Vylara
(Temporary form)
The Shiverpeaks were a harsh and inhospitable wasteland, a desert of ice and snow where no creature in its right mind would choose to travel, let alone set up shop. Then again, Norn had never exactly been famous for being the most pragmatic of the races which called Tyria home. If anything, it would seem that their existence up here in the barren, frozen desert proved that you really could survive on pride and mulish stubbornness alone. That, and exorbitant amounts of ale.
Normally, even the most nomadic of Norn traveled in groups, at least this far up north, and especially this close to Jormag’s presence. This kind of proximity to the elder dragon meant even harsher conditions than what was considered normal in the arctic climate, but more importantly, it brought with it the constant threat of icebrood. Any unfortunate creature that wandered this deep into the jaws of the ice dragon faced the danger of being attacked, or worse, corrupted – at least, that was if the elements didn’t get to them first. Arguably, if given a choice of the three options, the latter would be the best way to go.
In spite of the perpetual looming danger which hung on the frigid air, two small, lone tents flanking a campfire (built with meticulous care amidst the carpet of snow) stood in evident defiance of everything that made these mountains so unwelcoming. The cold sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon, throwing long shadows across the undisturbed fields of snow behind sparse evergreen trees which somehow managed to cling to life in this otherwise barren wasteland. Two sets of tracks (one considerably larger than the other) criss-crossing through the makeshift campsite made it evidently clear that the tents were indeed occupied by tenants, and the orderly state of the camp coupled with the rugged nature of the gear it incorporated indicated that this particular arrangement wasn’t an unusual one either.
Perched on a makeshift stump-turned-seat by the fire, a solitary figure was illuminated by the flame’s glow as daylight slowly faded into evening. The figure was that of a slender Norn woman, seated with a large greatsword resting across her knees. The blade of the gold-handled weapon rippled with flashes of bright pastels as it caught the light, but the colors seemed somehow more vivid than those reflected in the sunset, as if it had an inner light of its own. The flickering of the campfire’s flames glinted off of the intricate metalwork of golden wings which made up the hilt of the greatsword, buffed to a scintillating gleam by the cloth in the woman’s hands. If Vylara was anything, she was painstakingly meticulous when it came to the condition of her gear – after all, well-kept gear was one of the marks of a respectable fighter, and even with that aside, what would be the point of kicking ass if you didn’t look good while doing it?
The camp was a humble one – simple but functional in every aspect. The dolyak-skin tents were light and easy to transport, and the spindly apparatus currently straddling the fire was easy to set-up and break down, as well as carry. The only thing which seemed slightly out of place in this otherwise lightweight ensemble was the iron pot which currently hung over the fire, suspended by the metal-wrought frame. Despite the practical nature of her work and possessions, there were a few aspects of life which Vylara stubbornly refused to budge from, the most important of which being the quality of her food. After all, just because one traveled like a vagrant didn’t necessarily mean that they had to eat like one.
For all intents and purposes, at that particular moment, the mesmer seemed entirely engrossed in her task of polishing her weapon and altogether oblivious to the world around her. However, any person who thought that she missed anything that was going on in her vicinity would be misfortunately mistaken. “So, what exactly is it that you’re asking me to do again?” Her gaze never lifted from her current task at hand even as she asked the question, but no facial expression on her part was required to convey the skepticism which currently – and very unmistakably – colored her tone of voice. “I must have severely misheard you, because I’m pretty sure I recall you saying something about flinging my priceless, handwrought, one-of-a-kind greatsword here across the camp like some kind of cheap, crab toss ball.”