The Diessan Path

A Guild Wars Fanfic

Author's Notes: This is a work in progress which I've been posting on a GW forum for the last 2 months or so. In principle, readers should not need much knowledge of the game to follow and enjoy the story, and if you have any feedback or criticisms then I would welcome them! It is rated 'T' for now, but this is subject to change as the story may contain some descriptions of battle scenes or injuries to characters. There will not be any explicit scenes and I try to keep expletives both in keeping with the setting and infrequent. Enjoy!


Chapter 1 – 1050AE, Season of the Scion

Silence. She couldn't detect a sound; not a single indication of life anywhere. Please, Dwayna, give me the strength to do this. Give me hope.

She couldn't see more than about ten feet ahead, or for that matter in any other direction. The fog had closed in some time ago, and it ate up her surroundings with the insatiable appetite that only weather could exude. Nothing but the night could hide the world so completely, and even then starlight could guide a knowledgeable traveller. She couldn't say precisely how long ago the mists had closed in, reducing her world to a hemisphere of swirling grey in the process, because there was no reference to go by. On the other hand, long days did not exist up here among the peaks, so she could guess that dusk was not far off with some expectation of accuracy. A night spent up here in the fog is not going to be one I relish, she thought darkly.

Crisp, unbroken snow crunched beneath her leather boots as she battled blindly on in search of something – anything – that could break the monotonous and seemingly endless shroud in which she had been enclosed. True, it was easy enough to imagine the tall, craggy towers of the Shiverpeaks that loomed prominently over her, and the wide snowy valley that formed the trail between them, but with no reference points it was quite possible that she would end up going in circles.

At least I haven't come across my own footprints yet, she considered dubiously. I suppose I should be grateful that the snow isn't deeper; they said that the passes to the south were already blocked. Not that I could have traversed them in any case, under the circumstances.

She wasn't about to harbour the idea that if the southern passes were blocked then the odds were high that the northern ones would be even more so. She couldn't afford to; they were the only chance she had available to her now. Crossing the mountains here would be the only way that her precious burden could have a future. She had to keep going in spite of the worsening weather and the rapidly shortening days. All too frequently flurries of snow had swamped her, forcing her to seek shelter if she could or to simply curl up in the lee of a drift and try to keep warm. At other times, gusts of wind so bitter that they froze her breath on her tongue would sweep down the valley, occasionally strong enough to bring her to a halt, and invariably shocking her to the core even when she was no longer able to feel the cold.

And it was the wind that was assailing her now. She'd stopped shaking a while ago, and a small corner of her mind was fervently trying to tell her that this was not a good thing. Desperation and determination drove her forward though, and the longer she went without listening to the voice the easier it was to ignore. To help, she'd spent some hours reciting a mantra along the lines that the shivering had been no more than a fear of the mountains, and that she had mastered her fear now.

The silence stretched on. Still nothing moved within the small circle of grey that had become her world.

I'm not afraid. I won't be…

At least her feet were still able to carry her onwards even when she was no longer sure that she could feel them. Telling herself that if they were working then they were fine, she permitted her mind to meander back into the realms of memory. They weren't pleasant, but they helped to remind her of her purpose and to stiffen her resolve.

It should have been a dull, dreary day, when not even the uncooperative weather could spoil her mood. That was to have been how she came to Kryta, not like this. Not chained, gagged and bound, beaten and bruised from a gruelling week-long haul across the Shiverpeaks as a prisoner of war. And now they were selling her. Selling her! A week ago she'd been working on the farm, now most of her family and friends were dead, and she was being traded like a piece of meat to some Krytan nobleman. How had the Guild Wars come to this? What had driven nations to such atrocities? It didn't matter, really. What mattered was that she was being led away from the monsters that had chained her, and was being taken towards a large house not far off. Settled comfortably in the midst of its estate, shining gaily in the morning sun, the scene should have been beautiful. But many things that should have come to pass would not, and her dreams would die here; a slave…

…The main landing in the master's house; the wide passage that linked most of the upstairs rooms. She was supposed to be cleaning it, but the ornately woven tapestries of forgotten heroes always managed to distract her. Wielding great blades, armed figures – presumably the masters' ancestors – vanquished terrifying beasts and demons. Her favourite was the one where the girl was chained to the rock as a sacrifice, and the hero was breaking the great iron links with his bare hands. At least she no longer bore the chains herself – it wouldn't do for a respectable man like the master to actually indulge in slavery – but it was understood that they guards around the estate had orders regarding wandering captives. Many of the servants found the landing disturbing and its decorations unnerving, but it was her favourite room in the whole building. A soft cough behind her banished her reverie, and she whirled in surprise to see the master himself standing there. Awkwardly she curtseyed, knowing that neither dallying nor disrespect was tolerated, but the master just smiled in that strange way of his. Involuntarily she blushed in embarrassment as his graceful figure walked past her subservient form and out of sight…

…Darkness. The close, comforting darkness of night, and the reassuring presence of the man she was growing to love with his arms around her, holding her close. The warm wash of passion and desire as he whispered sweet promises to her in the darkness, mixed with an intoxicating trace of fear – after all, what if the master's wife were to find them like this…

…The dim illumination of the kitchens, lit only by the dying fires as the night grew late. Worry and fear etched her face as she glanced around, praying that she remained unobserved. She was late – too late – and she was afraid. How in Dwayna's name could she hide something like this from any of them – from him, or worse his wife – and what would he say when he found out? She'd grown used to the leniencies and privileges her relationship with the master had granted her in recent months, limited as they were, but she knew that he would not react well to her predicament. The stones of the wall above the hearth merely glared coldly back at her as she searched them for answers to question she barely dared ask, and in them she found nothing of sympathy or comfort…

…The look in the cook's eyes, calculating and terrible. The distain and the cruel gleam of malice confirmed her worst fears when he asked after her health. He knew. Worse, he knew exactly who the father must be. Her hands went to her abdomen on reflex, and the single raised eyebrow in the cook's face was a testament to the betrayal – by her own instincts. It was only a matter of time now. Unable to face the jeering contempt of the man, she turned to flee, the scene spinning and fading with the memory…

…Darkness again. But cold this time, as though it were a cell. In some ways it was, but one of her own making, for she refused to leave. Beyond the wooden door she could hear raised voices; the cultured dulcet tones of her lover a stark counterpoint to the grating whine of the cook. The hissing whisper of her condition slipped ominously through the wooden panels, as did the outraged exclamations of shock and anger from the man whose child she bore. Two sets of heavy footfalls approached the door, and her master demanded that she open it. She had no choices left, and her baby made her ungainly now; her time was not far off, and it was a miracle of the gods that she had not been discovered before. The door creaked in protest as a heavy weight was thrown against it, and she backed away fearfully. The master sounded furious, incoherent with anger and blinded by rage. She was afraid, both for herself and for the child. After all, how much would the man mourn if one of his slaves died? The door burst asunder, and harsh light flooded in. Squinting, she could see no more of him than a silhouette in the doorway, but knew that her figure was inescapably clear. She prayed to Dwayna for deliverance; it was all she had left. The goddess might have heard, she couldn't be sure, for while the next – the last – word she heard from him was not announcing her death, it was hardly a declaration of love.

Begone.

And with that single word all hopes she had of acceptance, however slim and unlikely they might be, were shattered. Her heart was broken, and she could not stay on the estate for another minute. Not even caring that the guards would come after her, she fled past her lover and into the harsh light, determined never to set her eyes upon the man again…

A sharp gust of wind shattered her ramblings and forced her back into the present. The all-obscuring fog had not yet relented, and the oppressive quiet was still dampening her spirits. She glanced down at the precious bundle in her arms, the most treasured thing in the world. Her son.

He should have been 'our' son, but it cannot be. His father may be among the most respected men in Kryta, but he will never know his firstborn. I was no more than a dalliance; a slave. And that made you a liability, my precious one. Perhaps it was for the best that you were born in a tavern during our flight east, before the skirmishes through the Shiverpeaks between my captors and my people forced us north. You were a threat to him through no fault of your own, and it is to his detriment that he is blind to what you can become.

Gods, but the child was white. Almost too white, if truth be told, in spite of the fact that she'd given the babe practically more clothing than the ragged threadbare robes she wore herself. If it hadn't been for the thin wisps of vapour rising from his tiny mouth then she might have feared for his life. If anything happened to her baby, then all would have been for naught. She would not permit it.

With a small start, the girl realised that she had in fact been standing still for some time. Fighting the urge to simply rest and let the ever-encroaching weariness overwhelm her, she forcefully drove first one leg forward, then the other, until she was immersed in a rhythm as old as humanity itself.

In fact, she was concentrating upon her feet so much that the newcomer's presence barely registered at first. It was not until the faint outline solidified as the mists drew back from it that she looked up. A good six feet from gaping muzzle to thick tail, the great snow wolf suited its swirling, haunting environment perfectly. Its hackles were raised threateningly, the powerful muscles beneath the shaggy hide rippling with suppressed power that would surge into motion at a moment's notice. Steam curled up from its maw, where razor-sharp fangs – honed to formidable points during its lifetime – glistened with drool and the long tongue licked out in anticipation. Its eyes were the worst though – those yellow, all-seeing orbs of terrifying intelligence and cunning artifice that glinted in the gloom with an intensity that held her immobile before them.

The beast growled. No doggy yap, this was a full-throated, deep sound full of deadly promise and hungry intent. It froze her blood when she thought that cold could no longer touch her, and the girl fervently wished that she could will her feet into action once more. She glanced involuntarily down at the babe in her arms, for whom she had been prepared to give everything.

The child opened its eyes then, and gazed up into its mother's face with innocent acceptance and trusting calm. From the corner of her eye the girl saw the beast twitch, readying itself to strike.

"Dwayna preserve us," she whispered, a faint prayer that was stolen away by the bitter air as soon as it reached her tongue.