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Pottsy6

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  1. 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…
  2. 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!"
  3. 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".
  4. 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.
  5. 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!
  6. 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.
  7. 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.
  8. 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!
  9. 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.
  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

    Clinging to Hope Chapter 1 Fire, Blood and Shadow Somethings, darkness can be the worst thing you can imagine. Without light, the world is a completely different place. Darkness distorts everything: your sense of time, your logic, your entire mind. Your imagination begins to conjure frightening possibilities, your entire body seems resigned to die. Darkness becomes a horrible barrier between life and death, where all you can do is wait. It had been a long time since I had heard anything else but the rapid beating of my own frightened heart. Since I had smelt anything but the rusty scent of blood. Since I had felt anything but dread. I lay still behind the upturned table that had saved my life, shielded me from view. I clutched my hands together died, half expecting that door to slam open again. Once that happened, I doubted I had enough luck to survive twice. My mind was still searing with painful memories of the first time the door had opened. Peering through a crack in the wood, I saw a man dressed in scarlet amour, cast against a roaring fire that burned on the outside of the house. He took a step inside, malevolent eyes searching for something within our humble room. He carefully drew a blade from a scabbard at his waist and held it at his side, his hand quivering with anticipation. As he began to walk about the room, I found myself growing more and more tense. We had tried our best to make the house look as if it had already been pillaged by tipping over furniture, emptying drawers onto the ground and even ripping up pillows, but these ploys seemed as if they weren't fooling him at all. I bit my lip, finding myself grow desperate. I wasn't sure how much longer I could lie here and wait to be found. Unfortunately, my father felt the same way. I heard more than saw as he rolled out from under the bed frame with a cry. He took up the wood axe from the mantle, swinging it at the intruder. With one fluid moment, the man turned around and sank his blade deep into father's unprotected chest. With a strangled cry, he crumpled to the floor, his own body weight sliding him off the weapon. His axe skid across the wooden floor and disappeared into the shadows. Satisfied, the armored man turned and left. He at least had the decency to close the door behind him. That had been almost fifteen minutes ago. It was astonishing to think that I had already come to terms with the idea of living without a father. Maybe I was an emotionally strong person, maybe it hadn't fully hit me yet. Whatever the reason, I couldn't shed a single tear over the brutal passing of the man who had raised me all of my sixteen years. I passed the time by counting. My maths wasn't great and I always got lost by the time I reached the mid hundreds but I needed to do something. I began to think of the invasion. From what I had heard, Lumbridge was no real conquest for this organized, well-trained army. They had already brought larger communities to their knees, destroying Fallador with ease and speed. They hadn't yet reached Varrok, but that was only a matter of time. Port Sarim was only rally standing due to the power of their navy. No one knew where they had come from, or their motive for this domination, but everyone was sure of one thing: they would be hard to stop. With the Varrok army off eradicating undead in the wilderness and the White Knights doing battle with their nemeses. the black knights, they had found the kingdoms utterly defenseless. I suppose I must have lay there for an hour in quiet contemplation, mind slowly numbing as my body lost the energy it needed to keep me panicking in the dark. Somewhere between thinking about what would happen after the inevitable take over of my world, and remembering a time me and father had gone fishing in Draynor, I fell asleep. I awoke to a booming voice, laced with fear and uncertainty. Groggily opening me eyes, I heard the voice again. "Hello? Mels? Tommalynne?" Only when my name, Tommalynne was called did I realize the voice came from within the house. "Saradomin's wisdom! He's dead!" That was followed by some concerned whispering. The voices sounded familiar and the new my name, and my fathers. I reasoned that it was probably save to reveal myself to them. I hadn't realized how cramped my muscles were until I moved them. Groaning, I pushed my way through the narrow gap between myself and the rest of the room. Before I saw anything else, the image of my father's corpse filled my world. He lay face down in a pool of crimson that had spread from the initial room to far across the room. He looked so unnatural, but at the same time totally normal. Yesterday he had been alive, the only thin impending his movement had been his bad back. Today, there was nothing. A piece of sharpened metal had taken him from me. I couldn't look at it anymore. I heard people around me crying out with relief as they watched me appear, and a few women grasped my shoulders in a tight embrace, but I felt as if I were far away from it all. I could feel only emptiness. Emptiness and a coldness that made me shiver. Before I knew it, I was crying on a strangers arms, as if I were a little girl again. My feet didn't seem to even touch the ground as they walked me out of my house. People spoke questions at me, but I couldn't comprehend what they met. Outside of our house, it was with blank eyes that I observed the destruction I had only glimpsed beforehand. The charred ruins of my city stood as a testament to ruthlessness and power. Those homes that had escaped the fires had smashed windows or kicked down doors. A untouched house was as a rare as a gold coin in a beggar's purse. Even Lumbridge Castle had not escape the damage. Stone had been scorched by flame and in some places, the entire wall had been forced inwards on itself. Inside, the well tended gardens had been sundered by flame and vandalism and the corpses of loyal guards had been scattered like leaves on an Autumn day. On top of the great fountain was an unmistakable glint of gold: the Duke's crown. Lumbridge had fallen, and that misplaced crown was as sure sign as any to its conquest. The only thing missing now was the presence of the warriors who had destroyed my town. Surely they had not abandoned the town after putting such an effort into taking it. Yet not a single figure patrolled the streets, or watched from a stolen house. It had a spooky effect on me, as if my town had been ruined by some magical force, and I had only imagined the man who had killed my father. Thinking of my father suddenly gave me the sharpest pain in my stomach. I broke free from my rescuers, threw myself to my knees some feet from them, and vomited. I heaved up the entire contents of my belly, which wasn't much seeing as I had been to scared to eat before the invasion. I don't know why I had vomited. Perhaps it was just my body's way of reminding me it still existed. For a moment, I felt as if I had just become a floating mind, observing the world but changing nothing. Able to see but not to feel. I tried to stand on my own strength, but failed dismally. Keeling over, I passed out milliseconds before my limp body crashed onto the paved streets of my broken city. Chapter 2 From the Ashes Food. I awoke with that word set firmly into my brain. My mind wanted it, my stomach craved it and my still weak limbs absolutely begged for it. I groaned and tried to get up but I hadn't the strength. After a few fits of coughing that threatened to tear my throat, I was aware of someone standing over me. They made come comforting noises as they held back my head, and slowly poured a warm, sweet liquid down my throat. I slept for a time after that, an undisturbed sleep that left me feeling revitalized. Although it stung my eyes to do so, I forced them open. I was slumped against a stone wall, with cold slate beneath me. There was a rug discarded beside me that I guess I had kicked off in my sleep. The rest of the room was simple, a few broken photo frames here and there. A dozen other people occupied the room, some lying down, some pacing the floor. When I sat up, those standing immediately came to my side. "How do you feel?" asked a man I recognized as Hans. I was shocked when I saw his eyes, they were hard, empty and emotionless. Before the invasion he had been a very jumpy man, now, there was nothing. Zamarok himself could have made an appearance and I doubted that he would have moved an inch. "I'm fine," I started, before recognizing another need. A fire was burning in my throat and that fire needed to be quenched. "Do you have any water?" Someone handed me a water skin, and I drank what I could. Spluttering, I turned back to Hans. "What happened?" His face seemed to darken. "It's gone Tommalynne. All of it's gone. We just weren't prepared for this kind of thing. They just came in and took over. We couldn't stop them, there was no way. They didn't even lose a single warrior, when we lost dozens! They just marched their way up to the Duke, slew him and the town was theirs. They looted what they could, then marched away." "The survivors were holed up in the general store for a while, before they came back. Not as many this time, only about a quarter of them. The only good thing I have to say about them is that they are compassionate. They took us from the store into the castle where we would be a little more comfortable. And, they bring us food and drink when we need it. But I won't forget what they did during the takeover, and for that alone, I will never be able to forgive them for as long as I live!" Hans turned away. I talked with some more of the survivors but I wasn't really that interested. I kept thinking about what Hans was saying, and I agreed with him one hundred percent. These men had killed my father and who knows how many of my friends. I hadn't heard anything about Kesin yet, and he had been my best friend before this had all happened. I would not forgive any man who wore their colors. They were barbaric monsters who, I was confident in this, would be struck down by Saradomin. I drank down some more water, and a bowl of soup while I talked. I noted that no matter what the topic was, everyone took pains to avoid talking about my father. It was as if they thought I didn't know he was dead! It angered me that they wouldn't even acknowledge him, or even ask of the heroic circumstances of his death. I became fairly moody, and eventually everyone left me be. Just as I considered going back to sleep, Hans sat down beside me. "He tried to fight them, didn't he?" he asked, and I nodded. He sighed. "Don't worry. I'm confident that you will get your revenge. We all will. The fires have burnt out now, Toma, but life still exists in the ashes. We will rise from those ashes! Rise to overthrow our overlords. We will learn from this, I am sure. No matter how bad it gets, remember that." He left me without another word, giving me a lot to ponder. Chapter 3 A Madman's Fancy The next few days were a blur to me. I knew that they contained a lot of sleeping, drinking and eating, but that was about all I could remember. Dedicated solely to my bodies rehabilitation, my mind didn't bother me with useless thoughts and energy draining emotion. Hans helped me a fair bit, feeding me when I was to weak to feed myself. The rest of the time he sat by himself, talking to the shadows and cursing our hosts. Every day, his face grew thinner and his eyes grew wilder. How long would it be until he snapped under the pressure of his own brewing insanity? I was amazed that holding back grief could use so much of my life force. At first I had thought my body's weakness had been due to my lack of food but that couldn't be the case. I had gone without food for longer than this, and it hadn't reduced me to a state like this. Hell, the only difference between me and a corpse was the labored breathes that I was emitting. Fighting to stop myself from grieving over my father and my town, I had brought myself to the edge of the grave. On either the fourth or fifth day, I couldn't struggle anymore. Despite myself, I ended up with my blanket over my head, letting the tears stream down burning cheeks. Nearly every memory I had was now a painful one. Every part of my life had revolved around either my father, or around Lumbridge. It was as if someone had taken a battle axe and shattered my soul with it. The world was suddenly a cold, empty place filled with nothing but sorrow. Happiness, laughter, love. They didn't mean a thing! I wept for a long time, thankful that I was able to hide my grief from the others in the room. I don't want to dwell on that for to long, because it really isn't a part of my history that I am proud of. For hours, I had completely given up on the world. How could anyone survive in a place where joy was fleeting, but sadness was eternal? Some very dark thoughts inhabited my mind that day. The only redeeming thing about this breakdown was that I emerged from it with my mind focused on healing. Brain and body concentrated on repairing my emotion damage, and by the next morning, I was fine. Taking some unsteady steps, I found myself walking again. Everyone seemed to light up when I walked for the first time, even Hans came out of his spiraling depression for about an hour. Some of the others ill people, a few of them sporting horrific burns, followed my lead and tried to walk again. And although most of them failed, you could see the determination on their faces. The people of Lumbridge were strong, we would bounce back from this stronger and more prepared. Hans was right. After the excitement died away, I approached Hans. He was the only person in the room who struck me as sharing my wish for revenge. Now that I was getting my strength back, I was thinking about putting that wish into a plan of some sort. I would undoubtedly need help for something of the scale I was thinking. Hans was sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, with three other people. The first was a tall, dark-skinned man who I had often seen running the axe shop when I went to church. He was talking to Hans but paid no real attention to him, more focused on cracking his knuckles than the conversation. His eyes were dead, his expression was unreadable. What was happening to my town? The second was a man wearing the whitest beard I had ever seen. I remembered him for that beard. He was the mysterious man who had sauntered into town one day and immediately began to help anyone he could. No body knew very much about him, most suspected that he was some sort of religious man, trying to please Saradomin with his charity. The third I had only seen once or twice. She was a tall, brown haired woman whose very presence had an unmistakable air of power. Even though she was dressed in plain brown cloth, there was no mistaking that she belonged in the attire of a great mage. She was the magic tutor that had come along not long after the bearded man. Hans smiled as he saw me approached. "Tommalynne, we were just talking about you. Sit yourself down." I did, squeezing between him and the dark-skinned man. "Guys, this is Tommalynne. Tommalynne, have you met Bob, Philaes and Mikasi?" I shook hands with each. Bob was the owner of the axe shop, Philaes was the mysterious helper and Mikasi was the magic tutor. "I've touched on this before with you Tommalynne, but other the past few days, we've been thinking and plotting quite a bit. We think we might just be able to escape from this room. The plan is a little sketchy at the moment, but I'm working on it. But once we do escape, I propose that we head into the wilderness. The Armies of Fallador and Varrok are still campaigning there. If we can convince them to work as a single unit, I think we might be able to stop this invasion. If we get lucky, we will then be able to reverse it. But sadly, thats all we have to go on. A rough escape plan and an impossible journey. It's a madman's fancy, but by Saradomin, I plan to see it out." "Aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself Hans?" I asked, a little taken back. What he was suggesting was impossible. To escape from this room alone would be a be a miracle, but then Hans proposed a trek halfway across the world, through enemy territory and into the Wilderness: a place that had been highly dangerous before the invasion. "That's the plan Tommalynne. Either you lend your mind to improve it, or you agree to spend the rest of your years in service to the people who killed your father." I looked to the others for help but they were silent. Nobody seemed to want to get involved, or even challenge this insanity. "It's impossible!" I protested. "It's far from impossible," a voice from behind me whispered. Looking behind me, I saw a fat little man lying against a wall. I had thought him to be alseep, but apparently he had been listening keenly. "There is a way out of this castle that the enemy probably doesn't know about." "Well?" Hans asked, rather rudely. "Are any of you familiar with Dorgeshuun?" Chapter 4 Planning an escape There was an awed silence. I guessed that we had all heard of the Dorgeshuun, the mythical cave goblins who dwelled beneath our city. But I didn't really believe in them. I didn't think anybody did. I was intrigued. "Of course I've heard of them," said Hans, "But they're not real. And even if they were, they wouldn't help us. The stories portray them as cowards, and as not trusting anybody who was not a cave goblins." "I assure you, they are very real indeed." said the fat man, "and I doubt that they would help us as much as you. At least not directly. But there are tunnels. Some of them they don't even use anymore. There's one in the castle, and I'm confident that I'm the only person in Lumbridge who knows that it exists." "How so?" asked Philaes, speaking for the first time. "People are reluctant to pester a chef at work, and even more reluctant to enter his basement. I keep a lot of cleavers around in my kitchen, and not all of them are for cutting meat," he grinned wickedly. "I've used that tunnel it a few times to slip out of the castle when I'm low on supplies. I don't like being pestered for food when I take the roads, so sometimes the tunnel seems my only option." "Have you ever actually seen a Dorgeshuun?" I asked, a little doubtful. "Well, no-" "Dorgeshuun or no Dorgeshuun, a tunnel's a tunnel!" said Hans, eyes calculating. "More than that, a cave the enemy might not know about. That's more than I could have hoped for. That gives us a way out of here!" "There's still a castle full of trained, armed soldier between us and that tunnel," I said, still doubting the sanity of this plan. "And they've all probably killed for smaller reasons than escaping prisoners. And we have no weapons, little battle experience and no equipment. Outside of this castle, we wouldn't last a week! It's suicide!" "I've been in my share of fights during my youth," said Philaes. "So have I," said Mikasi. "Experience isn't the point! It's to dangerous. My father didn't throw away his life for me so that I could lose it in a hair brained scheme." "Your father didn't die so that you would spend your life in service to his murderers!" Hans said angrily. "STOP FIGHTING!" roared Bob. Everyone turned to him, even those on the other side of the room. He got up, walked to a pile of clothing in a corner of the room and removed a heavy, steel battle axe. "I know this isn't much, but its a start. We could use it to kill a guard, chop through the door and for firewood." he pointed at the fat man, "he can cook!" He pointed at Mikasi and Philaes, "and you can fight!. Everyone here will have skills that they can bring to the escape." Hans stood up. "Everybody. I know that we have found ourselves in far from the greatest situation possible. We are homeless! We are injured! We are poor! We are mourning! And who is to blame for this? The same cruel overseers who have us trapped in this room. Well I say, no more. For a week we have sat around, growing lazy and accepting reality. I am forging my own reality! I am escaping tonight! Anyone who wishes to join me, I will talk with you. All else, good luck." He went back to the circle, leaving an astonished quiet in his wake. My brain was in conflict with itself: part of me wanted to escape, another part wanted to stay safe. I couldn't decide which part was stronger. All I knew is that if Hans left tonight and I wasn't with him, I would regret it.
  13. 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.
  14. 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.
  15. 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
  16. 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.
  17. Pottsy6

    Clinging To Hope

    Thanks for the comments guys. This forum had really picked up from when I left it. Back then you would be lucky to get three replies in a week, let alone a day. So, once again thanks. Chapter 1 is completed, 2 is on the way.
  18. Pottsy6

    The Prophecy At Harillon

    Hey guys, I'm back from a very long absense and I've decided to give a new story a go. Let me know what you think. The Prophecy of Harillon The Prophecy of Harillon 1 1. The Ruins Chapter 1 The Ruins For the second time that day, Bekmaron was plagued by an unfamiliar urge, an urge that seemed to gnaw at his brain. He couldn’t quite place what it was, it was a totally alien feeling, and yet he knew he shouldn’t ignore it. It was as if his mind was calling him, calling him towards an uncertain goal. Increasingly powerful, it was akin to hunger or thirst and he knew if he didn’t satisfy such an impulse, he would die. Bekmaron was frustrated. He was becoming desperate to fulfill that urge but he was unable to wok out what he was supposed to do. And still it irritated him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Suddenly, he made a break through. His brain was telling him to move. Unsure why he was doing it, Bekmaron complied. Bekmaron took an uncertain step forward, and then another. He pivoted slightly on his third step and paused. His mind called him in this direction now, gently as if gaining his trust. Bekmaron was struck by curiosity. He wanted to get rid of this nagging urge almost as much as he wanted to find out where it was leading him. He sighed and kept walking. All around him, the ancient trees of the Hentate Woodlands stretched high into the heavens, their trucks thick and their long, thin branches reaching for the sun like skeletal limbs. The earth beneath was littered with he pleasant green of fallen leaves and was illuminated by shafts of golden light which burst through gaps in the canopy above. That afternoon, Bekmaron had been following the tracks of some animal, pursuing it along the same crude trails that it had made itself. Now, under impulse, he strayed from the trail. He began to push away at the wildlife, creating his own path as he did. He pushed harder against the undergrowth, eagerness rising in his heart. He had no idea why he was doing it but he knew only that his actions were as necessary as breathing. Whatever this compulsion was, it pushed him deeper into the woods, that urge growing harsher and more demanding as he went. All the time, Bekmaron racked his brain for the source of this primal ambition. There were times when he felt almost unbearably close, yet each time he reached out for the answer, he found it lay tantalizingly out of reach, like a forgotten memory. That guiding urge quickly grew stronger. Throwing caution to the wind, Bekmaron inhaled deeply and began to sprint. The earth beneath him was far from even, with rocks littered all over and tree roots that snaked across the earth to trip an unsuspecting traveler. He stumbled as he ran but he wouldn’t stop for anything now. Thorns, tree branches and bushes cut at him, tearing at the exposed flesh on his arms and legs. He winced but there was no time for pain. At the moment, all he could do was run. Gradually, his speed increased and at the same time the urge grew even more powerful. He pushed a branch out with all his strength, only to have it fly back into his face with a force that would lift a lesser man off his feet. But desperation made Bekmaron powerful and he barely even felt it. Then the pain set in. His entire body was being racked with red hot agony, as if a thousand heated pins were being inserted into every inch of his flesh. Every passing second that kept him away from his still unknown destination. He wanted to scream, to drop to the ground shrieking. But he didn’t. Instead, he ran even faster, his body moving with a sense of powerful urgency. Running as fast as he ever had in his life, his foot fell against a small crevice in the earth. His foot slipped to the side as he fell and landed against his ankle. He moaned in pain, but he did not fall. He swore as he stumbled but, after a few clumsy steps, he pushed himself back into his maddened sprint. Soon, the relatively soft earth disappeared and was replaced by layers of jagged stone. Like tiny blades, they cut at his bare-feet, spilling blood from a dozen wounds. Not even this could slow him. As he stepped again and again, he cut himself against existing wounds, until his mutilated soles left a steady trail of crimson blood behind him. As he ran deeper into the forest, the trees grew thicker and closer together, until they had almost created a wall between Bekmaron and his destination. He gave a mighty yell as he went for the dagger at his belt; a small, sharp thing of undecorated steel and slashed out at the foliage. The vegetation brought him to a stop as he hacked away at it, tearing open a passage with his frenzied attacks. Although his dagger stood as absolutely no threat to the thick tree trunks, he was able to clear bushes and smaller plants from his way. He started to run again, not nearly as fast as he had before. He continued to attack the plants with the wild swings that were uncharacteristic of him. Normally, Bekmaron was a calm and rational person and these senseless actions betrayed that in everyway. Normally, he wouldn’t do anything without weighing up the consequences of action and inaction, but this was different. This urge had changed who he was, leaving him wild and totally reckless. CRUNCH! Something struck hard against he foot and he toppled forward and slammed towards the ground. Instinctively throwing his dagger aside as he fell, Bekmaron crashed to the ground so hard that it forced the air from his lungs and left him confused, dazed and hurt. Aside from battering his body, the impact also pushed that urge to move out of his mind. Now, he was horribly aware of the torture he had put his body through. The soles of his feet continued to ooze blood, and his arms, legs and face were covered in skin peeled back by the whipping of various vegetation. His chest and wrists would definitely be bruised from the fall and a thin but deep wound had opened just above his toes when he had struck his foot. The pain brought tears to his eyes and he found himself very close to sobbing like a lost child. He lay for a while, bleeding and in agony. Soon, his breathing returned. So to, did that urge. However now it was diminished, a mere shadow of that all consuming thought that had plagued him before. But this shadow was enough for me to ignore his pain and start moving again. He sat up, and looked with wonder upon the environment before him. He was in an ancient ruin, constructed from ancient white stone, cracked by the ravages of time and of weather. All around him were buildings of similar design, in various stages of disarray; some buildings still stood in a similar condition to the day they were build, others were slowly crumbling into non-existence and others had completely fallen in on themselves. Moss dominated this ancient place, its soft green colour creeping onto every surface Bekmaron could see. The forest had long since risen up to reclaim the area, tree roots slowly tearing through the stone floor, trees sprouting from the rooftops of buildings and the floor as leaf littered as an autumn day. Whatever the reason for its abandonment, Bekmaron was sure it must have been a great empire. His body tingled with excitement rather than pain and he felt more like singing than screaming. He was as close to his destination as ever, and it was so close he could almost feel it. Getting to his feet, he reclaimed his lost dagger before venturing further into these ruins. Lizards, insects and spiders made these ruins a home and Bekmaron made sure not to brush up to hard against any walls to avoid being covered and consumed by a horde of bugs. Now, the urge seemed more like a voice, a pleasant voice beckoning him closer. The only way to silence the voice was to follow its instructions, so Bekmaron did just that. The voice led him to an ancient stone building, a huge gateway opened up in its face. The gateway was like a gaping mouth and the inside looked dark, wet and ominous. Bekmaron could think of about twenty reasons not to enter the building but he listened to none of them. The only argument he would listen to was that “The voice wanted him to”. He was led into the portal, where he immediately felt a sense of dread. Bekmaron hated enclosed areas, especially enclosed areas that were in danger of collapsing at anytime. “Get a grip Bekmaron!” he told himself. “you’ve faced worse than this,” He straightened his back, shook his head and started to walk. In the pitch blackness of the tunnel, he had to feel along the walls to guide him through the passage. Twice, he felt himself reach a flight of stairs, one going up, the other back down. He worked his way with touch alone, passing through a long series of halls and passages. A glimmer of golden sun ahead streamed in from around a corner and he quickened his pace before turning into it. The outside wall and roof of this hallway had deteriorated and fallen away, leaving this area completely exposed to sunlight. He stood for a while, admiring the beauty of the forest from his slightly elevated position. The woods danced in the sunlight and the miniscule rustle of the wind against the leaves provided a tranquil soundtrack for the serene sight. Bekmaron sighed. It was beautiful enough, but there would be time for such beauty later. Bekmaron made his way into the next series of hallways, illuminated poorly through cracks in the wall. This had once been a place of riches, that much was clear. From the desecrated woven tapestries that hung on the walls, to the pest-bitten, frayed and muddied carpets that lay over the stone ground. Unrecognizable portraits hung in poorly constructed frames and rusted suits of armor had been turned crusty and brown by the exposure. Bekmaron stepped out of the murky halls into a small courtyard. Cracked, mossy and overgrown with trees just as the entrance had been, this area had one disturbing difference: a single human skeleton. The corpse lay on its stomach in the centre of the yard, face turned on the side and skull torn eternally into a silent scream of pain. The years had decomposed the corpse so that aside from the skull, only a few other bones could be made out. Bekmaron shuddered as he cleared the courtyard as fast as he could before ascending a flight of stairs. He entered onto an elevated platform, easily the biggest area Bekmaron had encountered since straying into these ruins. The platform was wide and empty, all for a rotting wooden structure at the end of the yard he recognized as a gallows. Bekmaron took an eager step towards it, the voice screaming in his head. “It is within sight!” He walked across the courtyard, realizing with disgust that it was filled with thousands of corpses! The years had stripped flesh from bone, and ground bone into dust. But there were enough bones left in tact for Bekmaron to feel queasy. When he realized that whenever he stepped, he was stepping on another person and whenever he breathed, he was breathing in part of another person, he felt like throwing up then and there. He knew then that these ruins had not been abandoned. This had been the site of either a great massacre, or an epidemic. These people had all been killed within minutes of one another and although this had happened centuries ago, the place still felt strongly of death. Holding the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth, he began to run, trying not to breathe to deeply. He was sickened by all this death. Before today, the only dead human he had seen had been his mother. Now, he had seen more than most gravediggers. That was a thought he could do without. He reached the wooden gallows and stopped at the base. The rickety contraption consisted of an elevated wooden deck, with a large crossbar spanning the length long ways. Tied across the crossbar were nooses, some hanging, others had fallen, all damaged over the years. Only one noose had miraculously withstood time untouched, when time had claimed this entire city. As perfect as the day it was tied, that noose still lifted its victim from the ground. A skeleton which remained as a whole despite its decomposition hung there, looking on with hollow eyes and an eerie sneer. Normally, climbing on an ancient wooden platform would have been far from Bekmaron;s mind. Without logic, without reasoning, without even common sense, Bekmaron mounted the platform, balancing carefully as it swayed under his eight. As he regained his balance, he brushed against another standing corpse. This one was highly different: this one could have died yesterday. Something had preserved this male, tall and strong, wearing robes an holding a sword. Everything connected to the man had escaped time just as the rope had. Bekmaron stood behind the corpse hanging in the noose, the voice louder and more excited than ever. “The hand,” The voice was to strong to resist, so Bekmaron reached for the dead man’s skeletal hand, curled into a fist. He threw up in his mouth, his throat burning as he spat the vile liquid to the ground. His palms sweaty with fear and disgust, he took the hand in both of his and unclenched it. There in the man’s death grip is a single golden coin. He took the coin into his palm and studied it. It is a flat, round coin with a hole punched in the centre. The coin is clearly ancient and raised golden lines weaved across the coin like a spiders web with their random and intricate pattern. Bekmaron felt himself almost hypnotized by the coin. Tracing the spider web of raised gold, he soon lost himself completely in the gold piece. The powerful, torturous and demanding urge that had guided him here become a sense of satisfaction, before subsiding and leaving glorious music in his mind. Bekmaron found he couldn’t take his eyes of the coin, nor did he want to. Then, the world around him seemed to melt into nothingness. The coin vanished in his hand and the ancient ruins behind him shimmered before fading away. The world was a realm of whiteness for a moment, a blank canvass with God as the artist. The vacant world was replaced again and Bekmaron found himself gazing upon himself, as if looking into a lake and spotting his reflection. Bekmaron was tall, lean and with a face composed of rough features. He wasn’t handsome, but then again no body had ever called him ugly. His black hair trailed past his shoulders and was decorated with the dirt, leaves and other matter he had collected since his last wash. His skin was dark, a characteristic that had invoked mocking, distrust and at some time, violence from the people of Hentate Field. It was because of this reaction that he had isolated himself in these woods to start with. Bekmaron was wearing a brown leather vest over his linen shirt, and his black pants were of linen and wool. He wore nothing on his feet and a thick, black rope belt around his waist, with a small pocket hanging from it in which to keep his dagger. Bekmaron looked at his image for a while. He avoided looking at his reflection as much as possible. Whenever he saw that darkened shade of skin, he felt ashamed. That slight difference had been the deciding factor between a life of friendship and acceptance, and a life of solitary exclusion. Bekmaron was born in the deserts to the north but his mother had fled to Hentate Field for reasons that Bekmaron did not fully understand. His childhood had been spent in Berille, the largest city in the Fields. The children of Berille had not judged him and for a while had played with him as they did each other. But their parents eventually planted the seeds of racism and distrust deep inside their minds and once those seeds took root, Bekmaron would not have a single friend to his name. When his mother died, that was it. His mother had been the only person who understood him, the only person who would even talk to him. But her health had been declining for a long time and her death came as no surprise. Unable to handle the insults of his peers alone, Bekmaron fled to the woods. The forest didn’t care about the colour of one’s skin. The trees did not mock different customs. The woodland creatures would not taunt his difference. Bekmaron felt happiest when completely alone. He constructed a small hut using his own two hands and hunted his own food. He cut his own firewood, drank his own water from a stream and made his own clothes. Bekmaron had chosen to isolate himself completely from the rest of Hentate Fields. He watched his reflection for a while before that image gave way to another. It was still Bekmaron’s reflection, but different enough to be highly noticeable. Gone were the crude, hand-made clothing of the woodsman, this Bekmaron was clothed in a white shirt of fine linen, wearing an elegant purple jacket over that. His pants were the same classy material as his pants and he wore stylized black boots on his feet. His long hair had been tamed and cut back, ending smartly just past his ears. His fingers bore many rings and his thin chains of silver and gold were draped around his shoulders. His plain dagger was missing; instead a long sword, decorated with runes and engraved with riches hung at his side. While his normal appearance was hostile and almost barbaric, this Bekmaron was highly civilized. A sense of power and riches seemed to emanate from him. The vision smiled at him, his face muscled highlighting a nasty looking scar that ran the length of his right cheek. Bekmaron winced and found himself tracing his own cheek with his finger, but all that passed beneath was smooth skin. Then, the vision faded and he was standing back on the platform. Confused and slightly dizzy, Bekmaron felt his head swim, swaying clumsily as he tried to regain his balance. He shook his head, shaking the baffled thoughts from his clouded mind. Back in Barille, when the bartender saw it fit to serve him, he had been a fan of particular heavy ale. The morning after he had downed those tankards, he had awoken feeling much like he did now. It was if the vision had been some amazing drug, and now he was coming down from his high. He shook his head again, clearing his foggy head and collecting what was left of his rational thoughts. For the first time that night, he saw everything clearly. What on earth was this urge, powerful enough to lead him here from miles away? Why had he so brutally tortured his body, all for this tiny piece of gold? And what had that vision been about? And why had he, a normally rational man, allowed himself to be led like a puppet on a string to this abandoned ruin? The circumstances of today had been so unusual and he was sure he would need days to think and understand what had happened. He climbed down from the gallows, his feet feeling good to stand against firm stone instead of rickety, swaying wood. Bekmaron turned his head to the sky. The heavens were beginning to blaze with the orange fires of a sunset. The world seemed to be getting darker and brighter all at once. Bekmaron knew that night would fall soon, and decided it was best he returned to his little hut before it got to dark. He limped forward. He looked down and he saw his foot, caked in dry blood and hurting with a numbing pain. What had he done to himself? His feet would be hurting for weeks and the scars would probably last for years. He shook his head and limped home, his tiny treasure clenched inside a sweaty fist. ................................... The Prophecy of Harillon is copyright to me, please don't repost it. Not that I think you would, just that I don't want it done.
  19. Zatih: The Legend of Dungrix An epic tale of Revenge, Regret and Religion By Pottsy6 Contents Prologue: Hrothgar Chapter 1: Zatih Chapter 2: The Winds of Despair Chapter 3: Ambush Chapter 4: The Salt Mines Chapter 5: The Apothecary Chapter 6: A Life of Slavery Chapter 7: The Massacre Chapter 8: Saradomin’s Chosen Warrior CHapter 9: Reunited at last CHapter 10: Dungrix's Enlightenment If you loved my story, don't stay quiet about it. Share the love by putting this in your sig! [url=http://runescape.salmoneus.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=119807][img=http://img72.imageshack.us/img72/8815/bannerne6.png][/url] Prologue: Hrothgar Hrothgar's eyes darted to and thro as he stepped out into the night. He knew that it was dangerous, it was dangerous every where now days. The only safe haven where in various places scattered all over the world and even these were costly and came with their own dangers. He had known since he was young that the only thing you could rely on was the scimitar clenched between your hands and the strength of your person. Beady eyes glinted in the darkness and Hrothgar's hand flickered to his belt where his faithful curved blade rested. He threw his shoulders back, closed his door and ventured further, only able to see a few feet in front. Each step he took brought him further from his house and closer to unknown dangers. He was a capable fighter but liked to keep his talents hidden unless the circumstances desperately called for it. Hrothgar was a loner, without a single friend to his name. Any one who had even considered befriending the man had been frightened or intimidated away. He was a cruel fellow with now charity in his mind. He lived each minute as it happened and never thought about things in the long term. Something snapped behind him and his sword was out straight away. 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 at the sound, driving his blade at the spot with ruthless desperation. When he stepped back, he realized nothing was there. He had simply been paranoid. He laughed nervously, placed his sword back in its sheath and turned away. 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. A spear flew through the air and caught Hrothgar in the side as the little beasts landed on him, stabbing and slashing away at the helpless body of the fallen warrior. "How?" Hrothgar wanted to scream. "How did they anticipate my actions?" He went for his sword, only to find it being carried away by a dark green goblin and handed to another. a goblin grasped his black hair, pulled it back and, with a sickening crack, smashed Hrothgar's head against the hard ground. With a scream of despair, Hrothgar 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 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 fiends life, watching as it slipped and fell to the ground. Smiling, she turned around to meet a small chorus of applause. Around her stood her two closest companions, observing her with careful eyes. Daralis watched from beneath heavy bronze armor, his eyes occasionally straying to watch 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 armor. 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 took a deep breathe and moved towards the dirt path where travelers came and went. One man was obviously a resident of Lumbridge; he wore no expensive or foreign clothing and when he spoke his voice was devoid of any accent. This was the man Daralis decided he would fight. He was tall, with short cut brown hair and clean clothes. He held his head high and looked at the coming and going of assorted people. Daralis saddled up to his enemy and stood directly in his way, cutting him off. “I’m very sorry sir” he apologized as he lurched forward. His sword slipped through he man’s chest. A surprised scream tore from the man’s lips as he slipped and doubled over in pain. Daralis looked horrified at what he had done, the man laying still on the ground. Then, his face changed 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. Every Sunday, they would feed the Steel Dragon in the dungeon. Sirlokken forced them to starve it. If it was well fed it wouldn’t try so hard to hunt for intruders. 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 peace. 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… Chapter 2: The Winds of Despair Early the next morning, Sirlokken brought them all into the Dining room. This news brought with it a rising sense of excitement and of anticipation. Zatih voiced her curiosity to Daralis as the moved into the hallway together. “Sirlokken’s a fairly spontaneous person Daralis,” Zatih explained to her brother. “If he has actually taken time out to plan something, it must be big.” “But how big Zatih?” he asked in a highly excited voice. “For all Sirlokken’s capable, it could be anything it all. He is a mage Zatih and they can do things the rest of us can’t” “We’ll just have to wait until breakfast to find out won’t we, brother” she laughed. Daralis fumed with frustration but even he managed to eat his fill of the scrumptious meal Sirlokken had prepared with his maid. He was a hands-on sort of person, Sirlokken, and he wouldn’t sit by while the maid did all the work. After they had cleaned everything away, Sirlokken stood up and, adorning his purple traveling cape, addressed his children. “Children.” The word was soft and full of emotion. “Today marks an important day in your lifetime. For, all this time, the small cities of Lumbridge, Draynor, Port Sarim and Rimmington have been familiar to you. But you have never known true civilization. There are great cities of stone and riches that are just brimming with expensive goods and unfamiliar customs. More importantly, new foes are available in these places. I know of two that are quite close by; the empires of Varrock and Falador. Yes children, today I have scheduled in a trip to either the capital of Misthalin or the mighty seat of Asgarnia. Choose one of these cities and we shall head off.” Zatih and Daralis exchanged looks. They had never been anywhere as grand as their father had mentioned. They thanked Sirlokken and ran to their separate bedrooms, grabbing some casual clothes, gloves, boots, hats and capes. They arrived back looking quite grand in their clothing; Zatih in elegant an elegant white gown and Daralis in a handsome tunic. Sirlokken didn’t look quite as grand; he never dressed up for any occasion. After saddling and loading a horse, they began to leave. It was a quiet journey, filled only with the peaceful sights of calm landscapes and friendly people. The mansion of the crazy hermit Mezzler towered over them the whole time. The sun shining through broken windows and loose bricks made it a monument to the death of a building and the rebirth that came with a new dawn. Then, something sudden happened. Zatih was suddenly grabbed by her left arm and, with great force, lifted up and then down onto the ground. He head was in a daze as two masked bandits towered over her, whispering as several more took care of Daralis, and (with great difficulty) managed to subdue Sirlokken. Zatih watched them carefully, their ink colored hair and equally dark masks. They were highwaymen, and highwaymen were the lowest form of criminals found in Asgarnia. They preyed on the weak and stole from the poor, valuing only themselves and their profits. “We’ve captured a pretty one today fella’s” one said in crude English. “Far apart from the brutes we usually steal from.” “Stay away from her Gathe” said another. “She may be awfully adorable but adorable things have a habit of sticking pointy things into you when you’re off guard. Slit her throat now and get it over with!” Gathe drew a knife from his belt and reluctantly positioned it over Zatih’s throat. “It’s nothing personal Milady” he smiled. “But business is business.” “No!” Shouted a fearful Daralis as Gathe went to draw his arm back. He pulled on the arms of one of his captors and, with all his strength, sent him flying into another. They both fell down in a heap and he was on his feet. He kicked at Gathe, sending the knife to land several feet away, leaving it now harmless. He pulled out his long sword and lashed out. What happened then could only be described as a massacre. Daralis was a monster, out of control and butchering every highwayman that stood before him. His sword stabbed, slashed, crushed and skimmed through the air, tearing enemy bodies to pieces. After he was done, he simply dropped to the ground, blinking in horror as he saw the damage he had caused. Zatih sat up to look at him, knowing the pain he must feel. “Well, you took care of that with no problem Daralis. Now, onwards to Falador lest we arrive in the winter.” That was Sirlokken, totally ignorant to the fact that his son was suffering so much. He turned around and pointed in the direction of a large ruin. “You, get out here, I can see you!” A man appeared, dressed in rich clothes. A handsome blend of white and purple made up his tunic and pants and he wore a black pirate’s hat across his head. His skin was dark, like none Zatih had seen. He looked confused but also as if he had grasped familiarity in a world in which he was lost. “I mean you know harm good sir.” The man laid down his rune scimitar to prove he meant what he said. “I merely wanted to talk with you. You see, if the rumors are true, that fine lad over there could make a good investment to anyone who values his neck. How much for the child?” Daralis looked up at this and Zatih’s jaw dropped. Sirlokken shook his head. “I will not put a price on my son.” He said sternly. “He is not for sale!” “A shame really” the stranger said. “But no matter. I may as well do the polite thing. I gather you were on your way to Falador?” “Yes” Zatih spoke. “We were to see civilization.” “Well,” the stranger said. “It won’t be civilized for much longer. You see, horrible rumors are spreading that the town will be taken by demons. These demons will possess the bodies of men and make them turn against even their closest friends. I would pass this off for sheer nonsense if it weren’t for an ever-growing clan of enthusiasts. Already, they are setting things in motion. This so called battle for Falador will not be one of demons, but one of mere man.” “Thanks for the warning.” Sirlokken said. “I wouldn’t go near Falador for a while. Mankind gets greedy in the wake of annihilation. I imagine the looting and plundering has already begun.” “That is has good sir. May I ask thee your names?” “I am Sirlokken, the boy is Daralis and the girl is called Zatih. We are a family of warriors and I was hoping to enlighten these children by showing them a bit of civilization. Your name, kind sir?” “I don’t remember too much about my past but from what I’ve heard, my name is Dungrix. That is about all I know. It is quite confusing to wake up and find that you don’t remember anything you’ve done before.” “Well, Dungrix, I’m hoping you’ll tell us all about it over a warm glass of tea. Care to come back to my house for a bite to eat?” “Sirlokken, it would be my pleasure!” Chapter 3: Ambush! “You really mean it?” asked an amazed Daralis. “You really can’t remember anything about my life?” He sat on a chair inside Sirlokken’s dining room, everyone else seated at various points of the table. They all had half drained glasses of ale and mead in front of them, the exception being Dungrix, who only had a few empty glasses, drunk dry of all contents. He was a man who enjoyed his drink. “Yes” Dungrix said simply. “All I know is a nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that my past really wasn’t worth remembering. I don’t know why I don’t, but if the old me was anything like I am no, I probably drank away my memories!” Sirlokken chuckled at this, while the Pirate garbed man finished off yet another glass of his ale. It was a believable idea. He looked around at his children, remembering how close they had been to death at the hands of common thieves. Then, he thought about Daralis. He was only twelve and everyone had accepted him to be a poor fighter and more of a thinker. They had left him at home while Zatih and Sirlokken trained and only brought him out when he felt Zatih was capable of controlling the situation. Yet, when his sister was in danger, he took on a berserker’s rage. He was one to watch: a frightened, timid boy with the fighting capacity of a bear if the situation called for it. Daralis would be rewarded, Sirlokken decided. Next time they were by a store, he would receive something valuable. It was the least he could do. But there was time for that later. “Nearly three months ago” Dungrix spoke again. “I woke up in a small house in Port Sarim. A kindly young woman, pretty little thing, told me that she found me washed up on the sand, bleeding through the head and attracting the attention of gulls, sharks and looters. She took me in and clothed me. Unfortunately, she got pretty sick and died. You see, I got a small cold that didn’t affect me much at all. However, she caught it and within a week she was dead. She gave me the house in a final act of generosity. I have a few things left back at her house but other than that, this is all I own.” “Sad” Sirlokken noted. “You must be strong to hold your head high after such a horrible life. You can only remember a small part of it, yet that small part contains loss and death. I feel for you Dungrix, we all do.” “Don’t waste your emotions, kind sir. The hospitality and fine ale is all the sympathy I require.” He pushed his chair out. “I thank you all for this but I must be off. Perhaps the gypsy in Varrock could help release my oppressed memories.” “We’ll all go!” Sirlokken offered. “I planned to show the children civilization and civilization I shall indeed show them! Besides, I need to purchase a few costly items for my son.” This was a line dropped subtly but it lifted the expression on Daralis’ face. “Really?” he asked. “Something for me?” “You’ll see” Sirlokken replied. “To Varrock then?” * For the second time that day, they headed off to a great city. This time, they steered clear of the main roads and used the trees and bushes to shield them from prying eyes. Zatih had had enough of danger for one day, her near death experience was all the excitement she needed for a long time. The sun set early and they quickened their pace just to beat it. When the sun went down in Gilineor, the rule book was thrown aside. Monsters roamed and horrible excuses for men preyed on their victims. It was always good to be in a safe place when night fell. She followed Sirlokken, who knew his way around better than anyone she new of. He took shortcuts to avoid detection, managed to find a few stones to form a rough path over water and, at one point, teleported them all directly over the top of Draynor Manor. The mighty city of Varrock was in view. Sirlokken stopped abruptly. He looked into the distance, trying to see things that, as far as Zatih could see were not there. Then, as it got quiet, there was a huge tearing sound followed by maniacal laughter. Zatih spun around to see that a portal had opened up in the air, a swirling mess of fiery colors inside. A short goblin stood at the mouth of the portal, eyes blazing and dressed in torn robes. He carried a long staff topped with a orb of fire. Zatih pulled out her scimitar, Daralise his bloody long sword. Dungrix took his own scimitar from his belt and Sirlokken’s eyes glimmered as he called on magic. The mage goblin stepped out from the portal and as he did, it widened dramatically. Goblin’s bigger than men began to file out of the portal, dressed in sturdy armor and wielding powerful weapons. When twenty such goblins stood tall and surrounded the group of heroes, two more mages emerged. Zatih glimpsed a flicker of black dragon hide as three ranger goblins emerged and took to the trees. “Take her alive! The other’s are disposable!” ordered the mage that had opened the portal. He was obviously the commander of this small army. They all stepped forward and Zatih was painfully aware of loaded crossbows pointed right at her head. Zatih charged at the oncoming goblin’s, with a mind bent on destruction. She stabbed, lunged, parried and sliced at her attackers, bringing three goblins to their knees. A enchanted bolt whizzed by her head but she paid it no heed. She ducked instinctively as Sirlokken unleashed a great torrent of flames. The goblin it hit died instantly, an inferno of pain and fire. Zatih heard a loud crack as the three mages cried their curses. Three great balls of magical energy ripped overhead, crashing into Sirlokken with a massive force behind them. The old wizard groaned and toppled backwards, eyes devoid of life. His pulse weakened dramatically as he lay still. Daralis stepped over his father’s body, tears filling his eyes as he delivered three stroked with his sword. A goblin fell over dead but two more stepped up to take it’s place. Daralis’ next sword stroke landed ferociously on a goblin shield, snapping the bronze weapon in two. With only the pommel remaining, he knocked a goblin out cold and ran for his life. He grabbed Sirlokken’s body and dragged it to safety. This left only Zatih and Dungrix fighting together. Zatih could see that he was a master with his blade, pulling off complex movements and routines. His memory returned with every swing and he was able to recover his precious survival skills. He decapitated two goblins then and there and, with a small, concealed throwing knife, knocked an archer from its perch. There was a small click from the treetops as a bolt shot down with amazing speed. Zatih felt the barb tear through her neck, driving her into the ground. Blood spurted from the wound with every heart beat as more and more goblins climbed over her, kicking, stabbing and tearing. Daralis sprinted in, eyes burning with rage. He never reached the battle in time. He was halfway there when he felt his feet knocked out from under him. He looked over and saw Dungrix, his palm smoking with energy and his arm outstretched. “I’m sorry Daralis!” He roared over the laughter of goblins and screams of Zatih. “It is too late!” He held both arms out and cried out loud incantations. In a burst of golden light, Daralis felt himself become lightless. Sirlokken’s body and Dungrix’s figure were the only visible things as he felt himself float up, up, up. Then, the light exploded and when it cleared, they were gone. Zatih felt her life force go, beaten by goblins and deserted by her family in her time of need. As she closed her eyes and her mind stopped, the goblin mage cackled with laughter. He tore open another portal and the remainder of his army slipped back in. He took Zatih by the arm and dragged her with him. “Master will be quite proud” he smiled as he closed the portal and floated onwards to the Goblin village. Chapter 4: The Salt Mines "Zatih!" a powerful voice rang through her mind. It was not unfriendly but sounded impatient, as if talking to Zatih wasn't an adequate use of its time. "I must talk with you." "Go for it" Zatih managed to say crudely with her broken brain waves. "Zatih, I will not lie to you. You should be dead! It is only through the swift actions of my brothers and I that have allowed you to continue to live. You role is yet to be played in the events soon to unfold. I feel that you need to stay in the world of the living, that is where you will help the most!" "Who are you?" Zatih managed, her thoughts becoming stronger with every exchanged word. "What do you want from me? Who are you to control the passage of life?" The voice chuckled at this. "I have every right to control life, I invented it after all. Yes, child, you speak to Guthix the Lord of Balance. You see, there is a war soon to break out and you need to be there. It is but a small part to play yet you must be there to assist those with greater roles. The next years will be difficult and challenging but if you survive, I promise you will meet those you love at least once more!" the voice seemed to weaken. "Now, Zatih, Wake!" The voice was gone and suddenly she was aware of a painful throbbing in her neck. She grasped both hands around the point, feeling a rough, circular scar with her fingertips. She looked at her hands and found that they were caked with dry blood. She managed to sit up and, with blurry eyes, surveyed her surroundings. She was in a small room with rotting planks nailed together as walls. The floor was devoid of carpet and the deep, brown earth was exposed. A pile of hay was strewn to one sit, forming a crude bed. Other than that, the room was bare. She pushed herself up and felt memories flood into her foggy mind. She remembered dark embers of flame, streaking across the plain between Varrock and the river Lum. she remembered yelling and cruel laughter. She remembered Sirlokken hitting the floor and lying still. She remembered Daralise disappear in an explosion of light. She remembered Dungrix the Pirate displaying amazing swordsmanship. Most of all, she remembered the pain of the crossbow bolt in her neck. So that was where she was....whatever city the goblin's called their capital. Zatih tried to stand up but immediately felt a resistance. She looked down and found a huge chunk of iron clasped to her knee, making standing impossible. She yelled out, allowing the darker reaches of her vocabulary to spring to her tongue. She cursed the goblins, she cursed her luck, she cursed Dungrix for showing up and taking them to Varrock, she cursed her family for leaving her at her time of need. She cursed Saradomin and Zamarok. She felt Guthix nagging at the back of her mind and thought it best not to offend him. Zatih scanned her memory for the words Sirlokken had taught her would light fires. She selected a few and held her hands out to the poorly made walls. She whispered the incantation and felt a slight tremor of pleasure run through her body as a huge fire quickly covered the wall in seconds. She then used a wind spell to fan the flames and soon the whole room was alight. She felt the heat draw sweat from her pores as it burnt away at wood and mould. Zatih decided she would just let herself burn, knowing goblins, her life wouldn’t be worth living any longer. "Forget Guthix!" she whispered. "He may value my life but I don't!" Her right arm caught alight and she fell to the floor. Suddenly, a door that she hadn't noticed slammed back and a huge goblin stood there. He grabbed at her arm and threw her out into the city. The building collapsed as she landed on the ground and the flames quickly burnt themselves out. "You foolish woman!" he yelled. "Big Punishment Awaits!" He dragged her too a massive building at the back of the city where two goblin's even bigger than the warriors were waiting. "General Wartface and General Bentnose!" the warrior spoke. "I present the prisoner." He threw Zatih to the floor just inches from the toes of a green armored goblin. Zatih glared at him and began to think of words that would strike him dead where he stood. She couldn't think of a single one. Instead, she decided to speak. "Why am I here?" she yelled. "Why me!" "You kill our brothers for training!" General Wartface yelled. I hardly think that I would let such an offence pass unpunished. The fire at the imprisonment hut made things worse for you. Much worse!" "You are going away for a long time. You will work in our salt mines, the most dangerous and exhausted task we goblin's are involved in. We send many prisoners there. The unlucky one's die in almost fourteen months. The Lucky ones don't last the week. You will sleep under guard, mine after guard, travel under guard and even shower under guard. I hope you die soon! What do you think Jarft? Should we start her straight away?" this time he addressed the warrior goblin. "Right away sir!" Jarft took her into a small hut with a trapdoor inside it. A badly made ladder poked its top through the opening. Zatih heard cries of pain, thuds of axes and tired limbs flailing from the tunnels underneath. She gulped. "Salt mining!" Jarft had a sort of pity in his eyes. "I didn't expect it would be quite so bad. Normal prisoners have rights. Salt Miners are only resources. I'm afraid these would be of better use elsewhere." With trained swiftness, Jarft ripped off Zatih's gloves and boots. He then removed her shirt and belt. He tied the bundle of clothing up together and stood tall. "This is all you have now human!" he declared. "Some old trousers. See you in hell!" He pushed her down the shaft and left the room hurriedly. Zatih fell for a couple of seconds before hitting the ground with a dull thud. She groaned. She was in pain, captured by mere goblin's and half naked in public. A fierce goblin with an abyssal whip lashed at her, yelling commands. She received a bronze pickaxe and was immediately set to work. A black haired man with a haunted face stood beside her as she mined away salt from rocks. The Salt mine was so dark that all you could see were huge walls of rock and salt. Worker's mined away, many bearing heavy wounds on their back from whip lashes. The man beside her moved in close. "Don't worry Milady" he said with slight respect. "I'll stick by you in this place. It'll be helpful to have a friend down here. I'm Hrothgar!" "Zatih!" Zatih greeted. She felt as if Hrothgar was right. In a place like this, she would need all the help she could get. Her future was the cold, dark caverns of the goblin salt mines. She lifted her axe and sent it crashing down again. She wondered how long she would last in this prison..... Chapter 5: The Apothecary The great palace of Varrock towered over the small market set up in Varrock Square. People came and went, dressed in clothing that was rarely seen. Mages in elegant robes, archers in tight, scaly dragon hide and warriors in bulky armor advertised their goods and ability to work for pay. Strange things occurred at Varrock Square, which were now considered the norm. So nobody paid much heed when an elegantly dressed Pirate and a small boy appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of golden light. Dungrix stood tall over Daralis, who was clutching the robed body of Sirlokken. A single tear rolled down his youthful face as he contemplated life without Sirlokken or Zatih. His father and sister, wiped out in an instant. He remembered watching his sister disappear below the army, him powerless and unable to help. He needed someone to vent his anger upon. Then, his mind turned to the man who had teleported him away when he tried to rescue Zatih. “Dungrix!” he roared at the top of his lungs, causing several people to turn their heads. “What did you do?” “Be silent Daralis” Dungrix replied calmly, turning his focus to a stall that sold fur. “And be grateful for your life!” “I want answers Dungrix!” Daralis yelled stubbornly. “Who are you? Surely you remember part of it? I have only met two people who can teleport people! You must be a skilled mage? Why didn’t you fight back against them with magic? Why couldn’t you heal Sirlokken? Why didn’t you teleport my sister? Why were forced to flee like cowards? Why?” “What makes you think I will hand out answers just because a seven year old boy asks for them!” Dungrix was mildly annoyed now. “I’m twelve!” Daralis yelled stupidly. His face was red as he pulled out what was left of his sword. “You owe me answers! My family is gone Dungrix, gone!” “Not quite, Daralis!” Dungrix said reasonably. “Your sister, maybe. But as long as we have the body of Sirlokken, there is still hope.” “What do you mean?” Daralis was calming down, although he still struggled hard to suppress tears. “There is a rather good apothecary in this city Daralis. If I recall correctly, the owner of the Apothecary can brew up a Necromancy potion if the customer has the right amount of gold. Let’s get the old man back on his feet.” Daralis pulled Sirlokken along, dragging the robe clad mage along the cobblestone ground. He followed Dungrix as he wound his way past the bank and down a path. The building’s on either side of the path were charred ruins that told their own story of destruction. Daralis wondered what had happened here. Suddenly, he realized that Dungrix was showing him around a city. He knew about a Necromancy potion and an Apothecary owner. He must be regaining his memory. “You remember don’t you?” he asked. Dungrix stopped and looked at him. Daralis was a mess, blood covering his bronze armor and eyes bearing the haunted expression that came with loss and grief. He seemed unfriendly towards Dungrix, and the pirate could understand why. “I do remember Daralis” Dungrix said. “I just don’t remember much. I know how to fight and cast spells. I know my way around Varrock. I remember vaguely the sweet face of pretty young maiden. That’s about it. I’m getting there Daralis but I still don’t know who I am. Now, let’s hurry-I don’t know how much time Sirlokken has. They quickened their pace until the Apothecary came into view. It was a little brick shack in the midst of ruins. The great walls of Varrock cast a giant shadow over it. Its windows were taped together and its door handle was rusted. Dungrix pulled back the door and stormed in unannounced. He was a very abrupt man who threw formalities out of the window. The Apothecary owner stepped back was a table where he was mixing chemicals and turned his head at the doorway. Daralis watched as the man’s jaw dropped. “Dungrix?” he asked uncertainly. “Why, it’s been years!” “I’m sure it has been!” Dungrix said uncomfortably. “But there is no time for exchanging formalities. I have a dead man out here and he is in urgent need of recovery. Money will be no problem, I will sell my clothes if I have to!” “You might just need to do that, captain” the Apothecary owner said with an air of respect. “ I don’t dabble in that kind of thing anymore. It would take a lot of money to get me do that I’m afraid.” Dungrix looked as if he had been struck with something in the ribs. He gasped in frustration before something popped into his memory. “7218” he said suddenly “7-2-1-8” He turned to Daralis. “Daralis, leave Sirlokken here. I want to you to run over to the bank we passed and tell the banker 7-2-1-8. Bring back as much gold as you can find!” Daralis was confused but he abided. Breaking into a sprint, he quickly entered the bank and almost fell onto the floor inside. A wealthy archer and a hulking warrior frowned at his bronze armor. He stuck his tongue out at them childishly before walking over to a female bank teller. “7” he gasped, breathlessly. “2-1-8” The woman consulted her notes before beaming at him. “Master Dungrix, I presume?” she said. Daralis nodded as the lady unclasped a rope and allowed him behind the barricade. She led him to a small door with a rusting door handle. Daralis raised an eyebrow as she opened the door. Surely the wealth of Runescape was not stored in a tiny room. The door tore open, revealing a portal similar to the one that goblin army had come through. The woman shouted “Dungrix!” and pulled Daralis into the portal. He felt lightheaded for a moment as everything went dark. Suddenly, he was in a well lit room with walls of marble, trimmed with gold. He gasped the wealth that decorated the room. Gold coins were stacked high in every corner, a handful of the metal strewn across the floor. The three sets of God armor were mounted on the wall, beside a set of rune and an adamantine one. An abyssal whip, a majestic sword and an Obsidian cape were hung in prime position, bordered by several amulets of power and a dragon stone amulet. Every wealth that you could think of was hidden in this small chamber, causing Daralis’ head to spin. Who was Dungrix to own such wealth! He quickly scooped up gold and coin after coin in his pockets. When he was done, he traded in his bronze plate body for the Adamant one that was hanging on the wall. He did the same with his legs and took a new weapon for himself. Then, he bowed to the Banker and allowed her to teleport him back. Daralis sprinted back, the jingle of gold in his pocket attracting unwanted attention. He pulled his sword tighter in his grip as a sly looking mage nocked an arrow to his bow. With a wicked grin, Daralis hurled two of the bronze coins Sirlokken had given him his last birthday onto the ground. The Ranger swooped upon them and by the time he realized they were near worthless, Daralis was gone. * “Not long now Captain!” the owner of the Apothecary said. “Just a few more ingredients.” Daralis had arrived back at the store some time ago, providing more than enough money for the potion. Although, Daralis noted, he never did get his change back. The strange potion maker laughed as he threw a coil of onionskin and the contents of a vial that contained a mysterious red liquid that looked startling like blood into a small cauldron. There was a small, gaseous explosion and a cloud of dark purple smoke seemed to drift from the black cauldron. The man then scooped a beaker through the potion and handed Dungrix the beaker. “That should do it” he said. “Pleasure doing business with you!” Dungrix smiled. He took of his hat and bowed low to the man. “Thank you sir” he said happily. “You have saved a life tonight!” “Not at all!” the man said. “Just repaying the favor captain. For you, I’d do anything!” “Just one question, good sir. Why do you insist on calling me captain?” “Because that is what you are! You’re my captain. We traveled together on the King of the Tides some time ago. You were a hard captain, but fair and occasionally generous. This handful of gold is all the reason I need to believe that you have changed. The Dungrix I know would have rather let a man die than part with any of his treasury!” Dungrix seemed disturbed by this notion as he led Daralis and the departed Sirlokken from the room. With a final goodbye, he slammed the door shut and held the vial out to Daralis. “Take it!” he said aggressively. “Make him drink it all!” Daralis was surprised at Dungrix’s sudden anger but he tipped the entire contents down Sirlokken’s throat. Sirlokken coughed once, and then blinked before slowly getting to his feet. The wind blew his hair apart and his eyes lit up with powerful anger. “Where is she?” he roared. “Where is Zatih?” “I don’t know father.” Said Daralis, shaking with anger, “But with Saradomin as my witness, I will see to it that these goblins are all slain and my sister is returned, dead or alive. Revenge will be my mine, even if I die trying!” The wind picked up again as and howled around Varrock was the small boy started to cry. Daralis felt tears of anger, of joy, of grief and of pain trickle down his face. The moon shone upon him as he added in whispering tones “Zatih, do not worry. I will find you”. He lifted his head and gazed into the eyes of the remembering Pirate and the wizened Mage. They smiled comforting at him with all the understanding he needed. Sirlokken hugged him tightly as the heavens cracked and rain dripped to the earth, washing away the sins of the world. Chapter 6: A Life Of Slavery Life with the goblins carried on like this for months. At the crack of dawn, Zatih would wake up and look forward to another day of slave labor; exhausting herself slowly to death in the Salt Mines. She worked lethargically, not caring if she lived or died. All that she was aware of was pain, fatigue and the cruel whip-wielding artist who used her back as a canvas. Not even the companionship of Hrothgar could swipe her feeling of loneliness to the side. But Zatih wasn’t alone. At the back of her mind was the slight presence of Guthix. Zatih could always feel him there, sitting and waiting for her to respond to his call. From what she had heard from the stories of Guthix, her part would not be a dazzling display of evil, nor an astonishing act of good. No, it would be smack bang in the middle. What she did could tip the scales in the mysterious events still to unfold. Was she ready for that responsibility? Three months into the ordeal, the goblins called Zatih into their grand halls. With a slight glow of affection, they returned to her the clothes she had been wearing when she arrived. They said this was a reward for her loyalty. Zatih bowed and quickly pulled them on. She was gladdened to receive her dignity back. The miners in the dark caverns that held the salt mines were only fragments of true people. They were all mindless workers, whose souls had been crushed by cruel goblin masters. Death was preferable to the days of long hours, dark caves and constant cave ins. Somehow, through, a year and a half went by with Hrothgar and Zatih living to see it through. As reward for their dedication, each was allowed to rest and do smaller hours. The goblins seemed to have a relationship similar to a bizarre form of friendship. This was a side of the goblins that Zatih would never have expected. And then she found out why they were so affectionate towards Hrothgar and herself. One early morning, while she was resting, a warrior goblin entered her small cabin and yelled loudly to rouse her from her sleep. He presented her with a steel rimmed cap, hefty wooden shield and loose, leather goblin armor. She was confused, until he explained. The Goblins were at war, he said. He wouldn’t say who with, only that every long serving miner was to join. It was much easier job then the mines, and upon joining, each slave was paid for their labor. Zatih accepted, it was better than her previous life. Guthix urged her to decline but she had long since stopped listening to him. Training was mid afternoon and Zatih turned up, looking quite formidable in the goblin armor and weaponry. She smiled at her fellow recruits, acknowledging the hardships that they must have felt. She met with Hrothgar after a few minutes of conversation and they both hugged with familiarity. Hrothgar had replaced Sirlokken and Daralis for Zatih in this past year and the people whom she had once loved were only a memory of better times. In the next four hour training session, she was only slightly tired compared to her times mining. She managed to overcome Hrothgar’s rusty weapon and defeat the powerful man, who smiled in defeat and then went to fight again with a tall, pale man. Zatih battled a goblin trainer and easily won. She smiled as she picked another opponent, and this time lost. Day after day, this happened. She covered fighting, magic and archery until she was a profound warrior in all aspects. Guthix always seemed to give her an advantage, some how sharpening her reflexes and increasing her strength whenever she needed it. Her and Hrothgar moved on to form an elite force of about twenty men. It wasn’t long after that when Hrothgar came into her cabin, dressed in his armor and sweating profusely from his brow. He raised his sword up, and quickly spoke. “Zatih! Get your armor and come with me quickly. We are leaving!” “Where?” “Zatih, use your head. An army doesn’t just train and sit around. They are taking us to war. To war with the cave goblins of Lumbridge!” Zatih was clothed in an instant, tying the lace on the back of her armor as firmly as possible. She quickly polished her sword with a rag and tapped on her shield to make sure it would hold in actual battle. “I’m ready!” she said to the darkness. When she arrived at the training ground, the army was still waiting for a handful of people to arrive. Zatih found her marching position beside Hrothgar and looked around at her follow warriors. She discovered that the force she moved with was a revamped version of the elite squad she had joined some time ago. They had a few extra men, three dwarves and roughly thirty goblins. Some of these goblins were mounted on bears, their mounts growling at everything around them, displaying mouths of jagged teeth. General Bentnose led the battalion, starting the march as soon as the last people arrived. Then, they began their march. They moved without detection into the wilderness, a barren plain of darkness and terror. Zatih was disturbed by such a place and she watched Hrothgar carefully as his face began deep and tranquil, as if thinking his way through a problem. His long black hair was cut short and his eyes were full of a spirit that had not been there before. Zatih remembered how he had mastered the art of sword, scimitar and whip combat. He had been able to accurately throw knives and spears, and he could fire a bow with expert precision. However, when it came to magic, he couldn’t manage even the simplest of spells. This had shattered him. The goblin elite mage told him he lacked concentration. The face that Zatih looked upon seemed fairly concentrated to Zatih. She moved in routine, never falling a pace more behind, nor moving a pace more in front. General Bentnose yelled out random comments and instructions as they marched. Zatih found these annoying and pointless but she dared not say so. If the past year of slavery had taught her anything, it was discipline. That and the notion that caution was a virtue. Her strength had grown dramatically and she felt almost like a goddess when she used her arm muscles, the power that flowed through them was pleasing. A Monastery came into view as they left the wilderness, a peaceful building with a small garden and sheep farm facing north. As the army marched across, they casually fired arrows into sheep, slaughtering monks who rushed out to greet them. Zatih was shocked at this random display of evilness and power. Hrothgar seemed even more upset. She had seen Sirlokken do it many a time. That powerful light in his eyes as he called upon the spirits of magic. She never thought she would see the same look in Hrothgar. With a smile, he pushed Zatih from out of the way and unleashed a storm of glowing, raw magical power. He floated off the ground and fired his magic at everyone beside him. Warriors turned to ash where they stood as Hrothgar blasted them from the air. A tornado of spinning light swiftly obliterated General Bentnose and a handful of bears and goblins. Then, the army turned on him, swords slicing and arrows piercing the skies. None dared use magic, as it was obvious that Hrothgar was their superior in that field at least. A storm of elemental castings was what completely overwhelmed the force. In an instant, the ground rose and sank, breaking bodies and killing men as they fell. The Monastery heaved loudly, then fell to the ground. Debris rained everywhere, which Hrothgar used to his advantage. Bringing about a swift wind, he blasted the jagged rocks at men and goblin alike with astounding speed. Men died like flies as the rocks hailed down on them, screaming in pain before going still. Hrothgar wasn’t finished yet. Great waves of water appeared from nowhere, drowning some and sweeping others into the cliff faces on either side of the Monastery. Lastly, a scorching heat swept down on the survivors, combusting some where they stood and setting the grass on fire. “Run Zatih!” he shouted as he dodged a emerald bolt and flew into the sky. “Run Into the Wilderness!” Zatih ran with great speed towards the Wilderness, sweating in fear, confusing and amazement. Once she was in the wilderness, she watched, not able to take her eyes away as Hrothgar seemed to explode with power. A solid sphere of energy covered the ex-slave, spreading out to cover the army that was attacking from underneath. As soon as that energy made contact with flesh, it sent men flying and burnt them as they watched, rooted to the spot. Zatih realized that Hrothgar had been faking his magical ability to avoid detection. Someone who had every reason to hate goblins with that much power would surely be kept under watchful guard. Instead, Hrothgar was by far the most powerful mage Zatih had ever seen. His powers were almost those of Gods. Guthix agreed that the power was great, but he assured her that his own power was much, much greater. A handful of goblins were left and began to run into the wilderness. With a casual approach, Hrothgar lit up each finger with magical energy. He then unleashed five small balls of magic, which hunted down each goblin and pierced through their mail. Hrothgar floated down and extended a hand of friendship to Zatih. He smiled happily, having no apparent regret for what he had done. Zatih smiled happily and accepted Hrothgar’s hand. She pulled him close and hugged him; affection bursting from her for the first time in years. “We are free Hrothgar!” Zatih smiled. “Free” Hrothgar repeated. The word flickered off his tongue and he was truly happy for that moment of his life. Chapter 7: The Massacre Daralis cautiously entered the mighty city of Fallador, watching his surroundings for any clues to what was about to unfold. He was a tall boy now and his armor had long since been replaced by the hard to forge Runite. A power amulet hung from his neck and he grasped a rune scimitar in his hand. A long, purple cape swung in the wind behind him. Behind him was Sirlokken, dressed in rough, wooden splitbark armor. The last year and a half had been a difficult one for him, and the years had begun to catch up to him. His agility and strength were deteriorating, yet his reasoning, logic and spirituality had never been stronger. His hair had grown silvery white down to his shoulders and he carried the dusty Skull Scepter that he had uncovered when he first began mage training. Sirlokken kept an eye out for danger but he usually let the boy deal with it. Using magic was exhausting for him these days. Dungrix, dressed in the armor of Saradomin, quickly followed Sirlokken into town. He smiled at the aging mage, remembering the times when he had been younger, stronger, better. His death and resurrection had left him an old man. Dungrix himself was much better off. He had trained with Daralis until they were both strong, fast and forces to be reckoned with. The riches of his bank account had been shared generously with his friends. When they entered Fallador, what they saw was a city gone mad with greed and fear. Men and women looted from every building and broken doors and shards of glass were scattered everywhere. Dead bodies slipped to the ground as skillful warriors in white armor tried to deal with the situation the only way they knew how. Fires were lit in the confusion and whole buildings burnt to the ground, crazed people often still looting inside. Perhaps what would be called “The Great Fallador Massacre” would be caused by the panic that came with such a thing? Maybe the city would fall because people were so frightened that they looted and killed. The situation was getting out of hand and as the death toll began to rise, so too did the chance of all out war. Dungrix slipped in unseen by anyone, staying a head of Sirlokken. The old mage looked at the damage and frowned. This was not a tranquil setting by any stretch of the imagination. A man with a crazy fire in his eye crept up to Daralis. The man held a sturdy battle axe in his hand. “Give me your armor!” he yelled over the background noise. “Or I will kill you!” Daralis casually thrust his sword out, twisted it around and pushed the stricken man to the floor. The man choked as he moved his hands to the gaping wound in his stomach. The last thing he saw before he died was the destruction and terror that man can cause. They were in Fallador for one reason. To find Zatih. Merely a month ago that had found a goblin, fresh from the Goblin Village. After filling him up with ale, he drunkenly told them about the new goblin army and managed to name a few recruits: Hrothgar, Tilosh and Zatih. They had trained even harder for a few days before setting out on a trip to Fallador. They had been sidetracked when they stopped to slay the vampire that was threatening Draynor Village. But now they were on task and nothing would make them budge from their goal. With Sirlokken unable to perform his spells of teleportation and the Draynor Forest was rumored to be dark and haunted, the only quick way into the Goblin Village was by walking through Fallador. To make things worse, the Massacre was rumored to happen very soon. The trio moved into Fallador park, where fires were blazing on flower beds and gardener’s dead where they lay. Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder and a blinding light as a section of Fallador’s large walls burst open, showering the park with huge white rocks. Sirlokken managed some feeble magic to protect his family. The rocks landed either side of them, leaving huge impressions in the ground. Smoke came from the explosion in jets, obscuring vision for everyone watching. Sirlokken, however, still had the cunning eyesight of a mage. Time may have damaged his body but his senses were still sharp as ever. What he saw astounded him. Roughly twenty men stood in the wake of the explosion, dressed in robes darker than those worn by supporters of Zamarok. Strange pendants hung at their chests, glowing deep purple. Beneath hoods, the eyes of these men blazed the same deep color. The all held daggers, long swords, battle axes and scimitars. The woman who stood in front of them held her hand out to the wall and it was obvious that she had caused the explosion. She held an Ancient Magiks staff in her other hand. People had stopped looting and were running to see what was happening. Sirlokken grabbed Daralis by the hand and pulled him out of the way as the leader of the group shot a spell towards him. The spell struck a man wearing rags in the chest. He blinked twice as the spell disappeared inside him, then he exploded in a fiery hell fire. “Run!” shouted Sirlokken to Dungrix, who immediately followed him. A few of the spectators acted on Sirlokken’s word as well and followed the old mage out of the park. A huge explosion rocked the ground as several more people met their match at the hands of the woman. The small group of red robed men entered Fallador, killing any person who got within their sight. They laughed as they sent spells careening all around the city, destroying people and buildings. “Let the Massacre begin!” the leader yelled. Her voice was high pitched and very feminine. Sirlokken looked upwards, praying to any god that might be there. A dart of magic whizzed over head and he just managed to dodge the spell. The bank behind them burst into flames. Daralis was forced forward by the shock wave, dropping him to the ground. As Dungrix grabbed him by the back of the plate body and pulled him up, Daralis got a glimpse of what was happening in the city. By now, warriors from all other the world were pouring into the city, eager for their share of the riches to be found. Elite mages, soldiers and rangers filed in, killing each other in fast paced battles. The ground was littered with blood and rune plate bodies, corpses and dragon hide, and pain was as abundant as the runes that were scattered all over the place. Daralis and Sirlokken ran, Dungrix slightly behind. He had stopped dead, his eyes focused on something. A beautiful, blonde woman stood dressed in the holy robes of Saradomin. She read from a book of spells as she cast magic at her enemies, killing with the power of her god. This was the face that Dungrix could remember; the fine dimples in her cheeks, the emerald eyes that flashed as magic surged through her. Sirlokken and Daralis caught a glimpse of the woman through their eyes as she cackled loudly and blasted her spells at the awe-struck Dungrix. Daralis stopped in his tracks. So too did Sirlokken. They gasped, not knowing what to do as the ball of holy light sped at Dungrix. With the agility that can only be achieved by years of training, Dungrix rolled out of the way and pulled his scimitar from his belt. He charged the woman down, dodging to the side as another spell was cast. He then jumped and twisted, bringing his scimitar down at the woman’s neck. With desperation, the woman blasted a huge spell, striking Dungrix directly in the chest. The force that was produced was amazing. Dungrix was knocked out cold immediately, his body sailing back ten metres where he lay still on the ground. The girl smiled, then turned her sights on a new target. Daralis screamed loudly. That was all he could take. Now, he had seen every person in his family struck down. He wanted to kill that mage, to tear her apart with his bare hands. His eyes lit up as he took on the beserker rage. Rushing forward, something stopped him. Dungrix was moving. Slightly, sure but moving never the less. Sirlokken grabbed Daralis by the hand and pulled him along. They were near the gates now, this little battle taking place near the moat to the White Knight’s Castle. Daralis objected but relented sadly. Suddenly, there was a flash and he was kicked in the chest by a red robed figure. Sirlokken grabbed a foot that sped towards him, pushing the owner of the foot to the side. When Daralis looked up, three of the figures towered over him. With a startled whimper, he realized that one was the leader. “Sorry boys!” she said cruelly, hands glowing as she made to release the magical energy that had taken so many lives. “I’m afraid that your armor is much to valuable for me to allow you to leave!” She blasted the spell at Daralis and Sirlokken, very nearly hitting both. Sirlokken dodged slightly then grabbed hold of Daralis using magic. He pulled him back, just out of the spells range. They were both sent flying as a crater formed in the ground where the spells had hit. Sirlokken managed to stop himself from hitting the ground but Daralis struck it with all his weight, shattering his collarbone. Sirlokken dodged some spells that were flying out of the Ancient Staff. He swung one around on his scull scepter and sent it back where it had come from. The woman gasped as everything around her exploded, her two henchmen blown apart. Sirlokken stepped back as she attacked his feet, striking her with a spell of his own. She stepped back under the impact, swearing loudly. Then, she managed to cast a shower of exploding spells down on Sirlokken, each one leaving blisters when it met the skin. Daralis got up without detection and quickly moved behind the lady. He made a slight sound as his sword rapped against his plate body and she turned around. Fast as lightening, Daralis plunged his curved sword into her robes, bringing blood to the surface. Sirlokken thought of the Lava Maze, a cruel fiery lake in the darkest reaches of the wilderness. Still thinking off that place, he ripped open a portal behind the woman and pushed her back. She fell into the portal, sinking into oblivion as she headed off to what would become her cold, dark tomb. When the portal was gone, all that was left was a small amulet. Chapter 8: Saradomin’s Chosen Warrior Zatih and Hrothgar walked out of the wilderness, eyeing each other with a newfound affection. Zatih now felt something close to love towards the powerful fighter that had rescued her from the goblins. Hrothgar felt very much the same; the girl whom he had spent the past year and a half with had suddenly found a place in his heart. This was difficult for Hrothgar to understand; Zatih was his first real friend and he was unsure of the emotion he had never felt before. A man dressed in sooty brown robes ran out to them, eyes panicky with distress. He was short, with a well-rounded figure and a bald head. He wore a holy symbol around his neck and his robes were torn in several places. “Demon!” he accused Hrothgar angrily. “Who sent you?” “Sir, I am not a demon.” Hrothgar said keeping his cool. “I’m merely an goblin slave who has had enough. Now, If you’ll kindly let us pass!” “You shan’t deceive me, Zamorak Spawn!” yelled the monk. “The destruction of Saradomin’s Grand Monastery is a weak blow. I’m going to kill you, horrible beast!” The man shot forward, punching with his bare fist at Hrothgar. Hrothgar stepped back, out of each and smiled as the little old monk spun around and lost his balance. Eleven more monks appeared from the destroyed monastery, slowly circling Zatih and Hrothgar. Hrothgar frowned. He didn’t want to kill these monks but it might be inevitable. Suddenly, Hrothgar’s scimitar slashed though the air, tearing through robes and skin, spraying the floor with blood. The monk in front of them fell to the ground, blood seeping through the gaping wound. He yelled out to his god for help but none came. Hrothgar thrust his hands inside the wound to the Monk’s distress. He shouted an incantation and a green light appeared. He slowly moved his hand up the wound, magically knitting it closed. When he was finished, only a faint scar remained of the injury he had caused. The Monk sat up, looking at Hrothgar with wide eyes. “You spared my life!” he said confused. The other monks whispered to each other uneasily, shifting their feet around and looking straight at Hrothgar. Zatih was confused. Hadn’t the monks thought of Hrothgar as a demon seconds ago? “Was no big deal” said Hrothgar helping the monk to his feet. “I apologize about your monastery, I really didn’t mean to destroy it.” “No problem sir” the monk said, with an undertone in his voice that made Zatih realize that it was a big problem. “It is just we have no where else to go. Fallador is full of warriors and riches that make our order ashamed to live amongst. Camelot is too far away and we don’t get on well with Seers. And we can’t go to Entrana because our order requires that we have a dagger slipped up our robes for protection and as a sacrificial tool.” Hrothgar hung his head, thinking of a solution. “Besides, we must not abandon our post. We must continue waiting until we find Saradomin’s chosen warrior.” “What?” asked Zatih. She had never been must of a religious enthusiast and knew only the powers of the Gods. Guthix was a balanced deity with a hand over nature; Zamorak was recognized as the master of chaos, betrayal and evil. Saradomin seemed to be some sort of spiritual judge, full of wisdom and enforcing law. Surely someone like him discouraged fighting. “Saradomin’s Chosen Warrior!” A small monk who was about a head shorter than the others said. “The one mortal chosen by Saradomin himself to lead his forces in the God Wars. Legend has stated that he will do battle with the last remaining god and that battle will decide the fate over Runescape. Each God has chosen its warrior, although Zamorak is still a little unsure about who his might be. We are supposed to remain here until the holy warrior of Saradomin arrives.” “Wait a minute!” Zatih yelled. “You mean the Gods will go to war again?” “Yes. Well, perhaps not literally but they will definitely fight, be it through their champion or by themselves. The God will make their champion stronger than mortals, granting them powers through prayer and resurrection at least once. God and mortal will bond unlike any bond seen before. Their minds will become one; neither will be able to hide feelings from each other.” Zatih felt her heart skip a beat. She focused in on Guthix’s presence in her mind and sent a message of anger at him. She definitely suspected that he was using her as a tool for his own battle with his brothers. And Zatih would not be a part of that! Strangely, Guthix seemed relatively unresponsive and, frustrated, Zatih focused back on reality. Hrothgar was speaking to the monks and they all listened to him with growing admiration. When Zatih managed to become fully in tune with reality, she heard a few words such as “Fallador”, “Quite Modest” and “House”. “I’m sure that would be fine!” The head monk said. “That way we will be close enough not to abandon our post. I doubt that our Master could object to that, especially if we live in modesty. Thank you Master Hrothgar!” The Monks headed back into the ruined monastery, apparently trying to scavenge together a few supplies. Zatih took Hrothgar aside and made him explain what was going on. “It’s very simple Zatih. You see, I used to have a little shack in part of Eastern Fallador. Modest is probably the best compliment anyone could ever think up for such a place. It barely stays up. Anyway, when I was captured by the goblins, that house, and my other one, was left deserted. I offered to let the monks stay there. It’s close to here so that can look out for the warrior of Saradomin and it wouldn’t violate their vow of poverty by any stretch of the imagination.” “I guess it makes sense.” Zatih replied. “I’ll help the monks find their things” With that, Zatih hurried into the ruins, leaving Hrothgar alone. He looked up into the sky and gazed into the sky. When it all seemed hard, everyone turned to god. And for that, he could not be sorry. Chapter 9: Reunited at Last Hrothgar led the dozen monks down the mountain, eyes flashing around cautiously, trying to spot out any danger that could await them. The war between land and cave goblins was probably just the beginning of something larger. The Goblins lived on both ends of the earth had Hrothgar could safely bet his freedom that they had never came into contact with each other. Someone must be stirring up tension, rallying new forces for something much bigger than just a simple Goblin fight. Zatih walked just behind the monks, who still gazed upon Runescape was changing, getting more dangerous than ever. Hrothgar as if he were some sort of miracle. For people who had seen him as a demon of destruction just an hour ago, they had changed remarkably. The leader of the monks still looked at the slash in his robes, remembering the cut that Hrothgar had made with his scimitar. Zatih was very confused. Just by healing the wound that he had caused in the first place had completely changed the monk’s opinion of him. They didn’t know where they were going. Zatih could remember only one place where she would be truly happy after a year and a half in the Goblin Village. The finely carved walls and the beautiful gardens of Sirlokken’s house in Rimmington filled her memory with glorious music. One day, she would go back and see what happened to her friends. She hoped that they were alive and well. Suddenly, two dark figures appeared on the horizon, coming from Fallador, up the dusty path that led between the holy city and the Barbarian Village. They walked slowly but their obscure figures gradually came into focus as they came closer. A glint of blue Runite shone in the sun, causing Hrothgar to smile. He ushered Zatih and the twelve monks back into the shadows, where they could barely be seen, all but their bare feet. Hrothgar watched the strangers come, slowly weaving their way below the mountains that held the Dwarven Mines. He drew his rusty goblin sword and jumped up and down twice in anticipation. “Hrothgar!” Zatih demanded. “What are you going to do?” “Pretty soon, some wild rumours are going to hit the Goblin Village when their small army never shows up for the war. Then, they’ll send messages telling everyone to watch out for humans that wear goblin armor, in an attempt to bring all their warriors back to the prison. We would do well to change our attire as soon as possible!” “So you’re just going to kill them and steal their clothing?” asked the timid, young monk that stood a head shorter than the others. ‘Isn’t that a waste of two innocent lives?” “Surely you don’t object to giving your god a little more company?” Hrothgar said slyly as the figures came into view. A purple cape, rune plate body and amulet of power instantly caught Hrothgar’s eyes. The other figure wore things of apparent little value, some wooden armor and a staff made of animal bones. Hrothgar jumped out of his hiding place, grabbing the tall figure in the rune armor by the neck. He wrapped a hand around the man’s waist and placed his rusty weapon to the man’s neck. The second figure stepped backwards in surprise, raising his old staff up threateningly. “Try it!” Hrothgar challenged. “But don’t count your friend still being alive after you do!” The man Hrothgar held in his grip squealed in panic, as Hrothgar demanded their armor and clothing. Zatih dropped her sword and shield to the ground in disbelief. She stepped out of the shadows, jaw dropped and eyes boggling. Just as the man had screamed, a small flicker of fear had sped through his eyes, unnoticed by anyone else. Zatih knew that flicker anywhere, she had grown up around it. “Daralis?” she asked uncertainly. “Sirlokken?” Hrothgar let go off his grip. He stepped backwards, looking at Zatih, then back at his captives. Daralis stepped backwards, running back to Sirlokken. He looked at the girl in the goblin mail with disbelief, wonder and confusion. “Z-Zatih?” Sirlokken said. “But, It’s been years. How?” He wasn’t the only one with questions. Hrothgar and Daralis were shouting their own at Zatih, so fast she couldn’t tell where one question started and another finished. She held up her sword and sent it crashing done on a small rock beside her. The noise was loud and painful, causing everyone talking to stop and look at her. “Sirlokken.” She said gently to her father. “Daralis.” They both looked at her with teary eyes as she opened her mouth again. “A year and a half ago we were attacked by goblins. I don’t quite remember the details of what happened but I do remember waking up some time later in a goblin camp.” She skipped the part about her mind merging with Guthix, not even Hrothgar knew about that. “I was put to work in the salt mines where I met my friend here, Hrothgar.” “The one who tried to rob us?” asked Sirlokken. His voice was calm but Zatih could detect that his tone was aggressive and unfriendly. Zatih angrily justified Hrothgar's reaction. She explained to them that Hrothgar was just trying to keep them from being thrown back into the Goblin Camps. Sirlokken was not exactly convinced but he seemed to realize that he was fighting a pointless argument. He glared angrily at Hrothgar, then back at Zatih. "It's been too long my dear daughter." he said teary eyed and hugged her tight. "I never want to let you go!" Chapter 10: Dungrix’s Enlightenment For a long time, Dungrix was aware only of the sharp pain in his torso and the complete darkness that surrounded him. The rhythmic beating of his heart was what saved him in the end; each time he acknowledged a beat, it kept him in the world of the living. Just as his breathing began to diminish and pain began to overwhelm his mind, a strange, serene music seemed to flood from the darkness, bringing with it glorious light. “You have a choice Dungrix,” came a voice from the dark. The voice was commanding and yet oddly sympathetic. “You can sleep now, or you can keep fighting.” “Surely that choice has been made for me. I am to die am I not?” “Not if your wishes follow a different path to that one. Personally, I would like to see you take up your sword again and battle on for at least another little while. There are still those whom the stars say must meet their death at the hands of you.” Dungrix opened his eyes when he heard that, and he saw a face that held emotion and wisdom that mere mortals were incapable of. An elderly figure stood in front of him, dressed in robes of faintest blue. A cape fluttered behind him, despite the fact that no wind blew. His hands were gloved and were wrapped firmly around a decorated staff. The only sign of the man’s age was the heavily wrinkled brow that sat above his eyes. A sense of youthful energy and beauty so perfect it was alien seemed to leap from the man’s eyes. “I And thus, Dungrix, by clapping eyes on me, you join our minds forever. For I am the Lord Saradomin, God of Wisdom and Justice. Of all mortals, it is you I have chosen. You are the one destined to take my place in the God Wars.” Dungrix said nothing, he was totally in awe of the God that stood before him. A smile touched the face of the powerful deity as he offered a hand out to the fallen Pirate. Dungrix took his hand, and as he did, a flash of blinding light obliterated any outside thought. The Isles of Karamaja were in prehistoric states and strange plants and animals roamed the jungles. A tribe of primitive man looked up into the sky as Saradomin and the other Mahjarrats stepped into the world…. The image changed quickly. Dungrix was a baby, pressed against the back wall of a wooden hut, watching as two men wielding bloody swords entered the home. A young man and woman stood up to them, and immediately found their death on the cold steel of a long sword. Dungrix realised that the people whose blood ran freely along the wooden floor were his parents…. Saradomin had a look of pure concentration on his face as he blasted a beam of holy energy at his brother Zamorak. The evil Lord dodged and returned the blow with a jet of black fire. Saradomin braced himself for the impact, setting huge energy shields around him…. Dungrix was a young boy, training under the eye of the pirates who had killed his parents. They found he was quite skilled with a blade, and later on the agility course. Later on, he was a ruthless pirate captain, killing innocent people and raiding ports. He killed his own men for small crimes and was feared from Brimhaven to Mos’ le Harmless…. Guthix stopped the God Wars, momentarily stripping his brother’s of their powers. The world was save once more…. They’d had enough now. Dungrix’s crew were performing mutiny as they wrapped thick rope around the sea captain and threw him from the ship. He struck hard stone and almost drowned. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the house of the kindly old woman. Saradomin smiled at him and vanished in a blast of golden light. Dungrix appeared back in Fallador, lying face down amongst the other corpses. He sobbed long and hard, he knew who he was and was ashamed. He cried for quite a while before a voice commanded him to stop. He felt the urge to travel south-east, so he picked up his scimitar and walked straight out of town.
  20. Pottsy6

    Virtual Runescape.

    I suppose it does need to be MSLAG when its a story about some guys playing runescape.
  21. Pottsy6

    Virtual Runescape.

    The second story i've reviewed since my return, I'm hoping it'll be good. Let's get right into it then. The opening paragraph, although short, accomplishes what it was there to do and that, to me, makes it a success. A few sentences are confusing at first and I’ve had to reread a few times to understand what you meant by They have expanded their company into many and have taken over. A better expression may have been Jagex has expanded from its initial company and opened up branches all over the world. Very soon, Jagex had destroyed almost all competition and taken over the gaming industry. Actually that’s not too good an example but you get what I mean. Try to avoid abbreviations like promo’s and T.V when writing as they usually interrupt the flow in reading, just like number symbols: 44 instead of forty four, for example. Promos' on T.V. occur often sounded a little odd to me, maybe occur isn’t the right word, perhaps air of are shown. The introduction of the gun skill and other modern things will definitely take away from the “Runescapy” feel but it’ll probably work if you can back it up later. The idea of Ultimate Wilderness in a story like this will be interesting. This will obviously make the world more dangerous and exciting. The only problem I can think of is that, because your story is about some people playing a game, then death won’t have the same effect as it would otherwise. Maybe give each player ten lives and once he has used them all up, his account is locked for a while? Just an idea. Ok, now the real story has started. I think the word you are after is mesmerized, not memorized. Why does Matt have his backpack with him? If he has got home from school or something then it should be a while before he skips upstairs and falls asleep. Ouch, the next paragraph hurt my head just a little bit. It seems that a lesson in paragraphing is needed. The other paragraphs haven’t been brilliantly set out either, but once conversation appears, its a really obvious problem Whenever a new person starts talking, give them a paragraph of their own. This how you should have set this out: "Happy Birth-day!" shouted his mother's voice and another. Matt grinned and hugged his brother. His brother was Kyle Piston, an accountant. He was extremely anxious and always gave Matt his presents early. Kyle handed Matt the wrapped up present, it was a little bumpy. Matt unwrapped it with ease and noticed it was one of those Virtual realities helmet, for that game called Runescape. He was confused. "Kyle, this game is too over-crowed." he said with a frown, "I like fighting games, maybe even a shooter!" Kyle laughed and agreed, "Yeah, but I have an old account that I had when I was your age. I checked it and it still works". Matt said nothing else and wondered what his brother planned to do. He and his family walked down the stair-case to have an early breakfast. Now to pick apart that original paragraph  Firstly, I feel that the mother’s presence in that bit, and the previous one, is almost non existence. On her son’s thirteenth birthday, you’d think a mother would have more to say than just ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then sit tight while her two son’s have a conversation before heading down for breakfast. Wow, he seems a tad ungrateful at his brother’s presence. Why did Matt shout with Joy when he is clearly not too joyful with the present? Moving on. Again, paragraphing problems but I wont mention them again. All ready, not already. The gloves were nice? How so? Nice isn’t a very good adjective when dealing with inanimate objects as it usually means ‘kind’ or ‘polite’. The game seems confusing but I’ll see how it works in a situation before commenting. Yay, next chapter Firstly, you refer to your brother’s account, not Matt’s brother’s account. Ooo, he’s chosen hardcore. This should be good for a first time player. Anyway, that's it from me. I'll be interested in how this turns out. Keep up the writting and take on board these suggestions. Peace out! Pottsy6
  22. aww, just as I come back, Emanick stops reviewing. Oh well, its fair enough. I've gone to write the kind of reviews that Emanick has produced on constant basis and found that I lose interest in the first few paragraphs. He's written them consistantly, very detailed and with lots of help offered to improve writing. I thank Emanick for the hundreds of reviews he must have poured out and will probably try and make an effort to help fill the gap he will leave in the world of Sal's Runescape story reviews. Pottsy6
  23. Pottsy6

    The Life Of An Adventurer

    As Po22 stated, this is the bare bones of a story that seriously needs to be fleshed out. Barely even a story, so many things need to be given more thought and a huge rewrite seems in order. Post again with a serious story
  24. Hey There, Long time No see Guys! Good news, Zanik and I have decided to come back. I'm planning on finishing Zatih: The Legend of Dungrix and we are both working on a brand new story. It will be good to see what kind of new talents have appeared in the six months we've been away Pottsy6
  25. Pottsy6

    Pottsy6 Tribute Thread

    Pottsy6 Tribute Thread Well, I'm leaving Sal's for good (I think) and before I go, I want to find a place for all those stories I've accumulated over my time here. These are a few, written in the last year and are all here together for anyone to read. My best works have gone missing strangely, and if anyone finds something they'd like on this list, just hit the P.M button and ask me to edit it. Abandoned Stories These are some of my stories that never got off the ground. They are only the prologue but can be used as a catalyst when ideas run short. Start of a story with one of my beginnings :P The New World War This is the first story I posted on the new Sal's. It is about the destruction of earth as we know it, the removal of humans and the remergance of life. Not very good. The Shadow People This story is about a girl who watches her town being destroyed by an enemy army. She plans to avenge her fathers death and recover her now enslaven mother. Kathy Yarn and the Army of Fra Simply about a girl called Kathy who uncovers a hideous conspiracy and decides to save everyone she loved by overthrowing the government and breaking a few rules. Plus, she is one of the few people who can use magic in her town. The Diary of Marcel Devons An epic sci-fi about the destruction of a hostile enemy planet. A little unoriginal and doesn't flow very well. Farsight 12: The Journey Begins Another attempted tale from my sci-fi phase. I forget what this is about! Global Conquest A group of soldiers try to take over Sydney Harbor. An interactive story from before the Role Playing Format was made known to me. Stories that Got off the Starting Line -But didn't get all that far. In here, we see mainly stories that I wrote, got some replies, then abandoned for some reason or another. The Runescape Plot A boy from Fallador eventually discovers a secret that could bring the whole world to its knees. The History of the Barrows Brothers The story sorrounding what really happened to them barrows brothers. Mainly a giant argument with another author! Assasination A fairly sad attempt at a thriller involving, you guessed it, assassins. Pretty bad, by any standard The Band of Cruelty A story about an epic clan war. Not to interesting really. Will to Survive Story about a boy who tries in vein to save the world from destruction at the hands of evil shades. The Eleventh Slumberer The early stages of a story that has since grown to 140 pages and still going. Tells of a young boy who discovers he is destined to rise as a new god and strike down Snarn, the traitor to the gods. An Impossible Task The story of a girl called Gale who is given another chance at life. But that chance comes with a cost.
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