#lythrisal

Gift ‘thanks for letting me try to draw your sylvari, mang’ doodle for Dia, Lythrisal’s player. 

You always had a look about you. Something in your eyes screamed confidence. No one knew where you were from, or what your story was, but we never had the time to ask those questions. But that’s okay, we didn’t have to know. We became family just through being there for each other. Who would’ve thought love would form on a war zone. Death was everywhere, but love cleared our foggy minds.

I still remember just how bad I was with a bow before you helped me learn. Now I’m no sharpshooter, but I can hit a target finally. You always cheered me on, always protected me from anything. You were a diamond in a field that was far worse than rough. But you made it better. It may have been dark and dismal, but you were a torch in between those thick jungle trees.

I remember getting the call for assistance. It was a group of Vigil soldiers overrun by vines. I remember how we both thought it would be an easy job. ‘In and out’ we kept saying. But it wasn’t actually that easy, was it? I remember arriving and seeing the chaos. We weren’t warned about it. They were already long gone, but we thought it would be right to at least get their tags. Seconds later I was thrown against a wall, and crushed under old parts of an airship. I couldn’t move, and just had to watch.

That was when the wolves came.

I remember watching you struggle and bleed all over the floor. That’s not even what haunts me. It was the sound. The sounds of it happening were terrible. Something took over, next thing I knew my arm was half gone.

        Nightfall was even more dangerous than walking out during the day, or even then morning. When the sun fell, the Mordrem arrived, killing and maiming without prejudice. Anything that even slightly represented an enemy was killed on sight. Blood, fire, bodies, vines, and brambles. Amidst those fires was a camp. Decently sized. Filled to the absolute brim with Sylvari of all types, all colors. A few rifles here, a couple bows there. Three sat around a fire, glowing against the fire’s own. One of the Sylvari was smaller, nimble. A sapling even. He held no weapon, just sat on a rock. Next to him, a sadder looking Sylvari. Beaten, bloody, and worn to the bone. If it weren’t for his gear, one might have mistaken him for an actual sprout of some thorny vine. He however, had a long sword, sheathed, but clearly used. Dented, bloody, broken at the hilt even. It wouldn’t last another three fights.         Across from the fire, sat a unique Sylvari. Despite the crowd being all different shapes, sizes, and colors, he was still an anomaly. His legs stayed spread, elbows laying on his knees. Between his legs was a greatsword, leaned against his inner thigh, and dug into the ground below. In his hands, he was carving something. A statuette made of wood, like a small totem. His colors were that of a fresh vine, until his glow became visible. Once it did, he was a glowing purple and pink mass. His figure, his long, fern-like hair glowed until just the tips, vastly different than its usual blood red tones. He was tall. Very tall in fact, and built like a muscular human. Perfect for a greatsword wielder. He wore a smile, unlike everyone else who seemed to be somber, if you could even put a word to it. He seemed cocky, even showing off his canines. His name was Lythrisal, and he was a Pale Reaver.

        “Thorns, Lyth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not smile. How in the world do you managed to remain so confident? I mean look around us.” The beaten Sylvari spoke up, waving his arms to add to it all.         Lythrisal paused, and glanced up. His smile faded, but he wasn’t unhappy. He made eye contact, and even paused in his wood craft. “What’s the point otherwise? Am I to sit here and mope that the mud is too wet, or my blade is too dull. Nah, it’ll dull my senses. Gotta stay on my toes.”

        The younger Sylvari looked between the two, and pointed to Lyth. “We should all be like him. He’s a hero! He even pulled me out of one of those demon’s hands.”

That Clemma’s eye rarely moved from the scope of her rifle was a luxury she didn’t realize how much she missed before Lythrisal made his return to the Pale Reavers.

She had learned to trust him in Orr. Maguuma had clad that faith in steel. With the fall of the Dragon her squad had scattered to the winds, herself included, and not all of them had returned for the Kralkatorrik tour. Out of those missing, it was him she was most disappointed not to see. When he showed up in the desert telling her he was lost she didn’t hesitate to pull him back into her squad. It was selfish, she knew, but she hoped rejoining the Reavers would do him a service.

With him at her back once more she never had to fear that something was creeping up behind to catch her unawares. Lythrisal watched over her while she watched over the field, and as sure as she’d put a bullet in anything that might threaten him, he’d put a sword in anything that might endanger her.