I've heard Runescape reviewers like to name-call (the author) and, though I like tough reviews, I find name-calling entirely inappropriate conduct.
For all of you that have read my other story, Altered Soul, I just would like to say that it feels great to have people that follow my work. But a bit of warning, this piece will be nothing reminiscent of the last.
Damn Jagex for implying that only members have words worth listening to. Oh, yeah, but it's not like I own this stuff so… don't sue me, Jagex.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The boy ran though the blackness of the night, the rain pounding beneath his feet. That night he had been foolish… There was no undoing it. He rushed through Varrock's darkened slums, hoping to catch a glimpse of light living within at least one window. The city was so dark that night… but still he ran. Surely someone would take him in, he thought, after all, he was just but a boy.
He halted at an intersection, bowing beneath the rain's relentless fury. Down the cobbled roads he then gazed, seeing 3 additional paths to choose from. They might as well have been the same; all of them were darkened and useless. A hot white light lit the area suddenly, making the teenager turn skyward, the rain moistening his face once again. Then a booming! God's scream! It was so terrifyingly loud, he all but fell over, ducking his head into the safety of his shoulders and reaching for the ground. Then all was quieted again to that dull, rapid thud the heavy rain emitted…
The teen was not the only one astounded by this explosion. In the distance, barely audible, a commotion. Women squealing, wound up with excitement due to the great sound of it. The boy quickly bounded to their wondrous shrieks thinking they might've disappeared in his delay. The rain pelted the boy thoroughly, but nothing would slow him. He had had his fill of the rain.
Sure enough, a light emanated from a single window, several obscure figures swirling about it. Like specters they were, through that murky yellow glass, and he was contented to look upon them. A naive grin made its way across his face as the juvenile rapped on their door. The motion within came to a halt, as they were unprepared for any callers at this late hour. The outsider slicked back the soggy mess of black hair from his eyes, making himself more presentable.
The door swung open and the boy was hit with the pleasures of the different perfumes of the ladies and the wonderful warmth of a burning fire (most enticing on this cold, wet night). The man who then crowded the door, however, wasn't reminiscent of any of these things. The whisper of hair on his head floated downward as he bent down to meet the outsider with his cold, scrutinizing eyes that obviously craved the boy's non-existence. "…What's yer business, 'en?" he inquired, closing all but a few inches between their faces.
Slowly, the boy's neck inched backwards, cowardly in the man's enormous shadow. He glanced down the cobblestone road, strife with puddles, but only for a moment. "(I must seek shelter,)" he told himself. "Hello…" he feigned a smile despite the man's monstrously intrusive face and… breath. "My name is—" a deafening thunderclap cut off his shrunken voice, stirring the ladies within who were all huddled together. Then he bellowed out, "I am in need of shelter, I'm afraid. May you—"
"Have ya any munnies, 'en?" The glutton jumped on this opportunity.
"No. You see—"
"Then ya best be makin' s'm!" He pulled back into the comforts of his house. "We'll be havin' no beggars here, boy."
"(Make some?)" he asked himself as he felt the loneliness of the empty Varrock roads. He was trying to find some comfort in the man's impatience when there was none. The proprietor began to close the door then, and as the chink of light flattened out, the boy mustered up enough nerve to finally invoke firmly, "I shall! Just please, sir, let me in on this night!"
The door slammed shut his face, the waft of warm air easily overpowered by the biting cold. He looked down somberly, letting the drops flow off the end of his nose, for a moment or two, watching them splat onto the ground between his feet. "(These shoes may not survive the night…)"
Unexpectedly, the door opened slightly, just enough for a chubby face to poke through. The juvenile quickly looked into the hardened eyes of the man. He brought a meaty hand around the front of the door. "That way's the pub. I'm sure they'll be open this night. They usually stay open every night, all night."
"Thank you, sir!" he shouted gratefully, skipping in the direction of the stranger's hand.
He nodded, adding, "3 blocks! Tu yer left it'll be!"
"(The pub…)" he quietly sneered to himself. He had visited his own town's pub and quite enjoyed it, but to sleep in such a place? "(God save me!)" He trudged, now, making his way 3 blocks down, wondering if that damnable man could even count.
Sure enough, after 3 blocks the rambunctious crowd within the bar could be heard. The teen turned to his left, seeing the solitary light amongst the darkness… He stood there as the rain pecked at his head. "(I guess I don't have a choice…)" he reflected and went grudgingly towards the pub. The rolling thunder sent him scurrying.
Into the pub he clumsily bounded after the door had finally given way. No one seemed to notice his awkward entrance, though. They were each of them congregated around a rowdy fellow, drinking his every word.
"So there I was…" he said quietly, drawing in the attention of his mates. He eloquently extended his arm, despite the heavy armor, using his words to paint the panorama. "in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing… all my comrades lost somewhere behind me. The morning mist choking up the vista… I removed my helm in my blindness and left it somewhere on those grounds. I squinted—trying to see, but all I could see was white… I swore that I had gone blind."
The boy quietly edged toward the solidarity of the shadows, but was spellbound by the warrior's tale, which found him, like the others, rapt around the parameter of his supple voice.
He paused briefly, but not for dramatics. His austere eyes looked over the newcomer before they again shifted about the room giving the illusion that he were speaking to each of them personally. "The only sense I had left was truer to me than ever before. As clear as a bell, I heard it… It crunched through the foliage before me, plodding toward me at a quickening pace! What it was, I had no idea! All I knew was that it—whatever it was, rushed toward me!"
"How did it know you where there!" a shout issued from the crowd.
"Persons of the Dark Knight Fortress are worshipers of Zamorak, the daemon! It is said he provides them with unnatural ability…" he pushed himself back against the bar behind him, his armor gently scrapping against its self at the joints. Then he lunged back into his story. "He brought his heavy black sword up! and I gripped that pitiful bronze square, my knuckles burning hot white on the battle axe down at my right! He landed that heavy ol' sword and it just slid off this fateful square," he taped the shoddy shield that leaned against his barstool. "And there! there was my chance! Time slowed, coming close to a halt as I focused all my strength into getting that battle-axe off the ground…" The romantic dropped his hand to his right and milled it over his head. "And with great force, my axe did fall…"
He was quieted for a few moments, and a few moments longer than his audience could stand. "Then what?"
He smiled, glad that they were enjoying his feast of words, but he would not give them more, no. Instead he scooped up the black helm and flipped it cleverly onto his head. The throng laughed heartily and gingerly applauded.
The boy looked over the armor-clad knight, losing himself into the blackness of it. He was vanished to a sea of questions. "(I've come to expect that the goings about in the city are to be different than what I am accustomed to, but… He is commemorated for slaying a man and appropriating his armor? Is this right…? His story is well told, but what he is telling is—)"
"Yur looking like yur in some kinda trace, boy."
He turned to look at the haggard man and was revolted by his appearance, not that he would show it.
The drunkard turned back to the orator who was steadily declining requests to retell the story. "That armor… Woo-wee! You best keep yur eye offa that kinda armor, boy, hic! 'cause that stuff's too 'spensive for a country bumkin like you. Why, in all my life… I ne'er saw armor so fine, lemme tell ya." He sluggishly threw a glace over to the boy and discovered him gone. "…Boy? Boy? N' whur'd he go?"
While the wretch was busy chattering, the boy had quietly slipped away. "(Even the taverns here are different.)" he thought wearily as he slinked down against the back wall. He contemplated whether or not he could rise above these challenges or if they would consume him. Could he survive this place? He assured himself that things would look different at the dawn of a new day, then he was finally was able to subdue his dogged mind.