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While the Commander was generally well liked among her guild, there was one personality trait of hers whom everyone agreed it was just incredibly annoying.
Synthaer had the tendency to rush forward and disappear far too often.
Even with Mordremoth, even with its servants littering the pathways, the sylvari was filled with a sense of wonder, curiosity which kept her up and moving even when everyone else was begging for a couple of moments laying down. A more poetic man than he would declare how amazing that was; how the wonder befit her station and expression, how the staff resting in her hand as she ran ahead seemed a part of her body, how anyone would never think twice before following her. There was something in her stance, in her eyes and countenance. It made one run after because otherwise she'd keep walking and finish the battle by herself. It made one wonder whether she'd take a ship with her own two hands while rousing giants to do her bidding.
Canach was not a poet; he was a warrior. As such, his conclusion was simple.
"We follow an idiot."
His eyes followed the sapling as she disappeared round the next bent of what passed by a road in Verdant Brink. The mutated giant frog (or, as she called it, her new best friend) yammered about one thing or another as he followed but everyone else had reached the conclusion, more or less quickly, that she was about to run herself into yet another band of Mordrem.
"It was too much to hope we should not have to battle anyone else today," the necromancer grimaced as the first signs of an electric storm reached their ears. "It is bad enough that we're a magnet for them. Does she really have to search every nook and cranny in case any has missed us?"
The Asura hugged her Golem's ears (?), collapsing into a small bundle of annoyed progeny.
"I'm hungry," she complained loudly. "And tired. How about you guys get the boss back while I sleep?"
"You want to sleep in the middle of a clearing filled with bodies?"
"I want to sleep! Period!"
It was easy to remember Taimi was little more than a kid when she started whining about sleep. Her voice would raise and sharpen and his patience would fade water on a hot summer's afternoon. By the Mother, couldn't they just deal with the fact that their Commander was an idiot in silence and contemplation? It was what he did. Of course, he also threatened her with several accounts of bodily harm where she couldn't hear him (the storms were far too easy to appear otherwise).
"I'm not sure why you're all so surprised," he commented blandly. "Her name means literally 'tumble out'. She didn't even wait for her pod to be grown before she pushed herself into the world. That literally spells the kind of person she would become."
It was bullshit but believable bullshit considering the person. Suddenly, he was gifted with the group's attention; incredulous but very focused.
"You're kidding," declared the Mesmer.
All he needed was not to laugh. Her expression wavered, changed, showed doubt.
"You're not kidding."
And all he had to do was to keep his expression neutral, to not smile. That was incredibly easy.
"Well," Rytlock grumbled from his corner. "That explains almost everything. Get settled. If she needs us, she'll make sure to yell loud enough. I'm good with resting for a while."
(Mission accomplished.
This should end up in a report.)
Synthaer took her time to return. Time enough for several of the members of the group to find their way into their blankets, calmly enjoying the pause granted by their bloodthirsty slash stupidly adventurous leader. When her feet whispered through the campsite (with a spring in her step, the little sadist), all that welcomed her were snores, sighs and a silently smug sylvari.
"All settled. Nothing dangerous for quite a while. I got a couple of Vigil sentries from here till the passage to the Basin." Her voice didn't rise above a murmur, even as she threw herself to the floor by his side. "What did I miss?"
"Nothing interesting. Food, sleep. I did explain to them the meaning of your name."
Two little lines drew itself between her eyebrows. "Whatever for?" She asked slowly. "It just means purple."
"Yes. A clear sign of the Pale Tree's originality going."
"Yours means pointy." The little crease between her eyes deepened and, for the first time since forever the woman seemed honestly puzzled.
"Or she never had it to begin with," Canach corrected. "What do I know?"
