“But Vater, a mesmer is all I ever wanted to be. You know this in your heart.”
Meswrex pleaded to her aging father.
“This is not the last time you’ve heard this Mes, but it’s the last time I’m going to tell you; if you take that profession, you can forget you were ever part of this family.
Just look at yourself will you! Parading around half-naked, flashing your assets in puffs of purple butterflies! Is this the Norn way? And look at your weapons. Staffs, sceptres. focuses… focal… focum …. gaaah, whatever – that stoopid wooden handbag thing. Are these the tools of a warrior? And don’t get me started on your sword. A greatsword is meant for cleaving flesh, not spinning in your hands while you hide behind rocks! You’re a disgrace to your race.”
Phlemgroth looked sullenly toward his wife.
“Smelga, where did we go wrong? Why couldn’t she be like you? I tell you, we never should have let her shave off her beard when she was 12!”
“Phelmgroth, you were the one who wanted to call her ‘Mes-wrex’. You only have yourself to blame for putting the idea in her head.”
Meswrex’ expression changed as realisation began to dawn on her; a mesmer is all she ever wanted to be; even if that meant she was now alone in all of Tyria.
“Whatevs olds. Later …”
And with that, she strode away into the Twilight and toward her unknown destiny.
Twilight defines Meswrex. The blackness of Abyss and simplicity of Red, not unlike the … erm … um …. hydrogen-alpha emission lines found throughout the depths of the universe.
Transmutations of Winged armor for elegance, not forsaking her beginnings through an Acolyte skirt.
When seeking lady luck, her magic-find ensemble reveals the weaponry of Twilight Arbor, a Feathered headpiece, vestments and mantle complimented by Winged skirt and boots, in Indigo and Phlox, the colours of her magic.
She’s too sexy for this game.
