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Pottsy6

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About Pottsy6

  • Rank
    Dwarf
  • Birthday 11/28/1992

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Profile Information

  • Location
    At my house-where else would I be typing from
  • Interests
    Soccor, reading writing, fencing, history and meeting new people

About My Character

  • RuneScape Name
    regelen
  • RuneScape Status
    Freeplayer
  • RuneScape Version
    RuneScape
  • RuneScape God
    Saradomin
  • Favourite Skill
    Slayer
  • Combat Type
    Balanced
  • Combat Level
    13
  1. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    IC: "I only know one thing abut this island Sam," Tristan responded, still eyeing the man's sheathed weapon, "I want off it. What kind of sicko plays a game with people's lives? And what kind of sicko actually plays that game. That man trying to shoot me, I thought...well, you know what I thought. Thanks for saving me. I owe you big time!"
  2. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    "Tristan Campbell" He replied, a slight rush of anger going through him. "And if you're going to disarm me, I'd feel better about it if you dropped your weapon as well".
  3. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    IC: Tristan was taken aback. He skidded to a stop, and thought for a moment. Could he trust this man? The gunshots behind him...they didn't give him much choice at all. He scrambled up the ledge with all the desperation of a drowning child.
  4. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    IC: "Water!" Tristan shouted aloud. "Sweet, precious water!" A jungle seemed an odd place for such a body, but just in front of him was a small lake, filled to the brim with life-giving liquid. He looked at it for an eternity, before dropping to his knees and cupping his hands. Fifteen minutes later, his throat was soothed again, and his brain was no longer howling for moisture. He took note of the place in his mind and continued. The island was really kind of tranquil. For what he suspected would probably be his tomb, it was a picturesque landscape of rolling sand, emerald jungles and sparkling water both inland and ocean. It would have made a great painting. But he had no paintbrushes. Instead, there was a gun at his side, and a knife at the other. His canvas could only be human flesh here. It disgusted him. He spat on the ground and kept walking. Fifteen minutes later, he heard something snap. He stopped immediately, his heart going a million miles per hour. There was something eerily about the silence, the air thick with danger. He looked up on instinct, and saw the dangling heel of a black boot, almost invisible in the thick canopy of the tree. "OH MY GOD!" he shouted. He leapt out of the way even as a quick storm of bullets occupied the space he had just been standing in. He skidded to a halt, picked a direction and ran in it. The bullets continued: some striking near his ankles, one narrowly missing his skull. They rained down on him, plastering tree trunks with lead and snapping branches like twigs. Tristan ran. He weaved in and out of the landscape. He couldn't believe he hadn't been shot! The sound of the bullets wasn't changing volume, and he assumed his attacker was in pursuit. He toyed with the trigger of his gun as he ran, considering changing tactics. He couldn't shoot a man, and he knew it. A mantra began to cycle through his mind: I shall do no harm, I shall do no harm. Adopted from the Hippocratic Oath taken by those practicing medicine, this had become the motto for his order of Christian Pacifism. I shall do no harm. I shall do no harm. And so he ran, waiting for God to save him. Oh Jesus, he thought heavily, I don't want to die!
  5. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    IC: Tristan wandered up and down the beach, talking nonsense to himself. He had ditched his shirt a little while ago, and already the sun was making its angry red mark against his skin. He was thirsty, he was hungry, he was tired and he was scared. Out of those four plagues, thirst was the greatest. What was that line from some poem he had long since forgotten. "water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink"? Something to that effect. He looked at the sparkling ocean before him and frowned. This was complete insanity. "What we need, Tristan," he began, talking to himself and not minding one bit, "Is some sort of game plan. We're not going to pace the beach until someone comes along and puts a tonne of hot lead into you!" He nodded his agreement. There had to something on this island he could hide in for a while. A cave, a hollow tree, anything. With that in mind, he took up his gun, hitched his pack higher, and nodded a regretful goodbye to the tranquil ocean. The beach had only been the beginning. It was the jungle that hid his death and his salvation behind its thick, green foilage.
  6. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    Tristan stood on the beach, tracing random figures into the sand with the barrel of his gun. He sighed, struggling to hold onto his tempter. That damned temper of his! He had tried to hold onto it, goddamn it he had, but how could you in this world? A single punch thrown in a moment of anger, the next he was on this freaking island in the middle of nowhere! Was God testing him? Was this all a giant setup to see if he could truly keep his temper once for all? He contemplated the gun in his hand, grinned grimly, and took up his pack. He would get off this island. He would be the last one standing. But he promised himself, he would not kill, no matter the circumstance. He looked to the sun, the same sun that shone down on each of his distant competitors.
  7. Pottsy6

    Fight For Freedom

    Name: Tristan Campbell Age: 23 Gender: Male Location: Bangor, Maine Appearance: Tall, thin, brown hair, green eyed. A real non-descript type of guy. If this guy was your brother, you'd probably still have trouble recognising him on the street. Personality: The quiet, studious type with a fiery streak to his nature. Struggles with his violent tempter as a student of Christian pacifism. Occupation before being stranded: Struggling artist Primary Weapon(s): M16A4 rifle (Can't see him using it much tho) Secondary Weapon(s): Carving Knife History: Tristan Campbell grew up an angry boy. His parent's spoilt him chronic and he always had trouble restraining himself from violence. After a few fairly serious fights, he turned to Jesus and his Christian Pacifist teachings in order to learn some self control. It was around this time he found his passion for painting, and he managed to sell enough of his work to get by. His life was all coming together, although he found it more and more difficult to restrain himself from letting his anger get away from him. He snaps finally in a heated argument with a man in a bar, starting a brawl. He betrays his teachings and fights his way out, until somebody knocks him out. When he awakes, it is on a tropical island, with everything he needs to start the game. Let's get it on!
  8. Pottsy6

    Zatih: The Legend Of Dungrix

    And lastly (but not leastly ), in the final paragraph you make it seem as if the force behind the blow is coming from Zamorak, but don't goblins worship Bandos? Other than that, there were very few conventional errors and I found the story entertaining to read, something to spark up this subforum in these late summer days. Please continue. Yeah, I can see why you'd be confused. Runescape really isn't any more dangerous than it is now, Oloron has just been raised to believe everyone and everything is out to get him. He has chosen to live in the wilderness and that's why the landscape is so barren. Most of Oloron's past is a mystery, even to me, but he's quite the established warrior. His skill gives him the ability to defeat most, his upbringing makes him paranoid. But he's mostly all talk :/. Most things in the wilderness would kill you in an instant, and I know I wouldn't hesitate if something came up from behind him. I'm not a fan of runescape's fighting system to be honest. In real life, if even a reasonably strong warrior was attacked by four foes, he wouldn't stand much of a chance. Oloron is pinned to the ground before he knows whats happening, and its not surprising that he's dispatched so quickly. And the Zamarok thing, thats not representative of any actual god powered attack, its a metaphor, I suppose, for a the strength and finality of the attack, sort of how a meteor is sometimes referred to as being 'the hammer of God'. Anyway, thanks for the feedback, Part 2: Zatih should be up soon.
  9. Pottsy6

    Zatih: The Legend Of Dungrix

    Zatih: The Legend of Dungrix I have found myself of late continuing the story I began long ago, and as such, have decided to continue it on the forums that birthed it. For new readers, Its a fairly decent, fairly long story and I don't think you'll be dissapointed. For readers familiar with the tale of Zatih, Sirlokken, Dungrix and friends, I have gone back and rewritten the story. The result is a definite improvement, and if you bare with me, I'd like to take you to the end of this epic tale. Enjoy Pottsy6 Prologue: Oloron Oloron’s eyes darted to and thro as he stepped out into the failing light. He knew it was dangerous to go out now, hell, it was dangerous everywhere these days. There were only three or four safe havens Oloron could think of, seemingly tranquil places scattered across the world: bright burning lights in an impossibly dark night. However, these places were expensive, and they came with their own unique dangers. He scoffed. Such places were pathetic. Weaklings huddling together only made it all the easier to kill them. Saved such a character the effort of rounding them up. He had learnt since a young age, that true protection only came from the scimitar clenched between your fingers, and the strength of your person. Everything else was doomed to fail. The bitter chill of the night stung him like a rain. He slid one hand into his pocket, and rested the other against the runite-crafted scimitar that hung at his waist. If things went the way he wanted, he wouldn’t need to use it. If things really went the way he wanted, he wouldn’t have to shell out the gold pieces in his pocket either. Fresh, warm bread, the type that gave birth to clouds of wafting steam when you broke it, came easy enough if you had a fast hand and a tired stall keeper. It would be good to finally have some real food for a change, even if it meant interaction with the fools in Varrok. Oloron began walking. The land around Oloron’s shack was long, long dead. The pale, grassless landscape sprawled out in every direction: an enormous corpse, infested with the worse maggots imaginable. Lakes of lava were the beast’s slowly flowing blood, and the air in its lungs still escaped, birthing the patrolling revenants that made life just that much harder. Even in the darkness, he could see the forming tempest clouds above him, as well as a million beady eyes glinting in the darkness. Oloron threw his shoulders back and ventured further. Under the light of a distant sunset, he could only see a few feet in front of himself. Each step he took brought him further from his house and closer to unknown dangers. Sure, he could fight if he needed, he had the skill, but he wasn’t the kind to go swinging his sword at every shadow in sight. He had restraint. That being said, it was a useful measure if someone came too close. Oloron was a lone and that was the way he liked it. Any one who had even considered befriending the man had been frightened or intimidated away. That arrangement was better for both parties. He enjoyed being seen as a cruel fellow with no charity in his mind. Friends could be more dangerous than enemies, he had found. With thoughts of crackling bread, pies overflowing with rich gravy and hearty, brothy stew taking root in his eager brain, he let his hand fall from his sword. Something snapped behind him. His body straightened immediately, every muscle stretched to its full elongation. This was a crucial decision now. Imminent danger, or paranoia. If he was making a mistake, only the darkness would know. He whipped out the cruelly serrated sword and held it ready. He had lived with danger all his life and was constantly the target of highway men looking to make a quick fortune through killing and stealing. That simple snap could be a foot carelessly trotting on a small twig. That foolish mistake was going to cost whatever was there its life. He dived towards the source of the sound, driving his blade at the spot with one ruthless thrust. His sword cut through air, and nothing else. Idiot! He was jumping at sounds in his head. He had given into paranoia. Oloron laughed nervously, placed his sword back in its sheath and turned away. They were immediately upon him. The first goblin landed on his back silently, forcing him to the ground and winding him. He spluttered and coughed, his sword forgotten as he writhed on the ground. The four goblins that followed snarled with excitement and satisfaction, spinning their bronze weapons with new-found excitement. Then, they were upon him. The first goblin landed on his back silently, driving him to the ground. The four that followed snarled with excitement and wielded their bronze weapons with new excitement. One goblin came in front of him, and forced his head down with its foot. Oloron couldn’t move. He cursed the world, and received a mouthful of dirt for his trouble. The little beasts were stabbing and slashing at his helpless body, and he only blamed himself. A mace came crashing through the air with all the authority of Zamarok himself. It struck his head with the most sickening of crunches and for a moment he thought he would die. His own blood was matting his hair and blinding him, and he felt the darkness take him. Oloron passed out. Chapter 1: Zatih Zatih eyed down her opponent, studying every blemish on his wart encrusted face. Several things were sharp in her mind as she noted his appearance: His dark green skin and folds of brown armor, his long, crooked nose. She paid special attention to his circular wooden shield, his long pointed spear and his flat feet. These she could work to her advantage. Zatih’s mithril scimitar flickered through the air, twisting and slicing at goblin flesh. The monster howled as the dull metal blade cut through his skin, showering Zatih with warm beads of blood. She delivered a ferocious blow and took the fiend’s life, watching as it slipped and fell to the ground. Smiling, she turned around to meet a small chorus of applause. Behind her stood her two closest companions, observing her with careful eyes. Daralis watched from beneath battered bronze armor, his eyes occasionally straying to nervously observe the other goblins. Every time one looked back he would pull his bronze square shield over his eyes and yelp like a distressed puppy. He was young and easily intimidated. That sparkle of fright in his eye was just part of his character. Zatih knew he would grow out of it in time but loved that flaw all the same. It brought familiarity in unknown environments. Sirlokken was everything that Daralis wasn’t. He was tall, powerful and could easily bind the spirits of magic into doing his bidding. As if Daralis, this trait spilled into his fiery green eyes. He was dressed in jet black wizard robes and carried in his hands a much sought after skull scepter. Sirlokken had taken Daralis and Zatih under his wing when they had first arrived in Lumbridge together. Since then, he had been a reliant source of food, shelter, runes, arrows and weaponry. Zatih stopped low and gently cut the goblin from its armour. Then, she buried the corpse and felt Saradomin smile down on her as she did. With that, she turned to her friends and beamed a triumphant smile. Sirlokken gave her a sharp strike on the back, showing his pride. He stepped back as Zatih nudged him off and they both laughed lightly. It was a great day for her, she had defeated her first enemy in a matter of blows. Daralis was yelling in excitement and preaching his respect. This enlarged the smile on Zatih’s face. She took Daralis’ bronze long sword from his scabbard and placed it in his arms. “Your turn” she grinned. Daralis eyed off a nearby goblin, and then bowed his head. Zatih smiled sympathetically and patiently waited for Daralis to choose a new target. An eight legged monstrosity came crawling over a moss covered rock just a few metres behind. Daralis gave his sword a slight swing, and his eyes were calculating. Zatih could almost see the cogs turning in his head, as he sized up his potential opponent. Half his own height, easily pierced skin. The writhing legs and snapping fangs, they were the thing of nightmares, but Zatih reckoned she could slay the beast in one strike herself. So too, it seemed, did Daralis. With a loud warcry, a warcry made comic by the pubescent breaking of his young voice, Daralis sprinted at the spider. He caught it on the upstroke with his sword, rending it in two. He slashed again, again, again and again. The creature, in death, keeled onto its back. It’s death throes tried to curl its legs into a ball, but the way its body had been mangled, only three of its limbs followed orders. The rest dangled about in a way that horrified Daralis. His expression soon morphed into a smile as he heard Sirlokken’s whooping cries of praise. He shone with pride as he buried the body and hurried back to his friends. “That will do for today,” Sirlokken said. “Shall we return home?” Daralis nodded and Zatih followed suite. Sirlokken’s house was a gigantic building located in the small city of Rimmington. It was tall and grand and equipped with everything from a small parlor to a marvelous study. His gardens were expensive, lush playfields and he had rooms to enhance skill and strength in a number of ways. They would retire to the dining room while Sirlokken helped his maid cook a simple dinner and brew ale in the kitchen. After that, they would hobble off to bed and the maid would clean. Zatih was proud to live in such an abode. They walked through Draynor Village, where the inhabitants weaved through the willow trees and fished in the rich seas. Then, they headed towards Port Sarim where great adventurers sailed off to unknown lands. There was even talk of a brave fool who was on his way to Crandor to settle a score with a great dragon. Zatih pitied him; chances were he would not come back. At least not in one piece. They arrived in Rimmington just as the sun disappeared behind the horizon and left only a faint, orange glow in its absence. Zatih smiled as Sirlokken pushed open the gates and entered the formal garden that ran the length of the properties outskirts. A fountain carved into the shape of a mischievous imp greeted them with a wicked smile. Zatih waited patiently as Sirlokken rapped on the door with his sceptre. In a few minutes, a short girl in a black dress appeared. She wore an apron and held a plate of shrimp in her hand. She offered them all food and then volunteered to hang their armour in the display hall. Zatih handed her the mithril scimitar she was holding, as well as her plate body. Daralis did the same with his bronze equipment. Sirlokken handed her his Skull Sceptre and walked with her to the Display Hall, telling her about his adopted children’s individual accomplishments. They ate together, lived together and trained together. They were a family and just as close as any regular one. Zatih was so happy with her life that she rarely gave any thought to her biological parents. Sirlokken was her whole life and that was that. They ate a quick meal of lobster and various herbs before quickly retiring to bed. Sirlokken handed his maid her weeks pay before hobbling upstairs to his Master Bedroom. Zatih dimmed her candle and stripped out of her clothes. She lay in bed, pulled her quilts over her head and smiled. She found herself falling, drifting into the world of the dreaming…
  10. Pottsy6

    Chasing The Sunrise

    For a school assignment, I've chosen to do a small (1000 word) story with dystopian themes. I'm not terribly happy with my results, and I'd like an outsiders opinion. Also, having difficulty trimming 200 or so words from it. Any feedback would be lovely. Chasing a Sunrise I cannot remember when or why exactly I started chasing the Sunrise. I am pretty sure it was an idea born out of my insomnia and curiosity, two of the driving factors of my life. I can almost imagine the moment it dawned on me that seeing a Sunrise was the only thing I was put on this earth to do. Grandmother had told me stories; stories that were sure to get her in trouble should they fall on the wrong ears. Stories of the past. Things could I could not even begin to comprehend: crowded shopping malls, schools, some archaic device she called a ‘letter’ that turned up in a person’s Foodbox from time to time. She spoke of blue skies, of enormous bodies of water, of birds, whatever they were. The world she described could not be real, a senile woman’s rambling. But in her rambling, she painted a perfect fantasy that I longed for with the entirety of my life force. That was something else Grandmother had talked about. Apparently, long ago, back when the sky was blue instead of grey, it was possible to go outside without a safety mask. Grandmother, until the throat cancer got her, would do just that. Even though the government podcasted frequently that it was dangerous to go outside at all, that was the way things was. Perhaps most captivating of all were her descriptions of a sunrise. In her world, every day started with a breath-taking eruption of light. Glorious bursts of orange that danced across the sky, heralding the arrival of the sun. “The darkness stands no chance,” she had informed me, “although it tries to hold out against the spreading lashes of blue, of purple, pink and of orange, it cannot. Everything between yourself and the horizon is silhouetted completely black, as if the world understands the sheer enormity of the struggle above it. If there is one thing of the past that I miss the most, it is the sunrise.” Well, that woman is five years gone now, and in the way of sunrises, she hasn’t missed a thing. Chasing the Sunrise has become my Holy Grail, the only purpose I have on this earth. Every morning, without fail, I take up my camera, don my facemask and brave the outdoors in search of that perfect photo. When Grandma had died, it had destroyed me. I had become obsessed with her stories of the past. I sent the undertaking department the appropriate email, and half an hour later, a Grocer took her away from me. The moment she died, the past went with her. A past I desperately needed. I took my anger out on the computer. I removed it from the wall, something horribly, horribly illegal, and immediately replaced it with another plug. With a mighty kick, I sent shards of glass crashing to the floor. I was screaming now, punching and kicking and throwing the goddamned box that represented to be the government that had betrayed me, betrayed my grandmother, betrayed the past! I still have that computer, an unrecognisable heap of twisted metal and wires, the corpse of a mechanical beast. Every moment from then on, I was a criminal. I would be found out sooner or later. I didn’t care. I started to Chase the Sunrise every morning. One morning I caught it. It was like any other morning. I woke with my alarm clock ringing, proudly plugged into what was one of the few power points in the world that didn’t feed a computer. I rose without a word, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, dressed myself and took up my camera. Facemask on, I slipped into the outside world, a land far apart from the one described grandmother, god bless her soul. My street was as normal as any: featureless concrete cubes facing long runways of black tar. Grandma said that once every person in the country had owned a car, something like an upscale version of the motorscooters used by Sparkies and Grocers, who I sometimes saw from time to time on these walks. The world was bathed in grey smoke so thick I sometimes imagined touching it, holding it, moulding it in my hands. For years, I had been informed by the government, that the source of this smoke was unknown and a feature of life. That was bullshizzle. Grandma pointed to the giant factories that stood tall on the horizon as responsible, and I sided with her in an instant. A quick walk on the outside told me all I needed to know about that. This morning was insanely different. A wind I had no felt for a long time hurried me along, and although it was still night, it was a lot brighter than any I could recall. By the time I climbed to my usual seat, a chimney stack on one of the abandoned factories in my district, it was almost too bright for my eyes. I waited half an hour, camera poised for a photo that was five years coming. I sat in silence for a very long time, ready to leave. Then the clouds parted. It was a miracle. Simply a miracle. It was everything grandmother had described. A blooming flower, orange leaves trailing in every direction, blossoming with a kind of urgency. A thousand colours I cannot even begin to describe, illuminating the heavens through a gap in the smog. I had expected a slow, continuous shift from night to day, but this was much better. A hundred million tiny detonations of every hue, dotting the sky in a pitter-patter pattern. I raised my camera to my eye, and snapped the lens again and again and again and again. Tears ran down my cheeks unbidden. I only wish grandma had survived long enough to see this. The repugnant Konex chimneystacks still shuddered as copious amounts of smoke so thick you’d swear it were cotton thundered from within. The Sparkies and Grocers would be zipping around town on their motor scooters, and I doubted many of them would even turn their heads at the spectacle. In the windowless homes across America, millions of lemmings tapped away at their keyboards and not one of them would remember a sunrise, or even care what one was. I was exalted above my fellow man. I felt at one with this natural miracle and I deep sense of fulfilment washed over me. It was as if the wind had pulled back the clouds, revealing a window in time, and I was audience to the greatest show on earth. A sunrise. I stood on the rooftop, turned my back to the sunrise. I tore the mask from my face; let it fall in the wind. A death sentence for sure, but I didn’t care. I had already done what I was put on this earth to do. Nothing else really mattered now. I took a deep breath, carrying more pollutants into my body than oxygen, and hacked out a series of coughs. What had we done to a world capable of producing such beauty? Where the hell did we go wrong?
  11. Pottsy6

    90 Woodcutting

    WOO! GRATS ON 90 WC! Thats me in the full mith lol! Pottsy6 (aka Zatih)
  12. Pottsy6

    Clinging To Hope

    Sorry guys, been tied up with school. As a result, the next chapter isn't terribly good. But I have a feeling, the escape will be better.
  13. Pottsy6

    Clinging To Hope

    I've been thinking the same thing! Aww shucks. Seriously though, thanks for the praise. You guys make writing worthwhile :o.
  14. Pottsy6

    Clinging To Hope

    Chapter 3 is up! Has Hans completely lost it? And who is this man who seems to be in league with the Dorgeshuun? Find out in chapter 4, Planning an Escape
  15. Pottsy6

    Clinging To Hope

    Chapter 2 is up. Thanks for the praise Buland, I only hope you enjoy this next segment. It's a little rushed, but I'm making this up as a I go so I forgive myself.
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