#*trahearne died?*

[mileroos]

.

.marshal.commander.

[moonlit-grove]

not me copying being inspired by @mistreaders-requiem, flowers for the commanders

[zhaitansvisage]

hey, so why does Anet keep killing off the cool & interesting characters?

[tinotika-arts]

[Tell me why must one of us die so the other- no, so Tyria can live.]

[i-mybrunettelady]

Guys do you think he made it to the central rampart

[rabbitgardens]

what the FUCK happens in heart of thorns btw.

[cindermetalheadgw2]

My idea for how to handle the character of The Commander if there's ever a guild wars 3:

-across tyria there are wildly conflicting accounts of the commander’s deeds and who they were

-these varying accounts line up with different personal story choices in gw2

-different species and factions claim the commander was one of their own

-there have been literal wars over who gets to claim the pact commander

-cue Trahearne Junior's speech about the history of the Guild Wars... 2!

-eventually you get a post-story end game quest where you find a lead on some actual documented, uncontested history of the commander

-it's long as fuck and extremely difficult and expensive

-the quest leads you to an elderly, ancient, snargle goldclaw

-the last living person to have personally known the commander

-he rambles on about his life and novels for a literal eternity

-only after you sit and listen through ALL his life stories including a bunch of different hidden dialogue branches do you unlock the option to ask about the pact commander

-he confirms that canonically, the Official Canon Pact Commander... "was the bravest choya i ever knew"

-he then immediately dies peacefully of old age

[lady-quen]

Places this in the sea of "Trahearne survives" AUs. Presenting Trahearne Inmorte, resident seething Firstborn plant bonded to a frankenstein bug. Alternatively, Trahearne if he picked ferocity in the character creator.

Anyway, finally posting about my version of the good ole Marshal, lovingly dubbed Crankhearne - aka Risen Lich Trahearne, revived immediately post-getting to know his sword too closely, courtesy of Morivitae, ( @commanderteag ) the Pact's pet Scion of Zhaitan. Having kept a dragon of dubious morals on a metaphorical leash, Trahy promptly gets UNO reversed. These two start toxic but get better over time, creating a fun contrast to the Commander of the verse, Aestus, who belongs to @mithosis.

Similarly to my own Commander, Mael, he keeps his condition as a lich secret from everyone aside from his closest circle. I swear I'm not collecting undead plants, the Zhaitan Scion Champion opportunity was just far too good to pass up. Have some more screenshots, and more (a lot more) lore ranting below the cut.

The very last thing the Pact Marshal expected when waging war against Zhaitan was to strike a bargain with Zhaitan's child. Information against his master and aid in cleansing Orr - in exchange for freedom once the Elder Dragon was slain. But, still, keeping a beast of that caliber on a leash proved a challenge, even when he could shapeshift more or less into mortal shape. After all, an ancient beast that subsisted on eating life force and grafting foreign body parts to itself did not take to Tyrian morals immediately. It wasn't a partnership by any means - a monster was a monster, but so was a promise. As long as the creature called "Morivitae" behaved, he could prove an asset against the other Dragons. A weapon. A wildcard. But then, awakened Mordremoth. The Maguuma disaster. His greatest failure, and, ultimately, his end. A final request for the Commander to take Caladbolg from his shaking hands and strike. But something within the Death Scion stirred at the sorrow. At the Commander's cries. An inkling of emotion, a faint flicker of something unfathomable. And gold eyes opened again. Welcome, O Champion of Shadow and Death. And now, the Marshal was on a leash of his own.

Trahearne went to the Domain of the Lost when he died, and time flowed differently there. So he spent "days" wandering and fighting the phantoms that took his name and face, just like the Commander. He met the Judge but there was no crisis in the Mists, so no offer to come back like during PoF, just gotta accept death but also have to process it first. Poor Trahearne was dissociated the whole time, thinking he was Mordremoth. He had to be given a second name to latch onto until he found his real one - and then he was ripped out of the Mists by Mori just before he could claim his rightful rest. Needless to say, waking back up a Risen of all things and cut off from the Dream did not do his mental health any favors.

"I don't remember my name but I was something horrible. You mustn't let me into the afterlife. I can't destroy it, too..." "You must find your name before you continue onward, wherever your final destination lies. If you fail, your soul will fade." "Good. I want to fade. I need to." "No, you must find the truth. That is the law of this place. Your spirit is noble, there is no malice in you. But there is suffering, and this isn't your final punishment." "I'm fading. I can't tell how - why - I can't move anymore. I need to... what am I..." "You are.. Inmorte, The Lost Wanderer. This name I give you now so you may continue. Hold onto it tightly and find your purpose. Your real name." "...I... I will."

Following his resurrection, he continues to lead the Pact as its Marshal, and is adamant on never using a mask nor mesmer illusions to cover his face - wearing his disfigurement openly in solidarity with all the other sylvari mutilated by Mordremoth's influence. There are questions as to why the Marshal was torn from the Dream and his glow changed to a necromantic green, but not many dare seek the truth of their own accord. Trahearne becomes a much more fearsome, decisive leader - going from scholar to truly formidable strategic mastermind, wanting nothing more than to ensure the tragedy of Maguuma never repeats.

"It's not mere confidence, it's pathological. As though everything stopped mattering back in that jungle, and yet I am ever more determined to see things through til the end. It's the only reason I can justify existing in this state."

The only instance where he does use illusions (excluding stealth missions, of course) is over his hands - due to an unfortunate incident where Caladbolg completely burned off the flesh from his fingers. As a result, his real hands are skeletal. This is due to his obsession with the sword, practically never letting it go, to the point he once fell asleep holding it. Since he no longer feels pain correctly, the damage was done before he woke back up - and Mori does not seem to possess the ability to mend, only animate that which should already be dead.

Trahearne's obsession with Caladbolg stems from the fact he initially believes the weapon to be the only thing keeping his soul from being fully corrupted by the Dragon he is bound to - clinging to a hope that the Thorn could purify the death magic in him just like it had once purified Orr. Alas, that is not the case, but also he eventually finds he is not as doomed as he had once believed - growing into a Champion of Death and Rebirth under his Scion patron as they both find their greater purpose - a balance to Aestus and Aurene's light. Still, his destiny remains irrevocably tied to the very land that haunted his Dream and cursed him with a seemingly impossible task.

"You're the First of the First, born in the garden of Eden and destined to purify a sunken hell risen from the depths on the other side of the sea. A task thought impossible, especially as your siblings begin to rise around you with destinies that seem more achievable. Compelled, you spend over twenty years studying the land of the walking dead, so much that the stench of it all is all but branded into your flesh. It's all you see when you sleep. The neverending expanse of bleak, gray-brown rock and twisting anemone and tide-torn ruins. Nothing living grows in Orr. It's all absolute desolation. There are none of your siblings there and you're so terribly lonely. ...In all your years, you never thought this could happen. With the Commander at your side and the son of Zhaitan mutinying against his father, Orr blooms again. The Artesian waters run clear, and life wanders slowly back into the land. It will take years, many more years than you'll be alive for, but the weight is lifted. You can leave. It's over. With hope in your heart, you feel like whatever comes next will only be easier. It's not. You die. And you rise. You never left Orr, because Orr never had the intention of leaving you."

Perhaps, just perhaps - one day, when the sunken kingdom heals completely, his soul will be allowed its due rest. Until then, he has some work to do.

[dretanya]

I'm doing the level 80 personal story quest, to destroy the Ossuary where Zhaitan creates it's hordes. Walking around these temple grounds with Trahearne, observing all these rituals the old Orrians would go through when a loved one died... and it's just the stages of grief. Denial is missing, cause presumably they wouldn't be bringing the deceased to this temple if they were still in that stage. We got anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

I'm really appreciating all the details in this game.

[ratasum]

Memento Mori. Memento Vivere.

In the aftermath of Heart of Thorns, on learning that Caladbolg has chosen him in the wake of Trahearne's death, Rhenn refuses the call.

Trahearne was the first real friend he ever made, the first person to reach out a hand to help him start lifting himself up from the Inquest and his father's control. He had lost his first real friend to the battle against the dragon, by his own hand, with this very sword... and now he was meant to carry the sword that had once been his?

Instead of reforging the broken, cursed blade, Rhenn stabs it into the ground next to Trahearne's memorial. There it remains, rooted like invasive roses, refusing to be pulled by anyone by its chosen wielder.

It will only let itself be removed when Rhenn decides to take up the call or until he dies.

You can probably guess which one will come first.

[commanderthalys]

I was tagged by the lovely @i-mybrunettelady for this ^^

-- B A S I C S

name: Thalyssera

nicknames: Choya, Thalys

birthday: May 28th

race: pale tree sylvari

gender: nonbinary (she/her)

orientation: bisexual

profession: pact commander, post EoD is semi retired and does various pact jobs after several months of vacation

-- P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

hair: patina, short length

eyes: sun

skin: green olive, succulent texture

tattoos/scars: missing her right leg below the knee, the remaining stump is covered in scorch marks. Also has several tattoos! The largest is a raptor skull decorated with flowers on her back. She has a small pact symbol tattoo on the right base of her neck. Her left arm is tattooed with vines, and on her left calf she has two cogs, I talked about them a little more here!

-- F A M I L Y

parents: The Pale Tree

siblings: Trahearne

grandparents: Does Mordremoth even count

in laws and others: Amelarius (romantic partner), Aurene (like her niece), Neil (friend), Caithe (romantic partner), Callum + Meera (friends), Tonn (friend), Tybalt Leftpaw (friend), Carys and Tegwen (friends), Taimi (friend), Braham (friend), The rest of DW (coworkers who she likes but isn't incredibly close to), Clementine (former pet turned friend, it's a long story)

pets: formerly Clementine, Streamline (old raptor, died during PoF)

-- S K I L L S

abilities: after the Clementine incident she inherited some iboga features and can spit acid from openings in her face. Good at close combat both unarmed and with daggers. Decent with guns as well, and can be stealthy when needed thanks to her whisper's training. Can soulbind with her pet if she has one.

hobbies: Training and generally working with raptors, sparring and working out, hiking, fishing with Neil. Overall any activity outdoors, she loves games as well as relaxing nature walks!

-- T R A I T S

most positive trait: Her optimism and determination! She works hard and plays hard, and refuses to give up fighting for what she believes in. She's incredibly devoted to her work and genuinely believes that the world is worth saving.

most negative trait: her ruthlessness. If she believes her goal is the right one she'll stop at nothing to get it, no matter who may ultimately stand in her way, and she's incredibly brutal when she feels that it's necessary.

-- L I K E S

colors: copper, turquoise, earth tones overall

smells: cooked meats, fresh grass, wood burning, ocean air

textures: rough, dry, bumpy, coarse

drinks: lemonade and fruit juices!

-- O T H E R D E T A I L S

smokes: no

drinks: not anymore, used to heavily at one point

drugs: no

been arrested: yes

taggin but no pressure!!! @baronvonscrufflebutt @manasurge @mystery-salad @brightwingedbat @wilsons-journey @ratasum @pyppyn @twilightdomain @commanderjuni @ancientkarka @the-desert-beast @sunsrefuge @s0urfangs @dotmander @aetherblooms @the-elven-star

and anyone else who sees this, feel free to hop on! that's right! You there!

[draw-you-coward]

in the middle of the street grove

set late pact days :)

“Remember, your star charts are due in a month,” Malomedies reminds them all as they begin to pack their things. “And do something interesting. Keep in mind that your task is not to track the path of the stars, but rather to read the story they have to tell.”

Roza pauses to jot down, Stars – story not path, in his notebook before he gets up. He thinks he knows which story he would like to tell; the stars over Orr are watching the land without the black haze of an Elder Dragon blocking them for the first time in centuries. And perhaps he can solicit some aid from a certain someone who knows its skies well.

The other students, mostly night blooms, file out of the hut. Some of their persons are waiting for them, despite the hour—less so friends, more so family, partners, beloveds. Trahearne is waiting for Roza.

He extends an arm as the distance between them sews itself closed, gloved fingers wrapping around Roza’s shoulder and pulling him in. He smells of nighttime, of crickets and darkness.

“Good evening,” he greets. “How was your lesson?”

Roza raises his head and inhales deeply, taking in the outside air and letting it percolate through his vines. “Informative,” he replies. “We are learning how the phases of the moon align with the rejuvenative cycles of magic. Did you know we had a full moon for nearly a week after Zhaitan died?”

“I am sure that information is somewhere in my paperwork.” Trahearne half-smiles at him. They begin to walk their usual scenic route home. It is after hours, and they prefer to take their time returning to Fort Trinity. “Here, I brought you some food. Didn’t want you getting hungry on the way back.”

Roza takes the gift—a savoury pastry—and gives it a sniff before nibbling at it. “What would I do without you, my Marshal?”

“Have an intensely boring life, I am sure.” Trahearne leans into his shoulder, and Roza rolls his eyes and pushes back against him. “No one to constantly pester, no one to test the bounds of authority with or socially experiment on… you would be miserable.”

“Alright, smart-arse. You are speaking about me as if I am a pet suited to a particular environment.”

For a moment so brief as to be nearly unnoticeable, Trahearne’s gaze flits downwards. Then he says, “I doubt anyone could tame you.”

“You could,” Roza suggests in a way he does not quite know how to define, in the private tone they use when they are alone.

Trahearne’s mouth curves, and he responds in a similar manner, “I would certainly have fun trying.”

They are walking close together, as they always do, but have to move into single file as they duck underneath a branch at the end of the narrow passage behind the mentor huts. Trahearne lifts it for him, ever the gentleman, and Roza steps into the meadow beyond.

Which is not quite empty yet. A few sprouts are chattering amongst the flowers, youthful and bright in the Dream. Night blooms, most likely, although some dusk blooms distract themselves with their scholastic undertakings well into the evening (current company lovingly included).

“Summer will come soon,” Roza catches as they walk by. “Do you think Secondborn Laranthir will drop by this year?”

“He must,” another says hopefully. “I’m going to see if I can get him to paint my porch. On a hot day, when he doesn’t need all that armour.”

“Perhaps it is you who needs cooling down more than he!” their friend replies, and the rest of the sylvari in the circle begin snickering.

“He’s popular here,” Trahearne says directly into Roza’s ear. “He is judicious enough to gain the respect of the older sylvari, and amiable enough to gain that of the saplings.”

“And exclusive enough to be in high porch-painting demand, apparently,” Roza returns without moving his mouth. They walk by the sprouts without much notice, wading through the knee-high grass.

“We shall get him to paint our porch, one day,” Trahearne says. “That is how we will know we have made it.”

Our porch? Roza peers at him from the corner of his eye, and sees a queer expression, as if he has caught himself in a trap he’d forgotten he had set. Then Trahearne gives him a tight smile, the one that means Drop it, and ushers him onwards with a gentle grip.

Roza swallows down a sudden swell of grief and lets himself be led. He stays quiet, his humour now a shelled husk, and Trahearne shoots him a few guilty glances before putting on a comforting, ungenuine smile.

“Let us take a bit of a detour today, if you don’t mind,” he offers. “I, ah, have something I’ve been wanting to show you.”

He leads them back the way they came, which means it wasn’t a particularly planned detour, but Roza does not protest, gazing at the soft glows of the Grove’s nightlife and letting them soothe him. Trahearne’s hand in his is warm.

They stop in front of a small hut secluded from the rest, overgrown vegetation softening its silhouette and merging it with the surrounding landscape. A brightly coloured sylvari stands at the entrance, raking away dead leaves.

He looks up as they near. “Trahearne,” he greets in surprise.

Trahearne inclines his head. “How grow the grounds, Kahedins?”

Kahedins? That sounds vaguely familiar. Roza smiles at this sylvari blandly. A friend of Trahearne’s, perhaps? A former lover? Is Trahearne taking him here to show him that he—

“Quietly, Eldest Brother. The life here slumbers in your absence, but sustains itself still. It knows you return to it sometimes, though your visits grow increasingly rare.”

Eldest Brother. Firstborn. Oops.

“And you, Commander!” Kahedins raises his head and gives Roza a beaming smile, which he returns at crooked half-mast. “I have heard much of you from our brothers. I suppose this is a long-overdue initiation, hm?”

He winks. Roza, puzzled, looks at Trahearne, who stammers for a moment before saying, “I just—er, I brought him here to see the house.”

“I see. And have you told him whose house it is?”

Trahearne scratches the back of his neck. He mumbles to the ground, “It is, um, ou—Mine.”

“You have a house?!” Roza says perhaps a bit loudly.

Kahedins laughs—a rich, warm sound. “Indeed he does, not that you would have any way of knowing! He more or less abandoned it years ago. But I am its groundskeeper, if Brother dear ever deigns to pay it a visit.”

Trahearne mutters something unintelligible at that, but to Roza gestures stiffly towards the front door. “Would you like to, ah, go in?”

“… Sure,” Roza answers, trying to read his body language. Does he want him to go in?

“Come on in, come in. This was before we had keys.” Kahedins beckons to him and pushes the door open to a dark interior. “You’ll be meeting the family next, I suppose, hm?”

Trahearne makes a muted noise, but only smiles when Roza glances back at him. Roza steps forwards cautiously, looking around the interior of the hut. It is barren, save the vines twisting out through the open windows, and the air is musty and lonely. He sniffs.

“It smells like you,” he notes.

“Do you hear that, Brother?” Kahedins sounds delighted. “It smells like you. Isn’t that a wonderful observation?”

Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose. “And you wonder why I do not visit often.”

“You certainly never visit with company.” Kahedins smiles at Roza almost suggestively. “What are your favourite kinds of biscuits, Roza? May I call you Roza?”

“Yes. Um… the sugar ones?” Roza looks to Trahearne for aid. “I don’t really know…”

“He hasn’t had much opportunity to eat biscuits, Kahedins, considering what our duties demand of us.” Though Roza does not understand the second conversation the firstborn are having underneath this one, he does recognize Trahearne’s I’ve had enough of your bullshit tone, having been the recipient of it many a time.

Kahedins clasps his hands together. “Then a little family meeting is a perfect opportunity to try all of them and discover which ones are your favourites. You know, Aife has been dying to meet you.”

Roza’s alarm must show on his face, because Kahedins chuckles before remediating, “Perhaps one at a time, then. We may begin with the nicest, which would be me. Have you met Dagonet?”

Roza nods shyly, but Trahearne steps in front of him—literally—before he can process how to respond to the invitation. “I am not parading him around for you lot to gawk at—”

“Clearly.”

“—before he even reaches a decade! Grant him some peace.”

“A decade?” Kahedins whines. “Come on, Trahearne. That is years away.”

Roza’s face is bright lavender. A decade? Trahearne thinks he will—they will—a decade? Will they even remain alive for that long?

Kahedins is bargaining with Trahearne. “Teatime with Malomedies,” he pleads, pressing his hands together. “They have already met. Let him try biscuits, Eldest. Please.”

Trahearne draws in a breath as if he is about to protest, but stills when Roza lays a tentative hand on his arm.

“I… would like that,” he ventures. “I think.”

Trahearne’s hackles visibly come to rest. “Very well, then,” he says softly, to Roza, and then in a firmer tone to Kahedins, “A short visit next week, before your class, when you are not inundated with saplings. He does not like crowds.”

That look of delight has crept back onto Kahedins’s face. “I swear by Mother’s roots it shall be perfectly curated. We will have flowers, even. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the leaves. Deer. Perhaps a moment alone for the two of you.”

“We already do that,” Roza informs him as Trahearne opens his mouth. “Trahearne takes me somewhere every week.”

“Does he? Thank you for letting me know, my dear. Young sylvari such as yourselves are such refreshing conversationalists.”

“We are leaving,” Trahearne announces. His glow is holding now as well, and Roza touches the tips of his fingers to his dotted cheek to catch it. His marshal glares at Kahedins warningly, for what he does not know, and Roza ends up getting his wave goodbye returned to him with considerable enthusiasm.

“He is nice,” he declares as they walk away, swinging their hands together. “Much nicer than Niamh. I still do not know why she wanted to fight me.”

“Nice is one word for it,” Trahearne mutters. “If they so much as let the tea steep for too long next week, I am whisking you away.”

Roza gasps. “My hero,” he says, pressing his fingertips to his chest. Trahearne looks at him with warm cheeks before muttering something and facing away. His hand is a comforting pressure in Roza’s, making him nearly forget the question that has been nipping at his mind for the past five minutes.

“Um, Trahearne? How does he know my name?”

~*~

“You did not get the sunroom.” Roza blinks at him owlishly.

Laranthir pauses, his paint roller hoisted on his bare shoulder. “The… sunroom?” he repeats.

“It is Trahearne’s favourite room.” Roza tucks a delicate bit of hair behind his ear. “It is warm in there, of course. Perhaps you can paint all the coats today. Or you will have to come back tomorrow.”

Whatever game he is playing, Laranthir is too weary to dissect it. “Point me to it,” he sighs, and Roza smiles, sweet as poisoned wine.

Trahearne is in the sunroom on a lounger, next to a small table holding a book and a tray of drinks that he notably cannot consume.

“Lemonade?” he offers, holding one up now. “For your services.”

Laranthir feels as if he is Tyria’s first exotic painter. “Thank you,” he accepts, gulping the beverage down.

Trahearne is eyeing the discarded shirt draped over his arm. “You know, it is quite warm in here. You don’t need that.”

Laranthir throws it at him. “Make me dinner,” he demands.

 “We need to supervise your work first,” Roza says from the doorway, and Laranthir certainly does not jump.

“When did y—you know what, I will take it. Help speed this along and move the furniture, at least. Show me that your martial lessons have been paying off.”

Roza preens and flexes his non-existent muscles, and Trahearne presses a hand to his cheek as if it is the most charming thing he has ever seen. Laranthir gets started on the wall.

~*~

[just-eyris-things]

you know what, you are NOT safe from Airell lore dump. copied and pasted straight from discord dms,

some things are still work in progress, like the jormag bit, but hey, airell lore dump good, right? right? QwQ

so initially idea was raised by the itzel and was a necromancer that didnt really care about the rules. if it's necessary to bring this peerson back just for questioning, they will do it

but then i realised that airell would prbably be against that because thats against the cycle of life, and i imagine they were raised in a way to respect life by their frog family

so the idea im brewing rright now is that

airell isnt a necro before leaving the jungle. they trave;l, they reach the grove, they meet caithe and help her out, caithe thinks that airell could replace eyris as a valiant so shes like hey maybe you could get magic tested, maybe you have affinity for something

and yeah they tuurn out to be necromancy-leaning so they start learning at a necromancy master in astorea and ho boy

at first theyre like but isnt this a very obvious disrespect towards the dead and death itself?

and the master necro is like only if you commit these forbidden acts. by making minions of random body parts like this you are not actually hurting anyone!

but airell was necer good at creating minions, they couldnt even put life into minions prepared by the master, so they instead practiced how to control deatrh magic, how to reach for its source, and how to absorb life force from things without destroying/killing them

life force control? A++ minion making? FFFFFFFFFFFF

in the meantime, airell meets trahearne. and they do NOT click. trahearne is frustrated. he found airell good looking until that idiot opened his stupid idiot mouth.

airell caithe and trahearne go to do some personal story bullshit together. and caithe, being caithe, sees that these two work good together. so she starts convincing trahearne to taking airell as an apprentice. two birds with one stone. trahearne has company and is safer in orr, and secondly, they get a new valiant to replace the one that ran off

and here came a question about airell's canon spec

in game it's reaper. i used to run this deus ex machina build on them but it was nerfed. tons of dmg + healing in shroud. basically unkillable murder machine so, i used to think it was reaper because they used greatsword but then i thought "bow. necrobow. they were taught by the itzel, why would they use a greatsword" then i thought 'ok, staff. the necro master gave them staff. and it worked! but airell went back to bow as soon as they got in orr, because they knew this weapon the best. but i still think they would be a reaper. their prefered fighting style was always get in shroud -> kill them with summoned weapon. airell's weapon of choice used to be four swords for all their shroud-hands (back when i hang out with akura) but now i think theyd get just a greatsword or the scythe, idk, because now airell cant use shroud anymore

last time they used shroud was in EOD during fight with soowon, and before that, in POF when fighting balthazar

in POF Achilles noticed that the more Airell transformed and the longer they remained in the shroud, the more of the dragon features would stay behind after getting back to normal. so he suggested airell stoped going into shroud until it was absolutely necessary, or else one day they might not be able to get back to normal.

and since im on airell train

airell's chest scar

it appeared first after zhaitan died

when a being such as an elder dragon dies, a lot of magic is released. yes, it goes out into the world. but as airell was supposed to be mordremoth's champion (in a moment i will send you this crazy family tree), they can feed on magic.

so when zhaitan died, they absorbed it and their chest cracked because their body was not ready to get so much juice. they went down with a horrible fever afterwards and were sick for days. if it werent for them being a necromancer and thefore being attuned to death magic, theyd probably have a nasty indigestion too. the crack widened again when mordremoth died and airell was in a blighting pod.

so airell is attuned to death magic and plant magic

pl;ant = life so we get this lesser elder dragon of life and death. (they dont know. they learn of it only in IBS. jormag tells them)

anyway, this death and plant attunement is a double edged sword. on one hand, as a lesser dragon, they have a lot of life force + they have better control of it (still cant make minions though…..) so they are quite powerful! but…

they cant easily digest other types of magic. so after balthazar, they happily eat that fire magic. just to throw it up because they are not attuned to it. they get physicaly ill from eating wrong type of magic

so the void doesnt just make them lose their shit, it makes them physically ill too.

"youre lucky…i feel like shit….or i'd fuck you all up…" "yes yes grandpa lets put you to bed" meme

[dualumina]

"You've become familiar with the Domain of the Lost, haven't you, Commander?"

"...Some days I'm not sure I ever came back from there."

Our twice dead boy, Lio!

Either The Judge has a lot of pity for the littlest guy - dying in a wurm attack before the personal story even begins and then a certain god of war later down the line - or Judge knew there'd be a lot more dead showing up if Lio was sent to his final destination.

Maybe it's a mix of both.

Some people might mistake Lio for a necromancer simply due to how much death magic radiates off of him. Doesn't exactly help any self esteem issues, not to mention the underlying guilt of others having died due to his actions as commander... which he isn't even the original for that matter. The OG commander quit after Trahearne's death, and well the Pact needed someone to take over.

Granted the Pact didn't blindly pick anyone; Lio was the one who teamed up with the eventual Dragon's Watch squad to stop Scarlet. Lio definitely grew very fond of the folks in Dragon's Watch since - including Aurene.

(Let's just say that Late Marshal Stance was veeery focused on finding Trahearne in HoT and was completely uninvolved with Aurene's care).

Aurene's even joked a couple of times that she needs to die one more time to catch up with the Commander. Lio nervously laughs each time and urges her to absolutely do not.

Despite Gorrik being Gorrik, Lio has a special fondness for both him and his brother, partly due to being an asura engineer himself, but notably in Blish's case being able to bond over having mechanical limb - or body - replacements.

(Lio did not take Blish's death any better than Gorrik to say the least... but he's a bit better at hiding the fact.)

Despite being kind of... shoved into the role of Wayfinder, Lio is freakin' THRIVING among the Astral Ward. Without Aurene around, it's nice to have the chance to occupy himself with research and going back to discovering new things in a- well slightly less urgent pace, which the Ward and Isgarren provide.

Commander may have been the role that Lio took over, but Wayfinder was the role that was truly Lio's from the get go.

[fire-orchid]

Now that SotO is over, if I made a post it would be nothing new because I agree with the criticism that was already said.

So I will speak about a small thing that's been bugging me since last year, mostly to get it out my system.

Perhaps I am delusional, but I am still not over what they did to Mabon and how they handled his character. More under cut.

He struck my interest as soon as I saw him because FINALLY there is a mursaat on our side and for people who played GW1 this should have been huge news.

But it seems like the character was nothing more than a way to spur Zojja's development (who already went through a teacher's death with Snaff), to introduce the "not all are evil" theme that happens again later with the kryptis and to hype a Janthir/mursaat expansion.

On this note, I believe that introducing the existence of other mursaat after 1) we know they are extinct, then 2) we kill Lazarus who is finally the last then 3) no wait there is Mabon who is so interesting but dies within two chapters but hey 4) there are others who might not be evil like Tyrian ones and are similar to him, is very redundant and repetitive.

I wish Mabon was really the last mursaat (a parallel to Isgarren being the last seer) which is valid exception because even Livia says Lazarus was the "last of those monsters" to the point Mabon doesn't associate with them anymore.

And then we could have him as lead character in a future story where we need to recover the knowledge of the mursaat to do something and get insight on them, their society, etc... through Mabon as he gets flashbacks on his pre-ascension life (who is the female voice he remembers? What was the terrible thing he forgot to do after sensing Lazarus' death that he was glad to not remember? Can we have details of his past with Lazarus?)

It would have been an emotional way to reconcile him with his people's heritage, making him an atoner for his race's evil deeds and finally moving on.

Or perhaps, he could have had the role of a "bridge" between Tyria and the remaining mursaat. That would open possible wounds, would they see him as a traitor or be neutral?

From his dialogues and lorebooks, he is still tormented by his violent past, is guilty to have "hidden" his memories by ascending (maybe he sees this as cowardly?) To me he seems to have some stuff going on. His whole personality is trying to be better than what he was before.

His character died too early without much closure, even in the same instance his friends seemed apathetic, uncaring of his death. They spent centuries together, he recruited and inspired so many people, he was so caring, listened to everyone and empathised with his friends and he gets forgotten, not even a memorial or a thought for him in the epilogue that would do justice.

And the Mabon Market lorebook where he says: "I won't take as long to visit them next time." in regards of his last visit to his sylvari friends? After what happened, it is gut-wrenchingly painful. Who is going to tell them?

He is not alone, it happened with Trahearne but at least we had a whole personal story with him. It happened with Vlast (it was even worse, we saw him for like 5 seconds) and many others.

I wish, for the next expacs, for Anet to introduce fewer characters and develop them better, on screen. To not kill a character with potential only for cheap shock. To not kill a character just because they completed their task and now they are useless.

[bigsnaff]

She's just born, and her cries are shadowed only by that of her dam's screams. She's a large cub, too large, and the dam is cut open for the cub to be plucked out when her head won't fit through. It's a shoddy, quick operation, and Oucca Ironsights is sewn up with half a bottle of whiskey poured over her wounds. She lives long enough through the night to hold and name her cub before the Mists take the her.

She's twenty-four when she experiences her second loss. The serrated crystal spines shear through her younger half-brother's gut and bright red blood sprays out against the electric purple. A roar breaks from her throat and her fist rockets upward. Her hand and wrist shatters and so does the Branded. She and many others forgo their Sentinel duties.

She's twenty-five when she experiences her third loss. Howl the Brazen triumphantly tosses his blade up and down in his hand after the fading ectoplasm of an Ascalonian ghost floats down to the stone steps. Then the roof comes down on him. His broken body goes stiff and then goes limp again as a week passes and he's finally dragged out from the rubble. She saws off one of the horns to keep and never forgets.

Her sire dies a week later from unrelated injuries, and it's just another footnote for the history books.

She's still twenty-five when the fifth rolls around. Her arm is grasped within that of another, a silent plea between the both of them. A string of chain with a dog tag at the end, emblazoned with the Crystal warband's symbol, is twisted between her claws. She doesn't get a chance to ask her question before the other charr turns away and the gate booms shut behind him.

She's twenty-eight, and the needles and thistles rake down her arm, glistening red from the superficial cuts. Trahearne clasps her hand in both of his and his golden tears seep through her. A cry is wrought, neither from her, nor him, but the enemy, and Caladbolg cleaves the both of them in two.

She is thirty-two, and her raptor traipses through the Mists where two guiding voices pierce the wind and Blish's voice crackles static through her communicator. Glint beckons her onward, but she looks back and makes her plea as before a judge and jury. The scales tip away from her, and she flees, the voices fading.

It's later that same year that she kneels before the paltry memorial of what could've been a shattered reflection. She takes the General's blade in her hand and she swears retribution not for the last time.

She's thirty-six, body weak and atrophied from a year of slumber. She soaks in the warmth of the light of the final and first Elder Dragon through her fur, a deep rumble in her chest and claws that trace along the glistening scales in order to memorize them. They stand together unburdened for the last time, and Cyna Crystalclaw hears her mother's voice again.