Hey, how's it going? I've been on a real Guild Wars kick lately, and I've finally decided to take a crack at a story I've had floating around in my head for a few years now. Guild Wars, to me, has always meant an incredible universe with the kind of lore that inspires all kinds of discussions with fellow players. To that end, I wanted to craft a story that makes great use of all the franchise's storied history. This series is set during the events of the original Guild Wars, opening during the War in Kryta. However, there will also be plenty of flashbacks, and if I have my way, the story will also merge into Guild Wars 2. Be warned, the POV is from my own character, and the events described herein comprise my own headcannon. Meaning, I write my own player character as having been the central protagonist throughout the series, if that makes sense. Without further ado, let's get this show on the road!

*I do not own Guild Wars*

The lock finally tumbled open, and Roy found himself inside his home office. The heavy rains of Lion's Arch followed him inside as he slammed the door shut. He stood there dripping wet, catching his breath before setting the latch, the bolt, and lowering the barricade back into place. He shrugged out of his coat and threw it at the rack by the door, thankful to be out of the rain, the wind still howling just outside. The floorboards groaned in protest as he stepped into his office, pitch black now with the shutters closed. He spotted the trail of water on the floorboards, and stopped instantly.

He wasn't alone.

He snapped his fingers, a vigil of candles erupting in the gloom. They lined the office, shelves of them, dozens in total, scattered haphazardly and bathing the room in warm, soft light. Roy glanced around the room, and found a corner where the shadows clung like thick vines. Never taking his eyes away, his foot found an old, timeworn staff leaning against the door jamb, one he'd obtained years back in his travels through the Shiverpeaks. He kicked it up carefully, snatched it in his hand, and angled the business end towards the darkness. Curiously, the shadow spoke.

"Easy, Roy. Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The ranger sighed, watching as the shadow dissipated, wearing the skin of a man. The shadow was a Canthan assassin, one of the best, he knew, clad in the dark armor of Imperials, blacker than the moon's ass, and with more hidden blades than an entire Charr garrison.

"Wynn," he said, somehow not surprised, eyes narrowing on the young man. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise, friend," he began, advancing toward him. "Though I can't help but wonder why you're still pointing that staff at your old buddy."

"Force of habit," he said, lowering the weapon. "State your business."

"It's kind of a funny story," Wynn said, smiling. He took another step towards Roy, lurching violently. Roy swore, lunging forward to catch the man as he fell. It was no easy feat as Roy caught him, the assassin's weight threatening to topple him over. He was soaking wet, nearly slipping out of his grasp, but there was something else now, he realized. This close, he saw the bloodstains at once, seeping through the joints of his armor.

"Wynn ..." he mumbled, too stunned for words.

"Hey, it's not that bad," he rasped, before wheezing violently. "Just help me up." Roy sighed, leading the man across the room, before easing him gingerly into a felt-backed chair. The assassin all but collapsed into it, nursing his gut.

"Start at the beginning," Roy said, pacing around the room, looking for his medicine cabinet.

"Been in Kryta for a few weeks now. Wanted to look you up, but didn't want to get you involved in this business," he rasped. "At least, not quite yet," he added.

"Seeing as how you're bleeding to death on my nice, hardwood floor, I'd say I'm pretty damn involved." Wynn chuckled, before wincing in pain. Roy found his stash, a re-purposed bookshelf with glass panes that swung out to allow access to the cabinet. He found the unguent on the second row, between a salve of an Elonian strain of mandrake commonly believed to promote virility, and a bottle of powdered fireflower and white iris, used as a sleep aid. He turned back to his friend, watching the seep out from under his chest plate. Roy frowned. "The wound isn't clotting," he said, looking for the clasps on his armor. "Poisoned blade?" he asked. "I don't see any punctures ..."

"No blade did this," the assassin answered. "Spell. Necromancer."

"Ah," Roy said. It was all he needed to. He'd worked alongside enough necromancers over the years to understand exactly the kind of horror their dark art wrought. Hell, he'd even experienced the nightmare firsthand, he reminded himself. Never again. "Nasty business, that." Wynn must've seen him fumbling with the straps, as he did them himself, despite Roy's protests, straining in pain. Roy removed the breastplate carefully, seeing the damage immediately. Underneath, his white linen shirt was stained deeply with splotches of blood that had soaked all the way through. He undid the buttons carefully, and opened the shirt, revealing lesions all across his chest. Roy grimaced.

"So it is that bad, huh?" Wynn asked, putting on a smile.

"Maybe not," Roy said. "Just looks bad." He popped the lid off the unguent, and began to smear it as best he could over the wounds. The substance was cold and sappy in his hands, and Wynn almost jumped when it touched his bare skin.

"Balthazar's balls," he seethed, before muttering something in his native tongue. "Gimme a little warning before you go in hot like that," he said.

"Don't be a baby," Roy said, coating the lesions with the gunk. Exposed to the heat of his body, the unguent began to harden at once over his wounds, calcifying and forming ugly, scab-like shells.

"You need to work on your bedside manner, doc," he said, leaning back, closing his eyes.

"And you need to work on not getting yourself killed. Now, what in the hell happened out there?" Roy asked, getting up and wiping his hands off. He had about half a bottle left of the stuff, and pocketed it. The stuff wasn't cheap to come by, mostly because the ingredients were sourced from trolls; creatures that were by their nature not overeager to part with their tusks.

"Short version, I got a job offer from this lady. I'll introduce you to her later. Big, fat purse of gold on the table. Naturally, I couldn't resist."

"Naturally," Roy mumbled under his breath. "A hit?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Got it in one," he said. Roy sighed. He made no attempt to hide his disappointment in Wynn's choice of profession. Still, it was not like Roy could take the moral high ground. He was a killer, too. Stack all the bodies he'd left behind him, and you could probably look down on the Shiverpeaks. But, killing for gold? Had Wynn really stooped that low? "I know what you're thinking, Roy," Wynn began, sensing his thoughts, which was hardly a trick, Roy's gimlet eyes all but boring into the man's skull. "But it was for a good cause."

"A good cause, huh?" he scoffed. How many times had Roy killed for a good cause, been someone's hatchet man? How many times had his hands been soaked in the blood of other men, dying for their own good causes? "Let's hear it," Roy said, humoring him.

"How about ending this war?" he said, smiling. Did he mean ... ?

"I know you didn't do what I think you did," Roy said, aghast.

"Think about it. Cut the head off the snake, yadda, yadda, yadda. Take the White Mantle out in one clean stroke of a dagger." The old ranger waited for his friend to laugh, revealing some kind of joke, but instead, Wynn simply threw up his hands, thinking Roy an old fool.

"What have you done?" Roy asked, not bothering to mask the horror in his voice.

"I took a stab at Confessor Isaiah," the assassin confessed, not having the good sense Balthazar gave an ant to feel remotely abashed. He was proud, even. Roy swore, ran his fingers through his thick hair, already starting to streak with grey at thirty years. "Thought I had the jump on him. Turned out not so much," he said, scratching at his wounds.

"Don't pick at it," Roy said, weary. "I need to know everything."

"Found out about this little meeting among the brass, at this old fortress near Giant's Basin. Think D'Alessio and company used it during the war, and the Mantle had been using it as a staging ground for years. Figured it'd be the perfect time to sow some discord among the ranks, what with their leadership all there. Waited until nightfall, then scaled the walls. Got a feel for the layout, then I entered the compound. Wasn't too hard to figure out where the meeting was taking place, just a matter of dodging sentries, knowing their patrol routes. Found a passage underground, and then things took a turn for the weird ..." he said, Roy listening intently along, not liking any of it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, leaning against his desk now. He'd set the staff down next to him, grabbing it without thinking. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd need it very soon. Trouble was never very far away when Wynn was involved, he knew, his ears pricking up at the crack of lightning outside, an omen if he'd ever heard one before.

"Made my way underground through this old passageway. Must've gone half a mile before I reached this central chamber. I counted no less than thirty of them, most of them foot soldiers, a few Justiciars and Inquisitors. I recognized Isaiah instantly, and made Toriimo as well. I'd had my blades out by then, and was trying to decide how to approach the situation, when this voice echoed through room. They'd all gathered around this green flame in the center, the roof open to the night sky. There was a face in the fire, Roy. And not a human one," he explained, before adding "what do you have in the way of drink?" Roy said nothing and leaned back, fishing around inside his desk. When he came back up, he had a half-empty (he was a pessimist, after all) pint of whiskey in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the embossed lettering . He tossed it towards the assassin, who stole a quick swig, shivering in disgust. "This stuff is awful."

"Dwarven whiskey. Brew it up in Droknar's," he said. "Puts a fire in your belly, and keeps the cold out."

"You can't tell me you actually enjoy this swill?" He chucked the bottle back at Roy, who caught it, annoyed.

"You'd be surprised. All those nights me and Leroy spent drinking and fighting, you sort of develop a taste for it." Roy had been no stranger to the drink when he'd returned from the Ring of Fire islands, and when he met Leroy Stoneskin, it was like a match made in The Mists. There were week-long gaps in his memories of the time spent with Stoneskin; only fleeting, broken images of running around in the snow, drunk off their asses, screaming their names into the empty night and punching out Stone Summit soldiers like it was going out of season. On more than one occasion, he'd woken up in a dolyak pen covered in blood and bruises, too hungover to use any words over a single syllable. He wasn't sure where on the five stages of grief that fell under, but he was thankful all the same for the dwarf. He'd been in a dark place after her. He still was. She had that effect him; she was was his candle in the darkness, and someone had snuffed her out. And if it wasn't for a dwarf named Leroy Stoneskin, Roy wouldn't be here today, he knew. "Besides, you Canthans can't drink worth a damn anyway." Roy lifted the bottle to his lips. By the time he'd put it back down again, it was empty.

"I won't argue the point," Wynn said, watching him uneasily, like a child playing with his father's knife.

"The voice," he groaned. "Mursaat, right?"

"Yeah," Wynn answered. "Lazarus, I heard him called." Roy's breath caught in his throat. Lazarus The Dire, he had called him—before the bastard killed him, at least. So, he's back in the game. Roy knew this day would come, more likely sooner than later. His sudden reappearance spelled nothing good for Kryta. "Confessor Isaiah spoke with him. They all did. I held off on attacking, seeing what all information I could gather before I moved in for the kill. They're going to attack Lion's Arch, Roy. Soon."

This was foul news indeed. The Mantle had been ramping up their presence in the region lately. Was this Lazarus's plan? Seize Kryta once and for all in an all-out melee? He'd suspected the conflict would come to a head soon, but fighting in the streets? Salma—or rather, Queen Salma, Roy still remembering the face of the young, unassuming priestess as he handed her that letter all those years ago—for all her pedigree, had a tenuous grasp on Kryta at best. She was their queen by birth, but the monarchy's abandonment of its people in the face of the Charr invasion was an old wound never healed. And who had been there for Kryta in her time of need? Why, the White Mantle, of course, swooping in to repel the Charr, and saving the kingdom. To some, the White Mantle would always be saviors, the gleaming heroes of Kryta. Most of them had no idea of the extent of the White Mantle's evil. Hell, Roy hadn't. He'd killed for them. He knew where the bodies were buried. He could see even now in his mind's eye the flash of Hablion's axe as it bit into the women's throats, the blood pooling at his feet. There was no coming back from that day, Roy remembering the look of betrayal on the man's face as the arrow found his eye. And the tragedy of it? The world was none the wiser.

Still, Roy thought, Queen Salma had proven to be well-loved by her people. If push came to shove, or rather, when, the smallfolk would stand beside her. She'd surrounded her person with her Shining Blade, once rebels now upjumped to her Queen's guard. They were capable if nothing else, each of them well-tempered from years of guerrilla warfare against the Mantle. But they were few and far between compared to the Mantle, their numbers just too thin to defend the realm. Most of them were scattered across the countryside even now, sowing chaos amongst the ranks of the Mantle in raids and ambushes. Were the war to find the gates of Lion's Arch tomorrow, he doubted she could mobilize even half her agents in the field. No, the real game-changer was the Lionguard.

Historically, the Lionguard had lived to serve the royal family, but all that had changed when King Jadon the Cowardly had fled on the brink of the Charr invasion. Since then, they had served autonomously as protectors of Kryta herself. When Queen Salma had approached the gates, they'd received her with open arms. Roy remembered the spectacle of her royal caravan as it paraded through the city, her majesty looking radiant in her splendor, and had watched her enter the throne room of Lion's Keep, her head held high. He remembered the silence, the incredible stillness as she made her first, confident steps to her royal seat, and the thunderous applause as she finally claimed her birthright. But did she really have all the people's hearts and minds? Would the Lionguard be so eager to cast their lot in with Queen Salma, after the monarchy had abandoned Kryta to the jaws of the Charr? Officially, they had declared for her. Unofficially, Roy knew, there was a dissident faction, the foul stench of their last monarch still burning their nostrils. It didn't help that the Mantle had infiltrated the service with their agents, information gleaned via the Queen's own vast network of spies. Still, If he was a betting man, he'd put his gold on the Lionguard raising her standard before the season's turn.

"How long?" Roy asked.

"A month, maybe. They know I heard their plans, so it's likely they'll proceed differently."

"So, what happened next?" Roy asked, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk.

"I heard them talk to the big, spooky voice for what felt like an hour. There was a lot of praying, chanting, and reciting of scripture. It was all very boring. An opening had finally emerged in the crowd. I ghosted over to the Confessor, dagger drawn. As I went, I set my hand on a jade construct without thinking. It exploded to life and took a swing at me. I smashed it good, but by then it was too late. 'Kill him,' Lazarus said. I heard it clear as day because he was screaming it in my head. I thought blood was gonna spew out of my ears. I took out a few of them, but it was no good. I knocked the flame brazier over as I scrambled up and out the skylight, which might have been some kind of faux pas, the way everyone was yelling. I thought I'd made it, but as I cleared the roof, the hex must've hit me. I nearly fell back down and broke my neck."

"What'd you do?" Roy asked, rubbing his chin, bristly now after missing this morning's shave. Or rather, last morning's shave, the sun due out shortly now, if the rain ever subsided.

"My horse was saddled and ready to go in the forest a quarter mile to the south of the fortress. I'm not well-versed in healing magic, you know that. More on the opposite end of the spectrum, really. Still, I had to stop and do what I could, else I would have bled out. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep me moving. By the time I made it, the hex was working overtime. The storm had just started to roll in by then, I remember. It took everything I had to just mount my horse and sit the saddle. I made it to the crossroads when an arrow took her in the throat. I'd evidently spent too long trying to patch myself up, and the Mantle had picked up my trail, these mean, half-starved bloodhounds they were using, could hear them barking two miles away—did I mention that? The wind wasn't in my favor, I came to realize, my scent carrying a good ways downwind, despite the rain. Should've planned that better." Roy shot him an annoyed look, which Wynn understood as get on with it, and he continued, drawing a breath. "Anyways, my horse came down hard, nearly on my leg, and we ended up in the mud. With no other choice, I shadowstepped out of there. No sense of direction at that point, just instinct. Kept at it until I hit Lion's Arch. And when I say hit, I mean literally hit. Bonked myself pretty good on the broadside of your stable. Think I left a stain, but it's probably gone now." Roy buried his face in his hands for a minute, his father a petty, drinking man—mind you, Roy hadn't turned out so different from the old man after all, he realized—giving him few things in life, one of them being the old proverb: 'If ya' can't say sumfin good bout summun, dun say nuthing t'all.' Only, this little gem of wisdom had been somewhat undercut when shortly after, he'd broken Roy's nose with the butt of his old cavalry sabre. I think that was the night I finally decided to run away, he thought. He looked at Wynn again, playing the assassin's story out in his head to make it make sense.

"Why bother with the horse at all?" he asked. "Why not just shadowstep away originally?"

"Horse was just in case. Alternate escape, which would've come in handy, banged up as I was. Small miracle I was able to shadowstep all the way here without brainbleed. Though, I did have my travel purse saddled to that damn horse."

"Good to know where your priorities are. How the hell'd you shadowstep into my house anyway? You know how much gold I've put into these wards? I just picked up some fresh scrolls from Magi Nor last week!" It was true, Roy having dropped a hefty bag of coin for some fresh Orrian scrolls. He prided himself on his wards, his entire home the magical equivalent of the Great Northern Wall. Still, even the Great Wall had fallen eventually, he remembered. And all it had taken was for the sky to fall.

"You gave me the me the key, remember?" The assassin wasn't wrong. Last time he'd been in Lion's Arch—shortly after the business with the Great Destroyer had ended, and he'd had his falling out with the Ebon Vanguard—Roy had given him a key to his home. Considering the sheer amount of chaotic magics sewn into the walls of the house itself, as well as the sizable treasury of artifacts and oddities Roy had accumulated over the years, handing the assassin the key to all of it had shown a level of trust that most men didn't afford their wives. But Wynn was a true blue friend, and those were damn hard to come by in this increasingly-crazy world. Wynn was barely out of being a kid when he'd met the young man on the steps of Vizunah Square, fresh from Shing Jea Monastery, and all but clinging to the skirts of Master Togo as they descended into the plague-stricken hell of the Canthan undercity. Roy had been a wreck back then, Brother Mhenlo knew, convincing him to join him on his trip to Cantha in the first place, thinking it would do the ranger some good. He didn't think he'd ever get around to telling Mhenlo he'd gone there to die, figuring a Canthan sewer was as good a place as any. But the gods were cruel, it seemed, and Roy ended up sticking it out, if for no other reason than to keep everyone else alive. And he had failed at that, too; just ask Master Togo.

"Aye, I did," he admitted. "And now I'm starting to regret my shortsightedness.". Roy sat there against his desk, listening to the rain batter the old building for a time. He didn't think it would let up soon. "What spell did you use, Wynn?"

"Huh?" he asked.

"The healing spell you used to save your skin," Roy smiled. "What was it?"

"It's ... a very simple spell," the assassin admitted, nervous. "An old one, but a goodie."

"Does this spell have a name?" Roy asked. He was enjoying this.

"Well, uhh, now that you mention it, I believe the spellbooks refer to it as mending," the assassin mumbled, trying not to turn red. Roy snorted.

"That child's spell!" he laughed. "So you did learn something in Shing Jea after all!" Roy's attempts at spellcraft had always been middling at best. In a fight, he was only good for pragmatic magic, hard and fast, the kind that made stuff go boom. The more delicate stuff he found workarounds to; crafting runes, talismans, and signet rings, enchanting his blades and his arrows in his off time. Even his staves he pre-charged with different shades of magic, dozens of them for every occasion. So unlike Wynn, he had at least some understanding of healing magic, mostly to the tune of what herbs in what quantity did what. And though he was no druid, he'd picked up a few things from monks and hedge shamans over the years. Mending, as it was called in the Nolani Academy's textbooks at least, was one of the first healing spells he'd ever learned, one of the first spells taught to up-and-coming monks in general, a simple toddler's enchantment at best, capable of treating only the most minor of wounds. If nothing else, his buddy Wynn had managed to cancel out the effect of the hex, and stem the flow of his bleeding. And damned if it wasn't the only reason he was still alive right now.

"I'm an assassin, Roy. Healing isn't really my forte," he said, Roy just knowing he wanted him to change the subject. Roy would let him off that particular hook, but the fish was still going to grill.

"Neither is killing, it seems. Just ask the good Confessor," he said. Roy didn't know much about Confessor Isaiah. But if he was anything like his predecessor, Dorian, he liked it that way, thank you very much.

"Ouch, Roy. Too soon." They'd been getting off track, but now he'd brought him back to the heart of the matter.

"Anything else to add? Any more important details?" Roy asked. There was no getting around this, now. He'd have to see the Queen directly. He'd been avoiding taking part in the so-called war for weeks now, for what reason he couldn't say. He wouldn't believe he'd finally turned over a new leaf and hung up his sword. He told himself he'd developed a distaste for killing after all these years, but that was a damn lie. He thought he enjoyed it; after all, it was the only thing he'd ever been any good at. But now, the war had come to his doorstep, and it was time to make a choice.

"These guys are bad news, Roy. They're over a five hundred strong now, I overheard, massing for an attack. These Mursaat they worship ... it's magic like I've never seen before. Lion's Arch is going to bleed, Roy." If the Unseen Gods descended down on Lion's Arch, Roy doubted there'd be enough of the city left to bury. Their magics were potent and otherworldly, a spectral agony he'd experienced firsthand. It had nearly killed him before. He doubted Lion's Arch would be so lucky. Not without preparation, at least.

"I see," Roy said, after a time. It was all he could say. In the silence, he heard the creak of a nervous foot on the staircase. He wheeled around, training his staff on the intruder. It was a Krytan woman, her hair stark black, face pretty in an austere way, half-hooded, most of her hidden away under a heavy gabardine cloak of deep onyx. But underneath, he saw, the woman was dressed in fine silks and velvets, carefully coordinated blacks and whites. He spied a necklace peeking out from under her hood, some kind of rune he couldn't immediately identify engraved on what looked like an old coin. But perhaps most importantly, she was also pointing a wand directly at Roy now, purple flecks of electricity crackling at the end of it like a hissing snake. "Wynn ... " Roy heard himself saying. "Just who might our guest be?"

"Our guest," started the woman, Roy trying to place her accent—she came from wealth, maybe?—"might be Elizabeth Nirobe," she said. Her eyes, Roy noticed. Where had he seen them before?

"Well, miss Elizabeth," Roy said, "How about lowering your weapon before someone gets hurt?" She cast a look to Wynn that did not go unnoticed by Roy. Wynn nodded, shooting Roy a sheepish look, and she let her wand fall to her side. Roy almost smiled. "Let me guess," Roy started, setting his staff on the floor loud enough to draw their attention. "This is your informer. The woman who hired you to kill Confessor Isaiah."

"You guessed it," Wynn admitted. "I was actually going to talk to you ab—"

"Which begs the question," Roy said, looking hard at the woman now. Through her, really. "Just how did she come by this information in the first place?" Roy's eyes narrowed on her. She blinked. He became aware of his fingers tightening around his staff. "She's Mantle, Wynn, but you knew that already." It wasn't a question, and he didn't wait for the man's answer, instead advancing on the woman, staff thump-thump-thumping as he did. "What's your game, Elizabeth?" he demanded.

"Easy, Roy," his friend said, attempting to scrape himself out of his chair, and failing. To her credit, Elizabeth Nirobe didn't so much as flinch, her fingers tightening around her own wand. He didn't stop until he was right on her now, looming over her. Elizabeth was the first to move.

"Yes," she admitted, looking him square in the eyes, Roy almost certain he recognized something. "I am White Mantle. Or, I was, once." Roy gazed at her for a minute, then sighed and leaned against his staff, still trying to size her up. "I've left that life behind me," she said, brushing past Roy now and stepping out into the office. She spared a look at Wynn, those eyes of hers lingering over the man's wounds, ostensibly lost in regret. Roy didn't buy any of it.

"So, you expect me to believe you sent an assassin against your old running buddies out of a sense of remorse? No, I don't believe that. Let me tell you what I do believe," Roy said, pacing around her now, a wolf circling in for the kill. "I believe you have some ulterior motive. Why else pay top coin to hire out an assassin in the first place?" Wynn opened his mouth as if to say something, but Roy shushed him from across the room with his finger. "Shot in the dark here; they're coming after you. Hard. Whatever you did to these people, they're not gonna stop until your dead. So, you figured you'd turn the tables on them. Send your own killer their way, see if that don't flip the script. Stop me if I'm getting warm."

"They're after me," the woman admitted quietly, drawing her robes in tighter. "I have something they want." What was this woman's deal? From the way she was dressed—inconspicuous on the outside, but ballroom underneath—he knew she was somebody. But who?

"So, what exactly does one do to get the entire White Mantle army out for her head? Steal a big bag of gold? Priceless artifact? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"It's not like that," she growled at him, turning away. He followed the woman around the room, wondering what exactly had led this Mantle sorceress to his front door. Why would Wynn drag him into this mess in the first place?

"Then what is it like?" Roy demanded, snatching her by the shoulder. "What do you have that the White Mantle wants?" Those eyes again. So pale they're almost grey.

"The same thing my brother had," she whispered, her eyes meeting his own again. Roy swore in disbelief. He unhanded her, suddenly embarrassed.

"I ... I didn't know Naveed had a sister," Roy said, not knowing what else to say.

"And now you know," the woman said. "In fact, it's one of the reasons my brother and I were ..." she started, Roy seeing a flicker of something on her face. Cosmic irony? " ... chosen. As siblings, we were all the more suited as vessels for Lazarus the Dire. So in a way, I murdered my own brother," the woman said, matter-of-factly. Roy sighed.

"Lazarus killed your brother, miss Elizabeth Nirobe. I saw it with my own, two eyes. Your brother made his own decision, as did you."

"Were it so simple. I insisted. I told him it was a great honor to serve our gods, that it was our duty. And my brother, Naveed, he listened!" she hissed. "Listening to me was his only folly."

"I, uh ... " Roy started, scratching his neck. What did she want from him? Penance? For him to absolve her of her guilt? To know about her brother's last few days of life? Or, the unthinkable? "So, how did you find out about me, I mean? Come to think of it, Naveed was always writing letters. Said he had to set his affairs in order, and all that ..." he said, trailing off.

"He wrote me letters near the end. He knew death—Lazarus—was coming for him. He said you, you, Roy, were going to save his life."

"I did what I could," Roy said, his voice sounding a lot harder than he'd meant it to. "I'm sorry, miss Elizabeth, but it wasn't near good enough, it seems."

"I understand," she said. "And I don't blame you."

"So, if it's not blame you're after, then what do you want?" Roy asked, already damn-well knowing her answer.

"I don't want you to break my curse, Roy," she said, almost reading his mind. Roy opened his mouth, but no words would escape. What was she driving at? "I want you to do what couldn't be done for my brother," she said, her fingers absentmindedly toying with her necklace, as if she were drawing strength from it. "I want you to kill Lazarus the Dire," she said. All Roy could hear was the sound of the rain outside now, coming down hard. He sat down behind his desk, opened the drawer, and went searching for another bottle. It was then he saw the assassin straighten up out of the chair, and steal a peek out the window, drawing the shutters back carefully. He watched the young man produce a wicked sliver of a dagger from his belt, and he started to whisper.

"White Mantle. Outside. Dozen of 'em."

So, boom, chapter one. As you can see, the story begins firmly during the War in Kryta, and will continue from there. The conflict with Elizabeth is my own continuation of Justiciar Naveed's questline in EotN, revolving around his attempts to break free of a curse that made him a vessel for the Mursaat Lazarus the Dire. I hope we're all on the same page.

I really like to work in humorous references to skills and game mechanics when I can. Particularly, the mending reference. I will admit, I used to be that guy, using mending all the way up until the release of Factions. This is embarrassing, but it was actually to the point where I would go into Random Arena with my assassin (decked in all-black, 15k armor, of course) running mending, rationalizing it because I was using Shiro's Blades (also that guy) and needed to counter the degen. I was such an idiot, back then. Still, you'd be surprised how much ass I used to kick back in the day. I guess if it looks stupid, but it works, it's not stupid, huh?

So, what'd you think? Mending and Troll Unguent references too on-the-nose? Anything inaccurate based on the lore? Story just plain suck?

Thanks so much for reading!