Timelines

PART I

The sun was bursting on a young Lumbridge as Lucas walked into the unfinished manor. His white armor reflected in the shining morning, and his long sword rested sheathed by his side. The cape of the White Knights was heavy against his shoulders. The surrounding buildings were still being constructed, and the river Lum, near the castle, were full of fishermen. The tiny farms of the surrounding area were full of livestock. The Duke, in charge of the small settlement, had called the “King” to council. The Skills of the Bronze and Rune had sent him here alone. It was the first time since he was let to solve the world’s problems at peace. The Duke had kept the matter at hand a secret, and Lucas worried that this would be a danger for this young land. Lucas watched the workmen bring crates of food and armor into the castle. The Duke was standing on the front steps. Unexpectedly, there was a commotion to the left of Lucas. He turned his head to see a workman, a grim smirk on his features, with a crossbow aimed for the Duke’s head. The arrow flew from the crossbow, and Lucas could see the iron reflecting off the arrowhead, into the sun. Lucas dived for the Duke, who was rooted to the spot. He looked at that piece of wood and metal, and knew it would know be enough. He wasn’t going to make it. As it came closer, time itself seemed to stop. Suddenly, there was a flash of light…

Andro was freezing. He and his soldiers were in the Wilderness, excavating the ruins of an old temple. An altar consecrated to Zaros, the Empty Lord, was positioned in the middle. The rain pelted him and his men, and the only comfort was in the remains of the ruined roof of this old temple. How ironic, he thought. His men, in their damp iron armor, huddled together, searching the carcass of the old temple, for that was what it was, the carcass of some forgotten thing, worshiping some forgotten thing. Who knows what’s in here, he continued. They had pulled the remains of old books, corpses, and bits and pieces of old relics. Andro watched his men with a lazy eye, before something made him lose focus. He noticed the dark altar, as there was a razor thin line across it, almost like an opening. Strange. Andro started to move the top of the hunk of iron and stone. It hardly budged. Unusual, he thought as he beckoned his men.
“Hey, I need some help here with this.” Three of his men, struggled under the weight of the altar. With a push from all four, the heavy top gave way. The loud crash that resulted must have been heard for miles. The altar was completely empty, save a small wooden box, with curious markings. Andro reached in and pulled the box out. A small gasp made him turn around. His men were dead, bleeding on the floor, and Andro jump to the side as arrows flew into the altar. Andro winced and cried out, two arrows lodged in his chest. A man in black robes walked up to Andro. He tried to move, but it seemed every ounce of strength had left his body. “Thank you,” a hoarse voice said, “for retrieving my prize.” As the stranger reached down to pick up the box, Andro kicked up, landing a solid hit between the man’s legs. The man stumbled back, and whispered, “Kill him.” Oh Armadyl, he thought, blood still gushing from his wounds. He wasn’t going to make it. Then, there was a flash of light…

John was old and tired. It was the constant game of cat and mouse. Who would dare defy the Church yet again? The small house was so close to the Museum of History, it was amazing that they had staged a successful kidnapping in the Holy Capital of Varrock. Or more like, what they thought was a successful kidnapping. It was his job to ruin that. He was going to make them pay, as was his job. They didn’t hand out a job like Captain of the Guard if they wanted him to fail. He remembered his predecessor. He remembered these heretics. His squad was right next to the door, and everything was going just like in basic training. This was his specialty. It was their specialty. It was the culmination of their entire lives. His second in command, a middle-aged man by the name of Oen cried out in a loud voice,
“Open the door in the name of the Holy Church of Saradomin!” A strong voice came through the door.
“Never, fools! Feel the might of a true god! For Zamorak!” With that, considered a blasphemy, the squad broke the door down. A horrid sight lay before the troops, as one young man had an older woman with a knife to her throat. The other had a sword and a fanatic look in his eyes. **** heretics, thought John. The man with the sword charged toward John’s troops, an even wilder look in his eyes, if that was possible. He had more skill than the squad expected, as he sliced the armor of one guard, causing him to drop to the floor in a small pool of blood. However, he was not experienced enough to dodge John’s blade as it headed toward his head. The steel hit bone. Three squad members managed to hold down the man with the hostage long enough to pull the knife away from the old woman’s throat. With a smile, he teleported away from the scene, the officers falling to the floor where he was last. The yelling filled the house faster than water filled a jug. “Causalities!” yelled one officer. “One dead, the other teleported away,” yelled a younger soldier in response. That was not a good report.
It took at least an hour to clean the house. The woman was brought out in a bag, and someone, a young man, in custody. His triumphant face, with a smug smile, made John feel sick. **** heretics, thought John again. He stood next to the door. He would have to go over the crime scene, and then present his report to His Holiness. A couple of hours later, John was still searching the house. The heretic’s quarters were sparse, the only furniture in the house was a bed and a wardrobe. He found a backpack under the bed, and a couple of runes in a pouch in a medium sized pouch. He put all of the evidence onto the bed. He put the pouch on the bed next to the backpack. He slowly opened the backpack. Inside were two books, a knife, and something else. Something… If that’s what I think it is, I have less than five seconds to get out of here alive. There was a crudely made bomb, a slanderous mixture of alchemic magic and strange machinery. John tried his best to pull his hand out of the bag when it happened. He wasn’t going to make it. Then, there was a flash of light…

Not runescape....

Quit your bitchin', I can write fanatsy on whatever the **** I what. I just chose to write it on RuneScape...

fargo1168 wrote:

Quit your bitchin', I can write fanatsy on whatever the **** I what. I just chose to write it on RuneScape...

I have no personal quarells with runescape, just that i got screwed by jagex.

So sit down, shut up, and continue writing you're little runescape fantasies.