A/N: I'm terribly sorry for the long delay. Between familial issues, the AP exams, and a thousand other things demanding my attention, I really haven't had time or energy to write this, unless I forced myself, and I hate forced writing, because my style just pretty much sucks. Anyway, se pregunto su perdón para la demora.
In this chapter, Geoff is somewhat surprised, wastes blood on a thunderstorm, and manages to be struck dumb and awkward by a common shop girl.
Chapter Seven
They passed the stone pillars, and Geoff looked around, looking somewhat confused. "Is it just me, or did there used to be a spear wall around here somewhere?"
Justin nodded and pointed to one yard away from the wall. "You might be able to see some of the holes from where they pulled it up. I don't know why they got rid of it, but there's just empty space there, now."
"Ah, I see. That's odd. Now… you were interested in a story, no?"
He grinned and nodded. "I was! Do you mean I actually get that backstory now?"
Geoff laughed. "Well, there's… it's a bit complicated. Have you done the Dragonslayer quest?" He shook his head, and Geoff sighed. "You know the premise, though, right?"
"Basically, this dragon destroyed an island, a long time ago, and your task is to get three pieces of a map from the three wizards who escaped, buy and fix this boat, and then go there and kill the dragon—there's a lot more sidequests, though, on how to survive and fix the boat, and tasks for the maps. Once you come back, you can wear full rune armor, though, so it's pretty worth it."
He nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. Well… I'm from the island— it's called Crandor, by the way."
Justin glanced over at his companion. "That… ouch. I'm sorry, man."
He smiled, a little sadly. "Not your fault, and it was a long time ago. But I didn't know about this quest – I have no idea how I missed every hint for the past few years – but a friend mentioned it to me, a week or so ago, and… I found myself on my way down here."
"I understand that. So now you've got to do the quest yourself?" They turned the corner, and the sound of metal on stone reached them from a little farther south.
"Yeah, pretty much. I can work around things most of the time, helping players on their quests, and just doing odd jobs day to day. But taking on a quest for myself, that I'm not really allowed to cheat on… aside from which, this isn't something I would feel right taking shortcuts on, or I'd just find a player who owed me a favor and hitch a ride there. But you know I don't need the quest points—I need the dragon."
Justin nodded. "Yeah, I know what you mean. So why does that matter to the Black Armband?"
Geoff grimaced, laughing a little. "That's… well, years ago, right after I wound up in Varrock, I was a runner for the gang. I did little odd jobs, ran errands, and smuggled, and I was maybe two steps away from becoming a full member when I ran into a Shade, on the biggest pick-up they'd assigned me."
They passed through the mining pit, sidestepping piles of dried clay and raw ore, and turned to the East. "So how'd you get away?"
"Heh. I wound up two points from death, in the Dwarven mines. The monks around there took me in, and shortly after, I decided to start new as a Random Event—took me a year or so of training, but that's how I got here. I guess Katrine wants me back—I don't know what, or why, but I'm not going."
The Guild of Champions loomed up close, the huge marble structure looking as impressive as ever against the river behind it. Justin whistled appreciatively.
"Do you affect the vision of Players, when you hang around long enough?"
He grinned. "You could say that. In reality, since I'm part of the codes, I can shift them around a little, which makes your quality just that much higher."
He knocked loudly on the well carved door, and the Guildmaster wandered over to open it, smiling benignly at the both of them—for just a moment. "Geoffrey!" His face immediately dropped the resignedly cheerful look that the average NPC wore, and he took a step back. "I have news for you."
Geoff groaned and came in, Justin a few steps behind him. "Does it involve a certain spy network wearing mourning clothes?"
He blinked and shut the door behind them. "Then…" he hesitated for a moment, "You already know? Why'd you come here, then?"
The warrior nodded and ran a finger along the axe head by his side. "What do you mean? I had a few run-ins with them in the city… I thought they'd stop following me once I left."
"Ah, I see." He lowered his voice and leaned forward, slightly. "Well, they're here—waiting for you."
He swore, under his breath, and turned to Justin. "You might want to avoid this one, kid. I'll be running out the back way, as soon as I get my quest information." Justin turned to leave.
"Good luck, Geoff." And he was off, back towards Varrock.
The dark-haired guildmaster frowned at him. "Quest information? Geoff, you're an NPC, you don't… get quests."
"Not yet. But I'd like to take on the Dragonslayer quest, anyway."
The sound of pacing footsteps on the floorboards overhead made all three wince, and the quest-giver shrugged. "Alright, if you're decided—we don't have much time. Go talk to Oziach—he'll give you everything you need to know, really. The only known map was divided between three wizards, Melzar, Lozar, and Thalzar. Melzar lives in the south, near Port Sarim; Lozar's piece was stolen by a band of goblins who raided her cottage; Thalzar's piece was sealed off somewhere, the Sage on White Wolf Mountain can help you out there."
Geoff grinned and clasped his hand. "Thanks, Dave. I… I'll see you around. Hopefully the gang won't stick around long."
The sound of footsteps suddenly landed on the creaking stairs, and Geoff whirled, sprinting out to the garden. As a sudden shout reached his ears, he leaped over the low stone wall and raced towards the wheat field, to the Southwest. An arrow grazed his shoulder, and he vaulted over the split-rail fence, golden wheat bending before his body as he pressed through the field. The grunts as his pursuers leaped the same fence reached his ears, and he sped up.
A few minutes later, he leaped the second fence, and took off towards the sheep-field to the north, desperate to avoid losing ground on his quest. He slammed the gate behind him as another arrow ricocheted off of his helmet, making him see stars. Although he seemed to be gaining ground, Geoff couldn't spare a glance backward, or the breath to swear as the mud around the small pond slowed his boots. Soon, he found himself within sight of the ruins surrounding Varrock, and grabbed a solid-looking wall, shoving his body down into the corner, fully hidden as he regained his breath, leaning heavily on the axe handle at his side.
The sounds of heavily breathing fighters echoed off of the stone walls, and he stood, holding his axe in close to his body, listening closely.
"He can't have gotten into the city, or someone would've raised the signal. He's got to be hiding in the ruins." Branches snapped, and the last of the chase broke through the forest. Geoff almost laughed aloud, the strangeness of the whole situation coming on him fully.
One of the players steadily chopping at the huge Yew tree spoke up. "Some guy ran through, yeah. He's hiding over there."
…Well, damn.
The chink of gold, and four pairs of footsteps, approaching steadily. He waited, holding his axe carefully angled. Closer, closer, and then the breath of the first. The final footstep, and he whirled silently, his axe leading the way into the man's chest, where it tore through a coat of steel mail, leaving the thief with just enough breath to cry out—but not before Geoff had taken to the East. This time, he did glance backward, to see only two followers, as the first stayed to heal his victim. …Damn it all, where was the luck?
And suddenly, it appeared, as he rounded the corner into a crowd of cheering clansmen, pushed his way through the mugs of beer and jugs of wine, and disappeared, turning to give the city's magnificent gate a wide berth as he passed.
He followed the road further north, towards the bleak Wilderness. Too soon, his footsteps slowed, and he found himself panting for breath at the feet of the tall, mysterious statute, the eerie silence disturbed only by his frantic gasps and the soft snores of the scientist across the way. Throwing himself down on the empty bench, Geoff reached into his pack and pulled out a loaf of bread. In maybe four bites, he'd demolished it and was pulling himself to his feet.
The light snores of the archaeologist faded as he turned back to the north, pathless again, and headed for the Jolly Boar Inn. It was quiet, for a change, and the milling rogues glanced up only briefly as he entered. Outside, there was a pattering sound as a light rain began to fall, and the resident Black Knight started a fire in the center of the room as Geoff passed, headed up the stairs.
He walked out onto the balcony and paused a moment—there was quite a view from here. After watching for any sign of his pursuit, he reached again into his pack, only to realize that he hadn't anything to write on. He sighed and turned back into the Inn, pausing to remove his helmet and armor, wiping the water off as he put it away. Only the axe remained as he walked back down into the bar, and out into the front porch.
It took him a moment to find a stone soft enough for his purpose, but before long, he was back up at the balcony, this time armed with his stone as well as an empty beer glass. He carefully scratched his message on the stone floor, leaving it in the Northwest corner of the balcony, as was customary. Leave off. I'm not rejoining, and next time I'll take you all, and leave your corpses on Katydid's doorstep. It took him a moment more to smash the glass against the outside of the low wall, and then to draw it against the outside of his wrist.
The other custom—at least, if you wanted to be taken seriously—was to sign your name in blood. Stupid, foolish, wasteful, but it got the point across. He rubbed a fistful of dirt from the potted fern into the cut and stood, shivering as the rain began to pick up. A distant rumble of thunder sounded, and he looked down to see that, despite the water, the message held. It would hold until read by the intended, he knew; also why, but that always gave him a shudder. Another benefit of signing your name in blood.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up four shapes to the South, beneath the great statute, and Geoff didn't stop to confirm the vision. He took a leap to the North, landing squarely in a tree that swayed violently under his weight, and slid down the trunk. His armor replaced, the tired fighter turned back to the Wild, hard rain hammering on his helmet, and quickly disappeared into the darkness.
Slipping across the ditch, he jogged farther in, only slowing when he reached the barrows on the other side of the path, where the skeletons wandered and the wind screamed through the dead and dying trees. A rabid-looking rat leapt for his throat, and his axe saw a moment's action again. He took the meat with him—beggars can't be choosers. The wastelands, bleak and forbidding, formed terrifying shapes in the dark, but he steeled himself and continued, ignoring the shadow-phantoms, real and imagined, that rose up out of the gloom. He paused at the first rift, but only for a moment. His turn to the- even somewhat- friendlier Northlands, didn't come until he'd passed the river. Varrock was out of bounds, now.
A bolt of ice made a loud pounding noise on his back, and Geoff found himself on both knees in the frozen mud, down several hit-points. He forced his muscles to push, and made a break for the ditch—only to stop in his tracks as the dwight's second bolt left his head spinning and his feet stuck in place. It took him a sharp dent in his armor and a patch of frostbite on his shoulder to move again, but this time he made it to the ditch before being frozen again, and took off running to the West along the ditch, barely out of reach. The wails and icy screams of the ghost sang in his ears all the way to the River, where he collapsed, kneeling there in the dried mud of the riverbed, the rushing water seeming to laugh as it flowed by his prone body.
Several minutes later, he managed to pull himself up, disregarding the filthy condition of his armor, and turn to the South, walking fairly stiffly, due to the fact that his right shoulder refused to move. He managed to leap the ditch, but not without the grateful fact that no one was around to see him land face first in the grass on the other side. It took him a few pauses, leaning hard against the stone of the bridge, but he soon found himself in Edgeville, where a guard directed him to a shack on the far side of the town.
About two hours of leaning against the stove without armor, and a huge rat steak later, Geoff set about cleaning his armor, scouring, fixing the dents, and rubbing out most of the mud. The scratches stayed, permanent trophies from the many, many times he'd fended off an arrow to the chest. As the final ice crystals disappeared from his blood, the warrior stood and stretched, forcing his muscles to de-cramp, and turned to the shop across the way.
"How can I help you today?" He examined his pack and decided against selling the coil of rope, but dumped off a useless iron dagger he'd found somewhere, and a pile of logs.
"You wouldn't happen to know where Oziach lives around here, would you?"
The shop assistant blinked, unused to answering non-specific questions. He sighed. Sometimes town residents could be really difficult to talk to.
"There's a man named Oziach in this town. I don't know where he lives. Can you tell me?"
She blinked again, then smiled and brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes, blushing slightly. "Yes… sorry about that—not many people ask me actual questions. He lives in the small house to the West of here, and a little to the North. Are you on the Dragonslayer Quest?"
He nodded, and leaned up against the wall, pushing his visor up. She was actually kind of pretty. "I am. Do you get a lot of that around here?"
"Almost every player, actually. But… you're not a player." She surveyed him for a moment, then smiled again. "That's pretty cool. We don't get Random Events… pretty much ever. No one really grinds up here, unless it's armor, every once in a great while, and sometimes woodcutting. That poor Yew in the ruins… not a day goes by it hasn't been chopped down and sprouted up again at least three times."
Geoff shrugged, removing his helmet altogether. "Well, that's players for you. Yew wood is expensive—they want the experience and the gold, and this place is too far out of the way to get so much traffic. Easy points.
"I suppose," she sighed, turning to the shelves to wipe the dust off of a tinderbox. Geoff waited for her to turn back, the blush gone from her face. "I've always had a soft spot for trees, though, so it makes me a little sad. What's your name, anyway?"
"Geoff… Er, Geoffrey." He coughed and put his helmet back on. "Yours?"
"That's a nice name. …what? Oh!" She grinned a bit sheepishly. "Gina."
He extended a hand, and she took it to shake. Geoff managed to save face, though, by bending to kiss it, drawing another blush from Gina the Shop Assistant.
"Um, I've got to…" she continued to wipe the tinderbox with her other hand, absently, until a sharp voice shattered the moment.
"Gina! Are you going to stand there chatting all day? I need these Trout priced!" The stooped old man in the corner barked, glaring at the two. Geoff hastily turned, pausing only to wave to her as he left the store, glad for the cover of his helmet as the door swung shut behind him. He took out the sudden wave of emotion on the sniggering imp outside, leaving a pile of ashes on the lawn with two swipes of his axe, and turned on his heel for the Northwest.
Although he knew he shouldn't be wasting any time, Geoff took a moment to lean, breathless, against the wall of his next destination, letting his pulse slow back to normal before he took on this next challenge.