RuneScape Forum Archive | Far From Grace

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Gazing outward through the window, his eyes ascend from the streets of his city. They reach to heights beyond Governanti, beyond his Imperial Kingdom, and unto his country’s missing half. Sky-piercing mountains the gates to it, the country known criminally as Alverra. As he stares with resolution upon the distant sight of Alverra, the horrific, yet motivating images of days gone blitz by. With conviction and without thought of wrongdoing, Raphael looks down the path ahead of him. To resound the bellows of war again, he prepares himself to reach his path’s destination: the west.

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All righty, so we're gonna hold it here for right now. I'll likely post some more soon enough, but for now, we're closin' shop!

(Wow, half a year already? Sorry. Life happens!)
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13-Jan-2021 18:30:44 - Last edited on 23-Jun-2021 01:28:54 by Serene End

Jul

2020

Serene End

Posts: 5,834 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

A year already, huh? Let me pick up where I left off...

Chapter III

N ight had arrived, and they have begun to gather.

Deep in the depths of the grandiose, labyrinthine architecture of the utopian Governanti lies the streets of its southeastern district. As the darkness of night descends, residents travel with hands fastened upon steel. From the abyss does the crooked and desperate emerge, for they are as nocturnal predators in search of opportunity. Hailing from their boarded-up, decrepit dens, these denizens of the night prowl with malicious determination gleaming in their eyes. Some run with packs, others work as lone wolves, but each survey the wilderness for the same bounty. This is the nature of Southeast Governanti—the district notoriously referred to by Governantis as ‘The Boarded Heap.’

Indeed, it is a place where crime festers at its core much like the rodents breeding in its crevices. As predators scour this wasteland, opportunity echoes into the night like a branch breaking beneath the hoof of a doe. Drunkards, thieves, rapists, cutthroats—the eye of every known creature in the area whiffs out the new blood. Her stride is of authority; rigid and restricted. Her beauty is of the highest echelons, despite her rather modest, discreet choice of garb. Vermin squeak frightfully as she approaches, fearfully scurrying into the exposed foundation of a nearby home. Her view alight with the glow of multiple illegal fires, for many were instinctually compelled to combat the cold lest they succumb to it. As she walks, she is heckled and harassed ceaselessly by scoundrels and their drooling fangs. Yet she ignores all, even the wails of distress and terror from the alleyways nearby. Nearly every soul she passes flashes with glimmers of lost nobility, either found in attire or attitude. Indeed, those who have once tasted the flavor of forbidden fruit.
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24-Jan-2022 04:07:25

Jul

2020

Serene End

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A succulent, irresistible egomania, a vain delirium which earned them their king’s resentment. They serve now a life sentence of rotting away, abandoned to fend for themselves. The doe walks through their hunting grounds without fear, for its predators seem capable of only vocalizing their immoral desires upon her. They strain to resist her, forced to mere perverted propositions, frustrated spits, or iniquitous leers. However, they are some who seem to strangely nod at her, carrying on with their routine in her tailwind.

In The Boarded Heap, there is one place—the only place—to escape the cruel reality of the world. In the horrifying, freezing night, it shines like the dawn. The reeking stench of its cheap ale pervades the air, spreading far and wide to the adjacent streets. Loud, obnoxious people heave out its door, cheeks beet-red and words barely composable. Blissful amnesiacs for this ephemeral night, they belch with laughter and effortlessly chug flaming shots down their gullets. Waiting just outside the walls of this hopeless paradise is Achernar, a solitary nobleman amongst a crowd of low-lives and rogues. His back rests against the dilapidated façade of this place, enduring his own harassment stoutly as if with purpose. As the drunkards grow bored with his silence and move along, Achernar reaches into his cloak and takes hold of something. A warm, misty breath anxiously passes his lips and into the frigid air, carefully and painfully clasping an object. His glowing teal eyes seek it, grimacing thoroughly as he views the object: a toy of the Hero King, Dias Pallas Barn. Age had settled into it, for its once vibrant colors had faded from its body and its right leg had gone missing. Recollections of the past abruptly burst into Achernar’s mind like reopening a wound; flashes of the agonizing, flame-scorched day.
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24-Jan-2022 04:09:46

Jul

2020

Serene End

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The scarlet fire which devours this utopian city for hours, the citizen’s collective indignation, his king’s merciless slaughter, the blood of innocents seeping down the streets—Achernar can lucidly recall all of it. He forces his gaze upwards as if to fly away and escape, reflecting deeply into the night sky. A thick blanket of clouds had obscured the night sky, glowing with a faint orange tint like catching the light of a distant flame. A virgin snowflake then gingerly falls upon his cheek, jarring the unsuspecting nobleman with its cold prick. Its life, however, instantly succumbs to the warmth of his flesh, a thought which fills Achernar’s heart with melancholy. He exhales, clenching the toy in his hand tightly as if with conviction. At the corner of his eye, there walks the silhouette of a woman. Swathed in the pale light of a nearby lantern of sunfly, the woman stands before Achernar as if waiting on him. Even with the hood over her head, Achernar can easily make out a pair of empty, dull-brown eyes staring at him intently.

“I was beginning to get concerned,” admits Achernar with relief, withdrawing the toy back into his cloak. “Is everything well, Lady Ulyssa?”

“I beg your pardon. I was attending to a private affair,” the dollish woman named Ulyssa explains, emoting a sense of grief.

The lips of Achernar widen with a compassionate smile, replying then, “There is nothing to be pardoned. Come, let us get out of this cold.”

Upon the conclusion of this briefest of exchanges, the two enter the building without any further delay. Achernar pushes open a door barely on its hinges, disturbing the sign hanging from the door which reads “The King’s Castle.” They enter the tavern, coming upon a bustling scene matched only by the potency of foul odors and cheap alcohol choking the air.
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24-Jan-2022 04:10:57 - Last edited on 24-Jan-2022 04:11:27 by Serene End

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Those whose misfortune has them attending to the swishing drinks, wasted ale, and the occasion puddle of drinker’s regret can barely traverse the crowd, giving both Achernar and Ulyssa their only option of approach. The tavern’s oaken walls shudder to contain the clamorous, rowdy atmosphere as the two begin to breach the drunken crowd. Like the most intricate maze, the two go in all directions to navigate. However, they struggle utterly to even gain an inch, for this maze harbors an unending number of dead ends. People, either by drunken stubbornness or mirthful ignorance, stone-wall the two, forcing Achernar to strong-arm them. His barging wastes drink and invokes plenty of profane language, but it proves a worthy course-of-action. They eventually reach the barkeep, an innocuous-looking man with a tunic and a colored grin. He peers upon the two in the crowd with his shrunken, glowing blue orbs, immediately paying his respect with a bow of his head.

“Please ask should you require anything,” offers then the barkeep with his monotonous voice.

Achernar acknowledges the barkeep with a subtle nod of his head. He then proceeds to the back wall of the tavern, following shortly by Ulyssa. They face a single door; towering, yet like the barkeep, completely exempt of suspicion. Achernar takes the door by its old iron hand, refining his grip as if to brace himself. Strangely enough, despite its humble appearance, it takes quite a substantial effort to so much as even crack open its jaw. Its weight a deterrent to the idle curiosity and the prying eyes of the unworthy; Achernar eventually manages to open it wide enough to slip in. A dark, decrepit staircase appears before them, seeming to reach down into the abyss. A pitch-black, bottomless descent, one of which Achernar is prepared to combat. He reaches once more into his cloak, retrieving an unlit torch from underneath. He promptly lights the torch and ventures forward, taking the first step into the abyss.
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24-Jan-2022 04:12:16

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Dust and cobwebs greet him face-to-face, which he quickly brushes away. As both he and Ulyssa descend into the bosom of darkness itself, the barkeep slyly closes the door behind them. The blaring, grating cry of the door’s motion pierces their ears, shaking this wooden spine like a rope bridge. Cautiously, Achernar and Ulyssa travel down this perilous stairway, avoiding the painful prick of countless exposed nails. However, after walking down what felt as though miles beneath the surface, they finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Achernar stows his torch at the final stair, turning the corner into a room full of familiar faces.

Embraced now by the soft, fiery arms of burning wicker, both Achernar and Ulyssa step forth into the dank cellar. A room ordinary, with cobweb-laden barrels of reeking alcohol and dust-covered crates of spare supplies. But all in the room seems to gyrate around a singular, central piece: a round, unamusing table. Familiar faces occupy seats at this mundane table, faces who meet the tardy duo with barbed, judging eyes. Indeed, Achernar and Ulyssa know these faces, for they are figures of reputation and affluence. Achernar advances as Ulyssa unfurls her hood, revealing her withered, chocolate brown hair. The keenly eyes of Achernar fan out across the room, noting every person in the room. The faint, flickering glint of the candlelight reinforces every scornful sneer he receives, as most truly disdain Achernar. He concludes, knowing that now all are attending. From Lord Ishvara to Lady Mundus, to Lord Cayrel, to Lord Kórakas—every single seat at the Ruler’s Council sits before him. As he takes one final step—standing tableside now—Achernar’s composure crumbles. It crumbles under the weight of a wrath unknown, a rancor unseen. Raw furor burns like the candlelight’s flame in his eyes, yet the light dares not to reach his face.
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24-Jan-2022 04:13:09

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Darkness enshrouds him, leaving only the natural, menacing glow of his eyes to pierce its veil. Achernar stands before the collective, some with a restless foot, others too busy chugging their wine to care. He places his hands upon the table as his torso leans over it, looking to his fellow council members with suspicion and distrust. The candlelight finally touches his face, revealing a visage of one severely wronged. It stirs the hearts of some in attendance, for such a face is completely unlike Achernar.

“…We pledged not to target Queen Meliora,” wasting not a second more, Achernar vocalizes this statement intensely as though on the cusp of unadulterated rage. “I want to know who else had a hand in Lord Delmos’s scheme. Tell me.”

“Calm yourself, Lord Nemeth,” Lord Cayrel immediately implores, raising his palms as if to gesture such a request. “You are obviously displeased. All of us can see this very clearly. Now, just calm yourself…”

“None of us had a hand in his scheme,” Lord Decimus Ishvara speaks, his gruff voice swollen with mild infuriation. “Do not forget, Lord Nemeth, that we are your allies in this cause. Take care not to make unnecessary and careless accusations of us.”

“I am making not accusations nor allegations, but seeking the truth,” Achernar states straightly and sternly.

“Seems more a power move to me,” Lord Kórakas, despite currently being hunted, hawks as he samples his goblet of wine. “You were naïve to believe Lord Delmos would remain faithful to his pledge, Lord Nemeth. He was as bloodthirsty as an Alverrian savage and was obsessed over his damned vengeance. He was never truly devout to our cause. Rather, using it merely to satisfy his own desires.”
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24-Jan-2022 04:15:05

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“Do you earnestly intend to sit there and convince me that he acted on his own?” Achernar swiftly shoots back, holding a steady, firm glare upon Lord Kórakas. "There is scarcely a mercenary hostile to the Imperial Kingdom, let alone one so hostile that they’d agree to assassinate the queen. Lord Delmos was a politician through-and-through. He’d not ordinarily concur to such a method to enact his revenge, not unless he trusted the one behind the crossbow. Not a mercenary, but a friend—an ally to his cause.”

“Revenge is said to corrupt the hearts and minds of those who wish to enact it,” Lord Kórakas returns, raising an eyebrow. “It turns good men into beasts. Beasts, Lord Nemeth, who do not follow your principles of logic and reasoning. He was quite convinced that he could.”

“Oh, Lord Kórakas, you are a terrible liar,” suddenly, Lady Metis Mundus, unable to stomach this conversation any longer, thrusts a weighted observation into it.

Lord Kórakas, upon hearing her words, turns sharply to his immediate right. There, he stares
upon Lady Mundus, hand clasped upon a goblet of wine as she thoughtfully samples it. As she finishes, she places the goblet down in a refined, nonchalant manner. Her almost condescending demeanor ignites Caerus Kórakas, who, with offended angst, utters then,
“Excuse me?”

A humdrum jug of hardened clay sits within the reach of each person at the table. Lady Mundus takes hold of it, her fingers wrapped around its slender handle. “Eleius was my avowed brother for a human century. He was to me as my own flesh and blood,” Metis bares her heart as she begins to pour herself another drink. She momentarily concentrates upon the act. Yet at its completion, her focus shifts back to Lord Kórakas with grim precision. Azurite blue eyes, like those of her sister’s, hunt the warrior-lord down, sending a bolt of nervousness running down the side of his face.
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24-Jan-2022 04:16:21

Jul

2020

Serene End

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With a voice frigid, Lady Mundus adds, “Think you so cunning that I’d not sniff out your plot against my sister? And with the aid of my avowed brother, no less, like he’d not attempt to enlist me as well. How very stupid of you.”

Lord Kórakas’s face expands with shock, then locks with falsified ire as if make-up to cover up his exposure. He blasts out from his seat, toppling the fragile furniture to the ground. As he rises, his knees bang against the edge of the table; his goblet of wine a casualty to his furor. Its burgundy content pools and trickles down the side, reflecting the frightful outrage upon Lord Kórakas’s visage. His fear visibly glimmers in the candlelight, soaked with the sweat of the stage light. Fervently, the warrior-lord shakes his head, baring his teeth in blistering heat. “Preposterous! I—” he means to emphatically reject; however, his denial is soundly interrupted by a forearm ramming into his throat. He chokes and gags as the forearm forcibly drives into his windpipe. His back violently impacts the wall that was once behind him, enough to even fracture its cold stone. Lord Kórakas winces in pain as the stone crumbles, feeling an electric shock shoot down his spine. He opens his eyes, realizing, to his disbelief, that it is Achernar who had barged him. Achernar’s forearm then presses its advance, pushing so deeply into Lord Kórakas’s throat that it cuts off his airway. As Lord Kórakas painfully and audibly struggles for oxygen, Achernar’s eyes pierce into him with gelid acrimony.
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24-Jan-2022 04:17:50 - Last edited on 24-Jan-2022 04:18:09 by Serene End

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“I care not for your intentions, but you will listen,” suddenly, strangely, Achernar’s voice, without a flap of his jaw, reaches deep within the confines of the choking Lord Kórakas’s head.

Achernar speaks to him directly as if with a link to his mind, utilizing his gift of telepathy. No others could hear as Achernar speaks to Caerus, for they are as bystanders witnessing public punishment. Just desserts, they should think, beholding the veins in Lord Kórakas’s neck bulge outward and the color in his face go red. A voice distant urges Achernar to drive his forearm even further in. Yet he relents, for the thought of Meliora is as a chain pulling his arm back. Lord Kórakas’s head dangles weakly as he is granted the right to breathe again, gasping heavy, frantic gulps of air. Achernar’s spare hand then fastens upon Lord Kórakas’s jaw, forcing him to look him straight in the eye. Eye-to-eye, soul-to-soul now, Lord Kórakas beholds pure killing intent—a sight which would surely terrify the normal man. A shaky, impuissant chuckle, however, sputters from between Lord Kórakas’s teeth. His face extends with a grin faint and wry, unafraid of the one who stands before him.

“That look…does not suit you, Lord Nemeth,” Lord Kórakas barely manages to wheeze, yet the warrior-lord simply couldn’t help but to react to this most seldom of displays.

“Do not seek Meliora’s life again,” Achernar demands, his solemn tone reverberating throughout the space of Lord Kórakas’s mind.

Achernar’s demand provokes a strong reaction from Lord Kórakas. His face squirms with discomfort and resentment. His loosened hands practically leap from his side, clamping his fingers around the silk of Achernar’s doublet.

“…No!” Caerus vigorously vocalizes. “Open…your eyes, you fool! Even after everything, she…still chose Raphael’s side. She is no ally…but an enemy!”

“She is no enemy of ours,” Achernar stoutly stands, confident in his words. “You will not seek Meliora’s life again.”
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24-Jan-2022 04:19:31 - Last edited on 24-Jan-2022 04:20:22 by Serene End

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