Sylvari who awaken during the Dawn cycle are said to be natural silver-tongues, masters in the world of diplomacy and precaution via their honey-words and keen minds.

When he came out of his pod, Sprout gave that idea a run for its money.

At first, the tenders who greeted him weren't even sure if he could talk, and he seemed more eager to hide from anything and everything than to strike up conversation. It took a lot of coaxing and crooning to get him to settle down, finally, and he was set up with a small house, still not having said a word.

Having settled, he moved through the first part of his life being a social butterfly, mostly through smiles, laughs, and gesturing. Eventually he would say a word here or there, sporadically, but those he spent time with noticed those words getting more and more frustrated. More articulated thoughts centered around exploring, restlessness, a desire to go.

Some told him it was too early for him to leave the Grove, he still had much to learn before going out amongst peoples less understanding than his fellows, but others encouraged the growing need in him. Fear and anxiety was replaced by zeal, and eventually, without giving himself much time to think about it, he decided to leave the Grove. Using what little money he'd accrued to take an asura gate to Lion's Arch, he stumbled into Coriolis Plaza in the dead of night.

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Sprout stumbled a little stepping through the Gate, and nearly reeled backwards once he got through. A jolt of fear, suddenly being somewhere completely foreign. But this was quickly overrode by exhilaration.

He stepped in place a few times, feeling some kind of smooth cold stone under his feet. This whole place was stone. White stone, reflecting moonlight. It was quiet, the dead of night, and distantly he heard what sounded like enormous, soothing breathing. Waves. In front of him a circular plot of grass, with huge spindly trees he'd never seen before. Palms.

The biggest smile he'd ever had.

The rush of this place, this completely new place, was heady; the idea that even more new places lay behind each portal in front of him (Lion's Arch being the hub of several) was entirely too much. With a little whoop he ran through another gate, paying little mind to the "hey!"s of the half-seen gate guards. They'd be alright, letting one little sylvari slip through.

He stumbled through this gate too, tripping on the grated flooring on the other side, his footsteps hollow metallic thuds on the black steel of the walkway. A big hand caught his shoulder, steadying him with a growly "whoa there." This hand was huge, easily the size of his torso, furred and clawed. The owner of the hand even more so, Sprout having to step back to get a good look at them.

"You're a charr?"

"Yeah, you a runt?"

"Yeah!"

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The Black Citadel is home to the charr: large cat-like beastfolk. The Citadel itself is made of steel and smoke, churning out all the necessary parts of war, from farmers to siege towers. Overall, it looked like the polar opposite of the Grove. But, as Sprout found, it was similar, too.

The main part of the Grove, to Sprout, the part that made him love the Grove even as he left it, was the permeating sense of support. And that was here, at the Citadel, too. Just different. Here, a warband supported each other to the fullest, so that each could fulfill their duty to the fullest. Here, everyone pushed each other to be the best they could be. Similar to the focus on growth and fulfillment of purpose in the Grove. Just different.

Sprout latched on to the first friendly face he saw, which ended up belonging to a young Iron Legion medic named Alex Mendmuzzle. Having been invited to the table with the Muzzle warband (interested in the hearing the stories of this small, weird plant thing), Sprout never really saw a reason to leave. He tagged along, treated as a naive greenhorn by some and a nuisance by others, but it never really seemed to bother him. It was fascinating, he loved every second of it.

He asked endless questions about their work: mostly mechanical and engineering things he had no hope of understanding even with the most patient teachers, but also things about daily living, working, fighting.

He loved the fighting. Particularly he loved the fighting of Nona Dustmuzzle.

Nona, her bandmates often joked, should have been Blood legion. Nona, in response, is quick to point out no Blood could ever think far enough ahead to outfight her. She was vicious, aggressive to the extreme, moved too fast and hit too hard for anyone to have a moment's breath against her. All of that Iron Legion brain went right into perfecting her technique.

And Sprout wanted to be just like that. So he took to following her around the most, which at first put her off, but when she realized he couldn't be chased away so easily found it a little charming. She was a tough teacher, but a good one.

A four-foot sylvari learning to fight like a charr seems unnatural, and it probably is, but Sprout took to it like he was meant for it. He learned to be ferocious, he learned to dominate a space, he learned how to fight like it was a game of vicious chess. He grew as a fighter and as a person, coming farther and farther from the scared, quiet sylvari who had emerged however long ago.

He even took on a new name, Dawnsprout, after talking with Mendmuzzle about how it was unfair for charr to have more name-parts than he did.

He found a teacher in Nona and a friend in Alex Mendmuzzle, who he spent most of his evenings with. Talking, listening, laughing. Sprout found him to be someone he could relax around, which was nice after a day of bruises from Nona and teasing from the rest of the 'band.

The teasing, Sprout could tell Alex never liked it. He didn't see the harm in it, but Alex always said they took it too far and was quick to swat the others off in his defense. It scared Sprout, just a little, to see Alex so upset by it.

But, all the same, he spent quite a while with the Muzzle Warband. It was good, but came to an abrupt end.

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"Does it hurt?"

Dawnsprout huddled further in on himself, covering the left side of his face. He was scared, confused, and though they'd put the fire out hours ago his treebark skin still felt like it was burning. Waves that wrung whimpers out of him.

He didn't like how it felt to ignore Mendmuzzle, but it hurt to move his mouth and he didn't want to hear his voice break when another wave hit.

"S'pose it does." Mendmuzzle's voice was a deep but quiet rumble normally, but this was even quieter. Disappointed. Sad.

Dawnsprout was worried he was disappointed in him.

The silence afterwards made him even more worried.

The last bits of red sunset had gone out of the sky, and in this dirty corner of Lion's Arch the only noise was the breathing of waves down the harbor wall, beneath their feet. Had Sprout not been so preoccupied, he might've been more interested, having heard waves only once before.

But as it was he was getting increasingly panicked. The silence was getting longer, longer, longer and he was focusing harder and harder on the disappointed tone in Muzzle's voice. He didn't know what had happened, in fire and the rush of arguments after. All he knew was that he had gotten hurt, and then Muzzle had taken him here.

Sprout wanted to go back to the Citadel. Maybe if he just pretended it didn't hurt, that it was just a little scuff in the end, things could go back to normal. He didn't know why him being hurt meant they needed to sit in silence on a Lion's Arch dock, but he felt deeply that this was bad and his fault.

"Mendm-"

"That's not my name anymore."

That didn't do anything to help. His mouth hurt now and he felt terrible and didn't know what was going on and he didn't know what Muzzle meant by that because why wasn't that his name anymore how could that be and why did he feel so, so at fault for this. So he started crying.

He tried to hide the little noises, the shaking shoulders. The way it screwed up his face and trembled in his body made things hurt, a cracking burning feeling, and it only made things worse. On his best days, he wasn't very good at hiding anything about himself, and this was not one of his best days.

He tried, tried so hard, to sort out what had happened.

He remembered being asked to come look at something, then pain and fire and surprised yelling from somewhere else. He remembered a roar he thought sounded kind of like Alex but also very much not, yelling and something about a joke, a joke, it was just a joke. He remembered Alex putting out the fire and trying his best to patch the damage, but none of his tools worked on flesh that wasn't flesh.

He remembered more arguing, arguing that made him scared just to think about, before Alex picked him up and took him through the gate (he'd almost forgotten about that gate) and back to Lion's Arch. They'd seen another medic there, a mender who knew how to help sylvari. They did their best with the burn, but admitted it wasn't likely to be very pretty. Now they were here.

And he was burning.

And he was crying.

He was picked up, held, in silence but in warmth. And he was crying.

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As it turned out, the whole incident ended up being the straw that broke the camel's back. After some particularly heated arguing, Mendmuzzle left his warband, and the legions, for good. And thus gave up his name.

Alex and a now-scarred Dawnsprout stayed in Lion's Arch for a time, sorting themselves out and trying to decide what their next move was. It seemed much easier to stick together, and neither was very willing to make the leap apart, so together they ended up settling on the coast just south of Lion's Arch, near a small fishing and farming hamlet. Over the summer they built a small house, 'they' being mostly Alex putting to use ship-scrap metal and Iron Legion ingenuity to construct a small hut of distinctly charr make.

They spent nights watching trade vessels come and go from the up-shore harbor, days working and making their home a home. Shortly into the whole affair, Alex decided to make half of the house suitable for clinic work, returning to his medical profession. Dawnsprout was happy to help, but lacked a direction of his own.

He felt the same nagging desire to leave coming back.

Alex could tell.

For his own part, Alex didn't feel much regret for leaving the Legions. Some, but not as much as he thought he would. He enjoyed fixing up the bumps and bruises of the townsfolk, medicating coughs, giving advice and contacts when things were out of his experience. He loved having a home, he loved having someone to share it with, he loved settling into his little spot of Tyria.

But he knew it was coming when Dawnsprout asked him if it'd be alright to leave. Not permanently, he'd come back to say hello, but for now, would it be alright to leave.

Of course he said yes.

It wouldn't be fair to otherwise.

Packing up a few things, one more hug for the road, Dawnsprout wandered off again.

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"Try again."

Dawnsprout was on the floor, having just been knocked off his feet by the blunt edge of a dummy greatsword.

He tried again. He was knocked down again.

"Close, be a little more careful."

Again, and down again.

His teacher was a tall, beanpole of a sylvari named Eólaidh. Younger than Sprout, but having been in the Order of Whispers much longer. And Dawnsprout wasn't at all used to how this guy fought.

This guy, for one, was a mesmer. He relied on magic and tricks and illusions to get through a fight. For another, he was just so infuriatingly arrogant about it. Dawnsprout was used to charr fighting, hard and straightforward, and wasn't used to losing over and over, or having to continually hear about it.

"Try again."

This time Sprout brought down the magic-blunted edge of his scythe with all the force he could, only to have it bounce off and fling him backwards with the same force tenfold.

"You're getting frustrated, and everyone can see it. Try again."

Dawnsprout wiped a little bit of sap-blood from his nose, pushing himself up and looking absolutely livid. This wasn't really what he'd expected after having been invited into the Order.

The Order was a hush-hush affair, built on spies, assassins, and that whole sort of ilk. He'd met Eólaidh not too long after leaving home, and they'd hit it off (well enough, he thought). Eólaidh mentioned being impressed with all that Sprout had gotten out of the locals in his short time in the area. After a contest of conversational acrobatics (in which Sprout, again he thought, had held his own fairly well, thank you very much), he'd found himself an initiate in the Order.

And that was fine, it seemed like a fun gig, and the pay and food were good. And, most of all, it sounded like he wouldn't be tied to one place.

But he was here, after a couple of weeks, getting walloped over and over. He hadn't gone anywhere outside of the Chantry in that time. He was just... here.

"Fine. I'm frustrated! Fine!" He was spitting venom, stalking back towards Eólaidh, who stood and took it stony-faced.

"You all think you're better than me and you are and I'm frustrated! Fine!" Sprout was at him now, jabbing his stomach (as high as he could reach), still bleeding a bit and tearing up on top of it. "I thought you'd let me go but you didn't! You just brought me here to show me how much better you are!"

He was cut off by Eólaidh grabbing his hand, tight to the point of hurting, before relaxing into a more comforting grip. His voice was quiet, comforting, but stern.

"You are fine, you just need to try again."

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By the time the three great orders of Tyria joined to form the Pact, Sprout had gotten over that hump and was settled nicely as an agent in the Order of Whispers. He wasn't experienced enough to follow the Pact to Orr, but with the world going to zombified hell, he was more interested in going back to Bloodtide and checking in on Alex anyway.

So he wormed his way into being assigned a watchpost there, so he could be home and still useful to the Pact while he and his friend waited it out.

Coming home he found Alex busier than ever, tending to Vigil soldiers dealing with the northerly tide of the Risen undead horde. So they settled into their respective duties, going through the motions, sharing stories of what all had happened during their time apart, relaxing again despite everything.

And eventually, far to the south, the Pact prevailed.

Life slowed down, Sprout spent a while at home, helping Alex and the Order per his whims, occasionally going wandering for just few-day spurts at a time. The desire to roam didn't come, until little whispers in the back of his head had him looking to the west.

News of something happening in the western Maguuma jungles was trickling across the continent. Something that was attacking things even as far east as the Brand. Something big.

And Sprout felt not just the desire to wander, but an absolute need to go there. Something telling him that he was needed there.

When he announced his decision to go, he was surprised. Alex begged him not to. Really, truly begged. It caught him off guard, he didn't understand, he didn't understand what the problem was this time.

Alex tried to tell him, how news from the Pact was grim, how this was doing something horrible uniquely to sylvari. How this was dangerous, more than anyone realized, and he didn't want to see him go and never come back. But Sprout had those whispers, more urgently telling him to go, this was something he had to do.

It took hours, hours of trying to understand each other's position, before Alex acquiesced. But under the condition that they marry before he went, so that at least if something happened, they would both have that.

So they did, and before he left, Alex took on the name Dawnseeker.

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"Heyo," Dawnsprout said from his shadowed perch.

The charr walking by whirled around, longbow at the ready, expertly pointed exactly where it needed to be.

"Easy there good lookin'," Sprout rolled onto his side, resting his chin in his hand. "You look lost, am I right?"

The charr narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his face up in suspicion, but did not leave.

"You know what this place is?"

"I do."

"No you don't."

Sprout kicked his legs over the side of the ledge he'd been laying on, lightly falling to the floor in front of this new charr. The charr, he could tell from the uniform, was a soldier of the Pact; also from the uniform, fairly high-ranking. Sprout hadn't exactly kept in mind the specifics of what rank wore what, but he could tell that much. This was the first of the Pact he'd seen crawl this far into the jungle (besides himself, he supposed).

"This is Tarir, though I hope you at least already knew that," Sprout said, holding his arms out before starting to walk away, giving off the same airs that a tour guide would.

The charr followed, but his arrow stayed knocked. Everyone knew not to trust strange sylvari.

Dawnsprout had been staying in the area for quite a while. He'd been drawn further and further into the jungle, whisperings in the back of his head getting louder and louder and urging him on. Something about it felt off, and it took him that long to really bring that thought to bear. So he ended up here, sorting through the conflicting voices in his head, but relying on his stubborn and contrary nature to keep him from following it on.

That all being as it were, he knew the area very well. He liked that he knew it well, and that he'd be able to leverage this over any Pact soldiers who came through. Not that he really wanted anything out of them, but it was nice knowing something when others didn't.

So he gave this charr the tour.

The charr turned out to be Vickus Highscreech, a Commander in the Pact, having broke this far into the jungle with a small team, intent on finishing off the evil, Mordremoth, at its heart. Or die trying. The Pact had been destroyed at the very frontlines, with only a few surviving, and even fewer making any headway in.

Vickus wasn't keen to trust strange sylvari, not after Mordremoth had taken control of so many, revealing them to have been errant minions of its own from their inception. Some could resist its control, some Vickus would still lay down his life for, but he'd learned caution went a long way.

But this one was useful. He could handle himself. And while he was admittedly annoying, he didn't seem to be affected by the Call.

This would be alright.

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"Wh- what happened?" Dawnsprout managed to choke the question out before devolving into gurgling whimpers.

Over the course of the past two weeks, he had helped the renegade Pact team through Auric Basin, and into the dragon's heart beyond. He'd proven himself an invaluable guide through the basin, and a solid support against the throngs of enemies beyond. Vickus still found him annoying and made no attempt at hiding it, but neither did he hide his appreciation for an extra pair of capable hands.

And now they were here, at the epicenter of it, the heart of Mordremoth just beyond. Bravery, tempered with the weight of the situation, in their hearts.

Sprout was afraid.

The screaming in his head was so loud. It was telling him the endeavor was useless, telling him to fight for it, telling him one thing after another, a confusing and unceasing whirl of commands. He tried to focus, block it out, but everyone could tell he was uncharacteristically quiet and distracted. He was trying, he was trying so hard. It was so loud.

It started reminding him of the Grove. It told him that, should they kill this dragon, what would become of sylvari? They would surely cease to be without their master, their creator. The Grove would be silent.

The Grove would be silent.

He felt like he was choking. Now he was on his back, on the ground. One of Vickus' arrows was lodged in his chest.

He was vaguely aware of the rest of the team around him. Vaguely aware of a snarling charr voice telling them to go on and do it.

Do it.

Vickus face was suddenly in his, inches away. He was snarling in fury and, faintly, panic.

"I'm going to help you, and you'll need more than an Elder Dragon if you make me regret it."

"Wh-"

He was roughly rolled over on his side, pinned to the ground, and the arrow pulled through the other side. He saw the barbs on it when it was tossed to the ground.

He would have been screaming if not for the wet wheezing noise that came out when he tried.

"You tried to attack us." Vickus rolled him back over, still pinned. He'd traded his longbow for a staff. "I stopped you. You're not going to do it again."

Dawnsprout mouthed an 'oh god,' screwing his eyes shut.

It was a good thing Vickus as a druid specializing in healing magic. It was a good thing he'd learned how to heal sylvari very early on. It was a good thing he gave second chances.

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The team, some dozen or two Pact members, ended up being successful. And the Grove did not fall silent upon their victory.

Vickus was able to stabilize Dawnsprout, but the injury would take time to fully heal. He had to be helped back out of the jungle, wheezing and cringing at the slightest movement. He was brought back to the Grove, and found his barkskin a mess of scars, cracks, burns, callouses.

He stayed there a while, soaking in the comforts of old friends and nostalgia, healing just enough to get himself back on his feet. He traded stories for companionship, but found that his stories were quieter, not the usual boastful sort.

And it wasn't exactly the kind of companionship he wanted, so when he was able, he hobbled his way back through the gate, like before, and made his way back home.

He had to beg to be put down when Alex got him back, holding him in a smothering hug. The big charr was on the verge of tears for a solid three days, having become convinced his husband had died what with all the solemn news from the west. But they were happy tears, and Sprout found himself shedding some too. Beyond that, he was quiet. Sad wasn't the right word.

Sprout had to take time to heal. He was out of breath often, and on a good day his chest had a nearly constant twinge. Alex helped how he could, and took to trying to sand, buff, and polish out the scars from his tiny husband's bark while time passed.

It worked, sort of. And Sprout was much happier for it, slowly regaining his loud and proud self. His rendition of what happened in Maguuma got more and more grand and daring with every retelling.

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Healing, getting back on his feet, Sprout took to a much more guided version of his wanderings.

Sometimes, still, he'd just take to the nearby countryside, but sometimes he'd take trips to the Grove and spend some time teaching sparring classes to young saplings. Of course, he'd always come home, sooner than before. It quieted him, in a way it hadn't previously. He liked it.

Occasionally he'd have to attend Pact functions; as a technical part of the team who took down the Jungle Dragon, and as a poster sylvari on top of it, he had to occasionally show his face at a party or meeting or two. He didn't enjoy the fancy formalities, which he was quick to let Vickus know any chance he got. That always got a hilariously exasperated look from the tiny druid.

Time was passed, shenanigans were gotten up to, stories were shared. He was happy, and coming fully back into his old strength. The Pact business settled down, they were busy elsewhere, somewhere in the world things were happening and Sprout watched with only half a mind to go see what was up.

Half.

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"It's just out of the question."

Vickus Highscreech stood in the doorway of the Dawn household, arms behind his straightened back in a posture perfectly suited to his role as a commander. He'd come to request Dawnsprout's assistance on another mission, another possibly-world-ending quest to save the day. He said he could use someone as crazy as that sylvari for what he had in mind.

Alex wasn't having it.

"You're just going to have to find someone else."

"With all the respect in Tyria, sir, I don't think that decision is yours to make."

Alex snorted, enough to ruffle the much smaller charr's mane. He impatiently turned to Dawnsprout, standing off to the side. Dawnsprout looked a little nervous, but a little excited, too.

"I think I should go."

"Agh, was afraid of that."

Alex rolled his eyes up, waggling his head like he was arguing with himself. Or praying, if charr even did that. Vickus looked on expectantly, eyebrows raised in an unsaid 'ha, I told you so.' Alex hated it.

"Alright, alright," Alex's voice dripped with exhaustion. "He'll go, but I'm coming with him this time."

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