We are the Wall.

Some of you may be wondering, “Is he dead? Is he ashamed? Why hasn’t he posted anything?”

The answers to those very pertinent questions are as follows: No, no, and two reasons.

First, and most importantly: I absolutely do not care about Tumblr anymore. These days I use my brain capacity for other things, like soulless menial office labor and killing Vanu.

Second, but almost as important if only by a centimeter: In the time since last updating this blog and writing project, your boy has successfully completed a year-and-a-half long 4th edition Legend of The Five Rings game set in the same fanfictional timeline as the one depicted in We Are The Wall. Months before, to be precise, with society-shaking consequences. Considering that this badass product of collaborative storytelling is a very sick and cool base for an actual edited and drafted idealization of the themes and concepts explored with these little off-the-cuff bits of writing; it makes sense that this blog have a gravestone planted on it in case anyone was expecting the story herein and the GW2 character tidbit coverage to ever be revived.

If you were one of the three people anticipating a continuation of the below story, sorry. But I can and hopefully will do it justice as an actual story someday.

It was a small ramen-ya four blocks down from the theatre, consisting of a counter, eight stools and a set of rich blue banners above the entryway that spelled out “The Diving Swan” in golden kanji. The lanterns outside were fine white paper with blue highlights, already lit on account of the sun’s early retreat behind the horizon, and they caught Takama’s eye an instant before the delicious scents of cooking noodles and roasted vegetables hit his nose. A simple dip of the head towards the ramen-ya and his fiance broke her silence to intone a simple, quiet, “Finally.”

The counter was empty and they quickly took the rightmost seats, nodding politely to the chef as he hurried to kowtow to them. If he was stunned that two samurai not of the Crane had walked into his shop, he didn’t show it, straightening up to belt out an enthusiastic greeting. “My lord and lady, you honor me with your presence! Please,” he bobbed his head, waving vigorously to the finely inked menu above his head, “anything you like! It is all of the highest quality!”

Takama took a few seconds to scour the shop behind him: a youth was toiling away at the noodles and vegetables and dumplings, ingredients hung on strings and in plain brown pouches, and teabags were clustered on a cloth-shod shelf. Only then did he look to the menu and on that he didn’t spend much time, because he’d made up his mind the instant he saw--

“Udon, your largest bowl.” Takama jerked his chin up. “Sauteed vegetables and chicken, if you’d please.”

The man bowed, then looked politely to Kiya, who dawdled for a few moments more before giving him a gentle smile. “I would like the shrimp ramen, in just as large a bowl as my dear Crab-san here is getting. And may I please get a cup of tea, as well?”

“Of course, my lady, and I am pleased to inform you we serve only the finest of teas, sourced within the lands of the Crane!” He looked to Takama, and got out a single syllable before the Crab cut him off.

“Make it two cups of tea,” he rumbled, slapping his personal chop on the counter and sliding it towards him. He looked aside to catch the tailend of a subtle, reproachful look from Kiya, one that was cast aside as she produced her own chop. Taking both in hand and bowing, the chef hustled back to start pouring tea and frying leeks.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Kiya spoke. “I see you have a mighty thirst for tea, Crab-san, one that is more vast than even the bounds of decorum.”

“I call it a healthy appreciation,” shrugged Takama. “And an eagerness to sample more Crane tea, especially the kind my clan does not sell to them to begin with.”

Kiya’s brow lofted. “I’ve heard my brother speak on such, but I can’t say with sincerity that I’ve paid much attention. The Crab exports more than metal?”

“We export tea,” said Takama, tapping a pinky on the counter, “as well as vegetables and smoked fish. I suppose on occasion we also export jade-- but only in extraordinary circumstance.”

“You remind me of a murky pool in the road, Crab-san. A dirty exterior and some hidden depth.” Kiya shot him a smile. He didn’t know whether to be offended or pleased.

The chef returned with tea on a plain brown tray, laying it down and bowing long enough to take their thanks before melting into the kitchen again. Takama took a long sip, savoring the simple flavor and the slight caress of sugar. It was decent tea, not much more; though, what did he expect from a noodle shop?

“I would prefer to have filled my mind with other things,” he confessed. “Battle tactics. Battlefield medicine. But my lord bade me to be at least passably literate in such things.”

Kiya blinked, slowly, as she sipped her tea. “Your lord being your father, yes? Hida Tanaka.”

Takama grunted. “I am his firstborn, and as such I am to inherit his holdings upon his passing.” It was something that made him hope his father, maimed as he was, would live for some thirty years yet.

Kiya canted her head. “Most people speak of their coming inheritance with pride. Excitement, if they’re tasteless. You sound like someone is giving you a kimono with needles woven in the waistline.”

“I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Utaku-san, as I will be inheriting a town and lands that have been expertly maintained. But my purpose is war. Not administration.” He took a sip of tea. “My place is the Wall. Not a meeting room.”

The shamisen died down to a barely audible twang as the curtain was drawn over the stage once more, and there was a great rustling as the audience rose to their feet, beginning the arduous process of filing out through the side entrances. What would have taken mere minutes was drawn out by the fact that absolutely nobody wished to be so rude as to sidestep another patron without first bowing and apologizing for the impending intrusion; of course, when they actually reached the doorways in question, they were bidden to mill about in great multicolored clusters as samurai stepped through one at a time or in pairs-- all the better to maintain a sense of serenity and order and, most importantly, to make sure there were no accidental touchings.

One perk of Takama’s impressive height and fearsome musculature was that this intricate and wholly aggravating process was made very, very swift. As he walked his way to the stairs the gathered samurai parted like pollen in rain, shooting him pleasant smiles and gentle nods of acknowledgement. Most of them, he knew, did so just to avoid a fight in case he happened to take offense: it was unwise to take chances with a Crab, after all, who were notorious for their foul tempers and healthy appetite for violence. A few, likely the more milquetoast courtiers, got out of his way out of genuine fear. The rest moved because their peers and friends moved and they wouldn’t dare be made to seem arrogant or impolite in the presence of company.

Whatever their reason for darting out of his path, Takama paid the gathered samurai little heed, for his mind was occupied on the play. It was a faithful adaptation, to be sure, with a skilled cast of musicians and excellent facepaint that went well to capture the spirit and hidden motivations of its cast. The actors knew their roles and made their signature gestures and poses with obvious expertise. But he felt that there was something amiss, something crucial, that he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t that the tapestry that the performance had weaved was incomplete, but rather that it had been stitched in a way that the Crab found vexing.

He’d have loved to spend the entirety of the intermission pondering the question of what it was that nagged him, but Kiya had other ideas, and made them quite apparent as they climbed the stairs. She moved from behind him, where she had previously coasted through the crowds in the hulking warrior’s wake, to his side, looking up at him with the same placid expression she’d worn since the play began.

“I will admit, Hida-san, this ‘kabuki’ is less conducive to sleep as I first thought,” she said, hands neatly folded in front of her as she descended in perfect step with him. “The gestures and inflections that they make go a long way towards making it entertaining, if comedic, and I get the impression it is not a comedic piece.”

“Far from it,” said Takama, turning his head to peer down at her as they walked out onto the landing, filing in behind a pair of topknot-toting Lions and slowly making their way step by congested step closer to the fresher air of the lobby. Packed as it was with patrons, Takama’s imposing presence was of little use-- you couldn’t step out of the way without room, after all. “Many kabuki productions are the opposite of comedic. The gestures and vocal tricks are part of the art-- like certain notes on a flute, or strokes on a canvas.”

“If you say so. I would need to see a few more productions before I make a final judgment.” Kiya’s eyes shifted, moving to the front to scan the backs of the clustered samurai, and then raking around the side to do much the same, whereupon she gave a quiet hum of dissatisfaction. “Hida-san, if you could so kindly be a dear and tell me how close we are to the exit? If we’re not going to get out of this theatre before the intermission’s over we had might as well turn around.”

It took a considerable amount of restraint for Takama to avoid snorting; he turned his gaze up and raked his eyes over the heads of the playgoers, counting the topknots and white-dyed tresses in the crowd. “I have braved crowds thrice this size and been left with ample time for food and drink. As it is, we are almost at the exit, so you have nothing to fear.”

“Wonderful,” said Kiya, glancing over her shoulder and then looking back up to the Crab. “Speaking of food and drink, we’ve an hour to spare. What local cuisines would you care to try?”

“None of them have adequate fried tofu,” sniffed Takama, leaning forward just a tad in the hopes that the samurai in front of him might move a little faster, to no avail, “or else that would be my choice. Ramen should suffice... unless your heart is set on rice balls and mild sushi.”

“My heart is set on food,” said the Unicorn, “I have no real preference of my own.”

“As I would expect.” Takama squinted ever so slightly at the door-- just six more samurai and they would be home free. “You know how the saying goes.”

“No,” Kiya chirped, deadly sweet in her tone, “I certainly do not. Please enlighten me, Hida-san, as you know, I have such sparse knowledge of such things!”

Takama fought to keep a smug grin from blossoming across his face-- he succeeded, though he saw that Kiya caught the little twitch at the corner of his lips that accompanied his great struggle. “‘If it has four legs and it isn’t a table, if it flies and it isn’t a kite, if it swims through the water and isn’t a boat, a Unicorn will eat it.’“

Sightless, staggered, he wandered the soul-wastes for an eternity. Black ectoplasm, ostensible blood, poured from his throat and flowed into his corpora through the hole in his chest. Nothing reached his ears but his own muffled footsteps. Nothing filled his nose and he hadn’t any urge to breathe to begin with. Blood and gunpowder on his tongue. Chill wind on his skin, in his bones.

The powers that be could not satisfyingly punish something without feeling nor coax such a savage entity into peaceful dissolution, but neither was he to be admitted into any sort of paradise. So it was that he was sent to a place without prey, without purpose, condemned to exist in perpetuity with nothing but the knowledge that this was his eternity.

In time, he would grow lesser, shedding the few scraps of humanity he had long since learned to bolt to his being and thoughts. In time, surely, he would finally collapse and dissolve into the void, one with the roiling Mists that extend into eternity. But until then, he lingered, a foul vestige of predatory instinct wandering to wander.

Perhaps he was called to give testimony.

Perhaps he was restored, if temporarily.

Perhaps some poor fool would call upon him, what was left of him, for power.

Perhaps the good people of Tyria would let him fade in indignity, content with letting such a wretchedly malicious being lie.

Whatever would happen to James Retson, it wasn’t what he deserved, because he undoubtedly deserved worse.

Hoyt had spent two hours cooped up in what used to be a merchant’s flyut, sandwiched between a norn that wouldn’t stop biting her nails and a charr that had no concept of bathing. Those two continuous hours had been some of the longest he could recall in his many years of life.

But they paid off.

A throat cleared from behind the counter in front of him, and Hoyt had nearly somersaulted forward when his name was called, prefixed though it was with “mister.” It put a burr in his beard to be called by anything remotely official, but, he wasn’t about to reprimand the chocolate-skinned asura that stared up at him from her seat and ushered him into the door that he had seen so many people go in through but so few people leave. If he did, he might have to go to the back of the line-- worse, he might get booted out.

With heavy step he pushed his way through the old green door, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright glow of the great asuran holoprojector that dominated the center of the room beyond. It was detailed in gold and exquisitely carved from black stone that seemed to drink up as much of the glittering green light as it could. But it didn’t drink up enough; Hoyt could still make out the finely dressed, flat features of the room’s only other occupant, a Krytan man with thinning hair and an expensive monocle.

“Please state your name for the record,” the man sniffed, lifting up a violently pink feather and dipping it in red ink.

“Hoyt Retson,” said Hoyt.

“What is your purpose for contacting us?” asked the monocled fellow as he scribbled in Hoyt’s name.

“Posting a bounty,” Hoyt said, sticking a thumb in his belt as his other hand dug into a pocket.

The man scribbled nothing, probably because that was what almost everyone did when they came into the room. “Do you represent a law agency under the authority of a sovereign state?”

Hoyt shook his head. “Nope.”

An ‘X’ was scribbled. “Is your target a ranking member of any military, criminal, scholarly or educational organization?”

“They’re a cutthroat and a murderer that sometimes kills for pay.” Hoyt jutted his bearded chin out as his hand found what it was looking for.

“Yet,” asked the man, raising a finger, “not affiliated with any mercenary company or warband?”

“Not anymore,” said Hoyt.

"Are you looking to hire a specific individual?” asked the Krytan, scribbling away. Hoyt grimaced and shook his head; he couldn’t trust that just one son of a bitch with fancy magic and a knife could do the job, no. He was paying good money, mildly honest money, and he wanted results.

“The bounty’s open to any bastard that can take it,” said Hoyt, pulling a fistful of gems and Elonan jewelry from his pocket, enough to make the man with the quill adjust his monocle and lean forward in obvious interest. “I don’t care who, or how, just that he’s dead.”

“I see... at this point, I would normally ask for the bounty payment plus the handling fee, but I see you can provide both and then some.” The fellow re-inked his quill and continued to write as he spoke. “All guilds, companies and freelancers will be notified, as will any other individuals and organizations we see fit. We will contact you, of course, once the contract is settled... all I need is a name, and, if applicable, a relation to the target on the part of the poster. You know-- to stir up interest.”

“A relation,” sneered Hoyt, thumbing his nose as he walked forward and set the riches down onto the projector, where little metal arms sprung forth and began to snatch it all away, “Oh, he’s a relation alright. The mark’s name is James Retson, my good-for-nothin’ nephew, and I want his fuckin’ head on a spit.”

((Enough is enough and the long-awaited day is at hand. Contact me on discord @313_Revenant#0984 to get in on a bloody, brutal and hopefully satisfying Discord (I can’t do in-game, my shit’s broken) scene in which James Retson is cornered and killed. If nothing happens by next Friday, you will see what becomes of him. I’m dead ass serious this time. If tagged let your boy know if you’re down or not and hit up relevant people that aren’t cunts, you know who.