Curse

hawk3y3 · Feb 28, 2010, 01:31 AM // 01:31

Despite many old friends departing their ways, I continue to look up this forum channel. Much has changed over the years since I first started on these forums long ago when Guild Wars was taking its first steps after its release. I doubt anyone knows me or remembers me, but that doesn't stop my eagerness to post stories from time to time. I enjoy to look upon innovation and imagination in these dark days. It warms my bones to see it as such.

However, I delay you. I come to post, to write, to council. Hopefully time will allow me to do such things. But for now, may you be content with this story. A story, or rather series of stories, of a forgotten monk, Eric Kasus.

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Reverence For Things Past:
Short Stories of Eric Kasus and his Accomplices

The world falls to chaos, to ruin, to annihilation. Of these things I have witnessed, experienced, and persevered. Why am I to live? Is it for punishment? Is it for suffering? Many a time, I have pondered my actions and deeds. They toss and turn in my head, reminding me everyday about what I could have done better. Truthfully, I regard myself as humble individual. Others think I am a thief, a spawn of Grenth, or even a paragon of what is good and holy. How relative.

Perhaps I ramble. I should not dwell on such malevolence. The days of Tyria were not this violent as one might think. Yes, there were Charr and other scrupulous individuals. A time before the Charr sent their black rain of fire and ash no longer remains in my memories, safe for one. I do remember a time when Ascalon was green and flourished with all creatures of life. I was a young lad, drenched behind the ears, yet dry as feet could be. I stepped into Ascalon.

Despite what one might think of Ascalon as Paradise, it was not. This beautiful lady would soon show her interior. It appeared to be a grandeur land, filled with shady trees, tranquil waterfalls, and small townships of misfits. Perfect for starting a new life or to raise a family. My business was the former. Ascalon breathed new life into my dead body.

My first adventure was short, yet memorable. It was nothing more than a journey to Fort Ranik, but it offered me a glimmer of the future. Back in my youth, I considered myself to be an explorer. I always looked for new treasure and new townships to take refuge in. However, the trip compelled me. It influenced me.

I traveled with an escort, a massive brute in stature and just as handsome in countenance. His name haunts me as I remember it. Contrary to what one may think, I did not fear him for his size or strength, but rather for his spirit. His spirit compelled one to think and do acts that questioned others if they were on a suicide mission to Grenth. Charismatic, yet crude. Life is full of contridictions.

We left one early morning from Ashford Abbey. From there, we followed the road east towards the archaic fort. Despite a few skales and devourers to block our path, our trip remained uneventful for the most part. The bandits in the region, however, heckled us in more than one way. Most bandits we encountered came in twos or threes. My escort stood firm against these threats, thwarting them in an eloquence of silver blades. When such fights were over, I tended to his wounds the best I could. Rather than call upon my holy powers to heal him, I patched him up using various scraps of cloth that were in my backpack. Such divinity, I thought once, was not to be squandered on minor cuts and bruises. Besides, I am sure that an individual such as he was used to minor blood loss.

The ground we treaded was littered with flowers. The escort mentioned that they were red iris flowers, a favorite of the local womenfolk. At that time, I often fancied of finding a sweet, innocent lady to woo. I took a few that looked at their prime and placed them in my backpack. As I did, the strangest thing would happen. A calm, gentle breeze overtook my senses. This breeze seemed to speak to the very essence of my soul, telling me to keep these flowers close to my heart that I would never forget. I thought it was a spirit of Melandru speaking to me. To never forget, is it a curse?

As we grew closer and closer to Fort Ranik, our path was constantly blocked by groups of skale. I had never seen such a large population of skale like that. After downing a few, the escort stopped and inspected the fresh kill.

“Broodcallers,” murmured the escort, “Particularly dangerous. They are leaders, commanding other skale to fight.” I nodded as I heard this. I never encountered a broodcaller up to that point. I never heard stories of their vicious behavior or songs of valiant heroes cleaving their way through mountains of these creatures. Were they unsung villians? Or just a constant vexation? I did not know, I do not know, I will not know. Life goes on, such as this tale.

Oddly enough, we crossed paths with a traveling merchant. After asking the escort to wait for a few moments to do business, I approached the man. I traded a few of my frivolous spoils of combat for a modest pile of wealth (I always did consider myself an excellent trader). After an exchange of words, I nodded and continued to Fort Ranik.

The rest of the trip remained uneventful. A few skale here and there, but not like the large groups the broodcallers controlled. As we arrived at the gates, the escort bid me farewell and began to walk away. After a moment of trepidation, I asked him what his name was. He narrowed his eyes as if he was glaring at something deep in my soul. He did not respond. He only gave me that cold, hard stare, as if he was saying he would pummel me to death. I suppose he did not want to waste the time in doing so. After facing death's glance, he uttered, “We will meet again and on different terms.” He departed.

Different terms? I did not think much about it. More important matters reminded me that the fort was calling to me. As I leisurely walked uphill, I glanced over my shoulder to see that the warrior vanished, gone from sight and for a time, gone from memory.

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Hopefully, this was an entertaining read for everyone. I would like criticism in any shape or form, even of the brutally honest type. If there is a desire for more, I will add more as I see fit. Thank again for reading.

IronSheik · Feb 28, 2010, 03:49 AM // 03:49

I cried for you OP.

nightschroud · Feb 28, 2010, 02:45 PM // 14:45

i honestly want to read more >w<

Dusky · Feb 28, 2010, 07:06 PM // 19:06

An awesome tale, can't wait for more ^^

hawk3y3 · Feb 28, 2010, 07:25 PM // 19:25

I am glad you guys like it so much. Should I have time and the inspiration I will weave another tale together. Though, I have to say, usually everything after my first stories tends to be not as good. I guess that's why I like short stories or "episodes" a little more.

hawk3y3 · Mar 02, 2010, 01:13 AM // 01:13

I got bored today. I spent some time writing today and finished the next part. As always, comments in anyway are greatly appreciated. I am still expecting the King of Grammar to criticize.

WARNING: I have never done an intensive battle scene before. I tried to make the upcoming fight descriptive, but not over board. If you have any concerns or comments, I would appreciate it.

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My adventures did not truly end. They only end when I stop traveling, exploring, or telling. Life goes on, I suppose. It is up to an individual to decide what affects them or molds them. I guess that is what makes our species unique; the power of free will. I do not know if any other creatures that walk Tyria have free will. I am too simple to understand such things. A lowly monk such as I will never fully comprehend. I do not believe it to be so for us to take our innocence and cast it toward the pits of knowledge, of understanding, of madness. Our innocence is taken far too soon for that to happen.

How many lives were lost in the black rain? So many innocents lost their innocence that day. Some lost more. Orphans and widows wander the dirt ground without a shed of hope or family. Vivid pictures of screams, of chaos, of destruction plague their minds. As I would often look at red iris flowers, I continue to ask, what is the price of memory? Are we, as humans, forever to bear a curse of a memory? Memories take us to a time long forgotten. They envelop us, mold us, remember us. Memories keep us innocent and curious. Curious of what we could have done better.

For now, most of my memories remain. Gone are the days of peaceful bliss. The harsh reality of life must set in and take root. Decisions must be made, for better or worse. No decision made leads to folly and death. I always thought that those tough decisions would never block my path. I now realize how naive and innocent I was. As my duties of a monk and a soldier of Ascalon, I carried the balance of life and death in those I served with. It was a two-way road; I relied on them, and they relied on me. Everyone us hoped, prayed, and thought that the next day would bring something better. While we did not expect the red iris flowers to return overnight, it eased the pain.

As I can recall from my youth, I did serve briefly as a monk for the soldiers of Ascalon. Normally, I would attend the shrines and heal the wounds of those altruistic soldiers. My days as a monk during that time were always uneventful. One could expect the same routine everyday. You would wake up, pray to the gods, tend to the wounded, and ate what was given. Rest and relaxation came from a night's sleep or preparing some righteous ceremony for those that fell. Either one was a pleasure and a luxury. Both would come at irregular intervals.

In a peculiar way, one learned and taught themselves self-determination, patience, and the words of solace. Each of these had their niche. Self-determination for the weak. Patience for the obstinate. Solace for everything else. As a monk, one would inspire, lead, consecrate. A perfect model to follow and to be followed. A monk was a beacon of light, hope, sanctity. Of these virtues I see less of everyday.

I suppose my last days as a soldier were my favorite and most memorable. In what may seem as a coincidence, I was to travel with a few soldiers to Serenity Temple from Fort Ranik. Despite my last tale ending in Fort Ranik, I traveled the wastelands of Ascalon for a one or two. My superiors placed me in the fortress for some unknown reason. I did not hate that everlasting sanctuary, but was rather glad to leave it. Dreary place it was.

We left late one afternoon. Our team consisted of two youthful archers, five brave soldiers of Ascalon, the captain of the squad, and one lowly monk. As we left, I was reminded of the trip from the past. I almost thought that I saw a ghost of the past as we proceeded. The visages of my youthful face and that of the escort reappeared in my mind. The flowers, the breeze, the living things, clouded my thoughts. I remembered everything vividly as it happened. I saw those red flowers. I felt that godly breeze. I smelled the lush creations. As I blinked my eyes, everything faded, my innocence to return to the dark recesses of my mind, never to be remembered again. The wasteland reminded me of the task at hand. I thought that if I wanted to see the return of such pleasantries, I had to fight for it. Daydreaming would never bring true solace.

Leisurely, our team walked from Regent Valley to the Pockmark Flats. A few devourers here and there, but nothing too monstrous to fight. Surprisingly, nothing more than a flesh wounds were to be seen. I overheard one soldier say that he wished to fight a Charr or two, that these so called “patrol missions” were tedious at best. Did they really wish to throw their lives to the Charr? I suppose the young have a fascination about fighting and dying for those who they loved.

“From what I heard,” I began, “what Charr are in Pockmark Flats. tend to stay to the north near the wall.” One of the soldiers gave me an interested look. Another scoffed and replied that I had no knowledge of the Charr. I suppose he had all the answers.

After crossing the ruins of a long forgotten building, the captain up front gave the order to stop. Almost immediately, he grabbed a soldier near to him The impromptu order to scout ahead was given. After a salute, the scout disappeared into the hills, invoking raucous laughter from the same soldier that scoffed at me. I reminded myself that he was to be looked at last, should he fall on the battlefield.

After about an hour of hearing exaggerated tales of “manliness” and personal gratification, the scout came back to us, running back just as fast as he left. He saluted his superior officer and stated that no monsters were in the vicinity, except for some “terribly sick looking” devourers. The captain nodded and gave us the order to proceed forward, much to the hot-headed soldiers dismay at the lack of a fight. I expected that he would have his wish.

I was right.

At the time, I doubt anyone within Ascalon knew what the Charr were planning or even experimenting with. The devourers for instance were probably just a field test into seeing how effective they could be. What they were after truly remains a mystery. It is ironic though. I do not think anyone had ever soon a Charr scientist or researcher before. In retrospect, an obvious warning should have went off in everyone's head, but I suppose their focus was reaching Serenity Temple before night fell.

As we finally reached those sick devourers, the captain stopped our band of inept soldiers. He sent the scout further out to investigate the matter. No sooner had he stepped than five steps, the twang of a bow was heard. The next sound, a scream of agonizing pain and a dropped body. Silence. A moment after, the unsheathing of weapons and shields rang throughout the area. The fight had began against our unnumbered foe.

As everyone charged forth, our enemy came into sight; three Charr. One was the size of a mountain, carrying a blade as long as he stood. Their archer stood slightly taller as he readied his bow for another attack. The final one appeared to have practiced the dark arts, seeing as his robes were black as night, his eyes sanguine. Upon seeing our foes, the captain ordered the squad focus on their behemoth. Almost immediately, the behemoth swung his weapon and sliced through the armor of a nearby soldier, cutting it as if his blade was hot magma. If it were not for my innate behavior to aid the soldier, he would have died almost instantaneously. After saying my prayers of healing, the soldier wobbled back upwards and continued to fight.

Our two archers, had already released their first barrage of arrows. In some luck, an arrow penetrated the eye of the behemoth Charr, staggering him back. To return the favor, the enemy archer fired one shot and hit an unlucky soldier right to his heart. No amount of praying could bring him back. It truly was a one shot, one kill. The Ashen Claw as such necromancer Charr were called, uttered anathemas of despair into the hearts of one soldier. He grew weak with each passing second. He continued to fight, swinging as madly as he could in hopes taking one down before he died. Again, my prayers proved to be of little solace.

As I looked on, the behemoth regained his footing, only to let out a dreadful roar as an ax blow cleaved through him. He dropped to his knees as he clutched his chest in a vain effort to live. Another cleave through his shoulder made sure that he was not going to fight again. As this event transpired, the archer caught sight of me. He pulled an arrow out his crudely made quiver of bones and teeth and pulled it back. The twang of the bow was heard. In a brave effort to save me, an altruistic soldier stepped in front of the arrow and took it in the neck. After a brief moment of writhing pain, he released life so that it would fit for the afterlife.

In a turn of vengeance, the remaining team members advanced toward the archer. The archer stood his ground as he aim toward the nearest soldier and fired. As the arrow sunk deep into his left arm, the archer fired again. As he was pelted with another arrow, the soldier dropped dead at the scene, never to breathe the air of Ascalon again. In a deft move, the captain threw his blade out of pure fury and anguish. I dare not describe the scene of agony as the blade connected. Needless to say, justice had been done.

Where was the Ashen Claw in this? Had he disappeared into the shadows, only to fight from afar? Or did he run away to report a success? I never found out. Suffice to say, we had won the skirmish.

As I approached the hexed soldier, I realized it was the same hot-headed soldier from before. He staggered and limped toward me, yelling that he did not want to die. I had the power to save him, to preserve him, to heal him. Facing this crucial moment, I stared death himself in the living flesh. Never again had I wanted to see such suffering. Evil lies were sung around in my head. My heart rate climbed. Sweat poured down my face. As I bowed my head, I did what some would consider unthinkable for someone such as him. I prayed that his wounds might be healed, that his plague would end. After a moment, the hot headed soldier dropped to his knees and collapsed. He did not die that day.

The captain sunk his head and removed his helmet in reverence for those dead. Three courageous soldiers laid dead, one on the brink, nay, precipice of death. I looked up. Serenity Temple was nearby. As twilight gathered around us, we collected our dead and carried them to their graves.

After that day, I resigned from my service. My purpose was not on the battlefield, or so I thought. For the next few weeks, I stayed at the once elegant temple, praying every day that I would not see such agony, anguish, altruism ever again. Weeks turned to months. Months to a year. For one year I prayed in complete solitude, considering the actions of those men.

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CagedinSanity · Mar 04, 2010, 05:40 AM // 05:40

You're in the same boat I am. Writing descriptive battle scenes have always been my weakness. That's why I've always favored character development above everything else.

Soni D · Mar 04, 2010, 12:24 PM // 12:24

I really like this! It's very intriguing and your main character is easy to relate to and sympathize with.
I would play grammar king... but i don't feel like it, nor am i qualified :P although I can spot some words / sentences which warrant some attention.
The overall feeling i get is one of a jaded old man reflecting on the adventures and misadventures of his life. Although not totally jaded, i think he has some hope left in him?

I actually quite liked the battle scene. Not too over the top, but still descriptive enough to know that battle isn't pretty

If you don't like writing large installments then you should continue with these episodic type stories. Short insights into the tale of this monks life. I'm quite enjoying it

I think you should develop your character a bit more, in terms of his background. His thoughts and values are becoming more prevalent as your story continues, but i'm curious as to where he came from, what defines him.

Just my random thoughts, you can take them or leave them :P
-Soni

-Makai- · Mar 04, 2010, 01:10 PM // 13:10

Quote:

Originally Posted by CagedinSanity

You're in the same boat I am. Writing descriptive battle scenes have always been my weakness. That's why I've always favored character development above everything else.

Same here.

Excellent tale, by the way. It has inspired me to continue my own GW lore.

hawk3y3 · Mar 05, 2010, 01:36 AM // 01:36

Thank you CagedinSanity, Soni D, and Sante_Kelm for your comments. I was worried I wasn't going to get any more comments on my stories! I should post a new "episode" soon...or whenever I feel like it.

By the way Soni D, thanks for bringing attention to the grammar issue. However, I'm going to need an example of what you mean by what I need to improve on. Hopefully it's not the parallelism! It's one of my favorite methods to use in writing.

As for the more background, I don't want to give everything away. I would like the reader to draw their own conclusions onto where he came from, what makes him tick, etc. Then again, I don't want to make it like you are reading the Heart of Darkness.

Again, thank you for your time everyone. I'm glad to see I'm getting such support on this.

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Edit: I'll try to proofread more, rather than skim it.

hawk3y3 · Mar 08, 2010, 02:57 AM // 02:57

Hello everyone. I finally managed to finish this episode. While I do not think it is the best, I thought it would be best to tell a different type of story (so to speak).

Hopefully, you will enjoy it. As always, comments are appreciated.

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I often wonder why I stayed at Serenity Temple. My stay there offered no solace, no inner peace. My innermost thoughts tossed about like a lost ship at sea. Turmoil brewed often inside of me. My visage did not reflect my mental state. The longer I resided, the more I felt sinister forces invade me. I do not know how the other monks took it. Did they resist, influence, or nurture the evil? I dare not know. I considered my life too precious at the time to find out. I needed to travel elsewhere.

I do not consider the ruins of Serenity Temple as an important part of my life. Too many thoughts. Most clouded my mind in a shroud of shadows. Others affect me today. The oddest example was a dream that had. At the time, the darkness made the dream seem like a dream, rather than a vision. This vision began in a peculiar place. Much like the temple itself, darkness covered my eyes. The only source of light came from above me, in the shape of the sun. As I gazed up, I noticed the sun was a pure white. After a few moments in the endless darkness, my eyes adjusted and I noticed protruding spikes from the side. A short moment after, it began to rain. Rather than a normal rain, drops of opalescent colors fell.

The vision only grew stranger when four individuals, all dressed in red robes approached me. One by one, they lifted their heads and gazed at me as if they attempted to tear out my soul. The first face was of a middle-aged man. He appeared to be of Elonian descent, however, his hair color was an unnatural green and his eyes were bloodshot red. The next individual's countenance was also that of Elonian heritage. His hair was golden blonde and his eyes inspired a fierce determination, a glowing example of murder. After him, was a female's visage, rather, form. She appeared to be either a Tyrian or Krytan, however, a blood red hood was shielding most of her face. The final face struck fear into me. It was the Escort. The very look he gave me would instill a sense of impending death. He carried murder within his eyes. As I felt myself drawing out of my dream, I heard a maniacal laugh and then felt the sting of a blade rip out my very soul.

This vision, as bizarre as it may seem, stood out as a light of salvation from my clouded mind. At the time, I took it as the most crucial reason to leave. I doubt I was needed there anyway. Rarely anyone visited. When someone did, they were some simple, uncouth savage with little regard to the temple. They spat, mocked, desecrated. I suppose they thought of us as lesser beings or cowards. I overheard one mock temple monks saying that we were “unfit, self-serving, money grubbing hooligans.” Whether he was truly blind or took a few too many blows to the head (for my sake, I considered the latter), I shook my head and continued about with my duties.

A week before I left the sanctity of that unholy temple, a fellow monk approached me. He stood slightly taller than me. His head was shaved, showing his markings in their brightest glory. He carried an expression of seriousness, yet jovial in the same. I had conversed with him before, mainly on duties and responsibilities of monks. However, that time I spook to him gave me a different impression of him.

“Going away are you?” he said in a grave tone.

“I must. I do not feel needed here any longer,” I quickly replied. He stood there, over my shoulder for a moment longer as I began to make preparations and a check list of items I needed for my trek.

“Can I ask why?” he retorted in a patronizing manner.

“I do not feel as if the gods want me here,” I began, “I took a year of my life to understand life's purposes and pray about my past decisions, pray that I do not repeat those mistakes.” I continued to focus on my task at hand. Still, he did not go away. He wasn't bothering or irritating me. When I was a mere child, studying texts upon texts of all manners of divinities, I often had a tutor to supervise me.
After what seemed like an eternity, he left me to my task.

I half expected him to tell the others about my leaving. I often wonder if he truly did. The final week I was there, I received glares of shame, repugnance, and trepidation. I did not create rivalries or hatred during my time there. Perhaps they felt as if I had used them. The food I ate was exquisite in all my years of my duties as a monk. Fresh fruits and vegetables arrived frequently. Even meat did not seem rare. I wonder though if it was a slice of heaven, for the price of your sanity. Along with the food, I also did not pray as much as I liked too. I earnestly insisted to the others that we needed to “pray more.” Maybe they saw me as arrogant or overzealous.

I do not believe the gods forsake us. Rather, we forsake them. We ask for too much and never give in to their wishes. Could more conflicts be avoided if we just follow their will? Perhaps that is why I wanted to pray more to the divines. I often think more people would find inner peaces and not live tumultuous lifestyles, if they prayed more. Would thirty minutes of praying everyday prevent thirty more minutes of lost bloodshed? Would it allow us to consider our actions and turn from her wicked ways?

Offerings to the gods to receive blessings seems more like a bribe to me. One should give, and never expect that they should pour showers of blessings on them. Expecting a favor from giving is worldly. Giving of oneself is divine.

However, I preach. It is an old custom I like to adhere to.

On the day I was leaving the temple, I prayed to three of the gods. I prayed to Dwayna that all the wounded and weary seek rest and recovery. To Balthazar, I prayed that our soldiers fight ferociously and protect our grand land valiantly. Finally, I prayed to Melandru that the land might one day recover, to breath new life into the soil, and to bring back fond memories. Instantly, I remembered those red iris flowers. I reached for them, within my pack and let out a sigh of relief; they were as fresh and vibrant as when they bloomed so long ago. A peak of perfection, a paragon of presences.

As I finished my prayers, I headed to the entrance of that temple. Every monk that worshiped and practiced there, stood in two lines. It appeared that I was the temple's celebrity, at least for the moment. Cautiously, I tarried between them. I did not speak. They did not speak. The gods did not speak. Complete silence. For a moment, it appeared that the moment of silence was their final answer to many of my suggestions. As I stepped outside the two lines, I bowed my head and murmured a “thank you.” I took a few more steps and waved good-bye to my acquaintances. A few nodded, while others silence spoke for themselves.

It seemed odd at the time. Ascalon was a treacherous place to travel alone. However, I did not feel alone. No one is truly ever alone. One is always guided and protected. As I took a few steps away from the temple, I smiled up toward the sky. I was forever free.

And the sky smiled back.

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Again, I do not think this is best so far, yet the reader may think differently.