Ire of Phyrrys 38th, Fifth Age 167
I arrive in Varrock on the 40th. My need to research has finally outweighed the trauma of my personal history there. Decades have passed, after all.
The lodgings procured by the Museum, in the safely unfamiliar north of the city, are only available from Novtumber 1st. For the final day of Phyrrys, I must stay at an inn, in the slum-ridden south near where we lived. It has been decades, I must remind myself. While that's nothing to an empire, it's everything to a person. I was a child. It scarred me, and yet it helped form me. I've done so much more and been so much more ever since.
Ire of Phyrrys 40th, Fifth Age 167
This morning, I set foot in Varrock for the first time in 56 years. Still the same old city: crime-ridden, walls crumbling, streets our parents warned us about, which just made us even more curious...
My room at the Blue Moon Inn is cramped, though less so than my quarters on the ship. More comfortable is the street urchins' chatter coming through my window. At first their noise disturbed me from my sleep, but now their conversation disturbs me further still.
One has informed the others of the death of a friend. 'Puffball', they call her. At first they were saddened, but not shocked - losing friends must not be rare, living as they do - but the way the child described Puffball's death chilled both them and me. Small, ghastly hands appearing from thin air, choking the life from the girl. Killed by the spectre of a crying young boy, ghostly blood dripping from his neck. The image is all too familiar...
The children have gone quiet, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But I must ask them something. I need to know.
I told the I could help. I do believe I can, at least, I can save the ones still alive.
The description they gave me of Puffball is all the more evidence. They started by describing her big round mass of curly hair: 'That's why we called her Puffball, ma'am!' Thin and bony, dark complexion, tall for her age... Ha! I remember when I looked like that, before I went and got old.
And that's how Harry must remember me, poor soul. He must be so lonely, must have learnt how to make people join him from the land of the living...and been so distressed when they turned out not to be the big sister he depended on.
But he'll recognise me now, I'm sure of it. You never forget family.
To whomever finds this bundle of books, my name is Madeleine Harworth, and within is my first-hand account of the past fifty years. Please deliver it to Varrock Museum. Though I never did get to work with them directly, at least my history will help their study in time.
For now, it's time this family was reunited.