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Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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DYRN'S STORIES


Hello, and welcome to my story thread; I sincerely thank you for taking the time to read this.

This thread is an anthology of my short stories. Some stories will have multiple parts or chapters, some will be RuneScape-related and some will not.

I have improved immensely during my time here, and I highly suggest reading some of my more recent works, as they are much better in quality than my first submissions. Feel free to give feedback; I'm on a continuous search for new ways to improve my writing.

Also, do not expect total canonical accuracy, as some events in the RuneScape-related stories might conflict with existing/later released content (ROTM, for instance).

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them!

~
Dyrn


My full-length story, Crown of Corruption can be found by clicking here

My... ahem, rather experimental story, The Monster Study can be found here



COMMENDATIONS


,··,¸,·´¸·´¸•¹¹•,¸¸,·-·, ........... Bes† Story' ........... ,·-·,¸¸,•¹¹•¸`·¸`·,¸,··,
',¸¸,.·´ .. ',¸,' The Novelists' Guild Excellence in Writing Award ',¸,' .. `·.,¸¸,'
___________________________________________________
.-^-._/~§~\- Wørdsmith ~ The Novelists’ Guild -/~§~\_.-^-.
¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯
Runner-Up, Round 2 -- Official H'ween Story Contest -- 2011
Runner-Up, Round 3 -- Official H'ween Story Contest -- 2011
Winner, Round 4 -- Official H'ween Story Contest -- 2011
Grand Prize Winner -- Official H'ween Story Contest -- 2011
Finalist -- Official Wintumber Story Contest -- 2011
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:40:55 - Last edited on 09-Dec-2013 15:39:18 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Posts: 1,396Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
~Table of contents~
__
Format:
(Story/Poem/Competition)
-(Chapter) - (Page(s)), (Post(s))
__

The Hunt for Power
-The Thief - page 1, posts 3-6
--The Amulet of Dag'eth - page 2, posts 2-4
---The Fall of Misthalin - page 3, posts 1-4
----The Edicts - page 4, posts 7-9

Cursed - page 5, post 1

H'ween Story Competition entries
-Round 1 - page 5, posts 5-6
--Round 2 - page 5, posts 7-8
---Round 3 - page 5, post 9
----Round 4 - page 5, post 10-page 6, posts 1-2

Wintumber Story Competition entries
-Round 1, The Joy of Giving - page 7, posts 7-8
--Round 2, Demonic Tradition - page 8, post 10-page 9, post 1.

A Shattered Mind - page 9, post 2

Grief - page 9, post 9

The King is Dead Story Contest
- Hypocrisy - page 10, posts 5-7

April 2013 Story Contest
- Curiosity - page 11, posts 2-6

RED - page 11, post 9

BLANK - page 11, post 10

THE CURTAIN (LET IT FALL) - page 12, post 1

WINTER'S MOURNING - page 12, post 3
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:41:09 - Last edited on 28-Dec-2013 16:05:01 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~The Thief~

Calvar Arkin gawped in awe as he beheld the Tower - its great walls rising to immense heights before him. Never before had he seen a building of such magnificence. Even the vast size of King Roald's Palace seemed to pale into insignificance at the mere sight of this construction.

The Wizards' Tower was a jigsaw-puzzle of giant, grey boulders, all carefully chiselled to fit almost perfectly. The walls were decorated with countless beautiful ornaments.

As he approached, Calvar felt a peculiar humming in the back of his head. The Tower seemed almost to be alive, shimmering with an unexplainable power coming from within the structure. The wizards would probably be most unpleasant if they caught him, but he had to carry out his task. Calvar clearly remembered Zemouregal's words:

"Thou shalt bring it to me, and upon thy succesful return thou shalt be greatly rewarded!"

Calvar knew, that if he didn't return, his Master would hunt him down and have him flayed. Returning without the artifact which Zemouregal so desired, would probably yield an even more unpleasant punishment. Ergo, he had to complete his quest if he wished to stay alive.

He must aquire the staff of Dionysius - the Wise Old Man of Draynor Village. Well, actually it wasn't really his staff. It was the long-forgotten Staff of Saradomin, and Zemouregal needed that staff more than anything.

Since Calvars Master had turned down his cousin Lucien's proposal of alliance, the feelings between the two Mahjarrat had been, to put it mildly, hostile. Now that Lucien had got his bony hands on both the Staff of Armadyl and the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal desperately needed something to counter the mighty powers of those artifacts - even if it meant using a holy, Saradominist object.

Why was Dionysius at the Wizards' Tower? Well, apparantly he was holding counsel with the rest of the Misthalinian wizards about an unknown matter.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:41:25 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:24:29 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Calvar didn't understand why the Wise Old Man was even allowed into the Tower - not after the Wizards' Tower Robbery.

This was his only chance to steal the staff. Believe it or not, Dionysius' house was even more secure than the Tower!

There were no wizards outside the Tower. They were probably busy with that meeting of theirs. Still, Calvar wouldn't just waltz in through the front door. There might be some kind of magic security system, possibly involving all sorts of nasty things like giant fireballs and living corpses.

Calvar rubbed his hands together and drew out two climbing picks. He put one of them into a narrow crack in the wall. The other pick was inserted into a crack slightly higher up than the first one. Then, the stealthy thief started his ascend, using only his picks and the almost non-existent cracks between the boulders of the Tower wall.

When he reached a paneless window, he took a peek inside to make sure, that no-one was there. Calvar Arkin entered the Wizards' Tower. He didn't want to fight Dionysius if he could avoid it as rumors of the old man's powers were quite intimidating.

The meeting was being held in the basement, and Dionysius would probably have his staff close to him. Therefore, to get the staff, Calvar needed to create some kind of diversion. Suddenly, a mighty roar sounded, and the thief jumped, his heart beating like the hooves of a thousand horses. When Calvar had come to his senses again, he had a brilliant idea.

As silent as a sabre-toothed kyatt stalking its prey, the sly thief moved along the corridors of the Tower, until he reached the room, from which the bestial sound had come.

The Lesser demon was twice as high as Calvar, its skin was crimson and its long talons seemed to long for human flesh to cut. The only thing seperating the two from eachother were some fragile-looking metal bars. What he had in mind was risky, but Calvar Arkin was notorious for taking great risks when the situation demanded it.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:41:37 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:26:42 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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And he really needed to distract the wizards, somehow.

Calvar approached the gate in the wall of bars he drew a lockpick from one of the many hidden pockets in his tar-black attire. He was a highly skilled lock-picker, and it didn't take long before the metal gate swung open. For a moment the room was filled by a tense silence, but then the demon spoke:

"I sincerely thank thee for freeing me of my enslavement. Thou shalt remain unharmed even as I slay every other being in this accursed Tower!"

With those words, the demon left the room. Then it roared again, and the entire building seemed to tremble at the terrifying sound. The wizards would no doubt have heard that. Calvar had to get to the basement before Dionysius decided to assist the other mages in killing the demon.

On his way to the basement, Calvar had to hide in recesses or behind bookcases every time a group of wizards passed him. He was surprised how they managed not to stumble in their long, blue robes.

When he reached the basement, he heard talking. He warily peeked into the room, and saw both Dionysius and Sedridor, the leader of the Tower.

"That demon can't have escaped on its own!" Dionysius exclaimed, gesturing wildly.

"Don't worry, Dionysius, we have everything under control," the other man said.

Calvar had seen enough. Believing that they were safe, neither of the mages had their staff. The one he sought had to be somewhere in the basement.

It didn't take Calvar long to find it. It wasn't even locked up. The Staff of Saradomin was casually leaning against a chair in the basement meeting room. Calvar grapped it, and he couldn't help feeling quite powerful.

Unfortunately, the thief's exit was almost as stealthy as someone stepping on a Carnivorous chinchompa. As soon as he exited the Tower, the wizards on the battlements spotted him. Calvar ran as fast as could, wind rushes and fire surges whistling past him. If he could make it to the other side of the
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:41:49 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:27:05 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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For a while, anyway. But he never made it that far.

Halfway over the bridge, a loud crash sounded behind him, and he turned around. For the first time in the history of Gielinor, a Lesser demon was flying. It wasn't a very long flight. The giant, crimson body crashed through the roof of the Tower, and whirled away from the building before landing in the water. The demon never surfaced again.

Then a deafening roar shook the very earth, and an enormous Mithril dragon erupted from the hole in the Tower. Upon the head of the dragon sat a Blue partyhat.

"By Zamorak's purple splitbeard!" Calvar muttered. "This isn't good..."

The dragon was upon him. It breathed fire, and engulfed the thief in flames. When the fierce beast's rage had settled, the Wise Old Man returned to his human form. He kneeled down, and took the Staff of Saradomin from the charred remains of Calvar Arkin.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Jul-2011 17:42:05 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:27:03 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~The Amulet of Dag'eth~

Zemouregal had lost his temper faster than a dark kebbit runs at the sight of a falcon.

"What?!" the infuriated Mahjarrat cried, his red eyes glowing brighter. "How did that pathetic scum manage to get himself killed? Surely it was in Calvars power to bring me the Staff!"

The gargoyle Sharathteerk flapped his wings nervously. It was not clever to be near Zemouregal when he was angry.

"He had an... encounter with Dionysius, my Master. The only thing left of him were ashes. Even necromancy couldn't bring him back now."

The Mahjharrat clenched his fists.

"So be it," Zemouregal snarled. "Thou must send for Tarvec, for I shall lay a great quest upon him."

Soon, Tarvec Frey, flanked by Sharathteerk, entered Zemouregal's chamber.

"Master," Tarvec said and bowed respectfully.

"Thy manners become thee," Zemouregal said, and then turned his attention to the gargoyle. "Wouldst thou mind leaving us for the while?"

It was not a question - it was an order, and Sharathteerk was clever enough to obey.

"Tarvec, I hear thou art a highly skilled magician. Is that so?" Zemouregal asked.

Tarvec seemed a little uneasy as he answered.

"I am quite good, my Master."

"Modesty," Zemouregal spat. "But let us get to the pressing matter, which caused me to summon thee. I have a task for thee. A task of utmost importance. Thou must find the Amulet of Dag'eth, and bring it to me!"

-

Tarvec had been riding through the icy lands surrounding Zemouregal's Fort for three days now. He was nearing his destination, the Forgotten Cemetery, where Dag'eth was said to lie buried. Dag'eth was a powerful mage, who had fought in the God Wars. Bards still sang songs of his immense power, which was said to have come from a mystical amulet of his.

The white landscape started to change. The snow was gone, and the ground got darker. There was almost no veget
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Jul-2011 14:57:08 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:27:16 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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The only creatures who managed to live here were fierce, bloodthirsty beasts. Tarvec shuddered.

When reached the Cemetery, Tarvec was immediately filled by a great sorrow. The place itself seemed to cry over the injustice of its dark fate.

Like any other place in the Wilderness, the Forgotten Cemetery had been destroyed and... well, forgotten. Tarvec mumbled and made a quick gesture to form a protective shield around his body, that would keep away the undead inhabitants of the Cemetery.

As he walked through the forest of broken and neglected tombstones, hopeless spirits floating past him, Tarvec felt sorry for the dead. No-one deserved to be forgotten like that. No wonder they couldn't pass on to the Death Realm.

It didn't take Tarvec long to find the grave he sought. It was a big marble sarcophagus. All its ornamentations had worn off, except for one: The symbol of Zamorak.

Tarvec bent down, gripped the lid and tried to lift it off, but try as he might, he couldn't move it.

'Of course!' he thought. 'It's been enchanted!'

He spoke a few strange words, while his hands wove symbols in the air, and for a second the sarcophagus seemed to shimmer with light. With a sudden sigh the lid opened and fell to the ground with a thud. A rotten smell rose from the sarcophagus. It had been so easy! Too easy.

Tarvec's heart sank as he gazed into the sarcophagus. It had no bottom. Instead, a set of stairs led downwards. The constant twilight of the Wilderness prevented the mage from seeing how far the stairs went, but he would have to go down, anyway. Zemouregal could be most unpleasent when he didn't get what he wanted. Slowly, Tarvec Frey descended into the catacomb, and soon he was embraced by complete darkness.

So hungry... Must feed... Flesh...? Do We smell living flesh...? At last...!

Tarvec mumbled a spell, and his right hand burst into flames, but the fire did not harm his flesh. With his flaming hand in front of him to light up the way,
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Jul-2011 14:58:25 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:27:18 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Tarvec was able to navigate through the cold corridor.

The shadows around him seemed to gain physical form, seemed to reach out for him. Suddenly, the fire went out, and the darkness actually grabbed him!

So hungry... Must feed...

"No!" Tarvec yelled in undisguised horror, and a fire surge exploded from within his body. The strange darkness fled, and Tarvec set his hand ablaze once again.

"That was a little too close," the mage mumbled, quite shaken by the dreadful experience.

The corridor ended, and Tarvec found himself in the burial chamber of Dag'eth, the legendary Zamorakian sorcerer. On a dais in the middle of the room stood a sarcophagus, identical to the one in the cemetery.

Tarvec took a step towards the sarcophagus, but at the same time a hooded figure emerged from the shadows on the far side of the big stone coffin.

"Begone!" the figure exclaimed.

"Who are you?" Tarvec asked nervously. The figure pulled back its hood.

"My name is Solus Dellagar. Some know me as the Murder Mage."

Tarvec was stared at the other mage with astonishment.

"You're supposed to be dead!" he accused. Solus laughed.

"The Templars thought they killed me. Obviously they were wrong, weren't they? I faked my own death and returned to my Master, Lucien. He found out about the Amulet of Dag'eth a long time ago. I'm here to guard it from people like you." Triumphantly, Solus raised his right hand, in which he held the Amulet. That was a great mistake.

Tarvec thrust forth his hand and heated the metal Amulet with a simple fire spell. Solus screamed as his hand was burned, and the red-hot Amulet fell to the floor. A water spell and a telekinetic grab in quick succession put the Amulet of Dag'eth into Tarvec's possession.

Tarvec broke a teletab, leaving only the swearing Solus Dellagar in the tomb.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Jul-2011 14:59:15 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:27:21 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Nah, but I didn't want too hurt him to badly, as I'd like him to return (for revenge). plus, it's hard to teleblock someone, when your mind is exploding with pain! :P
Don't worry, Lucien won't take Solus' humiliating defeat lightly! ^_^
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

29-Jul-2011 20:51:40 - Last edited on 29-Jul-2011 20:53:17 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~The Fall of Misthalin~

"How darest thou fail thy Master, Lord Lucien of the Mahjarrat!" roared the skeleton-like Lucien, the Ghorrock Fortress trembling at his words. Solus Dellagar, kneeling before his Master, swallowed deeply before he spoke.

"A mage, follower of your cousin Zemouregal, beat me with the use of a foul sleight." Solus showed his crippled right hand.

Lucien seemed to ooze with pure rage, but he managed to control his anger enough to be able to speak.

"Thou art fortunate, Solus, for I still have use for thee. But I am afraid, I will have to punish thee thoroughly, and know, that I will not tolerate another failure!"

Lucien's eyes were cold, yet terryfying, like a frozen bolt of lightning, as the Mahjarrat pointed the fabled Staff of Armadyl directly at Solus. The mage trembled with fear, his former pride and arrogance suddenly washed away by the sheer rage of his Master.

Outside Ghorrock it began to snow, while the screams of the infamous Murder Mage echoed through the vast expanse of the Wilderness.

-

At Zemouregal's Fort, which was situated not far from the fortress of his cousin, the atmosphere was quite different.

"Thou hast pleased me greatly, Tarvec Frey!" Zemouregal exclaimed, an uncharactaristic look of satisfaction upon his skeletal face. The Mahjarrat was examining the Amulet of Dag'eth intensely.

"Thou hast my permission to leave, Tarvec. Thou shalt be greatly rewarded for thy deed. And send for Sharathteerk, for I wish to consult him in the matter of our invasion. Soon Misthalin will be mine!"

The mad laughter of Zemouregal the Necromancer sounded through the Fort as the snow fell silently outside, its purity so contrary to the foul, black building.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

05-Aug-2011 21:21:36 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:13 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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A couple of weeks later, King Roald of Misthalin was standing on the battlements of his Palace. He was watching the Wilderness, a grim expression on his face. Even in the twilight, the king could make out the features of the army; he could almost smell the rotten corpses of Zemouregal's living dead. Hopefully Dimintheis would be able to drive back the forces of evil once again.

Suddenly a man, clad in armour and a yellow tabard, rushed through the open door and out on the battlements. A look of absolute horror sat upon the mans face. It was Rovin, a captain of the Palace Guard.

"Where is he, Captain?" the king demanded. "Where is Dimintheis?"

Rovin opened his mouth, but the obviously shocked man was unable to speak. After a couple of attempts, he managed to speak his message.

"H-he is d-dead, Sire."

"Dead?!" The king had gone deathly pale, and his words were but a whisper. "How?"

Rovin cleared his throat and answered.

"It appears, he was dragged from his bed last night. I found him, or what was left of him, lying on the floor." The captain shuddered at the thought. Dimintheis' body had been ripped open, and some ferocious creature had clearly fed upon the internal organs of the poor man.

King Roald was shaken. The only man, who could wield the Shield of Arrav, had been killed, and rumor had it that Zemouregal had aquired the legendary Amulet of Dag'eth. Varrock was doomed, but King Roald Remanis III straightened his back and issued the necessary orders:

"Evacuate Edgeville and fortify the city. Send word to Lumbridge and Draynor that the citizens must hide in the swamp to the south. Recruit every single able-bodied man in the city to defend against the evil hordes. Varrock will not give up without a fight!"

Captain Rovin nodded.

"At once, my King," he said grimly.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

05-Aug-2011 21:21:48 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:15 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Still deep inside the Wilderness, Zemouregal sat stoutly on the re-animated skeleton of an enormous warhorse. His infantry of zombies and skeletons poured through the withered landscape like a rotten wave of death. Around the Mahjarrat's neck hung the Amulet of Dag'eth, which had given him the power to raise so many dead from their eternal slumber. Dimintheis had been taken care of, and no-one would be able to stop Zemouregal in his hunt for power!

The young man clung nervously to his sword, a look of grim anticipation upon his sweaty face. A few days ago, he had been living a nice and comfortable life on a small farm, but now he was in Varrock - waiting for the undead army.

Suddenly, someone shouted:

"They're coming!"

The man looked out over the Wilderness. A tidal wave of undead creatures came down from the hills to the north, ready to smash itself against the walls of Varrock. His mouth agape in horror, the young man dropped his sword. There was no way he was going to survive this, anyway. All around him, he heard screaming, and the thundering sound of steel against steel. A single tear trickled down the young man's cheek, as an approaching zombie raised its sword and ran him through.

From his preferred spot on the battlements, King Roald watched the raging battle. Several houses had been set ablaze, and zombies were swarming through the streets of the city. They had not yet reached the Royal Palace, but that was only a matter of time.

The king clenched his fist, and hammered it onto the low wall of the battlement. Those damned creatures were impossible to defeat! Even if one was to cut off their legs, they would crawl on and keep fighting. The undead did not even feel pain! Varrock simply did not have enough soldiers to drive back the enemy. All of Misthalin would soon fall.

"Saradomin help us," said Captain Rovin, who was standing next to his king. Suddenly the king's face lightened.

"No!" he said. "Saradomin can't hel
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

05-Aug-2011 21:22:01 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:16 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Rovin frowned.

"How, Sire?" he asked. The king thought for a moment.

"Don't you think Zemouregal would violate the Edicts of Guthix, if he was to continue his campaign?"

"Maybe," Rovin replied, "but we don't even know how far he'll go, Sire."

The king looked slyly at the captain.

"Excactly!" king Roald exclaimed. "For all we know, Zemouregal might try to conquer all of Gielinor! Surely the Void Knights would help us restore balance to prevent such a violation of the Edicts, don't you think?"

Rovin nodded slowly.

"If you're right, Sire, we might just have a chance in this battle!"

King Roald Remanis III, filled with hope, spoke again:

"Make contact with the Void Knights at once!"
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

05-Aug-2011 21:22:16 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:18 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~The Edicts~

"Both Saradomin and Zamorak were compelled by my power to cease their direct interference on my world of RuneScape as when last they walked my realm it was nearly destroyed by their squabbling.

There was no specific incident that hath caused this, I had simply had my fill of their wars destroying my beautiful planet and prevented them from interfering anymore. They are however both mightily powerful, and I cannot fully prevent their indirect actions upon the world."

- Guthix, God of Nature and Balance

-

Commodore Tyr looked up from the letter, his eyes wide open.

"Zemouregal has invaded Varrock again?!" he sputtered. "And Dimintheis was the first casualty! We must help restore balance before the Edicts are violated!"

Tyr turned his attention to Captain Korasi, who was standing by his side.

"How fast can we get a battalion to Varrock?" he asked the dark-haired female knight.

"It would take at least a week, Sir. Maybe more, if the weather isn't in our favour."

The commodore frowned.

"We don't have a week. How many runes do we have?"

Korasi's eyes went wide.

"Surely, you don't intend to..."

Tyr's expression hardened and he cut her off sharply.

"Don't you tell me what to do or what not to do, CAPTAIN Korasi! Need I remind you that I'm in charge here? Do we, or do we not have enough runes to teleport an entire battalion to Varrock?"

King Roald watched the battle with growing despair. Varrock had been completely overrun by Zemouregal’s dreadful zombies, and the remaining citizens were now making a last stand at the Royal Palace. The only ones, who did serious damage to the zombie army, were the mages. Unfortunately, there were not many of the Mistahlinian wizards left. Right now, King Roald could only hope that the Void Knights would arrive in time.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Nov-2011 21:20:28 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:37 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Zemouregal sat on his undead warhorse, a broad grin upon his skeletal face. He watched with delight as his zombie army threw itself against the walls of the Palace again and again, more Varrockians falling with every attack.

“Today, I shall conquer Varrock, and tomorrow the rest of Misthalin shalt succumb to my will!” roared the Majharrat. He could not loose; not now. Or so he thought.

Suddenly, a bright light shined in the night. It seemed to descend from the sky until it reached the ground. Then the light disappeared, and Zemouregal’s army was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of staff-wielding, grim-faced Void Knights. Zemouregal’s red eyes flared with hatred as he yelled:

“Ye shall not stand in my way, pathetic followers of Guthix! I will not permit ye to interfere with this battle!”

A lone, female Knight stepped forward and spoke:

“You do not have the authority to demand anything of us, Zemouregal. As Guardians of the Eternal Balance, we are required to aid Varrock in defeating you.”

The Mahjarrat spat angrily.

“So be it,” he snarled. “Thy army poseth no threat to me. Ye shall all be annihilated!”

And so the fighting went on. At first, it seemed like the Varrockians, joined by the Void knights, actually had a chance now, but even though many zombies were finally put to rest by the whistling spells of the black-clad mages, there were simply too many.

The allied forces were driven back to the Palace Grounds, where the zombies started methodically butchering them. Zemouregal himself was just about to join the fight when, suddenly, a thundering voice spoke behind him:

“Thou hast grown powerful, cousin. Too powerful.”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Nov-2011 21:20:43 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:39 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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No, it could not be! Zemouregal turned his horse. There stood Lucien, pointing the Staff of Armadyl at his cousin. Lucien attacked with a mighty roar, and Zemouregal was thrown from the saddle. He got up again, and made his counter strike. A few minutes into this furious duel, all the surrounding fighting had ceased. Everyone – even the soulless zombies – was simply staring at the two mighty beings battling. And battle they did. They hurled balls of fire and bolts of lightning at each other, occasionally hitting a few of the perplexed spectators.

A collective gasp sounded from the onlookers as Lucien was hit by a massive fireball. The Mahjarrat lost the grip on the Staff of Armadyl and flew several meters through the air before landing on the hard cobblestone.

Zemouregal laughed.

“Thou canst not defeat me now, cousin, for I have the power of Dag’eth! And thou canst not bring thy fabled Stone here to help thee.”

Zemouregal only caught a glimpse of captain Korasi before she hit him with all her weight. Her hands clutched the Amulet and ripped it from the Mahjarrat’s neck. Quickly, she rolled around and came to her feet. And so did Lucien, who had also picked up his Staff again.

“It would seem, dear cousin, that thy precious talisman hath been taken from thee. Without it, thou art no match for me.”

Lucien pointed the Staff of Armadyl at his cousin, and a bright, green beam of pure magic was emitted from the tip. Zemouregal screamed as both his body and soul were obliterated. When Lucien lowered the staff, his cousin was gone and so were his undead minions. Lucien turned to Korasi, inclining his skeletal head slightly. Then he disappeared in a cloud of thick, black smoke.

The greatest enemy of Varrock had been defeated, and so Misthalin was safe. For now.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Nov-2011 21:20:55 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:28:40 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Cursed~

Eternal life. It seemed like such a beautiful thing to me. To be able to live forever must be a gift, I thought. I was wrong!

The first few hundred years were fantastic. Of course it was hard to watch my family and friends wither and die while I did not age at all, but I soon forgot about it, completely engrossed with my own superiority to the rest of mankind. I threw away those precious moments which I should have treasured forever.

Imagine how much knowledge a man could aquire if he studied for entire millennia. I did that, but it did not satisfy the ever-growing emptiness inside me – it did not fill that hole which the “gift” of immortality had dug in my very soul.

For I soon realised that I was lonely. Other people’s lives were but minutes to me, and so I could not get to know them; their lives were simply too short. I was immortal, but friendless. And loneliness is probably one of the worst fears of mankind. Any other fear can be overcome as long as you are not alone. As long as you have someone to share that fear with. I had no-one. No matter what I achieved, I could not share it with anyone, and so every achievement felt smaller and more insignificant.

I watched whole empires rise and fall, but it did not concern me. I was no longer able to distinguish day from night. Everything was just a blur, and I was incapable of feeling anything. My emotions were gone. I tried to convince myself that I had done the right thing, but I could not. For it was not the right thing to do. I was naïve and selfish, and now my life is a hollow shell devoid of content and purpose.

I do not know how this will end, and that is why I have written this. Mark my words and may they be a warning to anyone who is offered immortality. For it is said that death gives life purpose. Now I know that it is true.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Nov-2011 22:48:24 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:07 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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New very short story, "Cursed" is up! ^_^
---
Sounds good, both of you, and thank you, Flarr. ;)
I just want you to know that I've decided to post my Halloween Story Competition entries here, too. I'll do so tomorrow. They are actually better than the Hunt for Power, as I have improved since I wrote that one.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

25-Nov-2011 23:19:24 - Last edited on 25-Nov-2011 23:26:33 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Official H'ween Story Competition round 1 entry~
My placement: 3rd place.

The warrior traversed over fallen trees and roots intertwining themselves across the cobblestone. This trip towards Draynor Manor would be quite the task, he thought to himself. Using his agile skills he'd attained throughout his knighthood, the warrior finally arrived at the front of the manor. The sight of house took his breath away. The warrior made his way up the steps, but before he could grasp the handle, the doors swung wide open. A deep, horrific voice spoke out to the warrior.

"Sir... Please step inside.”

The voice sent chills down the warrior’s spine. It was no suggestion, it was a command! The knight drew his sword and entered the manor. There were cobwebs everywhere, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The house was dimly lit by flickering candles in old, dented chandeliers. Suddenly the double doors slammed shut behind him. The warrior nervously adjusted his grip on the sword, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your fate has been sealed, brave adventurer,” said the disembodied voice, “now you must descend into the crypt.”

The knight hesitated.

“I said DESCEND!” The great, bestial roar echoed through the enormous building.

The warrior shivered, and reluctantly started towards the stairs which, he assumed, led to the crypt. Slowly, he descended the great, dust-covered steps and the shadows swallowed him. The darkness in the crypt was overwhelming.

“Good evening, sir.*

The knight jumped in mixed surprise and fear. He lunged with the sword, but the voice just laughed.

“You cannot kill me if you cannot see me!”

“W-who are y-you?” he asked, unable to keep his voice from shaking. Again, the voice laughed maniacally.

“I am Count Draynor!”

The warrior swallowed. A vampire!

“W-what are y-you going to d-do to m-me?” the warrior asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:02 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:08 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Suddenly the vampire was upon him. He was thrown to the floor by the impact of the sudden attack, and the sword fell from his hand. The vampire hissed, and the knight screamed as he felt the monster’s fangs penetrate his skin and feed on his warm blood. Then, even as the wounded warrior felt his life fade away, the vampire rose and said:

“The circle is complete once again. I will die, and you must take my place. When you wake up you will know what to do.”

-

The knight awakened. His mouth was burning and he was very cold. But he knew what to do; in fact he already sensed a victim approaching. He heard the double doors swing open upstairs. Then he smiled and spoke:

“Sir…”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:08 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:10 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Official H'ween Story Competition round 2 entry~
My placement: 2nd place.

The sky was dark and the moon was full. A hooded man silently crept through the woodlands of western Misthalin. The shadowy personage hesitated for a moment when he reached the travelling witch’s wagon. Then he knocked on the door, but no-one responded.

-

Meanwhile, a mummy was awakening inside a pyramid in the Kharidian Desert. Slowly, she lifted off the lid of the ornate sarcophagus, in which she had been buried so long ago, and stepped out on the cool stone floor. The linen-dressed undead smiled.

“It is time,” she said.

-

Back in Misthalin, the mysterious man seemed to be growing restless.

“Maggie?” said the hooded figure. No answer. “It’s me – Malak!” For the figure was in fact a Morytanian vampire. The small door gave a loud creak as the vampire nobleman opened it and stepped inside. He looked around, but there was no-one to be seen.

*That’s strange,” he muttered, “I thou-”

Suddenly, a female with an extraordinarily pointed hat jumped out from behind a closet.

“BOO!”

Malak jumped in surprise.

“For the love of Zamorak, Maggie!” he hissed. *I nearly fainted there!”

The witch chuckled and sent the vampire a great smile.

“Oh, come on, Malak, don’t be mad. This is the night of nights, after all!”

The vampire nobleman shook his head, pulled back his hood and took place in a purple armchair. Actually, nearly everything inside the wagon was purple, including the cat, which was fast asleep in its purple basket.

“When will Senliten be here?” Malak asked. The young witch did*’t even get to answer before a ball of bright light appeared in the middle of the wagon. The vampire gave a strangled cry and tried to shield his eyes from the brightness. Then it was gone, and in its place stood Senliten, the Spirit of the Pharaoh Queen.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:13 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:12 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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“Good evening, my dear friends!” she smiled and warmly embraced Maggie. “Long time no see.”
Malak mumbled some half-hearted complaint about the Queen’s arrival, but she did not seem to notice.

“Please take a seat, Senliten,” Maggie said. When the Queen had made herself comfortable, the young witch spoke again, her eyes alight with excitement.

“As you both know, this is the night we’ve been waiting for; the most important night of the year.” The others nodded in agreement. “The time has come yet again to carry out our task. Are you ready-” Maggie produced three baskets and held them high “- to go trick-or-treating?”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:19 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:13 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Official H'ween Story Competition round 3 entry~
My placement: 2nd place.

~ Here lies Dyrnwyn of Lumbridge ~

In his glorious life, this adventurous man travelled far and wide, from the marshy Morytania to the beautiful Elven Lands. Skilled in both combat and deductive reasoning, Dyrnwyn used his great strength and quick wits to help others. Many a time, he fearlessly ventured into dark dungeons and forgotten tombs or solved puzzles and clues, all for to help his fellow Gielinorians. Although he was mostly a good man, Dyrnwyn's profession sometimes required him to walk the path of dishonesty and deceit. Unfortunately, people in authority did not always seem to understand that it was all necessary.

On his adventures, Dyrnwyn slew Elvarg the Dragon and defeated Nomad the Scourge of Souls.

This brave man passed away following an unfortunate (and quite messy) incident, which occurred during a game of dart with his friend, Dionysius the Wise Old Man. When Dyrnwyn left this world, he had completed every single quest he could track down, and he wore a cape to prove it.

~ May Guthix shield poor Dyrnwyn's Soul from Evil, and may his earthly remains rest in peace ~
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:23 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:15 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Official H'ween Story Competition round 4 entry~
My placement: 1st place!

~Bad advice~

They are coming. You can hear them running through the misty Lumbridge Swamp. They have been following you ever since you managed to escape from the jail in Draynor Village.

“Blasted jail guards!” you mutter, running through the marshy landscape. You know that you will have to find somewhere to hide; the guards are closing in on you, and your senses are drowning in an ocean of fatigue. This swamp seems to drain your very soul of all will and energy.

All of a sudden, a shadow jumps at you, and you throw yourself to the ground, drawing your dagger. Your attacker hisses and leaps again. You thrust forward your dagger, and it sinks into the flesh of your opponent. The creature gives a high-pitched scream and flees. You rise to you feet, your heart pounding like a dwarf’s hammer on an anvil.

“Phew,” you say, “just a giant rat.” Then you start running again. The guards must be very close now.

Suddenly, a small, wooden cottage emerges from the unwholesomely-looking fog ahead of you. Should you go in there? Will this swamp-dweller help you? You decide to take the chance and knock on the door. It is opened by the ugliest man you have ever seen. His face is horribly misshapen, and there is a giant lump on his back.

“Good evening, sir,” rasps the hunchback, “I’ve been expecting you.”

You frown.

“You have?”

The hunchback nods, his sly eyes indicating that he knows something that you do not.

"Now, please come inside, my good sir."

You do as he says, and he immediately starts talking again.

“I know why you are here. You are being followed, and so you need my help, yes?”

You nod.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:28 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:16 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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“Very well,” says the deformed man, “But you can’t hide here. They’ll come looking for you here. But I know where you can hide. You must go to the cemetery north-east of here. There, you’ll find a coffin on the ground. I’m afraid it’s already occupied, but I’m sure there’s more than enough room for two.”

A look of absolute terror materialises on your face.

“What?! A coffin?”

The hunchback laughs.

“It’s either that or you’ll join him anyway. Now hurry, the guards are nearing!”

You shake your head.

“Okay. Thank you … I guess.”

You open the door and the fog absorbs you once again. Had you stayed just a few seconds longer, you might have heard the hunchback speak the words, which would come to seal your fate:

“When the bell has sounded thrice
You must pay the ultimate price
For taking my advice.”

But unfortunately you did not.

As you near the cemetery you start having second thoughts. How did that freak know you were coming? Suddenly, a shout breaks the silence.

“We know you are out there!”

The guards! You HAVE to hide. You enter the cemetery, and the fog almost seems to come alive, swirling about you as you walk through the forest of tombstones. There it is. The coffin. You shudder at thought of what you have to do. Then you lift the lid. A dead man, dressed in his finest clothes, is lying in there. His eyes are closed and he actually looks quite peaceful. You take a deep breath and lie down on top of him. Then you pull the lid back over the coffin. The smell down there is not very pleasant, but you are not planning to stay in the claustrophobic casket for long anyway.

As you lie there in the coffin you are overcome by exhaustion, and eventually you fall asleep.

You wake up to the sound of church bells. They sound three times, and then they stop. The coffin seems to be rocking and bouncing.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:42 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:44 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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“What the he-” you say. Then you realise what is going on. The coffin is being carried! Suddenly, the movement changes direction. The coffin is now being lowered down. You are struck by absolute fear and horror. Someone is trying to bury you!

“No, wait!” you scream, pushing the lid. No-one replies and the lid refuses to move. “For Zamorak’s sake! Please, sir, this is a misunderstanding, I’m not even supposed to be here!” Still no-one replies. Now you hear digging, and the first heap of dirt is thrown down onto the coffin. Your cries become more urgent, and your hands are clawing desperately on the inside of the lid. “Sir, PLEASE! I’m ALIVE!” The digging continues for some time, and when it finally stops, your fingers are bloody from scratching the lid. “No!* your voice is shrill with fear. “This can’t be happening!”

Your body trembles and fear cripples your mind as you lie there in the darkness, where death is the only way out.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

26-Nov-2011 11:33:47 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:45 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Glad you liked my stories! :D
Well, I only recently started writing in English so I don't really have enough work to get it published. :P
Last year I got an offer from a publisher here in Denmark, and I'm almost finished with my Danish novel so I just hope it'll lead somewhere. ^_^
That same publisher just published an e-book where four of the chapters were written by me for their Christmas Story Contest last year! :D
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Nov-2011 13:15:55 - Last edited on 28-Nov-2011 17:57:33 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Official Wintumber Story Contest entry - Round 1
This story won me a place in the final round of the contest.

~The Joy of Giving~

Edward jumped to his feet, the sound of knocking filling him with excitement. He ran to the front door and opened it.

“Uncle Maurice!” exclaimed the boy, gleefully embracing his beloved uncle. He was a rather big man and his fine garments always seemed to be a bit too small for him, but he was always nice and, more importantly, he always brought the best Yuletide presents.

“Look at you!” The uncle smiled, but his it was as if his heart was not in it. “My, how you’ve grown, child! I’ve brought you a present.” Maurice produced a small, brightly coloured box wrapped with silken bands. His eyes sparkling, the boy took the present.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle! Can I open it? Please, can I?”

Maurice laughed. It sounded somewhat fake, but the Edward did not notice.

“Go ahead, my boy.”

Edward loosened the bands and started ripping the paper with amazing speed. Inside the box lay a dagger. The hilt was ornately fashioned and the short blade was so polished that Edward was able to see his own reflection in it.

“Thank you, Uncle!” the boy said, his eyes shining with gratitude. Edward’s father had stood and watched, and Maurice sent his younger brother an almost triumphant glance. The look he got back, however, was as cold as the snow outside and it held nothing but disgust.

-

In the middle of the Yule-dinner, someone knocked on the door again. Puzzled, Edward made his way to the door. Outside in the snow stood what most people would define as a tramp. His poor clothes were torn and ragged, and his grey mane was wild and unkempt. This was, however, no ordinary tramp; this was Edward’s second uncle.

“Oh,” muttered Edward disappointed, “Uncle Silas.”

The vagabond sent him a vague smile, snowflakes sparkling in his beard.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

08-Dec-2011 21:08:07 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:47 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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“Don’t worry; I won’t come inside if you don’t want me to. I just stopped by to give you this.” Silas held forth a small, wooden horse, obviously handcrafted by himself. Edward took it and nodded politely before closing the door and leaving his uncle in the cold.

“Who was that, dear?” his mother asked when he came back. Edward shrugged indifferently.

“It was just Uncle Silas. He gave me this.” Edward looked at the toy horse for a moment. Then he uncaringly threw it in a corner of the room.

His father rose to his feet, walked across the room and grabbed Edward by the arm, dragging him towards the small kitchen. His mother and uncle looked completely baffled.

“Edward!” hissed his father. “How could you throw away Silas’ present like that? Because you did*’t like it? Because it wasn’t as expensive and beautiful as Maurice’s present?”

Edward flinched; he had never seen his father so angry.

“Let me tell you something, my son,” he continued, more calm now. *Maurice is a worthless jackass who just happens to have a lot of money. He buys you expensive presents and pretends to be nice to ingratiate himself with you. All he really wants is to come here and rub all his money in our face!”

Edward had never thought of it that way. He was still young and he was not yet familiar with the term ‘deceit’. His father went on:

“Silas, poor Silas who has nothing, gave you something real without expecting to get ANYTHING in return. He gave you that horse, which he’s undoubtedly crafted with his own two hands, for the joy of giving, and you threw it away like it was garbage. Is that the spirit of Yuletide? I think not! Now go and let Silas in.”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

08-Dec-2011 21:08:16 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:29:48 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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4saken 1, is the story for this forum? If not, I'm pretty sure you'd need permission from Jagex to write one such story (at least to get it published, you would). Other than that, I'd be happy to help. What kind of advice were you looking for? ^_^ // Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

09-Dec-2011 09:55:27 - Last edited on 09-Dec-2011 11:27:12 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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@Sna33y Na33y
The only research I did was playing the game. When writing about RuneScape research isn't really needed, although it might be a good idea to find out how far you can shoot an arrow from a real-life bow, for instance.
When it comes to starting a story, I usually just think about a place or a character and start writing about that/them. Then the story will sort of develop itself as you describe characters and environments and you get more ideas for the plot.
So to sum up: Think about something (a place or an event) and/or someone you would like to tell a story about. Then just start writing. ^_^
@Questpurex10
I normally don't accept bios as I like to make up my own characters. Also, my RS stories don't portray RuneScape as a game, so the concept of "Skills", "Levels" and "XP" would not exist, if you know what I mean.
Maybe I could include your character in a story of mine sometime, but I can't promise anything. :)
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

10-Dec-2011 10:16:20 - Last edited on 10-Dec-2011 10:17:09 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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Official Wintumber Story Contest entry - round 2

~Demonic Tradition~

K’ril Tsutsaroth the Demon Lord had travelled home for the holidays. Home. That word seemed unable to describe the place, as it would imply a certain amount of safety. No-one was really safe in the Wilderness.

The Demon Lord glanced around the giant crater of the Wilderness Volcano, the place he called ‘home’. Although he originated from the Abyss, this was what he had come to know as his home on Gielinor. He had grown up in the great city there, which had long ago been reduced to floating ruins when Guthix threw the giant monolith from the sky to make an example of what would happen if anyone would be so stupid as to break the Edicts.

The reason for his coming to the Volcano was the Winter Solstice. For as long as he could remember, the demons had performed the ancient Ritual on Winter Solstice. Because the demons were beings of fire, they had always worshipped the Sun (it was, in fact, a common misconception that they worshipped Zamorak. They had merely fought with him in the God Wars). At Winter Solstice, the tradition of the demons demanded that one of their own kin be sacrificed so the fiery Sun would continue its course around Gielinor.

Of course the first demons soon discovered that the Sun had no need for assistance, but old habits die hard and the Ritual continued. Also, the demons quite enjoyed the entertaining show.

The demons were starting to gather. The Ritual was about to begin. K’ril waved gleefully at his old friend Kal’Ger the Warmonger, who had travelled all the way from the Dungeons of Daemonheim. The huge, brown demon waved back.

K’ril watched as the poor victim was dragged to the center of the crater and chained to a blue-glowing block. The fearful creature screamed in agony as the Arch Priest stepped forward and raised his hands for silence.

“Behold ye, a demon who hath volunteered to sacrifice himself for the benefit of ye all.”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

29-Dec-2011 16:08:32 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:30:11 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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K’ril grinned. Volunteered? Very unlikely. The Arch Priest turned his attention to the chained demon and continued.

“Of fire wert thou born, of fire art thou made, and fire thou shalt become!”

With a mighty roar, the Arch Priest, who was one of the few demon magicians, produced a giant fireball and hurled it at the condemned demon. It screamed as its flesh burned, and the mass of demons joined the scream as they held their shining weapons high.

The demon was by nature quite resistant to fire, but it was a Sun-ritual and the spell had to be of fire. This was, thought K’ril, a rather nice personification (or rather, demonification) of the saying ‘fight fire with fire’. The spell was rather strong, too, and it took only a few brief moments for the flames to consume the flesh of the demon. As his ashes were scattered by the wind, the other demons turned their backs and went to eat.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

29-Dec-2011 16:08:54 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:30:30 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~A Shattered Mind~

Ethan’s heart raced and as did his feet. Although he ran like the wind his footsteps made no sound. Neither did those of his pursuers. Every sound was muffled into nothing in this strange place.

The environment was filled with colour, and yet it was not. At some times the ruined buildings would seem to glow with a warm, red hue and at others they would seem bright green. If you, however, stopped for a moment to focus, every hint of colour would disappear, turning into an indefinite tinge of nothingness, like when looking directly at a light source in a dark room.

Ethan did not remember how long they had been chasing him. It seemed like forever. At first they had kept themselves just out of his field of view, and he had only rarely caught a glimpse of them. But now they were moving closer.

Ethan knew what they were; he knew what was going to happen when they eventually caught him. He WAS going to get caught, that he knew too. No-one unfortunate enough to be sought out by these men would be able to escape them.

He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, scanning the area behind him. The men had never been so close. The pursuers were but a hundred paces away now. With a determined expression upon his face, Ethan sped up, even though his body trembled with exhaustion.

Ethan had absolutely no idea how long it took before he gave up, as time is incredibly difficult to measure in a world where no Sun exists. Nevertheless he gave up and surrendered to his chasers. Sitting on the ground, he watched almost indifferently as they moved closer. They were as indefinite as the surroundings in which they had pursued their target, and their shape and size seemed to vary at every glance he cast upon them.

The men reached out for him. Madness had finally caught up with him, and as Ethan went crazy, his silent scream echoed through the ruins of the wasteland which was his shattered mind.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

29-Dec-2011 16:19:24 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:30:32 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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I'm glad you like my works, and welcome to this forum! ^_^

As for working together, I'm afraid I'll have to turn your offer down, at least for now. As much as I like to get inspiration from others, I prefer to make up my own stories, and I am pretty busy IRL at the moment, so I would not have much time to write, anyway.

I have plans for writing a novel on here called 'Revenge of the Reflections' (Yes, reflections as in a mirror), but I'm currently in the process of proofreading my Danish novel, which I hope to get published.

I appreciate your reading my stories, and happy writing! :)
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

30-Dec-2011 17:49:57 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:30:33 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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~Grief~

April 1. 2011

No! It cannot be true - they must be lying! Of course my dear child is not dead. I carried him beneath my heart for nine months. I gave birth to him, fed and nurtured him. With joy I watched his every move, whilst at all times feeling that special bond between us. I raised him, for Gods sake! He is so young! He cannot be gone. It is all a dream; a nightmare. Soon I will wake up and everything will be okay. Soon.

April 17. 2011

He is really gone; I saw them bury the tiny coffin. Why me? What have I ever done to deserve this? Have I not always been kind towards my fellow humans? Have I not always helped those in need? This is just not fair! That truck driver deserves to be roasted alive for brutally robbing my son of his life! How could he do it?

May 9. 2011

I cannot live without him. He was all I had left. Please, God, bring him back. I will do anything just to see him again. Anything! I will donate all my money to charity. Tell me, what is the price for bringing my child back? The memory of him is haunting me, ripping through my heart like a cold steel hook. Please bring back my little child.

May 23. 2011

I have finally given up. What is the point of living now? He was everything. I have nothing left to live for. I have not eaten for days. I have even considered taking my own life. It seems like such a good idea, and I am beginning to think that it is the only way out. Maybe it will make the pain go away? Maybe it will dull the hook and put my mutilated heart to rest.

July 5. 2011

I am starting to realise how foolish I have been. Of course I cannot bring him back, and of course it was not the truck driver's fault. And comitting suicide will certainly not solve any problems. I am slowly starting to accept his death. The pain will start to fade, but it will never completely disappear. Hopefully I will soon be ready to move on, although I will always cherish the memory of him; my dear, dead son.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

22-Jan-2012 09:46:29 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:30:48 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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The King is Dead Story Contest Entry

~ Hypocrisy ~

The golden rays of the evening sun flowed gently through the mosaic windows of the church like streams of thick honey. A cool breeze swept through the sacred building, playing with the tapestries on which stories from the Sacred Writings were depicted. The stone cathedral was filled to the limit with nobles and rich merchants - all there to witness the funeral of King Alfred III.

Even though this seemed like a day of great sorrow and mourning, Queen Krystal, widow of the deceased monarch, knew better. Not a single one of the men gathered here today had come because of their close relationship with her late husband, or solely to express their condolences, although it may seem that way.

Behind this pompous masquerade of mourning lay a truth much too ugly to be brought forth into the light of day. For ever since the first news of the King's death had escaped the walls of the Royal Palace, these ostentatious nobles had been filled with an insatiable lust for power.

As the Queen was barren, there was no direct heir to the throne, and it would not be long before the Dukes and Earls would start to do war upon one another. The King's only brother had already been implicated in a terribly unfortunate accident with a fatal outcome. The Queen was also fairly certain that the food poisoning which had killed her beloved husband was not an ordinary one.

Krystal was utterly disgusted. All these men would gladly kill whosoever chose to stand between themselves and the throne. Sooner or later someone would have to seize power and bring the chaos to an end.

The congregation was brought to silence by the corpulent Earl of Glennhold as he raised his hands and began a grandiloquent speech about how deeply the King would be missed. But every single one of his honey-soaked words was just as fake as the tears which welled in his unwholesomely bloodshot eyes.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

16-Jul-2012 15:30:45 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:31:04 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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The widowed Queen clenched her tiny fists whilst desperately trying to keep the dark emotions at bay. This would undoubtedly prove to be to be a very long and tiring day.

-

The old chamberlain hurried down the long corridors of the Royal Palace, his fine garments trailing behind him. He hesitated for a moment as he reached the Queen’s personal chambers. Then, after adjusting his clothes, he raised a wrinkled hand and knocked on the door.

“The door’s open, Edgar,” said that delicate voice which he had known for so many years.

The chamberlain opened the door. The petite Queen sat in a luxurious armchair, brushing her long, golden hair.

“Your Majesty.”

The Queen rolled her eyes, a gesture she knew the chamberlain had hated ever since she was a little girl.

“Please, Edgar,” she said, “we’ve known each other for long enough that we don’t need all that formal foolishness.”

Edgar shrugged.

“As you wish, Your Maje … Uh, Krystal.”

The Queen smiled delightfully.

“Much better,” she said. “But let’s get to the point. Since Alfred died – may the Gods bless his soul * the Kingdom has been in a state of … turmoil. It’s only a matter of time before it turns into open rebellion. These annoyingly power-crazed nobles are going to fight over the throne like dogs over a bone.” The Queen chuckled slightly at that last sentence.

Edgar frowned inquiringly.

“What are you going to do about it, then? You have no heir!”

Krystal winked slyly.

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m going to do absolutely nothing at all. It’s as simple as that. You see, all these petty Earls and Dukes are going to wage war against each other, and when they’re done fighting, most of them will probably be dead, and I bet we can take care of the rest ourselves. Then I’ll assume the throne!”

The old chamberlain’s jaw dropped. He had known Krystal since before she could walk and she had always had crazy ideas, but this had to be the most unthinkably strange scheme she had ever devised.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

16-Jul-2012 15:31:37 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:31:08 by Dyrnwyn

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“A FEMALE regent?!” he gasped. It was unheard of. As much as he cared for Krystal, a woman was absolutely incapable of ruling a kingdom! He simply could not let this happen.

The small Queen tutted, aggressively brushing a lock of particularly tangled hair.

“Oh, Edgar, you are too old fashioned! It’s about time we tried something new.”

The chamberlain thought for a moment.

“You disapprove how these noblemen fight to gain power, right?” he asked.

Krystal nodded.

The old man continued:

“Yet, now you’re talking about killing them to get the throne for yourself. Doesn’t that make you just as bad as them?”

That assumption seemed incredibly difficult for the little Queen to comprehend, and consequently she went into a state of angry self-defense.

“But, Edgar, don’t you see it? I owe it to Alfred!” she insisted, her eyes ablaze. “I simply cannot allow the Kingdom to fall into the hands of these incompetent nobles. It’s different because it’s ME!”

The little Queen’s blue eyes darkened visibly as her inner storm cloud shot bolts of lightning at Edgar.

“I see,” said the chamberlain, still not sounding very convinced, “it’s different because it’s YOU. It justifies your killing noblemen here and there as you see fit. For Heaven’s sake, you have no more right to the throne than the nobles! Most of them are related to Alfred by blood!”

The flow of words came to a halt as the old man stopped to catch his breath.

“Do I have Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw?” he asked.

The Queen stared at the old man, an expression of pure disbelief upon her face.

“You don’t agree?” she spluttered. “Yes, you have my permission to withdraw – preferably to someplace far away!”

Edgar bowed almost mockingly.

“As Your Majesty wishes,” he said, turning around sharply and walking out the door.

“It would have been much easier if she'd listened to me,” he muttered. “Now I have to get rid of her, too, before I can put myself on the throne.”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

16-Jul-2012 15:33:11 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:31:10 by Dyrnwyn

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~ He Who Has Everything ~

The Dragon lay in his mountain cave, his claws caressing a ruby the size of an apple. The cave was filled with astounding riches. In one corner lay a giant heap of golden coins, in another lay the crown of a long dead king. The floor was littered with assorted gemstones that painted the cave with the colours of the rainbow as the warm sunlight spilled through the cave opening.

Splinters of the broken silence hit the cave floor as the Dragon made a guttural sound comparable to the yawn of a human.

Slowly, the Dragon rose and went to the cave opening, his fearsome talons clicking against the cold stone floor. With a great leap he threw himself off the side of the mountain and flapped his bat-like wings. Beneath him lay a great forest, its emerald hues glittering in the sunlight. All the creatures that dwelt within feared the Dragon, for they knew that he could burn the forest to the ground with a single belch of fire.

He was a King, ruler of the forest as well as the mountains. Those few who had dared to stand against him had perished. Even men feared him. At first, they had tried to fight him. They had come to his mountain, mounted on the beasts known to them as horses. They had been clad in shining armour and they had challenged him. Whether it was for glory or for the riches that lay hidden in his cave, the Dragon did not now. Not that he cared, for the men had been destroyed, too.

With a great sigh, the Dragon circled higher and higher, his spiked tail slashing at the clouds.

The Dragon was free to do as he pleased and to take whatever he desired. When hunger came upon him, the Dragon would simply choose his prey and swoop down in a graceful arc to satiate himself. He had all the gold and jewels he could ever want. But it was not enough to fill that enormous void within his soul.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Jul-2012 19:52:03 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:31:21 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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The Dragon was the only one of his kind. No matter how much treasure he gathered, no matter how vast his kingdom was, he was still -- and would always be -- the loneliest creature in the World.

He longed for someone with whom he could share his riches, his meals, his life.

With a look of unbearable sorrow in his huge eyes, the Dragon continued his skyward journey. Great, crystalline tears welled in those awfully sad eyes.

For he who has everything, except companionship, truly has nothing.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

28-Jul-2012 19:52:26 - Last edited on 20-Jun-2013 21:31:22 by Dyrnwyn

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CURIOSITY

Catalan Farnsworth wiped the sweat from his brow, shielding his eyes from the ever-burning desert sun. The great pyramid rose before him, towering like a lonesome sentinel in a vast ocean of sand.

”Ja'ab!” Farnsworth called for the indigenous desert-dweller whom he had hired for the expedition. ”Are your men ready to open the pyramid?”

The dark-skinned man nodded, answering in his distinct accent.

”It will not be long. The entrance is nearly cleared. I will tell them to open it as soon as they are able.”

”Very well, Ja'ab. Your service is of much value to me.”

Finding a local who would be willing to desecrate an ancient tomb had not been an easy task; Catalan had spent weeks searching for the right man. Ja'ab was essentially a professional grave robber, but at least he did not shy away at the thought of the Pharaoh's curse.

Farnsworth rubbed his hands eagerly. Ever since his childhood he had dreamt of opening one such tomb. He had overseen countless archaeological excavations, but this was bigger than anything he had ever experienced. Thoughts of secrets and unbelievable riches very nearly made him drool.

With Ja'ab by his side, he made his way to the pyramid entrance. Ja'ab's men were shoveling sand onto wheelbarrows and hauling giant slabs of rock onto a truck.

A worker looked up, wiping his face with a ragged cloth.

”We are done, sir. We can open it now.*

Catalan nodded.

*Do it.”

With immense satisfaction, he beheld the workers as they used pickaxes and levers to break the stone slabs, that covered the entrance, apart.

The slabs broke, and it was as though the pyramid let out a sigh in defeat. Farnsworth laughed triumphantly.

”Today, we have conquered the pyramid! Soon, we shall uncover its secrets!” He turned to Ja'ab. ”Fetch us lanterns, and we shall embark upon a journey back in time.”

-
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-May-2013 21:22:09 - Last edited on 07-May-2013 21:23:00 by Dyrnwyn

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The inside of the ancient structure smelt of dust and age, and a veil of sepulchral silence had fallen upon the men. No-one spoke, be it for fear of invoking a curse, or simply in awe of the beauty of the pyramid.

The walls were covered with paintings, depicting everything from the life of peasants to the death of kings. Catalan frowned at the strange symbols that complemented the artwork.

”Ja'ab,” he said, resting his palm against the cold stone wall of the corridor. ”Can you read this?”

”I can. It is difficult to translate, but I can make a meaning of it.”

Farnsworth nodded.

”Perfect. I will transcribe the symbols later, and I would very much like you to translate them, as best you can.”

”As you wish.”

-

Night had fallen upon the desert lands, and the men had withdrawn to their tents to shelter themselves from the low temperatures.

Catalan Farnsworth was recording the events of the day in his diary, as Ja'ab entered his tent.

”Catalan, I don’t believe we should continue our exploration of the pyramid.”

Silence followed. The only noise was the barely audible squeaking of the chain from which an oil lamp hung, causing shadows to flicker. When Farnsworth finally spoke, his voice was stern.

”That is not for you to decide, Ja'ab.”

The ebony-skinned man cleared his throat.

”I have translated some of the ancient symbols. They speak of a great danger deeper within the pyramid. Whether it is death traps or the Pharaoh's curse, I do not know yet.”

Catalan laughed mockingly.

”The Pharaoh's curse? Surely, you are not afraid of such things, Ja'ab?”

The indigenous man sighed.

”It is dangerous, I am sure of it. I will not accompany you, should you venture into the tomb again.”

Farnsworth shook his head.

”Unbelievable,” he muttered. ”Alright, Ja'ab, I will go alone. Did you really think you could talk me out of this?”

Ja'ab did not answer. He sighed again, leaving Catalan with his notes.

-
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-May-2013 21:22:17

Dyrnwyn

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Catalan walked slowly through the ancient corridors, lantern in hand. Ja’ab had once more attempted to convince him to discontinue the exploration, but Catalan’s will had remained unbowed.

*I don't need company,” he told himself. ”Cowards!”

Every once in a while he stopped, producing tracing paper from his backpack to record the carvings on the walls.

Here and there, there were chambers filled with urns, gold and whatever else a Pharaoh might need in the afterlife.

As Catalan went deeper into the ancient building, the paintings on the walls changed in nature. Instead of peaceful depictings of the people, grotesque monsters and massacres now adorned the expertly carven stone walls. The scenes were so realistic that Catalan averted his eyes for fear of tasting his breakfast a second time.

”What the hell is this?” he mumbled.

Inside the pyramid, there was a constant whispering of the wind, as it went through small cracks in the structure. As time went by, it seemed to Catalan that he could make out words in this whispering – that the wind spoke to him.

TURN BACK ... BEGONE ... DEATH AWAITS ... FLEE WHILE YOU CAN ...

The archaeologist rejected the thought.

”Catalan, old boy, you allow Ja'ab's ridiculous ghost stories to mess with your head.”

It seemed like he had walked for ages, when the corridor ended. He was now faced with a stone slab, on which a hideous figure was painted. The abomination bore the garbs of a Pharaoh, but his facial features were horribly twisted, Catalan felt the dead eyes pierce through his very soul.

The whispering of the wind grew still more urgent, and though his heart quivered in barely suppressed terror, Catalan had no intention of turning back.

He set down the lantern, shadows flickering over the monstrous Pharaoh. He reached for his sturdy pickaxe and began tearing down the barrier. The inner sanctum – the very sepulcher itself – must lie on the other side.
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-May-2013 21:22:26

Dyrnwyn

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As the first miniscule hole appeared in the stone slab, the manic laughter of a madman escaped the darkness beyond. Farnsworth continued his work, steadily chipping away at the slab.

Finally, the barrier cracked open, and Catalan made his way through, lantern held high. The dim light lit up a chamber which most probably was meant to have been gloriously ornamented, but it seemed like whomever had been tasked with decorating a respectable tomb had suddenly remembered a pressing engagement elsewhere.

The paintings on the walls were not finished, and the gifts for the afterlife had not even been unpacked from their crates. The stone sarcophagus in the middle of the chamber was open, the heavy lid rested against its side. Catalan scratched his head wonderingly.

”What in the deepest abyss of hell...”

With the lantern to ward of the darkness, he moved closer to the sarcophagus. The archaeologist swallowed hard, as he beheld the embalmed corpse. The ragged linen shreds were slightly parted at face, and Farnsworth leaned in to inspect the leathery skin more closely.

Suddenly, the Pharaoh opened his eyes, and one arm shot out, ripping the linen and grabbing Catalan’s collar. He wanted to scream, but the glowing eyes froze him, preventing Catalan from voicing his terror, and his consciousness started to fade. The lantern slipped from his hand, glass smashing against the stone floor, and darkness filled his vision as well as his mind.

-

Catalan slowly regained his senses. They were not of much use, though, as he was surrounded by utter darkness. He was lying on his back, but when he tried to sit up, he bumped his head against something solid.

”Damn!” he exclaimed, rubbing his forehead. He lay down again, reaching upwards with his arms. They met a cold stone surface. Catalan frowned and reached in his pocket, producing a lighter.

In the third attempt, his shaking fingers managed to create a small flame.

”Oh, shi-”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-May-2013 21:22:34

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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The sarcophagus was no longer open. The lid had been put in place, and he was inside of the stone coffin. Then it dawned upon him. Catalan slowly turned his head, his eyes met by those of the Pharaoh. Had it not been for the overpowering effect of those eyes, the archaeologist would have wept.

The corpse spoke, its voice dry as desert sand.

”Curiosity killed the Cat.”
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-May-2013 21:22:40 - Last edited on 17-Feb-2014 22:14:32 by Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

Dyrnwyn

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---
Thought I'd share some (pretty awful) poems. I've written a good deal more, but most of the ones that are actually good are in Danish, and those which are not are either really personal or systematic poetry that has to be read on paper (box-written typewriter poems).
// Wordsmith ~ The Novelists' Guild // Viking //

07-Dec-2013 16:37:41 - Last edited on 07-Dec-2013 16:38:50 by Dyrnwyn

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