Annaveil Neveris

"What of the fallen?"

...Necessary precautions...

"We must take the necessary precautions, or find ourselves without choices in the most dire of times."

...Use them...

"Mordremoth will take them. He will use them. I will see to it that he does not."

If I am ever to be lost in this world, let it be with him.

The sun shone so brightly over the rooftops of Divinity's Reach that day, affording a clear view of the busy low street from the high city. From here she was sure she could even see a particular corner house on the very last street of Salma District. A house she hadn't seen in years. 

"Did you come alone?" a voice asked from the doorway behind her. It was cold, slicing and bitter even in the warmth of such a beautiful Krytan afternoon.

Annaveil didn't deign to answer.

"What did you ask me here for, Darius?"

"Is he skulking nearby or did you leave him at home?" he insisted, and took a moment to give a cautionary glance toward the darker corners behind him.

"He isn't here, but don't let that be cause to forego worrying. What do you want, brother?"

His jaw tightened, betraying the pain of memory. Darius wanted to retort with some petty argument for argument's sake, but thought better of it.

"Father's libram."

"And why do you need my permission? You've never been one to ask for things, you've always seemed to enjoy taking them." It was a question meant to sting, to remind. Annaveil knew why he'd chosen to ask. It was the same reason his ever-present gloves fit so loosely and awkwardly. Like thick cloth draped over tree branches.

She could hear the wilted pride in the huff of his breath, in the silence that hung after.

"I'd rather not speak to the back of your head, sister."

"Fortune favors you well enough that you're speaking to me at all, don't test her generosity. I don't have father's libram and even if I did, I'd never let you have it - or anything else for that matter. I came here out of respect for the memory of our family, dearest Darius. And perhaps to sate my own curiosity." The last part came with hesitation, as though she'd only just realized that truth herself. Annaveil turned to look back at him, her gaze holding his. He'd aged many years in so few. Lines etched his forehead, his pallid cheeks sunk low near his teeth. In some ways, it wrung her heart into a twisted mess to see him like this.

"You do have it," Darius responded, and stepped out onto the shaded promenade. Annaveil smiled.

"As far as you're concerned, I don't."

"Six damn you, Anna!" he hissed. His patience snapped, as it was wont to do. "This isn't about anything between us, did you not read the letter?"

"I did," Annaveil responded coolly. She watched him as he paced the width of the walkway. "Something or another to do with protecting Kryta. Even if I believed you capable of such a task, you'd never convince me that you've any interest in anything that doesn't immediately benefit yourself." Her chin lifted, and she bit her tongue to keep from pouring any other festered hatred out onto him.

Darius mustered some sense of pride and confidence, lowering his voice to attempt to reason with her loyalty. "There are people in the city who care about the truth. Who care about the bricks and blood our lives were built on and-"

"The truth?" Annaveil interjected, brow raised. Her anger flared, reflecting violently in the sharpness of her viridian glare.

"I know more of the truth than you think, brother. But let's not pretend as though you're unaware of what happened in the Maguuma. As ignorant as you are, stupidity is unbecoming of you."

"You don't know half of what you think you do, Annaveil. There's cause for doubt in every corner, especially for those on your side." There was a cruelty in how he said it, in the grin he dared to don. It was the last thing she remembered, his teeth.

Annaveil bolted upright in her seat, breathing heavily. Blood pounded in her ears, deafening her and slowly drumming away the memory of sleep. It took her a moment to fully regain her bearings, to push past the thick vines that still threatened to choke her in her quietest hours, when thoughts would wander.

But she was home now. The gentle noises and sounds of family echoed through the house. Paws padding across creaky floorboards, Cyrus's voice carrying down the hallway, the sweet smell of Fran's efforts in the kitchen and the earthy scent of Cass's garden just outside the open window.

"Annaveil?" It was Fran's voice. She stepped around the corner holding a wicker basket of linens fresh from the line. "Are you alright?"

Annaveil looked up, slightly startled by not having heard anyone come in through the door.

"What? Oh, Fran. Yes, I'm sorry. I had a dream..." she said, trailing off into thought.

Fran's lips pursed, understanding, and she strode across towards the kitchen. "I'll make a tonic to get rid of it, not to worry!"

Annaveil couldn't help but smile.

"To get rid of the headache?"

"The dreams," Fran corrected.

"I didn't know there was something for that," Annaveil responded as she pushed herself to her feet and followed behind Fran into the kitchen.

"Ah, there's an herb for everything, dear Anna. Of course you can't quite cook them as you would a stew." Fran had already put the basket aside and gone to work with selecting a medley of ingredients.

"I had no idea you were so learned in such things," Annaveil said, mildly impressed by her resourcefulness though hardly surprised.

Fran's wrinkled cheeks dimpled further with a smile. "I wasn't always an old woman, I'll remind you."

Our beloved family,

We made it. We're safe, tucked away in a canyon north of the jungle. This letter comes with both of our love, as I'm sitting here writing this with Cyrus at my side in what small moment we've found to spare for such luxuries. It isn't an easy time out here. There are no simple choices, ever, and the road ahead is frighteningly winding. Every turn we make is a blind one, no matter how we prepare for it.

And yet, Fran, you know my persistence. Cass knows her son's. When I was a little girl and found myself facing something that seemed so impossible you, Fran, would tell me that fear was only my doubt in myself. That being afraid wasn't being cowardly, but that allowing doubts to dictate my choices was. Out here, your wisdom rings true and I still hear your warm voice resonating, reminding me of that.

Surely by the time this reaches you, you'll have heard word that the Pact fleet fell from the sky -- and with us aboard. I'll not lie with saying it was anything less than terrifying, but I'll spare the details for your sake as much as mine. We are safe now. Let your hearts rest knowing that. We are advancing, we are succeeding in our efforts, and we will come home to you.

This letter cannot convey just how often we think of you. How every day, we miss each of you. I do not know how often I'll be able to write these, but every half a chance I get I'll make an effort to reach out.

Kiss our children for us and please, let their blissful innocence shine on you in the same way that it warms our hearts even in the thick of this gods forsaken place.

With all our love, Annaveil and Cyrus

P.S. Be wary of strangers in all forms, but keep a particular eye on sylvari and do not entrust more to them than absolutely necessary.

An additional note comes along with the letter, with a list penned down its back.

I've instructed that a Priory Adept is to personally deliver this list along with our correspondence. Please arrange for them to take these items back with them. As well, we've a need for that little cheeky construct creature that we've left in your charge -- Monty. Ready him to be brought to us and let him know that he'll be seeing Avelline very soon.

This form of communication is limited to relatively small packages and isn't suited for the moving of bodies, but some things may be delivered back and forth. Please, let us know how you are. We yearn for word from home, for news of Eliza and Eadon's day to day life. How they're growing, the little things we're missing. I miss them, Fran. I miss you.

A living plague. Annaveil held a small glass vial between thumb and forefinger, jiggling it every so often to disturb the bioluminescent particles distended in the murky substance. They pulsed with a faint, sickly green glow from the jostle, the light dimming away just as quickly as it appeared. Slowly, carefully, Annaveil replaced the vial amongst the rest settled in the oak box. The wood was red, stained with a particular oil that had a pungent stench to ward off any wild creatures that might curiously wander near. This undertaking had consumed most of her time lately–the Fleshreavers and the ridding of them. She’d spent countless hours studying the nuances of their physiology, habitats, scouring for information on sightings in the last year. She often quietly found herself thinking that this grim task was a welcome reprieve from her mind wandering into the west, into the jungle. Training for the inevitable had gone well thus far, though Annaveil feared their greatest weakness wasn’t something to be remedied in a mock battle at the tip of a comrade’s sword. Even – if not especially Annaveil found herself questioning her own readiness. Magic was different from steel, a cold and lifeless instrument warmed by the fire of a man’s heart. With magic, it was the user who stood as the instrument. Power bends and flows with a searing life all its own, threading through its wielder and bolstering. Mordremoth would endeavor to mitigate that flow, snipping the thread between mind and magic, aiming to leave them all defenseless with their sturdy steel and clever footwork. There was more to this. She glanced at the red box again, thinking hard on that sentiment. There was always more to it.

Motley. Ragtag. Eclectic. I'm unsure of how to describe this bunch of self-appointed protectors. They've a number that hail from every corner of Kryta, and some further still, reaching across Ashford and as far south as Rata Sum. I sincerely know not what to make of them, though their intentions seem to strike close to heart and home. They are good people, and capable people, but I worry that some of them think more of themselves and less of what the world faces.

The Watchers, they call themselves. Cyrus trusts them a bit more than I do, I think, perhaps because it's a cause he once dedicated himself to years ago. I won't fault him for that, nor will I take it from him by voicing my reservations. In any case, my cynicism shall remain locked away with you for the time being, little journal. In the absence of my faith, I trust his.

Tinkerers, saboteurs, soldiers, harlots, vagabonds, even a few strangely outspoken members of the Order of Whispers are amongst them. Admittedly, I have my doubts concerning the genuinity of these Whispers agents; it seems backwards to announce yourself so boldly in such a station. Though, far be it to me to assume to know the workings of an order of which I've no part in. Frankly, I dare say I find myself pondering the workings of the Priory as of late. After the Mordrem invasion, and a taste of Mordremoth's promise lest we act, I've had difficulty ignoring the looming threat that I am reminded of on a near weekly basis.

Act, Glekk implores. After his first visit, he's taken an interest in both myself and Cyrus, no doubt thanks to Atalas catching his eye. I do wonder if he knows more of my family than he lets on, and it wouldn't surprise me if he did. I think it strange that a venerable and stubborn member of the Priory such as that pretentious asura would take more of an interest in a runeblade's wielder than the sword itself. Curious.

As a note of finality, our dearest baby Blue's birthday draws nearer. We've spent a great deal of time in the wilderness lately, doing our part alongside these Watchers, and when we return home in the coming week, it will be a most joyous time.

...and she saith unto him, "The hour of My dawn approaches. May this light shine brightly beyond the reach of Man, so that forever may his reach exceed his grasp. If ever does your world darken and your way becometh lost, seek out Mine light so that you may reach again." I am writing this now, in a bath with Cyrus as he reads over my shoulder, because he insists I will forget the quote in a decade due to "old age and decrepitness". Let it be known that on this day, the 15th day of the Season of the Colossus, of the year 1328 AE, I fully recall this excerpt from the Scriptures of Dwayna and do hereby vow to prove my husband wrong in ten years time by reciting it then.

The attack came unexpectedly, without provocation, as it always did. As it always would.

Annaveil stood at the shore of a ruined and toxic waste of a lake, watching through the growing darkness as dots of firelight began to disperse out and around the Priory camp. The nighttime stillness of this place was only unsettled by the creaking, reverberating groans coming from the trees in the distance. She knew, as they all did, that those sounds were promises of things they’d face soon enough.

Thus far, the encampments were few and far between though they worked on into the night to accommodate for the rising numbers of volunteers and soldiers alike. Their camp was little more than a handful of white and blue tents nestled against the safety of a sheer cliff, giving them an advantageous view of the western side of the border. They were among the first to arrive with the Priory and though a steady stream of reinforcements was promised, it seemed as though for every green and glory-drunk recruit that marched down that patrolled road, there were four relentless monstrosities waiting for him just on the other side of the hill.

Their efforts had won them the day, but the cost would never sit well with her. The thought brought a warm and frayed voice to mind, one she hadn’t heard in nearly a decade.

“…just the nature of war, that is. Young men and women will always be giving their lives to the carnage. The foundation of our society is built on their bones and it always will be. Call it folly if you’re feeling cynical, or sad if you prefer a somber tone, but never mistake it to be anything less what it is. Loyalty. That alone is worth our faith, sweet dove.”

It was the chill up her spine that shook her from the memory, and for a moment she could’ve sworn she smelled the faintest hint of sweet pipe smoke on the wind.

“Anna,” a sturdy voice called down to her. She turned to see Cyrus standing up the hill, at their tent and waving her inside.

After giving one last moment to the eerie quiet of the lake pocked with that distant and ominous reminder, Annaveil made her way up to join him with the smile he never failed to bring out. Even here.

An unusual sort of letter came yesterday. It was delivered later on in the evening, in a black envelope and with no name attached--addressed to no one, signed by no one. Its only distinguishing point was a hawk crest, a sigil unknown to me but surprisingly familiar to my husband. Cyrus pointed it out as a mark of Vincent Graves. Its message was cryptic at best, and if I hadn't had this strange feeling that I recognized that lazy script, I wouldn't have bothered giving it half a thought as anything worth my time in the first place. I find myself glad that I did. I do worry if I should be wary of such a message, especially given who it's from, but I can't shake this feeling that he's trying to help. Valera, the letter mentioned. Cyrus recognized the name but he didn't say much in the way of who she was. Should I trust the advice of a man like Graves and seek out a name, unknowing of why?