A GW2 fanfic. Taking the same approach I’ve more or less used on Forever Dreams, liberal with the lore and not bothering about game mechanics, essentially the world of GW2 as I imagine would be.
~*~*~
Above him, a thousand thousand stars beckoned in the breeze of the cool late summer night, each perhaps a hero of ages past who had died in defiance of the darkness that had risen. No. Even scouring the heaven there would not be enough stars for that.
In the air was a familiar saltiness, by now a scent which felt refreshing to him, present always when a southerly came in from the sea. A scent of both freedom and grim forebode.
Beneath him, lights from a thousand thousand torches and lanterns glistened in radiant answer to the heaven’s sorrow. The city of sails remained a bustling display of lights even well after midnight. It never slept. Like the vigilant spirit it embodied, unendingly did the city also revolve in a constant waltz of trade and activities.
From the direction of dockside, hidden from view by spirals of towers, came increased bustling and movements of wheels and groaning of stretched wooden beams − some most welcomed sounds. They signalled a half score of caravels making safely, slipping into the vast harbour under cover of darkness, wary of the still menace beyond the southern horizon. The dockhands were soon to be all over them, unloading precious goods from the few corners of Tyria that still slept under a sky without shadows.
A people in desperate times who refused to be taken by despair – they chose with strength and courage to live full and joyful in a defiance as resolute as the ancient foundations of the city they dwelled.
Scholars, warriors, couples young and old, and masters and disciples both men and women of all races and ethnicities crossed the bridges spanning the many canals while gondolas glided gracefully beneath their feet. There were people coming off shifts wandering into the night markets for the day’s shopping. The fountain squares were crowded with conversing adventurers. Rolling wagons passed under the magnificent arch bridge of the grand promenade, carrying fruits and produces from the provinces of Kryta. In a few hours they would be fast selling out from stalls in the morning markets.
The darkness slept not, and neither would they.
Like a phoenix the city stood as testament for the resilience of the people of Tyria. Yet, the struggle against the shadow was not without its tolls. Much had been lost, more so than in bloods were knowledge and wisdoms of the ages past.
The wind picked up and grabbed a hold of the scarf which covered half his face, almost having it flying off like some albatross. He grabbed it in the nick of time and had it retied. Though there was to be flying done tonight, having his face cover doing a solo and risk exposing him simply would not do.
The man, lean and tall with dark cobalt eyes shining with clear intensity, double checked the chrono. The timepiece resting in the palm was attached to the end of a thin chain and with a slight turn of the wrist the timepiece slid up into the sleeve.
Not a minute too soon or late. He was punctual to a fault, something which came with his rhythmic trade.
He picked up the pack which had been resting by his feet for the past hour, then stepped up to end of the mast beam which extended out over the eaves. Some kind of decoration, some token from the builder’s seafaring past, or mere keeping tradition with the city’s architecture. Whichever the reason, it was the perfect vantage and starting point for his plans for the night.
Eight levels below, just before midpoint between the mast and the hard stone-paved street, was where his interest laid.
He unhooked a strange contraption from his belt. It was a device of his design, a complex mechanism of springs, bolts and wires, with a claw tipped dart mounted on the end. After a deep breath, he leaned left and launched himself off one of the highest buildings in the city.
Hardwood beams, canvas sails, lanterns of many colours hung off skywalks, whose lights refracted off the sheets of cascading waterfalls; all a wondrous blur as he flew past in controlled free fall.
It required the most complex calculations, taking account into the effect the gear and attire had on his profile, the wind’s speed and direction, not to mention the mental will to count the passing time with absolute precision while tumbling through the air.
When the moment came and he depressed the trigger on the strange contraption in hand, he was relieved to see the dart at the end of wire connect with the wall at the mentally painted desired spot and felt himself swing toward the small balcony protruding out the building face.
Unexpectedly the balcony’s doors started the slightest movement. He frowned. The guard doing the rounds was a touch too early. Always meticulous in planning however it was not unaccounted for. He pulled out the pistol from the belt holster and while still in midair fired, aiming through the widening slit between the doors. The shot found the guard dead centre in the chest and with a jerk the burly guard fell out onto the balcony, pushing the doors wide open. An invitation he took happily and swung through the now open doorway.
Rolling up to standing readiness after a featherlike landing, he had the pistol level at guard and quickly scanned the room. It was empty save for shelves after shelves of books. The door leading to the rest of the building was on the far side, slightly to the right and behind a row of shelves such that anyone that came through would not have an immediate full view of the room. The layout would provide him some cover should he need it, but he hoped to be well away before his presence was detected.
He spared a look to the downed guard, who would be having a marvellous view of Lion’s Arch if he weren’t lying limp on the planked balcony. The man was not dead, of course. There was no need for lethal force for what he was doing, in fact any such thoughts repulsed him. The lightning stun charge would only have the guard out for a good hour, plenty for him to finish what he came for, and nothing more than a headache and small burn for the man when he awakes.
Pleasant dreams. He whispered.
Without further pause he quickly went to the nearest shelf and began scanning through the rows of books. Cartyl Vaugh was a wealthy merchant, one of the riches in the city as a matter of fact, and was a prolific reader and collector of ancient texts. Writings on Krytan customs, scrolls of scripts by various playwrights, epics and legends, poems and prose of the Norns, the old man had a considerable personal library. Most of these faded leather bounds were more than a bookkeeper’s pay of a lifetime in worth, plenty to make any common sneak faint with excitement. But he was no usual criminal, nor was it wealth he sought. Or at least, not the metal chinks and rustic, damp sweaty smell kind of wealth.
Over a century ago when the city’s former self disappeared beneath the wall of dark waters, the catastrophe also threatened one of the greatest libraries of its time. Even though the Order conducted a full scale evacuation to the Durmand Priory before the library was destroyed, several consignments were unfortunately lost or waylaid during the treacherous journey and countless items fell into the realm of myths. Whispers went of some passing hands in the dark underworld of artefacts smuggling, others buried deep under when their possessors passed away, only to later resurface when robbers visited these ancient tombs. Others, never to be seen or heard of ever again, the knowledge, culture and heritage forever lost to Tyria.
A very small number eventually made their way back to the library at the Priory over the years. A much larger number however ended up in the hands of rich merchants and aristocrats who horded them to boaster their own collection and vanity. For a while now, he had been tracking down these items in private collections, returning them to the people of Tyria and sharing the wealth of knowledge for all to benefit.
No, he did not work for the Priory, he simply felt he could help out with some initiative.
It was on the top level of the third shelf that he found the book bound in dark red leather, the worn ink on the spine just barely discernable. A Treatise of Remedies, it read.
Written by a famous healer from two centuries ago, it detailed many diseases and their causes and cures, also included were essays on the healing properties of an exhaustive list of herbs and substances. It had only been discovered in an old books store some months ago and quickly snapped up by Vaugh who then refused other scholars’ request for access to it, even when the content of this book could alleviate the suffering of thousands.
He wrapped the book with care in oil clothes …
…then the coral candles illuminating the study went out.
When light returned moments later the room was bristling with sharp blades and pointed arrows, in a half circle all pointed in his direction.
“I’m impressed,” he mused, showing not the slightest sign of worry, instead he turned to the young woman standing just behind the line of warriors.
The young woman wielded a fanged amber headed staff and her face was one of stern determination. Long blonde hair with a rare tint of mint, two strands of hair braided decoratively in a loose floral crown which gave her a graceful, almost delicate quality, he decided.
She was a familiar sight, though this was the first time they stood this close to each other and eye to eye. Not quite a nemesis, peculiarity perhaps, and a stalker.
“What gave it away? Or was it luck?”
“Maybe others are smarter than you give credit for.” The amber staff raised up at him pointedly. “I have you now, thief. Put the book down, and your gears too,” the woman said. “I’ll be turning you over to the Lionguards.”
“But, these things do explode so easily,” he held up one hand and revealed the grenade which he had taken out immediately when the room went dark, one finger already pressing down the switch. “If I let go it’ll make such a mess of everyone in the room.”
The guards standing closest backed away a step. “H-hold on, let’s not be rash here.”
He was pleased that his reputation as a maverick of tools and explosives had its desired effect. “What say we back off a bit, good sirs.”
“Stay at your positions, do not give him the chance to get away.”
“But Lady Sidia– “
“Oops.” The grenade fell out of his hand.
“By Gods!”, “Duck!”, “Get out get out!”, came the panicked cries, the guards all fell to the ground or dove for the nearest cover they could find.
He smiled, took the opportunity and brought the pistol to aim –
A slender forearm rose up and knocked his hand up and to the left. Smoke blasted out the pistol’s muzzle and a projectile was launched into the air, however with the interference it was now off aim, the expanding viscous web only fell on half the guards when it would have otherwise caught them all.
“Someone like you would never destroy these irreplaceable books, not even at the risk of capture,” the young woman’s melodic voice commented, her breathe too close for comfort.
The grenade rolled and clattered harmlessly across the floorboards.
He was no longer smiling and would have cursed if he had the time. Sidestepping to the right he narrowly avoided the swinging staff. The young woman was already within his out stretched arm, too close for him to effect any defence, even if unskilled in hand to hand combat compared to a warrior she was still quick and nimble. The woman barrelled into him, jarring the staff against his stomach and a strong lightning shock hurled him back. The room trembled with a loud crash.
Lying amidst a sea of books and pain atop the toppled bookshelf, he had just enough mental clarity to bring out a pen-like device. With a snap it unfolded into a metal-fan and absorbed the second lightning strike.
Seeing her magic negated the woman swept in once more with her staff. Prepared this time he caught it in hand and yanked the staff in along with its owner. Off balanced already the woman had a pained gasp forced out of her when he kneed her in the chest, coughing violently, she doubled over onto the books next to him.
The guards that weren’t caught up in the web were closing in, eager to redeem their reputation after being fooled by the bluff. He rolled to his feet, pointed the pen-unfolded-fan in their direction, unleashing the charged magic. Blue azure tendrils danced from swords to armours, buying him few precious seconds – time he used to ignite a smoke stick that blanketed the room with impenetrable fog.
Despite every nerve in the brain wrecking for a quick escape out the balcony, cooler calculation prevailed and he went for the door leading into the building. Conjuring up in the mind a layout of the room imprinted from the initial scan, complete with dimensions and overlaid with the position of the woman and each of the guards before the smoke obscured them from view, he darted across the room, counting the steps and rounded the corner of each shelf in the way with ease despite seeing nothing but white.
A wind was blowing through the room, quickly dissipating the smoke. The woman’s doing once again.
Perhaps he did underestimate his opponent. The thought survived a second before it was waved away. Simply gotten careless.
He reached his goal and barged out the door, just in time too, for the smoke in the room had thinned out enough for silhouettes to be made out. A lighting bolt struck the doorframe no more than a hand’s length above, showering him harmlessly with splinters. If the spell had been a fireball it would have been much more inconvenient, but he knew that like him, the woman was not about to start throwing flames in a room full of books.
Flying horizontally out into the hallway he bounded on the floor on his back, and with all strength that could be mustered out the muscles in the abdomen and back bounced in an inverted flip, head down and limbs extended like a spinning top. The acrobatic move presented a difficult profile for those lying in wait, arrows and bullets grazed past harmlessly while a double tap from his pistol had two marksmen falling limp.
The hallway was fashioned out of the bones of a long galley, the supports curved to meet the keel running lengthwise through the level. A staircase zigzagged through the floor and ceiling close to where used to be the mast.
If he had done his survey from the outside properly, there should be a room one level up with windows facing out to the back canal.
He swung over the handrail and made it up the flight of stairs without difficulty; the constant muzzle flashes held the guards in the hallway at bay, plus a few scattered shots at the door of the study encouraged those inside to remain so. And found the room with the window as expected.
“You!” Just as he shot the lock and swung the window open, the woman with mint tinted hair emerged from the stairs. “Thief!” came her cry.
What manners.
He waved and stepped onto the window sill. “Better luck next time! Farewell, good lady!” And kicked off.
He set his sight on the rope bridge that crossed directly below, four levels above the back canal. Solid and springy it would serve as a nice trampoline for his landing, then he could quickly descend to ground level through the spiral ramps at either end, lose the outfit and disappear with the book safely in tow.
A fireball almost engulfed him.
The world lit up brightly and the salty taste of the sea was replaced by acrid dryness. Turning skyward to the woman who had leapt after him, he cried, “Are you mad?”
“It’s not a farewell just because you say it is!”
The night was awash with a cold sulphuric glow as the pistol returned fire. It proved little more than a dazzling display, for the woman had a swirling wall of rock and earth about her that turned the shots away. All while they continued to fall through the air, the lights from windows and distant skyways speeding up, merging with the ocean of stars.
A second fireball came at him. With no means of dodging he could only shield himself best as he could with his coat. The flames licked at the skins, he held his breathe in the searing and suffocating heat and tried to shut out the white hot pain.
He emerged from the firestorm singed and battered, his hand empty, the pistol gone, blown out of his grip. Worst yet the shockwave had veered him away from the rope bridge.
It was a long drop down to the street pavements on either side of the canal.
The rope bridge passed to the right, the two metres of gap might as well have been two leagues. Below, nothing but cool night breeze followed by stone.
He caught a glimpse of the woman, who landed deftly as a swallow then rushed to the railing, no doubt to watch his demise. There was a strange light in her eyes that was neither cheer nor triumph.
A hundred possibilities and calculations flashed past while he desperately searched for a solution. Nothing proved viable. Too little time, too much emotions, too much clouding the mind.
Suddenly the direction of the fall was altered, in the direction of the rope bridge and then under it. The body had acted on its own and fired a claw dart which looped the length of wire about the bridge. Soon the momentum carried him swinging up the other side.
When his hands and feet finally touched the planks of the rope bridge he exhaled a great sigh of relief.
The young woman started a step in his direction, but then hesitation took the rein and held her back when he stood up. “Why must you cling to me like a blood sucking skale?” he asked wearily.
“Because criminals such as you must be brought to justice,” the answer came quickly.
“What is justice, when entire villages go hungry because they know not how to build irrigation systems to save their crops, even as the hydraulic plans grow webs in the strongbox of the local lord? When people lay awake fearing the monsters terrorizing the nights, while the methods to slay them are heard only as fireside stories in splendid manors?” he held up the bundled A Treatise of Remedies. “What is justice, when thousands of children die from diseases when tonics sit on shelves with price tags enough to reduce them to a life in servitude?”
“You cannot expect to make everyone equal, and what of the losses you do to the owners of these books?”
“Losses? Little can be lost when one paid dirt price to the unwitting old books store owner. These books belong to the people of Tyria. Freely distributed they will benefit much more. In any case the first copy off the press is returned to one who once owned the book, that is recompense enough.”
“But never is the original returned.”
“No,” he replied with some qualms, but without apology. “It cannot be guaranteed that the copy will be perfect, nor all the secrets revealed, the original must be kept for future references and studies.”
“It is clear then, you are taking them away from people who had rightfully gained these items. Regardless whether their means had been fair or not, that is breaking the laws of the land, and you must be brought to face the crimes.”
“Despite all the good I serve to the greater populace?”
The woman ran her fingers down the locks of hair by her face that twirled with the breeze, pausing for a moment in thought. “I do not deny that. However law and order is all that is holding this fragile world together and gives it stability. We are standing on the edge of the precipice, staring into darkness and fires of oblivion. To allow anyone to be above the law will bring others to do the same, it will destroy the fabric of society and turn us on each other. There are ways to change the laws and orders to be fairer, but until then it does not give license to anyone to break them. People cannot look to have a future when those they possess are not protected.”
“Those dead today have no tears for a future, however bright that may be. You may paint a tomorrow where laws bring about peace and prosperity; I will fight for today here and now,” he replied with equal resolve.
The woman had no reply. He turned his back on her and walked at a leisured pace toward the archway to the stairway leading down.
A wall of flame burst forth in the archway and blocked off his path.
Surprised, having thought he had her spirit beaten with words, he wheeled about, blue eyes blinking with wonder.
The young woman was trembling ever slightly, movement barely discernable to the untrained eyes, her head lowered, hair that shimmered under the starlight obscuring her green eyes. Quietly she said, “If you insist, then I will persist in hunting you down.” Her hands closed in tight fists by her side and glowed with gathering magic.
“And I was wrong to expect anything less,” an edge of admiration crept into his voice.
An arc of lightning whipped past the right ear, raising the hair on the back of the neck.
The commotion was surely drawing the guards and he had to disappear before they fenced him in. Reluctantly he drew out another pistol from behind, having lost the other in the explosion. It was intended as a last resort, loaded with lethal rounds instead of merely ones which stunned.
With the stairway near him barred off, the only way off the rope bridge was at the other end behind the woman. He built up into a sprint and fired wildly in an attempt to force a dodge that would give him an opening to past. The plan worked. He slid past the woman who shied from the hail of tracers breaking the air with terrific whistling
Except the woman then fell quietly face down and did not get back up. In fact she moved not at all.
He halted his steps. He was sure he aim around her and not at her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
A faint whimper emerged from the supple form lying there. Moments ago an intimidating wielder of elements, now a frail and hapless wounded kitten.
Throughout his career he had endeavoured to not cause unnecessary harm to others, and especially made a point to have never killed an innocent, even going through measures that were often overly complex and convoluted and on occasions near failing his aims as result.
The woman though naïve and idealistic was no enemy. He picked up his pace and rushed to her side, hoping whatever injury he caused was not fatal. There were kits in his pack and he had some practice with tending to wounds, with luck, enough to stabilize her conditions till she could be brought to one with proper skills.
As soon as he turned her over, the glint in those emerald eyes told him he had been had. His footing was swept out under, the stars and city spun in a carousel display and the back of his head met the wood of the bridge in a blur of painful red.
“Good to see chivalry has not died out,” the woman winked, leaning over him, the amber staff head just inches away from his throat.
“It likely will from now on,” he thought out loud. Relieved and angered at the same time at such simple ruse. His pistol hand was held down by the woman’s right foot while their positions put her well out of range of any trips or kicks.
The guards must have finally made their way down, for the woman waved at something outside of his vision. There were only moments left to act.
Using the one trick left available, he raised his left hand and twisted palm up. The chrono shot out of the sleeve, striking the woman in the forehead and left her in blanked surprise. At the same time he rolled to one side, not a moment too soon for the staff head erupted in gout of fire. Clearly an over-reaction brought about without much thought – the bridge they were on was made of wood and flax, neither material exactly fire resistant.
The bridge sagged and snapped under the fiery assault, the rigging and knots consumed in the flames. And for the third time that night he fell through the air. Thankfully the Gods were at last smiling upon him, they were right above the canal itself and the water proved deep enough to absorb the fall.
Breaking surface of the cold murky waters amidst flaming debris, he soon noted, admitted with guilty amusement, that the woman was not a swimmer.
No telling if it was a ploy however. “Seriously,” he sighed and swam to the desperate flailing splashes. If it turned out to be another trick he would never live it down with that one friend of his.
It was not. He wrapped an arm about the young woman and waded to the edge of the canal, and climbed up the bank first before pulling her out.
“T-thank… you,” she spluttered and coughed, barely able to hold herself up, the wet shimmering hair stuck to the face and the dress to the skin.
Nothing but the distant noise of the markets answered her.
The man was gone.
“Lyssa’s tricks!” she sat on the paving stones, and like a child who had her chocolate taken away, whipped the long sleeves of her dress in the puddle gathering beneath her, making splashes of droplets that rose and fell like her mood.
Once more, she had lost, having allowed the man to slip away with his books when she had been so close.
She ignored the troops of guards that finally showed up, swarming uselessly up and down the canal, searching for clues that weren’t there of the man’s whereabouts.
Something near the water’s edge caught the eyes. She leaned over and picked up what looked to be a chrono, attached to a length of broken chain.
“I will catch you yet, Antiquarian. I will find you and pull that scarf off you.”
She clasped the chrono tightly, felt her warmth spread to the metal, and smiled at the thought.