Runescape,Runescape Gold,Runescape Money,Buy Runescape Money

Here is a translated extract from a book sent to me by the High Priest of Icthlarin in Menaphos. Please bear in mind that Menaphosian translation is not my strongest skill, so what is here may not accurately portray the true meaning of the original text.

Saying that, I feel I’ve captured the essence of the piece, which seems to be a parable based around the desert god pantheon. Most likely, it is used as a tool both to pass on Menaphosian beliefs and to teach the values which one should adhere to in desert life. Fascinating..- Reldo

Heat shimmers over crack’d dry earth, over sandy dunes,
Bleached skulls with permanent rictus grins:
Kharid, seemingly barren, yet life exists within this realm.
Lizards skitter, plants drink of the Elid, and the desert peoples rejoice.
God of the Sun, Lord of Light, ruler of these lands: Tumeken arises this morn.

The following is an extract from ‘The Tales of Wally’, by Waldo, Wally’s son – a book full of exaggerations and embellishments. Many details are thought to be unreliable at best, and often wrong. The incantation is one of these, and it is thought that only the most powerful of magicians know its true wording -Reldo

he sun rises in the east. As with all days, the light arrives on the cobbles and roofs of Varrock with a dusky green pallor, having travelled through the haze of Morytania. My father opens a sleepy curtain to the Varrock morning and spies a stray dog, its green-haloed head lifted and sniffing the air, picking out its acrid smells.

A comforting trickle of tea flows down Wally’s throat as he watches the dog. Fingers rearrange around the teacup, spreading its heat to cold tips and numb knuckles.

A knock at the door nudges Wally from this half-slumber, and a piece of paper slips hurriedly under it. The deliverer’s legs scamper away and past the window, where Wally glimpses him: a young boy tearing round with a broad smile and a leather pouch of coins in his grip.

This had been the routine for the past few days; each morning, around six, the same boy would push a new sheet of paper under his door, scurrying away to – he imagined – place a newly-acquired pouch of coins under his pillow and sleep on it, dreaming of money piles and a scrappy ledger filled with tallies.

The sheet of paper, this morning, has the word Gabindo on it.

With the cup of tea still radiating in his palm, he walks the paper over to the mantelpiece and places it with the others that he has collected over the week, mumbling the strange words to a tune he had long forgotten: Carlem, Aber, Camerinthum, Purchai, Gabindo.

These anonymous deliveries are now accepted into his daily routine; sitting flushly between the morning tea and the goodbye kiss on my mother’s sleeping cheek. My father performs the latter and leaves the house for what will soon become the Varrock Sewers.

he sewer had been under construction for two years, the plans changing four or five times as King Botolph revised their purpose. A sewer system designed for the Palace ballooned into a sewer system for the entire city. Wally was there at every stage, unquestioningly furthering the dark tunnels underneath Varrock, hand raised whenever overtime volunteers were called for.

ally works steadily at the wall, levering out rocks and staggering under their weight as he carries them to a mine cart. The thickness of the air makes his lungs heavy and he wheezes under the exertion. It is this thick, miasmic dust that no doubt killed my father. For now, he battles through it, lifting the pickaxe to his grasp and taking an arcing swing at the wall. Unconsciously he coughs those strange words as he hacks.

“Carlem”.

A hard rock is hit and sparks.

“Aber”.

A stroke finds purchase behind it.

“Camerinthum”.

He yanks it out.

“Purchai”.

Another arcing swing comes at the wall, spinning a boulder out of the wall. It trundles harmlessly away, but from the space where it came shoots a bolt of light. Wally edges in to spy through the hole that the boulder has left.

There is activity on the other side. At first my father’s view is limited to the metallic sheen of armour, twisting this way and that, allowing Wally to pick out the blemishes in it where dust has caked. With a clang of metal the armour moves aside and the view is clearer.

A warrior is battling two hulking men, but ‘men’ seems too loose a description, as they are huge. Their skin – and again ‘skin’ feels ill-chosen – looks like wood, with lichen covering near every inch. As the eye travels up, past bark-like clothing and crushing clubs, the face can be seen. The sad eyes, the sunken cheeks and the long beard – the entire face seems to be that of an old man – until the details begin to clear. The sad eyes, layered with cataracts, are in fact covered with the spores of some unknown fungus; the sunken cheeks are knots within wood; the long beard moves and shudders with its own ecosystem of bugs, creatures and plantlife.

The warrior kicks a giant with a timely boot, turning round to find my father’s eyes on him.

“Stand back, soldier,” the warrior says.

My father was a timid man and generally did whatever was asked of him.

A sword comes clattering through the hole, spinning against the scree of rocks on the floor. A metal fist is next, gripping rocks and pulling them out and over to the warrior’s side, widening the shaft desperately so that he can attempt to pass through. No more than two grasps of rock are made before a club, swung down with inhuman momentum, crushes the warrior’s helmet and leaves him prostrate on the floor.

Instinctively, my father is up and away. He is running, splashing into pools of water and stepping on the sewer spiders.

“Carlem.”

Still he is running, nudging the mining engineer’s table, knocking plans to the floor.

“Aber.”

Further he runs, the screech of rats in his ears.

“Camerinthum.”

Now he is climbing, the ladder cold and solid in his hands; rungs are missed and feet flail, but the grip holds firm. He is panting now, the first hurried puffs of hyperventilation.

“Purchai.”

Finally, he is up and out, on the surface and the city is empty.

My father had no stronger fear than being the cause of another’s pain. It paralysed him. He was silent for a week after dropping me in the redberry bushes, assuming he had been the cause of some terrible life-long impairment or damage. He was wrong, of course, but the fear remained.

Wally runs home. In the panic of the moment he instinctively chooses my mother as the authority, the person of importance who can bellow the warning from the nearest rooftop. The choice was not altogether foolish – my mother, even now, has a shout that could rouse Guthix from a slumber.

It had not occurred to my father that the journey from the giants – the splashing, the running, the climbing and the waves of panic – had all been done with the sword of the warrior gleaming in his right hand.

n the southern reaches of Varrock, where the poverty of the resurgent city can be seen most starkly, Wally sped round the last corner before our house, where my mother no doubt lay asleep with the memory of a kiss still on her cheek.

Moss giants still battling in his mind, my father finds a sight that draws him, stunned, out of the city and to the southern gates.

A demon of the purest red towers above the stone circle of Varrock. Black-robed mages scatter at its feet, moving at speeds that contradict their advanced years. The demon wastes no time with pauses. The need for carnage burns in whatever circulatory system the demon has, and it turns its attention to the city, where a host of brutalities await.

But my father stands there. He stands, not cringing in the wheat fields of the Guild of Champions; not panicked behind the door of his home, quieting his wife; my father stands paralysed, the single-minded need to warn everyone of moss giants – moss giants in the sewers of Varrock with crushing, killer clubs – echoing in his brain.

The sword in my father’s right hand shimmers. My father used to mention this moment with a glazed look on his face. He never grew sick of the story.

A fist careers into the pavement but Wally has already skipped away from it, as if the sword was directing his movement with a grace that never returned, much to his chagrin.

“Carlem.”

The words trickle out with every exertion.

“Aber.”

The demon, in that moment arched into the blow, looks down to the figure that has slipped under it.

“Camerinthum.”

The demon growls, and slobber from its maw dribbles down my father’s cloak.

“Purchai.”

Dusted with the years of mining work, scuffed by his labours beneath Varrock, Wally springs from his sheltered position and thrusts the bright sword high.

“Gabindo.”

The thrust cuts into the demon’s waist and slices diagonally, slipping into the ribcage. No blood, no innards come from the demon. Only void greets Wally between the sharp cuts in the demon’s torso.

Wally springs aside as the demon becomes racked with spasms. With a crack of lightning, the blood-red demon is pulled into the void of its own wound and disappears, the blackness slamming shut with a thunderous clap.

My father – who was never ashamed of this moment – passes out on the streets of Varrock, gripping his sword tightly and dreaming of moss giants dancing to a long forgotten tune, singing the words: Carlem, Aber, Camerinthum, Purchai, Gabindo.

I recently received a remarkably tattered manuscript from a strange old man who lives in deepest, darkest Morytania. This scroll was evidently ancient and contained an intriguing new angle on the famous legend of the Barrows. I’m not entirely sure of the significance, but the man signed his letter off with the words ‘Dig dig dig’ – perhaps he has lived in Morytania too long. – Reldo

A Stranger Watches

he stranger had watched the campaign from its first footfall into the lands east of the river, always from afar. His lidless eyes were affixed to the six commanders, resplendent in their armour, their weapons poised to attack as yet unmet foes. Behind each commander, a phalanx of war-hardened soldiers, their metallic armour glinting even in the pale light of these dead lands – brilliant fingers of light inching towards the heart of Hallowvale.

The six were brothers, hailing from one of the smaller townships of Misthalin – they had shown a glimmer of prowess in combat even back then, though their chores as farmers chewed up much of their time. If they had been born in another age, their lives would have been filled with thankless obscurity, but in this age of the God Wars, there were many opportunities for such men to earn renown.

Their thirst for fame is what led the stranger to them, for although their skills were unmatched in their township, they desired to be the best of all men, and the stranger had promised them this, for he knew power and could grant it. His long years had taken him to many distant lands where he had collected much arcane knowledge and many artefacts of value and strength, and it was those very weapons and armours he had given them, that they now wielded, which granted them their desire. If they had not been blinded by such desires, had heard the deviousness in the stranger’s voice, or could have seen the calculating eyes hidden deep within the dark recesses of his cowl, then they may have taken a different path.

The campaign moved with great speed, deeper and deeper into the darkness; for a year, many battles were fought like the one the stranger now watched below. The phalanxes engaged the rank and file, spurred on by the brothers’ fearlessness and courage, while the brothers themselves squared up to the enemy champions. Ahrim, the eldest brother, crumbled his foes with powerful magics, and sapped their strength and their will to fight. Dharok and Guthan, the next eldest, did not need their foes to be weakened to decimate them – great axe cleaving limbs from bodies, spear skewering organs.

The brothers were strongest when united, fighting side-by-side or back-to-back. Should any enemy manage to survive long enough, and have the chance to strike a blow, Karil would fire a swathe of bolts to pepper their chest as they took their swing, throwing them back. This battle was the campaign’s most unrelenting and bloody – the brothers’ confidence and skill had grown over the years as the power they wielded made them feel invincible, made them living heroes to their followers. The straggling enemy survivors were routed, but even they were cut down – try as they might to flee, Torag pounded them into the dirt, and their prayers rang hollow as Verac flayed the skin from their bones. Another victory.

A thin smile slowly curled upon the stranger’s mouth, snagged teeth protruding, and he thought, Truly, they are worthy – now is the time, before he slowly and deliberately turned heel and made his way down from his cliff top perch to the battlefield remnants below, and the camp the brothers’ army was now constructing.

The Pact, Fulfilled

usk had settled by the time he arrived at the camp; there was much song and laughter, rejoicing of the day’s battle and stories of valour. Various beasts were slowly roasting on spits over open fires, the crackling lost among the din of celebration, sparks dancing in the cool half-light. He picked his path through the piles of litter of the camp but his path was always directly towards the brothers. As more became aware of his presence a silence enshrouded the camp, as if the stranger himself were holding their mouths shut.

To the surrounding army it looked no more than the robed stranger staring into each of the brothers’ eyes, but to the brothers it was the realisation of their fate. They froze, in unison, as if caught in the path of a crushing wall of water, finally understanding the cost of the deal they had struck with the stranger. Misthalin now felt so very far away; a different land, a different time. The brothers, once united by blood, and by bloodshed, and by the pact they had taken together, now stood alone. Their power had separated them from other mortal men, now it had separated them from each other.

The silent stranger’s message could be heard only in the brothers’ minds – a raspy, conspiratorial whisper: The time has come, my warriors. The gifts I bestowed upon you have served you well, and you, in turn, have served your god. Now, it is time to begin your servitude to me…to my god. You shall stand ever vigilant for His return, and then you will be champions in His glorious army – we shall have victory against the usurper. But first, you must die…

The brothers flinched back, hands tightening on weapons, but the stranger did not attack. After this briefest of moments to the onlooking soldiers – a lifetime to the brothers – the stranger turned and strode to the edge of the camp, back through the charred remains of the defeated and the victorious dead. The brothers just stood and watched, in shock, as the odd figure disappeared from the camp, delving into the shadows at its edge, but the silence remained and with it now a palpable tension, the air thick with doubt and unease. The stranger returned once again to his perch above the battlefield and watched as the last of the light fell from the sky and as the campfires burnt themselves out.

The rays of morning slowly crept around the camp, like a beast stalking its prey, stirring the army to wake. It went some way to renewing the soldiers’ hope, but the brothers themselves remained silent, as if they had absorbed all the doubt and despair their followers carried the previous night. Camp was broken and the retinue continued its journey further still towards the heart of these dark lands. Despite the meeting with the stranger, the brothers still had their purpose, and even though they now knew its full extent, they continued bravely on, resigned.

Ruination

et more battles followed that fated night, the enemy growing in number and strength, the stranger now clearly visible in his observation of them, no longer concealing his presence. The brothers continued to fight, as heroes among men, yet they slowed, they erred. Ahrim’s spells would miss, Dharok’s strength declined and Guthan weakened by the day. Karil no longer managed to stay the blows of his targets, his brothers receiving wounds before he could fill their enemies with bolts. Torag slowed, and Verac seemed to instil less fear in his opponents. They bruised and bled, requiring tending from their medics after each skirmish.

Now, at the heart of this accursed land, as the sun fell low in the sky, the stranger watched again as they pitched their final camp, watched as they rested…and watched as the marshalled forces of their enemy crashed upon the camp – demons, wolves and hounds, undead creatures and other such horrors. The brothers fought bravely one last time, rallying their troops to them, fending off the dread beasts’ raid. Many men fell around them, yet, despite their losses, together they managed to set the enemy to retreat, striking a heavy blow in return.

At first light the camp was refortified, but the brothers fell around their campfire. All morn and eve, they were tended upon once more, but this time they did not recover. Muttering feverishly, their wounds did not close and their breathing weakened. Even in the act of dying they fought against the darkness, clinging to all the life they could, but much as the sun above giving way to night, so too was their fate inevitable. As the last rays of light failed, so too did the brothers and the campaign with them. Sorrow and despair now afflicted the camp. The remaining officers came to the realisation that without their leaders they were lost and must now turn back if there were to be any hope of survival, but as a reflection of the brothers’ bravery, they vowed to honour their martyred heroes as a final act before retreating.

For six days, the survivors dug up the earth and built crypts for the brothers; for six nights, their enemies surrounded the camp, chiding and braying, mocking the loss of their leaders, breaking their spirit but not attacking. The stranger took no joy from this – he had no love for either side – his involvement complete. On the last day, he watched the crypts being covered and the burial mounds completed, and the remnants of the brothers’ army turn their back on the dark to begin their long journey home. As they passed from view he turned, again walking deliberately and slowly towards the brothers, now dead and interred in their barrows.

Arms outstretched atop the central mound, the stranger chanted in some foul, ancient language, casting his old magic. A vulgar purple light formed in front of him, fell to the earth, and bled into each of the barrows.

A Battle of the Soul

rrav wandered long through the fields and forests. He walked from the peaks in the West to the northern valleys, and at each town or village or camp he came to, he asked those he met of the shield in his dreams. Though the Imcando had welcomed him and told him that they held the shield, he could do nothing but hope that the shield might instead be found elsewhere.

Each place he went he found few who knew of the shield, and of those that would speak with him, all paled and shrank from his presence when he would mention Zemouregal. So it was that Arrav became a Wanderer: a man with no home he could return to, a doom upon his heels, and the name of an outcast.

It was during this time that Arrav’s spirits sunk low, and in his sadness he came upon a cave in which he thought he might live, away from those races that might suffer from his curse, and away from those that cast him out for his curse. There, crouched in the shadows like a hermit, he watched the grasses grow and the beasts of the field go by, oblivious to his presence.

But this cave was not empty. Deep in the cave, as old as the shadows that hid it, a beast was stirring. The smell of sweat and hunger was on Arrav, and the beast that had not woken for a thousand years flicked a single eyelid open. A silhouette against the dim light of the cave’s entrance, the beast looked at Arrav as men look at cattle. As silent as sleep, it uncoiled itself from its slumber, remembering the power in its limbs and the fire in its soul. Arrav, oblivious, watched the world go by with misery.

The beast, standing upright now, moved like darkness towards Arrav, long talons straining forwards in anticipation. But the beast had no conception of Arrav’s senses, nor his reflexes, nor his strength, and as it came to lay a chill hand on his shoulder, Arrav spun with a blade already in his hand.

The two battled for two days and a night, each as strong and fast as the other, each fighting for survival against the only worthy foe either had faced. Then, as the sun reached the horizon on the second day, Arrav’s sword caught the last ray of light and blinded the beast long enough to plunge his sword deep into its chest. A hellish scream broke from the beast’s throat, the echo in the cave lasting long after it had fallen dead.

Gasping from the long battle, Arrav pulled the beast into the twilight to better see its face. Wiping the grime of centuries of sleep from its face, Arrav looked down at a creature so like himself he wept.

‘I am on the wrong path,’ Arrav thought to himself. ‘Had I stayed here, in this cave, I should in the fullness of time become this beast – all hate and rage and hunger. I have my destiny, and I must confront it regardless of what the gods might throw in my path.’

Thus energised, Arrav went from the cave to return to his people, knowing that though they feared his curse, they also must miss his strength.

Avarrocka burnt

s Arrav came across the fields to the south of Avarrocka he saw over the trees a column of black smoke. It was a windless day, and this column – climbing straight and true into the sky – looked to Arrav like the finger of an angry god. He hastened his pace, racing through the forests beyond which lay Avarrocka. A few beasts lunged at him from the surrounding vegetation, but he paid them no heed, swatting claws and teeth back with swift flicks of his powerful hands.

As he broke from the forest, he saw that which he feared: Avarrocka was burnt to the ground. A few sturdy posts still stood, though they were charred and splintered. And there, in the midst of the scorched earth and smouldering remains of Avarrocka’s fields, Arrav saw that goblins had done this. There were short arrows scattered about, and mismatched plates of armour and rusted mail.

Finding the few survivors hidden in the tribe’s sacred place to the east, Arrav took the strongest of the men and the swiftest of the boys, and set forth west, to the land that the goblins had claimed dominion over.

The men of Avarrocka came upon the village late in the evening, while the goblins were resting after their victory feast. A few were bickering over ownership of a farmer’s scythe, several were lying asleep near to the fires. There were few guards, for which Arrav meant to make the goblins suffer.

As the men swept out into a wide semicircle about the entrance to the village, lurking beneath the cover of the rocks, Arrav saw from the corner of his eye a glimmer as of steel in the moonlight. He looked across at one of Avarrocka’s men who had come with him. The man’s eyes were hard and determined, and his teeth were set in a snarl. He was hunched beneath a hanging rock and in his hand he held a dagger taken from the ruins of their town. Through the liquid darkness that stood between them, Arrav saw both man and beast in that body, and his heart fell.

Arrav knew that though his people had been wronged, he could not lead an attack on an enemy unaware. He had been raised with honour and pride, and he saw that it would be a slaughter more than a battle. Then, thinking hard on it, he realised that goblins and men had been killing each other needlessly for the length of history.

Motioning to bring his men back to him, he stood tall and raised his voice to the night:

‘Goblins, hear me! We came upon you this night to take a blood revenge for what you have done to our homes and families. But I see now that we are like brothers who have fought for our father’s attention.’

He paused a moment, waiting for the goblins to quiet themselves from their shock. Three of the largest goblins came forth from the village gates and walked towards Arrav and his men, stopping only a few yards away. In the tongue of men, broken by the harsh goblin accent, one of them spoke.

‘We listen, man. What you say? Speak! Or kill you like your families.’

‘I suggest peace, brother,’ Arrav said. His men looked at him with shock and a few curses, but a single glance from Arrav was enough to silence them. No man of Avarrocka could deny their greatest hero’s honour or compassion, and even in those days were those virtues among men. ‘If you will agree to never again attack our human settlements, we shall never again attack yours. We shall share these lands like brothers under the sky.’

The goblins bickered then, and as Arrav stood and waited he watched them bicker as the sun rose, and still bicker as the sun reached its peak. Finally, the smallest of the three goblins stepped forward and spoke.

‘We take your peace, man. We goblin are weak against men, and you men are few against our goblin warriors. Peace is only end to war. Come to our village to trade and we go to yours. Now leave, we have heads to crack to make peace stick.’

With that, the goblin turned about and kicked his companions sharply on the shins. As they hopped about, the goblin who had just spoken walked back down to the village and started yelling and waving his fist at those goblins hidden behind fences and clustering in the shade of the buildings.

And so it was that men and goblins came to live in peace, with no wars ever again scarring their relationship. In my days it is not uncommon to see humans go to visit the goblins, and some few goblins come to the market to trade.

Despite his victory over savagery and barbarism, Arrav returned to Avarrocka to rebuild with a weight in his heart, for he knew that his curse was not yet lifted and that Zemouregal was still out in the world, plotting the destruction of Avarrocka. And he knew that Zemouregal would accept no peace.

A Curse in the Land of Dreams

nd one night, as Arrav visited the Land of Dreams, he encountered a man dressed all in black, with pale skin, and of dark countenance. And although Arrav knew himself to be in the Land of Dreams, where things cannot be trusted to be what they appear, this man was different from the other travellers he had encountered, and spoke to him by name:

“I know you, Arrav of Avarrocka, Curse of Goblins, Hunter of the White Stag, Child of Sun and Moon. I know you, and I do not fear you. I am Zemouregal of the Mahjarrat tribe, and this land is mine for the taking. I have seen our futures, for they are entwined together, and it ends with your utter defeat at my hand. You will serve me eternally as a slave, and the town you love so much will be destroyed at your own hand.”

And when Arrav awoke, he was much afraid, for he knew not how he could face an enemy that could challenge him in the Land of Dreams, and make him remember the events of dreams, that normally passed with the hours of awakening, so Arrav went to consult the elders.

The elders of the tribe could not explain to Arrav how such a man could appear to him in the Land of Dreams, and were sorely troubled.

For seven days and nights the elders discussed Arrav’s encounter in the Land of Dreams, and all agreed that it was a bad omen and that Arrav could not remain in Avarrocka for fear of woe befalling the town that it had now become. So they decided that Arrav must be sent on a quest that he could never complete so as to spare their town the wrath of the ominous and terrible man. Yet Arrav’s strength and wisdom meant that any normal quest could not be given, as he could easily defeat any enemy and fetch any item.

Then on the seventh night, the eldest of the elders spoke up. He had a dimly remembered memory from his youth of tales of a fabulous shield that did not belong to this world, and that was strong against nearly every attack, but whose whereabouts were unknown. When the other elders heard of this tale they were puzzled, for none of them had ever heard such a tale, and they wondered how the old man could remember such a distant memory so clearly. In truth, the elder himself could not explain how this memory had come to him so clearly while he had slept, yet all agreed that this was the perfect quest to remove Arrav from Avarrocka and protect it from the portent they feared.

An Encounter Most Strange

o it came to pass that the elders of Avarrocka told Arrav of this shield, and that it would be necessary for the protection of the town, and Arrav agreed, and began to make ready his equipment for the quest. Along with the sword he had been given when training as a child, he brought enough bread and cooked meat to last him seven days in the lands outside of Avarrocka, where men feared to venture, and set out of the confines of the town and into the lands beyond.

Arrav had not travelled far west when he came upon a strange house, surrounded by mist. Wondering what kind of being would abide in such a place, yet unafraid, he entered the house to meet three men inside sitting arguing at a table. The argument was a passionate one, and they took no notice of Arrav as he entered their house.

The language they spoke was strange and unfamiliar, yet somehow he could understand what they were arguing about, and it seemed to be about the ownership of the house they were standing in. The argument did not make much sense to him, but the first man was apparently complaining how the others had crept in while he was asleep, and that they had stolen the house he had made for himself.

Arrav wondered what the man meant by the others, but noticed a number of smaller figures, almost too small to notice, huddled around the shadows of the table chittering to each other almost below his hearing. The noises and speech of the place concerned Arrav, and he decided to continue on his way leaving this strange house behind him, for the things he had seen did trouble him greatly. Arrav headed west again, with the sounds of argument continuing behind him until he could hear them no longer.

A Meeting with the Imcando

he journey continued for many miles as Arrav wandered through the countryside seeking those who knew of the shield he sought, across a mighty river that flowed seemingly entirely from the north to the south as far as he could see and close to a towering and icebound mountain. At the foot of this icy peak Arrav did encounter a race he had never seen before; they looked like men, yet were far shorter, and they seemed unafraid of Arrav as he approached them.

He spoke to them of the shield he sought, and although they denied any knowledge of such an item, he could see in their eyes a guardedness that made him doubt the truth of their claims. Arrav stood tall and asked them who they were, and they spoke to him, “We are of the clan Imcando, known far and wide for our skills with weaponry,” and seemed puzzled that he had no recognition of them.

Sure that the dwarves knew more of the shield he sought than they admitted, Arrav decided to stay with them and gain their trust, and perhaps learn more of the whereabouts of the shield he had pledged to find.

Many moons passed as Arrav stayed amongst the dwarves, and eventually the leader of the Imcando summoned Arrav to him.

“Your ways are strange to us, Arrav of Avarrocka, yet we see the honour with which you carry yourself. When first you came amongst us you spoke of a mighty shield. We know you suspect us of having knowledge of such an item, and that is why you have remained here. We have offered you our hospitality, and as we have come to know you we have seen you to be a man of honour, so speak now why you search for this item, for it is one of our greatest treasures and we cannot allow it to fall into the hands of the undeserving.”

Arrav spoke of his encounter with the darkly dressed man in the Land of Dreams, and at the mention of the name Zemouregal he saw a dark shadow fall across the countenance of the elder.

“We know of this being who calls himself Zemouregal. For many years he has attempted to gain control of this shield, for it is a mighty artefact that will bring him great power against all races should he gain possession of it. Long ago we vowed that this must never happen, for we dwarves have memories of the time when gods walked this land, and do not wish to see such devastation return. Although we know you to be a man of great honour and courage, you cannot defeat Zemouregal, and we must never allow him the chance to gain control of such a powerful object. I fear that he has manipulated you and those you obey, and must ask you to leave as your continued presence here serves only to alert him to our settlement.”

Arrav’s heart was filled with sadness at these words, for he had become accustomed to spending time with the Imcando and learning their ways of mining and smithing, yet he knew the wisdom of these words. As the dwarf spoke them to him, he realised why the elders of Avarrocka had sent him on this quest, for their fears were the same as the Imcando’s: that Arrav could bring nothing but woe and lamentations to them while staying in such a place. With a weariness in his heart, Arrav continued on his quest, for he knew that he must find the shield his elders sought whether he had the assistance of the Imcando or not.

The Legend of Arrav is almost a founding document for the city of Varrock. In ancient times, when first men came to this land, they founded the village of Avarrocka, where Varrock now stands, and Arrav was their first and greatest hero.

This lengthy tale explains how Arrav came to be, how he carried himself as a man, and how his doom came upon him. In times of darkness and fear the people of Varrock still turn to this story as a beacon of hope – for, if in those days before the power of runes, man could protect himself from the horrors of the Necromancer, surely we can still protect ourselves now.- Reldo

Childhood of a Hero

egend tells us that a mighty hero was born near the town we now call Varrock, but no record of his birth or parents were ever found. A wandering group of travellers seeking sanctuary from the goblins and ogres that infested the land found a human child while following a river on a day when both sun and moon were mingled in the sky.

The child was unusually tall for one so young, with dark eyes and a fierce countenance, yet fair hair and skin, and a kind smile. The elders of the tribe saw this child as a good omen, and decided that they should set up camp at this place, and named their camp Avarrocka. The child was brought into the camp and raised as their own child, and they taught him how to hunt, and how to farm, and how to kill, for the times of legend were harsh and cruel.

And the tribe’s greatest hunter taught the young men of the tribe the skills of hunting. He taught them the skill of silence, and of the parts of animals that caused sickness and should be removed before eating, and where to stand in wind and streams so that animals could not detect the hunter’s presence, and of tracking the prey in the forests through which they moved. And the child was more gifted than the rest of the young adults, as well as standing a head taller. When the time came for the young men to hunt their first animals alone, the child brought back to the camp a large stag, with fair white skin and deep red eyes, and the elders saw this as a good omen.

And the tribe’s greatest farmer taught the young men the importance of farming well, and of the times of the calendar that seeds would grow best, and of the changes in the clouds that showed how crops would grow, and of growing certain crops together to prevent the sprouting crops from being consumed by the birds, and by the pests of the land. And when it came for the crops to be harvested, all were awed by the height of the child’s grain, and the succulence of his fruits, and the elders saw that this was a good omen for the village.

And when the tribe’s mightiest warrior taught the young men how to fight, all were amazed at the prowess of the child, for he moved as though he had been born with a sword drawn, and his strength and speed were equal to men twice his size and age. And the elders of the village saw how fortunate they were that such a mighty warrior should have been delivered unto them.

o came the tenth year after finding the child, and by all reckonings they took the child to be around twelve years old, yet the child was still unnamed. So the elders decided to send the child on a quest to find a name, for they would not be able to call the young man ‘Child’ for much longer. And they said to him, “Go forth and bring back a name that your people may know you.” So the child left the lands around the village for the first time since he had been found.

And the child wandered far, following the rivers and hills and clouds and stars to find his name. After a number of days, he did come upon an encampment of goblins who had discovered the village of Avarrocka, and did plan to make it their own with a nightfall attack. And as the goblins saw him, they screamed at him in their own language “arrav” as they attacked him. And they screamed “arrav” louder as he bested them, by individuals and by groups, until they all lay dead or defeated.

So the child returned to Avarrocka, and the elders asked him if he had found his name yet. And the child recounted the tale of the goblin camp, and how their murderous plans had been thwarted by his luck in finding them, and his skill in fighting them. And one of the wisemen said to him:

“Your name, Child, is now Arrav, for that is the name the fates have given you. It is a curse word in the goblin tongue. The fates have decided your true name to be a curse upon goblins, for that is what you truly are.” All agreed that it was a good name, and much rejoicing was had for the village had been spared the sword and the flame.

And as Arrav grew, so did the village of Avarrocka, for it was situated on fertile land, and it became prosperous. As the tales of Arrav’s defeat of the goblins spread among both humans and goblins the village grew larger, as humans came to live there in peace, and Goblins stayed away, for they were fearful of Arrav, the Curse of Goblins.

The origin of this text is unclear. It speaks of a tunnel system known to exist west of Ardougne, though here in Misthalin we hear precious little of what lies inside. If even a fraction of this tale is true, I shudder to think what else might stalk the hidden corners of RuneScape. – Reldo

ou must be careful walking through the Underground Pass: it is filled with the spirit of Zamorak. You can feel it as you wind your way round the stalagmites – like an icy chill that threatens to penetrate the fabric of your being. Not so many travellers come down here these days, but there are some who are still foolhardy enough.

I remember seeing one such warrior going by the name of Randas, he stood tall and proud like an elven king, but that same pride made him vulnerable to Zamorak’s calls. Randas’s worthy desire to be a great and mighty warrior also made him corruptible to Zamorak’s promises of glory. Zamorak showed him a way to achieve his goals, by appealing to that most base and dark nature that resides in all of us.

It starts as a whisper in your ears. Dismissing the sounds as the whistling of the wind, Randas steeled himself against these forces and continued on his way. But the whispers became moans, at once fearsome and enticing, like the call of some beautiful siren. “Join us!” The voices cried, “Join us!”

“Why fight against your nature?” They asked Randas. “Your greatness lies within you, but only Zamorak can truly unlock your potential.”

In time these voices became visions. Visions of human armies, wasted by some unseen hand. Their bodies lay heaped together like some amorphous mass of mutilated flesh. And standing on top of this great heap stood Randas, a bloody sword in one hand, and a glazed look in his eyes. A destroyer of his own people… but a victor all the same.

Upon entering Zamorak’s Tower it is said that Randas performed a ritual that would alter his spirit forever. Kneeling down at the sacred altar, he spilled his blood into a silver chalice and offered it to Zamorak. Randas began to chant the words of ancients: strange, twisted noises from deep in the bowels of eternity.

This was the spirit of Zamorak, pulsing through his body like the cry of an animal from some unholy sacrifice. His whole form began to convulse as charges streamed through his muscles. But the power was too much for his mind; it was as if the forces of darkness were a black cloud expanding inside his head. As he witnessed yet more ghoulish and nightmarish visions, the world outside seemed to disintegrate in front of him.

The world was still there – it was Randas’s mind that had been broken. And now if you get lost in the tunnels you might just stumble into Randas. A shadow of a man, his eyes are hollow, with no life behind them. For Randas is part of the asylum now, just one of the many walking dead. A human vegetable, he wanders the tunnels in a zombie state, oblivious to all his surroundings. Ask him about Zamorak and he will tell you as much as he can remember. He may even tell you more about the ritual that he performed.

Just don’t let curiosity get the better of you…