#fremennik province

[relomia]

sparkles can't cross the bridge

[pleasantonshire]

Back to the mountains province of Fremennik! I have implemented an ROS for Gielinor, and for this rotation, there will be no scenarios. Perhaps next time, until then, it will be regular ol’ gameplay for the folk of Fremennik. 

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL

QUEST SUMMARY:

Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

CHAPTER 1: EVERLASTING FIRE

Jahaan trudged for a while before he reached civilisation again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk Ardougne, not just because of what happened last time, but a few Zamorakian Mahjarrat had their strongholds nearby, and considering his role in the heist, he figured he wasn’t the most popular man alive right now. He also had to avoid the Legends’ Guild because, well, reasons. So, accepting that the people he’d probably pissed off the least were the Guthixians, Jahaan made for Seers’ Village, deciding to stay there for the foreseeable future. Acquiring some papyrus and a quill pen, the first thing Jahaan did after placing his order at the town’s largest tavern was to write to Ozan, telling him in brief the events that had unfolded, and asked if he was near enough to Seers’ Village to stop by for the tale in full, along with a hearty meal. Once Postie Pete came around the next morning, Jahaan made polite conversation with the decapitated skull pulling along a parcel sack on wheels. Postie Pete had seen and done it all, and if you could catch him for long enough, he was a delight to chat to.

However, he never explained the story behind just how he became Gielinor’s resident postman with nothing more than a skull and cart to his name. But hey, he got the job done. In fact, the very next morning Jahaan received a reply from Ozan, saying he was just leaving Catherby and would stop by in a few days on his way to the Fremennik Province.

During the days in between, Jahaan bumbled about the town, looking in all the quaint little shops and taking a somewhat tourist-y trip up to Camelot Castle, feeling rather embarrassed with himself after gleefully grinning like an idiot when he saw Sir Bedivere walking across the courtyard.

When Ozan arrived, Jahaan regailed him with tales of the heist of the Stone of Jas, enrapturing him and the entirety of the local tavern at the same time. Taking a leaf out of Ozan’s book, he used his storytelling ability to keep their plates and cups full to the brim for days on end.

He didn’t notice the one man in the back, listening on with concerned surprise, before making a subtle exit.

The next day, he was still so overjoyed with retelling his story to the new patrons, and even the old ones who came back to hear wild stories of Mahjarrat and Zamorakian fortresses, that he didn’t even notice the headlines in the Seers Weekly publication that talked of an assassination in Falador park, details to come after the investigation is completed, with no suspects at present.

No, Jahaan was quite enjoying his time in Seers’ Village with his best friend at his side.

But all good things…

Jahaan had slept soundly in that rather comfy bed every night he’d been there. This night, however, he was oddly awoken by a weird sensation - that of moisture around his hand. Groggily, he opened his eyes, ready to figure out how his beer had gotten onto the pillow.

Staring back at him were eyes, bloodshot and lifeless, inside a head with skin as white as the sheets had once been. The face was old and shrivelled, wrinkled before all the life had been sucked from it. Jahaan shot upwards, scrambling backwards until his hand landed upon something solid, yet squishy. Warm, yet deathly cold.

Lit up by the pale light of the moon, his eyes landed upon them.

Two decapitated heads.

He recognised them both, despite the warped contortions death had brought to their features. He wished he didn’t recognise them, but oh gods he did…

Sir Tiffy Cashien and Thaerisk Cephire.

Panting heavily, desperately fighting back the urge to vomit, Jahaan’s shaky hand made for the dagger that was usually on his bedside table, but it was gone.

“Looking for this?” a voice rose from the shadows, full of teeth and menace, holding a runite dagger. Jahaan was too terrified to move, completely frozen in place between the severed skulls around him.

The figure moved into the light from the moon, an incredibly tall and bulky figure with ashen skin, covered in a combination of armour and robes.

“Zemouregal,” Jahaan had wanted to sound a lot more fearsome than he did, but it came out more like a stutter.

“In person,” he snarled, twirling the small blade around his fingers.

Jahaan’s eyes darted to where his armour and swords were piled up in the corner, closer to him than Zemouregal was, but that little look betrayed him, and when he went to move, he found himself ensnared in pulsing black and purple binds. Hissing in the pain they inflicted, tightening his arms to his sides, Jahaan was rendered immobile by the simple spell.

“Do you like the gifts I brought you?” Zemouregal sauntered closer to the edge of the bed, malice layered inside his smugness. “I put a lot of thought into them.”

Jahaan’s eyes burned through Zemouregal like fire.

Fire, like…

What a second, what’s that smell?

Jahaan’s nose started to twinge at the foreign, invading odour seeping into the room, pungent and clogging. Once it finally reached his throat, it scraped downwards, drying his throat out instantly.

Panicked eyes darted back at Zemouregal; he struggled in his binds.

Laughing maliciously, Zemouregal snapped Jahaan back to unwavering attention by throwing the knife into the headboard beside him, splitting the wood on impact, only an inch from his ear.

“I’d say it’s not worth fighting, but by all means, continue. It’s fun to watch you squirm,” Zemouregal’s dry lips cracked into a sneer. “After all, I won’t get to enjoy your suffering for that much longer. It’ll be sweet while it lasts.”

“What the fuck is your trauma?!” Jahaan bellowed, sweating already from the intense heat. To himself, he racked his brain, wondering, How the hell had this not woken me up before?

“You really have to ask?” Zemouregal spat in return. “Did you really think betraying Zamorak would go unpunished?”

“Please, if this was Zamorak’s doing, he’d want to kill me himself! This is all YOU, isn’t it?”

His grin widening, Zemouregal replied, “You’re a sharp one. Your insolence has rather started to grate on me. I’ll be doing Zamorak a favour by ridding the world of you.”

Struggling once more, Jahaan knew there was no escaping this hold, not while Zemouregal was in the vicinity. Desperate, Jahaan tried a new approach. “So what, you’re not even going to finish me yourself? Too scared I’ll beat you - again?”

From the flash in Zemouregal’s eyes, it looked as if Jahaan had succeeded in striking a nerve. If I just get him to release me, to fight me, I might stand a chance

However, once Zemouregal’s malevolent smile returned, Jahaan knew his approach had failed. “Nice try, but a quick death just isn’t as much fun. So as every fibre of your skin is being melted away, slowly and agonisingly, know this - this is of your own doing, World Guardian. The deaths of the knight and the druid are on you. The death of your close friend, the dark skinned one you entered with, is on you. He’s still here, by the way. My spy managed to slip something even stronger onto his beverage, double the dose of yours. It would have knocked him out for the night, but he’ll wake up once the flames reach him. Now you’ll be able to hear his screams as he burns.”

The crackling of the flames was now much louder, thumping in time to Jahaan’s heartbeat. Hearing the impending inferno beating against the door, Zemouregal looked satisfied. “I guess this is goodbye, World Guardian.”

With that, he was gone.

Jahaan assumed the restraints would vanish alongside Zemouregal, but their hold remained, cutting into his sweating flesh like wires. Writhing and twisting with all his strength, Jahaan tried to wriggle free, to break the binds, to escape… but it wasn’t to be.

The heat was unbearable; the fire had yet to break through the door, though it was only a matter of time.

He had no runes to teleport out of the binds, and no weapon that would cut through them.

Jahaan didn’t want to resign himself to the fact that this was going to be his end, that he was going to die screaming, helpless, and by Zemouregal’s hand.

By Guthix, Tumeken, Saradomin, Zamorak, Seren, Zaros - SOMEONE help me! Jahaan internally pleaded, knowing that if any time was the right time to start praying, it was now. Then, like a lightning bolt, it struck him - prayers! Not in the conventional praying to a deity sense, but curses. Zarosian curses, to be specific. Jahaan’s bedtime reading since the Mahjarrat Ritual had included Infernal language books, Senntisten history tomes, and texts about the Zarosian religion. The latter talked about curses, a Zarosian practice that were a hybrid of conventional spells and combative prayers, things that warpriests were mainly skilled in. They didn’t require runes, and they could be performed by anyone against an enemy of Zaros.

Considering Zemouregal was Zamorakian, Jahaan figured he stood a chance.

Trying to reduce his panicking, Jahaan worked to calm his breathing and clear his mind, focusing on remembering how to chant went.

“A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis…” Jahaan mumbled to himself, growing in fervor as his urgency rose, “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis!”

Come on Zaros, I know I’m not a Zarosian but you fucking owe me one! He internally added, sweat dripping from his brow as he continued aloud, “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A GENTES CERVARUM'S NON HABERE, ZAROS LIBERABO TE FIDELIS!”

Suddenly, miraculously, the binds shattered. Panting in unbelievably relief, Jahaan wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, shaking violently. Gasping in a lungful of thick, smoky air, he scrambled to his feet, unfortunately unable to forget that he was covered in the blood of his friends. Desperately, he tried to fight past it, snatching the dagger out of the headboard and scooping up his bag on the way to the door. The handle, conductive to heat, was beyond scalding to the touch. Fortunately, the door was weak from the battering of flames, and Jahaan broke through by throwing his shoulder against the less-than-sturdy oak. Pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth, Jahaan managed to at least somewhat protect himself from the escaping cloud.

Once he opened his eyes and tried to readjust to the imparied vision, he saw the extent of Zemouregal’s damage.

It looked as if the world was on fire.

Jahaan watched the deep flames of the enraged inferno through blurry eyes.

What of the other residents? he allowed himself a fleeting thought, one that sunk his soul. He hoped - no, prayed - that they had all escaped. Perhaps they had gotten more of a warning? Perhaps they could escape through their windows?

Shaking his head clear, Jahaan tried to focus, not wanting to dwell on the horror for too long as he made his way to Ozan’s room at the end of the hall. Jahaan tried to call out his name, but the ensuing inhalation of smoke caused him to collapse to his knees, a coughing and spluttering mess.

Like his own door, this one was weak too, and he managed to kick his way through.

Inside, every wall was crawling with a furious red heat, scalding with flames. Thick smoke engulfed every ounce of sweet air and replaced it with a heavy, suffocating blanket of pungent smog.

And in the centre of it all, Ozan.

He looked so helpless, laid out on the bed. So peaceful, the only still thing inside this inferno.

Deathly still, Jahaan’s mind stabbed at him, Why hasn’t he woken up? Has the smoke...

He refused to let the thought overcome him, refused to let it be true. Stepping over the smouldering remains of the bookcase, Jahaan tried to fight past the violent heat and towards his friend. He could barely see anything past the flickers of orange among a sea of grey and black, but once he’d set his eyes on the murky outline of Ozan, he refused to let them waver.

Tingling heat pricked at his bare skin like daggers, relentlessly. The temperature was unbearable, but he pushed forward, driven by adrenaline alone, careful to keep to the centre of the floor and away from the scorching orange embers on the walls.

The bed was quickly growing in flames, and they’d started crawling across Ozan’s clothes, charring the skin underneath.

A loud crash came from behind them; darting around, Jahaan looked on in horror as the southern wall - where the door was - had started to cave in, and the floor was looking like it was the next in line to go.

That only left the window, but it was a straight drop down three stories onto concrete pavement. While Jahaan might, MIGHT survive the fall, in his condition, Ozan would not.

Seeds of helplessness started to sow themselves, nurtured by desperation.

Why don’t I carry runes? Jahaan internally whimpered, regretting his near-hatred of magic for all these years. If I could just teleport out, I could-

Suddenly, it hit him. Quickly, he removed his backpack and scrambled through it until he pulled out the tiny invitation box he’d acquired all that time ago. Not wasting another second, Jahaan firmly grabbed onto Ozan’s arm and, with his free hand, pried open the lid of the box, feeling them both get whisked away...

Jahaan and Ozan collapsed onto the relievingly cold marble of the Empyrean Citadel chamber, the former coughing up a lung in the process. Wiping the soot from around his eyes, he hurried to toss his backpack aside and check on Ozan, who still hadn’t regained consciousness.

Putting his ear close to his mouth, he tried to listen for any signs of life, but there weren’t any. Shaking him didn’t help, nor did shouting his name. Luckily, Jahaan remembered the resuscitation training he’d received in the Imperial Guard, and set to work on chest compressions, counting back from thirty. This was followed swiftly by rescue breaths, two short and sharp exhalations into Ozan’s mouth. He repeated this process a handful more times until finally, mercifully, Ozan spluttered to life with a series of coughs.

Letting out the most tensed, shakiest breath he’d ever held, Jahaan felt tears of relief trickle down his face.

Thanks for letting him stay, Icthlarin, Jahaan whispered internally to himself, getting out his waterskin and knife from his backpack. Gently, he helped Ozan take small sips to clear the dust from his throat. The man tried to speak, but it only resulted in a dozen more coughs.

“Take this and don’t talk,” Jahaan instructed. Ozan was in no position to argue.

While Ozan dozily held onto the waterskin, Jahaan carefully cut the burned and charred clothing from around Ozan’s more severe burns, seeing as most of it had already fused to the skin and couldn’t be treated just yet. When he heard the waterskin drop, Jahaan saw that Ozan was shaking, severely. Fighting back the poisonous worry, he helped lay Ozan down flat on the cool citadel floor, using his backpack to try and elevate his feet somewhat. With the discarded, yet still almost full waterskin, Jahaan tried to rinse clean some of Ozan’s burns, causing the man to jolt and shudder with the contact. Wincing through it, Jahaan continued until the waterskin was nearly empty, saving just enough in case Ozan needed a drink later. Feeling the aching dryness in the back of his throat, Jahaan fought the urge to take a gulp for himself. Ozan needed it more.

Jahaan didn’t notice the sun start to rise, but being so high up in the clouds, once he clocked onto it, he could get a magnificent view. Ozan was sleeping now, uncomfortable and charred and ragged on the citadel floor, but sleep was the only cure for his injuries right now. Jahaan couldn’t leave him up here without treatment for long, but he couldn’t bring him back down to Gielinor’s surface. For all he was aware, Zemouregal assumed them both dead, and as long as the wicked Mahjarrat kept thinking that way, they were safe from him trying to finish the job.

No, until Ozan was able to stand - gods know how long that would take - they would remain in the safety of the skies. The invitation box would plant them right in the centre of the clearing north of Ardougne, a town with guilds and medical supplies that could potentially aid them.

It was also the closest town to Hazeel’s hideout and Khazard’s territory, making the large city home to who-knows how many spies and soldiers loyal to the Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

What if they had sent word out about me? What if the word got back to Zemouregal?

It was these thoughts that helped focus part of his mind on something other than his wounded, half-dying best friend lying beside him. These worries kept him sane, and they kept the anger bubbling up. Jahaan did not resent this - subconsciously, he welcomed it. That hate he’d felt for Lucien for so long, the longing to slit his throat and watch the blood drain from his eyes, to see him torn apart by a pack of hungry hellhounds, to see his head caved in by a crude hammer...

...now all that was redirecting itself at Zemouregal, and it made him feel alive. The skin on his arms and hands fizzed with nervous energy, and his breathing was ragged and out of sync. It was exactly how he felt before he cut down that knight outside of Al Kharid, where everything inside of him coiled up and spat out this violence, this hatred, this blind and murderous rage.

He’d felt like this many times before, and Ozan was one of the few that could help him control it. After the murder of Guthix, Jahaan knew that his wires were frayed, and when he finally snapped, Ozan was the only one that could calm him down, that could bring him back to earth.

He needed to get to Zemouregal before the element of surprise was over, before the Mahjarrat realised the two of them escaped alive, albeit barely. He’d find him, and however he damn well could, whether it was by a sword, axe, arrow or his bare hands, he’d kill him.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Jahaan muttered under his breath, repeatedly, his teeth chattering as his pulse started to race.

Due to his frayed nerves, teetering his sanity on a knife’s edge, as soon as Jahaan heard the whisper of a teleport spell enter the citadel, he slashed his dagger from his belt and shot up from Ozan’s side, ready for war.

However, when it was Sliske who walked into the chamber, he managed to relax his stance, though only slightly.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“I could ask you the same question now, couldn’t I?” Sliske returned, sauntering closer. His eyes conveyed something unfamiliar to Jahaan. Something that combined curiosity with apprehension. Something almost akin to worry. “I told you, I like to come here to watch the sunrise. But what are you doing here? What happened to you, and-” his eyes fell to Ozan, and his tone was a lot more stern when he demanded, “What happened, World Guardian?”

Sheathing his dagger, Jahaan replied through gritted teeth. “Your Mahjarrat friend, Zemouragal, happened. Apparently he didn’t take too kindly to me siding with you over Zamorak.”

Sliske let out a tight exhale, muttering something in a harsh vocabulary that hurt Jahaan’s ears. Turning back to Jahaan, he asked again, slowly, “What happened, World Guardian? Tell me everything.”

That was all Jahaan needed to unleash everything that had transpired in the short evening that felt like a lifetime. How he woke up next to the severed heads of Sir Tiffy and Thaerisk, with Zemouregal looming over the edge of his bed; how the Mahjarrat had set fire to the inn, causing the flames to engulf the building at an unprecedented rate; how he and Ozan barely escaped with their lives thanks to the invitation box Jahaan had held onto and, finally, how Zemouregal was going to pay.

Once he’d finished his heated rant, through which Sliske had listened patiently, not reacting much at all, Jahaan felt breathless. Panting, he didn’t even notice just how red in the face he’d gotten, or how the vein in his forehead had started to bulge. After a few short breaths, Jahaan looked straight into Sliske’s yellow irises and demanded, “I need you to teleport me to Zemouregal’s fortress.”

Sliske blinked. “Come again?”

“Teleport me to the fortress, NOW,” Jahaan barked, his teeth chattering again.

“Yes… no I’m not doing that.”

“I’m going to kill him, Sliske, and all I need is a teleport,” Jahaan felt sick with impatience, his nerve-endings alive with electricity.

Again, Sliske refused. “A teleport to your demise? I don’t think so.”

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Jahaan declared, “Fine. I’LL FUCKING WALK.”

Blocking Jahaan’s path to the scattered invitation box, Sliske said, “Hey now, you only best Zemmy once and, if you're being honest with yourself, that was a fluke. If you give him home turf, well... if the cold and the bandits don't kill you, his undead army will finish you off before you even reach him. And besides, you’ve lost your armour and your weaponry - are you really going to try and murder a Mahjarrat with that little butterknife? Think this through.”

Admittedly, Jahaan began to hesitate, gravity slowly clawing him back down to the ground.

It was only when Sliske added, “And besides, what of Ozan? You really expect me to babysit him while you get yourself killed?” that Jahaan finally tossed his bag back down to the floor and dropped to his knees.

Gravity had brought him down, and now it was suffocating him. Gazing over at Ozan’s near-lifeless body, the nausea churning in the pit of Jahaan’s stomach caused him to wretch, but he swallowed it down. His head was spinning at a rate of knots, the lump in his throat choking him. One by one, tears started streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t even bother to wipe them away. The salt stung, but he held his eyes on Ozan.

His disjointed, weighted thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Sliske had those very same eyes again, ones of sympathy - a state of mind that Jahaan didn’t know Mahjarrat were even capable of, least of all Sliske.

“Come with me,” he said, quietly, offering Jahaan a hand to help him up.

Taking it, Jahaan dazedly began, “B-But what about…”

“In his condition, Ozan will sleep for hours. I’ll hide him in the Shadow Realm,” Sliske assured, “Zemouregal won’t be able to find him. Don’t worry.”

Sliske knelt down beside Ozan and placed a hand on his chest. Then, with a wave of his other hand, Ozan was wrapped in shadows and mist, and when it cleared, he was gone.

Holding out his hand again, Sliske repeated, “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Jahaan managed to ask, hesitantly holding out his arm.

A small smile crept into the corners of Sliske’s lips, but for once, it bore no malice. “I don’t get to say this and mean it often, but trust me, Jahaan.”

And you know what? Jahaan did.

He took Sliske’s hand, and they were whisked away.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[emeraldsplashed]

     The armoured creature had picked up the scent of SOMETHING it deemed as worth investigating, charging headlong into the cobblestoned street –– scaring passersby out of their WITS. It wasn’t often one saw a slayer beast like a Kurask out of the caves of the Fremennik province. Thankfully it was a juvenile, incapable of GORING a human ( fatally at least ). At last, the creature stopped in the path of a man, pounding its fists into the ground and grunting. 

     Before the creature could react further, a sickly pale individual threw themselves onto the Kurask, wrapping their arms around its midsection to try and contain it. 

     ❝ Midori! Midori you wretched beast! What have I told you about leaving the house? Ah, I’m sorry for startling you, sir. He just... charged, I couldn’t stop him. He’s normally so well-behaved. I implore you, do not contact the White Knights about this, he is a well-behaved creature! ❞

@wcrldguardian

[saxspielercaderface]

6 for Finley!

“Rosta! This way!”

A strident whistle later, and the massive wolfdog bounded to Finley’s side, something dead and stinking held between her teeth. Her fur was caked in some similar-smelling substance.

“Ye daft dog!” Nose wrinkling, Finley negotiated the bit of foulness out from Rosta’s jaws and threw it aside. “Come on, girl - we’re almost to the river. Ye need a wash, now, anyway.”

The pair continued down the well-worn trail, making their way south. What with the mid-winter sun still below the horizon, the forest was dark, stuck in a perpetual blue hour, and only muscle memory and Rosta’s eyes kept them from wandering off trail or tripping over a stray root.

Soon, however, the sound of rushing water caught their ears, and Rosta rocketed ahead, howl-barking happily.

Finley likewise broke into a run, stopping only when her feet met the stony riverbank.

Still flowing despite the cold, the Þjazi fljót thundered along, laughing at the edges and roaring at its heart. Rumored to house the spirit of an ancient and malevolent giant, the Fremennik respected its power and danger, hardly paying this particular bend of the river a visit outside of salmon season.

Rosta, however, splashed around hock-deep in the water, snapping at the current without a care.

“Oi, Rosta! Careful!” Finley called, taking a seat on a rock. “I’m not pulling ye out of there if ye get swept downriver!”

A great honkin’ lie, she thought to herself, smiling.

As Rosta continued to splash, Finley’s gaze was drawn to the south-east, past the seemingly endless swarm of maple trees that marked the very edge of the province.

There, just above the wooded hills, rays of midday sunlight had emerged.

Finally.

She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face, let it chase away the icy air that had nipped at her since she left home just hours before, and basked in the relative warmth and light.

A paradox - here, on the banks of a ruthless river, in the middle of an ruthless winter, with an endless war against ruthless monsters looming over her head, she was at peace.

Finally.

Suddenly, something slammed into her, coating her with slobber, freezing water, and stinking fish guts, and her eyes snapped open.

“GAH! ROSTA!!!”

Rosta, sopping wet, boofed and nudged the massive, half-eaten salmon into Finley’s lap.

It was an old thing, and its presence in this area of the river at this time of year stumped her. Yet, with the sunlight flashing on its oddly polished silver scales, it was beautiful, if not a bit torn up and mutilated by Rosta’s chewing.

“Ugh. No, girl. I don’t want this. I’m not hungry, aye?”

Ears perking up, Rosta snatched the fish back and began to devour the rest of it bit by bit.

Finley, despite now being as wet and as stinky as her wolfdog, returned to her basking.

After all, sunlight was a rare thing this time of year.

Just as rare as an old, silver-scaled salmon on an off-season upstream run.

[thundersmotch]

Quest complete: Glorious Memories

Settling a fifteen-year-old grudge, I brought dignitaries from across the Fremennik Province together for Chieftain Brundt's birthday feast.

[jotawakening-blog]

30 Fentuary, 5A 169: Rule #1 of Ratcatchers

After breakfast, I start today off with a walk to the Grand Exchange and some more shopping.  This time around, I get myself a runite pickaxe, which will make me the bane of ore deposits wherever they may be; a raw swordfish and cave eel, to further my less-than-perfectly ethical experiments with creating hybrid animals; some studded leather chaps for my very mysterious rendezvous in Draynor, since I’m not confident in my ability to make my own; an agility potion for Tamayu, which I hope will help him to defeat his nemesis the Shaikahan at last; and as many adamant melee weapons as I can afford, since it’s high time I upgraded those.  I soon run low on money, and the reason for this is the wily young prodigy Ali Morrisane, Jr, who somehow convinces me to buy a load of willow branches for eye-watering prices!  I don’t know what I’ll do with them— make a basket, I guess?

Once I’ve bought as much stuff as money allows, I do a quick scan for Bob using my catspeak amulet, to see if he’s around.  Unfortunately, he isn’t: the amulet shows that he’s still somewhere in the Falador area.  So I turn around and busy myself with another cat-related errand: visiting the sewers to see whether Gertrude’s tip about the ratcatchers was correct.  Down below the streets, I don’t spot anyone new, but the creepy women are still around, and I have a hunch these might be the people Gertrude had in mind.  So I go up to them, ignoring the sickly-sweet smell of vinegar that attaches to them, and tell them Gertrude sent me.  The two are less than impressed with my pitch: I tell them I want Minou to learn some tricks to catch rats more effectively, but to them, this is preposterous: ‘fuzzies’ don’t learn ‘tricksies’, only dogs do.  Before they will teach me anything, they set me a test: I need to get Minou to catch eight rats for them.  With the sheer amount of rats down here, this is no sooner said than done, and I return to the gruesome twosome.  After having a laugh at my expense for trying to emulate their way of speaking, the pair tries to blow me off, but I manage to convince them to give me something to go on, rat-catching wise.  They give me a wooden pole from which… one can hang rats, I suppose?… and tell me about a contact of theirs in Ardougne named Jimmy Dazzler who might be able to help me along further.  The way they say it, it seems like another joke at my expense, but hey, it’s not like I’ve got anything to lose from getting in touch with him, right?

Anyway, Ardougne is a long way from here, and I’ve got stuff to do closer to home.  For instance: I’ve brought back all those skins from the Fremennik Province for the odd old man of Paterdomus, and it’s time, I think, I cured them.  So I go to the bank, get rid of all the clutter in my bag, and take out the skins, several bags of salt, my hatchet and my tinderbox.  I go with these to Paterdomus, where the old man has prepared a curing rack.  And then it’s just a simple algorithm: rub skin down with salt, stretch skin on rack, light a fire, wait for skin to cure.  The setup is quite effective, and I get through all the skins in fairly short order.  The snag occurs when I get to the rock crab carcass, as I can’t think of any way to put it on the rack without damaging it.  So I show it to the old man, to see if he has any ideas.  The old man takes a look, and he tells me the carcass was not what he had envisioned at all, and that he’s very sorry about this.  As he says so, I can hear a distinct sniggering from the bone sack on his back: it would seem that whatever creature lurks inside is enjoying the fruits of its practical joke.  As for the rest of the skins, the old man takes them without complaint, and while he has nothing to reward me with, I must say I’ve learnt a fair bit about killing stuff and lighting fires, and meditating on bones and death has, I think, increased my bond with Saradomin by a touch.

Predictably for the odd old man, the furs aren’t the end of the services he wants.  He’s spent the time I was hunting furs composing another wish list of bones that he wants me to procure.  This one consists mostly of stuff that will be really hard to get (for instance, nine dragon tailbones, each from a different variety of dragon), but there are some things I can get started on right away, such as the shoulder of a giant: hill giants happen to be quite abundant in the dungeon beneath Edgeville, and since I’m already here, that’s an item I can fulfil right away!

With this in mind, I return to the Grand Exchange, finish up my purchases of adamantite weaponry, grab my key to the back entrance to the Edgeville dungeons, and go down and start whaling on giants.  Very quickly, the expedition becomes a success, as I find a suitably impressive shoulder bone, wrap it up in cloth, and put it in my pack.

I’ve done all I wanted to in Varrock, more or less, so, since there’s plenty of daylight left yet, I repair to the next area where I have stuff to do: Lumbridge!  The quickest way there is to teleport, so I grab some runes, cast the spell, and get pulled through the Abyss to the courtyard of Lumbridge Castle.  Once there, my first move is to bring the slop of compromise (as I’ve come to call Mudknuckles’ masterpiece) into the time-frozen banquet hall, and see whether it has any effect on unfreezing the goblin generals.  And… it works perfectly!  As soon as I insert a spoonful of the slop into the generals’ mouths, they awake and vanish from the banquet hall!  Gypsy Aris congratulates me on this first success and hands me some pages from the Culinaromancer’s cookbook that she’s found within the time-slip while I was away.  These teach me not only a few cookery tricks, but also how to farm various ingredients!  Very useful stuff.

Okay, that’s two Council members saved, and seven to go.  The pirate slumped on the table next to where the goblins were seems like as good a person as any to begin with.  I ask Aris what she thinks I could feed him, and she relates to me a vision that she had while I was away: the pirate loves fish cakes more than anything in the world.  It’s not a recipe I’m familiar with, despite having grown up on the sea, so I ask her if she knows how to make them.  She does not, but she recommends that I speak with the castle cook: he might know.  I leave the time slip and ask him.  He doesn’t know the recipe off the top of his head (and is surprised that I don’t, given that from his perspective I’ve already defeated the Culinaromancer), but he looks it up, and finds that one would need ground cod, ground kelp, ground giant crab meat and breadcrumbs.  The cod and breadcrumbs are obvious enough, but kelp and crab meat aren’t exactly commonplace ingredient.  I ask the cook whether he’s got any ideas; he mentions that Murphy, the owner of the fishing trawler in Port Khazard, used to pull up giant crab, and he would also know where one could find kelp.  Okay, sounds like a plan!

Before I can get started on any of it, though, I run into the Duke, who tells me he’s got an assignment for me, his go-between with the Dorgeshuun, if I’m willing to take it.  It turns out that the cave goblins have reached a point in their diplomatic negotiations where they’ve decided to send an emissary to the surface to report on conditions there.  It would be quite important, he says, for someone to accompany the emissary during their trip to the surface.  Mistag will have the details, he says.

Okay, that’s a job I wasn’t expecting, but I won’t pass on the opportunity, so I grab my lamp, head through the hole in the cellar wall, and let myself be guided through the winding passages to the cave goblin mines.  He confirms what I heard from the Duke, and adds one unexpected detail: part of the embassy will involve infiltrating the HAM base, to determine whether the cultists have further nefarious plans vis-a-vis the Dorgeshuun.  Thus, I will need to find two complete sets of HAM robes for me and the envoy to use.  I should get the robes and meet her at the cellars of Lumbridge Castle once I’ve got them.

Sounds like a plan.  It’s getting late, though, and I doubt I’ll be able to pilfer any robes today, so with what’s left of the day I return to the surface, bake a loaf of bread and grind it into crumbs, as the fishcake recipe requires.  Then I retire to the thieves’ guild headquarters, where expansion has been proceeding rapidly, for the night.

[pleasantonshire]

I will be starting off in the mountains province of Fremennik!

[pleasantonshire]

On to our last household in the mountains province... Introducing the squire of Fremennik, Sir Brundt Chieftain! He has grand ambitions, aspiring to reach the top of the knighthood career and becoming the Marshall of the Realm. To become the King of Gielinor, would be the cherry on top! 

I am not in love with the manor, but I think I decorated it nicely, so here are a few interior pictures. 

[pleasantonshire]

That’s a wrap for the mountains province of Fremennik! I have gone through all the playable households for this Spring season. Here are the new stats for the settlement:

births - 4

deaths - 2

newcomers - 1

current population - 10

taxes collected - $3,589 / $26,000

I have updated the inhabitants page, with the province’s newest sims. 

[pleasantonshire]

LET THE GAME BEGIN! 

I am ready to play! *squeals* I have built nearly everything, and I created all the sims that will populate my hood (squires and peasants alike). Here is the character page, to get a little acquainted with who’s who.

Although the provinces all fall under the same rule* and realm, I wanted each province to be distinct from one another, not only by geography but by its people as well. Hence, sims from a particular province would share features specific to that region:

Fremennik (mountain province): red hair, grey eyes, fair skin.

Misthalin (forrest province): blond hair, blue eyes, medium skin

Kandarin (plains province): brown hair, green eyes, olive skin.

Asgarnia (costal province): black hair, brown eyes, dark skin.  

I am excited to see how genetics will play out! Which province will remain homogenous and which will become a genetic melting pot?

[jotawakening-blog]

23 Fentuary, 5A 169: Today I Fucked Up

As soon as it’s light, I take advantage of the fact that the sea remains calm to get back to where I left Erjolf and bring him the Muspah tail.  Sure enough, he’s there waiting for me, or, more specifically, waiting for the trophy I’m bringing back.  Well, I show it to him, and he gets excited!  Rather than thank me, though, he asks me to keep this whole business on the down low, just in case the Fremennik elders find out that he didn’t score this trophy alone and make him do the rest of the trials in the usual manner.  Given how he sponged on me this entire time, I tell him I can make no promises.  

Well, he heads off to Rellekka to become a Fremennik, and I’m left trying to decide where I want to go next.  One thing I could do is check in with the natural historian, and tell him that the Muspah sighting was… not of an actual Muspah at all.  He’s disappointed by this, but I manage to fire up his excitement again by telling him where the Varrock museum might find that Muspah statue I unearthed in the desert.  Pleased, he gives me a spirit lamp he’s been keeping around.  I inhale… and am treated with brief flashes of visions of a craftsman at work.  Interesting.

Since I’m already here in the Fremennik Province, I get it into my mind that I might want to see if the ban on entering the city has been lifted yet.  So, I go through the mountainside tunnel and down to the river Kelda, and inquire about passage at the ferry dock.  The ferryman is most obliging, explaining to me that the Consortium’s travel ban has cost them a lot of business, so they decided to rescind it, and are even allowing humans to travel in and out of the city for free, to make up for lost custom!

The boatman starts up the paddlewheel on the boat and casts off.  Once we’re floating down the river, he tells me about the history of Keldagrim.  It’s been 500 years, he says, since the reign of King Alvis, known to history as the saviour of Keldagrim and the victim of his own inventions.  He explains: The King federated the city’s mining companies into a body called the Consortium, which was meant to serve the monarchy.  But in time, it was the monarchy that became subordinated to the Consortium.  Now, Keldagrim has no kings, and only the statue of King Alvis stands to remind its people of the old days, the dark days of monarchy.

The statue is right there on the approach to the city!  We would be passing it, but as we approach, the engine of the boat emits a disconcerting noise and the craft begins to veer erratically hither and thither.  And then the prow crashes into the statue and it falls into the water, shattering into fragments.  Well, shit.  What a start to my visit.

It gets worse, though: the moment we dock, a squad of Black Guards in gold-trimmed armour runs up and places us under arrest.  I am separated from the ferryman and dragged to the guard’s headquarters, where its Commander, Veldaban, interrogates me.  Or, rather, he wants a chat.  See, it turns out I’m not actually under arrest: the statue was due for replacement anyway, and besides, it’s the ferryman’s damn fault for losing control of his boat.  Still, he says, it would be good if I helped in the effort to recreate the sculpture, working as the assistant to Blasidar, Keldagrim’s finest sculptor.  His workshop is on the eastern side of the Kelda.  I reply that I’d be more than happy to help, which pleases Veldaban.

Before I go off to explore the city, I hang around the Black Guard HQ for a bit, even stealing a few words with the Supreme Commander, a black-bearded dwarf named Bisi.  I ask him about his relationship to Veldaban, and he explains that, while Veldaban commands the Black Guard in Keldagrim (by far the largest command), he oversees all the Black Guard regiments all over the dwarven realm.  For instance, Commander Lawgof is of equal rank to Veldaban, and subordinate to Bisi.  Aha, that makes sense.  I ask Bisi whether he’s heard any news around the city.  Of course, he says, the biggest and latest news is the collapse of the statue, but he can’t shake the impression that it’s somehow connected to the other disturbances that have taken place around here recently. The ones that led to the city’s closure.  Hm, if there’s anything to that theory, perhaps I shall find out as I work to rebuild the statue.

For now, though, I have a city to explore!  Keldagrim is a marvel to behold, a city the size of Varrock built free-standing in a massive, vaulted cavern.  The buildings are dour, squat affairs of grey stone reinforced with metal that exude solidity, and the streets are brightly lit with lantern-light.  A remarkable place, but very, very dwarven.  Even the heights of the storeys in the buildings are all wrong, my head bumping almost up against the ceiling of most of them.

I begin my tour of the city by walking about the western side.  The first building that captures my attention is a small armour-shop run by Saro, who stocks it with high-quality wares— even adamantium, which is rare in human lands except by special order from the Grand Exchange.  It would seem he’s working on something even better, a system of lightweight metal plates meant to increase the durability of armour, but all he’s got now is prototypes, and they’re extremely expensive.

The building next door is something of a dwarven stereotype: an inn called the King’s Axe, serving up dwarven stout to dwarves in search of the good stuff.  I don’t know whether it’s the time of day (do dwarves living underground follow a day-night sleep cycle?) but it’s pretty empty right now.  Still, I have a glass of dwarven stout along with a fun-loving dwarf named Gauss.  After I’ve finished my pint, I go looking for the innkeeper to inquire about lodgings.  He offers me a room, and lets slip there’s a gnomish delegation staying at the inn right now, come to negotiate with a cartel known as the Red Axe.  I’m in pretty good stead with the gnomes, so I decide to have a chat with them.  They are pretty aloof and standoffish, more so than most gnomes, though I figure they may be some of Glough’s flunkies.  After talking to them for a while, though, I get the feeling that there’s something more sinister going on: I ask both gnomes I meet where they’re from, just casually, and they give me two different answers!  The official story is that they’re from the Grand Tree, getting much-needed supplies of an unspecified nature, but the junior of the two delegates tells me they’re from Tree Gnome Village and is instantly corrected by her superior.  I don’t know what to make of it, and can’t think of any way to press them into telling me the truth, so I move on.

Along the street to the south-east, I stop by a stonemason’s workshop to see whether he would consider selling stone to a human interested in furnishing her house.  He tells me he sees no problem with that, and walks me through the varieties of stone he’s selling, from common limestone to vastly expensive magic stones.

On the same street is one of the entrances to the former royal palace, a grand hall that dominates the skyline and straddles the river.  On this side, there are the gardens (a rather shabby affair by surface standards, with only a few fly-eating cave plants and an unkempt soil-bed), where I run into an uncommonly tall dwarf named Tombar (not really the talkative sort, though) and Rind, the palace gardener, who talks to me about the intricacies of growing anything so deep beneath the mountains.  I ask him where the dwarves get their food supply, and he tells me they can grow a bit here, but most of Keldagrim’s food comes from trade via the mine cart tracks that run deep beneath the earth to various outposts.  In the Era of Kings, though, technology was more primitive, and the food situation was worse, but the dwarves never considered abandoning the underground.  I ask him why that was, and he replies that food shortages were preferable to being in the thick of the God Wars.  This state of affairs continued well into the Fourth Age, and only after King Alvis’ glorious victory over the mountain trolls did the dwarves send scouts to the surface to check on the situation.

On the northern side of the west bank, I find a bank, staffed by dwarves but fully connected to the Bank of Gielinor network.  Quite convenient!  Further on, I make a few more stops.  For instance, there’s a store selling quality weapons that even has runite longswords in stock: quite remarkable given the rarity of the metal.  I also pop into some private dwellings to ask the locals what the gossip around town is.  It doesn’t go too well.  Some, like a certain Dromund, tell me to get out, and others, like a quarrelling dwarven couple, are too absorbed in their own quibbles to spare me any time.  Fortunately, there’s a library nearby, and the librarian, Hugi (the name means ‘personification of thought’ in Dwarven) is pleased to have someone to talk to.  I ask him about the collection, and he says it’s been accumulated over centuries, from the Era of Kings, to the Rise of the Consortium, to the present day, the Era of Prosperity.  I glance through the books, but find nothing so exciting that I would put aside my exploration of the city to ensconce myself with it, so I make small talk with a human researcher— the first human I’ve seen in the city besides myself— then continue on my way.

Rather than visit the palace, which I expect will take a long time, I decide to cross over to the east bank via a bridge just upriver and look for the stonemason’s workshop.  On the banks of the Kelda, I notice a section of the cavern wall that positively gleams with rare ores.  I try to take a closer look, but a dwarf stops me, saying I’m trespassing on public property.  Okay, fair enough: access to all that ore would have been too good to be true.

East Keldagrim is a bit of a different world from the west bank.  The buildings here are smaller, shabbier, working-class.  There is no public street-lighting, only lanterns hung from houses, and even the street is a bit of a foreign concept.  Right by the bridge is a dock where I run into that damned ferryman and his boat.  I give him a piece of my mind about his shoddy piloting, but he doesn’t seem fazed; he just caustically reminds me that I got my money’s worth for the journey.  Grr.

I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, but the locals around here seem to be friendlier than the well-heeled lot over in West Keldagrim.  There’s this one dwarf, Karl, for instance, who’s not angry at me for knocking on his door, but listens raptly to my firsthand account of the collapse of the statue and my subsequent arrest.  Then, to the north of his place, there’s a shop selling kebabs, whose owner complains to me about some particularly drunken dwarves who live in the area.  In fact, I run into one of them soon afterwards: as I’m passing by his house, he throws an empty bottle in my direction!  I barge in to confront him, but see that he’s drunk well past the point of throwing the bottle maliciously: he’s hallucinating about dwarf-eating kebabs that have arrived to invade the city!  Oh dear, I hope he will be all right.

On the far eastern edge of the city are the actual slums, little dwellings carved straight out of the rock, interspersed with some actual buildings.  In one of the buildings, I find a dwarf selling decorative armguards, but he won’t sell to me, because apparently they’re not the right look for my arms (I don’t have forearms the size of a tree branch!).  Oh well, should probably have seen that coming.  Behind his house is a small coal mine where some of the locals from the cave-homes make their living.  They say I can mine there as long as I don’t draw too much attention to myself.  Alright, good to know.  

The colourful sociological observations don’t end there.  One of the locals is a dwarven male wreathed in smoke, who looks completely out of it.  Is he doing some kind of drugs, I wonder?  There’s also the mostly-deaf owner of a pickaxe shop, who sells remarkable-quality wares (even runite picks) but is burdened by his son, who is supposed to be helping him run the business but is actually kind of a layabout.  I also encounter a dwarf who’s wallowing in self-pity because after ninety years mining, all he’s got is a small house on the east bank.  I would tell him to count his blessings— it doesn’t seem like too bad a life— but I doubt he’ll listen, so I leave him be.

Further south, the character of the district turns from residential to industrial, with a number of important enterprises all located close to one another.  There’s the lava flow mine, for instance, which is off-limits to humans but provides geothermal power for the mine cart network, so is of crucial importance to the functioning of the city.  Then there’s a brewery, which advertises its alcohol by way of a drunken dwarf who walks around with a placard: apparently this is the only job he could get after being fired by the Red Axe for… not showing up to work in uniform one time too many, the brewer believes?  Anyway, their profit margins are low, so they pay him in beer.  I ask the woman at the bar if I can use the brewing facilities for my own purposes, and she tells me to go  ahead: her husband Blandebir will charge me an appropriate amount for the yeast.  I have it in mind to brew some cider, and unless I take another trip to Morytania (which, actually, I well might) this would be a decent place to do it.  But for cider, I’ll need apples, and I don’t have enough right now to make any.  What else?  Oh, the brewery has a cat, but it’s big and mean and even when I speak to it in cat through my amulet, it just glowers at me.

South of the brewery is the rail yard, a sprawling tangle of mine cart tracks that spreads its tentacles to all corners of the dwarven realm.  The main trunk line goes all the way to the Grand Exchange in Varrock, with a through stop at the Ice Mountain mines.  I ask a conductor how much it would cost for me to travel by mine cart and learn that it is free for humans: another part of the city’s bid to get business booming again.  Very useful stuff, though I still have a statue I’m duty-bound to rebuild before I feel I can leave.

Right by the rail yard, I notice a large factory building of some kind.  The foreman outside isn’t very communicative, but he lets me know that this building houses the blast furnace, which the Consortium has opened up to all and sundry (even non-dwarves, which he’s displeased about) so that it can secure the manpower needed to run it.  Since no one is stopping me from going inside, I head in and try my luck talking to the dwarves inside to find out more.  The shop floor workers aren’t much help, but I finally manage to convince a foreman to talk to me.  He tells me that the blast furnace is the pinnacle of dwarven metallurgy, cutting in half the amount of coal needed to refine ore.  The downside is that it takes a five-man crew to get the thing going, and since management refuses to pay workers anything (they argue it’s a privilege even to be working on this technological marvel!) the furnace runs idle a lot of the time and requires human volunteers at all others.  I question the logic of this business strategy, but hey, if it works for these guy, who am I to question it.

A few other dwarves are hanging around the blast furnace to support operations.  One of them is an ore merchant, who sells large quantities of ore of various kinds (nothing rarer than mithril, though) to smiths who didn’t bring, or cannot procure their own; the other, meanwhile, is a quartermaster for the Black Guard, who buys top-quality armour from smiths who can’t be bothered to market the wares they produce here.  Since the furnace isn’t running right now, though, his stock is all empty.  Well, there’s nothing really for me to do here, so I go out again and look for that sculptor.

I find his shop right by the eastern entrance to the Consortium palace.  Blasidar is a middle-aged dwarf with a greying beard who greets me with courtesy, but no special warmth— but that’s only to be expected from the dwarves, really.  I tell him why I’m visiting him and ask whether there’s anything I can help with as far as rebuilding the statue goes.  Blasidar thinks for a bit, then tells me he’s already got an assistant and a model, but could use an errand girl.  I tell him to go on.  He explains that his brief was to rebuild the statue exactly as it was, but, the dwarves not having much of a painting tradition, there exists no visual record of it.  So, we’ll have to make do and produce a plausible facsimile using ornate, but probably ahistorical clothes.  Specifically, he wants me to find a pair of boots, the fanciest I can find; robes in the royal style; and King Alvis’ axe, which is said to still survive.  He has no idea where in Keldagrim I can find these items, but wishes me best of luck anyway in finding them.

That’s… more of a challenge than I expected.  But I shall try to make some headway tomorrow (or at least, after I’ve had what would be a full night’s sleep above-ground).  I’ll begin at the King’s Axe (I’ve a feeling the inn I’m staying in has that name for a reason) and move on to the Consortium palace: if there’s one place that’s bound to have rich dwarves and fancy clothes, it’s there.

[jotawakening-blog]

21 Fentuary, 5A 169: Man in a Bear Suit

I wake up to find that, despite my drinking the previous night, I am in a fit state to get back to adventuring, and so I do.  To begin with, there’s one final thing I wanted to do at the Elemental Workshop.  Specifically, I’ve already seen that unprimed elemental metal can be fashioned into a passable hat, but is the reverse also true?  Can I use a bar of elemental mind metal to make a better elemental shield?  I have no training in magical theory, so my only way to find out is to try it.  And so, I descend into the elemental workshop once more and follow the same procedure as last time (including the nastily exhausting brain drain) to prime a mind bar, then bring it up to the workbenches and bash it into a shield.  And… from my cursory inspection of it, it seems to work!  It doesn’t seem to be much stronger than the one I originally made, though, so for all its intricacy, the elemental priming process isn’t a technological revolution.  Oh well, at least now I know.

So, where to next?  Most of my outstanding business lies in the Fremennik Province, but first, I need a drink— or, more precisely, I need to make the final stop on my bar crawl, the Forester’s Arms here in Yanille!  I walk up to the bar with my bar crawl card and ask the bartender to do his worst.  Taking me for a true Fremennik, the bartender pours me a glass of Liverbane Ale.  It’s got one hell of a kick, but I gulp it down and have the bartender sign my card.

The next part of the day is somewhat lost in an alcoholic haze, for in my weakened mental state, the ale goes to my head and my decisions become not entirely coherent.  I think what happened is that I got it in my head to look for treasure using my enchanted key, which I’d been keeping on me and which was getting warmer and warmer the further north-east, and deduced that it was pointing me in the direction of Catherby.  I have vague memories of stumbling down the forest road and reaching the village, then going into the fishing store and haggling with the shopkeeper, Harry, for a pet fish.  At length, I convince him to let me have one, and he gives me a small net with which to catch it from his aquarium.  Any sort of fishing in my current state is unlikely to end well… and, indeed, I mis-balance and tumble headfirst into the aquarium!  The coldness of the water and Harry’s angry yelling jolt me out of my inebriation, and I scoop up a fish and run for it, quite embarrassed at myself for making such a fool of myself.  Well… I now have one fish.

Once I’ve regained my wits and changed into some dry clothes, I compose myself and check the enchanted key to see whether I was going in the right direction.  Sadly, I discover that my drunken instincts have failed me and the key is distinctly colder than I remember it being.  Oh well, perhaps it’ll get warmer as I keep going toward the Fremennik Province.

From experience, I know that there’s no bank up in those chilled lands, so I withdraw the things I will need at the Catherby bank before setting off.  Let’s see: white pearl fruit, check.  Four sapphires, check.  Water runes, check.  Cosmic runes…?  Aw, crap, I’m down one cosmic rune.  Right, I think I’ll need to make a quick trip to Varrock.  Luckily I can teleport, and do so.

I stay in Varrock for just long enough to buy the rune and put a lot of the loot I’ve accumulated over my travels up for sale, then break the teleport tablet Ali the Wise was so kind as to give me to return to Seers’ Village.  In the village, I visit the church to offer up a few prayers for my venture’s success, then go north into Fremennik country.  As I walk down the road, the enchanted key grows hotter and hotter.  I make some detours to the side of the road to figure out where it is hottest, but it turns out it’s repairing to a point north of the river, in the Fremennik lands proper.  So I keep following the key into Fremennik country until I reach a point in the forest where it is steaming hot!  At that point, I drop the key and start digging.  I unearth a chest containing a bunch of useful things: fifteen law runes, ten hunks of mithril ore and some steel arrows!  Wonderful: I know I can put this stuff to good use!

Naturally, once I’ve dug up the chest, I feel the key again, to see whether it re-oriented itself to some other buried treasure.  Indeed, it seems to have: the key is warm, and while that may be due to residual heat from the treasure I just found, the reading seems promising.

Okay, now on to my errands in the Fremennik lands.  My first order of business should probably be to deliver the fruit to the mountain nomads so that they can start growing it.  After all, their food supply is probably quite dire right now, so I think it’s appropriate that they get priority.  So, I go up to the mountain camp and show the fruit to the chieftain.  He is unimpressed: even if the fruit is as hardy as they say, he admonishes me, one piece will not feed the tribe.  I guess I’ll need to plant it if the tribe is to be satisfied… but where?

I walk around the camp looking for a suitable location, then decide that this is a decision best left to the tribe.  What I can do, though, is provide the seeds, and so I carefully dissect the fruit and dig them out, then give these to the chieftain.  This offer he will accept, and he thanks me for my generous gift.  Great, with any luck, the tribe will be able to survive the winter.  Now, I should report my success to Asleif.

I walk back out to the mountain lake and call out to Asleif’s spirit.  She replies, her voice a whisper in the mist rising above the waters, and I tell her of my success in giving the tribe a food supply and brokering a peace with Rellekka.  The news seems to gladden her, but she tells me there is one more thing I must yet do.  Specifically, her father continues to refuse to believe that she is dead, and I must prove it to him before he can get some closure.  She asks me to investigate her death, and says it occurred on the banks of the lake: she was sitting there when some monster attacked her.  That’s all she’s got, but she hopes it’ll be enough for me to go on.

I thank her for the information and get to work looking around the banks of the lake for any dens or ambush points that might contain some proof of Asleif’s demise.  Initially, my search turns up little, but then I notice a cave entrance in the rock wall at the back side of the pool.  That looks promising, but the entrance is all overgrown, and I stupidly didn’t bring a hatchet.  I know the Fremennik in Rellekka will not trade with me because I’m not one of them, which leaves me with little choice but to trek back to Seers’ Village and grab my own from the bank.  There’s an upside to this, though: I can at least clear out some of the stuff that’s been cluttering my bag!

There’s just enough daylight left for me to get there and back to the cavern entrance.  With my axe, I clear a path into the cave and step inside.  The cave is a narrow passage that eventually widens into an expansive cavern, and it is filled with bones mostly animal, some of them human.  Stomping around inside is a bipedal, bear-like monster with wicked-looking talons!  That must be the beast that killed Asleif!  I leap out at it, but to my surprise, it calls out to me, demanding that I stand down my weapons.  I’m startled enough to comply, and ask it who… or what… it is.  It replies that it’s the guardian of these mountains, the god of the northern sky… the Kendal!  I ask it whether it knows anything of a creature who killed a tribeswoman around here, fully expecting the beast to attack me, but it instead berates me for occupying its time with trivialities.  It is, after all, a god!  

…Or is it?  Something about the beast seems fake, somehow.  I taunt it, calling it a fairground attraction and a man in a bear suit.  The creature responds by getting very tense and asking me how I guessed its secret!  I tell it I didn’t: I just said it looks like a man in a bear suit!  I ask the man why he’s pretending to be a god, and he tells me he’s exploiting the tribe’s superstitions in order to be left alone.  I ask him about the corpses, and he replies they’re mostly troll, or else wild animal.  However, in the winter, when there was no other food supply, he would butcher a member of the tribe… but that hasn’t happened in years, not since the old entrance to the cave, the one I came through, became overgrown.  Before that, he says, he did kill one Fremennik woman…

I ask if I can see the body.  He points me to a skeleton over in the centre of the room, still adorned with ornate Fremennik garb, the sort of thing a chieftain’s daughter could wear!  The skeleton is surprisingly intact, and I ask the false Kendal why that is.  He tells me that she was too beautiful to eat, and, indeed, that he felt remorse for killing her, but by then it was too late.  I demand that he give me the body, but he refuses, his demeanour immediately growing hostile, and attacks me, lunging with his Burthorpe-forged metal claws.  I step aside, raise my staff, and run two rock-hard bolts of water through his chest, killing him instantly.  Once he’s dead, I remove the headpiece of his bear suit from his head, to prove to the tribe the murderer’s identity, and take Asleif’s body out into the open at last.  

With these things in tow, I visit the chieftain and tell him I encountered a strange bear-like creature in a cave.  ‘Yes, the Kendal’, he says, telling me that it’s a god, and because it is unwise to live too close to gods, the tribe planted the brush that was obscuring the entrance.  ‘Not so’, I tell him.  ‘This Kendal is— was— just a man in a bear suit!  And he killed your daughter!  And why didn’t you tell me she went missing ten years ago?’

‘Fourteen years’, he replies, ‘And I never said otherwise, did I?’  A fair point.  ‘But what evidence do you have for your serious accusations?,’ he asks.  I show him the bear-head, and he is stunned to see that I am serious.  He tells me impersonating a god is an extremely serious crime, and he never would have expected justice to be carried out by an outerlander, but that is the truth.  The chief asks to see the body I found, and confirms right away that it’s that of Asleif, that she’s really been dead all these years.  He tells me Asleif should be buried where her spirit is strongest, on the island at the centre of the pool, and that he would like me to perform the burial.  But to bury her with full Fremennik rites, I will need to erect a cairn of rocks in the shape of a longboat, and bury her with one of her possessions.  Unfortunately, he hasn’t got any that would serve the purpose, but perhaps her beloved Ragnar still has something.

I tell him it would be an honour to bury his daughter, and that I shall do so in the morning, when it is light again.  Right now, it is too dark for much save for sleep.  This time, the Chieftain makes sure I’m comfortable, bringing me goat’s meat stew and a pile of bear furs to sleep on in his tent.  Well, I seem to have won the tribe’s trust, and tomorrow, I shall keep it.