Posts Tagged ‘ Story ’

Yeah, I Went There

The Hall of Monuments is a place for your Guild Wars character to put up her prizes for future generations. I already know that my future incarnation in Guild Wars 2 will have fur and enjoy ripping face.

But what about Morgan’s actual descendants? I’m a bit crazy about geneology (damn you Civil War for destroying my family’s papers so that I’ll never be part of the DAR!!!), and throw in a timeline for everything that happens in the Guild Wars universe, let stew for 250 years and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

I present to you the product of my insanity. An account of my main character in Guild Wars, Morgan Ascot, and her children, as laid down in the Durmand Priory by her youngest son.

The Ascot Family Chronicle

After the youngest son dies no more history is recorded. Instead I’ve set myself up a history for any human character I might like to make int he future.

The Ascot family, as founded by Morgan and Bayhas, remain strong devotees of Dwayna. Through trade and support of Queen Salma (and later Queen Jennah) the Ascots now enjoy a prominent place in human society. They are largely of Elonian descent.

The Billings family, as founded by the warrior Asma and then Lidda Ascot and Daniel Billings enjoy a modest life as Moa ranchers. They produce the finest moa meat and eggs in the Divinity Coast region as well as offering Golden Moas as pets for aspiring rangers. They marry widely and are largely of Krytan descent.

The Leovinus family, thanks to the actions of its founder, Marcinta, have never been what one would call respectible. To take the low road in Divinity’s Reach is to find a Leovian trickster plying his trade. They are largely of Ascalonian or Canthan descent.

Also, I have fanart.

I don’t know why an asura would want to wear a fedora (other than the fact that they’re awesome) but this one certainly loves his.

Specifics – Sketched and painted in Photoshop CS2 using a Wacom Intuos 3.


Like A Lady In Her Bower

You step into the world. You can feel the gravel as it crunches under your boot, the sole of your foot registers the irregularities through the leather. A crisp morning breeze carries eddies of mist redolent with moisture and the earthy scent of forest loam. It’s only just sunrise and the first rays of dawn are arcing overhead, gilding the sky. In the distance you hear the raspy waark  of a moa’s call, made indistinct and muddy by the mist. All around you the world stirs to life.

You have never come this way before. The gentle swell of the distant hills, while evoking some vestige of memory, are still largely unfamiliar. In your previous life you traveled these lands and plumbed their secrets. You pulled back the curtains and laid Tyria’s deepest mysteries bare to the light of day. And yet, two-hundred and fifty years later she has drawn the cloak of the unknown about her again. She waits for you. Her eyes say ‘come hither’ but her bowers and her forests hold unknown dangers. She is intoxicating and treacherous. She is unmapped, untamed, wild.

Your ears strain and you think back to that moa’s call you heard. Was it truly a moa hiding in the early morning mists, waking with the dawn, or was it the call of something more dangerous, something sinister? Where you thought the day held splendor and promise, now you wonder at what the shadows may hide. You fear the rocks that Tyria’s siren call may have hidden. What lies beyond those hills, hidden deep in the valleys? None have passed this way who can tell you.

Tyria is as changing as the shifting sands. She is duplicitous and fickle. The way things are is not the way they will be, which are not the way they were. You may spend all day adventuring upon the heath, learning its secrets, only to find that new terrors arise during the gloaming hours. Watch now, as the sun murders the sky and stains the world with red. Tyria has prepared new trials for you when the lights go out. The hours are not the same and those you once called ‘friend’ may in truth be false.

So keep your wits about you, hero. Come to Tyria forewarned of her volatile wiles and you just may survive long enough to answer the oft-asked question…

What’s your story?


I’m thinking of turning this into some kind of spoken-word deal. What do you think, is this something you would like to hear?

Also, I have finally stepped into the world of twitter. I should have an icon link up on my sidebar shortly. I plan on using it to let people know when I’m in-game and playing.

Also, Hunter and I did NOT coordinate. I honestly don’t know how that happened.

I Think I Might Cry

I was catching up on my interviews today. In one of those ZAM interviews floating around I saw this:

we’re not changing or altering things at random and pretending that they didn’t exist. We’re going to make it make sense.


That’s an answer in response to mucking about with lore (aka fluff, backstory, or history).

I’m having trouble putting into words how satisfied and happy ArenaNet’s attitude towards lore makes me.

I am willing to believe that a giant race of man-eating cat-people badly in need of orthodontics can call down fiery meteors from the sky and construct massive steam engines of destruction. I love fantasy and science fiction. I’m willing to believe a lot of crazy stuff under one condition.

Don’t Lie to Me.

THE most important rule in storymaking is Truth. Not Truth in the sense that every made-up world must have a blue sky. If the sky in this world is green well, I’m willing to roll with that so long as said sky isn’t suddenly red tomorrow without a very good explanation.

Do not, under any circumstances, go back to previously published story and either invalidate it or pretend it never happened. If that happens then the player is being lied to. LIED TO. If you lie to a player, or a reader, or a watcher (depending on what medium you are using) you have lost all manner of credibility. You are henceforth not to be trusted with anything you say.

So they sky is yellow today? What happened to those memories I had of slaughtering my foes and admiring the red sky as it reflected off the pools of blood on the ground? Oh, but the sky should have been yellow on that day? I’m left feeling like my memories, my experiences didn’t matter. I feel like I’m no longer connected to the world, my vested interest is gone.

I leave. Likely never to return.

I may be blowing this out of all reasonable proportion. It’s probably not something most people think about. But fantasy and science fiction try to create an alternate reality. Changing the history in order for the present to make sense is not ok. We are not living in Oceania, and I will not tolerate presented history being altered.

I’d like to leave you with an ancient story, see if you can guess what it’s about.

There once lived three sisters on a hill. The oldest sister wore bright green and had yellow hair. She stood straight and tall and lived at the top of the hill. The second sister wore yellow. She made her home under the hill but when the sun shone and the wind blew she liked to run all over the hill and the surrounding fields. The youngest sister wore dark green. She lived on the side of the hill but wasn’t as strong as her oldest sister, nor was she as adventurous as her middle sister.

One day the sun was shining bright, but the youngest sister was crying.

“What’s wrong?” asked the oldest sister.

“I can’t see the sun, our middle sister has covered the whole hill in shade.” wailed the youngest sister.

“I do it because you like your feet to be shaded, and I can keep out intruders!” protested the middle sister.

The older sister nodded. This was true. So she took her youngest sister up in her arms and held her up to the light. “Isn’t that better?” she said. “You can see the sky and the sun, hear the birds and feel the wind.”

The youngest sister was very happy, but she was also a little sad. The oldest sister watched over all of them, and the middle sister kept out intruders and kept the hill comfortable, but what could she, the youngest sister do?

The youngest sister dozed in her oldest sister’s arms until a great crack of thunder woke her. “It’s starting to rain” she said.

“It’s going to be a terrible storm.” The oldest sister said, fear in her voice.

The middle sister was safe in her house under the hill, and the youngest sister could hide in her house on the side of the hill, but the oldest sister had to stay on top of the hill to watch over them. There was no one to protect her.

“I’ll stay with you.” The youngest sister said.

As the rain lashed and the wind howled the youngest sister clung tight to her oldest sister. Because of the arms wrapped around her the oldest sister did not fall and instead was able to stand strong and watchful through the storm until the sun came out again.

The youngest sister was happy to be able to do something to help her other sisters. The three stayed like that: The oldest stood straight and tall, watching over the younger two, the middle sister kept out invaders and shaded the hill-home of the three, and the youngest rested in the oldest sister’s arms until storms came, when she helped her sister withstand the wind.

The End

Here are my three sisters. Be very quiet, they’re still sleeping:

Hill-homes lined up, waiting for rain.