Scion 1300
“Move east until you see an outcropping. Follow it north to the mark. Once you’re there, wait until beyond sunset and read – this.”

Laxia’s last words danced through Archuk Swampmoss’s head, a dark plume of irritating thoughts mixing with his cigar smoke. She had the gall to sent him off on another sortie while he was wringing coin from some slag-brained charr doting the forward base. Fifty gold up in a half-hour of liar’s dice; well above par. But really, winning is easy. Making sure they keep playing, that was the hard part. Still, a joke here, a favour or concession there, and they’ll drain their coinpurses for you with smiles on their faces. But no, Laxia had to ruin his streak. The oh-so-great Tribune Swampdrown, calling upon her trusty sword, the first-and-foremost weapon of the Swamp warband. If something needed to be done with impunity, Archuk was always the go-to charr. And ever so obedient, he took the note and left, off on another mission to magnify Swamp’s legacy.

Archuk coughed as he readjusted his back against the great oak. A few exaggerated clouds of smoke wafted up towards the leaves, but Archuk cared little about giving himself away. Any bastard of a beast, human, or Flame cultist would lose their brains the moment they tried attacking. Even if his rifle was beside him, a pistol quickdraw would still do the trick. Few Ash Legion charr had the luxury of operating without their veils of secrecy and subterfuge, and Archuk was dedicated on relishing that arrogant level of operational nakedness. Just kill ‘em all. And if you can’t, then that’s a shame.

The last sunbeams that cut through the cigar smoke slowly faded, and Archuk had enough. Sunset wasn’t quite finished across the Iron Marches, but he ground the half-finished cigar against the bark behind him. It was one thing to not care about giving away your position, it was another to start a forest fire. Archuk slung up the rifle on his left and paced forward. The ending of the outcropping he followed for an hour was right in front of him. It expanded into a canyon’s maw, and within it-

Ebonhawkians. A full camp as well. Fifteen-plus humans, at least four were magic users. Six tents, one of which was larger and had…some bookshelves or chests within. Bonfire, some livestock, and an empty jail cell. Two of the magical-looking mice had ornate shoulder mantles and a rather large amulet around their necks. All of them had a dagger or pistol of some sort as a sidearm. Excellent.

Archuk smiled as he retreated from the edge. Improvisational combat, that was his specialty; the guns were backups in case the battle turned into a slag-pit. It isn’t so much using tree branches or cooking equipment to kill a foe, but to use the enemy’s weapon against them. Not so hard to steal away armaments with misdirection and a bit of shadow magic, that is if you haven’t already pilfered a dead foe’s weapons for yourself. There’s also the upshot of confusing the hell out of enemy command when they try to analyze your handiwork. Do things right and you’ll also have quite the tale after debriefing. Ambushing a Flame Legion escort with a garotte and pistol or wiping out a full trebuchet crew with two throwing knives. All the other Ash charr fell head-over-heels for those stories, and if some CO gets tail-twisted for ‘reckless self-endangerment’ and ‘suicidal risk-taking’, then even better. Unexpectedly, Laxia never gave him shit for this. Legionnaires, centurions, and even some tribunes would make comments, but Laxia never budged, stating the results spoke for themselves. She was always loyal to Swamp – to him, even. Even if she was an uppity soot-sucker most of the time.

The thought of Laxia broke Archuk out of his self-indulgent daydreaming. He patted himself down, silently cursing the number of pockets on his armour until he unbuttoned another side pouch and yanked out the little slip of paper. Unfolded, the note was translucent even through the evening shadows, but it only hosted a few short words:

Do what comes natural.

- L
Archuk snorted and crumpled the note, dropping it alongside the remnants of his cigar as he reapproached the edge. In one smooth motion, the rifle fell from its sling and swung back up, the pendulum arc ending right at Archuk’s arms. His trigger finger caressed its namesake as the first target fell into focus. The opening pickoffs will make the others scramble for cover, and when they begin to rush this perch, they’ll soon find their own blades puncturing their throats.


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Archuk Swampmoss © me
Art ©  wolnir
GW2 and charr © ArenaNet
^{shoutout to krinkels lol}