deathhead154

http://forum.tip.it/viewtopic.php?t=444236&highlight=crypt I wrote another story a while ago about a war my old clan went through. Rtae if if you want.

Last part up! Its longer than my other parts.

Part 5 up!

Part 3 up!

Man thats Capttain Hand can be odd. Months at sea with no women can do that to a man sometimes...

Part 2 up!

Pretty nice story, I await the sequels. TIP: Try to avoid continuous "He"s. Try to change a bit by saying "the assasin","the man", his name etc.

This is going to be quite the story, but will be presented in installments. Positive commentaries speed up the creative genius you know... Scale of 1 to 10 pl0x. Enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The origins of the Barrows brothersÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ãâæ ---------------------------------------Chap.1------------------------------------ Let me tell you a tale that spans the generations, that flies through the Golden eras and stumbles across murky waters. A story that Time itself forgot to record, but that Fate dictatedÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ãâæ Long ago, in a land long forgotten, lived two brave souls, the witch Heritha and the fierce barbarian chieftain Hengor. When a wave of plague swept the land, killing humans by the hundreds, noble Hengor was struck down by disease. He fell into a wave of darkness, the sickness spreading into his very soul. He would have died, had not Heritha created a spell to extract the evil from the barbarianÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s body. She lathered the manÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s chest and limbs with a cold poultice, the herbal remedy weakening the disease. Then the woman reached into her rucksack and pulled out a pair of inscribed stones. She smacked them together roughly. Suddenly, her hands lit up with a bright yellow glow and she reached into HengorÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s body, burning away all traces of the disease with her healing hands. The barbarian chieftain opened his eyes, the only man said to have survived the wave of illness and saw his saviour. An angel bathed by the soft morning light. The proud barbarian was humbled by the womanÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s beauty. Instead of a polite thank you, sat up briskly and grabbed the woman. Pressing his lips softly against hers, hengor was delighted to see that she was not pushing him back. Tenderly, he laid her on the ground. By the summer equinox, Heritha gave birth to three boys, and another two a year later. Sadly, the woman died in the painful birthing of her children and her lover was left in charge of his sons. The children were beautiful; healthy, strong of bone and of muscle and with an intelligent sparkle in their eyes. The eldest, Arhim, had been born with the gift of intelligence, his brains surpassing those of any other child his age. The next, Dharok, was the strongest of the group. The strong silent type, he rarely talked or blabbered with no point. Guthan was the outdoorsman, knowing which plants were poisonous and which could be safely eaten. Verac was the quick one, always speeding off to some clearing to hunt or to pee in a bush. Finally, Torag was the aggressive one. No one knew such brutality hid in those muscles until he almost killed a young boy that had insulted his deceased motherÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s memory. Such force proved very useful in the wilds of the untamed lands. One day, as the five brothers were out foraging for food, they hacked their way into a clearing surrounded by densely packed trees. Suddenly, instincts flared to life as a deep, raspy breathing came from the west. Dharok picked up a hefty rock and pulled his arm back, ready for a throw while his brothers arranged a defensive formation with their staves. A smallish boy, about Veracs tender age of thirteen, stumbled into the clearing, crusting wounds apparent on his slender body. He walked a few steps towards them, and then collapsed into a broken heap next to them. The five young men rushed to his side, pulling linen bandages from their haversacks. The young manÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s wounds were heavy with infection, ringed with a greenish crust, but the worst was surely his throat. A thin red line cut neatly across the neck, circling the veins then sharply cutting back. Blood as thin as water oozed from the wound, but the flow was somewhat stemmed by a pad of cloth stuffed on it. Arhim whispered: -We need to get him to the village elder. He wonÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢t live long without proper healing. Dharok hitched the lad on his strong back, already broader than most of the mensÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ in his village. Emerging from the forest, the boys were quickly encircled by village folk thinking they had brought back fresh meat. -Watcha got there, boy?, asked a big man. Dharok gently lowered his baggage on the floor, careful not too disturb the wounded boy too greatly. A general intake of breath echoed across the crowd, and an old man pushed through: -Move it, move it!, he peered at the boy. - Hmm, this young man will live, but not without time and some permanent damage. I doubt heÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ll ever speak again. The old man beckoned Dharok to carry the boy to his hut and to leave him on the bed. The old man pulled a small glass vial from a cabinet and poured a greenish liquid over the young manÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s wounds. The air filled with a putrid smell as the liquid burned away the scabs and the infection. The wounded boy grumbled in his coma against the obvious pain and twitched a bit. Dharok left the old healer to his crafty doings and exited through the oaken door. ---------------------------------------Chap.2----------------------------------- The next week, as the boys were setting down for their morning meal with their father, someone knocked on the door. Hengor rose and opened the door to reveal the old healer with a bashful young man in tow. A wicked scar traced across his neck and his gait was somewhat hampered by the scars on his ribs. The old man spoke in his crackly voice: - This is Karil, the boy you rescued. None of the other huts can house him and I thought since you already house 5 boys, you could maybe house another. Proud Hengor strode over to Karil and poked his finger into the boys muscles. -Hmm, poor boyÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s gonna need more meat on his bones! The chieftain walked over to the table where his sons had tucked in to their meal and ripped off a leg from yesterdays catch. -You like meat, boy? Karil nodded eagerly, his hand flying at lightning to snatch the leg of venison and bite a huge chunk from the steaming meat. -The ladÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s a mute, said the healer. His vocal cords were shorn from his throat by the injury, and mute heÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ll stay for the rest of lifeÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ãâæ His explanation was drowned by a scream from the adjacent room. The two adults rushed to see what all the commotion was about. It seems Ahrim had found his motherÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s rucksack on the mantlepiece and had wasted no time in examining its contents. He had removed some of his mothers more potent spellcaster stones, the stone of fire. His eyes tightly shut in concentration, the elderboy had summoned a tiny pinpoint of light from the stone. The [puncture] of fire rose through the air, seeking the nearest exit. Sensing the danger, Verac threw open the window shutters, carefully avoiding the rapidly growing orange dot. The shiny pinpoint escaped into the still-dark morning air, disappearing into the star-strewn sky. Suddenly, Ahrim snapped his eyes open and pointed at the tiny dot among the others. A tremendous explosion lit up the sky, making it day for a few moments, a blazing inferno to rival the sun. A whisp of wind waved the smoke in the aftermath away, but it did nothing to wave away the stupefied looks of the simple villagers who had never heard of magic, let alone seen it! Hengor stood and looked over at his son, who was waving the small stone eccsasticly, with a proud look. Ahrim may not have inherited his strength, but he did inherit the formidable magic power of his mother! Ahrim lit the fire every day from now on with small controlled bursts of flame. He was the crown jewel of the tribe, the only barbarian mage. One day, the five boys and their newly appointed borther Karil, went out hunting. Karil was an amazing shot with rocks and javelins. They were walking across the most popular pass, the one that crossed near a favoured animal watering hole. Guthan swept aside a bush to reveal a young doe and her baby fawn licking the clay near the water. Dharok hefted his rock and hurled it with great force. It smashed the side of the fawnÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s head, caving in the skull while Karil slung his javelin, the bronze tip piercing the doeÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s ribcage to hit the heart. The doe still not crumble like her progeny, but thrashed violently, her lifeblood pouring out the side until Dharok flew in and neatlt snapped her neck. Heaving the 500 pound doe on his back like it was nothing more than a shawl, Dharok plopped the dead doe on Guthan and trodged on home. -The meat will taste sweeter to us knowing that we provided it! Said Dharok, licking his lips. Guthan answered: - Well probably have a great feast tonight and the women will smoke the rest of the meat. It will be a night to remember! Torag grumbled, his thighs stung by poison ivy and scratched by thorns. - Bah, itÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s only a small kill. I couldÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ve got one on my own! Verac came along and smacked him playfully behind the head. -Remember brother! Last one there is last one served! Dharok quickened his pace and drooling, he replied: - I can smell the fire from here. The women mustÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ve already built the firepit! Ahrim stopped cold and sniffed the air. -ThatÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s not normal fire. ItÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢sÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬ÃâæitÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢sÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ãâæ Suddenly, he sped off in direction of the sense and the 5 remaining brothers heard a cry soon after. Dharok rushed in, soon followed by his brothers and Karil, simply to find Ahrim on his knees before a scene of devastation. The entire village had been destroyed, building razed to the ground, some simply burned down. The women and children were crying in front of the body of a father or husband. Some of the men had gruesome wounds; some were simply dead with their body intact. Dharok dropped the carcasses and ran towards a man bleeding profusely from a jagged cut than ran the length of his face while Ahrim ran towards the small gathering in the village square. Ahrim shoved his way through the dense wall of villagers to see the old healer crouched over something. Ahrim flicked on a plume of flame from his spellstone and illuminated the area. The light revealed the body of the man who had sired the mage and his brothers, eyes glazed over in the realm of death. A precise hole, pierced in the breastbone directly above the heart, was oozing darkened blood. The old healer closed the mans eyes and drew a small star on his forehead with HengorÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s blood. Ahrim heard a distant voice bellow for help, but he walked as if in deep water. His father had been killed, and he did not know why. It wasnÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢t simply the news of his kinÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s death; it was the fact that he could not swear vengeance on his killer! The young mage reached his brother and helped him lay the wounded man down. Pulling a thick wad of cloth from his pouch, he sponged some of the blood splattered on the villagers face. He shushed the man and withdrew a few stones from his bulging puch. He touched the stone to the mans forehead and concentrated. Withdrawing thoughts and emotions from the mans past, he viewed the events that had passed here: He saw the commotion as a small group of white-robed men entered the village and demanded to see the chief. He saw his homes door creak open as Hengor stepped out, accompanied by the village elder. The two men went deep into conversation with the white-robed men, and he heard some words. ÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ãâ¦Ã¢â¬ÅGodÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬ÃâÃ

My brain always seems to be asking me questions, so I answer it in real life, which may seem odd to an outsider. It asks ridiculously complex questions and I seem to find the answer out of nowhere. I have nevr known these words, nor ever heard of them. Also, I always seem to hear sounds that are not real, but I believe those are called "auditve mirages".

deathhead154

Deathhead154

I love the clone shotgunner, I developped a special affinity for it after I rolled under an Acklay and blew its stocmach out. I'm a fair enough pilot for the Trifighter, but my tactic is an invasion of the hangar and the elimination of enemy pilots with my Precison Pistol. Favorite vehicule must be the ATAT, man I love that green beam!

Nice story Mindless, as I have come to expect from you. Mid checking mine out in the off-topic section?

I have full zombie and emotes.

Id say reaching 80 mining f2p at 68 combat...

Well, the ? in place of the "'" are because I type on a French computer and the transition from the two languages transforms the punctuation marks often. I Guess i just missed a couple...

Why was it not? What colour do smurfs go after you choke them?

Misterfez.

General Eilenor was very much worried about the events in the past month. Rumours had come to his ears about an upcoming war. He realised rumours such as these were often created by housewives with nothing better to do, but this time, the rumours held a ring of truth. Relations between the great city of Falador and the small barbarian village of Ragnorak had not been pleasant, especially with the capture and summary execution of a missionary they had sent back there. The old veteran realised that one village was barely any threat, but a village that drew out allies from their holes in the mountain was real danger. Eilenor climbed the huge stone staircase that led to the castle roof. Popping open the trapdoor, he exited and was greeted by a gust of chill wind. Pain is good for the soul, he repeated to himself, as he gritted his teeth and willed himself to move along. He finally arrived to the battlements. Leaning on the huge stone crenellations, he fixed his gaze on the small plume of smoke in the horizon. Yes, he told himself, we would have to fix that problem. Fire can fix any problemâââ¬Ã¦ Pushing open the huge oaken doors that connected the Great Hall to the throne room, old Eilenor walked over to the king. Aydrianâââ‰â¢s father, King Felagir, was old. Eyes glazed over with the mist of age, his movements were slow and creaky, and his gait was unsteady. Wrinkles and scars twisted his face into a wood-like complexion. Even his trusty staff could not support his frame. General Eilenor strode confidently and whispered a few choice words into his liegeâââ‰â¢s ear : - My lord, the barbarians are readying an attack. Should I marshall the troops? The old ruler mumbled a few words, his lips barely moving. His advisor, the mage Grimlin, leaned over and listened intently. Rising stiff-backed, he called out in a loud voice. - Lord Felagir supports your attack, as long as you bring young Aydrian along. It is long since he has seen any action. A turmoil raged inside Eilenorâââ‰â¢s mind. Why should Aydrian be tagging along? All he would do is get in the way of the knights. And is a battlefield such a good sight to be showing the crown prince? Eilenor quickly resolved that issue. Bowing repeatedly, he exited the room promptly. His steps echoing through the great marble corridors of the castle, he made his way to Aydrianâââ‰â¢s quarters. He was not surpirsed to see him sleeping under a undle of blankets. - Get up! Its past morning and we have to go! Aydrian woke with a startle and let his eyes adjust to the light. Rubbing a hand over his face, he mumbled that he would be down at the armory in a few moments. Having left the room, Eilenor let his mind fly back to pleasant memories as he made his way to the castle armory. Oh, how many battles he won, how many friends he had made, how many hearts he had charmed! He had that silly grin still plastered o his face when he entered the spacious weapon store. As soon as he opened the heavy iron door, he was nearly overcome by the srong smell of rusting iron and musty air. He pressed on and found a bench to sit on while waiting for Aydrian. The young man stepped in the room a few minutes later, wearing a fine silken tunic and doeskin breeches. He sat down with his mentor and waited for an explanation. - Do you think youâââ‰â¢ve got what it takes to kill a man? To defend your king and country? The young man was surprised by this odd question and ran it though his mind a few times. Finally deciding, he stared his teacher in the eyes and answered : - Yes, I will do whatever it takes to keep my home safe for all. The old man grimly smiled and said : - Then you must pick your weapon of choice. Remember, your choice will follow you throughout your life. The prince ran his fingers on the weapon racks surrounding him. Feeling the weight and edge of different blades, swinging huge spears and polearms and flexing bowstrings, the young man finally settled on a razor-sharp longsword. About 3 feet long and with a blue leather strapped handle, this was indeed one of the finest weapons of the kingdom. It was also one of the only ones made of Runite, a newly discovered metal. Aydrian spun a few slow, delibarate circles with the blade, hearing his sweet song in the air, and snapped it into his sheath. Eilenor watched him in sincere admiration and motionned him to follow. Whiping off a sheet of cloth off of a stand, he revealed a suit of fine steel armour, the burnished metal gleaming in the torchlight. Removing the greaves from the stand, Eilenor strapped the leather bands onto Aydrianâââ‰â¢s muscled calves. He buckled the helm on the young princeâââ‰â¢s head and fitted the gautlets. Finally, he strapped on the shining platebody and let the young man admire his looks. After a while, he walked over to the door and presented the exit to Aydrian. Quietly walking down the marble halls of the castle, the two men were deep into their thoughts, Aydrian thinking of glory and fame, Eilenor pondering how he should break the news of his sonâââ‰â¢s death to the king. Finally arriving to the entry hall, Aydrian yelled a command to the sentry guarding the portcullis and, creaking heavily, the iron gate opened, revealing a dazzling sunshine. A patrol of about two score armoured knights awaited orders, along with a dozen archers and a small squad of five mages. Eilenor bowed slightly to Aydrian and stretched his hand. - Your forces await orders, my prince. Aydrian, unused to so much pressure on him, yelled out an brisk command to exit the city by the north gates. The barbarian village was barely two miles away fom the great city after all. It seemed as all of the Falador population were there to hail the departing army. How many of these people would be in tears at the end of the day? Only Saradomin knew nowâââ¬Ã¦

Im going for Guthix...

Most stories make sense...

Id imagine a large portion of that skill will be taming...

The curvy waitress, hearing the commotion outside, approached the young man, a worried look on her features. - Whaâââ‰â¢s happeninâââ‰â¢ outside? Young Aydrian took a place on a barstool facing the counter and flicked a silver coin on the lacquered wood. - Just some bum playing around with things he shouldnâââ‰â¢t have touched. Ill have a mug of your finest ale. The waitress, having worked in this bar for quite a while, approached him suspiciously and asked : - Ah, you donâââ‰â¢ look to have seen twenty winters. Why would a young âââ¬ÃÅun like you been wantinâââ‰â¢ with beer? Aydrian flicked another coin, gold this time, and asked for his drink a second time. The waitress, not one to complain about free money, went to fetch him the ale. Setting the mug down hard on the counter, the pretty young lass looked around if there was anyone else in the bar, and sat down next to Aydrian. Noticing the fine cut of his clothes and the jewelled dagger belted to his hip, she realised he was no ordinary youth. Aydrian drained his mug in one gulp and got up, still steady. The barmaid grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down to side beside her. Smiling sweetly, she talked to chit-chat him. - Did you hear? There are rumours of war running among the folk these days. Aydrianâââ‰â¢s ears immediately peaked, sensing there might be some profit in this talk. - Did you happen to hear who were the attackers? The young lad chuckled and responded : - Do you ever get anything straight from rumours? Aydrian took this as a no, and motionned to leave. The lass pulled him around to face her. Aydrian took the time to closely examine her. She was a pretty thing, aged of about eighteen summers. Her clothes clung tightly to her fair skin, probably to entice male customers to buy more alchohol. Her lashes batted heavily over her green eyes and her teeth were of stark white. Indeed, thought Aydrian, she was indeed a sight to behold. Something then stirred in the young lad. Was it a carnal desire? No, love was for the weak. He quickly dismissed that idea and listened to the girl. - Just be careful. You can never be too sure of what happens outside our walls. The young lass released Aydrianâââ‰â¢s cloak and watched the lad depart. She had the funny feeling she would see him again.

Aydrian quickly wriggled out from under his mentor's weight and dusted himself off. Grabbing his cloak from the peg on the wall, he stormed out of the arena room. Still in a huff, he swabbed his face with the fine material, cleaning the blood and sweat that stung his open wounds. Throwing aside the curtain that served as door to his quarters, he tore off his [bleep]ed gauntlets and hurled them to the far wall of his room. He took comfort in the sound they made as they crashed against the unyielding stone. Stroding up to his desk, he roughly sat down on his stool made of the finest wood and placed his face in his hands. Why hadn't I won? he thought. Was it possible that the old man, old and brittle as a bone, was actually better than him? He quickly dismissed that possibility and got up. He walked over to his cupboard and extracted a thick woolen cloak and a fine silver dagger. Buckling the weapon to his leather belt, he threw the cloak on his shoulders and jaunted out the room. Passing by the huge marble columns adorning his home, he gave a quick salute to his servants and walked through the protective gates marking the entrance of the Asgarnian castle. Walking under these devices, he noticed the razor-sharp blades adorning the lower edge of the gates. Painful, he thought, as he basked in the morning sunlight. Hiding the sheathed dagger with the hem of his cloak, he slowly passed through the great city of Falador. The young prince strode up to the city square, drawing envious glances from the eyes of every peasant. Disgusted by the long rows of beggars stationned near the banks and castle, Aydrian quickly retreated to the bar thinking to get an ale before the day properly started, but he was immediately accosted by somebody. Dirty, unshaven and smelling faintly of urin, the beggar extended an arm so emaciated, Aydrian wondered why it didn't simply snap off. The old man grumbled softly, and wiggled his fingers around. Aydrian slowly reached into the folds of his robes and produced the silver knife. How the old mans' eyes widened at that sight! He could eat for months with what this young lad was giving him! The crown prince advanced the weapon, blade forwards, towards the beggar. The old man extended his arm, greedy eyes darting to and fro his benefactor's face. He grabbed the blade with his stubby little fingers. Suddenly, Aydrian whipped the weapon back, taking pleasure in the screams of the old beggar, clenching his hand, three fingers on the floor. -Take your just reward and be off with you, Aydrian said in his face, and entered the bar.

Only bolt racks can be used with it.