Echoes of the Call: War Letters

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Today's guest writer is Fornax (also known as the Krytan Herald in the Guild Wars 2 community). Fornax produces videos about lore, fanart, fanfiction, news, and updates on various MMOs and other videos games (Guild Wars 2, Elder Scrolls Online, Final Fantasy Online, Cyberpunk 2077, and more.)

You can find out more about Fornax on

Twitter: @Krytan_Herald

Youtube: The Herald

This story was published for our Summer of Short Stories (2019) event.

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Dearest Farrach,

I’m sorry I have not written in weeks.  After the assault on Fort Salma and making ready for the march to Fort Vandal, I have been hard-pressed to catch my breath. 

You ask how I am sleeping, and my love I wish I could tell you I have slept well of late. But in truth, rest comes in fits and starts. When I close my eyes I see my dead comrades still. That nature was perverted to such grotesque violence sickens me. By the Tree! I fear I will always remember them that way, instead of how they truly were. 

It took so long to cut them down, day after day hacking at those murderous vines.  Why do they feel so like the iron bark of the Marker’s Terrace? 

By the Tree, I miss you and home. The stillness of the Nightshades and the cool waters of the Garden of Noon. The presence of the Pale Mother, like a gentle hand on my shoulder. It all feels so distant here. 

I dearly wish my Wyld Hunt had not taken me so far, but with each step towards the Heart of Maguuma I feel it risingthe quiet song of it gaining strength. I take solace in the fact we are taking the fight to the dragon. I would spare you and our home the horrors of war, real war, writ large. It is... I have not the words. 

Know you are my heart, and your strength and love keep me moving forward. 

I will write again when I can. May the Tree watch over you. 

Always yours,

Asphodelus

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Dearest Love, 

It is heartening the Commander is rallying all the great nations. The Pact is still scattered between Orr and the Silverwastes, and in truth our numbers are not what they were. 

That Risen hell claimed too many good souls. I still carry Scholar Siena's letters for her pod sister Liena. Sadly, Liena will just have to wait a little while longer, for I gave Siena my word I would place them into her sister’s hands myself. After the battle to reclaim Fort Vandal, I’ve put in place contingencies, just in case.

I thought we would never break through those walls of vine, harried as we were by both dragon minions and Inquest.

My squad was pressed between two fronts, protecting the pack animals and supplies. If we fell, there would be no food, no medicine, nor shelter for any. It took all my skill as a tamer to stop the animals bolting. Dolys are such gentle creatures and it pained my heart to see them in such distress. 

As night fell, and the last of the enemies were pushed back, we counted forty dead with at least twice that number injured. If not for Io Tymevor, I too would have been amongst their number. The druid wields the healing magics of nature as deftly as any mender of the Grove. I shudder to think of how many of my comrades would have fallen, if not for her. 

I do not know which accursed foe I hate more: the mindless fiends of the Dragon or vile Inquest. The pain of Malomedies’s torture echoed through the Dream, and I do not know one born of our awakening that did not feel his suffering. That such malice is alive in our world chills me.

There is much sad work to be done before dawn, but know I am whole and hail still. I will fight to return to you my fair Farrach. We must believe in the Dream, in our Wyld Hunts, and the Pale Mother. 

I will write again as soon as I am able. 

Always yours,

Asphodelus

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My Heart,

Word has reached us of the assault on the Grove, and I pray this letter finds you well. The idea that you are hurt, that you are in need or…I cannot write those words…

I must believe that you are well…I cannot function otherwise. 

Thinking of the Pale Mother’s fate, Thorns! What nightmare has been visited upon our people. The ranks are full of the whispered fears of our brothers and sisters, heart sick at the news. A handful of saplings deserted last night. I’m sure they are making for the Grove. This war be damned. In truth, I cannot blame them.

Perhaps I too should have abandoned my post, perhaps you will hate me for not rushing home to you. I would not, could not blame you. 

I chose to stay because I have been called here by the higher purpose of my Hunt. I chose to stay to honour my duty to my comrades, both alive and dead. 

I cannot turn tail and run because my home is attacked, despite wanting nothing more than to see your face again. If we do not push forward, if we do not fight, there will be no home to return to: no safe haven left anywhere on this dragon-blighted world.

Forgive me my love, I beg you, and please send word when you are able.

Always yours,

Asphodelus

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Dearest ​Farrach,

I know my letters will arrive sorely late. The chaos spawned from the assault on the Grove has disrupted many lines of communication. Just know that you are ever in my thoughts and dreams. I have faith that you are well and at the side of our wounded Mother. 

There is too much pain in this world, too much suffering. I am not yet sixteen seasons, and I have had my fill.  At least for now my squad is dug in, giving us some welcome rest. There are still skirmishes with the Jungle Dragon’s abominations, but we are fortifying the area. This will become the main staging ground for our push into the Heart of Maguuma. 

Every fibre of my being vibrated to the call of my Wyld Hunt. It is closer now, I can close my eyes and see that dense jungle and the golden towers of that dream place. 

The commander I spoke of, Io Tymevor, has taken what remains of my squad under her wing. She is larger than life: quick to laugh, slow to anger, and wise in ways I do not fully understand. She says I remind her of her son Frayly, but much shorter of course. She speaks often of her lost home: of the frozen dawns and summer thaws of her youth. Lighting our hearts with tall tales of adventure at the side of her mate Gharth. 

I think neither survived the rising, though she has not spoken of their loss: I can see it in her eyes, hidden behind the bluff and bluster. Her tales of happier days have been a boon to us all, even as they make my heart ache for you.

She was of the Owl, the wisest of the norn clans. Keepers of the old lore and brother to the raven, it is little wonder she found herself in the ranks of the Priory. It is so good to speak with another of my order.

I wait with heavy heart for your letters my love. I do not think I will sleep again until I hold them in my hand.

Always yours,

Asphodelus

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My Dearest Heart, 

Your words are like the dawning of a new day. So long I waited in the darkness of my fears and prayed to Ventari for your safety. 

That you send news of hope for our Pale Mother too is a blooming flower which has lightened the hearts of all Sylvari at Camp Resolve. 

Now we tree children will go into battle with hearts full of hope.

Io has been teaching the rangers in our ranks the ways of the druid. She has opened up a new world for so many of us. No longer must we watch in despair as our comrades fall. We will be a boon to them on the battlefield: channeling nature as a blessing, not a blight

I was right to trust my instincts, to hold onto my faith in the Hunt and the Pale Mother.  We will succeed again, as we did in Orr. Now I know you are safe; I can face whatever is to come. 

We fly on the morrow, and I take your words with me, passed to my heart. Know that no matter the outcome, I will see you again: be it in this world or the Dream.

Always yours,

Asphodelus

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[The Letter Never Sent]

Farrach,

We are monsters; a blight on this world not a blessing. We were not born to end the Jungle Dragon; we are children of it. 

I was wrong! A blight on the Pale Mother of LIES. 

We are no better than tainted Nightmare Court of fools. Betrayer, destroyer, cursed one and all. 

The Call!  It eclipsed all the light and sound of this world. I saw our brothers and sisters red eyed and raving, as they cut down their comrades and friends. 

The blood, the fire!

I tried to stop them, I tried.

[Three Days After the Fall]

We are cursed things, craven puppets, and I wonder now, did you know? Sitting at the right hand of the Blighted Source, did you know our mother was the concubine of the Elder Dragon Mordremoth? 

The fiends must have planned it all. Sending us out into the world as sleeping assassins, children to the slaughter, witlessly infecting all the armies and orders of the Tyria. 

I wonder, as I hide from my once friends and the screams of an elder god echo through my soul, have all Sylvari marched out of the Grove; decimating the unsuspecting fools who once called them allies. 

Can you hear the call, Farrach? You must! But have you answered it?

Have you answered that cacophony of command?  Its deafening shriek still splits my head and empties my stomach.   

I will not! I will never harm my friends.

I wish Io would have ended me in the moment. Ended my pain. I know not why she spared me. I close my eyes and I see her with her staff pressed to my chest, tears running down her face and shouting for me to run.

And you, my beautiful monster, I cannot help but think of you now. As I sit in the blood tainted mud of a burning forest, I write to you, knowing you will never read these lines. 

Are you still the dawn bloom of my heart, or have you too been twisted into the broken things I see crawling through the wreckage?

[Nine Days After the Fall]

I do not know how long I have wandered this death-tainted jungle. I have seen my kind being rounded up by Pact soldiers and herded into pens.

They should kill us all. Burn our bodies and erase us.

Even those who have not succumb to the Call, we are but one moment of weakness away from damnation.

I would have taken my own life, but I saw the bark monsters rising the dead. They make walking corpses of the fallen, rotting slaves to the Dragon. 

There is no escape for anyone now.

I should walk into a camp, surrender, then fall on my blade, but I cannot. My feet move of their own accord, ever southwest, as my Wyld Hunt drags my weak body ever on.   

[Fourteen Days After the Fall]

They are real!

The golden towers of my dreams, bursting out of the dense canopy of the jungle. 

Two songs batter my mind: the thunderous crescendo of the Call and the burning aria of my Hunt. Discordant and sickening, my knees buckle under their weight. My only salve is ink and quill and you, Farrach.

I have walked out of a burning hell: a funeral pyre of Pact ships and charred flesh. I am world weary and broken of soul. I cannot fight both the Call and my calling. What is left of my soul will surely shatter.

The Pale Deceiver, the Mother of Lies gifted me my purpose, so how am I now to follow it?

She who has borne us, only to damn us all! She knew what we were; she knew and did nothing. Said nothing. She hid the truth, and allowed her children to be fodder. Worse still, the betrayal!  Io forgive us. 

There is no penance which can wash clean our sins, her sins.

[Twenty Days After the Fall]

The golden towers grow larger as the hours pass. I have been torn in two. I can fight no longer. I will never answer the Call, but I cannot fight my Wyld Hunt. It sings in my breast, pushes me forward unasked. 

Since before my awakening, I have dreamed of the golden city, of winged guardians and towering temples. The speakers of the Grove told me my journey would begin at the golden gate.

I know not what awaits me, but there is nought but ruin behind.

I will never forget you my fair rose. I will live in the memory of our love and leave you my letters, and those of Siena.

You are my heart, and whatever fate this cruel world deals me. I am thankful for you.