Fanfic Warning: This is one of three vignettes I wrote about my main character in the original Guild Wars. Part two and part three will drop later this week.
The family stood on the edge of the misty Krytan swamp. The eldest son pushed the small wooden boat further in to the murky waters. The boat would carry the body of his father deep into the swamp. The widow held her young daughter at her side a few steps away. They watched as the man they called husband and father was slowly carried away to the darkness. The white of the shroud that wrapped the dead man’s body was the last thing they could see as their torch light strained to remain in contact with the boat. The frogs and crickets seemed to give the man a moment of silence as the swamp’s black swallowed the boat.
Once the funeral ceremony was complete, the son turned towards his mother now as the man of the family. A silent glance upward marked the torch-bearing Priestess of Dwayna awaiting at the top of the hill. The Priest of Grenth had not waited to see the end of the funeral rite. His duties of caring for the dead man had finished when the shroud covered the last of pale flesh and the body was placed on the boat. The Priestess of Dwayna’s duties were far from over as she would have to make sure the family could survive with the gaping hole of a lost father. A lost husband.
She would also lead and console the family as they walked past all the villagers lined up on the long path that led back to their empty home.
What story do you think the Priestess will tell.
Said the voice.
The real one, or the one they will want to hear?
The man had watched his body float off in to the swamp as he stood on the bank next to his wife. He thought the Priest of Grenth might have glanced at him at one point, but his ghostly form was invisible and incorporeal to everybody else. The real world seemed less important after his death. Even the burning love he had for his wife seemed less important. Things were peaceful. More peaceful than before. Until the voice came.
“It really doesn’t matter,” the man sighed, “at least to me.” All the new things he had learned since death also seemed unimportant, except for the voice.
Then come with me.
The man had no choice as he was whisked away from the site of his funeral. He saw his home, then his country, below. The world was a distant light, and as surprising as all this was, the man was most concerned with the cold mists surrounding his form. The voice spoke again from the mists as the dead man watched the world change below.
The age of the humans is waning. The candle that we saw burn so brightly is in danger of being extinguished completely.
The man felt a little sadness as he saw the possible future his race would face. Colors and images flashed in the mists showing a world where humans were slaves and food. Orr sank in to the waters while burning streaks crossed the Ascalon skies. Other unknown regions of the world shifted and changed. But, then the visions reverted to show only the world the man had left.
You will be my champion, Ravious Pretagata.
The ghost responded to the new name. His form changed. The Krytan features blended with Ascalonian traits, but the mists left little scars as reminder on his face. He found his memories washed away. Even his former name was lost to the mists. His wife’s face was the last vestige he saw of his former life as it retreated elsewhere.
Your story will begin in Ascalon, necromancer.