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About a month ago it was his old Citadel quarters. Week after, it was that almighty hardass.
Archuk Swampmoss mulls over the locket’s contents, his free hand twirling a dagger. He never bothered with sentimental bullshit. No reason to fight other than the fight itself, and the spoils he pilfered out on sortie would go towards that evening’s stakes, or traded for favours. So whatever overlord or deity that decided to stuff a heart-shaped locket on his being as he passed into this fresh hell must’ve caused a real riot in their pantheon. He’s tried throwing it away, crushing it, unloading rounds into it. Checking the metal fragments are as pulverized as they could be. Burying the remains underneath dirt and bodies. And without fail, when his attention lapses, his hand would brush up against that smooth lump in his left pocket, signaling another failed attempt.
No point in wasting energy and ammo for another round of impotent rage, so Archuk opened the locket for the first time and found an unusually detailed drawing of the Citadel’s gates. Nothing of note; a resounding shrug. Few days later, the portrait was messy and washed, as if the paper within had become wet. Soon after, the penciled lines reconstructed themselves, morphing over more days until it became the forests of Ascalon. Well, days by his estimate. It’s been an endless nightmare-red sky even after his meeting with Reave. Speaking of Reave…
“Y’done scavenging yet?” Archuk barks.
Reave Dustwake heaves himself from the fifteen-ish bodies that surround him, an armful of weapons blocking his vision. He drops a few swords as he steps over the corpses, grey as the ground where they once fought. “I’m done,” he affirms. “Nothing really of note, other than your new beloved,” Reave continues, handing over a medium-sized battleaxe. The remaining halberds, foci, and pistols clatter at their feet, unwanted.
Anger abated, Archuk tosses the pilfered dagger over his shoulder in favour of his new toy. There was always a satisfying krunlch or shrlack whenever he bisected these mooks – dark, pallid spirits of all races that fought more like automatons than a once-living being. Norn bodies produced the best sounds, but charr and tengu weren’t too far behind. Many false nights have passed since he relegated his revolvers for emergency use, Archuk’s usual armaments now coming from whatever he can rip from any number of freshly killed foes. Still, Reave seemed content with his usual sword-and-torch from his conscripted days. What a bore.
“The locket. Change into anything interesting?” Reave inquires, idly checking the fitment of his scabbard.
Archuk does not respond, stone-faced. Every image beforehand were places or people Archuk recognized. Jahar Swampbite, drinking alone. Laxia Swampdrown chewing him out for not calling in backup. Cleaning out a game of cards between him and the Flail warband. Incoming fire from an ogre ambush, flaming arrows trailing through the air. Human trebuchets alight as he plunges a knife into a hapless bastard’s neck. White Mantle Justicar Tonia D’Artagan through the lens of a scope, moments before ventilation via high-caliber munitions. Old haunts, theatres of war, high value targets. An entire lifetime of battles fought and won, and the comrades that fought alongside him. So why this moment of…tenderness?
Archuk barely remembers the other charr’s name. He’s bed plenty of young, excited minxes that hung onto every word and turned into puddles with a single lurid gaze. But he certainly never posed for a portrait that looked like this, alongside Arm Piece number five of twenty-something. This wasn’t a memory, but a…reminder? Somehow this vixen was better than the rest? Archuk admits that as the years rolled on, the relationships never had the same sort of spark. They were all too easy and pliable; steak never tastes as good when it’s for every single meal. Still, the damn locket decided to double up on the scorchin’ sentimentality. Annoying piece of sh-
“Look, it’s fine. Forget I asked,” Reave interjects. Archuk flick his gaze towards his sole compatriot and grunts, brushing off the other’s concern. “Nothing’s on it,” he mutters, casting his eyes farther into the horizon. “Few of the islands have linked up. Get moving.”
Unshaken as ever, Reave grins and heads out towards the land bridge ahead, leaving Archuk to trail him. Much like the Mists, this pit of despair was mostly numerous floating islands that connected at irregular intervals, each dotted with various crumbling structures and the occasional wave of monstrosities that would rise from the earth itself. Grey, lifeless dirt kicked up as they pass over the bridge, hopping over cracks and crevices where the earth does not connect.
The axehead smacks against his thigh, and the hard lump against fur forces his mind back to the locket – the portrait, searing itself into his head. Grumbling, Archuk relents and takes out the blasted trinket, praying that one good, hard look would satisfy his subconscious.
It’s still there, sepia tones unchanged. Him, smiling warmly for some forsaken reason and-
…Kurn. Yes, that was her name. He remembers now. She…was not smiling correctly either. Not enough teeth. Wild bitch, for sure. Hell of a partier, and definitely one of the better lays too. Tch, the powers-that-be couldn’t get her personality right in this drawing either.
Archuk snaps the locket closed, anger abated for the second time in many moments. His mind wanders again, trawling through memories untainted by conflict and ego.
…Parallax. Weird surname, but that was it. Kurn Parallax.
Archuk Swampmoss, Kurn Parallax © me
Art ©
pejntboks
GW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Archuk Swampmoss mulls over the locket’s contents, his free hand twirling a dagger. He never bothered with sentimental bullshit. No reason to fight other than the fight itself, and the spoils he pilfered out on sortie would go towards that evening’s stakes, or traded for favours. So whatever overlord or deity that decided to stuff a heart-shaped locket on his being as he passed into this fresh hell must’ve caused a real riot in their pantheon. He’s tried throwing it away, crushing it, unloading rounds into it. Checking the metal fragments are as pulverized as they could be. Burying the remains underneath dirt and bodies. And without fail, when his attention lapses, his hand would brush up against that smooth lump in his left pocket, signaling another failed attempt.
No point in wasting energy and ammo for another round of impotent rage, so Archuk opened the locket for the first time and found an unusually detailed drawing of the Citadel’s gates. Nothing of note; a resounding shrug. Few days later, the portrait was messy and washed, as if the paper within had become wet. Soon after, the penciled lines reconstructed themselves, morphing over more days until it became the forests of Ascalon. Well, days by his estimate. It’s been an endless nightmare-red sky even after his meeting with Reave. Speaking of Reave…
“Y’done scavenging yet?” Archuk barks.
Reave Dustwake heaves himself from the fifteen-ish bodies that surround him, an armful of weapons blocking his vision. He drops a few swords as he steps over the corpses, grey as the ground where they once fought. “I’m done,” he affirms. “Nothing really of note, other than your new beloved,” Reave continues, handing over a medium-sized battleaxe. The remaining halberds, foci, and pistols clatter at their feet, unwanted.
Anger abated, Archuk tosses the pilfered dagger over his shoulder in favour of his new toy. There was always a satisfying krunlch or shrlack whenever he bisected these mooks – dark, pallid spirits of all races that fought more like automatons than a once-living being. Norn bodies produced the best sounds, but charr and tengu weren’t too far behind. Many false nights have passed since he relegated his revolvers for emergency use, Archuk’s usual armaments now coming from whatever he can rip from any number of freshly killed foes. Still, Reave seemed content with his usual sword-and-torch from his conscripted days. What a bore.
“The locket. Change into anything interesting?” Reave inquires, idly checking the fitment of his scabbard.
Archuk does not respond, stone-faced. Every image beforehand were places or people Archuk recognized. Jahar Swampbite, drinking alone. Laxia Swampdrown chewing him out for not calling in backup. Cleaning out a game of cards between him and the Flail warband. Incoming fire from an ogre ambush, flaming arrows trailing through the air. Human trebuchets alight as he plunges a knife into a hapless bastard’s neck. White Mantle Justicar Tonia D’Artagan through the lens of a scope, moments before ventilation via high-caliber munitions. Old haunts, theatres of war, high value targets. An entire lifetime of battles fought and won, and the comrades that fought alongside him. So why this moment of…tenderness?
Archuk barely remembers the other charr’s name. He’s bed plenty of young, excited minxes that hung onto every word and turned into puddles with a single lurid gaze. But he certainly never posed for a portrait that looked like this, alongside Arm Piece number five of twenty-something. This wasn’t a memory, but a…reminder? Somehow this vixen was better than the rest? Archuk admits that as the years rolled on, the relationships never had the same sort of spark. They were all too easy and pliable; steak never tastes as good when it’s for every single meal. Still, the damn locket decided to double up on the scorchin’ sentimentality. Annoying piece of sh-
“Look, it’s fine. Forget I asked,” Reave interjects. Archuk flick his gaze towards his sole compatriot and grunts, brushing off the other’s concern. “Nothing’s on it,” he mutters, casting his eyes farther into the horizon. “Few of the islands have linked up. Get moving.”
Unshaken as ever, Reave grins and heads out towards the land bridge ahead, leaving Archuk to trail him. Much like the Mists, this pit of despair was mostly numerous floating islands that connected at irregular intervals, each dotted with various crumbling structures and the occasional wave of monstrosities that would rise from the earth itself. Grey, lifeless dirt kicked up as they pass over the bridge, hopping over cracks and crevices where the earth does not connect.
The axehead smacks against his thigh, and the hard lump against fur forces his mind back to the locket – the portrait, searing itself into his head. Grumbling, Archuk relents and takes out the blasted trinket, praying that one good, hard look would satisfy his subconscious.
It’s still there, sepia tones unchanged. Him, smiling warmly for some forsaken reason and-
…Kurn. Yes, that was her name. He remembers now. She…was not smiling correctly either. Not enough teeth. Wild bitch, for sure. Hell of a partier, and definitely one of the better lays too. Tch, the powers-that-be couldn’t get her personality right in this drawing either.
Archuk snaps the locket closed, anger abated for the second time in many moments. His mind wanders again, trawling through memories untainted by conflict and ego.
…Parallax. Weird surname, but that was it. Kurn Parallax.
Archuk Swampmoss, Kurn Parallax © me
Art ©
pejntboksGW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 2244 x 1073px
File Size 1.68 MB
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