He staggered out of the jungle, and into Brimhaven.
He wore a suit of platemail, specially made for him by Oziach many moons ago, which had clearly seen more than its share of battle recently. His boots and gloves, though now caked with blood and dirt, were once golden, bought from Canifis. His shield, so badly mauled it was almost split, was runite with pure-gold trimming, and currently slung over his back. Crowning his head was long locks of hair, matted together with mud and gore. The Warrior Helm of Fremennik that usually crowned the head was slung onto a waistband, along with a Dragonsword that, due to its arcane nature, was still as clean and sharp as the day he first bought it in the legendary market of Zanaris. His cloak, though now filled with holes, was Fremennik, and deep purple in colour. His amulet and Ring were both made of pure gold, with Dragonstones imbedded therein, and enchanted by powerful mages.
Finally, slung over his back, was a gilded totem, a gift from the people of the jungle.
The thieves and pirates stopped to watch him, but none dared attack. Though he looked physically weak, a fire burned in his eyes; a pyre-like flame that told all who saw it that this man would not, could not, be stopped from completing his journey.
He boarded the boat to Ardougne, and arrived to see a crowd, waiting expectantly. Some cheered, but most were silent, wondering… waiting… hoping that the figure they saw had returned to them a champion, and not a failure.
The crowd followed the warrior out of the town, keeping back. His progress was slow, and many times he staggered, or sagged to his knees. More than once, he coughed up blood. Some moved to help him, but he bade them stay back, telling them that he must complete this quest alone, even now.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he arrived at his destination. The guards nodded at him, and escorted him inside…
…time passed. For several hours, nothing happened, yet the people waited. More came now to join them, from the lowliest Guard to heroes of Legend. They all knew what was happening; the fate of the warrior was now out of his hands. If he completed the tasks assigned to him, and his wounds were not fatal, then he would be declared worthy. If not, then he would have the honour of being buried in the Guild Crypts…
Finally, he emerged, dressed in soft, cyan robes that whispered as he moved… and a cloak of white.
The Guards stood beside him, raising a bruised and bandaged arm into the air.
They shouted to the crowd, "Hail to Lylax the Slayer, Lylax of the Legend's Guild!"
The crowd roared. Young adventurers screamed in adulation, the passion in their voices telling all they too aspired to such greatness, whilst the current members gave simple applause, and nods of acknowledgement.
Lylax stood there, soaking up the praise, and could remember no finer feeling.