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Guild Wars
Story fragments based on Guild Wars characters
Last update 5/24/05
by Lorenzo Wang
Mhenlo
The knight pointed his wicked blade at Mhenlo and all the sun-soaked beaches of Kryta that flashed on the metal blinded the wounded monk. “The Justicar does not grant passage to heathens such as yourself,” hissed the White Mantle through the worn slits of his helmet. Barely able to open his eyes, Mhenlo strove to separate the sunburnt face of his assaulter from the dazzling reflections of the flora. He stretched a bloody hand out to the knight, clenching something mysterious.
“Did the Unseen Ones tell you themselves to reject the friendship and forgiveness of Ascalon, or was that Justicar Hablion’s idea?” Mhenlo’s calm did not waver as he spoke.
“Speak their names in vain again, and I will strike you down, monk. Your Dwayna is a fairytale here. A healer of heretics I’d reckon.” The knight laughed and spat at the monk’s feet.
The light came in focus. Mhenlo pondered the intricacy of golden embroidery on his mantle, gently letting the pain from his wounds and the insult against Dwayna pass.
“I am not only the disciple of Dwayna,” Mhenlo began, strength rising through his blood, “but a disciple of Balthazar as well,” he finished quietly. His outstretched hand clenched even harder. Violent flames burst around it surprising the knight. But just as quickly as it sprang, the flames died and left a faint blue aura. The blood drying on his skin disintegrated, and the fresh welts and cuts on the monk’s body mended. Seeds of light fell about him as he stood up, regained of energy and composure.
“You… you mock me!”
“You mock yourself.”
“This trickery, this savage magic… you are a warlock, not a monk, and not worthy to set foot in Lion’s Arch! Men, cut this pagan down, he means to corrupt us all!” The White Mantle motioned for his fellow guards and they drew their silver swords.
Mhenlo sadly drew his chakram, and began the beautiful movements that would end in judgment and bane for his enemies. The holy symbols imprinted on his skin awakened to their disciple’s need, erupting in purified flame around him, as he whispered to himself a prayer. “May the Gods share their mercy with them as they have with me.”
Cynn
Crushed beneath a table crafted of the finest imported Maguuma woods, the most admired centerpiece in their guest reception hall, young Cynn could not help but stare at the glorious wreckage of ornaments and rare paintings strewn about. If she had not kept her mind so focused on reaching for her flame staff tantalizingly out of reach, the destruction might have depressed her. When the screams of the servants finally faded away, desperately calling for the aid of father, she had accepted that her family and its assets had perished to the evil that had sent the godly crystal projectile crashing into their home.
But mother and father had both been destroyed in an instant. Had they suffered, she thought, there would be significantly more rage in her. It had been three days since the total silence brought on by the deafening attack, each day a painful test of her will to live. The staff glistened a couple inches out of reach. She would hold it in hand before she died; the gift of one beknighted in the House of Surmia was not fit to lay untended. Even with no Surmia left in sight, it was her father’s token of respect for her talents, a symbol of duty to their bloodline.
A sudden crash shattered the quiet as several bestial growls laughed and sneered from just behind the ruined walls. Charr. Cynn came alert. Charr warband, sounds like six or seven of them. She pressed a flower she had made with spilled jewels into her hairpiece, and then rest her head to the ground with eyes held just a hairline from shut. Eight dark figures shadowed there way into her section of the house and roared to each other in their guttural speak. The discovery of yet unspoiled food excited them to fervor. The tallest Charr, brandishing a huge brazier smoking with their ritual flames, pushed the others aside to get a glimpse, then motioned for the warband to pull her out.
With the table lifted, it was as if her hunger and pain were cast aside with it. She sprang forward and brought the staff clutched tightly to her chest with such grace and speed that only moments later did the warriors draw their blades and did the stalkers lift their bows at her.
“You monsters play with fire as if you couldn’t be burned yourselves,” she croaked, hoarse from thirst. She took a deep breath as she gathered her energy. The beasts shook their fur as they hooted and snarled, slightly taken aback by her defiance but clearly enjoying the sport. She brushed off the debris on her expensive pyromancer robes. Such beautifully designed garb would be an embarrassment if found soiled on her corpse by any surviving Surmians. Her plan would have to be precise and flawless. With so many Charr around her, a stray arrow could mortally wound her in her state.
Swallowing her pride, she began a seductive dance, wiggling and twirling to the surprise of the warband surrounding her. Her stiff limbs kept her balance off. The stalkers lowered their aim and mocked her dance, chortling with sick glee, and one of the warriors drew what looked like her cook’s gutting knife. As she danced comically, Cynn measured the distance to the furthest Charr, a stalker in the back of the pack. Ignoring the searing pain in her shoulders, she made her arcane movements and summoned a phoenix made of elemental fire, the burst of its birth igniting all the Charr around her. With another motion, the phoenix thundered across exploding into the stalker.
With the warband in disarray, she began her count. One… the warriors turned to her… two… burnt and in a frenzy… three… the flame wielder struggled to weave a spell of his own… Four. Her spell was complete. A rain of fire stormed down with searing shards, utterly incinerating the monsters. Her hand bled as the inlay of her staff cut into her grip, but she would see the end of this spell do its work. Exhaustion struck her, and as the world grew dim in spite of the blaze, their death howls brought grim satisfaction.
When she came to, a soldier was bent over her applying a dirty poultice to the burns on her legs. “My lady, you’re awake! How you did not die to these Charr before we got here, the Gods only know.”
She winced as she sat up, immediately grabbing her staff from him. She looked through the haze to see soldiers running about searching for survivors.
“Had you been here,” she said dryly looking at her tattered dress, “I would have died to shame first. Bring me water, some food too. The ruins of Surmia shall not be lost again.”
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