I do not own Guild Wars 2, or any of the races/places/faces (lawl) mentioned in this story.

A/X: Well hey guys! It's been a bloody while, hasn't it? I bet some of you will be getting a notification and going "Who the f*ck is Kitfoxpup?" Lollc.

Well, I'm taking an English Class- rather, a Short Story writing Class- and I decided to practice a bit by uploading a short story about my latest character in Guild Wars 2. I'm trying to see if I can sort of actually keep a character for longer than 15 levels, because I keep getting tired of my characters. I stopped enjoying my Mesmer because he's pink… What the hell was I thinking? SERIOUSLY?

Anyway, I hope I still have the format for the site right. I really had to dig into the deepest recesses of my memory to remember how to do this, haha. ^_^

Anyway, you guys will probably see a little Alice in Wonderland referenced here. I do love me my Alice.

So, comment, like, love, and get married! … Wait, what?

The Face of Death

Death has been a part of my life, for as long as I can remember. No matter where I looked, it seemed like it was following me- it probably was.

As a child, I grew up on the streets of Divinity's Reach. My only memory of my parents was of them being murdered, probably for gambling debts, or worst. All I really had was my twin sister.

Durma was my sister's name. We named ourselves; when our parents were killed, we decided to cast off those memories, that life, and become new people. As we grew, we heard stories, of a girl in a mystical land where problems were made of things unheard of. We chose the twins depicted in that story- two boys by the names of Dee and Dum- and named ourselves Deera and Durma.

Durma was everything I was not. She was my opposite, and yet I depended on her. She was the voice of calm reason; I was the voice of rash violence. Where I wanted to solve things by taking them from others, she wanted to solve them by sharing. Mostly, it ended her way; her way usually ended without involving black eyes or swollen noses (on my behalf). Whenever it did end my way, we usually made it out alright.

She was always tough, valiant. She would have made a good guardian. I was always the sly one, the trickster. I could make things happen without moving them- the first signs of simple magic. I hadn't decided what path I would push my magic skills, whether it be through the Elements, or through Death.

When we were 15, I fell sick. Very sick- the kind of sick you don't just fight off. I was stubborn- I refused to think something as stupid as a fever would get the best of me. It wasn't the first time Durma and I had argued… But it was the last.

Despite my wishes, Durma left Divinity's Reach in search of some herbs that would make me better. It was stormy, windy, and all-around unpleasant. I was in a stupor from sick; I hadn't even realized she'd left. When I woke up, the first thing I heard about was the attack on Shaemoor, the outer village. The centaurs had attempted to take the small community, and in their attempt, had killed many innocent bystanders. Durma- far out in the field, and far from any help- was one of those innocents.

I would have died, then, if not for my friend Quinn. He was the one who brought me the news. I think he'd been sweet on Durma; he'd certainly have done anything for her. I'd actually been trying to get her to at least take him with her, if she was going to go at all, but I guess she hadn't wanted to bother him. I know Quinn blamed himself, all those nights he sat by me and forced me to come back. I remember- I kept shouting that there was no point, there was nothing without Durma. She was all I had never needed, ever would need.

What finally kept me in this world was the near loss of Quinn.

It was about 3 weeks after Durma's death. I was attempting to refuse the medicine Quinn had managed to steal for me. All of a sudden, these… Men rushed into the tent. I knew their faces- they were common thieves, petty crooks, but the worst kind- bandits. Somehow they'd gotten into the city, down towards the poorer side, and too scared to pick a fight with the wealthier bit they were ransacking every single poor citizen. We all barely had anything on our own- to steal from any of us was pretty much committing homicide.

When Quinn refused to give them our worth, they got violent. Three of the bigger men pushed at Quinn; he was a very slight man, very quick on his feet, but the tent I was in was too small. He couldn't maneuver around them, and he couldn't dodge their attacks without endangering me.

I was sick of people dying or nearly doing so for me. So I stood up, and-

And I don't remember.

Quinn said that my eyes turned white as death, and the whole tent turned black as night. In a voice not entirely my own (in his words), I had apparently said "LEAVE NOW, OR MAY DEATH STEAL YOUR SOULS AND GRANT THEM TO ME." Quinn says he'd never seen anyone run faster, and it still looked like some kind of plague was after them.

It was necromancy, the kind of magic that is utterly dangerous and dark. Most people frown on it. Summoning the dead is seen as sacrilege, but no one will really stop you. The god Greant stood for this. Necromancers were his prodigy, and both Quinn and I believed He had possessed me to protect me, if not us both.

From that day forward, Quinn and I were best friends. I started practicing, going into the sewers and raising dead rats. I'd never really trained against anything real, not for 6 years.

I started to fidget, inside. I felt like I should be DOING something, like my life was doing what it was meant to.

And I remembered the centaur. In 6 years, I hadn't sought revenge on those bastards for killing my sister, my beautiful Durma, and taking her from me. I know Quinn felt the same.

So I stepped outside Divinity's Reach…

Straight into the night of Durma's death. Or so it seemed.