Wow long time no see... my fault. Was super busy summer with summer classes, travel, work, and then some not fun medical stuff. The game head start begins in a few days and I could not be more excited! Now that GW2 is going to be out, expect more regular updates on this blog. Morganna's story will remain mostly original content, however, I will also be launching a more first person blog about a sylvari necromancer whose stories will focus on the GW2 main questline and side quests. I have some fun ideas for Morganna, but this way you can get original content and GW2 lore.  I plan on updating on a more weekly basis in the months to come. There will be more sylvari posts than Morganna posts but expect some of both on a regular basis. 

See you guys in GW2 very soon!

Our day was filled with hunger.
Bernhard and I continued our pursuit of game and again found that there were no animals moving about the land; we had neither beast to hunt nor monster to slay. A few hours before dusk, Bernhard and I approached the small lodge hidden in the western corner of the grove. I wanted nothing to do with the place, I wanted to continue to hunt and seek out game. But there was simply nothing to find, and the other norn must have come to the same conclusion as I had seen no other hunters. I wanted to keep away from my shame, yet Bernhard and I were both starving and the lodge would have food and a proper resting place for us for the evening. Even with the short rest we’d had earlier in the day my body felt drained. 

It feels good to be back on the hunt.
I decided to go further north into the Taigan Groves, where the animals cared little about grey skies and more about blizzards and snow storms. I hoped that game might be easier to come by but I’m still having difficulty finding any signs of life. I brought my alpine wolf companion, Bernhard, along for the hunt. He is among my most treasured pets and he is unshakably loyal. He has been traveling with me since I was but a young girl and him a lost pup. Bernhard is a skilled tracker in the snowy mountains and his fur keeps me warm when we huddle together to sleep. There would be no sleeping though, as we would hunt until we found something. Anything! There have been no bears, no moa, not even any fellow norn out on the hunt. Bernhard and I have been skulking through the snowy landscape for days with nothing to show for it. We need to kill something to both sate his hunger and my pride. 

I’ve been in Hoelbrak for far too long.
My stay nearing a week and my mother has grown as tired of me as I had of her in the first day. I respect her like any norn would respect their bearer, but the woman drives me to the point of smashing furniture. She mellowed somewhat with Ida around, but by Raven even that cat can’t keep my mother from her infuriating taunting. I fear she will discover this journal, or chance upon me writing within it, she would never stop teasing. I’ve had more than enough of mother-daughter bonding and I’m ready to set back out on the hunt. The skies are still grey and foreboding, but I can at least make out the slightest rays of light, like a glowing circle in the cloudy haze. I will take my leave at dawn. I considered taking Ida with me as I will miss her, I have enjoyed playing games with her this past week but the hunt is no place for a cat, besides my other animal companions would likely eat her.     

Bored out of my mind.
The stormy weather has yet to clear and I’ve spent the past several days in Hoelbrak with my mother. She keeps calling me a lousy hunter, sitting in a hall all day (not that she has room to talk), but the welt on my face has cleared up so she can tease me about that no longer. My mother has grown fond of Ida, and I admit that the tabby has grown on me considerably, as well. I enjoy playing games with her at night, she’ll catch a rat and bring it to me, and then I’ll throw the rat across the hall for her to retrieve once more. This is a fun game to play until about the fourth throw when the rat finally dies and Ida looses interest. I’ve spent much of my time occupying The Growling Unicorn, sharing and listening to the stories of other hunters. There is a young minstrel girl, Leianna, a human but pretty enough, who sings some of the old songs with the ferocity of a hurricane. For her small frame she carries a booming voice that fills the hall and all stop their shouting and scuffling when she begins to sing. To my surprise, or perhaps not as I’m sure someone requested it as a joke, one night she sang The Ballad of Morganna the Spirit Caller. I’ve heard the song plenty of times as a child but it had been some years since I’d last heard the words and was shocked that this human bard would even know the uncommon song. 

Hunting has been poor over the past week.
I had a bow string break, which snapped backward to put a nice sized welt across my right eye, and the animals seem to be in hiding. What they hide from, and why, I am uncertain. They may just cower from the storm that keeps threatening but never seems to strike the ground. I’ve spent several nights resting in caves and listening to thunder roar above, yet never witnessing the drops of cool waters on the earth or a crack of lighting strike. Instead the skies just remain grey with a shadowed sun and neither moon nor star to guide me in the evening. If I had not grown up near Borealis Forest I could have easily become lost in the seemingly endless sea of trees. I tried to commune with Raven for answers but had no luck on my own and the Raven Shamans were too preoccupied to lend me aid. I’ve known Moda the Black, the current Speaker of Hoelbrak for the Raven Spirit, since I was a child and yet even she would not grant me an audience. Clearly I am not the only one having troubles as of late.

I’ve never liked the idea of writing.
Writing takes far too long and requires too much time spent nearly still.
Really though, I could be watching for prey, lining up a shot, communing with the Great Spirits, or throwing back some ale, but here I am scrawling on a little piece of parchment. This quill moves awkwardly in my hands and my back already aches from hunching over in such an odd fashion. I’m also, uncomfortably, hidden up in a tree where none can see me. I can’t even imagine the laughingstock I’d be if one of my norn brothers or sisters were to spot me. Actually I can imagine, and the names “Morganna the Scribe” or “Morganna of the Fragile Wrist” are nigh jumping off of this page as I scowl at it. I’m no scribe, I’m no storyteller, I’m a hunter and a damned good one at that. At least I know I am, and soon the rest of my kinsmen shall know it as well. My stories shall be sung from hall to hall till the end of times when the kodan are nothing but rugs and the norn no longer hunt. The only reason, the ONLY reason, I’m bothering with these pieces of parchment bound in deerskin is to insure that such songs will not only be sung, but that the songs shall accurately portray my many great triumphs.