RuneScape:Wiki Post/Fan fiction/Vereor Magus

A light drizzle fell onto the bleak midmorning streets of Varrock, soaking the ragged beggars who still slept in the gutter and bouncing off the tough, expensive cloaks of the hasty merchants, eager to get out early to beat their competition to the market. The merchants took no notice of anyone else walking the streets, their destinations firmly set in their focused minds. For that reason they took no notice of a young boy of sixteen years; Vereor Magus.

Vereor passed them without a thought as well, for all he saw were dirty, insignificant street rats. The people of Varrock generally avoided him and he them, but each for different reasons. They did not avert their eyes because of his poor clothes; there were many people who wore only rough, too-big woolen shirts and pants with rusty old bronze daggers at their belts. No, they averted their eyes because of his looks. He was a rather grim figure, with sharp features enhanced by his deep crimson eyes, stark white hair, and strangely pale skin. He was of average height, but his bones stuck out from his body and his hands were rather skeletal; every time someone saw them they flinched at the sight.

He ignored them merely because he thought of them as mindless animals moving about in pointless lives, living up to meaningless standards for stupid reasons. Vereor belived himself better than them, destined to much more than all of the street rats put together.

A beggar looked up hopefully as Vereor turned the corner, but his head sank back down into the mud as he spotted Vereor’s loathsome form moving with purpose down the muddy street. He crossed past the beggar, who sat at the entrance to an area known as Beggar’s Alley, a place the merchants took care to avoid despite the fact that it was the shortest way to the market from the inns at the south gate. He made a bee-line for the well-built stone structure on the corner; made of large, square grey and white stones that contrasted sharply with the creaking wooden structures that surrounded it.

Why the Rune Shop was placed in the Poor District Vereor could never figure out, for many frequented the area just to get to it. A place on the main road would have done it good. But no, the owner had insisted on this location. Nevertheless, a stream of Wizards in robes of several different colors, Vereor noticed that red was not among them, entered and left the room, their robed arms alternately full of either runes or gold pieces. Vereor waited until the line thinned a bit before entering himself, being sure to close the door to hamper the next person, who had his arms full, for a few moments so he could talk with the owner without interruption.

The room was stifling. Although it was rather small, it was nearly filled wall to wall with tables upon which were stacked items of every sort that might interest those who studied the magical arts. There was a table upon which rested every potion known to man, another which held a large number of maps that were scattered about or neatly rolled up, and still another that supported the weight of a pile of what looked like twenty thousand air runes. Other things were piled high upon the tables, and Vereor’s eyes swept over them with interest. He deeply desired to study the mystery of the potions, travel deep into the lands those maps claimed existed, wield the power of those runes.

However, an ancient looking wizard in all white robes who was previously sitting on a stool next to several other white robes wizards stood up with the crackle and pop of bones moving into place. The wizard looked a little comical, for he wore a great sweeping cape complete with shoulderpads that seemed told hold him up and make him look like a dressrobe left out to dry. A monocle rested in one eye below his shining silver hair that flowed down to his shoulders. A long beard also graced this man’s wrinkled old face, nearly hiding the large golden Holy Symbol that rested on a chain around his neck.

The wizard, Aubrey by name, winked an eye the color of the vast, deep ocean at Vereor and shuffled off towards one of the more empty tables. Aubrey called out as he moved, “Ah, my boy, you are out early this morning. Eager to begin your journey are you?” His voice was kind, like a father to a son; he was one of the precious few who did not judge Vereor by his looks.

Vereor frowned deeply and glared at Aubrey’s bent old back. Then he replied with a tone bordering on impatience, “I requested some supplies for my trip three days ago. Did you remember to get them for me?” He unconsciously started tapping one leather boot against the floor, not used to waiting on others to move around. That was the trouble with dealing with old men, he supposed.

Aubrey laughed as he returned with Vereor’s supplies. “Don’t worry, my boy. My memory is still sharp as a blade, although I have never really tested how sharp blades are myself. I prefer magic, as do you. That is why you must go to the Wizards’ Tower.” Aubrey held out the items that Vereor had asked him to obtain; a small pouch filled with small runes, a hooded brown cloak, and a plain walking staff.

Vereor took these from him, nodded his thanks, and then exited without another word. Aubrey frowned after he left and he was unusually subdued as he sat down on his stool to resume the day’s work. Vereor did not see Aubrey worry deeply about Vereor’s safety.

Vereor opened the door, slamming it into the face of the mage who was still struggling to lift the latch, and walked right on past with as great a stride as he could manage. He ignored the curses the insulted and injured mage sent his way. When he was an appropriate distance away from the sounds of the tirade of the unfortunate mage, he stopped to examine his new things.

Aubrey the Mage had personally went out to Zaff’s Superior Staves to make sure that he got a good quality staff, but it was still of the cheapest sort. It was merely a quarter-staff imbued with a small amount of power to make it sturdier, unfortunately incapable of assisting Vereor in the magical fields. His cloak was purchased from Thessalia’s Fine Clothing, although it was one of her more practical and less fashionable works. It was a heavy material that kept out the rain exceptionally well, but it was a disgusting mud color. The small leather pouch, however, was what Vereor wanted most; Runes made by Aubrey himself. He counted them; enough for ten Wind Strikes, which should get Vereor past any goblin raiders or bandits he came across.

Vereor leaned on his staff for a moment, the movement already natural to him, as he considered the journey ahead of him. He had decided a few days back to take west road out of Varrock and head down the seldom-traveled path to the stepping stones on the River Lum. He would then strike out through the Draynor Forest and after that through Draynor Village to the Wizards’ Tower. That shortcut, while more dangerous, would be significantly shorter than the southern road through Lumbridge, cutting the trip down from six days to a mere two.

Vereor put the pouch in his belt and shouldered his last pack, which contained a small amount of food and water, and set off, his staff moving as if he had walked with it for years.

He passed through the west gate within the hour, moving quietly through down the packed pathway towards the Barbarian Village. He passed Gertrude’s house with a sneer at its obvious poverty and averted his eyes from the Leptoc Manor with its elaborate statues and gilded windows. He hated both the poor and the rich. The poor because they reminded him of himself; having to grow up on the streets without even a roof over his head. The rich because they were pompous fools that knew nothing beyond how much their money could buy.

Right after passing Gertrude’s house, Vereor turned down the beaten dirt path towards the Stepping Stones. Suddenly, he was completely alone with his thoughts and the constant beat of the staff against the soft turf. Very few people dared or needed to attempt to cross the Stepping Stones; they had a reputation for being particularly deadly. They would much rather go down the Southern Road to Lumbridge or across the Western Bridge to the Barbarian Village.

Thirty minutes down the path and he passed the shining, elaborately decorated Champion’s Guild, marble bricks shining in the morning sunlight. Vereor averted his eyes from this place as well despite his want to perhaps one day become a Champion; to be respected and adored, not shunned. An ornate window opened and a yellow bearded face appeared out the window. The man breathed deeply of the morning air, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the sound of the birds singing. Then he turned around and re-entered his room.

Not long after he left the Champion’s Guild behind, the sounds of pickaxes smashing against stubborn stone reached his ears. Next came the smell of sweat in a powerful wave that almost sent Vereor to his knees. Grunts of pain and stubborn roars of determination reached him right after that.

The ground turned to dirt as Vereor approached one of the Varrockian mines, a place where most of the people of the Poor Side of Varrock came to make the money to last them out another day. He did not avert his eyes from this place, however much he loathed it. If he were not so physically weak and been more simple minded, he would have been among them. He would have been toiling endlessly day after day to extract the clay, iron, and coal from the stubborn rocks.

Vereor watched one man the same age as himself but with muscles that proclaimed that he had done this all of his life bring his pickaxe up and then down hard against the stone, jarring his arm and sending him back a step. He repeated that motion again and again, working tirelessly despite the fact that sweat was pouring from him in streams and stink rolled off of him.

Vereor picked up his feet and moved more swiftly down the path, determined to leave that terrible place behind him.

In a few moments he came to the Stepping Stones across the River Lum. He discovered then why it was so rarely used; the stones were slippery and wet, definitely not the safest path in the best of times, the River Lum was fast and furious, smashing against the shores with the intensity of a raging minotaur, and on the far shore the dreaded Draynor Forest spread out mile after dead mile for nearly a day’s travel in either direction. Vereor tried not to think of that place just yet; it was the main reason that he was hesitant to travel down this path.

The ground around the River Lum was muddy from the storm that was now raging over Draynor Forest and it showed heavy bootprints leading up to the stepping stones and then disappearing at the river. Vereor tried to see if the other traveler had made it across, but he could not tell because of the river’s churning.

Vereor took a deep breath, steadying himself. He leaned back slightly, gripping his staff in whitening hands. Then he jumped.

He landed on the first stone, feet slipping dangerously towards the water and his staff proving to be a terrible hindrance. His food pack, which was slung over his shoulder, flew forward as he tried to steady himself, almost sending him head over heels into the water. However, he somehow managed to keep his feet by swinging his staff backwards to offset the weight of the pack.

He steadied himself, growing more confident now that he had made it to the first stone. The river still churned around him, soaking his boots, but he was fine. There were only four more stones to go, and then he would be safely ashore. He leapt for the next stone.

He messed up this jump even before he left the stone; his staff caught on a ridge that the seemingly smooth stone had hidden from him. He landed on the stone leaning too far back and his left foot slipped off the side. He tried to catch himself, but he was already falling sideways into the water.

He landed in the water with a splash and his vision was filled with the dark, furious rushing of water. The current bashed his hand against a rock and he lost his staff, then he felt his food pack snag on a rock and rip. A sudden blast of water sent him spinning helplessly, despite his frantic attempts to steady himself, into the sharp rocks that lined the bottom.

He smacked his head harshly against a rock and darkness started to close in. He tried frantically to swim to the surface, but the current dragged him down farther, making him drag against the bottom slowly and painfully.

Then, the river suddenly turned to the left, but Vereor’s momentum carried him forward. He was thrust up on the beach, soaking wet and wounded, with the roar of the river pounding against the steady, solid bank deafening him. However, he forced his elbows under him and he crawled forward a few feet so that he boots were no longer in the water. He sank back down into the sand and moved a hand back to touch the back of his head, where he felt blood gushing out at an alarming rate.

Then darkness, sweet, peaceful darkness, closed in about him.

***

Vereor awoke in the moonlit darkness, soaking wet with the taste of wet sand in his mouth. The roar of the river had mellowed to a low murmur and even the sounds of the nighttime overwhelmed it. Vereor reached a hand to his left but hit it against something wooden and smooth. His staff.

His hand closed around it, his spinning thoughts firming around the solid, already dry symbol of his journey, of his future life. He levered himself to his feet, leaning heavily against his staff. He felt the back of his head, feeling a closed wound beneath his heavy mane of white hair. He smiled slightly, amazed that he had survived.

Then he turned about, realizing his situation was precarious at best. He vaguely remembered losing his food and possibly his runes, he was soaking wet, and he was cut and bloody in many places. However, when he inspected himself, he found that they were all closed up after healing for a full day. A full day in which he hadn’t made any progress!

He slammed his staff against the ground in frustration, then turned about and looked up and down the shore. He was less than one-hundred meters from the Stepping Stones where he had fallen and he was on a small stretch of riverbank that was surrounded on all sides by the Draynor Forest. By the looks of the riverbank it looked as if many people had taken the same trip that he had, ending up on this little stretch of beach. There was a small scorched section that told of a previous fire and the nearest dead trees were hacked at broken.

Vereor spotted his food pack ripped with its contents scattered across the bank. He walked over to it and salvaged as much food as he could, which amounted to a loaf of wet bread and a piece of cheese, and stuffed it inside his rune pouch, which he discovered had indeed made it through the underwater trip.

He walked over to the edge of the forest and snatched up a few pieces of dead wood, quickly placing it atop the ashes of the old fires. He brought out a tinderbox, which he had smartly placed inside his Rune Pouch for safety, and set to work, trying to force the wood to produce flames.

He spent five minutes there, sloppy with haste, trying to start the fire. Luckily, right before exhaustion would have forced him to stop, the fire sprang to life. Vereor sighed deeply, glad that the warmth of the fire was there to dry him off and even happier that the crackling of the fire was there to help block out the cacophony of evil sounds coming from the forest of dead trees.

He fell asleep in minutes.

***

He awoke the next morning and ate the loaf of bread quickly, silently deciding whether to continue his journey or to go back to the streets. It was really not a question at all, and his desire to become something great overruled his fear for his life. He set off at a brisk walk, moving south towards the forest at a fast pace.

Although the sun was shining on Gielinor, Draynor Forest seemed not to know it. As soon as Vereor entered the forest, it was nighttime once again. Although sunlight would have hardly been hampered by the dead, tangled limbs of the trees, it was filtered as if it was trying to get through non-existent leaves.

Vereor picked up his pace as soon as he entered the forest, moving at a leisurely jog so that he would be able to run for hours. He moved fast through this leg of the journey, slowing down only when he desperately needed to rest his lungs. He was not in shape for this kind of thing, but Draynor Forest seemed to give Vereor an unending supply of adrenaline.

He had been going for some hours, then, when the jog became a run, and then the run became a full-out sprint. The trees had come alive, suddenly, but they did not shed their dread image, no, they were moving!

A tree reached down and tripped Vereor, sending him sprawling to the ground for a few moments before he could stand back up, frightened, and then sprint on. He ran fast, seeing in the distance a light that might possibly be the end of this terrible leg of the journey.

A branch ripped his sleeve, leaving a gash on his shoulder. A root raised up and he twisted his ankle painfully as he slipped off the side. Vereor did not slow, even as the trees attacks grew more and more dangerous. Vereor barely ducked a limb that barely missed his head.

Then he suddenly burst from the trees into sweet, sweet sunlight. He nearly whooped with joy, turning back to the trees and yelling joyful curses towards it. He vowed to himself that he would one day return with an army of angry loggers, then the Draynor Forest would pay.

He turned and set off down the empty road, keeping away from Draynor Village by moving in a large circle; he had no desire to be reminded of his bad looks. He moved through the wheat fields, which were deserted because of the close proximity to Market Day.

Because of that detour, he arrived at the long, beautiful bridge to the Wizards’ Tower with the afternoon sun turning the beautiful white stones of the tower red and pink. He took a moment to bask in the glory of the place, the great tower thrusting into the heavens, set apart from the world on a small island connected only by a long bridge.

A man in blue robes with a flowing gold beard walked up to him, looking him up and down. He was middle-aged, with only a few wrinkles upon a face accustomed equally to smiling and frowning. He leaned upon a staff with a white crystal top, his movements easy. He chose this moment to frown, however, as he viewed Vereor’s many scratches and gashes.

“You uhh.. Have a hard journey here? It looks almost like you ran into goblins or tried to make it through Draynor Forest or something.”

Vereor smirked, but he nodded. He was not willing to anger the first wizard that he came across, no matter his superior tone.

“You here… to become a novice?”

Vereor nodded again.

The wizard smiled then, waving his arms out wide and gesturing towards the Wizards’ Tower with long fingers. “Well then, welcome to the Wizards’ Tower!”

-
 * By: Berus

Did you enjoy that story? Yes, quite a bit! I'm not sure. Not at all...