RuneScape Forum Archive | All That Glitters

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

So, where to begin?

A Veteran's cape on my back, I have returned to these forums. I doubt many of the current crop of "newbies" will know who I am; after all, I've been around since the Golden Age, with large spells of inactivity. For those who do remember though, I was Leopard 11. You may call me Leo.

Were I to describe every detail of my history here, that would be a novel in and of itself, and rather off topic for this thread. This is intended for my new story, a project to ease myself back into creative writing. I'm not going to bother with tables of contents or character lists at the moment. It's a tad arrogant to assume that people will care about such things.

Anyway. Should you decide to read on, please post any criticism or appraisal you may have. Don't be rude or abusive, the usual rules. If you act like an idiot, I'll point it out, and you'll just look silly. Let's be mature. Respect your elders, and all that.

Enjoy the story.

~ Leo

01-Jun-2011 01:38:07 - Last edited on 01-Jun-2011 01:48:46 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Chapter One:

It began with a death, as things often do.

Her name was unknown, as were her origins. All they knew was that she was the right age and in the right place, and by a stroke of serendipity, possessing of captivating beauty. She was taken silently from the streets, her slight form surrounded by shadows, smothering her luminescent pale skin with soft darkness that gently slid away into the night, leaving no trace, no evidence. It was as if she had never even existed. In that dark street, there were no eyes to witness no sight, and no ears to hear no sound. The perfect capture.

She lay now on the cold altar, her slender wrists and ankles held with bulky iron cuffs, her youthful form barely covered by a thin white gown, hardly more than a sheet of gauze wrapped around her body. Her head was cushioned by her mass of auburn hair. The altar shone dully, as if crafted from the volcanic obsidian of the Tzhaar. A slender gold chain pooled in the hollow of her neck, gently pulsating as her throat moved as she breathed. A diamond sparkled in the midst of the gold; it seemed to glow with light of its own. The scrappy candelabras piled around the altar barely gave enough light to cause such glitter.

Her eyes fluttered and a slight frown wrinkled her brow. She seemed to be asleep, but dreaming. Her arms bent; the chains clinked as they touched. She noticed her shackles now: her eyes flew open, pupils dilated. Her breath caught; she jerked to the side and the chain flopped onto the stone altar. Somehow the catch had come undone and the necklace slithered from around her neck.

What light there was flickered and decreased. She ceased struggling against her chains for a moment and instead stared into the darkness.

“He-hello?”

Her whisper was hoarse and tremulous, layered with fear. She coughed weakly.

“Who’s there? Please, who’s there?”

One by one, the candles were extinguished.

01-Jun-2011 01:38:21 - Last edited on 06-Jun-2011 17:29:08 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

She let out a terrified whimper and started pulling at her restraints again, her eyes bright with tears. The last candle went out, plunging the room into total darkness. Somewhere, a door creaked. She froze.

“Please, please, just tell me who you are! What do you want?” Her voice was choked with tears now, her face wet, eyes red.

There was the sound of footsteps.

*Please!” she screamed, “Please, whoever you are, what do you want with me?”

Bruises were forming on her wrists now but the chains refused to move. She tugged desperately at them even though she was unable to see anything. The glinting diamond had vanished but she hadn’t noticed in her distress. She tried to clamber to her knees to better pull at the chains around her wrists but suddenly they tightened; she was yanked back into her original position, her head smacking hard on the altar. A cut opened in her ankle from the sharp edge of the cuff. Dazed, her screams quietened into piteous whimpers. She was now motionless, her body pulled mercilessly straight. Her shoulders ached from the strain; her ankles and wrists burned from their previous abuse.

Her sobs had subsided now. She was breathless, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her only defence against her terror. Heat flared to her left; she cringed away automatically. She could hear shuffling steps and heavy breathing: the noise drilled its way into her head. She refused to open her eyes, not even to catch a glimpse of what surrounded her. A strange, bass hum, like the far off sound of a swarm of insects, filled the air. Within it, barely discernible, were murmurs. It was a chant of sorts, strange words that dove and twisted through the air, weaving an aura of power throughout the room. It was not a comforting sound: at first it seemed simple and solemn, but then one was given the impression that there were hidden undertones, some sharp, like the pr*** of needles, others smooth, slimy, like dripping oil.

01-Jun-2011 01:38:38 - Last edited on 01-Jun-2011 01:57:42 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

On the altar, she cringed, the sound drilling into her ears, crashing into her skull. She wanted to scream but she refused, biting her tongue, squeezing her eyes as tightly shut as she could. The sound slowly increased, the words becoming clearer, faster, more hectic: it seemed like those speaking were out of time with each other, and talking at different pitches. Some were shouting now; she could hear that some voices were those of women, hoarse and rough yet still retaining feminine tone.

Suddenly a voice spoke out above the rest, a voice full of power and command. She could not understand what it said, for the language was garbled and unintelligible, but the words cut deep into her mind: the pain was unbearable, as if he had taken a blade and drawn it across her brain. She screamed hard and long and started to thrash wildly against her chains, to no avail. They refused to break or even yield in the slightest. Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids, streaking down her face, pooling gently on the altar.

Then the voices changed.

The background chant became gentler, not quite a whisper, more intrusive than that: the voices were one, a monotonous hum, just as it had started. Her eyelids flickered; it was an unintentional movement. She did not want to see them, did not want to behold her tormentors. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing the fear in her eyes.

But slowly, fluttering madly, her eyes slid open. To her left was a roaring fire laid in a grate carved in the shape of a hideous beast, snarling jaws open wide, claws clutching protectively the wild flames. Surrounding her were tall figures, faces obscured by cowls, bodies hung with long robes of ripped, frayed cloth, dirty greys and faded blacks. One stood apart from the rest, his robes decadent, his shoulders draped with an elegant fur stole, an amulet of diamond and ruby around his neck.

01-Jun-2011 01:38:38 - Last edited on 01-Jun-2011 01:53:30 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

As she watched, unable to look away, he knelt amidst a ring of black candles burning with strange blue flames. With his hands covered in some arcane powder, he traced symbols in the air, a slight trail of light following his fingers. An aura flashed around him, blue, purple, as if the very air was bruised by his power.

Sluggish smoke dribbled from the candles, gathering around his legs in a viscous mass that looked almost solid; his hands slid through the air, glittering as magic flowed from his fingers. Like ethereal ribbons of silk they followed his movements exactly, ringing his body. Around his shrouded form a net of power wove itself into existence, spinning with slowness afforded by the ritual’s antiquity.

His hands stopped their progress. Like a scintillating web it hung about him, smoothly undulating. He raised his arms above his head, drawing the magic into a sphere, shaping it as if crafting clay. Suddenly he barked a word and his connection to the magic snapped like taut cord. The sphere hovered above his head with no assistance, serene- and safe-looking. He stepped from his circle of candles and murmured to one of those watching; there was a silver flash, and he returned to the circle of light with a dagger clutched in one hand.

It was a wicked design, the blade spiked and twisted, curling to a cruel point with the graven design of a snake running down its length. The handle, crafted from more obsidian, spewed needle-points in all directions, leaving barely enough room for a hand to grip it safely. Jewels glinted from various clusters along the knife, the colours saturated and gaudy: scarlet rubies, azure sapphires, emeralds the colour of summer grass. It was held with reverence and care, as if great power resided on the blade, or it was some precious heirloom to be preserved as delicate crystal.

He approached the altar.

01-Jun-2011 01:39:01 - Last edited on 01-Jun-2011 01:54:25 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The sphere of magic seemed like a halo around his head, his already covered face totally cast in shadow by its glow. In his hand the knife glinted, shards of light refracted by the jewels into scattered rainbows. It was almost beautiful, yet she was unable to appreciate it, for she knew what was about to happen.

The ring of tall figures contracted, each member shuffling forward a few steps, shoulder to shoulder, a solid wall around the altar. Perfectly in the centre, he started swinging the dagger around in wide arcs, performing a ritual dance. In response to his movements the sphere above him started bulging, as though it was membrane containing some creature. Three thin tendrils slid out of the surface, coiling and weaving in time to the chant. From behind the tentacles came gauzy layers, spreading out in a shining sheet, until the air swam with magic.

He stepped towards her. The air was bending, flexing; a dull growl mingled with the droning chant. His movements were furious, the chant fevered. Faster and faster the ritual progressed, a raucous cacophony of noise and movement and light, all focused on the girl in the altar: she squirmed and cringed, the pounding in her head continually worsening. The fire roared and crackled; the candles flared and flickered. It was frenzied and mad, yet somehow harmonious. It was building to a tremendous cl*max; lying on the altar, she could feel that the end was close. Her heart pounded, her eyes had cried themselves dry, and still the pain escalated. The abuse suffered by her body was almost forgotten. Now all she could feel was the agony inside her skull. In a way she wanted it all to end.

And she knew soon it would. He was close now, his swirling robes brushing the sides of the altar with soft whispers. The magic above them rolled and spun, the surface of a rough sea suspended in mid air. He was next to the altar now, the dagger flashing wildly.

01-Jun-2011 01:39:01 - Last edited on 01-Jun-2011 01:58:08 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The path of its arcs took it higher and higher above his head; his other hand lifted to join it, his palm slamming into the edge of the knife. The blade seemed to scream and the jewelled clusters blazed with fiery light. It had received its first blood tithe: it had drunk of the flesh, and was now partially sated.

Above their heads, the magic, once radiant blue and white with darker blues and purples shot through in bright threads, turned at once to deep sanguine. The blood taken by the blade had influenced it directly. The ritual was nearing completion.

The chant seemed now to be nothing more than random yells; the magic flared, sinuous flares bucking and jerking like the sun’s coronae. He loomed over her form on the altar, a mere shadow wreathed in ethereal light. The dagger was poised above his head, swaying, his hand shaking, the point tracing figure eights. A thread of power snaked down along its length, pooling like a teardrop at the tip. Something roared. The air buckled. The claws of the fireplace crunched as the stone flexed. He yelled. She screamed.

The dagger flashed downwards.

Blood spurted; scarlet flashed across the room.

The magic soared down.

Her eyes fluttered. She exhaled.

She died.

~ End of Chapter ~

01-Jun-2011 01:39:10 - Last edited on 02-Jun-2011 21:01:26 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Chapter Two:

A storm whipped the city of Varrock, torrential rain and fierce winds thrashing the streets. Few people braved the slippery cobbles in the streets; but for the sound of the rain and the clack of flags and banners in the wind, the city would have been a silent ghost town. On a day with better weather it could be seen that Varrock was a large and sprawling city, well planned, a beautiful example of eclectic architecture in perfect harmony. Set on a rise in the middle was the royal palace and its village of supporting buildings; surrounding it was a rich and varied collection of embassies and noble townhouses. The further away from the palace they were, the smaller the houses and the poorer the people. The poorest were shunted up against the outer wall of the city.

Someone seeing the raging storm would not have believed that the day had dawned bright and warm, the end of a hot summer and the beginning of a warm autumn. It had been a perfect day for the King’s second son, Prince Anders, to turn seventeen, to become a man. Now the flowers and coloured bunting that had decorated the streets flowed down the gutter streams; in the main palace courtyard tables set out for a royal feast lay sodden and abandoned. No warning had come for the storm, and the whole city had looked forward to its two-day holiday for the celebrations. People said it was a bad omen; a shadow over the prince, a warning of things to come.

One person that did brave the rain was a boy, twelve or slightly younger but tall for his age, thin and gangly. A shock of roughly cut chestnut hair grew to the length of his earlobes and flopped into his eyes, shot through with lighter sun streaks. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a chiselled jaw line. Curved brows arched over grey eyes, which were only a shade lighter than the tenebrous hue of the clouds overhead.

01-Jun-2011 01:39:26 - Last edited on 02-Jun-2011 20:55:27 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

He wore a blue shirt that clung to his skin with the wet and dark breeches with the bottoms tucked into well-worn boots.

Splashing through the puddles as he ran, the boy occasionally had to dodge the deeper ones in his path. He slowed when he reached the roughly hewn wall of a garden, heading through the gap in the wall and trudging up to the door. He knocked and waited, grateful for the shelter of the jutting roof. The door was opened by an old woman, wearing a patched apron over her dress. Her hair was held in a tight knot at the back of her head, but a stray lock had escaped it.

“By the Gods, lad, you’re soaked! Get in here!” She grabbed his sodden arm and pulled him into the house. “Dinner is nearly ready; go and get yourself cleaned up before you make a mess of the kitchen.*

She turned and went back into the kitchen from which the most appetising smells were wafting, the aroma of pork richly flavoured with pepper and fennel, with the warm savoury undertones of potatoes. The boy peeled off his sodden clothes and ran down the tiny hall to a bedroom at the end. It was that of a typical teenager and his brother, cramped and untidy. He rooted around the floor looking for clean clothes, all the while thinking longingly of food. Dinner was announced moments later.

Later, full and content, the boy sat down in front of the fire in their lounge which had been laid to ward off the unseasonal chill: the storm had brought with it a sharp decrease in temperature. He had a book in his lap; he read silently but with his lips moving, his finger tracing across the page. He always worked hard at his lessons. His father had made him promise to, so as to better their family by getting a good job later in life. Though he had died several years previously, the boy kept true to his promise and spent his nights reading and struggling through arithmetic. Written words and numbers did not come easily to him, but he persevered.

01-Jun-2011 01:39:34 - Last edited on 02-Jun-2011 20:56:03 by Lokintr

Dec

2014

Lokintr

Posts: 2,432 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The old woman sat on an old armchair close to the fire, a pile of needlework in her lap. Her fingers were deft and quick, at odds with her tired face.

The scene was an oasis of calm amidst the raging storm, but like all good things, it came to an end.

The door flew open with a huge bang and a young man threw himself inside, slamming it shut behind him. His face was bruised, his hair tangled and muddy, his clothes soaked in rainwater and stained with blood. He leant against the door, holding it shut, while stones pelted against it from the other side. One struck the window next to it with a sharp crack; he yelped and crouched, head in his hands. After a while the barrage lessened and whoever it was that was throwing them yelled, “We know where you live now. Scum like you doesn’t deserve to breathe. We’ll be back.”

The younger boy crawled over to a window and peered out through the threadbare curtains. “They’re gone,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“What on earth happened to you?” the old woman exclaimed, throwing her needlework to the side and rushing over to the crumpled heap by the door. “Faohin! Are you hurt? You’re bleeding! Why are you bleeding? What happened?”

Panic was evident in her voice; from the ground he turned his face at her and attempted a smile. “I’m fine, grandma, really.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense! What happened to you? Have you been mugged? Why did they say they’d be back? What happened?”

“Please, don’t worry, I’m fine, really. I’ll sort it out.” He attempted to stand up but fell back to his knees, clutching his ribs and gasping.

“Don’t move!” she snapped. “Daren!” she clicked her fingers at the younger boy to catch his attention. “Fetch linen and warm water!”

Daren scampered off to do as she asked while the old grandma displayed surprising strength in hauling his brother to his feet, his arm over her shoulders.

01-Jun-2011 01:39:41 - Last edited on 02-Jun-2011 20:57:24 by Lokintr

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All That Glitters