RuneScape Forum Archive | Aeternum Ascended

tmac attack

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Chapter 1: The Fractured Skyline

A turbulent atmosphere; affronted voices echos through the streets as fiery men raise banners baring a raven in flight. Their cries yearn for blood, retribution. There is a violent storm churning hot lightning, paving cracks through the dark sky like hot metal through rock, and the barrage of rain falls like heavy stones. The armored guards are lined up by each other, forming a wall of iron and steel—their commander yells orders from behind, fear quavering his voice. The chaotic entourage of men met the blockade, pushing and shoving as a fury of curse words and insults filled the air. There is a distressed mother crying as she holds her stillborn above her head, womb fluids still fresh on its body. The conglomerate of sickness and disease has manifested into a thirst for reckoning, fortified by a resolve formed by atrabilious experiences. The city riot troops' heavy armor can be heard clapping and hammering together while their boots of screech across the street ground like some cacophonous symphony as the weight of anger pushes against them.

Across the fractured skyline, weaving and dancing through the shadows like some brilliant marionette, elegant yet subtle in its movements, a hooded figure drove a dagger deep into a patrol guard’s jugular vein. Crimson sprung from the soldier’s mouth, flooding his airways and drowning him, rendering his pleas to be nothing more than violent gurgles. The hooded one caught his frame as it gave out, swiftly guiding his body to the ground to prevent unnecessary ruckus. He moved quickly and efficiently, grasping the bars of the walkway as he flung himself to the second catwalk. With precision, the assailant align his landing with the lightning strikes, as to camouflage the clatter of his movements. He advanced, hurdling down a staircase and onto a steel grating tread that stretched from a tower across a large warehouse, connecting to a second tower that extended from the posterior end.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:14 - Last edited on 22-Aug-2015 06:42:03 by tmac attack

tmac attack

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Halting as he took careful note of the illumination of the city that bathed his path, followed by a set of four guardsmen that patrolled the tower directly parallel to him, he drew a single orb no larger than his palm from the depths of his cloak. The orb was as dark as night, with a mesmerizing swirl of milky white. He crushed it in his hand, and from his palm emerged a cloud of black smoke. The released gas twirled around him, shrouding his entire frame, and then, in the same manner as a light flickers off, he vanished.

Only his footsteps, which were practically absorbed in the chaos of noise around him, marked his position. He made haste across the walkway, which extended nearly 80 yards, until he reached the end and concealed himself into the shadows once more. His timing was well placed, for his stealth shroud had just begun to perish, and he flickered back into visibility as he took a sharp left down a new flight of stairs. Footsteps could be heard from the emerging corner, and with an instinctive motion performed like the almost indistinguishable moment in which a snake strikes, he wrapped his hand around the back of a guard’s head and pulled him in swiftly as a Camen-Kro blade met directly under the chin. The blade effortlessly pierced through his flesh and into his medulla, and as a scorpion withdraws its stringer, the blade reserved back into its owner.

His new objective was to vault from his higher position onto a rooftop some twenty meters down. Patrolling the flat ends of this area were two units armed with medium ranged combustion rifles, and a third in the middle, posted upon a mounted, scoped Javelin. The hooded one engaged his right arm, revealing a wrist based weapon, colored with a harsh black that enclosed a plastic chamber. Within the chamber, rows of neon lime bolts known as Scullion Shots were lined.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:23 - Last edited on 19-Aug-2015 19:44:11 by tmac attack

tmac attack

Posts: 444 Silver Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Fuses of electronic signals appeared on a rectangular screen that covered the right eye within his spectral face. A flurry of numbers and calculations began to fill what represented a mechanical, transparent eye patch. After a fulfilled ringing, as if the calculations had been finalized and confirmed, the man held up his right arm, and, ensuring that the guard on the far right was facing down towards the street, released a bolt. A moment later, the guard on the far left fell, a faint green glow emitting from his skull. The second guard turned back to his post, and curiously gazed upward towards the hooded figure's position. Before forming a reaction, a bolt met his eye and impaled itself onto his brain, detonating and rendering his interiors to be nothing more than a fleshy, plasma soup. He then fell lifeless the ground.

The screen upon the man’s face dimmed, and using his time properly, he vaulted down atop the roof. His thud struck violently, alerting the Javelin guard. Of course, the assailant had expected this, knowing how time costly it was for the guard to remove himself from the screened cockpit. The hooded one drew forth a chained weapon from his cloak, flung it forward, and penetrated the armored Javelin seat and into the guard’s chest. His body stuck to the back of the Javelin like some grotesquely swatted fly, and his head fell forward as soon as the shadowy figure drew his weapon back.

A fleet of lightning strikes engaged the sky fiercely, revealing the finer details upon the assailant. His garment, a hood and cloak, was lined with a magnificent silver display of unknown symbols that ran along the outlines of his suit. They were similar to the finesse one may find on a high figure of royalty, elegant yet assertive. His now standing figure allowed the cloak to lazily hang from each side, revealing a heavy plate armor on his chest and legs. It too was dark in color, as crisp as volcanic ash, but lined with the same vibrant silver.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:24 - Last edited on 22-Aug-2015 06:42:36 by tmac attack

tmac attack

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The insignia was now more distinct on his chest; a feminine face, with eyes closed and gentle, wrapped in vines. Two hands separated from the face were held out in a fatherly fashion. Hidden within his shroud was a speckled assortment of vague gadgets and weapons, some blades, pouches, and other tools. The gloved hands were of a finely crafted alloy, pressed and adjusted to wrap around flesh comfortably. The boots were of the same material—Arkanium alloy—“the unbreakable”--with a thick steel crust on the edge. A dagger sheath was connected to the respective interior sides of his boots.

The face, however, remained concealed. The moonlight faintly accented the unknown features, revealing a shroud that covered most of the face. From where the eyes would be were strikingly bright slivers, like iridescent gems, with a hauntingly malachite color.

The hooded one look upon the street as the distress grew in intensity. Various projectiles such as stones, bottles, and debris were flung through the air, smashing into walls and the riot shields of guards. Men chanted aloud, “Franz Gournhelm! Bring forth the tyrant! Franz Gournhelm! Bring forth the tyrant!”

The man proceeded to grasp a sewage rail and slid down onto the street, then immersed himself into the growling riot. From behind the mass emerged a small cabal of men dressed in dark uniforms, buttoned and pressed, gilded in a velvet red and marked by a raven’s head on the collars, belts, and shoulders. They looked suspiciously around, concealing objects that they attempted to cover amidst the many bodies, and whispered among themselves intently.

“The task is completed, Master Draukul?” a cruel voice from the shadows of an alley spoke up. The assailant backed calmly into the alley, and turning, spoke to the mysterious figure. Silence of the voice was characteristic of silence by the blade.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:24 - Last edited on 19-Aug-2015 19:46:56 by tmac attack

tmac attack

Posts: 444 Silver Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

He spoke no words, implying a certain discipline and collectiveness, yet his understanding was detectable by those who are keenly aware of the personalities of beings such as the hooded one, Draukul. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

The figure came forward, a predator, wicked and spiteful. Two pale, veiny hands like vicious spiders drew back a dark hood, revealing a bald, ghost white face with a thick, broad skull. His parietal bone was chiefly prominent, clinging to a set of pulsing vein systems that covered the entire cranium. Two orb like eyes, pulsing with a malevolent violet, protruded from concaved eye sockets. His expression was complacent, but his words were marked with solemnity, as if the affairs at hand were of momentous significance.

“The Daunmach Party’s battle plan has been organized, their impeccable scum flock surrounds the grand capitol,” The pronunciation in his dialect was particularly harsh and thick, his serpent tongue rolling off of each word. Spit sprung forth as he emphasized the end of ‘flock'. He gazed upward, grinning, rain gleaming from his pale overtone as he revealed rows of jagged, wild teeth. “The siege craft are stationed in the warehouses held by the Party.” He directed his attention to the capitol building, which housed the Lord Gournhelm.

“Royalty is...delicate, a tendency for the self-righteous,” he paused for a moment, his eyes brightening, “when the Gournhelm surrender the city, our friend Javok will fit nicely in his throne. The strings will remain, with a new marionette.”

He turned to Draukul, his grin now entirely open, his eyes wide and glowing, “and I will watch, as all of these…careful deliberations unfold, timely and orderly—one grand orchestrated game.”

The faultless roar of thunder bellowed through the air, more mighty and voluminous than before. The rainfall clattered upon his hybrid-plate armor, and the light coming from the city reflected off of the water as it trickled down his outfit.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:24 - Last edited on 19-Aug-2015 19:53:35 by tmac attack

tmac attack

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Draukul remained reticent yet on guard—his duty was not nearly finished, a situation he was fully conscious of. His voice spoke through the muffling material that protected his face, asserting the short phrase that embodied his facility, “by Shadow, Amended.”

The jagged tooth fiend let out an unworried chuckle, though the sound represented more of a strained gasp. “You have broken the dust that has settled upon such old and forgotten words. Amended, indeed. What does amending entail? It entails change. Change’s inevitability is such that those who choose to resist will forever be broken by the storm. But to know the art of entropy is a knowledge unmatched. To be the conductor of change, to bend the world to that which is most fit, that is power. Come now, it is time,” he motioned towards the crowd.

The two entered the swarming river of commotion effortlessly, as if they were indiscernible shadows amongst an already dark pit. Draukul was anchored in position, immovable by the violet and energetic rioters. He was a grounded obelisk of dusk, standing nearly six feet and six inches, yet his aura masked his presence—such careful and professional covertness was his art, his craft. He eyed to his left, than forward, than to his right. Content with his surroundings, both of his hands came together, one closed fist neatly stacked onto the other. The malachite eyes begun to glare more intensely, spinning like tormented fire. A blackish smoke begun to emit from his being, growing from his hands and down onto his torso, until it had engulfed his frame. It then dripped off and onto the ground, where it began to move independent from his body. A hunting snake in the shadows, it slivered its way through the forest of legs, coiling and bending until it spilled onto the side walk, and then hovered up a building wall.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:25 - Last edited on 17-Aug-2015 00:54:25 by tmac attack

tmac attack

Posts: 444 Silver Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Directly above the stationed guards that were some twenty yard in front of Draukul, the shadowy gust began to reconstruct itself on a rooftop. No one took notice as a silhouette of the assassin formed—a crop out of his exact being, but rather than flesh, it was a vague cloud, a furtive mist of a human form. It drew forth a single firearm and aimed it into the horde.

Only the violet eyed creature anticipated the event that was to transpire. Under his breath, satisfied and malicious, he spoke, “by Shadow, Amended.”

~`~`~`~`~`~

Chapter 2: The Greyholmes

The weather in Greyholm was always miserable—wet, cold, and dark. The scientists at the old lab from Howndrog Institution always told me it was because of our orientation towards the sun—we received so little sunlight, and so the weather reflected it. But I always knew that was a lie—they were probably forced to tell the students this so that we would keep our mouths shut.

It was the mines, the foundries. Hundreds of them I bet, though my father told me there were thousands. Every month, the poor flock of the city was “honorably selected” to go “contribute their duty” to the great Lord of Greyholm. That was a fluffy and proud way of saying your life was to be f----d bloody—you would be forced into hard labor, your hands wringing and cracking as you ripped earth apart with loud machines, and hauled them back and forth to the carts. You’d be lucky if you didn't hit a gas deposit and have the whole bloody thing explode in your face. That’s how my cousin Martin lost his arm, and a pretty bit of his face.

I’m not a hundred and fifty years old, but some of the Val-dari who were alive then tell me the weather here used to be beautiful. Cold, yes, but the sun was bright and plentiful, and there was sprawling vegetation all around the old towns, and a healthy forest ran all the way from Bronfer to the Bronze Capitol.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:25 - Last edited on 17-Aug-2015 00:57:43 by tmac attack

tmac attack

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Wild creatures everywhere, they would tell me. I always wished I could see them, but only books and pictures allow me into that world. Some eighty years ago is when it really became a problem—these great deforesters rolled on through, loud and proud. Soon enough, the mines sprawled up—and the more they appeared, the more isolated the royal family became. Bunch of little s--ts, I say.

My name is Frederick Stoltz. I’m nothing extraordinary, just an inner city peasant. My father was a miner, his father was a miner, and all my uncles and their fathers were miners. Everyone who is a man is also a miner. That is, of course, unless you’re one of the Gold Lances—rich folk, pretty much, who sat around fat and ate Pruma cakes and drank wine out of the nice vineyards only rich folk could own. Me though, I’m no miner. Not since I became a Raven, and so did my friend Takkor, kind of.

Takkor was a Val-dari. I don’t quite know their story fully, for he is yet to explain everything to me, but I do know that their people used to live on this planet until mine came. I wasn’t alive though, and neither was he, but when it did happen, there was a lot of blood. His dad doesn’t really talk to me, and my father, before being sent off, never really talked to his dad either. I remember my dad always questioning me on why I hung around that “filthy roach”, and eventually forbade it. That’s right, ‘roach’ like the bug. People here have a knack of making those around them feel lesser, be it changing their names to something demeaning, or, well, cutting their heads off. That has been the theme here in Greyholm. The weak feed on the weaker.

Anyways, this is a huge city, and a single man can't keep track of all the traffic through here. Not even my father. Takkor and I always found time to go on adventures.

Takkor was a funny looking one—he had very grey skin, like the stones from the mines.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:25 - Last edited on 17-Aug-2015 00:59:23 by tmac attack

tmac attack

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It was leathery and somewhat coarse, and his head was probably two of mine put together. He had funny old holes where his ears would be, though I guess those holes are his ears. Takkor had massive eyes, but they were soft and kind. I never felt scared around him. They were black like night, with a little white pupil. His shoulders were broad, and his back looked too long for the rest of his body, and he hunched over slightly, his big arms hanging down like tree trunks. His hands and feet were huge too—four cylindrical fingers, coarse and tough, and three toes that formed a V with his foot. He could probably break me with those hands, in fact, he could break most people with them. Takkor stands nearly six and a half feet, and he is considered a youngling in the Val-dari society. His people have lived in this cold environment longer than any of us have—they are seasoned by its terrain. But I know Takkor; he wouldn’t harm anyone unless it was necessary. His nature isn’t violent by default.

He and I grew up together in the city. It’s difficult since anyone who isn’t a Val-dar despises Val-dari. Even the poorest humans in the city don’t like them. They hardly have any property in the city—most of them are confined to the slums, clumped together with the ghettos of us Greyholmes. All of their nice belongings and buildings were either taken from them or destroyed. Except for that one tower, that huge one northeast of the city, perched upon a hill. Takkor has never told me very much about it, only its name: The Tower of Twisting Skies. Even the Greyholmes don’t go near it—they say it’s a bad omen.

But the Val-dar are good people—they commit no crimes, in fact, they only have crimes committed on them from the poor folk. If you think your life as a peasant is bad, try being a Val-dar. You’d be lucky if you can even buy at any store—most shop owners tell Takkor to p--s off when he tries to buy food.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:25 - Last edited on 19-Aug-2015 19:54:15 by tmac attack

tmac attack

Posts: 444 Silver Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Both of us have gotten in the habit of stealing bread from the market, since his father is a miner and his mother is dead.

But things have changed a little bit. Like I said, the Bronze Capitol is a pitiful. It started after Arnulf Braluthor died of sickness, and since he had no sons, his nephew, Axel Gournhelm, took over. Axel started this mess about a hundred years ago, building the mines to start pumping out war machines and money for the Crown. Apparently the whole empire was in so much debt to the Am, the royal bank room became literally empty and desolate; a lifeless desert.

The mines had factories right next to them, and that’s where all the gray ore is processed. The scientists give it some fancy bull---t name, but we poor folk just call it gray ore, since we are the ones always mining the damn thing, and that’s the only color it has.

Now, these massive, bustling pipes released all sorts of nasty smoke into the air. Soon, the whole sky went from a nice gentle blue to the gray it is now. The trees got sick, the animals got sick, the farmer’s couldn’t grow anything. Whether you were a Val-dar or a Greyholmer, your life turned nasty. But especially if you were a Val-dar. They got it the worst.

Sixty years later, when Arnulf was about eighty, his son shot him in the forehead at the steps of the Royal Building. Apparently he fed his father to the hounds, though that’s just what the rumors are. I bet he did though, because he is Franz Gournhelm, and he is the sickest son of a b---h in all of Greyholm. Everything his father did, he made ten times worse. Forests became military bases. Schools became barracks. The roads were replaced by military transport trains—and the sky was no longer filled with birds, but instead with AV12-Wasps.
He took all the money left that was helping educate and feed the people and spent it all on building his army.

22-Jul-2015 07:57:26 - Last edited on 17-Aug-2015 01:02:58 by tmac attack

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