imhomer

ill try and hold one in 2 weeks but until then please don't bump this

lol no, ill just try to run another of these at some other time with more warning

cancelled due to lack of participants

I need more people to plan on this if ti's going to happen.

In celebration of the new Zombie Clothes random event, I will be holding a Pk trip and parade on Saturday, March 18th beginning at 3pm EST on World 72. At 3pm EST we will all meet in Draynor wearing our zombie uniforms! Then we will go on a parade around RuneScape through Lumbridge, Varrock, Barbarian Village, and Finally Edgeville. During the parade we will be forming a conga line behind the leaders. F2P and P2P is invited to join, especially those with the new full zombie uniforms. Speaking of the uniform, here it is!: *Zombie Mask *Zombie Top *Zombie Bottom *Zombie Gloves *Zombie Boots *Bronze Axe(obtainable at Bob's Axes or easily smithable) *Lots of fish bait (one full inventory should do, buyable from fishing shp in Port Sarim) If you don't have these items, don't worry, you can still participate. We will be asking random people for their brains, yelling out "braaaaaaains!!!!", and generally making a fuss. At our stop in Lumbridge, we will make a fishing bait drop at the fountain area. Make sure to spread out your bait across the minimap! After all these events we will be going on a PK trip into the wilderness. I do not cover losses of items so do so at your own risk! This is the uniform for our trip into the Wildy *Yellow Cape *Whatever items and armour you are willing to lose Please do not attack people on the same team as you and above all have a good time!!! I would like to have a lot of people come to this event so if you are planning on coming please let me know. I will not hold this event with fewer than 15 people planning on attending. Attendees: *Imhomer *biggy08755 *evaboy70 *audee

I have no idea why it is stretched, it just showed up that way. I use 1200 by something resolution so it isn't a problem on my computer but if you have any suggestions on how to fix it I will take them.

Wow, nice job! I have to say I am very impressed with the pictures. Can't wait until my character shows up.......soon (hint hint). Lol just kidding, just go with the flow of the story man.

Cool, PM me when you write the story out.

ill take whatever's left RS name=Imhomer

Thanks 8) . I'll just fix the missing bits.

Registering a Character: Name: Facruf Race: Human Build: 6'1" 145lbs lean but muscular Age: 28 Alignment: Neutral Occupation: Warrior Skills: Good at hand to hand fighting/western fighting (headlocks and punches, no eastern martial arts like karate), some thieving ability, stalking (can follow people in a crowd), limited mining ability Weapons: Brass knuckles, knives (both throwing and stabbing) Armour: none Starting Region: Asgarnia Details: Facruf hates merchants because they symbolize the corruption that led to his poverty. He is reasonably knowledgeable about mining having worked for miners for several years. He likes wilderness but would like to one day return to Asgarnia. Bio: Facruf was born into a poor family in the slums of Falador. As a young boy, he was a runner for the many miners of the area which gave him strength in his youth. His interests truly lay in the Order of the White Knights. He would spend hours in the inn outside their castle drinking and listening to stories told by the squires relaxing there. The continual bar fights there over the honor of different knights frequently involved Facruf teaching him crude fighting techniques that were extremely effective. When Falador's mines began to give out in his late teens, Facruf lost his job and became an impoverished begger. He picked up skills pick poketing the townpeople and guards. Turning on his boyhood heroes, he attempted to steal from the White Knights. This attempt ended in his capture and he was tried before the High Tribunal. Sentenced to life imprisonment, he was sent to the infamous Port Sarim Jail. Like most of the convicts there, Facruf was exiled to Karamja where he became a barely accepted part of a local tribe. There he was enslaved by the warlord of Karamundi and put to work as a hitman as it would be easy to displace the blame on an outlander. Currently he is still under the power of the warlord. Registering a Town: Name: Karamundi Main Occupants: Humans (Karamja natives and some slaves) Region: Karamja State: Huts for most people but a large palace for the Warlord Police Force: Yes (corrupt, secret) Government: Warlord Other: Located in the deep jungle of the northeastern section of the southern portion of Karamja.

Depends like everything else but I can make anywhere from 10k to 2.4mil (I sold 4k steel yesterday)

Wow, wonderful guide. Helped me a lot when I was going for 30k essence. I know this hasn't been posted on in about a month but keep this one alive people.

I am not able to make it but I'd like to make a donation of 40 Amulets of Magic for you to drop.

That's a breakdown point in the tutorial. Recently I started another character and had to go through tutorial island again. Nobody on the entire island ever tell you how to speak!

lol, I didn't even notice that, edited

I am a relatively new player to RuneScape (only started May '05) but from what I've heard, things have really gone downhill since the 'Classic' days. Lots of people say be kind to others and they will be kind to you. Most people don't think this is true but I enjoy being Kind. I was training killing Moss Giants on Crandor when someone came up and offered to pay 10k for an air rune to tele off the island. I had 50 in my inventory from killing giants and I offered to trade him and he put up the 10k. I refused and gave him 5 of my airs for free. He was so thankfull that he gave me all his spare swordies (7) to me for free. Just putting an optomistc view on things.

Actually the first 21 digits of pi are: 3.14159265358979323846 . . . .... God I'm a nerd :roll:

Something not on your list is cowhides. They sell for a lot and are easy to get. The equivalent of F2P bowstrings.

Please comment people

bad player name like "skurm0m." I remember seeing that a few days ago.

Usually I put it under offensive language but I don't know entirely

where is the drop party?

This is the first chapter in a story I hope will continue for a few chapters. Please tell me what you think once you're done reading it. Edit: Well it's been about 2 months since the last chapter and I've finally gotten around to typing in my story. Not much more to say, enjoy! ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ A breeze drifted over the mountains and across a great plain. It passed broad rivers and sleeping deer. In time it came to the city of Arkandrus, the jewel of Agrathrea. It wove through darkened alleyways and imposing manors, noble mansions and ranshackle huts. The wind itself carried the first hints of autumn. Leaves were carried from the city's many plazas along with tufts of dry grass and twigs. All of this came to rest on a dark, motionless figure seated at the base of a fountain. The wind probed this figure's contours then moved on to the ocean in the south. The figure was neutral in almost every possible way. Neither tall nor short, man nor woman, muscular yet sinewy. Its face was one of complete blankness. This Thing was perfect for slipping out of ones memory like water out of enclosed hands. Another curious wind came, piling more material on the Thing and still it did not stir. Hours crept by in the steady march of time. Heralded by more gusts of wind, clouds came from the north and obscured the moon, wispy at first but quickly thickening. Snow began to fall silently on the city, coating road, houses, and the Thing alike. With a single shuddering movement, the Thing stood up. Leaves and snow cascaded off of it in silent, fluttering sheets before being scattered by the wind. The Thing cocked its head like an owl listening for prey and then set off along a nearby alleyway. It moved with great speed through the city, cloak barely rustling at the touch of the rough flagstones. It passed houses where families slept and bazaars where goods were bought and sold every day. Slowly the houses became larger and more grand, fences began to accompany grand manors set back from the street by gardens. Suddenly it came to rest. Straight ahead of it stood a ruin. Once a mansion of a rich merchant, recent years had been harsh to it and it had fallen into disrepair. Crumbled and broken stonework littered the now weed-infested garden as the labor of masons long dead disintegrated. The occasional piece of rotten wood broke the monotony with discolored roofing plank contrasting the lichen crusted the fallen masonry. What was once a grand fountain stood as a loose pile of stones and the fence was only twisted scrap iron. The Thing cocked its head again, and stared expressionless at the upstairs window. Even this late in the night, the window still shown with the light of a lamp. Silent as a shodow it drifted over to a now dead oak in the garden and began to climb. Its long, bone like fingers clutched the bark and then drew the Thing up behind them. Clambering atop a large branch, it startled a sleeping raven into flight. The Thing's boney hands darted out and snapped the bird's neck with a muffled crack. The bird was then carelessly tossed aside, rasping caw gurgling in its throat. It fell to the ground with a dry thud. From inside its cloak, the Thing pulled out a weapon, blade chiming like funeral bells. The weapon was as neutral as its owner, absorbing all light yet emitting its own dark energy. Not long enough to be called a sword but much to long to be a dagger it had a wicked hilt with [bleep]es still wet with it's last kill. The only unique quality of the weapon was its color. Not a black like pitch but a deep, true black that one knew would suck them in and never let them go. It inched forward silently, feet as confident on the branch as a squirrel's. Now it was mere feet from the window. At this distance it could easily see the manor's former granduer. Delicate sculpture had been invaded by ivy, slowly turning the masterpiece to dust. Trellises reached up to the window, thorny thistles climbing like the earth itself was trying to swallow the ruin. Holes in the masonry surrounding the window told of intricate, iron-bordered window panes long since vandalized and defaced. In the place of the window was a simply oiled canvas cloth merely made to keep the weather out. The guttering flame of a candle cast the fascimilie of a slumbering man onto the cloth. With the speed and patience of a stalking predator, the Thing slowly thrust its weapon through the cloth. Crisscrossed weaves parted before the blade like silk, slash barely perceptable to the eye. As the Thing slowly forced the knife through the openining, the moon shone through a thin break in the clouds. A beam of light filtered through the oak's dead branches and hit the Thing just below its right shoulder. For a moment, its neutral form flickered. In its place was an elderly farmwife, dressed in simple woolens with sleeves rolled up as if going to do the laundry. She had a pained expression as though concentrating very hard. The clouds shifted and once more the moon fled the night. The Thing returned. Restarting its work where it had left off the moment before, it thrust its fingers through the slash, tearing the canvas aside. It thrust one leg through the hole and then another. Then the Thing shrugged the rest of its torso inside. It had entered a large room filled with books. At one point, this had been the merchant's private study, a place of solitude from the rest of the chaotic world. Bookcases of all kinds streached from floor to ceiling, some with guilded shelves while others a simple design of fitted oak boards. Covering the floor were various manuscripts and tomes. Time-worn parchment written in Elvish runes sat beside personal diaries of men long since expired. Teetering stacks of documents were arranged throughout the room with no particular order like they had grown like printed trees out of the floor. Through the stacks and books were narrow paths leading to each of the bookshelves, some almost empty. All the paths followed no plan, only converging at the center of the room. In the center was a thin, flimsy desk certainly not original to the house. Atop it were stacked a dangerous amount of books and occasionally the books would shift of their own accord, causing unhealthy creaking from the joints. Along with the books stood a small flickering oil lamp along with a quill and inkwell. At the focus of the entire room was an old man slumped over a large volume. Well into his fifth decade, the man had many premature lines on his face from long hours of deciphering ancient writings. His long gray mustache drooped down past his chin which had been left unshaven for unknown days. The man's eyes were bordered by puffy rings, the cost of fervent research late into the night. It was likely that his was the first time the man had slept in several days which was why he didn't stir with all the commotion of entering the room. A white robe was stained in many places with ink and the wrists were a permanant gray from the constant smudging of ink. Had the man stood he would have been almost six feet tall if not for the scholars stoop he had aquired. The Thing halted behind the sleeping form and readied its blade. Tip steady as an arrow, the weapon plunged down towards the man's heart. And stopped in midair. The blade hovered an inch above the old man's back, now trembling with an unseen struggle. The Thing's face now twisted with emotion, jaw set in grim determination. Slowly it placed its other hand on the hilt. Slowly the blade crept towards the old man's heart, the skin on his back growing pale in the dark energy of the blade. With a touch as soft as a feather, the point [puncture]ed the skin. Then, with a final look of defeat, the Thing thrust the blade into the man, [bleep]ed hilt now spattered with new blood. The man jerked upright, fingers scrambling at the blade poking out of his chest. The Thing twisted the blade, lacerating the man's lungs and sending him sprawling to the ground. The Thing stepped on the man's back and yanked its gore-covered blade out of the man. He let out his last breath with a sigh and fell still on his precious books. A single drop of blood trickled out of the man's mouth and fell to the floor. The Thing took a final look at the study, eyes passing over bookshelves, desk, and the old man. With a smooth motion, it reached out and gently tipped the lamp off the desk. It shattered on the ground, spraying oil in a glistening mist across the room. as it settled, flame engulfed it, feeding on the paper underneath. The Thing went to the window, climed onto the sill and jumped out. Before it could hit the ground it vanished in a black mist, drifting across the moon. Once more the road was silent. Birds still slept in their roosts while squirrels huddled in knotholes. A thin tendril of smoke rose out of the upstairs window of a manor, chased by growing flames. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ End of Chapter 1 Footsteps echoed dully between the trees. A pair of boots scuffed each other as one surpassed to take another step. Coming down firmly, it crunched on the autumn leaves hidden by fresh snow. The unexpected sound scared the birds, leaving their warm perches in a falling cascade of snow suspended in the air. Another step shook snow from the bunched leggings above the boots. Stained and worn, they had protected the wearer from bright sun and clutching nettles. They were made of a coarse weave, meant to be worn for years. It was held about the waist with a crude leather strap, the likes of which had probably belonged to a cow mere days before. A small satchel rode on the broad back and looked to be from the same cow as the belt. Small holes had been punched in the top and a drawstring fed through. A square flap of leather at the top protected the contents from the weather. The footsteps on the trail halted, snow suddenly silent. There were now two trails in the wood, one with the traveller and one meandering off into the darkening woods. It looked up. Light through the broken boughs above flooded the man's face. An unevan brown beard jutted defiantly from his chin. His eyes were a soft green which belied his severe nose. A heavy brow and eyebrows added to his fearsome visage. The sun darkened skin on his face was drawn tight by hunger over broken bones. He stared at a decaying sign post. Three boards pointed in all different directions. The first was broken and gnowed to pieces. The other two had a thick layer of lichen and moss that the man scraped off before consulting each. One pointed back the way he had come. The third directed him towards Cristama, either a bustling city or backwater farm town. Feet scuffled again, heading down the trail to Cristama. He walked along the new trail. Stopping for a moment he bent over a stream still burbling under a skin of ice. Shifting his threadbare cloak aside he bent over the stream cupping his hands. Raising his hands to his mouth, he let the freezing water dribble down his chin. The water made the tatooed X's on his hands glisten like fresh blood. A twig snapped off in the woods with a loud crack in the frozen silence. Almost without pause a single tatooed hand darted inside the cloak and withdrew a long, curved belt knife. The man crouched down in a snowdrift, forcing himself to breathe slowly and keep his silence. He eased towards a pool undercutting the bank of the stream. He slowly dropped himself into the stream, hardly making a ripple. Squatting in the shallows he backed against the bank and under an outcrop of grassy earth. There he waited. A splash came from upstream sending a cloud of disturbed muck gliding his direction. Steps approached, crushing leaves into powder. Heavy breathing came from above his head sending clouds of mist drifting over the bank and over the pool. The steps resumed back into the woods, back the way he came. Sensing heat a watersnake swam out of its streamside den and up the sleeve of his tunic. With a suprised yelp he jumped and shook the snake free of his sleeve. The steps stopped, then began to return. The man took a deep breath and dove to the bottom of the pool. Grabbing onto a suken log, he held his grip to keep from drifting away in the current. Seconds passed, then a shadow grew above him. A muzzle of teeth bent over the edge of the pool above him. The water rippled above as the creature sniffed the water, obscuring his view. His lungs burned for air. The fingers numbly clutching the log began to slip over the slimy algae. His whole body tingled from thousands of pin[puncture]s yet he still held his breath, shutting his eyes and bracing for what was to come. Exhaling the last of his air he held on to the log as long as he could bear. With the last of his strength he pushed off of the bottom and reached for the surface. Even before he broke the surface he inhaled, fetid mud and water mixing with the air in his lungs. Hacking he pulled himself up onto the streambank and doubled over. Laying there he took deep gasping breaths and waited for the creature to return. The silence grew around the man until all he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. Breathing a deep sigh of relief he pulled himself up and wrapped his cloak around himself and began shuffling through the woods. A breeze cut through him like a frozen sword The trees soon gave way to a thickening undergrowth. Tall majestic oaks were replaced by stumpy bushes. The trail became more overgrown as well. In several places the man had to beat a path through the thorny branches. Each time he did this, he cursed and hurried on. The cloudy sky brightened as it neared midday and a light rain began to fall. The man sook shelter underneath a stand of pines. Picking out the spot that looked the least uncomfortable he gathered up a cushion of brown needles and sat down agains a tree trunk. He heavily set down his satchel and opened the drawstring. Reaching inside he brought out a stained piece of cloth. Unwrapping it, he savored the smell of the venison inside. Hungrily he ripped off a hunk and chewed it judiciously in his mouth. Another piece went in followed by a swig from a small waterskin. The rain grew heavier but could not penetrate the thick canopy of needles. Staring out on the forest, the man could see his breath begin to mist. Shifting his seat off of an offending root, he stuffed some pine needles into his sparse cloak for warmth and then relaxed in comfort he hadn't felt for days. The man felt himself forcibly steered through the inn. He was guided through the back door in the kitchen and into the stable yard. The hand pushed him to a kneel. Suddenly he saw a heavy leather boot in the moonlight as it slammed into his chest with a dull thud. The man groaned and fell to the ground. Above him he heard a chuckle. Another kick and his felt a burning in his ribs, a third and it was in his legs too. He rolled onto his side, desperatly trying to shield his face. With each kick came another scream of agony. He tasted dirt and blood . Through his blurred eyes he saw the a boot rushing straight for his face. The man screamed out and awoke with a start, needles slumping out of his cloak. His heavily breathing cast cold clouds of cold mist in front of his face. He brought his hands up to his face, feeling the sore, unhealed gnarls of bone under his fingertips. His breathing slowed gradually as he stood up and took his satchel. It had stopped raining and cleared up. The setting sun was shining off the fulffy clouds in the sky. Stepping back onto the trail, the man set off with the sun at his back, heading into the growing darkness. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ End of Chapter 2

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