Chapter One: The Warmaster
Warmaster Athellenas knew that it was going to be a fine day. He did not scan the heavens for clues in the cloud patterns, nor did he attune himself to the humidity or temperature, but he still had a gut feeling that it was going to be a good day.
Athellenas did not question his internal weather predictions. Ever since his earliest days working on a farm in the Far Reaches, Athellenas had always been able to sense what the day's weather would bring, and he had always been right. When his gut told him that it was going to be a nice day, then it was going to be a nice day. Simple as that.
The sun had finally begun to poke its top fringes over the eastern horizon, shooting the sky—which had been a moderate shade of purple that got progressively brighter as it neared the horizon—with rays of scarlet and maroon.
It was a red sunrise.
Athellenas emerged from his small one-man tent and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and breathing in the cool, crisp morning air. He opened his eyes after a minute or so, finally noticing the color of the sunrise. His brow furrowed in a slight frown when he watched the red sun begin its westerly arc through the sky.
Red sunrises never meant good news.
"Trouble, Warmaster?" a voice asked, coming from behind.
Athellenas broke his gaze with the sunrise. He turned around, coming face to face with Sir Derren, his de facto second in command. Athellenas gave a low grunt and turned back to the sun, squinting as it brightened. The wrinkles in his face were pronounced even more as he narrowed his eyes, shielding them from the sun's direct light. He took a step back and stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend. "Red sunrise this morning," the iron-haired Warmaster said, voicing his observations.
Sir Derren was silent for a moment, trying to interpret the Warmaster's hesitance. "You believe it is an omen?" the Centralian knight finally asked, needing clarification.
"The sun is a being in of itself," Athellenas replied, "You would have to ask a Menaphite to explain this; that is part of their religion. Its appearance varies depending on where it is rising. I would suspect that it is its normal yellow mostly anywhere else, but here, in this place, it appears to us in its sanguine form. The sun does not shift its color idly or without reason. Something is amiss."
"You still believe the war is starting up again?" Sir Derren chuckled, "Amusing, Warmaster. I never had you figured for a fatalist."
"I've walked this earth over twice as long as you have," the Warmaster reminded the young knight, "And for most of that time, ever since I left my old farm in the Far Reaches, I've been fighting. With Chaos forces constantly attacking our border regions since the beginning of the Age, there has always been a call for soldiers. I have seen and done many things, Derren, many things… You are foolish to doubt the return of the Gods."
"There has been no real war for over six hundred years, Warmaster," Derren argued, "Zamorak has retreated, gone to his realm where only the divine can exist, defeated by our armies and those of the Aviantese and Iceyene at the River Salve. All he can muster against us are rabbles of barbarians and anarchists to assail our borders. The werewolves, the vampyres, the demons, the undead; they have all vanished into the Wilderness as well, six hundred years ago, and no one has seen any of them since."
"That is what everyone has been saying recently," Athellenas observed; agreeing, though only to a point. "People have been saying it a lot, and more and more often. Why, I ask, do they feel the sudden need to reassure themselves of Zamorak's absence? I'll tell you why," Athellenas leaned in close, speaking in muted tones so that none of his men could overhear if they strayed within earshot, "In my humble experience, whenever people start overly reassuring themselves over something, it is always because they are avoiding an unpleasant truth. Think about it; attacks have increased along our borders, especially from the Wilderness. Reports of sightings of demons and the other Chaos monsters are coming into the capital every day. Now, trade caravans coming from the Elven Lands to the west are disappearing, which is why we're out here. The Gods are returning. Zamorak is returning to challenge Saradomin. He was never defeated by that battle at the River Salve; he was only inconvenienced. It will not be long before-"
"What you speak of is heresy," Derren warned, "The Church of Saradomin has strictly banned-"
"Do not dictate to me what I can and cannot say," Athellenas interrupted his second in command, "I answer to King Osman, not to the Church," the Warmaster grunted, "The King has given the Church too much of a role in day to day and military affairs. If one more Paladin approaches me and attempts to question my loyalty to Saradomin and to Centralia, I just might burst a vein. The Paladin who volunteered to accompany me on this patrol is enough of a nuisance…" the Warmaster trailed off, losing himself once more in the sunrise before giving a shrug. "Bah, it matters not. The king cannot fully mobilize without a Declaration of War approved by the Forum, and the Forum will make no such declaration unless the Church supports it, and the fools running the Church see only what they want to see. Politics…" Athellenas spat the word as if it were a curse.
To the likes of him, it was.
"Where do we ride today?" Sir Derren asked finally, changing tack.
"North-Northwest," the Warmaster replied. "Last night, I received a messenger eagle from Lord Fernando, King Osman's majordomo and the Praetor of the Forum. My decision to join the patrol has turned out to be a fortunately coincidental one. There is a small town called Ephyrn not far from here. It is not an overly opulent place, but it does command the heights on the westerly border of the Wilderness, just northeast of the Far Reaches."
"I know of this place," Sir Derren nodded. "The scouts based in that town have long provided us with vital information on activity in the Wilderness."
"Until now," Warmaster Athellenas murmured. "Our men in Ephyrn have ceased sending that information. Contact with the town has been lost for some time now, and Lord Fernando, acting on the King's behalf, wishes for us to investigate."
"You believe something bad has happened?" Derren asked.
"I believe the rising sun being red this morning was no coincidence," Athellenas replied, "Come, we have dallied here for too long. If any of the men still slumber, go and rouse them. We ride in ten minutes."
"As you command, Warmaster," Sir Derren bowed quickly, then turned on his heel and strode off into the encampment that had been set up by the small force of cavalry that the Warmaster had led for the routine patrol through the northern reaches of Centralia. Sir Derren started barking orders, rousing the two score cavalrymen who had been fast asleep in their tents. "Break camp and gear up; we ride north!"
Athellenas quickly dismantled his tent, rolling the cloth up into a tight bundle, which he secured with a small piece of rope. The fifty-seven year old Warmaster then slid into his armor, pulling on the leather hood that would cushion his cranium from his helm. He slipped on his chest plate, tightening the straps that held it in place, and then secured his pauldrons to his shoulders, his greaves to his legs, his perebrace and vanbraces onto his arms, finishing up by slipping his armored gauntlets onto his hands. He flexed his fingers, making sure that they were fully inside the grip of the gauntlets and able to move normally.
Last, Athellenas donned his helm. It was a barbute-style helm; a simple, rounded, visorless helmet with a Y-shaped opening in the front for the eyes and the mouth. The helm was also adorned with a bristly white plume, one that ran in a thin, straight line from above the eyes, up and over the top of the helmet, and down to the nape of the neck.
Athellenas bent over and picked up his sword, securing the belt which his scabbard was attached onto to his waist. The Warmaster drew his sword for a last minute inspection. Like the rest of his armor, Athellenas's sword was composed of runite—a super-dense, blue ore that, when smelted into an alloy, pounded out, and shaped by an expert blacksmith, served as arguably the strongest armor attainable in all of Gielinor, with the possible exception of dragon armor. Dragon armor, however, had not been seen for millennia and existed only in the myths and legends.
Warmaster Athellenas had gone through a lot to earn his runite armor. It was many times stronger than the common steel found throughout the land, able to take even more punishment than the mithril used by the elves in their lands beyond the Far Reaches, west of the White Wolf Mountains, where most Humans had never been. Those who had gone beyond the White Wolf Mountains had done so only for temporary forages, personal exploration, or for diplomatic missions. No Humans actually lived beyond the Far Reaches.
Athellenas ran a finger down the length of his sword. He gently touched the edge of the blade, his mouth curving in satisfied grin as a small, faint cut appeared on his thumb. He had sharpened and lubricated the blade the night before, and it definitely showed. Satisfied that his blade was ready for battle, the Warmaster slid it back into its scabbard.
By now, most of the forty or forty-five men of the cavalry patrol force were finishing up breaking camp, getting ready to hit the road, or whatever route Athellenas ended up taking them through. There were very few roads in this region of Centralia due to its proximity to the Wilderness.
Athellenas gathered up his tent and walked over to the large tree he had pitched his tent next to.
Onyx saw the Warmaster approaching and rose to all fours, waiting for his master to mount up. Athellenas stroked his steed's mane. He reached into one of Onyx's saddlebags and drew out a speckled blue apple, acquired by foragers from the heart of Karamja, the large tropical island in the seas southeast of lower Centralia. The Warmaster held the apple out to Onyx, and the dappled white and gray warhorse snatched it up with his teeth. Onyx tossed the Karamjan apple up into the air and caught it in its mouth, crunching down on the fruit and devouring it, snuffling with pleasure as he ate.
"We've got some hard riding to do today, old friend," Athellenas murmured to his horse, taking a moment to scratch the place below Onyx's ears where the horse always seemed to have an itch.
The Warmaster gave Onyx one last clap on the neck before he strode around and untied the warhorse from the tree. He tied the rope to the saddle and stuffed the bundled-up tent into the empty saddlebag on Onyx's left side. Now completely packed, Athellenas swung himself up into Onyx's saddle. He took a moment to inhale and exhale, steadying himself, and then took up Onyx's reigns. He dug his boots into Onyx's sides a little bit, his way of telling the horse to start moving.
Onyx started to amble around the tree. Athellenas guided him with the reigns, riding into the center of the place where only minutes before his men's encampment had stood. The slower soldiers were only just climbing into their saddles, but all the rest were patiently waiting for the Warmaster's order to move out.
"Circle around!" Athellenas ordered, raising his voice for all to hear. The forty-odd men in the small force of cavalry reigned in their steeds and assembled in a rough semi-circle around Athellenas, as commanded. Athellenas swept his gaze over the cavalrymen under his immediate command. He knew every one of them—they were a part of the elite company that he rode with during battle.
"Gentlemen!" Warmaster Athellenas began, "We ride north, to Ephyrn! Dispatches from Tethys came in last night by messenger eagle—King Osman and Lord Fernando report that all contact with the town has been lost. Our scouts there have been silent for over a week now, and Tethys has received none of the monthly taxes. Seeing as we are only several hours away from Ephyrn, and are therefore the nearer to the town than any other Royal authority, we have been ordered to proceed to Ephyrn and investigate the reason for their silence," Athellenas declared. He took a moment to clear his throat, and then continued, speaking in a lower, more subtle tone. "Off the record…I believe ill has befallen Ephyrn. Whatever we find there, I do not think it will be to our liking. Therefore, I would strongly advise all of you to keep alert and keep your weapons where you can reach them. Always prepare for a worst-case scenario. Understood?"
"Aye!" the two score cavalrymen chorused in reply.
"Very good," Athellenas nodded approvingly. He gave his reigns a sharp rap, prompting Onyx to break out into a trot, advancing through the semi-circle of cavalrymen. The cavalry broke formation and fell in behind the Warmaster.
Sir Derren urged his own steed forward until he rode abreast with his commander, taking his rightful place in the unit.
The Warmaster spurred Onyx on until the steed began to move at a full gallop. The whole force of cavalry quickly followed suit, and soon the forty-odd cavalrymen were traversing the countryside at their usual breakneck pace.
Athellenas closed his eyes periodically, taking pleasure in the feeling of the wind against his face, whistling in through the Y-shaped eye and mouth slit in his helm. Northwestern Centralia was truly a beautiful place. It was early summer now, so the prevalent colors were green and brown. There were enough pine and oak trees in this region to walk from the Wilderness border to Tethys—the capital of Centralia—to the River Lum without ever setting foot on soil.
This area of the country was even more beautiful in the autumn, when the trees appeared in many different colors; red, yellow, orange, violet. Still, the perpetual greens of summer were by no means any less satisfying to take in.
The sun climbed higher and higher into the sky until it finally rested at its noontime apex.
Athellenas called for a quick rest in the early afternoon for the men to feed their horses and rejuvenate themselves, but before too long they were back to it, pounding their way north towards the Wilderness border.
Some of the soldiers chatted quietly with one another, but for the most part the company was silent, focusing all of its energy into its ride.
It was not until the sun was well into its descent to the western horizon and the daylight turned a rich golden amber that Athellenas thrust a fist out at a ninety-degree angle in the air, bringing the company to a halt. His nostrils flared as they caught a twinge of the scent that had prompted him to stop.
"Something's burning…" Sir Derren observed, smelling the same smell as his commander. A smattering of grunts and murmurs rolled through the company as the others caught whiff of the smoke.
"Look there!" one of the soldiers exclaimed, pointing slightly to the left of the direction the company was riding in. A pillar of smoke was steadily rising into the air, dispersing into the sky as it gained altitude. It would have been hard to spot through the trees while riding at full clip, but now that the men were at a halt it was clearly visible.
The murmurings grew to uneasy exclamations and speculations.
"That's right where Ephryn is," one of the mounted archers spoke up, "The only thing I could think of to create a pillar of smoke that large would be-"
"-the whole cursed town burning," Sir Derren finished. As much as the men did not want to believe that possibility, it was making more and more sense. Losing contact with a town and then spotting a large pillar of black smoke where it was supposed to be located were not good signs. Throw in a red sunrise, and you had yourself quite a recipe for disaster.
Athellenas reached down to his hip and grasped his hilt, slowly drawing his sword. "Break up into lances," the Warmaster ordered. "Sir Derren, you lead one lance and hook far to the left. Advance on my signal. Go."
Sir Derren drew his sword as well and offered a quick salute with the tip of his blade; flicking it up to his brow, and then back down. He took fourteen men and rode off into the forest. The light thumping of the horses' hooves was quickly swallowed up by the forest.
"Sergeant Edris," Athellenas turned to Edris, a seasoned cavalry veteran who had been in the Centralian Royal Army even longer than the Warmaster, "Lead the archers and take point. We are going straight for Ephyrn…and I'm expecting there to be hostiles. If we do encounter hostiles, take the archers and soften them up as best as you can, then clear the way for my lance. We'll be coming in as your support."
"Understood," Edris nodded. He turned in his saddle and shouted, "Archers, on me!"
The ten mounted archers in the company trotted over to the veteran, forming up behind him. At Edris's behest, they, too, sped off into the forest, leaving Athellenas alone with the remaining eighteen riders.
"Ride fast, keep your weapons at the ready," Athellenas advised them, "Hope for the best, but expect the worst, for I fear that it is the worst that lies before us, not the best. Do not let your guard down. Expect enemies. Any last questions?"
When no one spoke up, the Warmaster gave a final nod and spurred Onyx back into a gallop. The rest of the lance fell in behind the Warmaster as he rode through the forest, heading towards the column of smoke.
The trees gradually thinned out until they gave way to wide, gentle, rolling hills covered in long grass and small, white and yellow flowers. As Athellenas and his lance of soldiers crested the first hill, they could see Edris's men topping the hill ahead.
"Faster, men!" Athellenas urged his lance on, tightening his grip on his runite longsword. The seconds seemed to crawl by. It took Athellenas's lance several minutes to traverse the miniature valley in between hills before climbing the hill Edris's men had just ascended.
A collective gasp rose from the men in Athellenas's lance as they crested the second hill and were finally able to see the town of Ephyrn.
Or at least what remained of it.
Even Athellenas uttered several choice oaths under his breath as he took in the sight.
All of Ephyrn was ablaze. The buildings were all at least half burned down, a good number being only ashes and pieces of charcoal. A fetid stink also assailed the Warmaster's nostrils whenever the wind blew in his direction from the town. It was the stink of death.
Edris and his archers were already waiting at the town's outskirts. "Warmaster," Sergeant Edris said in report, "No hostiles sighted...no citizens sighted, either. Recommend we pull in Sir Derren and advance through the ruins. Better to secure them first before conducting our investigation."
Athellenas nodded. "Agreed." The Warmaster reached under his chest plate and drew out the small reed pipe that he wore on a cord around his neck. He brought the pipe to his lips and blew, sending three quick, harsh notes into the air. He waited for a second, and then heard the same three notes in the distance as Sir Derren acknowledged his message.
Warmaster Athellenas did not lighten the near deathgrip he had on his sword. As he led his and Edric's lances down one of the main boulevards that ran through the length of the town—straight from the outskirts to the central square—he could not help but ignore an uneasy feeling in his gut. The charred buildings on either side seemed to yawn at him and his men. They seemed menacing, threatening. Something was amiss, but no one could say what.
The iron-haired Warmaster continued his advance, glancing down every street he passed, but finding and seeing nothing. The town was a ghost-town, devoid of life. The wind breathed through the streets, agitating and stirring up rubbish and garbage that had accumulated on the ground for what seemed like the past few days.
Athellenas reached the central town square at the same time as Sir Derren, so all of the cavalrymen received the same feeling of shock and revulsion at the same time. Looking at the grisly sight, Warmaster Athellenas now knew why the morning sun had been red.
Piled in the center of the square was a mountain of corpses. Men, women, children, infants, soldiers—all of them piled barbarically on top of one another in a grotesque mound higher than the buildings hemming the square in. All of them had arrows or spears protruding from their stomachs and chests, or burn marks covering their flesh. All of them were horribly mutilated as well—every corpse had at least one missing limb or appendage. Many were missing heads or faces—some were simply quite literally torn to shreds.
Several of Athellenas's soldiers leaned over in their saddles, pulled off their helms, and vomited their breakfast onto the cobblestones, unable to control their bowels in the presence of such horror.
"Saradomin's beard, they've all been butchered…" one of the soldiers whispered.
Athellenas was about to order his men to secure the remains and begin investigating, based on the weapons, who was responsible for the slaughter that had happened here, when he heard something.
Athellenas's back actually arched in trepidation when he heard it. It was almost nothing, a faint whisper on the wind, but the Warmaster would have sworn on his parents' graves—rest their souls—that he had heard a laugh. A low, gravelly, brutish laugh, if only for an instant.
"Defensive positions!" Athellenas shouted, not taking any chances. He knew what he had heard, and he was not one to ignore his instincts. Something was afoot here, and he was not about to expose himself to anything that might-
Suddenly, a hail of arrows leaped out at the cavalrymen from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Shouts and agonized cries rose up from the men as they were struck down by the barbed arrows. Five men were shot down from their saddles, and six more were wounded, but managed to remain upright.
Where on the rooftops there had been nothing an instant ago, there were now a group of dark, hulking shapes with small heads and tusks protruding from their mouths. They wielded bows, and were already reloading, having unleashed their first surprise volley.
"Orks!" the cry rose up as the Centralians spotted their assailants.
More of the hulking green beasts appeared in the streets as well, surging into the square, wielding clubs, axes, and maces. All of them were screaming and roaring their war cries, calling for the blood of their enemies.
The archers reacted fast, loading the bows and loosing their arrows towards the ork archers. Bodies steadily began to tumble down from the roofs as the human arrows found their marks.
"A concealing charm!" Athellenas roared, now realizing how the orks had appeared out of nowhere without having been spotted first, "They must have a shaman among their ranks! Form up and fight in pairs! Don't expose your backs!"
Even as the Warmaster spoke, one of the charging orks scored a hit on a mounted soldier, plunging a gleaming knife into the man as he tried to fight off one of the ork's companions. The soldier convulsed, fell off of his horse, and lay still.
A great and terrible rage tore through Athellenas. The Warmaster opened his mouth and roared, venting his fury to the heavens at having been led into a trap that any naïve footsoldier should have been able to see coming. He spurred Onyx forward straight into a group of orks assailing four of his men.
Athellenas brought his runite sword swiping down into the first ork he rode into. He relished the smooth, sliding feeling the sword gave him as it cleanly separated the ork's head from its shoulders. He brought his sword back around and plunged it into the neck of a second ork, grinning savagely as the beast uttered an agonized cry, choking on the blood welling up in its throat.
The Warmaster lost track of time as he tore into the horde of orks. His sword cleaved through flesh, muscle, and bone like a politician's tongue through the truth. After a short time he allowed himself a quick glance of the square and gave a satisfied grunt. Though his cavalry had been surprised by the ambush, they had quickly recovered. Scores of orks now lay dead in ever-growing pools of their own life essence. As the last few were being mopped up by the archers, something new came along.
An unearthly roar reverberated through the town, and one of the buildings exploded outward into the square, sending splinters and debris flying dozens of feet into the air. The Centralians ducked and shielded their faces as the splinters rained down on them.
A giant figure lumbered into the square. Athellenas recognized it all too well—the thin, sinewy torso, the long arms and legs, the bright red skin, the horns protruding from its brow.
It was a demon.
The demon opened its mouth and roared, displaying row upon row of razor-sharp, glittering incisors.
"Finally, a challenge," Athellenas grunted. He flipped Onyx's reigns and sent his horse galloping towards the monster at full tilt, briefly twirling his runite sword through his fingers like a baton before reestablishing his grip on the hilt.
The demon regarded the charging Warmaster with some level of surprise—it had been a long time since a human had ever gone on the offensive with it, let alone charged it head-on. It began to lumber forward, rushing to intercept the charging Warmaster. It would finish Athellenas off first, and then it would see to the rest of the humans in the area.
Athellenas bent down low in the saddle, making as if he were going to strike at the demon's abdomen. As he neared the red beast, the demon anticipated this as well. It lunged forward and swiped at Onyx, aiming low so it would hit the Warmaster's flank.
The Warmaster had expected the demon to do exactly what it did. He squeezed Onyx's sides with his thighs and gave a harsh, guttural shout as his horse leaped into the air. The horse's leg muscles rippled as it propelled itself up. Because the demon had struck so low, Onyx was actually able to leap clean over the monster's arm and claws, much like a hurdle.
Warmaster Athellenas returned the demon's favor by cleaving his sword into its left shoulder, leaving the one arm hanging useless. The demon howled in pain as the runite tore through its flesh and muscle, blindly flailing its other arm about in a frenzied effort to maul the one who had dared to wound it in such a manner.
Athellenas circled the demon, carefully ducking and jumping to dodge its blows and swipes, weaving in and out of its reach. The Warmaster continued to tease the demon with his presence, inflicting minor cuts and wounds on its body that gradually started to accumulate. The Warmaster could tell that this demon was a weaker specimen than many of its brethren—it had no sense of tactics and it was somewhat slow and clumsy. That would be its downfall.
Finally, enraged at not being able to hit the Warmaster and at the dozens of lacerations all over its torso and limbs, the demon leaped forward again in a final lunge, but this was what Athellenas had been waiting for. He moved aside and dodged the demon's swipes, then brought his sword cleaving down, shearing off the demon's right arm. Now it was left with only a useless left arm.
The demon howled in fury, the pain of the wounds drowned out by its anger and frustration. Without its arms, however, it did not take long for Athellenas to slip past the demon's guard. The runite sword deftly slid between the demon's ribs and into its heart, ending its existence once and for all.
Athellenas did not pull his sword free. Instead, his planted a boot on the now-dead demon's chest and pushed it off, letting the corpse fall to the ground. The Warmaster inhaled heavily, slowly regaining his breath. "I'm getting to old for this kind of horseshit…" the iron-haired Centralian muttered under his breath. He straightened up in his saddle and sheathed his sword. "Sir Derren! Casualty report."
"Warmaster, I report nine men dead, another thirteen wounded," Sir Derren reported after his headcount.
Athellenas allowed himself a small sigh. Nine men was a high price to pay for what was only supposed to be a small recon mission. He gave himself a few minutes to plan his next move, remaining silent and bowing his head in respect for the fallen. He let recent events sink in; while the slaughter of the citizens of Ephyrn told the soldiers nothing about who committed the act, the presence of orks and demons more than confirmed Athellenas's long-sown suspicions.
"Attend to the wounded and pair them up with the strongest riders," the Warmaster ordered, "We ride back for Tethys at dawn tomorrow, and we shall tell King Osman of what has transpired here…if this does not galvanize the Forum to approve a Declaration of War, I do not know what will. For now…let us ride as far away from this place as we can before dusk. Then we shall set up camp, bury our dead, and rest for the night."
Murmurs and nods of acknowledgment were the only reply the Warmaster received. Athellenas did not mind—his men had just come through a heavy skirmish. They were exhausted. Their lack of responsiveness was more than understandable.
The Warmaster did not dwell on thoughts such as those, though. He was thinking of other things. In a way, he saw that this massacre could have…it would be sick to call it a 'silver lining', but there was no other term that could describe it any better. He saw that this massacre could have a silver lining in that the evidence of the Gods' return was now concrete, confirmed by the presence of orks and demons.
Beasts of Zamorak's chaos had finally attacked Centralian soil, emerging from their hiding places in the Wilderness. This had now shattered the delicate peace which had settled over the land for the past few centuries.
Zamorak was back, and that meant that the War that had already destroyed so much and caused untold amounts of chaos and misery in the past was about to start up again once more.
Yet again, in another twist of Fate, one of the few times Warmaster Athellenas wished he was wrong, he ended up being right anyway. As his men began to set up camp at dusk, he watched as the sun slowly sank down past the western horizon.
The sunset was red as well.
Author's Note
Hello readers. This my my first attempt on Runescape, so here's to breaking the ice! Just a few things to clear up--because this takes place during the God Wars (Third Age) most of what you find in the game does not yet exist. Varrock, Falador, Ardoughne, Lumbridge, Al-Kharid, Burthorpe--none of these places are built until the Fourth or Fifth Ages, so the Gielinor of this Age is significantly different than the one experienced in the games. I pretty much just took Misthalin and Asgarnia and combined them into one large Human Kingdom, just to clear things up for people who haven't figured out what Centralia is yet.
Most of you people probably already know this, but I just wanted to make sure.
Thanks!
-TheAmateur