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.
Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, and Short
Tor swung his fist, knocking aside the thin, piecemeal cloth that served as both the tavern's door and most of its southern wall. After stepping inside, he marched towards the motley collection of boards, barrels, and boulders that served as a counter, and demanded a drink. He withdrew his own wooden tankard (patrons were now expected to bring their own containers after the Searing), and watched carefully as the drink was being poured.
He took a small sip; even though the Church of Dwayna now ran the pubs, there was no certainty that the old men and women who ran the establishments were not watering down the ale. Satisfied, Tor drew a small pouch, and flicked a piece of gold at the barkeep. He then trudged to a corner where thin, pale rays of light poked through the many holes in walls and ceiling, and sat down on the dirt floor.
A few minutes later, Aegwynn poked her head inside the pub. She hesitated after seeing how crowded it was, and then noticed Tor. She slipped inside, and sat down next to the Warrior.
By now Tor had finished his drink, and had begun sharpening his blade. He remained silent, even after the Monk had sat down. He knew she was there, but her presence had little effect on his psyche.
She was silent for a few seconds, expecting him to offer her some kind of greeting. When she understood that he was not going to initiate some form of conversation, she began, "How's your arm?"
He responded without looking up, "Fine."
More silence. Then. "You did well today. Two dead Grawl is pretty good."
Tor grunted, and turned his sword over so he could sharpen the other edge.
By now the sun had almost completely set. The tavern was caught in a dismal twilight, dimming the mood of its patrons. The barkeep, noticing this, was in the process of lighting the firepit in the middle of the room.
"So, how'd you get into the army?" Gwynn asked after another unbearable silence.
Methodical and slow, Tor answered, "I was serving as Sermo's bodyguard. When he joined, I followed."
"So, you've been protecting him for two years?"
Tor grunted.
"Does he still pay you?"
Another grunt.
She hesitated, and timidly asked, "What do you think of him?"
Tor automatically opened his mouth to speak, and stopped. He had no idea what to say. It wasn't that he had not bothered to form an opinion of his employer: he simply did not have the capacity. As when someone purchases a run-of-the-mill house, expecting all the basics, only to be surprised when there is no kitchen, or stairs leading to the second floor, there was no place in Tor's mind for an idea of others. Shocked, but having no need to show it, he responded, "Don't know."
"But you've been with him for more than two years?"
Tor replied, his voice a little more fragile, "Don't know." The Warrior was confused now: no one had ever tried to make simple conversation with him: they either ordered him about, or asked questions to do with memory ("what happened today?"). This absence, ever-present, but just noticed, was disturbing.
Gwynn furrowed her brow, unsure of how to continue the dialogue. Her voice died before it crossed her lips, and she turned her head to stare at the rough red stone in the dirt between her legs. A few silent minutes passed as both wrestled with their own demons: Tor with his confusion, and Gwynn with her timidity. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around, and saw the same man she had slept with the night before. She gave a shy smile, which he returned. "Where'd you go? I woke up, and you were gone," he asked.
"She had a mission," came a new voice. Gwynn turned around, and saw Sermo stepping through the cloth door. "And she has another now. Clear off."
The young man looked at the Mesmer with surprise, and then glanced at Gwynn. She mimed an apology and stood up. "What is it, commander?"
Sermo rested on his cane, and said, "Tor, stand up as well. We'll need a Warrior." He waited for the young man to disappear, and for his bodyguard to rouse himself from his self-contemplative stupor before continuing. "The king's ordered us to scout the area north of the Wall while it's dark." The Mesmer began to move towards the entrance, "Follow me."
They all stepped out into the city's darkness. Sermo whispered a monosyllabic word to his cane, and the largest gem inset within its head lit up like a star, giving the three enough light to navigate with. "I'll explain more when we've found him. Here, Monk, come with me. Tor, you know where the Necromancer makes his home, correct?"
Tor, having forgotten his previous mental crisis, nodded.
"Good. Find him, and bring him to the Northern Wall outpost. We'll wait for you there." When he saw Tor nod he said, "Good, now run."
After sliding his sword into the scabbard attached to his waist, the Warrior broke into a steady jog towards the eastern section of Ascalon City. Morton made his abode beneath the shadow of the ruined stone walkway that had led to the Ascalon Academy headquarters.
Satisfied, Sermo began in the direction of the Northern Wall Outpost. "Let's hurry up," he called back to Aegwynn, "I want to finish this mission before sunrise."
"This is no place for the weak and timid, Mesmer. What is your business here?" Zachary stood tall on his wooden soapbox, desperately trying to look intimidating. However impressive his red and bronze armor might be, it did nothing to improve his rank of squire.
Sermo quickly uncrumpled the piece of vellum he had hastily shoved into a pouch at his waist. "I'm here on orders of the King. Let me pass."
Squire Zachary stared at the writing, and attempted to look like he understood what it said. Like most Ascalons, he could not read. He hummed once or twice, and then thrust back the orders, and said, "Very well. Go on ahead." Then, less certain, "I believe Captain Calhaan is waiting for you?"
Sermo walked past the sentry without another thought. Aegwynn, however, stopped, and said, "thank you. There will be two others: a tough-looking man in armor, and another one, more pale. A Warrior and a Necromancer. Please let them through."
Zachary bowed awkwardly, "Of course, ma'am." He watched as she disappeared into the strengthening darkness, and then berated himself for his foolish display of chivalry.
"Captain Calhaan!" Sermo shouted to get the man's attention. The Captain was a good example of the Ascalon Army's policies concerning its solders armaments: use whatever you can get your hands on, no questions asked. Even the most trusting of soldiers would have a hard time believing that he would have found polished steel armor, with enough platinum and silver left over to make it look white in an honest manner. Lord Malum had always believed the captain had slain a few nobleman and stolen their purses. He had no intention of being added to that exclusive club.
"Lord Malum," the captain gave a nod, nothing more. It irked Sermo to see such blatant disregard for social conventions when addressing a superior. "The King, in his wisdom, has decided to send a scouting party to see why the Charr attacks have-"
Looking bored, Sermo interrupted, "I know why we're here, captain. Is there any information you can give me regarding the Charr camp's placement?"
With the apathy of one who knows something no one else does, Calhaan responded, "Just to the north of here. Keep going, and you'll see the ruins of a mill. It's just in the pit to the north-west."
Sermo nodded, "Wonderful. I'll leave the moment the other two members of my party arrive."
Now the trap was sprung. "I'm sorry, but there's no time for that. Your orders make it explicit that you are to leave as soon as I've finished talking to you."
Sermo was silent for half a second as the cogs in his mind whirled and spun. "No room for leniency then." He wasn't asking: he was merely echoing the obvious while he tried to come up with an excuse for delaying.
"None for those who betray their king," said Calhaan.
Sermo refused to take the bait. "Very well." He turned to the Monk, "Aegwynn, let's go."
She grew wide-eyed in surprise, "But what about the others?"
The Mesmer's voice grew as hard and distasteful as the crystals that dotted the landscape, "We have our orders, Monk. Let's go." He walked right past Captain Calhaan without saluting, down the stone steps, and into the courtyard behind one of the few working gates in the Wall. Seeing Gwynn had not followed, he called up, "Let's go, Monk!"
Gwynn sputtered, and turned towards the captain, hoping to plead with him. But with Sermo's cane now gone, there was only a dark, implacable shadow which commanded, "Get going, woman." Believing there was no other option, she tried to hold back the tears of fear, and slowly descended the stairs. The gate was opened, and the two stepped through.
"We'll keep the gate open 'till sunup. If you're not back by then, we'll send our condolences to your family!" called down Calhaan. Sermo raised his cane to show he understood, and the two set out.
After a few silent minutes trudging in the dust, Gwynn began to weep openly, "Aren't we going to wait for them?" she wailed.
Sermo responded without looking stopping, "Do you really think they'll let those two through?"
"You mean we're all alone?"
Sermo's silence was indicative of a 'yes'.
Aegwynn's terror and selfishness was brought to the surface. Here she was, in the dark, with bloodthirsty beasts waiting to devour her. She was on a suicide mission to boot. She could not take it: she did not want to die, though she had never put much thought or effort into living.
When Sermo realized that the Monk had stopped walking, and was now on her knees, wailing, he stopped, turned around, and spat, "Get a hold of yourself, woman! Do you really believe that your weeping will change the situation?" He ran his right hand down his face, smoothening his goatee. "Do you think that Calhaan will take pity on you, a poor girl lost, alone in the wide world?" In a rare expression of frustration, he demanded, "Do you even think at all?"
On his part, years of feeling paralyzed and out-of-control came to the surface, expressed in his critique. "The only way we'll have a chance of surviving is if you stop behaving like a child, and be silent. Calhaan doesn't expect me to come back alive from this mission. I intend to spite that bastard, along with the one who set this assassination attempt in motion. I intend to complete this fool's errand." Then, with a special kind of loathing in his voice, "With or without you."
He turned around, and began walking again. He spoke without turning to face her, without even stopping, "You can come with me if you want. Or you can wait until the noise you make attracts devourers, or maybe a pair of Grawl."
Through tear-glazed eyes, Aegwynn saw the light from Sermo's cane slowly disappear. When it looked to be gone altogether, she wailed, "Wait! Please!" and stumbled to her feet. She haphazardly traversed the terrain, stumbling every which-way on rocks and dead roots. She feel to her knees once, the pain announcing that the friction had torn the skin from one knee. But immediately she sprung back up to her feet, and blundered in the direction she desperately hoped the Mesmer had traversed.
She almost wailed with joy when she saw the image of Sermo and his light-giving cane, both distorted by the tears in her eyes. She ran up and grabbed his shoulder, "Please don't leave me. Please-"
"Be silent, and follow, then." His voice was close to a whisper, thought still held its dominance. "And for Lyssa's sake, stop that sniffling. We've got to be very quiet if we're to live."
Tor and Morton approached Captain Calhaan. The Necromancer spoke first, "Captain, we are here under orders to meet with Sermo Malum. Has he arrived yet?"
Unseen, in the darkness, Calhaan smiled, "Sorry, soldiers. The good Lord hasn't come yet. Go wait by the fires; I'm sure Warmaster Grast had another task, or a quick briefing for him. He won't be long."
Another hour's slow traverse over the hills and crags that lined the landscape brought the pair to a large pool of tar, surrounded by Gargoyles: hideous creatures, formerly found only in the Catacombs, where some Necromancer's magic had brought the stone carvings he had made to life. Though the Catacombs had long since collapsed, the creatures had made it out somehow, and had become quite the pest in the last few months. They garbled away in their quick, staccato tongue, sounding much like pebbles falling against rocks, concerned with their own petty existence, and not noticing the two scouts hiding in the darkness.
Sermo quickly ducked behind a large spur of rock, and pulled Aegwynn down next to him. With a quick word, the light from his cane died. "Listen carefully," he whispered to the Monk, "We cannot fight here," for there were at least a dozen of the monsters, "Instead, we'll have to sneak past." As he explained what he was planning, he permitted the Monk to glance past their shelter, to take in the surrounding landscape.
The pool lay at the bottom of a circular depression, within which the gargoyles were camped. They had managed to find enough deadwood to light one or two fires on the eastern shore of the pool, and this was where they were mostly gathered. One or two were knee-deep in the tar itself, apparently acting as impromptu guards for their encampment. The western edge of the pool, however, was placed right up against the edge of a steep slope.
"We'll climb across that ridge. They shouldn't be able to see us, if we're careful. I'll go first, you go second. But wait for me to get across before you begin." Sermo tapped her on the shoulder, drawing her attention from the landscape to his face, "Do you understand?"
He waited for her to nod, and crawled out from behind their shelter. He managed to strap his cane to the back of his armor, leaving his hands free. He crouched, half-crawling, half-shuffling towards the western edge of the pond. He kept his eyes averted from the light of the gargoyle's fires, lest it ruin his eyes' adjustment to the dark.
A few strenuous minutes, and he was at the pond's edge. Keeping low, he waited, checking the slope for loose rocks and treacherous points; he wanted to ensure there was nothing to give him away. Though he was unaccustomed to giving thanks, he was glad for both the faint moonlight and the dull remains of the light that escaped from the gargoyles' fire. When he was certain he had planned out an appropriate path, he glanced over to the two gargoyle scouts, to see if they were suspicious of anything. He realized, with some amusement, one of them was literally asleep on its feet.
It was slow going, but he managed to make it across. When his feet were firmly planted on the northwestern shore, he gave a slow wave to Gwynn. He hoped that she could see him.
Peeking out from behind the spur, the Monk gazed into the darkness, waiting for the signal, whatever it would be. When she thought she saw the vague glinting of yellow light off of polished black leather, she slowly began to crawl. When she reached the edge of the pond, she looked at the two gargoyle sentries. The sleeping one, coincidentally, jutted awake, and swung its arms to restore circulation. But Gwynn, in her paranoia, thought she had been seen. So she scurried up the slope, trying to cross depression as quickly as she could.
Then she hit a patch of loose soil, which sent her careening into the pond of tar. Unwanted, a jagged scream escaped her throat, followed quickly by a dull splash. Immediately all the gargoyles looked in her direction and saw her.
When Gwynn managed to stand up, scratching as much of the tar off her face as she could, she saw the advancing gargoyles. And she wailed, "Help, Sermo!" She cast her gaze desperately, looking for the Mesmer. There was no sign of him in the darkness. She tried to call out again, but she was interrupted by a hot orb of lightning hitting her in the chest, and sending her flying backwards onto the slope.
When the Necromancer had awakened the gargoyles from their stone slumber, he thought it prudent to teach them a few elemental spells, so that they might better serve as guards. When he was discovered by others of his order, the corpse had been so deformed by lightning strikes so as to make it unrecognizable. In order to confirm the cadaver's identity, they had to summon its spirit directly.
"Help!" she screamed, as another orb of burning energy impacted with her chest. Each blast left a perfectly circular burn wherever it touched. Had she not been panicking, she would have remembered to cast a few healing spells, if only to elongate her life. But she was so caught in her paroxysm of fear that she could do nothing but scream. "Hel-" was interrupted by another impact, knocking her unconscious.
All the gargoyles were now in the pond, to stay within casting range. Some of the more adventurous ones had discovered that the pond was only waist deep at its nadir, and were slowly advancing so as to have first pickings at their dinner.
Then Sermo's voice rang through the air, "Get out of the tar, Monk!" Every gargoyle turned around to face this new threat. When they saw Sermo standing at the edge of the tar pond, with a burning brand in his hand, the more intelligent creatures desperately tried to escape the death-trap. The Mesmer didn't give them the chance.
When Aegwynn awoke, the first thing she notices was the smell of burning flesh. Then she saw Sermo standing over her, with his hand poised to slap her face. "Wha-" she was interrupted by a heavy smack to the face.
"Stupid girl," Sermo said, disdainfully, "Think before you act!"
The slap had fully awakened her, and she noticed the extreme pain she was in. But now she had the sense to cast healing spells.
A few minutes later, and she was up and ready, if a little sore. In the meantime, Sermo had switched on his cane's light, and what had once been the tar pit was now filled with the charred corpses of thirteen gargoyles.
When he saw that she was up, he said, "Let's go. We've wasted enough time already."
"What time is it?" she asked, still a tiny bit groggy.
"Past midnight."
It took them another hour of steady, silent trudging, but finally Sermo quietly announced, "We're here."
Gwynn looked up, and saw the bare skeleton of what was once a grand, two-story mill. The cloth covering its vanes had long since been scavenged by desperate refugees, while the wood and stone were pilfered by humans and Charr alike. What was left could barely be considered any form of shelter. But its dark outline stood out against the red haze behind, informing the Mesmer that there were massive fires just over the hill.
Without a word, Sermo dropped to the earth, and began crawling up the dusty hill. For a moment, he was annoyed that the dust was dulling the leather, but he managed to banish such thoughts. Gwynn decided to stay low, but wait at the bottom of the hill, for which Sermo was – given her last example of stealth – mildly appreciative. Before he reached the crest, he whispered a quick word to douse his cane. Then he poked his head over the top.
The general lightening of the gloom that pervaded Ascalon's night signaled that the sun was rising – though its rays were still hardly able to penetrate the atmosphere of dust caused by the Searing and the Cataclysm. By now, even Tor had a hard time believing that his master had not yet arrived.
"We've been sitting here for over eight hours!" One could tell he was angry, not because he raised his voice, but because it would be impossible for any well-adjusted person to sit still for eight hours, knowing they were being lied to. "What happened to Lord Malum?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, but he hasn't arrived yet." Calhaan gave a smile: he enjoyed playing the simpleton. "Please, sit down by the fire."
Then one of the archers on the wall gave a cry, "Captain! One of the scouts has returned!"
The color drained from Calhaan's face as he stared at the Warrior. It was Morton's intervention that saved the captain from a bludgeoning: "Tor, don't bother with him. Go see who it is."
Tor gave Calhaan a blank stare, which, given the circumstances, he found terrifying, and then ran down the stairs, to the open gate. Once there he saw the distant form of Sermo, his body cloaked in the white sheen marking an enchantment, running ever closer. Every so often the Mesmer would have to stop, and mutter a few quick words to keep the spell active. Then he would continue running. There was no immediate sign of any enemy, but as the light increased, a great cloud of dust just over the horizon was slowly revealed.
When Sermo reached the gate, he gasped for breath, and called out, "Close it!" Then he fell to his knees, and let the sweat drip from his brow, staining the already darkened earth. His body shock with each ragged breath he took.
Wisely, and before Captain Calhaan had the chance to call out, "Ignore that command!" one of the archers manning the wall operated the mechanism which slowly pulled the gates shut.
A minute later, after he had been brought some water, Sermo managed to gasp out, "Massive encampment, north. We were seen, I escaped." He took another frenzied sip from a generous soldier's canteen, and then said, "Their army is coming," he wheezed, "as we speak."
Calhaan, his senses mastering him, commanded two runners be sent: one to gather reinforcements, another to inform Adelbern about the situation. While he was managing the situation, Morton asked Sermo, more out of polite curiosity than actual concern, "What happened to the Monk?"
Sermo replied nonchalantly, "Don't know. I had to leave her behind."
Morton nodded, as if he understood that it was the only thing to do.
Then one of the archer's cried out, with a tone that emphasized the latter part of phrase 'controlled panic', "Captain! Come up here!"
"What is it," shouted Calhaan as he ran up the stairs to the top of the wall. When he saw the massive Charr army, that covered almost the entirety of the latter half of the horizon, his blanched face paled even further. "Oh Grenth," he whispered, almost as an afterthought. "Retreat! We need to retreat to the bunkers north of Fort Ranik! We'll fight off the army there!"
Already his men were obeying his command: those who had not seen the advancing army understood from the reactions of those who had the seriousness of the situation. In a rare act of genuine concern, Calhaan stayed behind to ensure that the evacuation was proceeding properly. He ordered different soldiers to help carry supplies and weapons, and more runners to be dispatched.
Finally, he turned his attention to Sermo and his two remaining party members. "Can you two carry him out of here?" he asked. When he saw Tor nod, he turned his attention to the Mesmer: "I'm sorry about the suicide mission, but I was under orders. I hope you understand."
To his relief, Sermo nodded. "I do understand. So I hope you'll return the favor." He then spoke a few, slow-sounding words in Lyssa's tongue.
Before Calhaan had the chance to ask, "What?" he felt a terrible weight upon his back. It nearly brought him to the earth, it was so powerful: he found himself gasping, sweating, and straining just to remain upright. He managed to get a "Why?" out, before he dropped to his knees.
Sermo smiled as Tor acted as a crutch, "Forgive my revenge, just as I forgave your greed." Just before he disappeared from sight, Sermo called from up the stairs, "Give my regards to the Charr!"
The steady rhythm of a battering ram against a gate announced their arrival.
I lied. Every two weeks. We'll try that, and see how it works.
For 500 points, todays chapter title comes from which famous philosopher? Knowing this one might tell you where I'm going with the character of Sermo Malum, as well as explaining his actions. Speaking of which, don't worry: I'll tell you what happened to Gwynn. I'm not going to just flash-forward through that part of the mission, like I did with the Searing.
almostinsane:
For the love of God, I don't mind uninformative comments, nor do am I such a rampant secularist that any mentioning of God rankles me, but, please, vary the comments a bit. The last comment was the only exception to a series of cookie-cutter congratulations! And no, Gwynn won't be courting Morton any time soon. She's a selfish, emotionally sterile girl. She has trouble with empathy for 'normal' people, let alone the walking contradiction that is a necrophobic necromancer. Besides, I'm a cynic: I don't tend to see love as a magical cure-all.
Timeoffire45:
Bugger. Fixed that little grammatical error, thanks for pointing it out. Yeah, I know it's awkward, but I tried that huge two year leap a whole bunch of ways, and this was the best take. But this is the purpose of this entire project: to improve my writing skills. Next time I need to do something like that, hopefully it'll be better. And thanks for your comment on the battle scene.
As for tips in writing a battle scene... Well, what I got from that last little exercise was that it's better if you have more people in the fight. Shifting the reader's attention between different combats help capture a haphazard spirit. As for expletives, eh. They don't work for me, but they could for you. I know words like 'fuck' are great because they're so short, and capture a whole host of vulgar connotations, just what a battle needs. And as for those epic one-on-one battles every kind of 'epic' movie enjoys, I haven't yet found a good way to write one without it sounding drawn out and contrived. Hope I helped.
t.z0n3:
Thanks for the comment. I hope you'll post something with a little more substance in the future.
Apology in advance: sorry if the responses to your comments are a little jagged. I spent the last two hours watching House instead of doing whatever I should be doing. But the meaning and emphasis behind the responses are still accurate. If I was feeling a little nicer, I might have tried to present the same ideas just a tad sweeter.
