Ree Soesbee's Blog

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Even though I was directly involved in creating ideas for the race intro cinematics, it was always a rush to see them realized by our amazing art team. It felt like opening a birthday present every single time.

“Cinematics are ready!” the Cinematics Team would call, and we’d squee as we ran to see it play on an artist’s computer (Jeff Grubb may stoically reject the word ‘squee,’ but even he was grinning like a maniac when we got to see the asura ones). For us, those cinematics represented the birth of each race; a player’s first emotional investment in the game universe.

However, for the sylvari, the opening cinematic was even more important. We’d never established the sylvari before, and players had no history with the race in the Guild Wars universe. But even as challenging as that was, we had a tremendous opportunity to establish part of the sylvari experience that is critical to understanding their race — the Dream of Dreams. Because the sylvari are awakened as fully-grown individuals, we chose to make their tutorial experience happen within the Dream, and to have their opening cinematic reflective of it. It’s informative, but it also has mythical quality, a sense of imagery rather than concrete reality.

We needed to show the sylvari mindset, but also who they are, how they relate to life in Tyria, and what kinds of roles they fulfill in our stories of the world. Add to that the need to represent biography choices, introduce the iconic character Caithe, and define the sylvari attitude and “feel.”

The opening cinematics of Guild Wars 2 are intended to sweep you into the game with high drama, visuals, and a quick but compelling summary of your character’s racial perspective. We hope you’ll give us two minutes of your time, and in return, we’ll set the stage for one of the most amazing games ever.

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into our creative process. I can’t wait to see you all playing in the game!

(After you watch the cinematics, that is…)

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Opening cinematics are designed to educate a player as to the world background, the racial background, and the impact of the choices they made for their character. But, packed in amid all that lore is the hope that the cinematic will be inspiring. In an ideal world, we want the player to be so busy yelling ‘AWESOME!’ at the end of the cinematic that it takes them a minute to find their keyboard and mouse again.

But what is ‘inspiration?’

During our creative process, these cinematics go back and forth between lore writers and artists; a wonderful succession of ‘one-upsmanship’ where both sides are trying to contribute more and more amazing into the work. The cinematic has to grab the player and show them — through imagery and words —things that strike close to the heart.

We have a certain advantage on our side; the player chose this race, that specific biography answer, because the player was already interested in those things. So we build them up. We write the asura with an attitude of complete intellectual dominance. By doing so, we encourage the player to see those traits in their character —and get excited about it.

Although the asura played a modest role in Guild Wars: Eye of the North, it’s only in Guild Wars 2 that we’ve been able to really establish them.

From their magical cities to their high-minded philosophy of the Eternal Alchemy, the asura have a marvelous depth to their culture that we wanted to showcase — all in a minute and a half of cinematic. Wshoo! We needed this cinematic to do more than many others: define the asura colleges and mindset as well as establish the race’s place in the world. When dealing with concepts like “synergetics,”it’s important that we have clear writing and striking visuals. With the asura cinematic, we wanted to show the different colleges, their experiment styles, and their studies; to really concretely illustrate how each one was distinct from the others.

Last but not least, the cinematics for the sylvari — coming soon in an upcoming blog! Stay tuned.

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Once a player has chosen a character, class, and name, the first experience you have with the story of Guild Wars 2 is the opening cinematic.

Some of you may be thinking: “A cut scene? Skip, skip! Where’s the gameplay?” But hold on there! These gorgeous cinematics aren’t just a warmed-over reiteration of the box text; they tell the history of your chosen race and set the stage for the grand drama that’s about to unfold. Plus, the opening cinematic offers you a chance to see the concrete results of your character’s history and personality choices. We wrote them for you!

Guild Wars 2 is like an epic, interactive fantasy novel in which your player character is the main character, and the cinematics are the prologue. To give you a taste of what’s in store for you character, over the next few days we’re going to show you the five opening sequences that kick off players’ Guild Wars 2 storylines.

These are not the complete sequences you see when you create your character; we’re just going to show you the first part of each cinematic, which immerses you in the lore of the races. Your character actually appears in the introductory cinematic, and since every player will experience a different cinematic sequence based on your race, the biographical choices you make, and the appearance of your character, we want you to experience that for yourself.

Let’s take a look at the intro sequences that are well-known to most people who’ve played in our betas: the human, norn, and charr cinematic introductions.

We wanted to establish several key points in this cinematic: humans were once the predominant race, a people with many kingdoms spread all across Tyria, but now they are in decline; and despite these dark times, they still have faith, even if it feels more distant. Visually, we wanted to show the amazing vistas of Divinity’s Reach and the last great human nation of Kryta.

The second half of the cinematic is set by a player’s choice of social class—is your character a member of the gentry, a hardworking commoner, or do they hail from the streets? The moving imagery in each option is very different, and the writing is designed to convey the mood and give you a distinct feel for each background and setting.

Because the norn are a less familiar race, we wanted to establish their place in Tyria. They are a hearty race of shape-shifting adventurers who have been pushed south by adversity, but fighting every inch of the way. The norn are an incredibly adventurous race who prize the glory of accomplishment above all.   We wanted to present images that showed their snowy landscape, their courage, and their deep spirituality.

In the second part of the cinematic, we illustrate the player’s past history, their outlook on life, and which Spirit of the Wild—Bear, Snow Leopard, Raven, or Wolf—they feel the most affinity for.

Those who played the original Guild Wars will recognize the savage charr, the implacable foes of mankind, and they will have certain expectations. We needed to live up to those player expectations, but, much like with the humans, we also need to make sure that players know who the charr in Tyria are now, 250 years beyond the time of the first game.

The charr are fierce, militant, and uncompromising. But their point of view on history had yet to be told, and it’s an important perspective in understanding their story in Guild Wars 2. For the first time, the charr aren’t just “the bad guys.” They have a reason to be angry, and have reclaimed much of the land once stolen from them by humanity. The defining aspect of a charr’s life is which legion they choose; their training, culture, and lifestyle all stem from the legion in which they were raised. Therefore, the opening cinematic is designed to play up the differences between those legions.

We’ll talk about the cinematics for the other races in an upcoming blog! Stay tuned.

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The jotun (pronounced JŌ-tun) are the last remnants of an ancient society of giants. Once powerful, advanced, and arrogant, they proclaimed themselves rulers of the Shiverpeak Mountains and raised great monuments to themselves on the highest peaks. Their leaders, known as giant-kings, were tremendously powerful beings, as skilled in feats of strength as they were in magic and lore.

And yet, as the jotun defeated all who threatened their control over the mountains, they did not adjust to peace. Convinced that they were the superior race, they became obsessed with the purity of their blood and the number of heroes, warlords, and giant-kings in each lineage. Blood became a reason for taking one mate over another, seizing land, and in time, wiping out other “lesser” tribes. Eventually, the jotun conquered or destroyed all their external enemies, and then the giant-kings turned on each other, each seeking ultimate control. Families waged war upon one another, and brother made war on brother, until the tribes erupted in vicious internal wars for control.

“I will show you the jotun of ages past, when we strode across the Shiverpeaks as mighty lords. Witness the savagery, greed, and vanity that ended our glorious rule…”

—Thruln, the last of the giant-kings

Long ago, the jotun possessed the ability to use magic and were skilled enough with it to create enchanted monuments in the Shiverpeak Mountains. Some historians believe that the age of jotun magic may even pre-date the coming of the human gods and the creation of the Bloodstones. Yet, during their long history of infighting, civil war, and slaughter, the jotun lost all knowledge and understanding of magic. Their powerful sages were killed, and their lore-keepers and mystics were wiped out before they could continue the tradition of jotun magic. All that remains of their once-great arcane spirituality are a few carved runes on forgotten, snow-covered peaks.

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“See this stone, and behold the power that will one day conquer the world.”

—Written on a jotun monument

Over the centuries of their existence, the jotun have fallen far from their state of grace, losing command of technology and magic they once utilized, and remembering their place as kings of the land only in legend and story. While jotun leaders struggle to reclaim ancient glories and grasp lost power for themselves, most scholars believe that the glory days of the ancient giant-kings are lost forever.

The jotun have lost many of the things that once made them great. Their lore is scattered, and much of it lost; any religion, higher learning, or secrets of invention that they once mastered have been eradicated, and only the remnants of their once-great society remain. Like the massive stone monuments their people once raised that can still be found in the Shiverpeaks, the jotun have lost their purpose…and their meaning.

Now savage, vicious creatures, the jotun fall upon any traveler they see. Occasionally pacified by tribute and flattery, they may choose to let non-jotun pass with a threat or a beating. However, when two clans of jotun come upon one another, they are satisfied with nothing less than the complete eradication of the other.

[image error]Jotun organize themselves into large tribes, related by blood or union, led by the strongest. This strength may come from arms, or magic, or any other ability—but it is always shown through physicality and brute force. The jotun do not respect a leader that is not physically able to enforce his laws and rulings. They would kill and replace anyone who lost their strength, failed, or did not lead the tribe to glory. A charr soldier may make a calculated decision to kill a failed leader in order to ensure victory for the warband. A jotun is more like a rabid beast, reflexively tearing one of their own to pieces at the first sign of weakness—no matter the long-term cost for the clan.

Jotun tend to segregate themselves by sex: males are more aggressive and take leadership roles, while females are relegated to childrearing. Males gather in small groups of blood-relations and constantly seek to eliminate any other jotun they discover in their clan’s territory. At its heart, the jotun’s internal warfare is intended to eliminate all those jotun not blood-related to a single clan. Because of this, it is critical for jotun to protect their females and children. A traveler will never see those in open territory, as the family unit is always well-hidden from the world while the males hunt and bring back food for all.

While many of the more “barbaric” races of Tyria have a sense of honor or a code of ethics, the jotun have very few moral restrictions inherent in their society. They protect and defend their family, their clan, and their territory through whatever means necessary. A jotun will break his word, lie under oath, or act reprehensibly if he feels it will empower him or strengthen his clan (or destroy another). Individuals who have attempted to make peace with jotun tribes in the past have learned, much to their sorrow, that jotun only stick to such treaties as long as they clearly benefit from them. It is far more likely that a jotun clan bound by treaty is only biding their time or building their strength, planning soon to eradicate those foolish enough to trust them.

“Who do I worship? Ha! Myself!”

—Utahein, jotun chieftain

The closest thing that the jotun have to “religion” is their firm, avowed belief that their blood is magical—that it is powerful, and akin to the divine. Each clan of jotun reveres their ancestors and can trace their lineage back to some powerful giant-king of lore. Many of the tales of these giant-kings have taken on the feel and tenor of religious myths, and each clan calls to their legendary blood to empower them, see them through trials, and ensure them victory. While it cannot be said the jotun “worship” their ancestors, they certainly attempt to emulate them through conquest, single-minded self-absorption, and personal pride.

Even though we had established the jotun in the original games, we wanted to really bring them to life in Guild Wars 2, particularly for the norn areas of the world. We wanted them to be more than “nasty customers with big clubs,” and the way we chose to do that was to give them a long history—but a tragic one. We wanted to make the ogres an old race and follow that with the jotun, since the two species are interlinked. Giving the jotun a history that had been lost—ruined by their own flaws—gives them a lot of depth and plays into the overall story of Guild Wars 2.

The new jotun art depicts the race as being taller and more intelligent looking than the art from the original Guild Wars, which helps to better illustrate the race’s history and the fact that they are sentient, smart creatures—not rock-tossing droolers. The primitivism we see in their clothing and weapons is a sharp contrast to the magical monuments located at their camps—and that, too, is deliberate. Showing the decline of a race from power and civilization into primitivism, all because they could not stop fighting amongst themselves, is important to the game’s theme. It illustrates what might happen if the player character races can’t give up their old arguments and unite against the threat of the Elder Dragons.

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Rising up from their cities beneath the earth, the asura prove, time and time again, the old adage ”Difficulty is just another word for opportunity.“ From their humble beginnings among the ruins of the Tarnished Coast, the asura have risen to prominence. Their magical gates connect the major cities of Tyria, and their intelligence makes them an ally to be respected—or an enemy to be feared.

In the depths, surrounded by the very foundations of Tyria, a battle was raging.

Impact rocked the narrow passage, sending showers of earth and pebbles scattering along the uneven floor. Screeching, high-pitched sound filled the corridor, shaking more dust loose with every bone-jarring pulse and waver. Flattening his ears close to his neck, Dlixx dashed through the wreckage with his dicrystalline etherizer close at hand.

“I know you’re coming, Dlixx!” a voice shouted from up ahead, barely rising over the din. “I’m a sonographic engineer! Did you think I wouldn’t hear you? Ha!”

Dlixx saw the wave approaching before it hit him—a wobbly-looking motion in the air that signaled the solid wash of sound. He dove behind a boulder, but the assault struck him even as he leapt for cover. With a waft of terrible, howling, whining cacophony, the sound wave spun him end over end until he slammed against the cavern wall. “Whumph!” he grunted, but the noise of his protest was lost amid the din.

“See that?” the voice shouted again. “Nothing’s getting through my sonopath! Whoever holds it is immune to it, and skritt have delicate ears! You hear me? DELICATE…”

Dlixx rolled out into the hallway, etherizer pointed, focused, and ready. The ball of crystal at its end flared with a strange, pinkish gleam, and then a light shot toward the end of the hallway.

“…EAR…oh…ears…oomph…” The voice faded, and then there was the thud of an unconscious body hitting the stone floor.

Seizing his opportunity, Dlixx shoved the etherizer into his belt and raced forward. Leaping over barriers made of stone, debris, and broken furniture, he landed solidly over an unconscious asura woman, still twitching a bit from the effects of the etherizer ray. Hanging on her back above her was a half-cocked sonic generator, modified from bits and pieces of an original dredge rig.

“If I hadn’t had earplugs, that would have killed me. Not bad, Poizi.” Dlixx reached up and pulled the torque abjurer from the sonic generator, deactivating the device. He paused to breathe on the copper-colored abjurer and polish it against his sleeve as the machine wound down. Once the noise faded, he popped the earplugs out of his ears and smiled. “But not good enough.” He snapped the abjurer in half and peered inside curiously.

“No…” Poizi managed, her voice wavery with the aftereffects of his etherizer. “My sonopath will get me out of here. I don’t want to die…”

“I’m not taking your gadget.” Dlixx pushed the abjurer into Poizi’s pocket. “I came to get something else.” Carefully, Dlixx reached down and removed her left shoe. With cautious hands, he tucked it away into his knapsack. Pausing to stare at her, he bent down a second time and also took the long scarf Poizi wore around her neck. “This too, I think…” Dlixx muttered.

“Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” Poizi moaned, her eyes rolling in half-conscious annoyance. “Just go away!”

Dlixx stood, drawing his coat close around his body. “You’re a member of my krewe, Poizi,” he snarled. “Did you expect me to forget that?” With a dismissive snort, he turned, drew his dicrystalline etherizer into his hand once more, and vanished away into the dark passages of the earth.

The coming of the Great Destroyer, the herald of the Elder Dragon Primordus, may have shocked the surface of the world, but it did far more damage below. Although a group of stalwart heroes had defeated the herald and forestalled the Elder Dragon’s awakening, its destroyers remained, and the damage they caused was titanic. The dwarves, responding to an ancient call, performed the Rite of the Great Dwarf and turned themselves to stone in order to fight their age-old enemy. Yet they were not the only ones to fight against the destroyers in the deep caverns beneath the earth.

Prior to the rise of the destroyers, the asura were the predominant race in the Depths of Tyria. They lorded their status over all others, and fought primarily against the skritt—creatures that the asura considered (then and now) to be hideous, dangerous vermin. The destroyers were the first enemy in generations that had not fallen easily to the combined intelligence and magical prowess of the asura. Their Arcane Council assumed it was simply a matter of time before the destroyers were annihilated by asuran skill and acumen. It was hubris that caused the downfall of their underground civilization; thousands of years to build, but only a handful of moments to vanish in the wake of the Elder Dragon’s power.

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Yet the defeat of the Great Destroyer did not prevent the eventual awakening of the Elder Dragon, only delayed it. Approximately fifty years after his herald was defeated, Primordus awakened—this time, for good. Its minions now spread through the Depths, eradicating many subterranean races whose names are now only known through asuran records and tales. The races which survived the constant battles were forced to leave behind their deep-dwelling cities and rebuild closer to the surface. By this time, the asuran refugees had already established themselves on the surface, regrouping and recreating their culture in this new world, building the city of Rata Sum.

[image error]From time immemorial, asura have been builders and inventors, utilizing magic as other races used simple tools. Although not as old a race as the dwarves, they were a far more active one, spending their time on constant invention, experimentation, and the dissection of magic itself. According to the records of the eldest archivists of their race, there were at least six cities as large and grand as Rata Sum in the asura-dominated lands beneath the surface, though none survived into the modern age. While other races insist that the legends of such massive capitals as Quora Sum are far-fetched and exaggerated, the asura tersely reply that the other races are simply too dim to comprehend the grandeur they lost.

The asura are led by the Arcane Council, a brain trust that is said to be comprised of the best and brightest minds in the nation. Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is that most asura are far more interested in being inventors than bureaucrats, and the Arcane Council is all too often made up of those who ran the slowest when an opening was announced. The current Arcane Council rules from the city of Rata Sum, and is led by High Councilor Flax. Among his cabinet are prestigious inventors, well-known diplomats, and the deans of each of the three asuran colleges.

All asura begin as apprentices in their parents’ laboratories, assisting with various projects from the moment they can stand on their own (or lean against a crystalline transmogrifier). When they reach an age where they are arguing with their parents more than they are helping (usually fairly young), they are apprenticed to an asura master within one of the three colleges. That master is responsible for the student’s education up until the time they graduate and join a krewe of their own. Through this traditional apprentice system, adolescent asura gain a well-rounded education, and their advisors receive unpaid (if not always perfectly competent) laboratory interns. Even after they complete their indenture, asura hold a fierce loyalty toward their alma maters, often claiming that the magical theories of one are the basis of the other two.

The cultural system of the asura is both highly organized and extremely flexible. Their society consists of individuals who come together to accomplish greater tasks. This is their krewe system: a project will form, and the leader will call together (or hire) those most useful or capable until the project is finished. An asura’s krewe is usually temporary; lasting as long as the project requires, and then breaking up when they have completed whatever task they were performing. These krewes often stay in touch, forming and reforming with individuals they know and respect, and avoiding those whom they don’t get along with or find substandard.

Because asura are judged by their reputation and craftiness, they often choose a specialty within their college training. An asura will seek to be well known as the foremost authority on that topic, in the hopes of acquiring a position on cutting-edge krewes, performing greater and more challenging tasks.

Earth rumbled and moved, displacing itself, churning in ever-growing spirals of shattered stone. Behind the gyratic earthcarver, Nimm pushed and grunted, struggling to shove the implement more quickly through the wall. It was larger than he, coiled to a point at the fore and flat at the rear like the stylized claw of some giant beast—or like that massive tooth the idiot norn worshipped up in the frozen mountains. Nimm scowled, shoving with all his might as the cone-shaped digging device rolled and rocked and did its work.

With each shove, the earthcarver dug forward and Nimm crawled after, not caring if the passage behind him was half-sealed with rubble in his wake. That would be a defense against anything sneaking up behind him. A genius idea! Phoo on the rest of them, those idiots in that cogs-cursed krewe. He was getting himself out!

A shudder rippled through the ground, shaking Nimm so badly that it tilted his trajectory three degrees to the south. He cursed and quickly flipped the earthcarver off to investigate. Had he overloaded the joint welders? Flooded the arcanolog? Nothing. Maybe the problem was with the talismantic stabilizer…

Another shudder. That one definitely wasn’t caused by his machine. Nimm pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, listening carefully, his black eyes narrowing against the single clean strip of skin across his face. “Poizi’s stupid sonopath,” he guessed. “Idiot. She’ll just draw attention! Better to sneak along and not be noticed…”

Turning the earthcarver on again, Nimm put his shoulder to the rear harness and shoved with all his might. With a mighty effort, he drove the spinning drill through the next layer of rock. As the stone cracked and fell apart, Nimm cheered—only to turn his cry into a scream as the rock, earthcarver and all—suddenly tipped forward with a burst of unimpeded speed.

“No!” he screamed, grabbing for the handles on the rear of the machine. “A cavern! My calculations must have been off—I should still be in pyromorphic stooooooone!” The sound of chittering rose and swelled beyond the opening as the ground crumbled beneath him, threatening to collapse completely. Forced to release the handles to save his own life, Nimm scrambled backward—but found himself quickly trapped by the rubble he’d left in his wake. Thick cracks splintered the foundation, and Nimm saw his fate spread out before him—a blanket of thousands of skritt, and all of the little monsters were staring up at the fresh new hole in their city wall. Across the big cavern, Nimm could see the twinkle of daylight. A way out!

But he’d never get there—even if he didn’t fall to his doom, there were easily a thousand rodent men in the way.

The stone cracked and groaned, Just as the last shards of rock holding him up collapsed, a rope—no, a scarf!—flumphed down to hang in the air beside him. “Poizi!” Nimm gasped, reaching for it with joy. He clung desperately to the thin thread of hope as the earthcarver toppled down to shatter on the floor of the skritt city-cave.

“Poizi!” Nimm scrambled up the scarf to a ledge farther up the wall. Crawling over the lip, he faced the asura there with glee. “You saved me! I knew that being on the same krewe still meant something to you, Poizi…” With a gasp, Nimm froze. “You!”

Dlixx smiled, leveling the dicrystalline etherizer. “If I shoot you with this, you’ll topple down into our vicious little friends. You know how clever they are when they’re all bunched up like that—and there’s never been as many of them together as there are here in Skrittsburgh, I’ll wager.”

Slowly, Nimm raised his hands in a gesture of submission. “Master Boikk didn’t know what he was doing, coming down here. We don’t have to end up like him!”

“I’m afraid we do. Now, give me your shoe, and I’ll be on my way.”

Gulping, Nimm shook his head. “I won’t help you. Whatever you’re doing, you won’t get away with it, Dlixx. One of us will make it to the surface.”

“One of us already has.” With that, Dlixx pulled the trigger, and the ball of crystal flared. Nimm’s body tensed, arching—but at the last moment, Dlixx grabbed the other asura by the belt and jerked him away from the open height. Below, a thousand bright eyes flashed viciously in the darkness, and a thousand hissing whispers echoed against the stone.

Leaning Nimm’s unconscious body safely against the cavern wall, Dlixx slid off Nimm’s left shoe and shoved it into his belt-bag with the one he’d taken from Poizi. “Only one member of the krewe left,” he muttered, checking a tracking light on his bracer. “No time to waste.”

Those asura who join the College of Statics are builders, and they build to last, specializing in permanent structures and large-scale projects. These asura tend to be more conservative and cautious in nature; they believe in measuring twice, cutting once, and measuring again. They are thoughtful and analytical, and enjoy research as well as practical application. Prominent graduates of the college include the inventors of the magicomagnetic levitation stones, which the asura use as power sources for their larger structures. They refer to their college as a concrete thing, a living formation of rock and structure that is continually added to and subtracted from, by the works of alumni and students alike. These asura make construction golems, drilling machines, and anything else that solidly moves. They are the hubs within the Eternal Alchemy, the solid foundation of posts, supports and axels upon which the cogs can turn.

Creations of the College of Statics: positional relays, quasi-enchantment aligners, theosophy scopes, metasurvey incantations, cross-incantation braces, levitation buttresses.

The asura of the College of Dynamics are best understood as the gizmo makers. Masters of swift, innovative problem solving, they tend to produce items that last only as long as they are necessary in order to make the next intuitive leap. They are energetic, enthusiastic, and impulsive, tending to start projects before researching the possible results. They love to figure out how other races do things in order to…appropriate…and improve upon that magical theory for their own purposes. An experiment is only a failure, their advisors say, if you don’t learn anything from it. When a member of the college speaks of his alma mater, they typically are speaking of the body of work, experiments, and thought that form a mental picture of the college’s achievements—the overall innovations that they have provided to the world. In the Eternal Alchemy, they are most often referred to as the tooth-gears and mainsprings of the universe.

Creations of the College of Dynamics: canoptic enhancers, lunographic fasteners, torque abjurers, enigmaticons, karmic pressure gauges, kinetic spellchurns, magiphysical armatures.

Within the College of Synergetics, asura are all about shaping energy and building connections. Here you can find the more mystical thinkers, those who study the raw matter of magic itself and disdain the solidity of the functional world. They are often more philosophical in bent, and are very used to dealing with political and social theory. These asura are interested in how patterns form, how errors propagate, and how chaos forms rational systems. Unfortunately, this dedicated study to psychology also leads them to be more secretive—even among themselves—as they believe they know how everyone else’s mind works…and those minds are out to get them! Even the greatest of this college’s alumni can tend to be a little shortsighted, devising ethereal plans and constructing psychological reasoning without actually venturing out of their laboratories for concrete tests. When a member of the college speaks of his alma mater, they typically are speaking of the social structures they’ve created through their tutelage, their connections, and the body of asura who consider themselves a ”college” of like minds.

Creations of the College of Synergetics: quantagrams, di-polar spell matrices, conjuration vertices, prestimystic readouts, mojonic control rods, self-restricting enchant loops.

Tick…tick…tick…

Volla knelt by the spherical hydrocadabric distillery, pushing her long, coiled braids back as she tweaked the dials and reset the aura transversers. She hummed to herself, her body swaying back and forth as she checked and double-checked each one with the remote in her hand to be certain it was just right.

Dlixx’s hand squeezed tightly on the handle of his dicrystalline ethoriter. The bomb was complete, pretriggered, and she’d used more than enough crystalline pyretics to level the entire layer—but he was in luck.

She’d left her boots on the table near the door.

“Ten, ten… No, no. This one goes to eleven! There we are.” She grinned, showing long rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“All right, Volla,” Dlixx called out from the hidden aperture in the floor of the subterranean cavern, keeping his tone smooth and overly gentle. “Stand up slowly. Back away, toward me, and keep your hands in the air.” She spun—far more quickly than he thought was safe, and Dlixx winced. That distillery was explosive, by the Alchemy!

“Dlixx!” she squealed delightedly, shoving the remote into her vest. “I thought you were dead like old…uhm…what’s-his-name.”

“Master Boikk,” he supplied grimly. “No, Boikk’s just fine. He used a personal transporter the moment we stumbled onto the skritt city.”

“Personal transporter?” Volla mused, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her coiled braids swayed gently around well-shaped and smoothly moving ears. “That’s a Snaff device, isn’t it? Hmph. Boikk was such an idea thief.” She raised a hand and stroked her ears lightly, letting the tips of her fingers press gently over her delightfully wide forehead…

“Eyes on the prize, Dlixx!” he snarled to himself, trying not to let her know he’d been staring.

Too late. Volla winked.

“Come on, Dlixx. You know full well it’s every asura for herself down here.” She took a winsome step toward him, and he could smell the intoxicating aroma of fuel oil and particulate ozone. “I could take you with me, if you like. We were on the same krewe, after all.”

Shaking himself out of it, he raised his ethoriter, again with a snap. “We were. But if I let you set off that distillery, we’ll be on the same dead krewe.”

“Come on. Climb on top of it with me. I’ve set up a jail platform.” She took another step toward him, her eyes brilliant and filled with a thousand complex mathematical equations. “A force bubble will surround us, the distillery will go off, and we’ll be shot straight up to the surface without so much as a scuffle on your broad…” another step, “cosmonetic…” another step, and now her lips were inches from his, “…toolbox.”

With a swift movement, Volla snatched the ethoriter out of his hand and stepped back. “Fool!” she said victoriously. “I win!”

“There was only room for one on that jail platform, wasn’t there, Volla?” Dlixx asked sadly as she backed away, still holding the weapon fiercely toward his face. “You never even considered taking anyone else along. When you set off that distillery, it’ll collapse the caverns. If the skritt don’t kill us, your bomb will!”

“Like I care!” she snapped. “I’m the genius here. Me, not you, and not those other simpletons. When I get back to Rata Sum, I’ll tell them how bravely you and all the others died when we discovered this massive infestation, and I’ll be sure to explain to Master Boikk that it’s in his best interest he give me the credit—or I’ll ruin the wither-brain for not realizing the rats were here in the first place!” Still holding his ethoriter, she grinned and leapt to the distillery platform as if she were standing atop the world.

“Now, all I have to do is press the button on my remote…” Volla fumbled in her vest.

“This remote?” Dlixx held it up.

“You!” She leveled the ethoriter and fired—and a lovely mist of lavender-scented vapor shot out, perfuming the room. “Give me that back! I can’t set off the distillery without it!” she wailed.

As pleasantly scented smoke filled the area, Dlixx yelled, “You never could tell the difference between a dicrystalline ethoriter and a dicrystalline etherizer, Volla!” Taking advantage of the mist and the distance between them, Dlixx snatched one of Volla’s boots from the table and dropped down through the aperture, fleeing into the caverns below.

[image error]Although not actually a college, the Inquest is the largest krewe in asuran culture, and is a relatively new organization.

Where traditional asura training goes through an apprenticeship at one of the three colleges, the Inquest has begun a system of corporate training that is structured rather like a series of progressive aptitude tests. When an asura can pass a test, she is immediately given the next, and her clearance among the Inquest is upgraded accordingly. This leads to a great deal of cheating, of course—both for and against the aspirants.

An asura never graduates from the Inquest, as they do from the other colleges of the asura. Once you join the megakrewe, you’re a member for life… even if the other Inquest members are forced to make sure that life is a necessarily short one. An aspirant is given a krewe assignment and expected to work on their individual task regardless of whether they understand that task’s purpose in the greater schema. They sacrifice their own desires for the greater good of the Inquest’s body of knowledge, like it or not.

The Inquest combines the strengths of the various college disciplines, but they use only what they need, abandoning deeper understanding of those theories in favor of a quick and profitable return. They are more than willing to burn out their young inventors, souring them on their work, rather than waste time with rest—an unprofitable accounting of time.

Unlike the three asuran colleges, which delight in sharing newly completed discoveries (if only to victoriously rub them in one another’s faces), the Inquest do not share their information beyond the Inquest itself. Indeed, they occasionally even go so far as to sabotage the promising research of college krewes that impinges upon what the Inquest sees as proprietary design.

Where the colleges see power as a useful tool toward understanding the Eternal Alchemy—the Inquest sees power as a goal in and of itself. Inquest founders looked upon the amount of knowledge lost when Quora Sum was wiped out by the destroyers, and judged such a signal drop to be complete anathema to their purposes. Gathering information in its pure, crystalline form is their intention, and they will stop at nothing less than the sum of all knowledge. Indeed, the ultimate goal of Inquest research is to achieve control of the Eternal Alchemy, and with it, all of Tyria.

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Dlixx crouched at the base of the golem, slowly inserting each shoe into its canoptic non-abstract analyzation bay. Four shoes in all, one from each member of his krewe followed by his own, slid down the gullet of the mighty—if rough-hewn—stone defender.

“Pro-cess-ing,” the golem chirruped, its voice bubbling up, raw and scratchy, from the gleaming crystal epicenter. “Pro-cess-ing.”

“Un-der-stood. Targets ac-quir-ed.”

Dlixx stood up and patted the golem with a wide smile, wincing only slightly as his affectionate tap caused a shingle of stone to fall off. He quickly reattached it. “Come on, BeMM. Time to show your stuff,” Dlixx said, the golem stepping forward, its massive armaments aglow in the dimness of the underground.

By the time they burst out into the main skritt cavern, it was already a free-for-all. The wargolem’s crystals flashed and shimmered, bolts flying in every direction. It was a rabid explosion of destruction, uncontrolled and completely unhampered by any attempt at silly things like aiming or conservation of energy.

On the ledge above, Poizi and Nimm screamed. Bolts flew through them, striking them solidly, but where skritt toppled over, steaming and squirming, the two asura suffered no damage at all. “What’s going on?” Nimm howled, curling his hands around his goggles . “How’s he doing that?”

Poizi pointed to the entrance where Dlixx and BeMM stood. The wargolem’s arms spun wildly as rays radiated through the mass of skritt. “I don’t care! Just run!” Using her scarf to slide down into the huge cavern, Poizi and Nimm fled past the terrified, twitching rat-folk. Within moments, Dlixx saw them climb up the far wall and through the opening, into the sunlight above.

“So that’s why you needed the shoes,” Volla murmured behind him. Her voice sent shivers up his spine, even more than the howling and shrieking of the rodent men. “They’ve got our sweat in them. You used that matter—part of ourselves—to attune the golem’s rays so it wouldn’t hurt us. Inspired.”

Dlixx shot her a glance, but did not answer, a smarmy grin curling his lips.

“You could have gotten out anytime,” she pressed, stepping closer as pinkish rays flew all around them. “Why? Why help us? Because we were all on Master Boikk’s krewe?”

“You don’t stop being on a krewe till the job’s done. The job was to come down here, measure the resonant spellpower, and then return. We hadn’t returned,” Dlixx said and shrugged. “Krewe is krewe.”

“Was that your only reason?”

“That…” he agreed, “and the fact that now, every single one of you will be forced to praise the asura whose invention saved your lives.” He puffed up, spinning his dicrystalline etherizer around one finger with an expert touch. “Dlixx, inventor of the Better Mousetrap Mass-Trauma Wargolem, graduate of the College of Dynamics, bane of skritt everywhere.”

“Me.”

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The sylvari are the youngest race in Guild Wars 2, awakened with the rise of the new age in Tyria. They may be unfamiliar with the world, but they have dreamed of it, and they share a rich and compelling vision that guides their path. From the day of their awakening, each sylvari feels called to defend the land and fight the Elder Dragons. They are united in this purpose beneath their mother, the Pale Tree.

In the brilliant light of noon, a petal moved. A pod opened. A sylvari rose, stretched, and hesitantly entered the world.

The twelve firstborn, called by their mother’s summons, stood breathlessly to greet their new brother. They had lived for so many years alone, believing that they were all the sylvari that would ever be. And now the awakening had begun again. Other pods in the garden moved softly, gaining ground but not yet ready to open. It was the first flowering of a new generation.

“Welcome, Brother.” Aife greeted him, always the first with a question or a smile. She approached the stranger, holding out a cloak so he could wrap himself.

“Do you know us?” another broke in. “Did you dream of us?”

“Hush, Dagonet,” Aife shushed her over-eager friend. “You’ll frighten him.” She turned to the sapling again and spoke in a gentle tone. “Like you, we are sylvari. I am called Aife. What is your name?”

“Name?” The newcomer considered the question for a moment. At last, he said, “Cadeyrn,” but his tone was uncertain. He took the cloak and pulled it about his shoulders to ward off the sun. “What is this place?”

Aife smiled and tousled the sylvari’s hair, sending soft, black-willow fronds dancing around his shoulders. “This is the Grove. And she…” Aife gestured toward the massive tree beneath whose branches they gathered, “…is the Pale Tree. Our mother. Your mother too.”

Cadeyrn regarded the tree curiously, finding no strangeness in the explanation. With a nod, he looked to Dagonet. “I did dream.”

The scholar brightened, snatching up a scroll and quill. “Tell me of your dream. I have studied all of ours, but yours will be the first new dream in many years.”

Standing taller, Cadeyrn offered him a smile. “The first?” He looked around at the other pods, as yet unawakened. “Yes, I am the first, aren’t I? None of the others in my dream have awakened. The Pale Tree must have wanted to see me right away. She knew that I was special.” He puffed up like a dandelion. “I am first!”

“No, Cadeyrn. You are secondborn,” a deeper voice intoned. Malomedies was a tall, slender sylvari, with smooth hair that shone in iridescent color like the wings of a dragonfly. His proud bearing was that of an ancient oak, massive branches unyielding against the storm.

“Second?” Cadeyrn frowned. “Why am I second? I have awakened before the rest.”

“We were here first.”

Nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, a human soldier named Ronan found a strange seed during his journeys and tucked it away to give to his daughter when he returned home. Sadly, by the time he reached his village, it had been destroyed, wiped out by the White Mantle. Ronan planted the seed upon his family’s graves instead.

Twenty-five years ago, the first sylvari awakened. These firstborn knew comparatively little of the world, having experienced only the Pale Tree’s memories of Ronan, the centaur Ventari, and those who had visited during her first years. They knew, because the tree taught them of the tablet that Ventari had left behind, carved with lessons of his wisdom. Born as mature individuals, not children, the sylvari were curious, inquisitive, and eager to explore.

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Some of the firstborn, like Caithe and Faolain, roamed far from the tree. Others stayed close, exploring briefly and spending their time in study and learning. Four took up the duty of guarding the Pale Tree and keeping her company: Aife, Kahedins, Malomedies and Niamh. One, and one alone, traveled into Orr. For a handful of years, the firstborn were the only sylvari in Tyria. When the next generation flowered and awakened from the tree, they had new dreams: memories of the skills and emotions that the firstborn had discovered, mixed in with the Pale Tree’s own memories.

Unlike many races, the sylvari have an intimate sense of their own history, having lived through it. They can name the first sylvari that ever died—Riannoc, one of the firstborn. They can tell you who first learned how to write and who, specifically, developed the methods to grow houses. They tell their stories and legends as if they personally witnessed them, because for many, they have at least dreamed of it.

In essence, the Dream of Dreams is a vast collected subconscious. The Pale Tree holds the race’s collected knowledge and emotion, like a lake into which is poured the sum of sylvari experience. When a new sylvari is born, it’s as if they draw a bucket of water from that lake, a small portion of the whole. Only a few memories reach the Pale Tree: the most important or those that have the greatest emotional impact or meaning. They can include entire scenes from a sylvari’s life, such as their first battle or their first time cooking an apple pie. They can also be a single poignant moment such as pain, fear, or the face of an enemy.

A sylvari has no control over what experiences are gathered. They cannot communicate with the tree in this manner; the Mother Tree is drawing in hundreds of thousands of fragments from her children. Nor can an unborn sylvari choose which memories they will experience while within the Dream. When a sylvari awakens, the direct connection to the Dream becomes weakened. No longer surrounded by the Dream, their connection to other sylvari becomes more of an empathic bond, capable of receiving and sending strong emotions, but no longer detailed or communicative. It is nothing more than a subtle buzz.

They gathered by the Pale Tree, and rain swelled upon her upturned leaves, dripping in slow sparks to the earth below. Her roots cradled the firstborn that lay among them, his body covered in a dark blanket like moss over a grave. Malomedies was only sleeping, struggling against exhausting nightmares. From time to time, he called out, and Kahedins soothed him, placing a damp compress to his forehead in the hope that he would find rest. The healer looked up to the others, face filled with worry.

“Will he survive? Or will he…die? As Riannoc did?” The question whispered in every heart, but it was Niamh that gave it voice.

“The Mother says he will live,” Kahedins murmured, but it was little comfort.

Malomedies had been beautiful, as graceful as a willow kneeling by a stream. Now his face bore the carved scars of ill-treatment, and the branches of his once- iridescent hair had been broken and pruned into splintered, colorless pieces. One leg was withered as if kept too long from the sun, and where his fleshlike bark still clung to the vines of his torso, there were a thousand small holes.

“We must kill them all.” Cadeyrn’s eyes flashed dark gold, and his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

“The asura have offered peace. They did not realize that he… They thought he was simply another of the strange plants of the deep Maguuma, mimicking sentience,” Aife told them. “When they realized he was truly aware, they returned him to us.”

“It is not enough! How will Malomedies find peace if he does not take revenge?”

Kahedins stared disapprovingly. “Revenge? Revenge is not our way. Have you not studied Ventari’s tablet?” As the secondborn lowered his head belligerently, Kahedins lectured, “It is written, ‘The only lasting peace is the peace within your soul.’ You should meditate on that, Cadeyrn, and consider its meaning.”

Cadeyrn glanced at Trahearne, whose expression was as black as his own. No soldier would say such things. No one who had ever lifted a blade to stop oppression, or placed themselves in danger to free innocents, would say that revenge was unfitting. If Faolain and Caithe were here, they would argue his side, he was sure of it.

Abruptly, Trahearne looked up toward the spreading boughs. “Yes, Mother,” he answered a whisper only he could hear. Chagrined, the necromancer unclenched his fists. “The Pale Tree says we need to concentrate on our true enemy: the dragons. Every ally will be needed.” Gritting his teeth, Trahearne finished, “We make peace with the asura.”

Cadeyrn was not sure what was more troubling, that Trahearne had given in or that the Pale Tree had spoken only to the firstborn. Following suit, he bent his head. “As the Mother wishes.”

The sylvari believe that the portion of the day during which you were born speaks to a person’s personality, interests, and special talents. They pay close attention to this, and each of the four cycles—Dawn, Noon, Dusk and Night—are guided by one of the firstborn. Those four firstborn, called the Luminaries, tend to be the most active in the governance of the sylvari race. They work together to bring new knowledge into the Grove, defend the Pale Tree, and build political relationships with the other races of Tyria. Although the other firstborn are considered wise mentors and have certain authority, the Luminaries fulfill the primary tasks of maintaining society and guiding the sylvari as a whole.

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The Cycle of Dawn

Sylvari born during the Cycle of the Dawn, from midnight to 6 a.m., are natural talkers and planners. They are the diplomats of the sylvari race, and tend to be gregarious and friendly types. Their Luminary is the clever Aife, whose skill with words is only equaled by her keen aim with a bow. She is a diplomat and has traveled to each of the large cities of Tyria on behalf of her people. Those sylvari who wish to see the world would do well to speak with her and gain her wisdom before they begin their journey.

The Cycle of Noon

The Cycle of Noon extends from 6 a.m. to noon, during the blazing rise of the sun. On the whole, these sylvari prefer actions to words and are skilled combatants no matter how they choose to fight. They like to experience things firsthand, attack problems head on, and enjoy the rush of warfare. Niamh is their Luminary, a bold and experienced warrior that has fought many battles. She leads a company of sylvari called the Wardens, who are the guards and protectors of the Grove.

The Cycle of Dusk

Those sylvari born during the time between noon and 6 p.m. are members of the Cycle of Dusk. They tend to be intelligent, philosophical, and retiring. Such sylvari enjoy riddles and puzzles, and they prefer to spend their time in study rather than in physical pursuits. In their garden, you will find Luminary Kahedins, whose kind soul and gentle words have often been a balm to troubled sylvari. It is his task to help newly awakened sylvari understand what they have seen within the Dream of Dreams. Lately, he has been studying the written languages of Tyria and determining whether the sylvari should create a writing system of their own.

The Cycle of Night

Lastly, the sylvari born during the late hours from 6 p.m. to midnight belong to the Cycle of Night. Many of these sylvari are inclined to be solitary, preferring to travel alone. They are often secretive, self-contained, and quiet. The Cycle of Night’s Luminary is the astronomer Malomedies, credited with charting the skies and bringing mathematics to the sylvari. He was also the first to meet with the asura, a bitter tale that he rarely tells. Although Malomedies is the most private of the Luminaries, those who are awakened to his cycle speak of him as a stern mentor but a caring one.

Despite the signs of long-ago death, the slumbering ruins felt somehow alive; the hush and whisper of tide below the cliff rising and falling like a sleeper’s breath. Something low and shadowy, stinking of brine, cast a slender shadow among the crumbling rocks. Cadeyrn watched it pass between the tilted walls and fragmented arches that must have been a chapel. Saw it flicker where an altar once stood. Marked where the shadow vanished away.

“Are you prepared?” Niamh murmured softly behind him, her frond-like hair rustling in the cold breeze. She drew her sword and checked its edge, finding it keen. Eager silver eyes met his dark gold gaze. “It is time to strike.” Two others of an even younger generation than Cadeyrn stood with her; both, like them, members of the Cycle of Noon.

Cadeyrn stepped away from the little ledge on which he’d been crouched. “They are ready for us. We must move cautiously.”

Together, they crept down onto the beach and into the ruins, and there, they found their quarry. Cadeyrn’s sword cleaved a krait in two with a single stroke. He spun the weapon expertly behind his back, blocking another creature’s claw before snapping down to slice away the extended hand. A krait sorceress’s unblinking eyes widened as she wove a thaumaturgic web of slaughter, and two of the sylvari died in her flame. Fiercely, Cadeyrn leapt toward her, his blade tearing through the krait’s flesh.

He left nothing behind but scale and scream.

When the krait were dead, Niamh and Cadeyrn stood in the center of the ruined chapel, blood on their blades and fierce smiles lighting their faces. A sound caught his attention, and he raised a hand for silence, slipping forward to the place where he had seen movement from above.

Cadeyrn tilted the altar aside, and the sound grew louder. Beneath the stone lay a cave, long ago flooded by the advance of the sea. There, in a sea-cavern below the ruins, krait lay in hiding, unperturbed by the icy waters. But these were not warriors. This was a hatchery, filled with krait eggs and terrified young.

He raised his sword to continue the extermination—

“Cadeyrn!” Niamh said sharply.

Cadeyrn paused, looking up at the leader of his Cycle in confusion.

“Leave them.”

“But…they are krait.”

“They are children.”

“Children.” He frowned, for the word had little meaning. “You mean ‘they are small.’ They are small, but they are krait. They will grow up to be large krait, and then we will kill them. Why not kill them now, when it is easy and they are undefended? It seems the wisest course of action. Otherwise, we risk losing more sylvari lives when these return fully grown.”

“We must take that risk, to give them a chance to change their ways,” the firstborn said. “All things have a right to grow. The blossom is brother to the weed.” Soberly, she put away her sword and pushed the altar back. Beneath it, Cadeyrn could hear the snakes scrambling, splashing away into the ocean tide.

“Again the firstborn quote the Tablet when I ask for logic.” He growled beneath his breath. “I do not agree.”

Sylvari biology is very different from any other race. They do not have internal organs, but instead are formed of growing plant matter, sap for blood, leaves and bark for skin. A jaw, for example, can be formed by leaves, vines, or even shards of bark that grow and press together to form the silhouette, but if you look closely you can still see the fibers and holes of the structure. Instead of bones, an arm is a mass of tightly-woven stems and leaves that work together to do the work of such a limb.

Many scholars hypothesize as to why the sylvari look human-like at all instead of having a monstrous form, such as other “vegetable” races possess. Some suggest that the Pale Tree saw mostly humans during her youth. Individuals such as Ronan, who planted the seed, and others around the Pale Tree may have been physical role models for her eventual children. A popular asura theory is that the Pale Tree was planted on the graves of Ronan’s daughter and his ruined village, and their ”discorporate mass” was absorbed into the ground. The Pale Tree took nourishment from that soil, and therefore, the sylvari are predisposed to be shaped in a humanoid manner.

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Sylvari do sleep, and they can eat both meat and vegetables. They drink, as other races do, and they get tipsy on alcoholic beverages. They gain enjoyment from sitting in the sunlight—and it invigorates them—but can’t live on it as plants do. Their blood is a sticky sap, and though they can bleed, they do not have blood pressure or a pulse.

No one knows how long the sylvari live. The oldest of their race are the firstborn, all of whom awakened twenty-five years ago. Sylvari show little signs of growing old, and none have yet died of advanced age. Physically, sylvari are male or female, and the relevant external biology is accurate on both, but they cannot sexually reproduce as the other races do; they have no internal organs capable of creating children. Whether they have their own methods of reproduction outside of the Pale Tree has yet to be seen.

Sylvari grow their armor and much of their clothing. Their bodies create petal-like coverings, vines, and leaves that they shape into pleasing garments. When they wish to remove the garments, they simply shed their petal clothing as a human might cut their hair. Some sylvari wear armor made by other races or weave clothing in a more traditional manner, just out of preference. As an adopted custom, they cover themselves as humans do, concealing certain portions of their anatomy where it seems culturally appropriate.

Cadeyrn stood high on a limb in the center of the Grove, listening to the stillness of night. Crickets chirruped here and there, and night birds uttered lonesome cries, each calling to their own, even as he called to something greater than himself.

“Mother,” Cadeyrn murmured, raising his hands in gentle supplication. “I need you.”

The wind soothed the leaves at the top of the Pale Tree, and Cadeyrn felt her presence. Softly, the Mother murmured, “Son of my bough, what do you seek?”

“Wisdom.” Tears touched his eyes, and he rubbed them roughly with the back of his hand. “I see the evil in the world; I am told to fight it, but the lessons of the tablet shackle me. They prevent me from doing what is right. We put down our weapons when we should go to the slaughter. We turn away from vengeance when we are wronged, even though our spirits cry out for it. We do not take what we desire, or kill whatever we wish, or use our strength to force the world to hear us! These things are within us when we awaken. Why do we turn away from those impulses? Why do we do not follow our instincts? Always, we justify our actions with this tablet. Why do we not do whatever we want?”

The Pale Tree rustled softly. “The most effective path is not always the best one, sapling. As the firstborn have done, you must strive to be good.”

The words stung. “Who defines ‘good?’ You? Ventari? Some dead human?” Cadeyrn retorted. “The firstborn are not perfect.”

The Pale Tree paused, and for a while, Cadeyrn thought she might not reply. Mist had risen upon the nearby brook before she spoke again.

“Would you do evil in my name?” The Pale Tree sighed. “Would you cause devastation, as the charr do? Or justify wickedness in the name of knowledge, as the asura do? No, Cadeyrn. We come into this world to destroy the dragons. We must not lose ourselves in that challenge.”

“Have we not already lost ourselves, Mother? We are not centaurs or humans. Let me destroy the tablet, and we will see what it truly means to be sylvari.” There was no answer. As dawn rose and bathed the clearing in gold, Cadeyrn realized that the tree would say no more.

“She will not hear you.” The quiet voice was feminine, but it was not the tree who spoke. Spinning, Cadeyrn readied himself for battle but froze when he saw Caithe, cold and still, standing in the last shadows of night. “She will not hear you,” Caithe repeated.

“I am the first of my generation—” he began, raising his voice in argument.

Caithe shrugged and interrupted, “Why should she care? She has thousands of children now, Cadeyrn. You are either firstborn…or you are simply sylvari.”

A storm gathered upon his features. “I will never be one among many, Caithe. Not even to the Pale Tree,” he vowed, storming away. “I will make you hear me, Mother, like it or not. When I am finished and you are free at last, then I will be first in your heart!”

Caithe lingered in silence and watched him go.

“A true sylvari should have two hearts: one soft and pliable as hot wax, and the other as hard and impenetrable as an icy diamond. The first, he should show to his companions, the second, to his enemy. Woe to the one for whom the two are the same.”—Dagonet

The Nightmare Court are sylvari who embrace the darkest parts of their nature, relishing a terrifying nightmare that contains as much horror as the Dream holds inspiration. Their dark vigils are things of legend, filled with depravity, twisted courtliness, and sadistic tournaments that pervert sylvari chivalry. Their greatest ambition: to turn the Pale Tree to nightmare.

These sylvari reject the teachings of Ventari’s tablet and claim that the influence of outside races perverted the true nature of the Pale Tree and the sylvari. They seek the shadow within the Dream, turn away from what they deem false morality, and explore the darker side of their personality. Cold, cruel, and without mercy, they see themselves as true sylvari, untainted by the influence of Ronan, Ventari, and the lessons of the tablet. They consider it to be their noble purpose to bring others of their race away from that forced behavior and into darkness.

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With each act of cruelty and evil, they add more nightmares to the tree and hope, one day, to change the balance, turning the Mother to their side. Certainly, as the tree gathers emotions and memories, she draws from the Nightmare Court as well as their kinder brethren, and her pool of memories swells with both dark and light thoughts. The Nightmare Court believe that, if they can propagate more dark emotions, the pool will become more and more touched by nightmare, and new sylvari will tend away from the ethics that were forced upon them by Ventari and his followers.

In order to achieve this goal, the Nightmare Court commit acts of evil both upon sylvari and non-sylvari alike. When their own emotions become too jaded to be likely gathered into the tree, they rely on harming and tormenting other sylvari and giving them memories, horrible emotions, and other traumas in the hope that those memories will be sharp enough to be gathered. The more awful their crimes, the more likely it is that the Pale Tree will carry the memory into her well of emotions, passing those inclinations on to her next generation.

When a sylvari joins the Nightmare Court, they are initiated in a ritual pageant designed to awaken the nightmare within their spirit. They spend time as a courtier, learning the ways of the Nightmare Court, acting as a servant to higher-ranking members, and studying ways to break free of the tablet’s influence. They may choose to serve under a more senior member of the Court, becoming a squire or an apprentice. Once they have earned the ability to spread nightmare on their own, they become a knight.

It is a knight’s duty to spread fear and despair in the name of the Nightmare Court, creating traumatic memories and experiences that they hope will be taken into the Pale Tree and help to turn her—and her as-yet-unawakened children—away from the lessons of Ventari’s Tablet. To further enhance the fear they hope to create, they often take a title, and are called such during their time as a knight in the court. Such titles include Knight of Decay, Knight of Blades, Knight of Lies, or Knight of the Shattered Star. The highest ranks among the Nightmare Court are known as the Retinue. Knights who have done well are elevated into the Retinue by the Grand Duchess Faolain, who rewards them with rank and position. Baron, count, countess, duke, and duchess: all bear responsibility and a great deal of respect within the hierarchy of the court. Some knights elect to retain the title they chose for themselves as well, becoming the Count of Blades or the Duchess of Frozen Snow.

All of these titles are chosen to foster the legend and myth of the Nightmare Court. The members choose to associate themselves with evil things, so even the sound of their names might trigger a response in other sylvari. They prefer to leave their victims alive—if they are sylvari—to further spread the stories of terror, as that only increases their hold within the Dream. In the end, most Nightmare Courtiers believe they are justified in their actions. Like Cadeyrn, their founder, they seek to free the Mother Tree from the tablet and the lessons forced upon the sylvari by the shadows of the past.

The Mother mourns her errant children, knowing that they can never return from the evil they have chosen. As new sylvari go forth into the world, she reminds them to hold fast to the hero’s path of honor, courage, chivalry and compassion even as they strive for victory over the Elder Dragons. Truly, the sylvari fight not only for their own souls, but for the spirit of Tyria itself. While that battle will be hard-fought, the Pale Tree does not fear difficulty.

Hard ground makes stronger roots.

“…we gather in nightmare. We look to the darkest part of our spirits. The covetous hand, the lying heart, the knife that betrays a friend: we call upon these, and we see their power. For what are we, in the end, if not creatures of power? It will take strength to defeat the dragons, and strength does not come by turning away any weapon, no matter how vicious or how cruel. We will use them all.” Cadeyrn lounged on his throne with a careless, prideful slouch. A crown of golden vine glittered on his forehead as courtiers bowed and whispered before him, hanging on Cadeyrn’s every word, their eyes as lightless as the space between the stars.

“We, the sylvari, are the future. It is our time. We must leave behind the fears of awakening. Let go the stone that weighs us down. We were born to be more than this. We were born with a darkness in our Dream and in our heart that we could embrace…if only the Mother were not so afraid of the night. It is time to show her that her children are more than even she has dreamed we could be.

“If the sylvari are to survive, we must learn from the poison thorn and the stinging nettle, the vine that crushes the very sapling which holds it to the light. We will raise the nightmare. We will see Tyria remade in our image.

“We will grow until nightmare swallows the world.”

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The most diverse and cosmopolitan city in Tyria, Lion’s Arch is a melting pot where all the races gather and trade. Lion’s Arch owes no allegiance to any race or nation, but stands on its own – and it does so by virtue of its active navy, its financial strength, and the intelligence and cunning of its leaders.

[image error]Lion’s Arch went through multiple changes over the years since its days as the capital of Kryta in the original Guild Wars to its current incarnation as a free city in Guild Wars 2. First destroyed by the rise of the Elder Dragon Zhaitan, the ruins of Lion’s Arch were utilized as a safe harbor by ships looking to escape the horrors of the sea. The wreckage of old Lion’s Arch was slowly turned into a refuge for pirates, smugglers, and other independent vessels. Shantytowns were created, and as the waters slowly receded over the course of decades, a settlement formed that owed no allegiance to Kryta. This settlement was unified by a human named Cobiah Marriner, who fought against the scourge of Orr alongside charr, asura, norn, and any other race that would lend their vessels to the cause. Out of that staunch and allied front, the city of Lion’s Arch was reborn.

For generations, the people of Lion’s Arch have been on the front line of the war with Zhaitan, the dragon of Orr. Their city was destroyed, only to be rebuilt in defiance of the dragon’s power. The elite Lionguard have built a fortress on Claw Island, a small body of land in the harbor, in order to defend against Zhaitan’s attacks. No ship sails from their docks without a wary eye south toward the dark waters of the undead. They live each day with the knowledge that they are a bastion against the destruction that the Dragon would bring – regardless of whether or not the other nations of the world recognize, or care about, their ongoing struggle.

Lion’s Arch is run by the Captain’s Council, a committee of wealthy merchants and sea captains. Those who wish to take an active hand in the city’s governance must prove themselves regardless of their race and heritage. They must be respected as a noted ship commander, and they must have contributed to the city’s growth or health. If they are seen as a leader in the city, then they may purchase one of the seats on the Captain’s Council – when one becomes available. This system of political governance leads to a great deal of one-upmanship among the local captains and on the council itself.

Lion’s Arch is a unique location with very distinctive nautical architecture. Rather than tie the city’s architecture to any race – or to the original city’s structures – we wanted to give Lion’s Arch its own appearance in order to show that it is an independent state. Like other cities in the game, Lion’s Arch will have areas for festivals and holiday celebrations. Further, every service in the game will be available in Lion’s Arch; all trainers, storage access, merchants, crafters.

In a story sense, Lion’s Arch is extremely important. One of the main themes of Guild Wars 2 is bringing together disparate, even opposed groups in order to fight a greater enemy: the Elder Dragons. Alone, no race will survive their awakening. Only together can the races of Tyria survive. Nowhere in Tyria is that belief more strongly held than the city of Lion’s Arch.

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For centuries, tales have been told of pillared cities rising above the water far out at sea. Spires reach up from the waves with no land visible on any horizon, and their bases coil down into the ocean depths where no air-breather could survive. Lost sailors live there, their ships crushed by storms. Glittering parapets soar, formed from wood, glass, and pirate treasure long thought to be lost at sea.

The truth is that such places exist. Yet, while legends make them sound beautiful and exotic, reality is a far darker tale. These “pillared cities” are slave pens, built to hold land-dwellers alive above the waves until they are required for sacrifice. Those who live upon them are desperate, maddened creatures that gaze down every day into the dark waters and know that their time will soon come. Living on scraps of fish thrown to them by their captors, they eke out a pathetic existence while always watching for a sail on the horizon—praying, begging, and screaming for someone to rescue them before the krait return.

[image error]The krait are intelligent serpent-like creatures with long tails suited for speed in the water, but torsos and arms that are more humanoid—albeit with scales, horns, and lizard-like heads. They are incredibly vicious creatures, completely uninterested in the needs or well-being of others. Coming close to death transforms them, causing them to shape-shift out of religious frenzy; in such a state, they are even more difficult to destroy.

Equally comfortable above and below the water, the krait have never felt truly threatened by any of the land-dwelling races of Tyria. Perhaps that is why they have not bothered to communicate with other races. They have no need of anything land-dwellers can give them, other than slaves for their use and sacrifices for their rituals. However, the krait can seize those for themselves—with ruthless efficiency.

Even the amphibious hylek are at a disadvantage when fighting underwater. No hylek tribe has been able to mount an effective force against the krait. The quaggan are terrified of them and tell tales of their monstrous chantries beneath the sea. The krait have never been beaten, and do not believe themselves to be defeatable. They are convinced that they are blessed and elevated: the superior species in the world.

Krait society is dark and fanatical. Led by their priesthood, the Oratuss, the krait follow an ancient doctrine handed down to them by their abyssal prophets and constantly foretell of the prophets’ return. The krait religion is based on massive obelisks of a unique, dark stone that can be found exclusively and rarely on Tyria’s ocean floors. The krait believe that each of these obelisks was raised upon the site of a krait prophet’s ascension into a mystic world, a world beyond this one, where these nameless prophets are building an army great enough to eradicate all other species. One day, they will return and drown the surface of Tyria beneath one massive sea. The krait sacrifice slaves to show reverence to the prophets and to ensure that the prophets will have servants in their mystical “other world.”

[image error]Krait have never developed a written language. They have excellent memories, and their religious texts are memorized, Vedic-fashion, by the priesthood. These texts are vast in scope and difficult to memorize; becoming a krait Oratuss is a lifelong journey and requires tremendous, all-consuming dedication. Furthermore, unknown to the krait people, the priests ensure the continuation of their power by subtly changing the words of the massive memorized texts, ensuring that whatever interpretation they require is upheld somewhere in the canon.

Land-based historians and scholars theorize that the obelisks on the sea floor are not mystical, but are ancient monuments to religious figures and societal governors of the krait. Because the krait memorize their lore, some information has been lost over the centuries. The krait race has forgotten the obelisks’ true purpose and has invented instead a mystic reverence for the monuments and those they represent. Certainly, the obelisks are eerily smooth and have no symbols on them, and thus cannot relate their history firsthand. The krait Oratuss are the ones who interpret the meaning of these monoliths for their people—and because of the fanaticism of these priests and priestesses, the story of the obelisks’ creation and purpose has been twisted to religious use.

Like the obelisks, the krait are steadfast and immobile in their beliefs. Their legends state that all the races living above water were driven out of the sea by the prophets and forbidden to return. Although these legends seem patently false to other races, the krait refuse to listen to any “heresies” from other races; destroying them seems a much more effective way to ensure that the krait religion is not defamed.

Krait structures stretch from the ocean depths to just above the surface. The underwater constructions are elaborate, built to incorporate coral reefs and natural caverns. The great pillars that mark the slave-pens are often built of shipwrecked wood or other stolen materials garnered from forays onto land. Krait live in the palatial grounds below, worship at the obelisks, and enjoy the fruits of their hunts. Humans and other air-breathing slaves are penned in small chambers at the top of the pillars until it is time to be eaten or sacrificed. The slaves are allowed small fires in which to cook their allotment of fish; sometimes the light from their flames can be seen for miles, warning away ships that might pass too near krait waters.

“Be wary, hatchlings. Be swift. But most of all, be cruel. Let the legends of our deeds frighten them as much as the pain.” – Nymfassa, krait hypnoss

The krait are aggressive, vicious, and intelligent. They lay eggs and keep hatcheries. Both males and females are given education and battle training, and both genders perform all general societal functions. Krait are capable of surviving outside of the water, but they prefer to build their cities and towns deep beneath the waves. Their cities are often built around one or more of the great obelisks and usually contain underwater hatcheries, arenas for gladiatorial combat, and long lines of glowing road markers. These incandescent paths are visible even to those swimming some distance above. The krait are ardent mathematicians, constantly using math and numerology—as well as magic—in a constant attempt to determine the date of the prophets’ return.

Krait are very flexible and are excellent swimmers. They have three stages of existence: larval, adolescent, and mature. Larval krait are weak and fragile. They are kept in guarded hatcheries until they master swimming and basic life skills. Adolescents serve as scouts. Mature krait exhibit the strength and dedication for which their race is famous. All krait are willing to die, if necessary, so that the krait beliefs and race can survive.

The krait were featured in the original Guild Wars game, and we very much wanted to continue their story in Guild Wars 2. We knew so little about their culture and society; as we were expanding the game into new underwater regions, it was exciting to add new depth (pun intended) to an existing race.

The krait have always been an unapologetically evil race. While we take pains in many instances to provide two sides to any story and to show that even evil races, cultures, and characters have good reasons for their actions, the krait were designed to be straightforwardly “black hat.” We approached their focus on religion very cautiously, knowing that the word “prophets” would bring to mind modern religious references. It is important to note that we in no way want to compare krait fanaticism to any real-world faith. The prophets of the krait are false religious figures invented by a ruling priest caste to maintain their control. No part of the krait culture or religion is based on, or intended to resemble, any real-world parallel.

The mysterious obelisks that the krait revere were initially created by undefined pieces of concept art—dark, unadorned stone columns that looked unusual and stood out from other underwater terrain. They really caught the eye of the design team, and we could easily imagine how a race might believe these are holy relics. The GW2 art for the race is also amazing, very sinuous in animation and ferocious in design. We wanted to keep preexisting styles of krait (the hypnoss) and also add new ones. Expanding the story into their underwater cities gave us the perfect reason to introduce krait types that were not seen in the original Guild Wars.

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In the year 1090 of the Mouvelian calendar, King Adelbern, last human ruler of Ascalon, released the Foefire. The human residents of that land succumbed to the terrible magic, only to rise again as ghosts. By 1112, the High Legions of the charr reclaimed the entirety of Ascalon. Only four years later, Kalla Scorchrazor of the Blood Legion came before Forge Ironstrike, the imperator of the Iron Legion, and challenged him to help her free their people from the shamans’ control. Together, Kalla and Forge led a rebellion against the Flame Legion, overthrowing their tyrannical rule. The three legions, Blood, Ash, and Iron, then reassembled a nation from the ruins of the past.

“You’re a coward.”

“You’re a fool.”

Blades rang from their scabbards with the shrill sound of anger, and only the claws of the Iron Legion centurion kept blood off the field.

“Stand down! Both of you!” the commander roared. His black eyes bored into the unruly troopers, and the two scrappers slowly put away their swords. “I’ve got six warbands to organize, soldiers, and I can’t waste time babysitting yours. Get your tails in gear! Five years you’ve been fighting like this. Kill each other already, or stop wasting my time!”

Legionnaire Via Splitvein’s fists clenched. She snarled in barely controlled obedience. “Fine. But if this sniveling, white-jawed weakling tries to tell me what to do one more time…”

“If I don’t tell you and you blunder into an ambush, then it’s on your head.” The other charr, a smaller male of the Ash Legion, rolled his claws over the hilts of his white-handled daggers. “You and your Blood Legion warband will be turned into Branded monsters,” he sneered. “Then again, being corrupted by a dragon might actually make you more pleasant, Via.”

Via raged forward again, but the centurion still stood in her way. “Uncalled for, Feros!” The centurion pushed them both back. “Back off!” Jabbing a thick finger into the black-garbed scout’s chest, the centurion said viciously, “Your duty, Ash trash, is to escort this warband through Foulblain Expanse to Kinar Fort. If you can’t do that, then get me someone that can!”

Feros Benighted growled low in his throat and let go of his weapons. “Fine. I promise I’ll see them through the Brand—just keep that lunatic off my back.”

“Fine.” Via echoed. “Show me the path. Then stay out of my way.”

The Return of the Legions

Even after the charr recovered Ascalon, there were many challenges to overcome. The three legions of old (Iron, Ash, and Blood) struggled to establish their identities and hierarchies. Many leaders who continued to be faithful to the Flame Legion’s regime were assassinated or overcome in combat. New voices rose in their place, and the charr as a race fragmented. Only through the strength of the warbands, with their natural adherence to the chain of command, did the nation of charr survive this turbulent period. And, in an irony that was not lost on the charr, Adelbern’s final curse became an integral part of that survival.

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Once the Flame Legion’s hold was broken, the shamans and their followers fled into the Blazeridge Mountains to lick their wounds. Escape was possible primarily because the other three legions were so focused on rebuilding their internal hierarchies after generations of Flame Legion control. But after the structures of Iron, Ash, and Blood were rebuilt, it seemed almost impossible that the three legions wouldn’t immediately fall upon one another and take advantage of any weaknesses, potentially eradicating themselves.

That’s exactly what might have happened, had it not been for the ghosts of Ascalon.

Adelbern’s curse upon the lands of Ascalon swept through the humans. In a white-hot moment, it destroyed their physical forms and cursed their spirits to wander the land, forever fighting against the charr. Because the ghostly enemy was unrelenting and never completely defeated, the High Legions of the charr were forced to work together from the outset if they wished to survive. Although they detested the forced unity, the need to defend themselves and Ascalon taught the three legions how to work together without sacrificing their individuality.

Currently, the Iron, Ash, and Blood Legions operate under a shaky alliance. Smodur the Unflinching commands the Iron Legion from his stronghold in the Black Citadel. East, across the Blazeridge Mountains, Imperator Bangar Ruinbringer controls the lands of the Blood Legion. Malice Swordshadow, a young female charr, rules as imperator of the Ash Legion. Although the three legions bicker and occasionally squabble, they have managed to maintain the general state of accord. Each legion is independent, but all three send troops and support to Ascalon to eradicate the human threat. Smodur knows full well that Malice’s troops are there not only to aid, but also to spy for their imperator; however, the two leaders respect one another. Bangar is the true wild card, distrustful and prone to rage. Still, his hatred for humans overcomes his suspicions about the other imperators, and he has committed a great number of troops to the Black Citadel’s command.

A storm raged in the Brand. Lightning flashed here and there, illuminating slithering, crystalline things roaming the corrupted plains. A lone charr warband marched across the shifting sand, boots treading over ground too treacherous and constantly changing to map.

Feros paused, holding up one fist to signal a silent halt. The Blood Legion warband instantly froze in place. Via smelled the air, catching no more than a faint hint of danger. After a moment, the scout slunk back to them, crawling over the broken rocks to whisper, “Hostiles up ahead. Looks like trouble.” He sketched a quick map in the sand, indicating location, distance, and number. “They’ve already got our scent.”

“Then it’s killin’ time.” Via’s eyes narrowed. She glanced back at her warband, friends since childhood. Their faces were drawn and stiff. They knew the danger. The flatland ahead was solid. Even. It would make an excellent place to fight. “Prepare assault. Two on the rear, the rest with me. At my signal…”

Four massive creatures crested the hill. They were hideous, twisted by the energies of the Brand. Judging by their malformed skulls and huge, clawed paws, the monstrosities might once have been bears or mountain-cats. Now they were nothing but twisted shells filled with a dragon’s murderous hatred. Four. Far more than they could handle. She wasn’t even sure the warband could defeat one.

Via didn’t realize she’d taken a step back until she felt Feros’s hand on her forearm, quietly steadying her balance.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was low, and her quick ears barely caught his meaning.

“They’re… big.” She whispered the trembling words before she realized she had spoken. Stiffening, Via pulled her arm away as if his hand were a hot coal pressed against her skin. She reached for her sword. “Don’t be such a coward, Feros. We can take them.”

Feros smiled—an expression not particularly different from his snarl. “We can sure as hell try.”

The Citadel’s Master

The imperator of the Iron Legion is a stern old soldier, a veteran of countless battles, known as Smodur the Unflinching. Smodur is burly, exceptionally muscular for his age, and carries the scars of a soldier’s life. He has only one eye left, which he uses to peer gloweringly at his subordinates, and his blue-tinged plate mail has been repaired far too many times to count.

Smodur is a consummate engineer and a brilliant architect and designer. Over the years, he has been responsible for many advancements that have increased the Iron Legion’s strength. The imperator considers his legion to be the most “forward thinking” of all charr. Due to Smodur’s unusually progressive nature, other races are allowed in the Black Citadel as long as they prove their worth to the charr. Smodur is even working on a treaty with the humans defending the stronghold of Ebonhawke—a place that has long been a thorn in the Iron Legion’s side. As a condition for considering the treaty, the charr require the humans to return an ancient weapon lost during the Foefire: the Claw of the Khan-Ur.

Some say that Smodur demands the return of the legendary weapon so that he can use it to bolster his authority and claim rulership of the charr. Other rumors imply that the unconventional imperator wishes to melt down the Claw and destroy the legacy of the Khan-Ur, in hopes that his people will continue moving forward and never look back.

“Get up, soldier!” Via roared to the last of her warband. She caught a corrupted monster’s massive claws on her shield and tried to respond with a sword blow. The glazed look in her fallen companion’s eye told the tale. He was dead, like the others. Brothers and sisters of the fahrar that had fought by her side since childhood. Despite the three beasts they’d downed—one slain by Via alone – she could not stop the onslaught of the fourth. Her body ached and the weapon in her hand felt heavier with each attack.

Via’s shield shattered, raining torn iron and chips of wood across her muzzle. She staggered back and swung her blade fiercely, trying to ward off the enemy until her vision cleared. One wide slash, two—but her weapon struck nothing. Via opened her eyes, fearing the worst… just in time to see the monstrous Brand creature stagger and collapse. A white-handled dagger had pierced its crystalline heart.

Feros stood between her and the beast, his body clawed open from shoulder to tail. He managed a snarl as he fell to his knees. “Fool.”

Ignoring her own injuries, Via went to his side, tearing off her cloak and ripping it into strips to bind his wounds. Annoyed, the scout weakly swiped at her hands. “Let me die. Go, before the smell of blood brings others…”

“Coward.” She snarled, tying the knots tighter. “Giving up on a fight?”

“I’m cut bad, Via.”

“You’ll get better,” she lied.

Feros took a deep breath. “Fine. But we’re getting out of here. If you carry me, I’ll show you the way.”

“No.” Her hands paused over the bandage-ties. “If you move, you’ll bleed out. I’ll go. I’ll bring someone back for you. Less than a day.”

The Ash Legion soldier snorted in disgust. “You go alone and you won’t make it out at all. All three of us will die. It’s this way…or none at all.” Feros closed his eyes in labored pain. When he opened them again, his snarl had returned. “I promised I’d see you clear of this place, you Blood-brained idiot. That I will.”

It took only a breath to make her decision. She hoisted the Ash Legion soldier onto her back. Feros clamped his arms around her neck. With no further discussion, they headed north toward Kinar.

Chain of Command

The true head of the charr nation is the Khan-Ur, considered the primus imperator. He ranks above the imperators of all four High Legions and coordinates all the armies of the charr. The last Khan-Ur was assassinated as the humans arrived in Tyria and drove the charr out of Ascalon. A few charr have tried to claim the title since then, but none has truly united the legions under one throne. Without a Khan-Ur, each of the four legions is led by separate imperators who hold supreme authority within their legion’s structure.

Beneath each imperator are his primary commanders, the tribunes. A legion rarely has more than ten tribunes, and this office oversees an entire theatre of war or large swath of controlled territory. Beneath the tribunes are centurions. Each centurion commands a number of warbands (a “company”) and coordinates maneuvers on a broad scale within the tribune’s authority. In areas where multiple centurions are coordinating, a primus centurion might be appointed—the “first among equals” of the centurions. The primus centurion leads an active assault force of 3-5 large companies; this is smaller than the numbers encompassed by the tribune’s authority, but still sizeable.

[image error]Each warband has its own legionnaire. The legionnaires are the true heart of the legions. They lead their warbands (typically a group of 5-15 charr) on missions, guide them to victory, and provide individual leadership to the squad. Under their command are the pure soldiers of each legion –the warband members who are the rank and file of charr strength.

There are also ranks within the structure of the High Legions that do not contribute to the direct chain of command. A brevet is a temporary field command used in times of emergency. Quaestor is the legion title for quartermaster, a position typically held by an older soldier whose skills on the field have lessened, but whose experience and administrative guidance are extremely valuable. Scrapper is the catch-all term for a warband on punishment duty, no matter what their official rank.

“Primus” is the title for an adult instructor at a fahrar. As cubs are born, they are brought to their legion’s fahrar to be educated and raised in a warband composed of the cubs of that year (or close to it). The primus provides education and guidance, preparing the young warband for life as soldiers in their legion.

The bottommost rank in the High Legions is the gladium. A gladium is a charr without a warband; they are the lowest grunts, given little respect or responsibility—regardless of their previous titles or rank. Without a warband, a charr is not trusted. It is every gladium’s duty to rejoin a warband as quickly as possible. Until they do, they are seen as a black mark on the legion’s record and are looked down upon.

There is a concrete difference between gladium and charr who have been assigned away from their warbands. The former have no support and no place in the hierarchy, except on the very lowest rungs. The latter are simply performing a task or solo mission away from their units. It is acceptable for charr to be away from their warbands for a long period, when duty and need require it. But charr on independent duty, unlike gladium, always have their units to call on and return to when their missions are complete.

The young primus of the fahrar raised an eyebrow when he saw a Blood legionnaire striding toward the pits. Her wounds had not yet healed from a trip through the Brand, and trails from massive claws were still fresh on her body. In her arms, she held a dark-furred cub not more than two weeks old. “Blood Legion?” the primus scoffed. “This is an Ash fahrar.”

“I know where I am,” the warrior snarled fiercely, baring her teeth. “Take the wretched thing and be done.” Despite her words, she held onto her cub for a moment longer, brushing back the fur from his ears and letting the baby tug playfully at her clawed finger.

“Who’s the father?” The Ash primus asked curiously.

His answer was served with a sharp glare. “None of your business, Ash trash.” She looked down at the cub one more time before placing him gently in the primus’s arms. “He was one of yours. That’s all you need to know.”

The primus lay the babe with the others: the warband it would one day rely upon. “Does the cub have a name?” he asked cautiously, calling to the Blood Legion warrior as she walked away.

She paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Veros,” she grunted. The Blood Legion warrior rested her hand on a white-handled dagger that hung at her belt. “And, primus? Tell him that his father was a coward.” After a moment, she murmured softly, “Then make sure he turns out the same way.”

Via lowered her head as if shouldering a burden and silently left the fahrar.

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The oldest asuran writings tell of the deep lands far below the surface of Tyria. Their lore describes beasts that no human or charr has ever known and gives histories of places now thought destroyed forever by the rise of Primordus, the Elder Dragon. These scrolls also speak of monsters fell and dangerous…and other creatures, perhaps not as dangerous, but horribly, wickedly tricksy – the skritt.

Watch out for the skritt. Oh, one is amusing enough, but imagine two…or twenty…or two hundred of the blasted things! No, you’d better exterminate the entire colony of them now and be done with it—before things get out of hand.

—Dlixx, inventor of the ‘Better Mousetrap’ Mass Trauma Wargolem

Skritt are small, rat-like creatures in Guild Wars 2 who come from deep beneath the surface of Tyria. At first glance, these skittering fur balls may seem barely capable of rational speech, but they wield weapons and wear clothing and armor like more advanced races. Also, as the asura will tell you (or as any careful observer might note), the skritt actually gain intelligence when many of them congregate. Speaking in chirps and squeaks so fast that it sounds like buzzing to human ears, they share information, parse knowledge, and determine actions between themselves. The more skritt there are to do so, the more rational, intelligent, and cunning their activities become. One skritt alone is a simple-minded individual, capable of performing basic tasks and keeping himself alive, but an entire colony of hundreds? Clever enough to challenge even the brainpower of the asura.

The asura see the skritt as moochers. They don’t plan, they are not strategists beyond small tactics and survival techniques, and they are quick to take advantage when they see an opening. They are neither inventors nor scientists, but they are curious. Given enough time with someone else’s invention, a skritt will discover how it works—and possibly how to replicate it. That alone is enough to annoy the asura beyond reason.

There are those among the humans who laugh at the asura’s rabid belief that all things skritt must be eliminated; how could a race as evolved and powerful as the brilliant asura be afraid of rats?

Arrgh! Did I not tell you? Do not walk—not walk—on ice! Fall! You! Cold! The surface is different than below!

—Siktikta, advance scout for Fionnghuala Colony

[image error]The skritt and the asura have long been enemies, beneath the surface of the world. Fighting over territory and resources for generations, the two races have perpetually been at one another’s throats. Commonly, the asura had the advantage—an asura, after all, is every bit as smart when alone as she is when she is with others—but the skritt reproductive cycle is faster, allowing them to retain their numbers even as the asura eradicate them. This leads the asura to massacre skritt as rapidly as possible, arguing that if they didn’t, the skritt would quickly overpopulate and be a massive threat to the civilized world.

When Primordus rose beneath the earth, driving the asura to the surface, the skritt also fled to the lands above. Unfortunately, they were not as successful as the asura in doing so. Packs of skritt (or individuals) separated from the body of the fleeing group would too easily lose their way or make poor decisions, ending in their destruction by Primordus’s destroyers. Therefore, fewer skritt survived to colonize closer to the surface. For a while, the asura believed their ancient annoyance had been destroyed—a single bright spot in the rise of the Elder Dragons. However, within a few generations, they discovered instead pockets of skritt resettling throughout Tyria.

Since then, the asura have renewed their war against the skritt, entreating other races to eradicate their furred enemy as well. Some races (such as the charr) are more than happy to do so, seeing the skritt as a pest to eradicate. Others, such as the humans and the sylvari, are more willing to talk to the skritt and make alliances. The skritt are often eager to do so, and more or less trustworthy…as long as they stay in a group large enough to provide sufficient brainpower to remember the conditions they agreed to respect.

Warriors among the skritt are called skean dhu. An apt student will note that the words literally translate to ‘any skritt holding a weapon.’

—Rava Skrittcoat, lecturer at the College of Dynamics

The skritt naturally evolve a leader as they begin to gather permanently in one place; that leader is usually chosen for his or her ability to most rapidly parse the information brought by other skritt. The rest of their race at that location respect the leader as something of a first-among-equals, allowing that individual to choose future strategies and plans for the entire colony. The entire group gathers en masse at least once every moon (usually on the full or new moon, as it is easiest to note) in order to share large-scale information. They commune, discuss the events of the past month, and prepare for any difficulties they know to be approaching during the next moon.

Although skritt love to take objects for their own, they do not prize jewelry or useless items, nor do they decorate themselves with shiny objects. Such things can only bring harm to a skritt who is trying to be sneaky! Instead, they prefer useful objects, items that give them an advantage in hunting or other work, or things that they are incapable of making for themselves.

Seek it and find. Do not look. It is not; therefore, you should ‘not-look’ with care. Yes?

—Old Aodhrrak, Ratatosk Colony

The skritt have only a faint sense of faith—more a sense of empathy for the world than a belief in a divine source or power. Skritt feel that life exists simply so that one can have pleasant times and good memories. They are hedonists and are willing to gain their comforts from someone else’s labor. They are scavengers, but picky ones. They’re not the sort to dig through your trash, but rather the kind of mooch who convinces you that your extra sword is too much trouble to carry and you should give it to them. They do have a sense of material value, and prefer shinier, more advanced items. In time, skritt will likely break anything they’ve been given and come sniffing around for newer and better items to acquire.

The skritt are sneaky, intelligent scavengers who resemble a humanoid cross between rats and bats. They are omnivorous, preferring cooked meat and harvested fungi from the underground. Skritt are far too lazy and self-absorbed to run sufficient farms, except for those that require next to no work on their part. They prefer to live in large hollows or caverns, known as “scratches,” using rocks and underground passageways to build a safe environment. They do have architecture, and build huts or structures within the main area of their hollow out of the items they scavenge. There is no societal distinction between male and female skritt. Only the asura, who have generations of interactions with this race, can easily tell the difference between the two genders. To other races, all skritt look very much the same.

[image error]No one really knows how the skritt hive-like intelligence works. The most likely theory is that the skritt simply communicate so rapidly that, when together, they can vet their ideas and choose the best one within seconds, rather than going with whatever plan each individual first conceived. Certainly, the skritt have exceptionally sharp auditory skills. They can communicate with one another almost instantly if they are within earshot. If you meet one skritt alone, he might not appear particularly intelligent, but if you meet several, they can discuss their surroundings in amazingly swift, almost ultrasonic chirrups and chitters, and are able to process information and make more intelligent decisions. Therefore, the skritt seem less intelligent in small groups and more intelligent when they gather in larger ones. Because of this, the skritt in their scratches are the most intelligent—and possibly the most dangerous. Even the bravest asura hesitate to attack a hollow when it is filled with skritt.

Female skritt may give birth to litters approximately three to five times in their lives. These litters rapidly become self-sufficient and move out to live on their own. However, due to the nature of skritt intelligence, young skritt occasionally wander off alone and find themselves without the chittering of others to help them in dangerous situations—thus the overall population remains relatively small. Skritt mothers and fathers care a great deal for their children, and pamper them with the finest objects that can be bought, bartered for, or stolen.

Skritt have some difficulty communicating with other species. Due to the unique method of their race’s interpersonal communication, skritt often simply assume you know what they’re talking about. They also assume that you have the ability to keep up with their fast-paced idea transfer, and will speak rapidly and without specifics—because another skritt would simply understand without needing those details. Skritt also occasionally get over-excited and repeat themselves to make sure the “slow-witted not-skritt” actually understand them.

The skritt are a new species in Guild Wars 2, and their creation came from brainstorms about the effects of Primordus’s awakening. We’d already talked about the asura coming to the surface, but when we started to think about what the underground world must have been like for the asura, we concluded that the asura couldn’t have been alone down there. Other creatures, like the dredge, must also have been affected by the Elder Dragon’s aggression.

We hadn’t explored the idea of a hive-mind in our world before, but we didn’t want to just repeat the old standard—an insectoid race. We went through many ideas, and eventually settled on the concept of a rattus rattus based horde. A major consideration in their creation was that this race had to challenge the asura on their own terms, but not be just another super-intelligent species. We wanted them to have weaknesses, flaws, and differences—as well as strengths.

We had a quest chain that involved skritt at one point; although it didn’t make it into the game, it was a fascinating story. A small colony of skritt came upon a tribe of kodan and listened to the kodan philosophy. As a group, they were able to understand it very well, and one of them was impressed and wanted to learn more. The other skritt left the area, but that one stayed behind to study with the kodan. Unfortunately, once the other skritt left, he found himself in a terrible position—he was no longer intelligent enough to understand the kodan philosophy or remember why he idolized them so much. The feelings remained and he stayed with the kodan—but, tragically, he would never be able to truly understand them. It was GW2’s version of Flowers for Algernon. I hope that one day we’ll be able to put that tale in the game.