(minus the sword at this point ;))

"Come on, you stupid beast!"

Garret kicked the doylak, but of course it made no impression on the large beast of burden. It lazily turned its horned head towards him and regarded him with a mixture of smug contempt and stubbornness. That's what it looked like to Garret at least.

"Oh come on, the damned city is just over there!" He pointed at at the dark mass looming before them. "You can eat and sleep once we get there."

It was a reasonable suggestion and the doylak might have agreed if it had the capacity of understanding human speech or, indeed, if it had the capacity to understand anything at all. However, it was a dumb, stubborn beast, so it just kept grazing from a thin patch of grass while its handler kept hurling insults at it. This carried on for a couple of minutes until an older wagoner, who had been at the end of the caravan, stopped by Garret and laughed.

"Need a hand there, lad? These doyalks are mighty stubborn if you don't know how to handle 'em."

At this point Garret was so frustrated that he simply shrugged. The older man, probably in his late fifties by the looks of him, was tall and gaunt - he looked almost comical standing next to his massive doylak, which was even larger than the one Garrett had. Good thing they were docile too, Garret wouldn't want to go up against one of these things if they were enraged.

The thin man didn't do anything miraculous, he simply kept walking, leading his charge by its reins. When they passed by Garret, his doylak looked up and followed its larger fellow.

"Doylaks are herd creatures, son. The one I'm leading is the oldest, so the young'uns will follow her. That's why I'm bringin' up the rear, y'see, to help greenhorns like you." A wheezy laugh followed, as he muttered something under his breath.

Garrett wasn't in the mood for conversation, so he nodded and kept walking through the muddied road. The slow drizzle was gradually gaining in strength and the thunder in the distances heralded the coming of a storm. At least he would have a roof over his head tonight or, well, whatever passed as a roof in the Charr's capital. He wasn't even if sure if this was the Charr's capital - from what he knew this was the stronghold of one of their factions, but it was also where they conducted business with the other races, so that basically made it a capital in his eyes.

The Black Citadel, as they called it, more than lived up to its name. It had begun as a blurred silhouette in the distance, but had gradually grown in size, until it dominated the horizon. A huge, black sphere loomed over the city proper, which apparently was where the Charr's leaders resided. In itself, that wasn't very surprising - rich and important people liked living in big buildings and nothing screamed "rich and important" like a massive metal ball in the middle of town. Why had they chosen that shape though, a sphere? Perhaps it had some cultural significance, but Garret doubted he'd have a chance to find out.

By his reckoning, today was their fifth day on the march since they'd left behind the Shiverpeak Mountains. Garret was part of a caravan of about two dozen doylaks and half again as many handlers. There were also two others, a man and a woman, who led them, though Garret had scarcely spoken with them since they started this journey. The other wagoners whispered that they were part of these Orders everyone kept talking about, but which Order they represented exactly remained a mystery. Garret was hardly surprised that such information was withheld from them, they weren't heroes, they were wagon drivers and the biggest challenge they had of overcoming was a stubborn doylak.

Whatever the case, these rumours coming from the east had everyone spooked. When word spread through Kryta, the ghost of the Elder Dragons' memory resurfaced and the taverns were abuzz with stories of supposed sightings, each wilder than the one before it. Eventually, an expedition had been formed under the patronage of the Queen and these mysterious Orders. The fact that Jennah herself had decided to look into the matter was worrying, because it meant these tales might actually be true. Garret wasn't too concerned with such matters, however, what he saw in the expedition was a chance to get away from Divinity's Reach and Kryta, where his existence had frankly become unbearable after a series of recent events. And so, without knowing where he was actually going or why, Garret found himself signing up for this mad quest. That had been about a month ago or, wait, was it two now? Time passed so quickly when one was on the road, each day blurring into the next...

They had been joined by a group from Lion's Arch and then moved into the fabled Shiverpeak Mountains. Stories were told of how the ancient Ascalonians passed through those treacherous passes, led by a brash prince, who wanted to save his people from the war with the Charr. Garret could claim descent from those brave pioneers - he was born in the Ascalonian quarter and both his mother and father were of Ascalonian origin. He still remembered the bedtime stories they'd tell him, supposedly passed on from their grandparents and so on until the days when the first refugees arrived on Krytan soil. Garret had never lent much credence to those stories, but his own journey through the Shiverpeaks had made him start questioning those conclusions.

Heh, it was funny. In a way, he was coming back home, to the birthplace of his ancestors. He looked around the barren landscape, which honestly didn't seem like much. Some great cataclysm had occurred here in ages past and the land was yet to recover - sparse patches of grass poked from under the surface here and there, as well as the odd tree, but there wasn't all that much in the way of vegetation. There wasn't much in the way of wildlife either, but the Charr moving in the distance more than made up for that. Most of them avoided Garret and the caravan, but he was certain that they were being followed by a trio on the far hill. Though the Charr lands were bustling with activity, this particular group seemed to be doing nothing apart from travelling in the same direction their caravan was going, while avoiding the road. They were no doubt keeping watch on them, Charr weren't exactly fond of humans, so it made sense. It didn't make Garret feel any better about it, however.

After what must have been half an hour, Garret and the old man led their doylaks down the road leading to the Black Citadel's gates. There were still a couple of miles to go, but the fortifications looked imposing even from here. Garret couldn't quite measure how tall the gate must be, but he was certain that he'd have to crane his neck to be able to see it in its entirety from up close. And that was only the gate and the bloody walls, the sphere itself was huge! It looked mighty impressive from afar, but when he was this close it was even more imposing. Like a God's creation it towered over everything around it, looking down on the newcomers passing through its gates as if they were insignificant ants waiting to be crushed.

Not exactly the most pleasant thought, but then again, Charr and pleasant normally didn't go in the same sentence. All around him he could see the cat-like creatures going about their business, looking at the human caravan in contempt. Growls and shouts came from everywhere, some directed at them, some at each other - honestly, it was hard to tell. Smoke bellowed from a multitude of forges and the smell of metal and black powder was in the air, accompanied by the a ceaseless hammering and the grinding of massive wheels. Garret had heard many stories of this place, but to see it for real...it was a whole different kind of experience. It reminded him of a well-oiled machine, but instead of cogs this one had ill-tempered, furry felines who could swipe your head off with their clawed hand.

The rest of the caravan had stopped ahead of them, finally having reached its destination. They were greeted by a group of armed Charr, who were in conversation with the mysterious man and woman. There were also some other figures Garret didn't recognise; they were probably members of the other Orders or their servants. How had they gotten here, he wondered? Perhaps by using those Asura gates, which begged the question of why Garret and the others had to hike through the bloody mountains instead of using one, but he didn't get paid to ask questions like that.

It had been a strange month and would likely get even stranger, but for now at least, Garret would have a place to rest and hopefully, a chance to drink a pint or two.

The Black Citadel was without a doubt one of the most magnificent things he had seen in his entire life. Steam and water turned huge wheels, which propelled various machines of all shapes and sizes, while rows upon rows of cannons were stacked next to the smithies and caused the ground to shake when they were tested on the firing range. It also happened to be the ugliest, noisiest and most unwelcoming places he'd had the dubious pleasure of exploring. These Charr were deadly serious all the time, each one occupied with patrolling, forging weapons, training in their combat fields and Gods knew what else apart from having any fun. Damn it, was this a city or a military camp?

He'd been wandering in the downpour for the past couple of hours, still not certain where he was supposed to find a place to stay. Most locals he encountered didn't even stop to answer his questions and the ones that did had a few choice words directed at humans. The Charr had been ancestral foes of the humans for centuries and these last few years of peace were not enough to mend those prejudices - to say that they hated Garret and those like him would be putting it mildly. The feeling was, of course, mutual, but Garret was the guest here, so he strived to be on his best behaviour.

All of this had given him plenty of time to think and consider his options. That Sylvari woman at the gate had been very blunt and forthcoming, which was both a relief and a shock to Garret. Relief because someone had finally given them some details and shock because the extent of what he had gotten himself into had just become painfully clear. Hauling crates and dealing with doylaks was one thing, but going up against an Elder Dragon of all things was quite a different matter. Aye, he knew that he was signing up for this back in Divinity's Reach but at the time the threat appeared so distant and unreal. And yet, the woman spoke about it as a matter of fact, as if considering the possibility that it actually was real.

Actually, come to think of it, that Sylvari might be more unpleasant than the Black Citadel itself. She was commanding and haughty, strutting around like she owned the place. Garret had hoped that the two had been leading their caravan would assume charge or, perhaps, somebody else. But no, he was stuck with a cold-hearted bitch that threatened to leave stragglers behind. Just great, that's what it was.

With every passing minute he regretted his decision to come here more and more. Should he just leave? He was supposed to report to the Sylvari, but why should he? These damned Orders were supposed to provide them with at least some form of shelter after a month of lugging their baggage around, but they hadn't even taken care of that. What sort of organisation was that? By Balthazar's hairy balls, he didn't even know what Order had hired him, how was he supposed to report to anyone?!

Occupied with such grim thoughts, Garret kept walking through the darkening city, until he eventually came upon a tavern. A statue of a fearsome Charr towered over the entrance, holding a huge bow that must have been as tall as a man. Since Garret was tired of being cold, wet and miserable, he decided to try his chances here and walked through the door.

He was greeted by sounds not unlike the ones in human taverns, only here the music sounded more like battle marches and the raucous laughter was replaced by raucous...growls? When he set foot inside, all heads turned toward him at once, making him feel like he was a particularly interesting create that had crawled out from under a rock. Well, these overgrown cats could go to hell for all he cared, Garret hadn't always been a wagon driver, so if they thought they could intimidate him with a few harsh stares, they could guess again.

The lone human walked over to what he supposed was the bar, where a grey-haired Charr had narrowed its eyes on him. He was a bit shocked to realise that she was female, judging by the way her hair was braided and how her features appeared somewhat softer than those of the males. Still, she towered over him and seemed just as tough and muscular as the rest of them. Garret coughed politely before raising his voice to speak.

"Hello, I was wonderi-"

"We don't serve your kind here" she snarled at him "you humans are too weak to appreciate a proper Charr drinking hole!"

"I'm not here to drink..." Garret sighed, but he was interrupted before he could continue.

"Then what the hell are you doing here, pink-skin?"

"If you'd just let me talk, I might be able to explain."

That's when he felt a big, hairy hand clench his shoulder. He turned around and a saw a much larger Charr, a male no doubt about it, with reddish fur, huge horns and a fearsome set of teeth jutting out from his mouth. An even more wicked-looking sword was strapped to his side.

"This one giving you problems, Karra?" He said in a deep, rumbling voice.

"I don't need your help to deal with this runt," she retorted, "he was just about to leave."

Garret gritted his teeth, trying to get a rein on his emotions, but to no avail. He considered himself a calm man, but the ,month-long march, coupled with that blasted Sylvari mouthing off at the gate and now these bloody Charr…It was too damned much.

“I wasn’t about to leave.” He told them, his voice taking on a threatening edge. “I want a fucking room to stay the night and a pint of ale to wet my throat. I’ve got coin.”

He proceeded to take out his coin pouch and placed it on the bar, but at the same time the male Charr slammed his palm over his hand, trapping it under a layer of fur and muscle.

“You insolent scum,” he leaned in closer to Garret, spittle flying from his mouth that reeked of alcohol, “you know how many humans I killed in the last war? You know how my ancestors torched this pathetic kingdom to the ground and routed your cowardly armies?”

“Best leave now, pink-skin,” the innkeeper said, her smile revealing her sharp fangs, “you don’t want to rile up Scaarin.”

The Charr’s grip on his hand tightened, producing an audible crunch, a little more of this and he was likely to have a shattered hand among the list of things he hated about today. A familiar sensation shot up through his veins, the thrill of the adrenaline rushing through his body. Aye, Garret hadn’t always been a wagon driver, he had been a soldier once and he had fought his fair share of centaurs. They were dumber than Charr, but just as big, if not stronger.

“Or what?” Garret shouted “I’ve had enough of your furry bastards! Are you all talk are you going to back those threats?”

Silence descended upon the room and the tension grew so thick that one could cut it with a knife. The male Charr, trembling with anger, let go of his hand and looked him straight in the eye.

“You’ve got three seconds before I take your head off. One…”

Garret returned the gaze and remained unflinching. This was it – his plan would either work and he’d get a bed or his head was going to decorate the fireplace, which meant he wouldn’t have to suffer this blasted existence any longer. Seemed like a fair deal, either way you looked at it.

“Two…”

Scaarin’s long claws did seem capable of slicing him to shreds, the Charr wouldn’t even reach for his sword, Garret was certain. The way the Charr’s arms hung at the ready indicated that. At least, that’s what he hoped – it was hard to tell with these felines.

“Three!”

As expected, the beast swiped a clawed hand in his direction, but Garret was faster. He ducked under it and reached for the big Charr’s sword, drawing it from its scabbard. Another blow came in his direction, but he spun around before his opponent had a chance to react. Garret went low, slicing the tendons behind the Charr’s knee, effectively hamstringing him. A bestial roar followed as Garret’s opponent went to one knee and tried to turn around.

And again, Garret was faster. The sword in his hands was already at the Charr’s neck when their gazes met. If the room had been silent before, it was now as quiet as a graveyard. The shocked expression on the innkeeper’s face almost compensated all the shite Garret had to endure today. Almost.

“You wanted a fight? There’s you fucking fight!” he cried out, voice thick with anger. “I just wanted a damned bed, but no – you Charr always have to fight something! And what’s this talk of ancestors, eh? My own great-great grandparents lived here and fled after you bastards summoned that firestorm from the sky, because you couldn't beat them in a fair fight. Should I avenge them, here and now, is that what you want?!”

He pressed the sword into the Charr’s throat, drawing blood to prove his point. Their gazes held each other for a moment, which seemed to stretch on for an infinity, but then Garret threw the sword aside and offered his hand.

“Fuck history and fuck wars. That’s all in the past.”

The Charr, Scaarin, eventually accepted his hand and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. Two other Charr came to accompany him back to his table, where his leg was bandaged and another drink was poured. Everyone went back to their business, as if two patrons hadn’t just tried to murder each other before their eyes.

“You’ve got guts, pink-skin, I’ll give you that,” the innkeep, Karra, said, “but don’t think you can drink any of our ale, it’s too strong for you. Wait here.”

Garret sat there, the realisation of what he’d just done finally dawning on him. He looked around, trying to see if anyone was contemplating revenge on him, but he saw nothing. Even the big, angry Scaarin was merrily drinking and talking with his companions, the events of a couple of minutes ago already forgotten. In a way, by fighting and proving his mettle, Garret had earned his place here. That’s how he felt it, at least. The Charr were thought too much of themselves to directly admit it.

Karra returned with a cask of ale, bearing a familiar marking. Lion’s Arch!

“Here, this one’s on the house” she said, as she poured him a pint, “room’s on the left, take this key.”

Garret downed the pint in one go and then took the offered key.

“Don’t think it’s anything much,” Karra continued, “no fancy beds that you humans like, you’ll sleep on the ground and I’ll hear no complaints from you!”

Garret nodded. He ordered another pint and paid for it and the room, after which he departed to his quarters. It was indeed very sparsely-decorated, with a small window, a straw mat and a broken piece of glass that was supposedly a mirror. There was a chair as well, where he could leave his clothes, but that was it. In short, the room was as severe as the Charr that had built it.

He wasn’t one to complain, however. After months of sleeping under the stars, this looked like the Queen’s chambers to him. He tossed his cloak on the chair, took off his traveller’s boots and lied down on the mat, where he discovered a coarse blanket waiting for him. It wasn’t much, but it was more than sufficient.

His mind sorted through the events of the day. After they had been given their orders, the wagon-drivers had decided to set up a makeshift camp outside the city walls. Garret, of course, would have none of it and had decided to seek a proper place to stay, along with a few other brave souls. He hoped those men hadn’t gotten into any fights, because they were decidedly less prepared to handle them than he was. Ah well, he wasn’t their mother, no sense worrying over them…

Whatever other thoughts came to his mind were quickly forgotten, as the exhaustion that had piled up for weeks finally overcame him. Thoughts and worries were cast aside, replaced by the calmness of a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke up with a groan; his body was still tired from the ordeals of their journey, but his mind knew it was time to get up. It was a habit that remained from his soldiering days - when on duty you learned to sleep when you could and where you could, often for only minutes at a time before having to rouse your body from sleep. Ironically, this skill of his had proven just as useful during his march through the Shiverpeaks.

And so, he got up, splashed some water onto his face from and looked at his crooked expression in the broken mirror. Garret wasn't exactly a handsome man, but there was a hardness to his features that some women had found pleasing in the past. A mop of black hair covered his head and stopped just shy of his shoulders. His brown eyes were bloodshot and looked tired, but that was not too unusual as they looked lazy and uninterested in the best of times. Though he kept his oval face clean-shaven when he could, it was now covered by a thick stubble that obscured a scar or two. He would have to shave it at some point, but he felt too lazy to do it at the moment.

There was nothing else noteworthy of his features and Garret had always considered himself an unassuming man for precisely that reason. In fact, his naturally-pressed lips and frowning brows made him look as if he was perpetually scowling at something in disappointment, giving him an all-around unpleasant appearance. Coupled with his worn clothes - a dusty dark coat, pants of a similar colour and a dirty white shirt - he looked like those haggard beggars that crowded the poorer quarters of Divinity's Reach and spoke in a drunken haze about the good old days. Not exactly the kind of man you'd hope to take on a quest to save the world, but so what? Nobody better looking had volunteered, Garret thought with a smirk.

Wasting no more time with vanity, he left his room and went downstairs to pay what was due for his short stay. Though hungry, he was weary of trying Charr food and for good reason, Karra assured him. Still, he managed to haggle for some loaves of hard bread that looked somewhat edible and a small cask of Lion's Arch ale. They had supplies on the wagons, but when going on such a journey it was better not to rely too much on others.

"Good luck, pink-skin," Karra told him as he prepared to depart, "some of the boys told me you're part of some caravan. You travelling somewhere dangerous?"

Garret shrugged. "No idea, but it's probably so. Why else would they hire so many people?" It was a rhetoric question, he knew that the Charr innkeeper had even less of an inkling than he did. "Still, it's good coin, so who am I to complain?"

"Well, you take care. You're a good sort."

"Is that why your friend tried to kill me last night?"

Karra laughed, a strangely feminine sound coming from such a fearsome looking creature. "Ah, you humans! After you showed us that you had a pair of balls between those scrawny legs, we knew that you're alright. We Charr value actions, not empty words as you humans do." She waved her hand, brushing the matter aside. "Say, you a fighter, a guard? What they'd hire you for?

"I'm a wagon driver, actually," Garret said simply, "they hired me to deal with those Gods-forsaken beasts called doylaks."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh? A wagon driver got the best of Scaarin, who was one of the best in the Blood Legion back in the day and fought alongside Tribune Brimstone himself?"

"He was drunk and I was lucky, that's it."

Karra said nothing, but her expression made it obvious what she thought of that. She handed him the loaves of bread and the cask, which he strapped to his backpack, and then bid him farewell. For some strange reason Garret felt a pang of emotion as he left the tavern. In a way, he had enjoyed that place and the Charr's hospitality, while harsh, was genuine. It was more than he could say for most humans he knew.

The weather seemed to have cleared, with only the puddles and muddied roads indicating that there had been heavy rain the night before. Garret made his way to the city's gates quickly, anxious to get this journey started. He knew that the more he debated whether he should go, the bigger the chances of him running away became. It still seemed like a good idea, but he had nowhere else to go. Even if he made a run for it, he couldn't just go back to Diviity's Reach - some men there would be very unhappy to see him unless he came back with a hefty sum of money. The other option was to try his luck here in the Citadel, but that was likely to get him killed before long. Truthfully, he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

When he arrived at the Black Citadel's gates, he found that most of the expedition had assembled, though there were noticeably less wagoners than the day before. So, he wasn't the only one who thought about going back, the only difference being that these men actually had possessed the sense to abandon this mad quest in time. Well, his mother had always said that he was a fool, so he shook his head and drew nearer. He noticed a few familiar faces, other doylak handlers that he had spoken with on their journey, as well the helpful old man that had guided his doylak yesterday. They told him that they had slept in their hastily made camp, instead of braving the insides of the Citadel; a mistake, Garret thought, but it meant that they had already prepared the supplies for their trip and that was not something he was going to complain about.

“Here take this, laddie.” The old man, Symon he said his name was, offered him a long length of oak wood, a quarterstaff which could also double as a walking stick. “We’re goin’ to have a long road ahead, might as well have somethin’ to support yerself with.”

“Thank you.” Garret said with a nod, he had been somewhat ungrateful last night due to his mood, so he thought he could afford to be at least a little less of an insolent arse this time around. “What news? Have they said where we’re going?”

The gathered men began talking over each other almost at once, each one trying to put his own spin on the story, but it basically amounted to “we know nothing”. People said that washerwomen were horrible gossips, but wagoners were no better and even though their information was limited, their educated guesses on the situation were not. How “educated” those guesses were was another matter entirely…

What he gathered was that the silent men and women that had led their caravan were revealed to be members of the so-called Vigil, one of the three Orders that were behind this expedition. Now Garret at least knew who he was getting his pay from, but there was little to indicate what their motives were, so he was still in the dark. The other thing of note the others told him was that it had been decided that they would take with them only one third of the remaining doylaks. First of all, about fifteen people had deserted, which meant there were less drivers to go around and secondly, the larger number of beasts would only slow their march. Thus, only the most docile of doylaks would remain, given to the care of the more experienced wagoners, like Symon.

Garret would have to carry a rather oversized backpack, a rolled up tent, as well as his own traveller’s pack. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the proposition, but what was he to do? He had been given a chance to flee and yet here he was, it was too late to turn back now and certainly not with half the city watching. His name was sullied enough already, he couldn’t bear the shame of cowardice yet again in this foreign land. At least Symon had given him this damned walking stick, which would certainly come in handy, especially now that he’d been given so much things to lug around.

He examined the actual members of the Orders that had gathered slightly to the side and were in deep discussion. He saw the Sylvari woman from yesterday, as well as the serious-looking duo from the Vigil, but there were others – humans and Asura and even a couple of Charr. It was strange to see former enemies consulting among themselves, but as Garret himself had pointed out in the tavern last night, the wars between the races were a thing of the past, why should any grudges remain?

While waiting for the order to move out, he packed his things as best he could and tried to assess how much effort carrying all of it would require. The others had seen that he was a well-built man, young compared to most of them, so they had given him a greater load. It was fair, he supposed, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. If he’d stayed in the camp that night, there was a chance he could have avoided this extra weight, but he had forfeited that chance in exchange for a bed. He sighed. Nothing ever came without a price, did it?

The caravan, or what was left of it, finally made its way out of the city, sluggishly at first, then picking up the pace as the group got into stride. Garret walked by Symon, exchanging a few words with the old wagoner who was leading one of the eldest and biggest doylaks in their herd. Their talk spanned many topics, even though the words said between them were only a handful. Garret liked that, he had believed Symon to be unpleasantly talkative at first, but had since found that the man shared his love for quiet while on the road.

He still didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to find at their journey’s end. It was a troubling prospect, an encounter with an Elder Dragon, but even if they found no such beast, they would doubtlessly run into many other obstacles along the way. He knew little of the Blazeridge Mountains, save that beyond them lay vast stretches of uncharted territory, some of it held by the Charr, but the rest was shrouded in mystery. Still, one would have to be a fool to believe that whatever powers ruled on the other side of the mountain range would let them pass uncontested if they discovered their presence. Things were never as simple as that – a point life had proven to him over and over again.

The Sylvari had given a brief speech before their departure, though Garret let most of it pass by his ears. She sounded like an over-eager sergeant shouting down recruits at a muster, something which he had endured numerous times during his service with the Seraphs. Maybe such sternness and severity could awe the other wagoners, but for Garret it was par for the course. In fact, he had dearly hoped that he would never have to listen to some bossy official ordering him around again, but as always, his non-existent luck would have it otherwise.

Whatever the case, he had gleamed a measure of information from Freya Alcor’s talk. Behind the brash words and grim warnings was a thinly-veiled worry and uncertainty. They were still in sight of the Black Citadel’s walls and already they were cautioning folks against deserting and falling behind? Then what would they say once they actually crossed those damned mountains? Threaten them with execution? Pfah!

Perhaps these Orders knew more than they were letting on, it occurred to him. Maybe they knew exactly what they were setting out to confront and were trying to steel the group’s resolve from early on? And perhaps they willingly sent them on a suicide mission, knowing full well what was coming? No…that was doubtful, little more than paranoia, he told himself. If the Orders truly knew that an Elder Dragon was lurking in the east they would be bringing with them an army, not a bunch of doylaks and their handlers.

Still, that line of thought left him uneasy and he began looking around in order to clear his head. Unfortunately, the desolation that had once been the lush lands of Ascalon was about as bleak as his thoughts, so it hardly made him feel better. The caravan occasionally crossed paths with groups of Charr on their business and some wildlife could be seen cresting the hills in the distance. Considering where they were, the “wildlife” consisted mainly of vicious devourers and the creatures referred to as Wind Riders; a far cry from the foxes and rabbits and boars of Kryta.

Finding nothing interesting to occupy his mind with, Garret began surveying the caravan itself, looking among the now-familiar faces to gouge their mood. Up ahead he could see the outlines of the two warriors, members of the so-called Vigil according to the others, fully armed and armoured, yet just as silent as they had been before. A bit farther behind came the rest of the caravan, made up by a collection of men and women who were decidedly not fighters. Then came their rear guard, in the form of the sharp-tongued Sylvari.

Garret could see why they had chosen her for that task. Who would dare to think of deserting if they risked getting an earful from that bitch? Well…that and her sheer presence was intimidating, Garret had to admit. He didn’t know if it was the wicked scythe slung across her back or the way she held herself, but his finely-honed soldier senses told him that this woman was trouble. Better stay out of her way and avoid drawing attention to himself. He’d never gotten along well with authority figures and something told him that this one in particular would not take kindly to her command not being respected.

Having nothing else to occupy his attention, he turned to Symon and made an effort to hold a normal conversation. He led with some questions, letting the older man speak of his home and wife and sons at his leisure. Symon would sometimes interject with a question of his own, but he seemed content to do most of the talking. Their sentences were followed by long bouts of silence, giving the impression that not much was said between them. In truth, however, it was precisely these quiet moments that strengthened the growing bond between them.

“I can tell ye one thing, son. Assumin’ we come back alive, we’ll have some amazing stories t’ tell” Symon said at one point, followed by an earnest laugh.

Aye, they’d have some and more, Garret thought with a frown, lacking his companion’s enthusiasm. It was going to be a miserable journey, he was certain of it, and no amount of blind optimism was going to change that fact.