Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities.


Chapter Three: Reason & Revelation

Tor slammed his empty tankard against the table with enough force to break its handle, causing the ale within to spill. He had already drunk ten mugs of the stuff, and was now starting to feel the tingling in his limbs that announced minor intoxication. He hollered for more ale, and turned his attention back to the grinning wench that sat on his lap.

She giggled, and said in a voice becoming of a novice actor, "What muscles! How'd you get to be so strong?" The two of them were sitting at a table by themselves in the middle of a the pub within a dingy inn. The other tables around them were sparsely populated with patrons: it was the middle of the workweek, hence the only visitors would be the drunkards, the depressed, and the bored. There was a balding innkeeper slowly wandering around, his false leg making a dull clunking sound on the dirty wooden floor as he made his way between the bar and the various tables.

Tor gave a lopsided half-smile, and tried to think back to his past. It was not something he particularly enjoyed doing, but it was necessary to continue this particular form of foreplay.

His memories were all tinted with gray, and images drawn from his depths were less like real photographs, but more like crude sketches made by a bad artist. They lacked connotations as well: when he pictured his mother, he saw an average looking, squat peasant, untouched by any emotions between the extremes of love and hatred. He saw his life as a simple extolling of facts: another birth, an ineffectual decade and a half spent on farming with the occasional barfight to test his mettle, and then service in the Ascalon Army during the still-raging Guild Wars. His desertion was untainted by shame, his enlistment and protection by House Malum lacked any gratitude. Even if there was no alcohol in his system, he would not have been saddened by this less-than glorious trip down memory lane.

He had begun slurring his speech, "'s a farmer kid for few years. 'N I was'n th'army." He was interrupted by the arrival of another flagon of ale, which he quickly downed. The wench, doing an excellent job of hiding her disgust of the Warrior, grinned at him and hugged him closer.

The door to the tavern slammed open, and a tall, well-built man stormed in, leaving muddy footsteps where he walked. His dirt-stained clothing announced his profession as that of a farmer, though he held his sword as if he knew how to use it. The din of the drinkers died down to low mumbles as many turned their attention to the new arrival. The farmer looked around the bar before catching sight of the wench, and yelled, "Tara!" He marched over to where Tor was sitting and grabbed the woman's arm with his free hand, "Couldn't hide for long, could you?"

The wench looked at the farmer with genuine fear in her eyes. She wailed "No!" and tried to pull her arm away from him. "Get away!" she yelled.

Drowsily, Tor grabbed the farmer's arm with his, and mumbled, "She was with me first. You'll have to wait until I'm done with her."

The man replied, "She was with me long before she was with you. Now, get your hand off me before I cut it off!" He sneered when Tor let go, and said, "You're damn lucky I didn't kill you for just being with her." Tor then brushed the woman off his lap, stood up slowly, and punched the farmer in the face.

"I said, you're going to have to wait your turn," said Tor, his voice suddenly cold and deep. He walked away from the table, towards the man, and stared down at him.

The farmer pulled himself off the floor, and felt up his face to check the damage done. When he realized he'd been dealt a black eye, he snarled, and swung his sword at the Warrior in a horizontal slash.

Tor took one step back to avoid the blade's arc, making sure he stepped around the table he had been sitting on.

The farmer, frustrated, swung again.

Tor took two quick steps back, once again avoiding the attack.

Furious that he should be so humiliated, the farmer leaped forward and swung the sword in a horizontal arc.

Tor ducked, and stood up when he heard the blade sink into a wooden pillar. The farmer tried to pull the weapon free, but it was buried too deep for that. Tor stepped forward, and punched the farmer, sending the man into another, empty, table.

All eyes were now on the pair. The regulars chuckled and commented on how foolish that farmer was to take on Tor. The relative newcomers stared in awe at this beast of a man. The innkeeper, on the other hand, was leaning against the bar, and had his head in his hands.

Tor grabbed the hilt of the weapon, and easily pulled it free from the pillar. Without a word, he walked up to the farmer and kicked the table over. The man began to crawl on his knees, and was begging for mercy in a sniveling tone. Tor ignored his pleadings, kicked him in the face, and drove the sword into his chest.

Everyone stared in silence at the Warrior as he walked back to his table. The wench had tears flowing down her face as he sat down. Tor was about to say something when she raised her hand to slap him. Before her palm connected, he grabbed her arm, squeezed, and said, in a terrifying monotone, "I just killed that man because I was going to pay you to ride me, and he would've taken that away from me. Don't get me angry at you now."

She nodded, and crawled into his lap, drying her tears against his grey tunic. He hollered for more ale, and patrons turned their attention back to their own matters. After a few minutes, the general atmosphere had been much the same as before Tor murdered the farmer, with the only difference being the innkeeper now had to detour around the corpse pinned to the floor like an insect in a collection.

Eventually, Tor stood up with the girl, dropped a few gold coins to pay for his drinks, flashed the seal of House Malum so the bartender would not report this altercation, and walked up to the room he had reserved.

The next day, Sermo Malum was pacing the length of his study. Morning sunlight flowed in from the window, giving new life to the redwood floors and furniture. The rug–made by the finest Kurzick weavers in all of Cantha–was baptized a brilliant blue and red in the light, while each detail in the fabric that covered the chairs was drawn out, as if by a lover's gesture. The sunlight even managed to give a shining aura to the lone piece of parchment that lay on the desk, despite its dark message. In fact, the only thing unblessed by its golden rays was Sermo, whose dark countenance nothing could improve. He paced the floor, his jacket, gloves, vest, and cane lying on one of the couches, leaving him dressed only in green silken breeches and a white dress shirt. Accenting his agitated state was his uncombed hair, with his ponytail loose and unruly.

A messenger from the King had just arrived to deliver Adelbern's response to Sermo's request: King Adelbern I has, in his infinite grace and wisdom, decided to allow Lord Sermo Malum, of House Malum, travel to the lands of Kryta despite its belligerent status, on the condition that Lord Sermo Malum serves within the Ascalon Army for a period of exactly one year. This shall prove to His Majesty that Lord Sermo Malum is indeed a loyal subject, worthy of His most gracious and glorious trust. Lord Sermo Malum's response must be made within three days of receiving this announcement, else it will be rendered forever null and void. So pronounces King Adelbern I, ruler of Ascalon.

He had not expected Adelbern to pull something like this. He had thought it beyond the old bastard's abilities. He could hardly refuse now: at best, he would look like a foolish coward, at worst, a treasonous snake. But his nobleman's pride spat upon the notion of serving as a common soldier. Besides, he might even die; no doubt Adelbern would have him put in some suicide unit.

Sermo's raging was interrupted by a knock at the door to his chamber. "What is it?" he spat.

The voice of a young servant, muffled by the wood, though still perfectly comprehensible, responded, "My Lord, the Necromancer Morton has arrived."

The Mesmer sighed, "Send him in."

A few moments later Morton opened the door and sat down in a chair facing the fireplace. Autumn was coming, and the people of Ascalon had begun waking up to frost on the windows, so there was already a fire lit to keep the room warm, though the obsidian tiles around it rendered the question of it being a fire hazard moot.

"Generally it's considered polite to knock first," said Sermo as he walked over to his desk. Morton grunted in response. Sermo continued, "I am sorry I had to pull you away from your excavations, but I need you to do something for me."

Though the Necromancer's silence indicated that he was listening, Sermo opened the door to the hallway, and peered to the left and right, to ensure that no one was listening. Then he spoke quietly, "I need you to find a tunnel within the catacombs that leads to Kryta, or at least the Shiverpeaks."

Morton's eyes remained fixed to the fire as he spoke with curious apathy, "You interrupted my research for such a trivial demand? You could have just sent a messenger instead."

"Messengers who carry treasonous messages often find themselves in the palaces of Rin, spilling secrets in exchange for gold. I am already on Adelbern's list of enemies; the last thing I want to do is give him proof of any sort." Sermo opened a side-cabinet, and withdrew a wineglass, and a bottle of the finest Amethyst. He did not bother asking the Necromancer if he would like a glass, since he already knew the answer. "I needed to speak with you in person, because it would look like any normal meeting between a Lord and one of his servants."

Morton's response was as cold as the God he served, "I am not one of your lackeys."

Sermo poured as he spoke, annoyed, "Yes, yes. We are partners in the search of information and profit. But Adelbern is watching me, and so I need to look as innocent as possible. I'm sure he has placed spies within my servants." He brought his voice down to a whisper, "Now, find me a tunnel out of Ascalon, and I can assure you that you will always have funding for whatever explorations or experimentations you need. No strings attached." The Mesmer took a few steps back, and leaned against his desk, waiting.

Morton stared at the fireplace for a few minutes, and then said, "What proof do I have that you will fulfill your end of the bargain?"

Before answering, Sermo stepped outside, into the hallway again to ensure that there was no one listening in. Once he was satisfied, he said in an angry whisper, "I am trusting you with information that could lead to my execution. I hope that will demonstrate the strength of our business relationship."

"The only thing certain in life is death. I'll need more substantial proof."

Sermo smiled, and then opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a pouch filled with gold and platinum coins, and said, wearily, "I had hoped that you would take me on my word, but you were always too misanthropic for that." He tossed the pouch at the Necromancer. "You'll get a second bag upon my safe arrival in Kryta."

Morton opened the bag, and spent several minutes counting its contents. When he was satisfied, he asked, "How will I get the money if I'm in Ascalon?"

"You will be coming with me to ensure that I arrive safely."

Morton stared directly into the flames within the hearth, his eyes glazed, like those of a lizard, with apathy. "For that I'll want a third bag of gold."

"For that you need to prove to me your worth."

The Necromancer nodded, and was silent for a few minutes. Sermo, used to Morton's ways, stared out the window, sipping his wine. Then Morton spoke, "Open your closet door," and gestured towards the door that led to Sermo's extensive collection of ancient, mostly banned and heretical documents, all of which were hidden behind a false wall within the closet. Furrowing his brow, the Mesmer obeyed the instructions.

When he opened the door and peered in, Sermo found a young serving boy, recently hired as a scullery boy in the kitchens, along with a quill, vial of ink, and a sheet of parchment with notes written on it.

The boy, upon seeing that he had been discovered, tried to escape. He'd barely stepped past the Mesmer when his steps slowed, as if an invisible weight had fallen on his shoulders. Another few words and the boy gave a sharp cry as purple flames raced over his body as what little magical energy he naturally produced was detonated. The pain caused him to fall to his knees, and a cane against the head brought him into unconsciousness.

While checking his cane to see if the boy's skull had done any damage, Sermo asked, "How did you know he was in there?"

Morton smiled to himself, and said, "I could hear his heartbeat." He finally broke his gaze from the fire, and looked down at the servant. "Do you need me to eliminate him?"

The Mesmer stared down at the prone form of the boy while pouring himself a second glass of wine; normally he didn't drink that much this early, but he felt like he needed a release. "No, I can handle it from here. You have done enough to earn that third bag."

Morton stood up slowly, and then turned to Sermo. "I shall visit you when I've found what you want."

Sermo nodded, and then walked into the closet. "I need results in less than a week's time."

"I'll see what I can do." As Morton was stepping out, he saw Sermo step out of his closet, carrying the parchment the boy had been writing on.

As he threw it into the fire, Sermo said, "Before you leave, tell one of my servants to send up Tor to see me."

The Necromancer nodded, and was gone.

Light from the same sun streamed through the stained glass windows at Ashford Abbey, giving the gray stone floors a semblance of life. Tapestries depicting the creation of Tyria lined the walls, giving the room an almost homely atmosphere which hid the serious nature of the business at hand.

Aegwynn, still wearing the rough burlap robes of a novice Monk, sat in a wooden chair that had been pulled from the tables that lined one side of the room to the middle. Her eyes were red from crying, and her hunched form still shook every so often with each attempt at repressing her sobs.

"There is nothing that can be done," said Meerak, another Monk, as bald as the others, and wearing the same armor-styled burlap that all initiate Monks wore. "You have repeatedly violated your oaths."

Though she tried hard to keep out the rough, stretched tone of voice that comes from weeping out of her voice, it still snuck through, "But I tried!" She raised her head to look the scribe in the eyes, "Please, I was so lonely," she said quietly.

Meerak tried to keep the compassion from his face, but failed. "Gwynn, you're twenty-one. You are an adult, and must act your age." He looked down at the girl, her eyes swollen with sorrow, and said, "I have never seen a novice show such devotion in her prayers and acts to the great Goddess. If I could figure out a way, I would keep you here, and help you overcome this weakness. But it is impossible."

So she would not see the sadness in his eyes, he turned around, and went to inspect the nearest scene in the closest tapestry. "A vow is a vow, a holy, unbreakable bond. What would happen if Lords broke their vows to their vassals? What would happen if the King broke his vows? It would be chaos. You have failed to keep your own sacred, unbreakable bond to the Goddess, and so you must be punished."

"But it's so unfair! Brother Mhenlo sees that girl all the time. Why isn't he punished as well?" Every other word was interrupted by her staccato sobs.

"Monks dedicated to Balthazar do not have to take vows of chastity. It's one of their oddities. And you should not try to bring others into disrepute, especially a Monk as respected as Brother Mhenlo!" Meerak sighed, and spoke without turning to look at her, "There is nothing I can do. Three days hence, you will be relieved of your vows, and released from the Abbey. Until then, you can continue taking your lessons in the healing arts."

Now she made no efforts to hide her sobs. The tears flowed freely, dripping down her cheeks, and even onto the burlap and the stone floor, marking the latter but not the former. She was like a child that had lost its favorite toy, or some small battle.

Brother Meerak tried to distract himself by focusing on the tapestry. This particular scene featured Dwayna sculpting the first man. Meerak, having never really examined these drawings, was surprised by the level of detail the weaver worked into every instance: every feather in her wings, every deft movement of her hands, and even the brilliant blue of her eyes.

He was, however, shocked when the woven image of Dwayna suddenly looked up at him, and waved her hands to indicate he was to watch what was happening. Meerak was shocked, but had the sense to dismiss Aegwynn by saying, in a tone harsher than he had meant, "Go. Now."

Aegwynn was wounded, expecting compassion from the Monk. Driven even deeper into despair, she stumbled over to the door, leaving footprints in the form of teardrops, and left.

Free from all distractions, Meerak watched the tapestry, mesmerized. Colors left their threads, moving about the brown threads like otters floating on a pond, merging and splitting apart to form different shapes and colors. After a few seconds, a green, verdant plain covered with grass appeared. From each individual stalk arose a village. A moment later, the images of men, women, and children came into being, seemingly birthed from the colors of the grass. From the corners of his vision, Meerak saw a blue sky spread out like a puddle. The Monk was pleasantly surprised to see Ashford Abbey form at the centre of this display.

He was not prepared when threads of fire rained down from beyond the top of the tapestry. The colors shattered like glass, and then melted to gray. All that was left was a wasteland of ash, a broken, flat, grey landscape. And then Meerak saw the bestial forms of Charr emerge from beyond the corners of his vision, and march across the grey landscape. A large one, tinted with an angry, violent red, looked around, and then stared straight at Meerak.

Then the Monk blinked, and saw the still, beautiful image of Dwayna sculpting the first man. He stared for a while longer, to make sure that the image wasn't going to move again. Then he took a step back, and collapsed into the chair Aegwynn had left. Meerak felt as if he had just wrestled with a grawl.

He saw that the sun's last light was pouring through the stained glass, still enlivening the stone with autumn colors. Then his sense of duty awoke, and he bolted up to find Brother Mhenlo. He ran past the chapel, failing to notice Aegwynn, her eyes still red, praying before an image of Dwayna.

She desperately, desperately hoped that something would happen that would allow her to stay at Ashford.

Writing Morton is such a pleasure. He's apathetic, full of contempt for everyone else, but has some amusing one-liners.

I'd love to hear some comments, if you don't mind. I feel that this chapter is better than the other two, having more description of the general atmosphere. I took my time with it, and it appeared to work. But please, let me know. I'd enjoy some constructive criticism.

As an aside, I imagined the Guild Wars World as a sort of medieval society, complete with feudalism (with all the wild animals and 'barbarian invasions', it makes some sense), but lacking that modern-humanism crap you'd find in Dominic Deegan. Let me know what you think, I'm always interested in hearing other people's takes on my interpretations.