Forgotten Legends.

[derrick_mace]

I'm actually waiting until Fluffy_Kururu sends me back her application for me to check up on with my Stylebook. I doubt I'd be much of help.

Regardless! Here is proof that I'm not as bad a writer as I print myself out to be!

Here is my I swear first story, and then I edited it last year.
This is some old references, but after I pulled this up, I'm in awe of how this story is actually enjoyable!!

It's very fast-paced, yes. I didn't get pace right, and it either became boring travel scenes (which I removed a year ago), or jumping from scene to scene. Thankfully, the latter gave a more urgent approach to the story.

Enough blabbering. Here's the story proper.

Back story/ Prologue

“Strength is with you, mighty three. Bring what I seek, and bring the wrath of the Freminnik Tribe upon our enemies,” The old barbarian seer said to the three tribesmen, waving his hand.
The first nodded silently, idly brandishing his long, gnarled staff. His leathery robes and brown staff shone silently with runic power. A strong mage, he was, Balkal.
The second said with a stone voice, “As you wish, Chieftain.”
He slammed his hand on his chest, as he motioned to the two others to follow him.
The third walked swiftly, a long bow slung on her back, her face barely seen. The leader had a huge sword strapped to his belt, and a large, scorched wooden shield at his back. A warrior clad in leather and huge plates of battered iron, he was not to be trifled with. He was the leader of expeditions for the tribe, a warrior who faced off more creatures then he could personally count. He was Darkur.
Darkur led his two tribesmen to the northern harbor, calculating his mission calmly, as he always did.
“We will sail to the island on the map Peer made for us,” he said. “The item our Chieftain asked for is guarded by some sort of giant creature. It must fall for us to continue.”
The archer opened her mouth, and asked softly, as she brandished her oriental braided hair, “It disturbed Peer’s sightings, hasn’t it?”
The mage, Balkal nodded, as they set their feet on the harbors wood, he said, “Apparently, it appeared in his dreams…I am surprised why our honorable chieftain would want me to join his two most glorious warriors.”
Darkur turned, looking at Balkal with the edge of his eyes, as he said, “Because you are a mage? Nonsense, he does not frown upon the wielders of runic powers, he dislikes those who use other forms of magic other then frost and fire.” He turned, as he said hatefully, “Like those betrayers who forsook us…with their cursed shadowy and bloody magics…”
The mage looked down, as he said softly, “Magic is magic, brother.”
“No, brother,” the ranger replied sharply. “Your magic is different. Your magic is that of our tribe! Your magic is in synergy and unity with our life. It is not that dark, fel power.” She turned to Darkur, and said, ending the discussion, “Tell us about the road.”
“We will sail to the island Peer marked for us, and retrieve or destroy the item. Who decides which is you, Balkal,” Darkur responded, his scarred, powerful body turning to the tough rune wielder.
Balkal nodded quietly, as Darkur turned back, and pointed on a small, swift wooden ship, saying, “This is our vessel. It was designed for this route in the northern sea. Come, brother and sister.”
His companions nodded, following him.

Under his breath, Balkal whispered, “Thank you…Darkur and Tarlin.”

They rode in the harsh northern seas, braving through the chill and the merciless winds they grew with.
Darkur steered the wheel with both his hands, keeping his sharp sword within reach, might one of the many unknown sea creatures take them for granted. His lips curled into a cruel smile. Let them come…
Tarlin kneeled at the front of the ship, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon, her hands on her bow, let there be any sign of the island or beast, and she will be ready.
Balkal sat back at the mast, closing his eyes, his hands apart only a small distance from each other, as strands of blue connected his fingers, as he whispered under his breath incantations of protection and stealth.
The sea grew rougher, but the champions of the Freminnik handled their vessel like a rider to his horse, never letting it succumb to the cruelty of the waves and wind, one time relaxing their control, one tightening it.
They left at dawn, and the sky was dark and gloomy. Sunset passed, and so did the cruelty of weather. Darkur let out a calm smile as the clouds parted, and uncountable stars shone in the sky.
He relaxed his grip on the wheel, as he heard Tarlin shout, “Land ahead, captain.”
Soon, the icy land came to his view, he narrowed his eyes slightly, and seeing the land highly resembled his homeland. Brown shores, large, icy trees, mangy wolves at far distance, and large creatures hiding under rock-like shells.
“Are we in the right place?” He asked sternly, as Balkal nodded, saying, “Indeed we are. We followed the map, and I made sure we didn’t lose our way or turn back in the brief storm we encountered.”
Darkur didn’t speak, but then smiled slightly, as he jumped down to shore from the Freminnik-built ship, pulling his shield, as he shouted back to his comrades, “Then let us be on our way. Peer cannot sleep with the dark item intact.”
Tarlin followed, landing agilely on two feet and an extended hand, pulling instantly her bow, knocking an arrow on its string, and pulling it to a stance.
Balkal followed, his hands shining slightly as he followed them. The island was mostly of snow and dirt. The water was chilly, and the air colder then back home, but that didn’t matter much to the three. A large hill loomed over the champions, as Darkur smiled, pointing with the edge of his waved sword to a cave entrance, saying, “This land is bare…it must be inside the cave.”
“Certain that is true,” Balkal commented, as Tarlin sped past them, standing on higher ground, her bow ever ready to catch off attackers. She sighed, obviously wishing so, as she said casually, “Nothing of danger here, brothers.”
Darkur didn’t sheath his sword; however, as he said to Tarlin, “I do not doubt your sharp eye, sister, but we shouldn’t lose our vigilance here.”
“True,” she said, again lifting her bow.
The three Freminnik champions stopped at the cave’s mouth, as Darkur stopped only feet before the entrance, as he said, lifting his nose, “The place reeks of a stench.”
His brethren neared, as they both agreed. It was not rot; as it didn’t go through their noses as much as to their minds directly, inspiring a strange, foggy memory… a one of cruelty and madness.
Uncertainty and doubt clouded the mighty warrior’s minds, but Darkur was the first to slash at the idea, as he said sternly, “We should not wait here. Brother Balkal, shed some light on this darkness.”
He nodded, as he lifted his hand, a brilliant flare of fire ignited at the tips of his fingers, lighting the cave’s mouth.
The three warriors stepped in, Darkur leading them, sword and shield raised.
The deeper they walked, the darker it became. The colder the place turned to be…the stronger the stench.
“Be on your guard,” Tarlin warned, “I sense something ahead.”
The cave was of gray rock; ice chunks littered the place, as the round roof sometimes showed glimpses of the dark, starry sky above. Shy moonlight crept through the breaks in the ceiling, revealing to the weary warriors an undefined tinge of green in the walls of the cave.
They reached an intersection, followed by a large cavern. Darkur stopped, lifting his hand. His two comrades halted, as Darkur whispered, “Indeed sister…I see two creatures ahead.”
Balkal neared, peering over Darkur’s armored shoulder, and frowned slightly.
Two large, humanoid creatures stood in the cavern, as the three adventurers detailed, the two had strong features of men. Both stood straight, and had things close to beards. But the horrifying detail was…the incredibly dark skin they had. Balkal, as a runic mage, was forced to leave the Freminnik Region for a time in his youth after failing to overcome the physical trials of the people of his tribe. He has seen many people of different shapes and colors, but these…their darkness were not of black, but of scorch.
“These things…they must’ve been burned,” he said, snapping his fingers, extinguishing the flare in his hand.
“Aye, brother…they do not seem to be peaceful, as well…” Tarlin noted softly, taking notice of the dried blood on both giant’s swords.
Their build remarkably was close to those of men; it wasn’t disfigured as giants, but was as enlarged humans. It was strange, and definitely unnerving.
Darkur smiled darkly, as he said, “The fools…blood stains their blades…that will make it rust quicker then chilled water. If we chose to fight, I can destroy their swords easily.” He reached to his back, to a large throwing axe slanged behind his plates of armor. “It will only take one shot.”
“Will they attack us?” Tarlin asked, pulling the string of her bow.
“That would be the end of their lives,” Balkal muttered, as Darkur stepped out of the shadows, saying to his comrades, “The only way to finish this is with battle…”
As he stepped into the moonlight, the two giants turned, their eyes narrowing. Darkur lifted his axe silently, as if daring the two to come closer.
One sniggered, as he pointed at the warrior. The second lifted his sword, and stood silent.
“Come, you abominations!” Darkur shouted, pointing at the silent one.
It smiled slightly, and charged, not letting out a single sound as it pounced its way towards Darkur, lifting its huge sword-
It fell back in shock and pain, as Darkur’s axe flew right into his sword, directly to the biggest stain of blood on it, violently crashing into it, spreading cracks in the bloody iron. Darkur smiled darkly, as he pointed his finger at the giant. A stream of chill fired from Balkal’s hands, lancing through the wounded metal, extending rapidly from magical cold-
The sound of shattered metal echoed in the cavern, as the giant froze, the chill extending to his arm, running through his shoulders swiftly, and to his neck-
Balkal closed his fist, as the ice surrounding the giant’s neck broke, a million shards of frozen ice penetrating the giant’s thick neck. It shouted in dire pain, as it was silenced with a merciless arrow that ran directly into its open throat, followed by seven others launched in the speed of arched lightening in the stormy sky-
With a pathetic gurgle, the giant fell to its knees, bellowed something in a strange language, and stumbled dead.
The second giant froze dead, its sarcastic smile slid off his lips, as his eyes widened.
Darkur lifted his sword, as he said to it, “I haven’t used my main weapon yet, beast…”
And charged, lifting it high, running far faster than usual, as blood pumped in his ears.
To his comrades, he left out a trail of redness hanging in plain air, as his fury embodied itself in the ferocious war cry he let out, bringing his sword against the giant’s knee-
Blood spurt from the grievous wound, as the giant kneeled in pain from impact. It didn’t wait for another ferocious strike from the duty-driven warrior. The warrior thrust his blade forward, running his weapon through the beast’s skin, and drawing it out with a slash, as the steel ran against unprotected soft flesh-
The giant gasped in pain, before its pain became fury, as the creature lashed out its sword, sweeping across the ground, it slammed into the warrior’s plate armor, the massive sword cutting through half the hardened plates-
Darkur grunted as the impact of the weapon caught him off guard, sending him tumbling back.
The giant raised his sword again, but was pushed back by two arrows launched from the shadows, both cramming their way through his shoulder joints. Hardly penetrating his thick, scorched skin, the giant turned to Tarlin, who drew two others, and launched them at the giant’s injured knee instead-
The giant moved out quickly, dodging the arrows, and threw part of his fallen comrade’s blade at the direction they came from-
Darkur rose up from his fall, roaring a warning to his comrades, as he drew his sword, and charged again at the giant-
The huge iron shard flew towards the archer and the runic mage. The archer, ever fast reflexes, jumped out of the way-
Darkur’s heart fell as dust rose from the darkness. Tarlin raised quickly, her heart lurching for Balkal-
As the dust settled, a soft blue light appeared where the mage was-
The huge sword shard was embedded in a colossal block of ice. A part of the iron stuck out, touching Balkal’s nose softly.
He smiled, lifting his hand, sending the huge shard of ice at the giant-
The giant lifted his fist, driving it into the rushing block of chill, breaking it, scattering the ice-
And froze, as the sword he threw was driven into his hand. Blood gushed out from his fist, as the giant fell back, pain overcoming it-
Darkur jumped over a scattered shard of ice, lifting his sword, and driving it directly into the giant’s throat-
With a gurgle, the giant died.

“Impressive,” Darkur said as he slid down the giant’s arm.
“That was no easy battle,” Tarlin said, as Balkal responded calmly, “We are no easy warriors, either.”
“Well said, brother,” Darkur spoke, drying the blood on his blade. “This was a victory well earned…”
He lifted his sword, leaning it on his shoulder as he said, “Let us continue.”
The road continued as it has, the champions faced off two other giants, and found themselves after a long trek before a graveyard.
They exchanged looks, as Balkal asked softly, “A graveyard?”
“Yes, brother,” Tarlin responded. Few tombstones littered the icy ground. Moonlight shed white on the unusually large place.
The walls were not of stone, but of pure, clear ice. They were cracked, and to Tarlin’s notice, had faint blood stains washed ill by the chill. To the adventurer’s fear, the apparently clear ice had scratching marks. Long, sharp nails or claws ran through the wall.
Balkal shuddered suddenly, before he whispered, “Stay silent…I-”
“Stay away, warriors.”
The champions flinched at the sound, before each lifted his/her respective weapon. Darkur gritted his teeth, as he hissed, “You who hide in the shadow…Show yourself!”
“Turn back…death is all that awaits you in this forsaken vault.”
“We come here to put a seer to rest! A noble tribesman of ours is sleepless and suffering daily for the contents of this place…gives us a reason to return after such long a distance!”
“He will not wish what is in here,” echoed the voice again. A set of armor levitated into thin air, as a hint of a ghastly creature appeared within it, encased in the armor. “He would not doom his people with what is in here.”
They fell silent, but doubts rose in the warning as hands grew from the graveyard, as skeletons, long-slain rose from the dead, unearthed with their bodies, large, bladed rings.
Tarlin whispered coldly, “We will not turn back, spawn of darkness.”
Darkur brandished his sword and lifted his shield at the word, as Balkal lifted his staff to the ghost’s face.
“Fools…”
The skeletons rushed with quickness unlike any living being, slashing at Darkur with unholy ferocity-
Ice flew as their blades crashed into a wall of ice before Darkur, as sharp particles of frost shot out of the wall, piercing the skeleton’s bodies, freezing them-
Darkur’s blade crashed through their frozen bodies, as arrows flied from around him, sniping away attackers-
A blade came crashing down at Darkur, slipping through his plate shoulders, diving deep into his flesh-
He grunted, as he slammed his shield into the attacker, shouting, “Let this wall of iron break your bones, skeleton!”
Tarlin, in the first few seconds of the fight, ceased to use her arrows, and replaced them with blunt ones that crushed the fragile yet powerful warriors.
It didn’t take much, before the skeleton warriors fell broken. Few stood back still, waiting behind the ghostly set of armor emotionlessly.
Darkur lifted himself from the ground, as the ground was littered with shattered parts of bones. Blood seeped from his injured shoulder and arm, and the ghost spoke, “Impressive…such creatures were the bane of many before you.”

“We are champions of the honorable Freminnik Tribe, ghastly demon! We conquered the reptile Daggonoth Kings!”
“Yet, you were wounded by my warriors…”
“’tis only a flesh wound,” Darkur smiled darkly.
Darkur didn’t notice that the conversation was intended to divert his attention, as he heard the weak gasp behind him. He turned quickly, seeing Tarlin bleeding out of her ears, kneeling in pain.
“You cursed demon!” He shouted, lifting his sword and swiping it at the ghost-
The ghost whispered something under his breath, as a dark shadow sprung from under Darkur, freezing his hands-
“Damn you!!” Darkur shouted, enraged as he was extremely close to the ghost. “Balkal! Do something!”
“With fire be purged!” Balkal shouted, as the whole cave was illuminated, as a huge stream of fire shot out from his hands, burning into the ghost-
An unearthly sheik shook the cave as the ghost’s armor became white hot, a scorching hole in the middle of its armor burned intensely, as the ghost fell to its knees. The two skeletons behind it fell instantly into a heap of scorched bones.
Tarlin stood up, as the spell fell off. Darkur was able to move, as the ghost breathed with a raspy breath.
Darkur sighed, before he continued past the ghost, who extended its cold hand to Darkur’s face. He didn’t feel anything, so he smiled, asking, “You are still trying to protect what’s in?”
“No…trying to protect you…from it,” with a pained gasp, the ghost left the set of scorched armor, as it fell, rattling on the ground.

The champions proceeded to the vault, unnerved slightly by the ghost.
The room was perfectly circular, with no other exit…before them stood a plaque, on it a long, black oriental sword.
“This is…it?” Darkur asked, sheathing his on the scabbard on his belt.
“This must be the artifact that was plaguing Peer’s dreams,” Balkal whispered, awed by the runes on the sword.
“We should take it back,” Darkur spoke suddenly, nearing the sword. He kneeled close to it, examining it closely.
Balkal narrowed his eyes, as he was slowly able to identify the words on the sword.
All know by now, that--
“I don’t know, Darkur, the blade doesn’t look safe,” Tarlin spoke.
Between the ancient, dark magic and the-
Darkur looked back, as he said impatiently, “Why not, Tarlin? The elders back at home know more of this place then us.”
Uncertainty of death’s tail, is-
“Darkur, you said we have two options back here…why are you suddenly adamant at bringing it?” Tarlin asked sharply.
Chaos... The unknowing wielders of such dark-
“I know what is best for us!” He exclaimed, as he continued. “Why are you sharp all of a sudden, sister? Has our long trek made you weary?”
--powers are the ones tainted by darkness.
“Has all the fighting changed your mind for you? What if it is dangerous? We cannot risk bringing something that could attract monsters to our homeland!” Tarlin almost shrieked.
This blade…is what is left…that completes the link between the good of men…
And the inevitable doom such creatures bring.
He whomsoever takes up this sword…will wield power eternal.
Just as the wielder will be champion of every duel they take,
So they shall they be cursed forever as the Lords of the Darkness.

“No!” Balkal shout suddenly, as his comrades turned to him, frowning. “This blade is an ancient one, dating down very old years! Its runes are older than I can imagine! And the warning it gives…the blade is cursed! Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“I will not leave without the blade, brother,” Darkur said darkly. “I won it rightfully. If you convince me that the blade is demonic in nature, I will consider leaving it.”
“The runes on it tell so!” Balkal shouted. “Leave it be!”

Darkur didn’t respond, but his glare pierced Balkal’s gaze. “The blade is mine, mage. I can hear it calling for me.”
“W-what… Calling for you?” Tarlin asked, shocked. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No, sister, I heard of the purest of blades, the strongest of weapons…the most blessed of them choosing their masters!” He shouted. “This sword ...it CANNOT be cursed…The runes? Let me write warnings to those who enter my house! Will that be a good reason not to take it? If only you hear what it tells me!!”
“What it tells you?” he asked, shocked.
“You cannot hear it?” Darkur bellowed. “I expected so! You are NOT WORTHY!”, as he threw aside his sword and reached out for the blade. “This blade is mine! It chose me! And I will wield it as how I wish to!”
His hands lurched with pain, as ice froze his grip just inches from the deep burgundy handle. The frost climbed up his fingers into his arm, bringing about a crackling.
“You attack me, brother?” Darkur bellowed, as he turned, just to have an arrow pierce his armor, directly plunging itself into his stomach.

Coughing blood, he turned bloodshot eyes to Tarlin, and whispered, “You…betrayers…”
Tarlin knocked another arrow into her bow, as she directed it towards the bleeding warrior’s neck, saying coldly, “Insanity gripped you…brother.”
“Will you raise arms against him, Tarlin?” Balkal shouted, as Tarlin nodded silently.
Darkur lowered his head, as Tarlin whispered arrogantly, “You are seduced by the blade’s ‘whispers’. I see it necessary to end this now.”
“Has madness gripped you all?!” Balkal shouted, horrified at the look on Tarlin’s face, and the arrow in Darkur’s chest.
“Die, Darkur,” Tarlin whispered, unleashing her arrow.
Suddenly, Balkal’s mind shook with an unearthly sound- A thump of an invisible heart against his ear-
Blackness-
Doom has come-
His body became stiff with fear as a demonic surge ran through his body, chilling him to the core-
Balkal’s blood froze as Darkur’s heavy shield crashed with blinding speed into the flying arrow, sending it swirling in the air. In a second and a blur, Darkur’s body tore through the air, as his frozen hand crashed into Tarlin’s face, the force breaking through her helmet, as she recoiled with a pained shriek-
Tarlin drew a dagger from seemingly nowhere in a blur, bringing it up-
But froze, as a black blade ran through her throat, appearing from the other side of her neck-
Time froze, before dark blood spurted from her wound, as she gurgled incoherently-

“You…tried to kill me…betrayer…” Darkur spoke, as the runes on the sword shone-
He yanked the sword out, the unnatural rippled blade tearing through her fragile skin and light armor. He kicked away her body into the ground, as he brandished the sword with malice.
He froze, before turning to Balkal, his eyes of an unnatural menace.
Balkal froze, his hands shaking, as he watched Darkur approaching, his iced hand darkening, enlarging...turning into sharp claws as tattoos echoed across his skin.
The runes on the sword echoed the marks rapidly growing on Darkur’s skin, as Balkal stepped backwards, as he whispered, “What have you done, brother?”
“It is a blessing, brother!!” he whispered. “A blessing I will return with to our people.”
“It is a curse!” Balkal shouted, before he felt Darkur’s cruel, cold claws on his neck, tightening. How he reached him so fast was no question- such speed-
“It is a gift…a gift. And I will choose like-minded tribesmen and lead our people to a new future.”
“You are mad!” Balkal choked. “You killed Tarlin! What future do you promise for our people?”
“A glorious future…blood has always written the pages of legends,” he spoke coldly. “I will bring a new era for the noble Freminnik. A one not stained by the smell of fish and the cries of children, but with blood and honor.”
“There…is…no honor in slaughter,” Balkal choked.
“I…am different…with this sword; I have the power to change…even that.”
He tossed Balkal aside, as he whispered, “I hear many words…whispered to me. I will see…what is to come. No longer will we be barbarians to other nations, but we will rule them. No longer do we have to quarrel with our neighbor tribes about land and food, but we will crush them into submission, to unite them! This is the will of the Northmen.”
He smiled as he lifted the sword, “The sword calls me…master. And I will master our people and our enemies. I will forge them into one. No petty differences will part us, but we will be under one banner…Forged into one great tribe…the Northmen.”
The cave darkened, as Balkal disappeared with a flash of light.
“Run as far as you can…brother,” Darkur spoke, too immersed in the sword to take notice.
“My will…my power…is inevitable.”
He smiled, as the sword shone brighter against his rapidly paling skin, as its strength ran through his body, strengthening him…
Damning him…

The chilly wilderness had nothing but darkness and dread to give its foolish visitors… dark creatures, shadows of their former selves stalked the land silently, only appearing to their victims.
Yet, a single human walked through the land, untouched, until he reached the edge of the wilderness. A land cursed by such chill no other land knew of. The human didn’t even flinch at the frost, but relished in it.
Silently, the human placed his hand on the dark red handle of a sword strapped to his back. Drawing it, the enormous black blade let out a shrill shriek.
The warrior plunged the sword deep into the ground, and suddenly, the black earth rippled.
Dark shadows rose from the ground, raised by the darkest of magic.
Champion of our fallen king…what do you ask of us?
The human smiled darkly, as he whispered in a language he never knew before, “Raze the lands of those…who will oppose us.”
Who is your target?
Darkur’s smile bared his teeth, inhumanly sharp, “The Humans of the south, the Worshippers of Saradomin, the Ones of the Desert, and the Livers in Shadows.”
As you wish, champion.

The ghosts wisped away, before several other humans clad in fur approached Darkur’s body, asking wearily, “Why did you bring us here, brother?”
He turned, as he said; lifting his sword to his kin, “Witness the blessings…of the darkness.”
The wilderness echoed with the shrieks of pain…and pleasure.

Chapter One: The Winds of the North.

“Beware, young ones from the blackened wilderness,”

In a farm close to the edge of the wilderness-

“Take caution, warriors from the scorched, smoldered land,”

Lived a small family of five-

“Take nothing but what you must, for you wander in darkness,”

A farmer, his wife, two daughters and one son-

“For in the cursed land, none but the cruelest, strongest stand,”

The man…was called Jonathan Harland. He lived here as long as he could remember-

“So beware, ones who retrain their innocence,”

He knew much about the wilderness…and had the misfortune of witnessing many injured warriors, treasure-hunters and adventure-seekers come and leave, some not return at all.

“For that, will not avail you in your defense…”

He only wished that whatever madness ruled over the wilderness…stayed there, at the boarders of the burnt land. The restless evil that takes over a man’s mind once he sets his feet there, the hunger that eliminates mercy, compassion and conscious…the thirst that is only quenched by blood.
He was not interested in the gold, glory and power hidden in the black land. Although he struggled with farming the land, barely having bread on the table for his young ones, he was well content to stay away.
Casual patrols from Varrock passed by his farm nearly daily, near Edgeville.
Today was like every other day. He left home, cursing the old ox who couldn’t wake up, as the sun rose in the horizon… He headed to the nearby well in the middle of the village, noting calmly the silence of the neighborhood. The nearby bank just opened, as the few houses scattered began teaming with life.
As he dumped a bucket into the well, he smiled tiredly as he pulled it up, and held the heavy bucket of water in his two hands. The land darkened, as clouds drifted before the sun-
He lifted his eyes to the sky, as ominous clouds gathered. Not soon after, a drop of rain touched his forehead. He smiled lightly, but it faded as he saw the blackness of the sky.

But today suddenly went awry. He lifted his head, feeling the earth tremble, as the water in the bucket churned-
“The north,” he started, before turning to the wilderness, as a terrible war cry sounded, echoing across the land. Blood drained from his face, as a humanoid came to view in the distance. Armored in a black brassard and a helmet, his legs shielded by dark iron, it approached.
Thunder rumbled in the sky, sending a flash on the horizon, as many others appeared in the darkness, the flash illuminating their dark armor.
Jonathan wouldn’t have felt much fear if he saw his weapon, but the huge sword came out the creature’s very flesh. He froze, as a battalion of such nightmarish creatures approached, each more monstrous then the first. Unable to speak, he stuttered at the Varrock patrols, pointing a shivering finger at the horizon. They caught notice up, and turned to the wilderness- and froze, before their leader unsheathed his sword, and shouted at the approaching warriors through the rain, “Halt in the name of Misthalin!”
The monstrosities didn’t stop, but quickened their pace, as drums of war sounded between them-

“What business do you have with King Roland, citizen?” The steel-clad guard asked calmly under the castle’s roof. The weary farmer breathed heavily, cold and wet, as he coughed, “Wilderness attack-Ambush!”
Jonathan ran wildly from Edgeville to Varrock. As he reached the town square, he nearly collapsed in a heap in the wet road, but fear and horror forced his beat feet forward, towards the palace grounds. He did not need a guard in his face, but the king himself. He fell to his knees, his heart beating wildly, both shocked of what happened and in horror that he might be late to warn everyone of the nightmare that befell him.
“What are you talking about?” The guard demanded.
“EDGEVILLE WAS ATTACKED FROM THE WILDERNESS!!!” He shouted wildly, as he stood up wearily, as lightening lit up the capital city.
“What do you mean?” The guard asked, his eyebrows lifted in reaction to the farmer’s horror.
“Monstrous humans, demon-spawn, worshippers of Zamorack attacked us from the north!!!” He shouted incoherently, fear linking every horrible word in his mind into an incoherent jumble. Thunder rumbled not soon after, shattering the words into a million fragments.
The guard flinched, before a man came running to them, heavily armored, and asked sternly, “What is going on, soldier?”
The guard turned to the head of the guard, and said, “A citizen is raving about an attack on Edgeville.”
“Let him in,” spoke a voice from behind the Captain of the Guard. He turned, just to see a long pale man clad in a heavy suit of gray armor. Helmetless, his wet golden hair fell upon his scarred, cold face.
“Ah, Sir Enhtor,” The captain saluted the knight, who returned the solution hastily, as he said quickly, “I’ve heard word from the Legend’s Guild. Edgeville was burnt down to the ground only three hours ago, our patrols have all been slaughtered.”
“What?” The captain shouted, recoiling. “Who could have done such a thing?”
“Let the farmer speak to the king, now,” Enhtor said harshly.
“As you wish, sir knight,” the captain hastily responded, saluting the knight, who drove the peasant into the palace. Suddenly feeling warmth and unstable safety, the peasant jabbered weakly, “They attacked-”
“Edgeville, I know, old one,” Enhtor spoke calmly, as he led the farmer through the palace’s walls. “I received a warning from The Legend’s Guild. They foresaw it...”
“But-”He started, before the knight knocked a door, as he swung it open, saying respectfully, “King Roland, a survivor from the massacre was able to reach Varrock. I brought him to speak with you.”
A stern-looking pale man clad in dark blue robes turned, as the well-known King Roland III appeared at his throne, standing up in urgency as he said, “Thank you, Leon. Please, Enhtor, send him in.”
The room held the Throne, several windows looking over Varrock’s rainy night, and a couple of seats in the darkness of the room. Two fires burnt in the room, each making poor work of lighting the place.
The stern man, Leon wore a dark expression on his face. He had a short black beard, further sharpening his cruel-looking face. He backed away, as he saluted the king, saying shortly, “I will return to the Legend’s Guild for more information, my lord.”
To Jonathan’s amazement, and horror, Leon walked to the window, stretching his arms, before disappearing into a cloud of smoke, as wisps of blue runes hung in the air.
“What do you bring, my good man?” King Roland asked urgently, turning his eyes from where Leon was to the simple farmer.
He stuttered, before Roland asked instead, “What attacked your village?”
“Men… Monstrous men! They were like any others, if not the scorches on their hands and faces,” he started, before his fear on his family rode over his tongue, as he rushed. “Swords grew out of their swords, my liege! They were vicious! They sliced the patrols that came by like butter! Fire grew from their eyes! Warriors of darkness!!” He shouted in intense fear, his simple mind no absorbing the horror he witnessed a few hours ago. “My family! They must’ve killed them all!!!”
He crumpled into a heap, sobbing on the floor.
Roland wasn’t shocked, as he turned to a window overlooking Varrock, as he said calmly, “Enhtor, take the citizen somewhere safe. Have our army informed, and send scouts into the wilderness.”
“Scouts?” The Knight asked, slightly horrified, as Roland bit his lip, saying bitterly, “We lack the most important weapon in war, Knight… Information.”
“As you wish, my liege,” Enhtor saluted his king, as he led the ruined peasant away.
In the tension, no one noticed the thin, tanned man at the corner of the room. Kind Roland turned to him as the Knight left the throne room, and spoke to him, “I accept your offer, brother king.”
The thin man smiled good-naturedly, as he spoke, standing up, “Many thanks, King Roland. My agent at the Legend’s Guild is progressing nicely. I will do everything I can to ensure that the Dark King does not return again.”
Roland nodded, as he lowered his eyes, saying bitterly, “Falador mocks our cause, Ibrahim. What are we to do? We cannot bring our fears to the white halls-”
“The time will come, when all the free nations of Gelinor will face the Dark Army head-on. Call on the leaders of the nations of Gelinor, and we shall propose an alliance,” the man spoke diplomatically. “Seven days from now, you must hold this meeting.”
Roland nodded, as the thin man smiled lightly, saying, “Have faith…your people are strong, King Roland. As are mine. We shall not fall, as we have not in the old days.”
And turned, leaving the room.
King Roland seated himself on his throne, as he placed his head on his palm, asking the stormy night, “What unleashed such a nightmare?”
As for Ibrahim, the king of the newly united desert empire of Sarab, walked sternly in the palace, before he stood by the door, and whispered calmly to himself, “Time repeats itself…only for us to learn from our mistakes.”
“Apparently, we haven’t,” he told himself, as he walked under the rain. “Now…our redemption is at hand.”
He lifted his hands, before he disappeared in a brilliant flash of golden light. His voice echoed softly in the wind. “Our sins have come back…to haunt us.”

Chapter Two: Guidance.

Far away from Varrock, near Ardougne, the famous Legend’s Guild stood. In a high room, lit by a fireplace and a candle, stood a man near a webbed window, the man had his arm against the window, his forehead flat against the chilly glass. His cloths were oriental and elegant, a royal blue suit and a princely vest, as a long cape draped his shoulders, letting only his pale face and dark golden hair appear to the seer. A whirring sound came from one of the many trinkets and artifacts hung on the wall, as he smiled bitterly.
He stayed silent, before a Leon entered the room silently through the open door. He didn’t observe the silent man’s gaze into the night, but instead said, “It has begun.”
“As foretold,” the man responded coldly.
“What do you wish of me to do?” Asked Leon, as the man turned, placing a finger on an eye patch, saying calmly, “We need to gather the Seven Artifacts, Leon…we spoke about this before.”
“But none of us may enter the sealed locations,” Leon responded angrily. “If you haven’t sealed them from everything, we might have had a chance to combat the Dark King when he chose a new mortal champion!”
The man turned to the window, saying, “It must’ve been done…the island cavern’s seal has been broken, it’s ghostly guardian slain, and the Dark Sword recovered. If we re-sealed the cavern again after the previous guardians, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Leon opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut through his words, “But it has happened. Now, I want you to track down those who entered the cave.”
“But the sword has been taken,” Leon spoke suddenly. “He must’ve been the intruder. I cannot face him by myself, whoever he is.”
“True…but I feel strongly that there is more than just him,” he responded. “There is a remaining rune in there; a hint of ancient teleportation. Track it down, and find whatever took its leave from there.”
“As you wish,” Leon responded, bowing slightly, taking his leave.
“Oh, and Leon,” the man interrupted, not turning back.
“Yes?”
“…The youngsters Ruby overlooks are very promising…they already entered the forest’s ruins and reclaimed the Summoning Tablet.”
“What?!” Leon nearly shouted.
The man raised his head to the skies, as he said, “Yes. I have assigned Ruby to train them for another day, and send them after that to the DarkLands in two days time.
“Raphael will look over them there, and with all hopes, they will recover the Bloodseeker,” the man responded, amused by Leon’s expression in the dark glass, which reflected Leon’s shock like a mirror.
“How did they enter the ruins? You sealed them yourself!”
“One of Ibrahim’s people is with them…his natural magic broke the first seal, as Raphael’s nephew broke the second. The other two have natural efficiencies that helped them with the ruin’s trials,” he responded, a hint of pride in his voice.
“But-what if the Dark King told his champion of how to break the seals? They will storm the locations and use the Artifacts to bolster their own powers! ”
“The Legends themselves secured their chosen ones from such trials. Now, do what I tell you, and we might have a chance against his power.”
He froze, before he saluted the man, and left the room.
The man sighed once Leon left, before asking the dark sky, “The taint of darkness…it’s…Painful…isn’t it?”

“He has returned.”
Mist surrounded a small island beyond the coast of the dark lasts of the east. A dark lighthouse towered over the fog, distant, and barely recognizable.
In it, a man stirred, standing up, speaking to nothing as he set his gaze to the west.
“Markus…”
“I sense your coming…” His heart stirred, fearful as a father, he whispered, “Do not fail me when the time comes…”

“Ah, we have returned!” Edward smiled, as he strode into the Legend’s guild, newly rebuilt. He fell silent, as his three companions joined him, before he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, “RUBY! We got your stone!”
“I would think it bigger than a simple stone slab,” Saif said calmly, as he lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
“Whatever it is, we finished the mission. And we almost died…I thought we would only face tree roots and forgotten tribesmen!”
“What gave you that assumption?” Markus asked.
“Well…” his voice was interrupted by a man coming down the golden flight of stairs in a hurry, before stopping abruptly before the foursome.
Saif’s face lit up suddenly as he said, “My lord!”
The man stopped, before taking a step back. Edward lifted his eyes to face the man who came down. Armored by shining gray armor scales, two large armor plates protected his shoulders, from behind, a long, silvery sword hilt stuck out. The man’s face had a tint similar to Saif’s own face, with a black, graying trimmed beard. His eyes had cunning in them, as his arms had muscles as tense as Saif’s own.
Unlike the guards of the guild, his armor was filled with scars.
The man’s stern face broke into a warm smile, as the man placed his gloved hand on Saif’s shoulder, saying, as he simultaneously shook everyone’s hand enthusiastically, “You came back! Unscathed! Exactly as I expected…as did your companions,” He turned to each of them, as he announced calmly. “Excellent, all very good, he will be pleased.”
“He,” Edward asked suddenly. “Who’s he?”
“Ruby…He was originally assigned to retrieve the stone tablet, but we charged him in preparation and diplomacy with the various tribes of the region.”
“Preparation…For what cause?” Saif asked, before King Ibrahim smiled, saying, “Nobles and kings are not the only ones who should be sharp of tongue, brother. We have a war before us…Unite or fall is what we speak to everyone.”
“A war?” Markus asked. “I didn’t know it became this big. I thought it was only organized raids on random locations.”
“It would have been that simple…if the attackers weren’t so savage,” Ibrahim turned to Markus, and said sadly, “Sadly, every kingdom’s ruler underestimated such thoughts. Two days ago, Varrock suffered a heavy attack, and we were barely able to fend the attackers off.”
“Varrock was attacked?” Edward asked, suddenly horrified.

“It was under siege,” Ibrahim said, before showing what was held under his arm, which looked at start a metal ball. “Although the attackers were few, they laid waste to the guards, and their siege weapons broke a good portion of the northern walls. Troops from the DarkLands to the east, led by the Marquee Resistance and our riders from the south were able to catch up and round up the battle.”
He lifted what was in his hand, a pitch black crystal, as he said darkly, “Their mages used a combination of fire spells and ones we never saw before. This is one of their orbs that circled their hands and spells, rebounding once cast.”
He straightened up, as he said, “You are all dependable troops, and you will be assigned with a fateful task, a quest that will determine the end of this war. The tablet you retrieved is sealing an ancient spell book that teaches advanced Summoning and Spell Sealing. It was used by Elven mages in the Second War, and we will use it counter the dark magics the enemy uses.”
The shock struck the foursome, before Ibrahim continued, lifting the orb to eye’s level, “Once one of the magi of Varrock tried to hold this, her hands were burnt. I was able to hold it, as it holds relationship to the magics of the desert. I will take this to Sarab, and our clerics will study this.”
“What do you mean relationship to the magics of the desert?” Saif suddenly asked, before Ibrahim lowered the orb, placing it under his muscular arm, as he said calmly, “The Ancient Magics of the dwellers before us. Shadow has no affliction, but their magics do. They come from the same source…and while none will wield it, we will counter it by the White Magic Elves used to use.”
“We naturally wield darkness,” Saif whispered with a frown.
The foursome nodded, before Cynthia asked suddenly, “Why not ask the Elves’ alliance?”
“King Tyran will not allow us a diplomatic mission to beyond the mountains that lead to their lands,” he said, before he lowered his voice darkly. “As we sent spies there, they informed us of an ominous civil war that tore apart the elves. Their kingdom has been toppled, their leaders scattered…they are more divided then us.” He said sorrowfully.
“Now, I must excuse myself. I will take my leave,” he said, before he placed his hand on Saif’s shoulder, as he said quietly, “Brother. Arm yourself with faith…”
“Keep your eyes sharp, and your tongues sharper,” he said, waving his hand in leave. Saif nodded, before Ibrahim strode out of the guild.

Night fell before its time over Kandarin, as thick navy clouds swarmed the skies over Ardougne. The people saw this as an ominous sight, and few people’s superstition led them to shut their stores, and retreat to their houses.
Back at the castle, the captain of the guard stirred, as he patrolled the long, decorated halls of the capital of Kandarin.
Cloaked with a large gray jacket, he strode out into the castle square, before he saw few of the guards discussing something amongst them.
“Has something of importance occurred, soldiers?” He commented behind their backs. They turned, and froze into a military stance, knocking their boots together, as the higher ranking of them said, “I am sorry for the pause, sir, but rumor says it that ambassadors departed from the east, from Falador, and are coming to request audience with the King.”
“What? Where did you hear that from?” He demanded. The relationship between the two countries were tense, to say the least. As neighboring countries, they always had trifles of land.
“I fear it is much bigger then what I first thought,” the officer replied. “We had fur and wool merchants return from the Fremminik region empty-handed. They tell us about a massacre that happened…”
“Those savages must’ve fired up a civil war, no doubt. What does that have to do with us?” He asked sternly.
“A war it was not, sir.” He replied respectively, before raising his eyes directly to his commander, and said. “It was indeed a massacre. Seers from Catherby and Camelot have saw nightmares, and when they left their houses at night, they found many adventurers return from the north wounded, some holding children and babies. When they inquired them of what horrendous events have brought up such a thing, they told horrible tales.”
“Of what?” He demanded, as his pulse quickened. Barbarians they are, the Fremminik are not ones to murder unprovoked.
“They say that boats came from the north. Scorched boats, black vessels that held beasts in the form of men docked by the harbor. The Fremminik left their homes, some reluctant, some fearful, some proud…but they all came to death by the sword by those dark riders. They wreaked havoc upon the village, and even the strongest of warriors could not stand before their ferocity and might. The seers said that we were upon times of war.”
“I will inform his majesty of such rumors,” the captain said, before turning his heel, and waving his hand to the knights, saying absently, “Dismissed.”
Striding through the castle, lit only by torches and the faint light from outside, he thought the matter over.
The King repeatedly ordered him to hand over any information from the streets…and that is what he will do.
Once he reached the top floor, and entered the throne room, he kneeled before the King, and said, “My lord, I have heard from the streets that-“
“Is this about the alleged war in the Wilderness?” He asked, keeping his eyes cast out to the skies through the windows of the room. He had long, kept brown hair and a thick red cloak over his shoulders.
Lately, the captain felt nervous in his presence, but duty was duty.
“Yes, my liege. Asgarnia cast out ambassadors to our kingdom.”
“Their filthy nobles,” the King said darkly, his eyes ensnared at the capital. The Captain froze in shock. Never before did he hear the king speak in such dark tone. He lifted his eyes wearily, and said, “That is what they say.”
“And that is why they are coming,” he replied, cold fury in his voice. “They went through the White Mountains, and are approaching our eastern boarders, in request of an alliance.”
“My lord! How do you know?” He nearly shouted. The King shook in laughter, as he said, “The Legends Guild informed me, as they are representing as a third party.”
“But-”
“Silence captain, Asgarnia and Misthalin have been raided by small parties of Northmen, mutated by some power. Their power has increased tenfold, and just now did they retaliate.”
The king turned, his cunning eyes thinned, as he continued, “They come to our kingdom in search of military aid, and the King of the desert empire, Ibrahim came personally to my hall yesterday, with the Dragon of Varrock, the Champion of Misthalin, and Sir Amik Veraze, proposing a military alliance. The ambassadors come in official sense.”
“My liege,” He exclaimed, unable to comprehend the hidden information.
“I, however, will join this alliance,” he stated. “My Kingdom is the first to be offended against if the Northmen move in massive scale. Tomorrow I will attend the meeting at the Round Hall, and you will look over the events in the north of the kingdom.”
He saluted the king, as he said, “As you wish, my Liege.”
“Dismissed.”
He left instantly. The King’s frozen eyes overlooked the kingdom, before he smiled darkly, and said, “This alliance…is doomed to fail.”
He turned back, and walked to his throne, before slumping on it, and saying calmly, “Let them hope while it is at hand…”
There was one thing that worried him…both Misthalin and Asgarnia’s people believed heavily in Saradomin’s teachings. They will never accept the inevitable end that his joining entrails.
He smiled knowingly. Neither his people.

“He rose. Again,” a hateful voice rumbled in the depths of the earth. Red eyes lit up in the darkness, as the voice continued. “The cursed sword has been rediscovered.”
“What do you wish us to do, my lord?” A voice echoed.
“Leave to the surface world, in whatever form you like,” the first responded. “Go send my command to the King of Kandarin, and make sure the Guardians do not find the remaining relics.”
“But my liege-”
“We do not want the guardians and the kingdoms of Men to win this war, nor do we want the Dark Lord to conquer. Have them at the crossroads, and let loose the King’s corruption. Let him know that I command him to bring down the Crystal Spear in Prifddinas. None may use that relic.”
“As you wish, my lord,” The spirit answered, before the voice said, “Tempt him. Feed his thoughts with hunger and thirst. Nourish his pride, and make him vigilant against all who wish to enter the Elven Lands. We must not allow any clans other then the Iorwerth to have any place in Prifddinas.”
“As you wish, my lord,” the spirit repeated, before disappearing.
“Damn them all…” the shadow repeated, before his eyes closed, and the red light disappeared. “Why has this happened now?

“The banished one has awoken,” it whispered to him. He nodded knowingly.
The stone hall was cold as ice. The only lights came from the lit braziers on the edges of the corridor. At the end, above a flight of stairs, was a huge throne. Above it, a warrior sat calmly. His muscular hand was wrapped in dark iron plates, and in his hand was the long, black sword.
The sword fulfilled its unspoken promise. It has indeed granted his people untold power…and power has no allegiance.
May those fools in the south think him evil; he knows better...the sword spoke with him. It had a name…Arcilion. And it called him Alzaneor. He admired the name, and it became his.
His warriors were as strong as the legendary Daggonoth that threatened them once.
“He has awoken, Alzaneor. He will attempt to foil our plans,” it whispered through the iron of which it was made.
It told him about its creation…forged from a fallen star’s iron. It was stronger than the steel in the land…Stronger than the legendary ore Dragonite.
“What do you propose?” He asked calmly. “He is sealed by the strongest of spells.”
“Strong they may be…they are Elven,” it whispered.
“Then they are our targets…The Iorwerth clan?”
“Yes…but have a plan for those opposing you.”
His face broke into a smile, before he burst into laughter, standing up. His long black cloak followed his movements, as he lifted his sword to his mouth, asking, “What…The weaklings?”
“They are divided. A new power is rising from the far south, the Endless Desert. If the Men of the east, in the DarkLands are able to bring their powers to our enemies, our dark magics will find a formidable rival,” it hissed. “Our strength is incomparable, but we can find rivals…”
He fell silent, before it hissed again, “The banished one will seek our downfall. He cannot do anything now but skulk in the shadows, but expect his presence in the Kingdom of the West, and the Elven Lands.”
“So be it…I will have my warriors go there, and break into the Elven Lands.”
“As that will not be hard for them, they will never enter Prifddinas, where my rival sits,” it whispered again. “Nor will they be able to enter the Temple of Light, where the strongest of the Old Relics is.”
“Relics? What are you talking about?” He asked calmly.
“They are of my blood,” the sword whispered. “Weapons, armor, magic scrolls, and books made in my time. Only three of them are able of my powers, but the others have valuable information and strengths our enemies may find useful.”
“Then seek them we shall,” he replied harshly.
“And you must,” it whispered. “It has been a long time since I came to this world…I cannot recognize their presences…”
“Where can I find them?” he asked, disregarding what was told to him.
“The Bloodseeker, a rapier in the DarkLands,” it echoed. “The Vampire lord Draken holds it in his realm…That is the closest one I can recognize. With it gone or close to me, I can uncover the rest.”
“Then I will send my champions to it,” he whispered, striding out of his throne room.
The sword didn’t whisper back, but as he left, it whispered, “Zamorack the dog will be at our tracks, champion...As will the wielders of my kin.”
It shook, as a crack appeared at its handle.
“And they have found one.”

“The Northmen are scurrying across our lands,” the King of Misthalin said calmly. “I want patrol units on this area all day.” He said, pointing at the western part of his kingdom, at Edgeville and beyond the River. “Nariotor, I want you to lead the patrols there,” he said, pointing at the famous figure. The Dragon of Varrock nodded, as he folded his muscular arms.
“I will journey to the Round Hall soon,” the King said, folding his arms behind his back. “There, we will meet with King Tyran officially, and we will discuss all the matters related to this war and our alliance.”

“He did not seem enthusiastic about it, my lord,” Nariotor replied, scrolling his eyes to the men beside his King. Advisers, his fellow commanders of the legions of Misthalin, and some high-ranking adventurers who swore their allegiance to the King gathered that day, to discuss the first moves against the Northmen. “In fact, I felt he was eager to dismiss King Ibrahim, the leader of the White Knights and I.”
“I hope that you are wrong, champion,” the King said softly. “As for you, Felinor,” he said, pointing to a famous adventurer, who bowed in respect. “I want you to lead a diplomatic expedition to the DarkLands to the east. I will pave your way, but you are on your own with your kin there.”
“As you wish, sire… Who are we to speak to?”
“Raphael Sawon. He will be your guide, and he is one of the ancient Guardians. Meet with him, and let him guide you to the Marquee Resistance. There, we can enlist the aid of their powerful magics and warriors,” he replied. “Know, however, that four people will arrive there following to your arrival at the DarkLands: Three men and a woman. They will try to sneak into Draken’s castle.”
He recoiled, before giving out a nervous smile, as he replied, “But my lord. That is impossible…I have tried numerous times myself, as did many of my kin.”
“I surely hope you are very wrong, Felinor,” The king frowned, but not at the well-known adventurer. He turned to the wide windows of the round room he held for ruling, and said, “Know that Raphael himself will assist in their infiltration…and part of your mission is to provide a strong distraction to the rulers of that region.”
“As you wish,” he said, smiling slightly. “Creating distractions is what I do best.”
“You two can leave to your duties now,” the King said, waving his hand. The two saluted him, as they left, accompanied by their respective cohorts.

“War is at hand,” Nariotor said to himself, as he patrolled the western forests with his fellows. He looked north for a moment in sheer hate. Never before did he face such an ominous threat, but that is soon to change. Edgeville has been purged from the Northmen, but none will forget the horror that remained in the hearts of the people of Varrock soon after. The bodies of the unfortunate people of Edgeville were piled in sacks by those barbarians, and burnt, some alive.
He held his greatsword in his right hand, leaning the huge blade on his shoulder, as the clank of the soldiers of Varrock sounded behind him. The woods were charred, some say that the Northmen used siege weapons to burn away the houses of the people they killed, but from his inspection, they used warhammers…mallets of terrifying strength that crushed dents in the hardest of walls.

He looked south, and in the distant fog, he perceived a black mansion. Felinor, in his youth stormed the place with him once, in defense of the poor people of the village south of here. They found a nightmare waiting for them that could be slain only with a wooden stake or it will never stop haunting the land.
Felinor told him years after that he fought monstrosities such like these in the DarkLands. Nariotor did not fear the creatures, which Felinor called Vampires, but feared the darkness within.

“Nariotor, my lord,” came a soldier’s voice behind him. He turned, before he frowned, looking around him.
From the fog, a huge, dark creature came.
He lifted his hand high, before all soldiers came instantly to him, lifted their arms, and stood straight.
“To assassinate me, they came.”
From all around them, more followed. Their bodies were huge, their eyes purely black, their skin scorched or glowed with black tattoos. Armored with black plates of armor, they were the embodiment of malice.
Some did not have arms…but blades in their place.
A harsh wind blew over them, as the frail moonlight that gave them guidance faded. The fire keepers, who held large lanterns gasped as their flames disappeared into smoke.
They surrounded the small patrol.
Nariotor whispered to himself, “If I survive this…harm will never touch me.”
“Onwards, soldiers of Varrock, for the King!” He shouted, before charging towards the ones before him.

Felinor stood at the entrance to the DarkLands, and said calmly, “Time has passed since I crossed these gates, brothers and sisters.”
One of the four cohorts that came with him smiled, as he said, “Aye…as here. So, who is Raphael?”
“He is one of the Guardians of Gelinor,” Felinor said. “A secret organization that I am privileged to know. They work under the guise of the Legends Guild. Only now do they return to action for almost thirty years.”
He walked through the entrance, and headed to the eastern village of the DarkLands, as he said, “What we are looking for is to provide a distraction and speak to the Marquee, which I rightfully assume you all know well. We will ask for their assistance and experience with Dark Magic, and open the roads for the four agents who will infiltrate Castle Draken.”
“The castle?” One asked. “We could not enter it, how could they?”
“One of them has been apparently born here, and raised in this land…and Raphael will guide them personally into the castle itself. There, they will find the rapier they were sent to retrieve. Now, enough talk,” he said, turning to them, the swamps of the DarkLands bubbling behind him. “We have not come here to talk or play. Be on your guard like always, and know that although we all survived the ordeals of this land many times before, there is a chance that the Vampires here gained strength as the Northmen.”
“We will journey northeast first,” he said, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the direction. “There, we will ride a boat north to the Island of Fog, where Raphael resides.”
“If the land is covered by fog, I wonder how we can find our way to an island,” one said.
“Raphael is a powerful mage. He manipulated a color of light to be visible to non-vampires alone. We will find him there by the light he burns from his house.”
They nodded, before he lifted his hand, saying, “Then we go now.”

Markus continued, leading Saif, a reluctant Edward, and a watchful Cynthia. Soon, they reached the first village. Edward sighed, “Finally.”

“We will go around this village,” Felinor stated. Markus nodded, leading the party around.
“Why? We can rest in the village and restock on potions and scrolls,” Edward offered.
“Bad idea,” Markus said, pointing at the village. “That village is ruled by a Vampire lord, and now they are his lackeys. The last thing we need is notification of our presence.”
“But-”
“They know me, Edward,” Markus said coldly, lifting watchful eyes to the black sky. “They would probably arrange an assassination, and you all will end up in trouble. And the Vampire Lord will know of where we are…embarking on a manhunt that would make our mission more hazardous than it is…probably impossible.”
Markus fell silent for a moment, before turning to Edward, then Saif, “We must be swift, and silent in this…let us beat the demons in their own games.”
Saif smiled, before drawing his longsword, and said, “Guide us to your mentor.”
Markus nodded, before the party hurried north toward the coast.

“Greetings, Captain of the Guard. I wish to meet the King,” the traveler said, a silky smile on his face.
The Captain felt ill winds as he approached, but asked sternly, hitting his spear on the ground, “What could I owe this visit for?”
“I am but a mere messenger to the True King,” the traveler said. Unnerved, the Captain stressed, “And who might that be, traveler?”
The man smiled darkly, not responding. The Captain almost reached for his sword; infuriated by the ominous visit, but then a soldier came to his quarters, and stated, “Captain, the King accepts the audience of a messenger coming from the south.”

The Captain’s face twisted into a frown, before he pointed at the traveler, and told the soldier, “Take him to the King’s throne room.”
The traveler smirked at the Captain, who almost reached for his blade again, but held himself.

“What news do you bring from Zamorack?” The king asked absently, looking out--