Who's Afraid of the Big Bad • • •

“Hey, Arkkyn!How’s it—” Autumn stops mid-sentence and blinks, realizing thesylvari in question is no where to be found.

Strange. Whileshe hadn’t known the sylvari for very long, from what she’dwitnessed, Arkkyn had always been firmly attached to the forge. Butnow he’s no where in sight.

She spots adark-furred charr who’s busy hammering away at some metal. “Hey,charr!” she hollers. The charr doesn’t turn around, so she walks upand taps him on the shoulder until he acknowledges her. “You seen asylvari named Arkkyn around?”

The charr narrowshis eyes. “Who?”

“Arkkyn?Sylvari, white leaves, real tall?” She stretches her hand up toillustrate the height difference. “Works as an, uh, apprenticehere, or something?”

“Oh.Greenhorn.” The way he snarls the word makes Autumn think the nameis far from a term of endearment. “We threw that weed out of hereages ago, when all of his kind started turning. Him and a bunch ofothers.”

“You what?”says Autumn, frowning. The corruption of the race has beenunpredictable and frightening. She doesn’t want to think of the kindand gentle sylvari as a freshly-turned Mordrem, a slave to thedragon. “How could you do that?”

“What would youhave had us do? Keep him around and take our chances on whether ornot he’ll try and gut us all? Yeah right, human. I won’t have any ofhis kind causing us trouble, and neither will the Citadel.”

Autumn stillfrowns but says nothing. Despite her grievances, she knows the charrhas a point. While perhaps callous and cruel, the charr’s course ofaction was probably the best thing to do. (She wonders if she wouldhave done the same thing, given the chance.)

And if Arkkynreally has turned, then there’s nothing anybody can do aboutit. Those touched by dragon corruption never, ever return.

“You can lookthrough all his junk if you want,” the charr grunts, pointing to apile of knick-knacks on a workbench. “Been too busy working to getrid of it.” He murmurs something else under his breath andpointedly returns to his hammering before Autumn can say anythingelse.

It’s mostly justscrap, used rags, odds and ends, bits of unfinished weapons. Nothingthat seems particularly important. She’s about to forget the wholething and head back home when a small bundle catches her eye.

It’s wrapped upneatly in a grease rag and some twine. For the most part, it looksrather unassuming, but it has a note with her name on it, carefullytucked under the twine.

She plucks outthe note and reads.

Miss Autumn,

I thought youmight be able to put this to some good use.

I know you’vehad… issues with your pistols before. I thought I’d try my hand atmaking a model that will jam less frequently. (Theoretically.)

If it causes youany trouble, then I’m terribly sorry.

If you’re ever inthe neighborhood, please don’t hesitate to drop by! I’ll make sure tobrew up a fresh pot of tea for the occasion.

The door is open just a smidge, letting out a slice of light into the otherwise dark hallway. Jori is speaking in hushed tones, like she’s afraid somebody might overhear. Kirika hesitates to call for the norn again, certain that she shouldn’t be creeping outside the door like this. Oh, but she really can’t help herself. She curls in on herself, trying to look as small as possible, and peers through the crack in the doorway.

Jori stands in the room with her back facing her. By the way she nods occasionally, Kirika takes it that she’s in the middle of a conversation.

“I’ll just tell them I got better,” says Jori with a shrug.

Kirika can’t make out a second voice, but she can hear a rustling sound, and a whistling sort of panting.

“I don’t know. Half-dead? Half-alive?” Jori gives a mirthless chuckle as she shrugs out of her vest and begins undoing the laces in her top. “Guess that makes me the halfling now.”

Kirika squints, drawing closer to the crack in the doorway to get a better look. The first thing she sees are eyes. Eyes that stare straight at her, but they’re not alive. It’s a tattoo, large and intricate, that spans her entire back. The second thing she sees interests her much more. She doesn’t mean to ogle, but she’s never seen this before. It’s not Jori’s state of undress that catches her attention so much as the scar she lightly strokes with her palm. It’s more purple than red, not so fresh but perhaps fairly recent, and it seems to bisect her torso in one long loop, with no discernable beginning or ending.

What sort of wound would a norn have to get to have a scar like that?

A pair of yellow eyes—ones that match Jori’s tattoo, but very much alive—suddenly appear before her and startle her enough to let out a squeak.

The snowy owl flaps his wings and hoots loudly before the door swings open.

“Well, well. Look what I found. A little weed growing in the cracks,” Jori says dryly with a tilt of her head.

“We’re having a guild meeting! I… I came to get you!” Kirika sputters, taking a step back from the woman who towers over her.

“C’mere,” says Jori, enveloping Kirika under one strong arm and directing her further into the room. She’s still topless, but she doesn’t seem bothered by her nudity. “I just wanna have a little chat.”