The first thing people noticed about Commander Velours was the storm.
Not her, exactly. Not the compact little asura with oversized pony tails, or the tea stains on her gloves, or the faint smell of rosemary and machine oil that always followed her around.
No.
They noticed the tornado.
A tight spiral of crackling magitech hovered faithfully at her feet at all times, humming with unstable energy and glowing soft blue at the edges. Loose leaves, sparks, and the occasional misplaced sock circled endlessly inside it.
And, at its center, sat a chicken.
Sergeant Cluckers.
The bird rotated slowly in dignified silence, suspended upon a tiny reinforced perch Velours had engineered herself after “the feather incident.”
People who had fought beside the Commander in battle spoke about her in hushed voices.
The asura who walked through dragonfire with alchemical mist curling from her fingertips. The woman who strode from collapsing ruins carrying survivors under one arm while issuing tactical commands under the other. The one who had faced horrors from the Mists and returned alive, if increasingly tired looking.
Velours hated every single title.
Especially during gardening club.
“You’re holding the trowel wrong,” said a sylvari gently.
Velours froze.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I mean, not sorry, because I can fix it. Obviously. Statistically speaking, I’m probably overqualified for trowel deployment. I just.. hold on.”
She adjusted her grip.
The trowel snapped clean in half.
The chicken rotated judgmentally in its tornado.
“I can explain,” Velours muttered.
The sylvari stared.
Sergeant Cluckers let out a low, disappointed bwark.
“I know,” Velours sighed. “I know.”
A Pixel Nomad 