Where life goes, so too, should you: The world is a delicious and gorgeous place created for us to explore, enjoy, and protect. I will seek out the lessons in every experience, and as I grow, I will have more to offer in return.
Cycle of Night: Sylvari awakened at night are secretive and cautious with information. We make our own decisions, and we come and go as we please, nimble of mind and body.
Written for Commander Week 2024
Prompt: Race
Content warnings: Rated G
Note: Finally got around to writing my favourite of my personal Norn headcanons, and the start of my Commander's origin story.
If you ask most Norn, there are sixteen Spirits of the Wild under which one might be born, depending on how the stars align at their birth.
For many, birth signs are considered an amusement at best. Most Norn choose to follow the Spirit for which they have the most affinity, regardless of the Spirit under which they were born. After all, they are a people more concerned with building a legend of their own than adhering to some predestined fate. That said, many born under the Spirits considered lesser, particularly in their youth, often insist they have an affinity for the greater Spirits in a misguided attempt to jump-start their legends.
However, some believe that the sign of one's birth makes them predestined to have certain traits, and embrace them wholeheartedly. They believe it is folly to consider the so-called lesser Spirits less deserving of reverence. After all, how could it be shameful to run as fast as Hare? If it is enviable to be as wise as Raven, why not so to be as cunning as Minotaur? Even sweet, gentle Owl, who sacrificed all for her hearth and home, bestows her kin with loyalty just as Wolf bestows the bonds of brotherhood on those born beneath his stars.
The traits these Spirits embody and admire ought to be an inspiration to all Norn, and the sacrifice made by those who stayed behind to fend off Jormag whilst the Norn fled the Far Shiverpeaks had been vital to the survival of their people. These Spirits often have no Havroun to tell their stories as the greater Spirits do, and it would not do to have their memory die.
For the Sons of Svanir, there are seventeen. Whilst the Sons have few traditions that differ from those of the other Norn, Dragon is revered above all other Spirits of the Wild, and the Svanir observe a calendar that places the sign of Dragon between Wolf and Raven in the cycle.
It had been said once that a spirit known as Dragon was revered as a true Spirit of the Wild long before the Sons adopted the name for Jormag, but the Norn have long since abandoned any reverence as a result of the association. Those born under Dragon were said to have charm and ferocity in equal measure, so it is no surprise that the Svanir twisted and claimed those traits when Jormag rose.
Whilst the Sons of Svanir despise women, they are not immune to their appeal, and some Norn women insist that Svanir would care little for gender as long as followers are loyal. Therefore, Svanir women who bear sons are given the chance to provide more sons for the cause. Those who do not are banished, like any daughters born.
However, all children born under the sign of Dragon are delivered to a shrine to Jormag. They believe that delivering these servants to Dragon will curry favour with the Spirit, and enough sacrifices will wake Jormag from their slumber to lead them once again.
Jorgen Eriksson and his wife, Brunhilda, had scooped the occasional bundle from the shrine near their homestead over the years. Most newborns left in the snow overnight perished from the cold, so the surrounding steadings often watched for screaming bundles left alone on the ice. Those who made it through the night were taken in as their own, or delivered to Hoelbrak to be cared for as orphans.
Jorgen and Brunhilda always opted for the latter. Whilst they had never desired a child, it was not the fault of these wretched things that the circumstance of their birth was so unfortunate, and the Norn protected their own.
The last babe they found had not squalled in the snow like the rest. She had been silent while bundled her up for the journey to the Great Lodge, as they had many a time, until she had cooed softly, reached out, and grabbed Jorgen’s impressive beard. He had scowled at the child, and she had smirked in return, and the old Warrior knew at that moment that this girl had his measure.
Brown eyes met blue, and Brunhilda had flashed her husband a knowing grin.
hey it's me I'm thinking about aurene legendary flavor texts and the color red again
I've played this game for almost seven years now and I still don't have a legendary weapon. one day I'll get there but for now I like to sigh and daydream about gifting my toons certain legendaries
Scourges channel their life force into the desert sands to summon biddable shades that damage enemies and create shields for their allies. They use punishment skills to torment their enemies, and wield torches to light the path to their destruction.
Living and the dead are united at the Necropolis. Bodies are brought from all over the domain to be preserved and judged.
Azi spent a lot of time at the Necropolis in the Domain of Vabbi after getting absolutely obliterated by Balthazar*
While healing/otherwise incapacitated, he got to know the Vabbians, their funerary rights, and the general vibe/ideals tied to necromancers/scourges.
He poured over tomes, scrolls, books, etc and did a good deal of his scourge training/practice within the grounds.
*(listen I know Vabbi wasn't discovered until after the events of PoF but I get a little sillay and loose with the exploration timeline during the events of PoF and LW4)
Written for Commander Week 2024
Prompt: Profession
Content warnings: TW for Grief/Death/Suicide
Note: Part 1 is here.
Some of you felt sorry for her after reading it.
I promise it gets better.
But first, it gets so much worse.
1318 AE.
"She takes after you, my love."
Jorgen Eriksson often spoke to his wife through the flames of the hearth. The ranger had left in the dead of night roughly six months ago, leaving her coat and her beloved longbow on the dining table, and had not been seen since.
It was not an uncommon way to go.
His mate had been losing her sight, and she lived for her lengthy hunts with her longbow in hand. He knew she would go on one final hike, sooner or later, and leave him to raise their daughter alone.
The bow had been a little big for her, but Kara had been tall for a nine-year-old, and had almost outgrown the shortbow Brunhilda had taught her with.
It was time.
She had understood too, when he placed it in her hands. She knew their ways, and what it meant. They had raised her under Wolf, to bond her to the pack, and now she fed and protected their pack with him.
Only time would tell if Dragon would draw her.
They hadn't truly believed the stories, at first. The Wolfborn were not guaranteed to respect the bonds of brotherhood, and the Ravenborn were not guaranteed to be wise, so why should they worry that their Dragonborn daughter's fate was set in stone?
But worry they did.
She insisted her ferocity in the hunt was a gift from Wolf, and none could dispute her loyalty. Few could resist her charm when she batted those ice-blue eyes at them, but who could resist bowing to the whim of a stubborn and precocious little girl? Certainly no father he had ever met, and many a mother too. He was fortunate that her whims were usually of benefit to him.
Certainly for now, Kara cared little for anything except beseeching Wolf to help her bring down ever larger game.
Who knew?
Perhaps Wolf would bless her too.
1321 AE.
"Venison, papa?"
Spirits, this kid.
Her bow sat before him, still waiting to be restrung, but she had no patience when it came to sitting still. The persuasive little chit had talked him out of the lesson in longbow care in favour of finding them dinner, and he'd let her go in the hope she would return empty-handed - a lesson in itself.
Her knees shook from the weight of the deer slung over her slim shoulders, but she had been swift and silent enough to bring it down with only a hunting knife.
Not bad, for twelve.
Wolf knew, his knees were not much stronger these days, and he was grateful he had taught her well.
The other steadings claimed that a warrior had no business training a ranger, but she refused to leave him for another mentor. And why would she? He could shoot, and wield an axe, and now his daughter could do the same. His wife had laid the groundwork when the girl had first shown an aptitude for it, all those years ago, and these last few months her arrows had begun to fly further than his ever had.
She was not yet grown, though she claimed she was.
She still had much to learn.
He prayed she would hone her craft before he was no longer able to teach her.
1323 AE.
Kara Brunhilda Jorgensdottir called her krytan drakehound to heel as she opened the door to her homestead, stomping the snow from her boots before stepping inside the small lodge.
Her father had yelled at her a thousand times about letting her dog race over the fur rugs with his muddy paws, and the beast was just about old enough to start obeying commands.
She'd been presented with her puppy on her thirteenth birthday, along with a brand new longbow of her own, and she'd been awestruck at Jorgen's uncharacteristic generosity.
He was a strong, practical warrior, and the steadings around them shared whatever they had in excess. There was little want or need for such extravagance.
She had chosen not to dwell on it at the time.
But now?
A year had passed, and now it made sense.
He had not joined her in the hunt for some months, barely left his bed in the last week, and she swore he grew thinner by the day.
She was not surprised to see the Wolf Shaman at her hearth.
She was not surprised when her father did not yell about the muddy paws.
She was not surprised that nobody helped her build the pyre.
It was the Great Hunt, after all. The surrounding steadings were deserted, and even the shaman had bid her farewell and left her to do her duty whilst her people enjoyed the moot.
She had done the rites, bound him in cloth, and set the flame alone.
Wolf rumbled deep in her chest as she watched it burn.
She stared into the fire and growled in return. Rage ripped through her as she surrendered to her pain, and her nails grew longer and sharper as she dug them into her palms.
