#considering how little I talk about Fern it's surprising how much of my brainspace she occupies

[meeeeeeese]

Fern's adventures in the mists part 1/prologue

a bit of writing about my ranger, 'Fern' who I don't talk about nearly enough. I intend to continue this but we'll see if I actually do!

It was a bright, sunny day in Lion's Arch and the city was abuzz with news. Mordremoth was dead, against all odds the pact had succeeded once more and struck down one of the greatest threats to Tyria. The mood, in a word, was jubilant, as men and women practically danced in the streets of the newly rebuilt city. But amongst the celebrating crowds, a lone figure stood out of place. A sylvari, oddly covered up for the tropical climate, stumbled along the arching bridge across the harbour to Fort Marriner. They walked with a stumbling gait, leaning on a battered staff for each trembling step they took. And though the people of Lion's arch didn't know it, a monster walked among them as Mordremoth, the dragon of plant and mind limped his way through the city.

Every part of him was pain, from the shattered remnants of his once transcendant mind to the aching limited body of a sylvari soldier he had stolen in the last minutes of his confrontation with the commander and his pact, when the first inklings of the terrible idea that he might actually lose occurred to the dragon. As he was now, he was but a shadow of a shadow of his former might, his once infinite reach reduced down to one, single vessel. A last-minute backup plan of a backup plan, activated once Commander Rugan picked up the thorn of his traitorous daughter's bough to end the life of his final champion. As Mordremoth awoke, disconnected from his own mindscape and his hold on the magical balance of Tyria lost, fear filled his mind for the first time in the aeons since he had left his mother’s side. He had to survive- to escape! If the mortals found him, he'd be slaughtered, and the magic of Tyria would forever remain unbalanced. Thinking was hard, as if he had to extract each thought from the depths of a tar pit, but he needed a plan, anything to survive! And an idea occurred to him, a notion extracted from the 'dream' of his misbegotten children; there was a mists portal in Lion's Arch. There he could hide, recover his strength and, one day, take back what was his. If he could not beat the mortals, Mordremoth would outlast them.

And so as the pact fell back from the heart of maguuma, a dragon journeyed with them, making the long trek to Lion's Arch, the city that had been destroyed to trigger his awakening. Now, at the final stretch of his journey, Mordremoth, what was left of him at least, was on his last legs. Dragons feed on magic, and now that he had been utterly cut off from his supply, the hunger and emptiness gnawing at him was overwhelming. The world was a blur, the colours of the great alabaster bridge swirled and merged with the azure bay. Phantom voices echoed out of the celebrating crowds, the voice of his fallen brother Zhaitan calling out to the dead, his mother crying out in anguish as they fought for the world’s supply his magic, and above all the rest, the voice of Rugan shouting out as he struck Mordremoth down, "You've failed, Mordremoth. And now you die. For Tyria!"

Mordremoth scowled, claiming to be for Tyria while striking down its lifeblood. Mortal would never learn, lashing out at superior beings in their inability to accept their limited existence- his murky thoughts were interrupted by the distant, distorted din of lightning as the phantasmal image of a shining humanoid figure appeared in his path, a sorrowful look on its luminous visage. It remained hauntingly silent, but Mordremoth snarled "You. Don't get to judge. Me." and pushed forward, leaning on his staff as he walked, stumbling through the figure that vanished at his approach. Past where the luminous hallucination stood, Mordremoth finally caught sight of the great plaza at the centre of Fort Marriner. seven asura gates stood in a loose circle, surrounded by a loose crowd of warriors of all shapes and sizes with stocks of supplies being ferried in and out of the gates. Even as the absence of magic gnawed at him, the edges of Mordremoth's mouth turned into a smile. He was finally there. He made his final shaky steps to the far portal and stopped at the swirling misty gate, speckled with streaks of far-off starlight. Despite his multi-millennia long existence, the mists was foreign ground to Mordremoth. No matter, he would live on. He had to. With a new world awaiting, he took the final steps out of Tyria and into the quickening mists of the beyond.