RuneScape:Wiki Post/Fan fiction/Coming of Age

Coming of Age
Written by: Mr. Garrison on the | RuneScape Fan Fiction Wiki.

The snow had covered Varrock completely that Christmas Eve, from the Palace to Aubury’s rune shop. The alleyways looked surprisingly peaceful coated in the thick white snow, and the south side of town looked respectable for the only time to this day. Carol singers sang aloud in the Square reciting songs to Saradomin in the festive period beneath the lights of the tall Wintumber tree which residents and visitors alike marvelled at.

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” called a man with particularly rosy cheeks.

He was stood next to a fire warming his hands, while cooking several Asgarnian delicacies he had brought in for his neighbouring kingdom to try. There were decorations up in all the shops around the city; apart from one.

“Christmas by back side!” exclaimed the owner of Blake’s Books.

Bernard Blake was eccentric and bad tempered; he was sat in his chair in his book store reading a tome on the origins of Christmas which he had found lying around.

“I can’t stand all this festive nonsense!” he snapped, downing another mouthful of Misthalanian wine. “This stuff is much better than that rubbish being sold out the front, how ‘’dare’’ that Asgarnian filth tread near my doorstep!”

He took another sip, and threw the book to the floor, making the untidy, cramped store all the more claustrophobic.

“What the Hell are you doing boy?” asked Bernard angrily.

Tarqinder was a young man of nineteen years and had been working in Blake’s Books since he had left school at sixteen. He hated being shut in every hour of the day with little sunlight thanks to Bernard making him fix boards over the windows after claiming it was ‘too bright’.

“I was just reading something,” Tarqinder replied, putting down a book which described weaponry and armour.

“Get back to work you lazy child before I hang you from a bookshelf upside-down!” Bernard exclaimed, hurling an empty wine bottle at him.

Tarqinder dodged it as the bottle shattered against the wall sending pieces of glass all over the floor.

“Look at that mess! Clean it up!” Bernard snapped, leaning back in his chair opening a book called The Art of Winemaking.

Tarqinder got down on his knees and began to pick up the pieces of which had been scattered across the floor, being careful not to cut himself. He looked at himself in one of the shards, he saw his reflection, that of a nobody; and he pondered on that thought for several moments. “What in the name of Misthalin are you doing? That glass won't clean itself up! Do you want to find yourself out of work at Wintumber?” Bernard asked.

“No Mr. Blake, I do not. I'm cleaning it up right now,” Tarqinder answered modestly.

Bernard sat reading another tome when there was a knock at the door.

“Open the door!” Bernard yelled.

“Yes sir,” Tarqinder replied as he kicked wood from a broken shelf out of the way allowing him to pull the door open to reveal a group of carol singers.

“Who is it?”

“They’re carol singers.”

“Merry Christmas and peace be upon your shop,” said a round-faced middle-aged woman in dark scarlet robes.

“Clear off you Merry-”

The carol singers did not hear the blasphemous end to the sentence as Tarqinder had quickly given them a few coins from his pocket, nodded at them and closed the door.

“Do you enjoy Christmas?” Bernard asked.

Tarqinder turned to face him as he sat facing with dark piercing eyes.

“Well, yes,” Tarqinder replied.

“What is it about it that you lot like?”

“I’m not sure, it’s just tradition, it’s the time of year when you’re at peace with everyone, and a time to give and a time to take, a real celebration of selflessness to put it simply.”

“Sounds like a load of nonsense.”

Bernard leant back in his chair and felt around the floor with his hand, the wine having definitely gotten to his head. He then picked up a pipe made of iron which was lying on the floor and threw it to Tarqinder.

“Here, Merry Christmas, now I won’t have to give you a damn bonus,” Bernard sneered, his voice slurring slightly.

The evening had dragged and dragged, but finally it was over. Tarqinder made his way home relieved to be finished for the day, and glad to be away from the madman Blake who he despised.

“Merry Christmas,” Tarqinder murmured to himself as he looked at the large tree in the square, knowing that he at least had the next day off for it was Christmas Day, and not even Blake was opening for business.

The snow was falling lightly and had given Tarqinder a light coating which he brushed off, and then he pulled his scarf on tighter. He had taken the scenic route home, as he wanted to avoid his parents for as long as possible due to him not having received any bonus money at all.

“You should get home to your family, young man!” called a stall owner in Varrock Square who was packing up for the night.

“You’re right, I should,” Tarqinder replied as he headed westwards in the direction of his home.

As he passed the dimly lit buildings he decided he would go somewhere he never thought he would go.

The church in the north-east of the city was quiet, with only a few candles lit reducing it to near darkness. Everyone else inside it was asleep and snoring faintly, so Tarqinder sat as far to one side as he could, and bowed his head in prayer in the direction of the altar of Saradomin.

“Holy Saradomin, I ask of you this Christmas to give me some hope, for I feel I have failed myself, and worse, my family. I know I haven’t been religious, and I haven’t been to church in some time, but I do believe that your actions are interwoven in our daily lives, so please give me something, just a small sign that there’s more to life than this. I just need something; anything,” he asked in prayer.

Tarqinder looked around, waiting for his prayer to be answered, but nothing came of it. He decided he couldn’t hide from his family forever, and began to head in the direction of home. As he left the church, he shivered as the cold air hit him and snow blew in his face.

“So much for Merry Christmas,” he murmured to himself.

A snowman stood before him on the other side of the path, its stick arms pointing outwards, as if directing him.

“Look at me, following instructions from a snowman,” he murmured.

He followed the lead of the stick arms which pointed to his right, and looked down the path in front of him and saw a shape moving about amongst the trees.

“Hello?” Tarqinder asked aloud.

“Run, run now! It’s not safe around here! I have a job to carry out!” replied a voice.

“Is this some kind of wind-up? Don’t tell me, is it you Farrell?”

“No it bloody well isn’t, and if you don’t hurry up and go you’re going to ruin EVERYTHING!”

Tarqinder backed away, deciding to leave the scene, but as the figure became out of view, he snuck behind the back of the Varrock Museum and followed the Varrock Wall northwards, eager to see what was happening. As he crept onwards her reached the northern gate of the city, and heard a tremendous roar. He froze, feeling terrified yet excited at the same time and looked out the front of the city to see a large green beast standing beside the ditch to the Wilderness; it was a dragon.

“Oh my Saradomin,” Tarqinder murmured to himself.

The dragon was not that big, and Tarqinder had studied the species very much, and knew that a dragon didn’t belong in Varrock.

“Now’s my chance,” he said to himself, and glimpsed a discarded shield lying on the floor as well as a skeleton...