{In progress. I don't have a copy of my own and I don't want to lose this.}

 

 

 

I AM SAVAGELY RE-WRITING THIS ON WORD. I WILL RE-OST IT WHEN THIS IS FINISHED. FEEL FREE TO COMMENT ON THIS PROLOGUE HERE, OR PM ME ON RUNESCAPE/ TIP.IT.

 

 

 

Rise of the Nakluk: Prologue

 

 

 

The warriors were restless. Then again, mused K'Lar, they always were, at this time. In the darkness, a horse whinnied and started slightly at a rustling in the bushes. It wasn't the only one. A hissed order went down the line.

 

'Silence, there! It's probably just some creature.'

 

 

 

Meanwhile, below them, the mighty Republic of Rastor slumbered in the darkness.

 

 

 

The black-painted horde fell silent.

 

 

 

A whisper echoed along the line, loud in the early morning silence. An enraged hissing answered it:

 

'Silence! Silence or be shamed.' The warriors fell silent. No-one wanted to be shamed, and the whipping that cam with it, slicing throuh flesh and drawing horrendus cries from the victims, horrendus lines across their blood-stained back. No-one wanted that.

 

 

 

Soon, the the fighters ended their wait. Silently, majestically, the first of the sun's rays began to peek over the horizon. It was the signal.

 

 

 

The great baying horn brutally punctured the silence, and suddenly the horde charged down the hill to their quarry. THe cavalry reached the gateway first, pouring through like a mountain stream, carrying with them anything that got in their way. The watchmen had no chance. All three were dead before they could raise the alarm. After that, there was no resistance.

 

 

 

It was the work of only a few minutes for the entire town to be tied together in the small square. A few whimpered; a few were defiant. All were confused: weren't they living in the mighty Rastorian Republic, impregnable, with the only enemies far to the south, in the desert lands of Haast? But then, there was the sea. There was always the sea. Tales of black raiders from over the sea. And what they did.

 

 

 

But now it seemed that the evil black men had come to them, straight out of the fairy-tales. Helpless, the townsfolk were bound with thick hemp, while the raiders conversed in their own language, incomprehensable to all of them. Except one. Patnoth had been washed up on the beach, flotsam from one wreck or another. He had the same black hair, the same broad build. Now people began to wonder: he always had been a mystery, all those scars down his back visible as he felled wood, an occupation he was uncannily skilled at. But, good woodsman were in short supply, so he had stayed, become part of the culture. He understood some, but years of Rastorian had dulled his ear.

 

 

 

'Taskcho! Ta'stoma ba pi?'

 

'Yarro pyan, ba pi'sto.'

 

'Ta'stoma flina karasto. Ta'stoma past'ona karast.'

 

 

 

He understood a little:

 

 

 

You! Is it finished?

 

'Yes sir...' He couldn't understand part of it...

 

It has just begun...it is the beginning...

 

 

 

Patnoth was suddenly afraid. It sounded like the raiders wanted more than plunder. It sonded like an invasion was plannned. He must warn someone, he knew. Heart pounding, he considered his options: someone must warn the Republic, for he had grown fond of its culture, even in this outlying region, but he knew the Republic was weak, its armies disbanded. He must warn them.

 

 

 

They had saved his life, now he wanted to save theirs.

 

 

 

It was night before he got his chance.

 

 

 

The towns-folk had all been placed in the biggest hut, belonging to Raroth, the blacksmith, and so, waiting until the third 'glass of the morning - the worst time for any sentry, the time when boredom and sleeplesness sets in, and they are off their guard - he slipped out into the night. Slinking quietly through the fear-struck town, he heard the raiders still drinking and fighting in the great hall he himself had helped build. His heart in his mouth, his heart pumping, he crept through the unguarded gates; obviously an attack was not expected.

 

 

 

Unexpectedly a gruesome figure reared up in front of him, face leering in the rictus of death. Stopping hiself from being physically sick Patnoth swore under his breath, cursing the life that had made him soft.

 

 

 

Panting slightly, Patnoth foced himself foward, his back tot the dark sea, pushing himself into a slow jog he had once been able to keep up for days on end. Now he had to stop for a rest every half-chime. Disgusted with himself, Patnoth fought his way south.

 

 

 

The invasion had begun.

 

 

 

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Rise of the Nakluk: Chapter 1

 

 

 

The general assembly was in chaos. Shouts echoed around the great marble hall, that had once housed the greatest kings in Rastorian history. Fittingly ornate, it was covered in gold and silver, while on the ceiling, in a mural that filled the vast ceiling-space, was the symbol of Rastor's power: the crest of the kings for so long, now taken by the Republican Government.

 

 

 

There had been no millitary coup, no general uprising to bring about the change, the transition from monarchy to democracy. It had taken a king. Earuth, crowned Baruk I had brought about the transition himself, handing over power to a government he himself set up. Nobody knew where he had gone since then; many believed he had died.

 

 

 

In fact he was not dead, merely disappeared from view. The ministers did not know that.

 

 

 

The government had brought about sweeping reforms over the whole republic, introduced a fairer system of taxation and had soon become popular with an originally sceptical general populace. But now they had a problem.

 

 

 

With no strong, overall leader, the council argued, and argued, and argued...

 

 

 

'It's a trick, an imposter sent to destroy our unity!'

 

'What unity!?' The cry was ignored in the fury of rightuos anger.

 

'Send him away! Chain him up! Hang him!' This, a suggestion from Karu, cheif minister, was met with approval.

 

'But what if it's real?' The counter came from Zarok.

 

'They are but bar-rumuors from the wastes to the north! How could there be an attack, it's impossible!' More approval.

 

'They say the man himself is coming!' An unidentified shout came from the back.

 

'What, to Arastuk? He'll never make it! Whatever else this man is, he's most definetly a fool!' Zarok looked about him. 'Shall we vote then, brothers? All in favour of dismissing this, this...rumour?' Hands were raised, a strong majority. 'Good!' Zarok looked positively smug. 'Now...'

 

 

 

Meanwhile, on the roads, a dark-painted man, black hair long and shaggyy down his back, waited, his dark eyes piercing the landscape. An old man, dressed only in black, strode along the road. From what the barbarian could see, he had no sword. Tensing himself, he made sure he knew where his sword was, that it was loose in the sheath.

 

'Civilisation so easily forgotten,' he muttered to himself as the man neared. He regretted it, but it was neccesary. The message must get through. He must get through. A few deaths were worth it, and that gemstone alone, black as pitch, dark as night, word earn him a few day's food. Enough to keep him going until...next time.

 

 

 

The man was close now, and Patnoth could clearly see the lines on his face describing his age clear for all to see. Patnoth readied himself, and leapt out of his hiding place, where he had lain painfull wait, in front of the old man, sword drawn.

 

 

 

To Patnoth's astonishment the man did not flinch, did not even move. He merely spoke, standing in front of a broad youg warrior with a naked blade.

 

'I would not do that.' The voice was quiet, exuding power, in the knowledge that he was right. If Patnoth had not been so suprised he would have been worried. But he did not know what the thick black robes or the bulky black jewel on a withered finger, meant. If he did, he would be terrified. With good reason.

 

 

 

Patnoth didn't know, but he was perplexed to see an unarmed old man talking calmly to him. It was unnerving. He saw the man's defiance, and advanced, slowly; he was only an old man, but why take risks? He stepped forward.

 

 

 

In one beautiful flowing mothin the man whipped aside his coarse robe, revealing the strange sword belt he wore and the two blades he carried with him, one black - a material Patnoth couldn't guess - one gleaming silver steel. He drew the black one, and Patnoth saw it to be somehow made of a black maerial, blade and all. Now Patnoth was worried, especially as he saw the old man's skilfull guard: not too high, not to low, ready to parry or viciously strike forward.

 

 

 

Patnoth struck first. His blade scythed forward in an arc destined for the man's neck, but suddenly...Patnoth was suprised to find the man, agile and light on his feet, bring his own sword up to parry before rolling it over Patnoth's blade to leave him with his sword at a hopeless andgle, his wrist bent backwards under the strain. The man's eyes were narrow.

 

'I warned you. Now - shall I kill you, Patnoth?'

 

'How do you know my name?' The burly young man croaked.

 

'I knwo many things about you Patnoth. I know your message. Now, shall I kill you?'

 

'No! I must tell the government!' The man's voice was sudenly harsh, rasping.

 

'They will not listen! Not, at least, until they have proof: or warriors at their gates!' He smiled. 'Yes, we must warn them. But we must have proof.' He looked suddenly bright. 'I was going to see for myself, but I don't want to travel alone...'

 

'I suppose...' Patnoth as tentative.

 

'Good! That's settled then; let's go! I have two rooms booked at a nearby inn. Come along!'

 

 

 

Confused and weay, Patnoth allowed himself to follow the strange old man who knew so much.

 

 

 

He didn't seem to have much choice.

 

 

 

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{Please note this is written off the top of my head, so there may be mistakes etc. Please post if you see one.}

 

 

 

Should I continue, do you like it?

 

 

 

Suggestions, comments etc. welcome.

{BUMP}