imagination. Yes, it is a good plan, so I have no fear of receiving any punishment. While I rinse off my palette, something streaks across the sky. Another fireball! I let out a gasp. It trails off somewhere in the distance. Now another fireball comes. This one seems to be growing larger in size. I then realize I may be in its zone of impact. I scramble further away, but it lands somewhere by the riverbank. Worry stirs in me. Have the soldiers misaimed that shot? They should know that there are villagers who come out here, and someone may have been injured. Uncertainly, I return to my painting site and finish packing up. I dump the dirty water into the grass and fold up my easel. I am all ready to go when I hear many footsteps. It may be a distance off, but the trees curve around the main path, so sound easily echoes off of them, and travels further than usual. Maybe it is the soldiers, who have come to investigate if anyone was injured in the misfiring. Or maybe they just return home, all done with the militaristic procedures for today. Either way, the idea of seeing men in armor entices me. As a future artisan, I must study armor carefully, as well as the materials they are made of. I would like to fight for our city as well, but Mother says I am too sickly to be bearing arms. I sometimes lose profuse amounts of blood, as well as have coughing fits, that end in me spitting up blood. I try not to let these disabilities get in the way of my everyday life. Anyway, they have lately and fortunately been rare.

I lug all of my supplies with me as I get onto the main path. I gaze down it. A large group is indeed marching in my direction. I do not wave, but still head towards them… I can be a witness, to inform them that no one was hurt. Or if they don't ask about the misfiring, I will tell them how dangerous it had been, and to maybe take extra care. I am allowed to speak to those higher than me in this way, as our King cares for his people, and does not consider us lowly if we lack great wealth. I pick up my pace, panting from the excess weight that slows me down. I grow closer to them, as their features grow more acute… It is then that I gasp. These are not people at all, but rather Charr! My face melts into one stricken with horror, and I back away as fast as my legs will go. I see the ones in the lead, bearing swords and bows. They all vary in appearance, but are still most definitely Charr. One of the Charr pauses and sniffs the air. He then sees me with his beady, gleaming eyes. He is at least 30 yards away. He has a large chest, and is dressed in only a leather thong, with a pouch that hangs at his side. He has bronze armor, which reminds me of gauntlets, around his wrists and ankles. He has fur ranging from a dirty golden shade to light brown. He has a mane almost like a lion. He has a monstrous jaw with two jagged teeth at the end, vertically facing straight up. His mouth also has many sharp teeth. He has long horns that curve menacingly out of his head. His tail is bound in a few of these same bronze gauntlets as well. He points to me and lets out a violent grunt, his party becoming aware of my presence. Other Charr dressed in robes, with flaming orange manes, and Charr with thick, iron armor descending down their spines raise there weapons, and let out a ringing growl. My throat clams up, as my body goes into a spasm. I fall to the ground, desperately pounding on my throat, my art supplies sprawled across the dirt path. The Charr begin to charge, their battle cries deafening me.

O, Dwayna, please do not let me die here, I plead, as my vision plunges into darkness.