User:Gigathrash

Bad fan fiction alert! The following story is silly, and poorly written. It was also minorly inspired by Pansola.

In a time before even our father’s father strode Tyria, the world was different. Incredibly different. Charr fought the Norn for borderlands to the North, the Asura fought the destroyers for control of their lands, the dwarves fought for their very future against a foe of magma and brimstone. In the middle of this turmoil existed a small band of humans, set out to return the world to what it once was, peaceful, serene, not everything always on fire. However, this story is not about them. Accompanying the heroes was a variety of raiders, your usual lot. The Warrior, strong, disciplined, loyal to the end. The Monk, pious to a fault, he once cried three days after kicking a beetle. The Elementalist, a master of the water arts, and just as cold. And the Necromancer, a dark, yet strangely joyful soul that wishes you no more from you then your soul, your life, and your death. Each of these professions was granted a gift from the gods, a power that exceeded all others, and would be used to smite the destroyers, and save the world. However, the gods in their vanity, deemed the Warrior to posses enough gifts already, and sent him to the mortal coil without a single shiny glowy thing to his name. This caused the warrior to fall into despair. He sulked for seven days, and seven nights, during which the other three left him to stew, and saved the entire world from destruction. On the seventh day of the warrior’s grief, while wandering the mountains looking for purpose, the warrior collapsed from fatigue. Then came onto him an angel swaddled in the guise of a norn story teller. The Angel set the warrior to a momentous task, teaching humility to others. The Warrior bowed low, for he knew that he had been chosen by Balthazar himself to complete such a task. The Warrior set off, and destroyed the evils of humanity with +30 20/20 +15>50% pamphlets of the greater good. The task done, he returned to the angel, which gifted unto him a power beyond all the others that had touched the Elementalist, the Necromancer, or the Monk. Then, the angel spoke:  “The Raven’s eyes guide those who seek power, the wolf bites at the heels of those who would destroy it, but the power I gift unto you is of the bear. The Bear strikes like the thunder, roars like the wind, and runs as the fox. Go now, and do my works.” The Warrior felt the power of bear surge through him, his eyes flashed with brilliant light, and he dropped on all fours. He could feel the surge of the power in the earth, he could touch it, hold it in his hands, harness it, cage it, release it in a torrent of destruction. Thus the first Ursan was born. Others came after him, all tasked with destroying the sins of humanity, they gathered together. They did not shame the ones that had abandoned them, instead they shared their secrets, and the exiled and the exilers clasped hand in hand, and smought the evil from the land. But there was a fission, as there always is. There were those that believed that this new power was too powerful for mankind to posses. The gods listened to them, and made it so that this great power could not be used to harm others who worked towards the same goal. The fission continued to grow, and the gods in an attempt at peacekeeping, limited the stretch of the bear’s paws, and strike. But it was not good enough for the unbelievers. They fought against the god’s wisdom, and some turned to their side. That was when the trouble known now as the Bear’s Fist started. Dwayna turned her back on Balthazar, and gifted onto those who followed her new powers, as Did Melandru. Grenth was enraged at their betrayal, and sided with Balthazar, ordering all who followed him to treat the Ursans as Brothers. Eventually, fighting broke out between the two groups. The Ursans where immensely stronger and more agile then those who wished them dead, but they where badly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. For 50 years the battle raged on across all continents, destroying everything in its path. Eventually the Ursans marched across The Shiverpeaks, to the Krytan stronghold. Their the final battle took place, hundreds of thousands of lives where lost before the gods stepped in. However, rather than compromise, the gods feuded, and the fighting broke out anew, this time with the very goods themselves going at it tooth and claw. The battle raged on for 5 days and 4 nights. The armies broke, both too tired and broken to lift a sword or cast another spell. That was when the purple veil broke. Lyssa stepped forward from her position on the sidelines, and struck down the other gods, who where weak and powerless after so much fighting. The Mesmers swarmed across the battlefield; they had been in hiding for too long. Too long had they been rejected from parties. Too long had they been jeered about their sexuality, too long had they been the outcasts of society. The Ursans took on the form, but found they could not muster the strength, the earth was parched, and the mesmer stripped from them what ever energy the still possessed. The strongest fought back, but soon where blinded, or found their own weapons turning on them. The other side was in no better a situation, the ones who relied on their powerful glamers for power, soon found themselves without them. The ones that attempted to cast spells where struck with wave after wave of mental anxiety, tearing apart any spell they even though of. Those who did manage to cast one, found it explode as it left their fingertips, causing more damage to the caster then to the target, those who stood by and did nothing where wracked by doubt, and soon succumbed to darkness. The mesmers then fanned out from that place, and struck down resistance wherever it was found. The Norns found themselves shackled by chains of the mind, or thinking themselves weak and docile. The Charr where dominated in a similar fashion. The Asura, knowing their end, bowed to the Mesmers, and work under us to this very day. The forgotten slipped back into the sands of time, and Palawa Joko was imprisoned in a realm much worse then death. This, young children, is how the mesmer came to rule the entire continent, and with it, we have finally achieved the glory that our patron, Lissa originally set for us. ”More Wine, Master?” ”Just a smidgen Vekk. Hmmm, Vekk, weren’t you named after your great great great grandfather?” ”Yes I was sir.” ”Good to see family traditions keeping up, of you go now.”