Of Dragons and Men

1328 AE

 

Today was not a normal day. 

Myrick knew this, not only from the tense silence that filled the Durmand Priory from hall to hall, study to study, dusty book to dusty book. It wasn’t just from the muffled, scarce conversations between weary scholars who were exchanging words of hope and sometimes prayer. Not even only from the palpable anxiety that Myrick was able to sense through his necrotic connection to all the life-force around him.

No, barring all of those signs, there was just a sense, some kind of premonition that today would not be a normal day. It would not go according to plan. 

He tried to mind his urge to sigh. As a Magister, many of the people of the Durmand Priory looked to him for reassurance. They were overly perceptive to his moods, seeming to base their own around his. If he remained calm and confident, surely, the others would as well.

“Brother,” A flighty voice sounded from the left of where he sat, the voice belonging to a shy, doe-like Sylvari scholar. Annella, he recalled her name to be. He willed himself to smile at the address, ignoring the old, familiar guilt at such a simple lie. “Is there anything I can get you?” 

Almost immediately, the guilt was replaced by a warm appreciation. “Annella, thank you. I…” He hesitated, about to tell the girl that he wasn’t in need of anything. He realized, however, that she was most likely beside herself with unease and restlessness and was desperate to find ways to be useful on a day like today, so he softened his smile and gave her a polite nod. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate a glass of water.” 

He felt a flush of relief from her life-force, and heard the rustling of fabric as she turned to leave. “Right away, Brother!” And the fast pattering of her shoes as she rushed off told him he was alone once more...That was, save for his familiar cat-spirit, Lucy, who was now sprawled across his many scrolls and idly chewing on one of his fingers, pleased to be taking a break from reading.

He chuckled, rubbing her nose with his thumb. “Lucy, this is important research we’re doing, don’t get distracted now!” She responded by chewing down harder, as if to retort: ‘You’re the one who got sidetracked first. Don’t blame me for being a cat! Meow.’

“So she can chew on your hand like that, but I bite a sylvari and I’m deemed a threat and a vegetarian?” 

Myrick jumped in his seat with a surprised sound, having not heard or felt anybody approach. The atmosphere of the library turned a little sour, and he assumed that meant several scholars had turned to look at him, the source of the shout, with disapproval. Seeing that it was a Magister, they fortunately spared him the humiliation of a sharp ‘Shh!’. It was a small mercy. “Seneca…” He whispered to the Charr standing behind him, embarrassed. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me?”

“I didn’t sneak. And you always seem to know where I am, anyway.”

“If I’m paying attention, which I wasn’t, just now.”

“Yeah, because you were playing with your wittle kitty cat instead of working.”

Myrick sighed, not bothering to frame Lucy and say that it was actually very much so the other way around. Even though it was. “How are you so quiet on that pegleg of yours, anyway?” He opted for, instead.

 His friend huffed a Charr-typical, albeit quieter, laugh and took a seat beside him on the right. “Got a few adjustments to it.” He felt Lucy get up, his hand now forgotten in favor of pitter-pattering her way over to Seneca for her big strong headpats. And treats. Little traitor. “Oh… this all about Mordremoth?” Seneca asked, shuffling through the scrolls accumulated on his desk. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The assault is starting soon, isn’t it?” Myrick nodded.

“Not like it matters, I doubt if I have any revelations I would be able to send word fast enough to make a difference at this point, but it’s still easier than sitting around and doing nothing.” I have questions of my own that I still want answered, is what he didn’t say. 

Too many things had yet to add up. Too many things he still didn’t understand about himself or the Sylvari. How could he, for all intents and purposes a Mordrem, resemble a Sylvari so exactly that nobody had ever thought him otherwise, while simultaneously being a complete outsider to their culture? What was that about Malyck, who claimed to be from ‘another Tree’? He kept trying to go back to their roots, physically and metaphorically, but found himself constantly running out of leads. Where did the Pale Tree herself originate from? What was the nature of her existence? Did he come from a similar being? He couldn’t remember much of his early days too well, and the more time went on, the more anxious he felt about his lack of understanding, the more desperate he felt to fill in the gaps.

There was a worst-case scenario theory.

He wished to disprove that as fast as possible.

“Wow, you’re really stressed out, aren’t you,” Seneca remarked, poking at his cheek with a half-sheathed claw, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I think it’s going to go just fine out there. The Pact is capable, they’ve taken out one dragon already, and Zhaitan was just as prepared.” 

Truthfully, he’d worried just as much back then, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Perhaps it was simply that he had too many friends walking into the jungle as they spoke, and this time there was not a fort as secure as Fort Trinity for him to stay at. He would not be hearing of this campaign in real-time like he had against Zhaitan. He would not be able to inquire about soldiers’ statuses. 

He did sigh this time. He’d research instead, and possibly be able to help out from back here. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, he caught onto the approaching footsteps of Annella. “Magister Myrick,” She said, clearing her throat nervously when she saw he wasn’t alone anymore. “Miss Seneca.” 

“Yo,” Seneca greeted.

“I apologize for the delay… Here is the water you requested but there’s um… another matter,” Annella began, shuffling her feet after handing him the glass. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. 

“You see… The Commander is here, she’s asking to speak with you…” Annella sounded worried at that. Why else would the Commander not be leading the army unless for a catastrophe? “She seemed upset about something, but she did not disclose anything to me. I escorted her to your study instead, so you may speak in private.” 

“Thank you, Annella, I’ll make my way over there at once. I am sure that…” He froze. In that moment, it felt like a shadow had been cast upon him. It was the only warning he had, lasting only a brief second, before agonizing, splintering pain was speared through both his head and chest. 

At some point, he’d dropped the glass of water, startling everybody in their vicinity with the sound of shattering glass. He might’ve started screaming too. Myrick wasn’t sure, maybe that was just in his head. 

There was a voice, booming and authoritative behind the pain, and every time it spoke, low and guttural, it sent wave after wave of pulsing agony. Soon, his whole body ached. He recognized that voice. Detested it. And somehow through the haze, he understood. 

This was a call from the Jungle Dragon, to submit. To serve.

He bit his lip, hard enough to draw sap, and that, along with the sensation of Seneca’s claws gripping his shoulder, were the only things that kept him tethered to himself.  

As quickly as it had come on, it subsided. When he came to, he was surprised to find himself panting and trembling in Seneca’s firm embrace, growling at the apparent crowd of scholars who had rushed over. She was spouting silly nonsense as always, such as “He’s my dumb little cabbage to gawk and poke at, not yours! Back off!”

She noticed him calming down as he let out a shuddering breath, and immediately started fussing. “Myrick! What happened?” 

He shook his throbbing head and pushed away from Seneca, Lucy deftly taking her usual place on his shoulder as he hastily rose to his feet. This was… a troubling development, and Ospreii’s decision to come to the Priory to confide in him did not make him feel any better about this. Annella was still standing a few steps away from him, but she did not seem similarly distressed, meaning he was the only one affected by the dragon. Which was good but why? 

“Apologies for the worry…” He mumbled, pulling his folded cane out of his bag with a trembling hand and fumbled with it until it was at full length. “It appears I’m not feeling well right now. Allow me to speak with the Commander before retiring for the evening. Thank you for your concern.” And without hesitation, he turned and made for his study, fearing a second attack might happen any moment now. 

Seneca stood and wordlessly followed him, similarly fearful for him to be on his own right now. Everybody else stared after them, unsure what to make of any of it.

“Myrick…… Myrick……” Seneca was hissing, as soon as they were out of earshot from the crowd in the other room. “Talk to me, dammit, what’s going on?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know, and that’s why I want to talk with Ospreii. So please…” She must’ve been stomping, because he could finally hear the muffled thumping of her pegleg with each step, matching the brisk tapping of his cane. 

“Please what?” 

Please don’t find out, please don’t despise me, please don’t kill me, please…

He sighed again, stopping in front of his door. “Please wait out here.” 

Seneca scoffed and rolled her eyes, but took post regardless. Grateful that she didn’t ask any further questions, he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Before him, he recognized the presence of the Commander, whom before all formalities was simply a friend and a colleague. “Ospreii.” He greeted her with a nod of his head. 

 “Myrick, it’s good to see you.” 

A smile tugging at his mouth, he replied, “It’s good to see you as well.” That earned a light chuckle from the asura, but it died quickly. Something was certainly amiss. “I heard you needed my counsel on something?”

“Yes… It’s a very sensitive matter, I didn’t know who else I could trust… You were the first person who came to mind. It’s… about the Sylvari.” Ospreii ventured, sounding uncharacteristically small. 

“Go on,” He urged, despite dreading to hear the news.

“The Pale Tree gave me memory seeds… to relive some of Caithe’s most important memories. What I saw and overheard…” She paused to shake her head. “Wynne took this to the grave, I don’t think there’s anybody else besides Caithe and I who knows but… Eternal Alchemy Myrick, I think I’ve made a huge mistake.” 

He was silent, allowing her a breath to explain further. 

“Myrick, all of the Sylvari… the Pale Tree too, you all come from Mordremoth. And the fleet… full of Sylvari Pact soldiers, they took off before me. I said I would rendezvous, I can’t stop them, they’re already out there. We’re sending dragon minions to fight the dragon! And I can’t tell them to retreat without spilling the secret to everybody… I don’t know what to do!”

With no small horror, understanding dawned on Myrick. 

“Ospreii… I think it’s already too late.”

“What the fuck do you mean,” She whispered, silver eyes open wide.

He was about to answer truthfully, but it seemed like, by sheer unfortunate timing, the dragon wished to show instead of tell. 

The overwhelming pain returned with a vengeance, and the only way he could think of describing it was that it had felt like the dragon’s claws were directly seizing him by his brain and soul, sinking in and refusing to let go no matter how much he fought.

He stumbled forward clumsily into his desk, though somehow managed to catch himself with his arms.

Mordremoth barked for him to submit. Growled for him to kill indiscriminately. 

Myrick tried to refuse, but the pain turned searing, and he had the vague sense that his control was slipping by the second. It was a disgustingly familiar sensation, the sense of being puppeteered. He had no intention of returning to that, but he knew his strength wasn’t holding out this time. Distantly, he heard the cocking of a gun, and he belatedly realized that the sudden weight in his right hand was his axe. Was he really threatening the Commander right now? 

The Commander had her shotgun pointed at him? 

This was really bad, then. 

At least I’m more of a healer. There’s no way I can actually harm somebody like the Commander, he thought grimly to himself, just as he felt all control slip away from him. 

He was only half-aware of shouting, a commotion, the axe being knocked from his hand. The pain was dulling as he felt himself become more and more ensnared, but the sensation was akin to drowning, more than anything. But then something solid connected with his forehead, and it was like he was finally able to drag in a breath as he fell backwards, landing hard on the ground.

“Snap out of it!” Seneca’s shout cut through the haze, and the sharp poking of her claw on his chest gave him something to focus on as he once again made the effort to fight back against Mordremoth. “What’s gotten into you!”
The world came into focus once more, and again, Mordremoth retreated, leaving him shaken. “Seneca,” He gasped, reaching forwards, trying to get his bearings. Warm, soft fur brushed against his fingers, and after a short moment of exploration with his hand, he concluded that he’d grabbed onto her cheek. Normally, he’d be embarrassed, but she didn’t seem to care. 

“Burn me, Myrick, your study is a fucking mess now!What the hell happened?”

Ospreii cut in, also sounding shaken. “Uh. Yeah, I also want to know. You almost sliced one of my ears off!” 

He winced, rubbing at his forehead. Knowing Seneca, she’d probably headbutted him. “I was going to say, before I was rudely interrupted, that I heard Mordremoth’s call. Twice, now. To make us serve him. It’s… very difficult to resist.”

Seneca stilled in front of him. She must be putting the pieces together. Oh, she’d despise him very soon. 

“You can hear it all the way out here, in the Shiverpeaks? From Maguuma?” Ospreii sounded suddenly terrified. If all Sylvari…

“Yes, but the other Sylvari in the Priory seem to be fine.”

“What about the ones on the fleet, are they-” Ospreii asked, scrambling over to him.

He shook his head grimly. “Probably not so lucky.” 

Ospreii made a hopeless sound, and started pacing around, agitated. “I don’t understand! If it’s a distance thing, I’d understand, but why are you being affected so intensely, all the way out here, when no one else is? You were ready to kill me, Myrick!” 

There was a thought in his mind, a half-processed theory that he was now struggling to piece together. He sat up a little straighter, and belatedly realized that he had ended up sitting against one of the legs of his desk. “The Grove… has always been close to Maguuma, and Mordremoth has held no sway over the greater part of Sylvari population since it awoke. There must have been something preventing it. Perhaps the Pale Tree… Maybe something about her having free will… perhaps it shields her children, makes it easier to resist? Soundless and Courtiers would have it harder, if I’m right.” 

Ospreii stopped pacing, mulling over his proposed explanation. “Are you Soundless, then?” 

He almost let the lie slip out. It was his usual cover, a lie that felt second-hand to him by now. But then the guilt came back, and he decided that the Commander deserved the truth… Seneca too, as much as it pained him. 

“No.” 

“Then why-” 

“Ospreii, Seneca, I need both of you to swear to silence for me,” He pleaded, his hand now searching for Seneca’s. She found his for him and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Okay,” She said, voice unusually serious. 

Ospreii hesitated, but agreed as well. 

“I’m not Sylvari. I am older than the Pale Tree, and I hail from the Maguuma Jungle. My memory is quite bad, I don’t remember much beyond that, but I am sure that I struggled to resist Mordremoth because I am simply Mordrem, and my connection to the dragon was never severed.” 

The silence that followed was probably the worst thing he’s ever experienced. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks, glowing a bright blue. 

“Well, you were going to be Mordrem whether you were Sylvari or actually Mordrem so… I guess… It is what it is,” Seneca said, matter-of-fact. His appreciation for the hot-headed charr grew tenfold right then and there. 

Ospreii remained quiet, but Myrick picked up on nothing but the sheer feeling of being overwhelmed from her. It wasn’t a malicious silence. “Ospreii, you should get going. They’re going to need your leadership out there.” 

“... Yeah,” She sighed, finally putting her gun away. “You’re right. This is just a lot. There might not even be an army now. The Marshal might be…” She stopped and gave her cheeks a firm slap. “I just need to find him first, before anything else happens.” 

He smiled. That was the attitude. The Commander’s resilience never ceased to impress him. “Be kind with the Sylvari you see out there. They’re doing their best.”

“I know. Are you…?” Ospreii trailed off, worried about insulting him by asking if he was going to be okay.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Don’t stress too much, Commander.” Seneca lauded, ruffling his leafy hair as she spoke. “Just go kill that dragon fast so we can all put this behind us, alright?”

There was a huff of amusement through her nose. “Alright. I’ll send Mordremoth your regards when I do. Take care, I’ll be back when it’s over.” 

After Ospreii had made her exit, Myrick sighed for the third time that day, resting his face in his hands. He was tired. Seneca harrumphed and stood, and unceremoniously picked him up with ease. He was too tired to even shout in surprise. He felt a flicker of mischief from her as she debated tossing him on his bed like a sack of grain, but she seemingly decided against it as she simply set him down with no theatrics. 

“Go to bed,” She ordered, to which he laughed sullenly at. He did not need to be told twice. 

“Goodnight,” He said, rolling over. 

“Don’t kill anybody in your sleep, idiot.” She grumbled, dragging his desk chair over to flop into, intent on keeping watch throughout the night. “I thought I was supposed to be the dangerous one.” 

She even sounded a little wounded at the thought. 

“Thanks for being here,” He whispered, hardly audible, just before sleep pulled him under. 

A rare genuine smile pulled at the charr’s muzzle.

“Yeah, right, as if you could get rid of me now.”