Darkreign, Book One

The main story for Darkreign, Book One

Prologue: Fire in the Night
Walking through the dark, dirty streets of Lower Varrock, Azrildar pulled his long, heavy black cloak tighter, hiding his face in the deep hood. The streets were empty, but Azrildar could catch the movement of shadows in the dark, and he felt the hidden wrist-dagger in his right arm sleeve. It wouldn’t do for him to have his head split open by some strongarm or footpad, not when he was on a mission this important. Glancing at the dark sides of the street to either direction, Azrildar wondered as to how he was supposed to finish the task set ahead of him. His orders were to infiltrate the grounds of Varrock Castle and set fire to the main food supply, but the specifics still eluded him.

His first idea – involving sneaking in under the guise of a servant – he thought would work, as under his cloak he wore garments of velvet, emblazoned with the crossed swords of Varrock on the cuffs and the breast. But, as he walked towards the castle, doubts started to form. Why would a servant be up and about at this time? More importantly, why would a servant have a heavy bag of gold at his side? As these questions arose, Azrildar thought more and more that he would have to use the dagger hidden in his sleeve to gain entrance. That in and of itself was no problem, he had no qualms over killing; it was just another job that needed to be done. The problem was the bodies he would leave behind. With such a delicate operation, no time could be wasted hiding the corpses; he would hardly have enough time to set the thing alight before the bodies were found by patrolling guards.

These thoughts kept up until he had gone a good way into Upper Varrock, nearly standing next to the castle. Azrildar shook himself out of his reverie, and made his way to the east guardhouse of the castle.

Two guards were standing in front of a sturdy door, the entrance to the square building jutting out the side of the wall. The building wasn’t very big, maybe the size of a small kitchen, but it was the most likely point of entrance. On either side of the door the guards were positions, each just in front of a wall brazier that contained a brightly burning torch. Azrildar could see no easy entrance, not with the guards standing there, so he devised a plan.

Raising his left hand slightly past his waist, Azrildar made a small flicking motion. This motion caused sounds such as sword fighting on a small scale to erupt from a street thirty yards from the castle. The guards, surprised at the sudden sounds, drew swords from scabbards at their hips, dashing towards the noises. Azrildar took this opportunity to sprint to the door, making three quick knocks. He then retreated to the side of the building, waiting for someone to answer. And they did.

The large door opened to reveal a single guard, dressed like the others in chain mail with a sword at his hip. When he took a step outside the door, Azrildar rushed from his hiding place and thrust his right wrist forward, bringing out the hidden dagger and plunging it through the throat of the guard. Frantically clawing at Azrildar’s hands, the guard tried to make some noise to alert the guards now near the noise Azrildar had fabricated, but to no avail. The stronger cloaked man pushed him through the doorway, dislodging the dagger from the guard’s throat, and plunged it through the guard’s forehead, silencing him. Azrildar, the strain of the magic he had used to create and maintain the sound now starting to tire him, released it, and the sound stopped. Azrildar kicked the guardhouse door shut just as the baffled guards on the street turned and walked back to their posts. The noise was odd, but then everything was at night.

Azrildar, now standing inside the small building, looked around. All that was in the room was an oak desk with two piles of papers, and a gas stand-lamp. Rifling quickly through the papers on the desk, Azrildar concluded they were of no use to him, being only reports of guards that had patrolled the city earlier that day. Looking towards a second door – leading into the grounds of the castle – Azrildar withdrew a map from an inner pocket, consulting it in the light. He drew a finger from his current position to the storehouses located in the back of the castle. Confident of his success thus far, he walked to the second door and opened it a hair. Seeing nothing but the vague dark shapes of the castles grounds, Azrildar ventured out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Walking quickly through the grounds, his boots not making a sound in the soft grass, Azrildar was wary of patrolling guards that might come up on him any second. He was especially wary of Irvon Thratkar, a Warder hailing from one of the many Citadels owned by the Slayer Guild. Irvon was hired to make sure things like this didn’t happen, and he did a good job of it. Walking close to the walls of the castle, Azrildar saw his goal coming up. The Main Storehouse was enormous, taking up half of the North Wall (which happened to be the back wall of the castle) and was three stories high. Azrildar had heard rumors that it held enough supplies for the castle to hold out three months under siege. Despite these rumors, the building itself was unspectacular, made of drab painted gray wood and looking, on a whole, unremarkable. Azrildar was about ten yards away from the building when he began his spell. This was the moment of success or failure, the turning point.

Azrildar knew this as he schooled himself to calm. When tranquility had been achieved, he drew both of his hands up past his head, the palms of each facing the storehouse. He started drawing long breaths, concentrating heavily on his palms. Suddenly a mountainous tempest of flame erupted from his palms, engulfing the storehouse in mere seconds. Seeing that his work was a success, and knowing that the guards would be rushing to his location any moment, Azrildar crossed his arms and disappeared in a storm of crackling purple sparks, teleporting to safety.

Chapter One: A City Disturbed
“When you were hired from the Guild, they explicitly stated that you would not, under any circumstances, fail in your duties!” shouted an angry King Roald at Irvon Thratkar, standing just in front of the throne. “My King, I cannot be in all places of the castle at once, I was merely on my patrol. The saboteur, or saboteurs as it may be, caught us completely by surprise. He killed the Captain of the Eastern Guardhouse without the outer guards being any the wiser. There was no way we could have known that he was inside the castle grounds,” replied the Warder calmly. “Be that as it may Irvon, it was your duty to keep this from happening.” Roald rebuked. “Now we have no food in the castle with the exception of the Auxiliary Storehouse, and that won’t last us through the month.” Roald added, with a hint of worry.

It was common knowledge that Varrock, along with its various farming towns, was unable to produce for itself. The capital of Asgarnia had fallen on rough times, many parts of the city once prosperous having been transformed into slums and dangerous criminal areas due to disrepair. The only part of the city that retained its former glory was Upper Varrock, where the wealthy lived. “I fear for the stability of my kingdom, Irvon, and now it seems as if I’ve lost even more support. Soon, the citizens will demand I resign, and I’ll be nothing more than an inhabitant of a decaying city.” Roald said with a tired sigh, sitting down slowly on his throne. Irvon knew what the king must have been feeling, as Irvon himself was witness to the rotting Varrock. Soon, all that would be left was corpses.

Sitting on his bed in a decrepit hovel in Lower Varrock, Trivalth Uimer scrubbed a hand through his dirty brown hair, having just woken up. The house he inhabited – if it could be called that – was horribly ramshackle and cramped. It was made up of a single room crammed between two houses on either side, with a dank alley running along the back. The interior held an old, splintered table with a makeshift stool near it, a broken dresser holding a handful of uncomfortable knit wool shirts, and an empty food cabinet. Earthen bowls and cheap chipped ceramic cups littered the dirt floor, along with the carcasses of bugs. The size of the place was no more than four large steps wide and six long, leaving nearly no room to move. The roof leaked when it rained and the only source of light was a broken, boarded up window near the door, which was across from the cabinet. If anyone had been struck by Varrock’s condition, it was Trivalth.

Turning to get out of bed, Trivalth slipped on a pair of uncomfortable cracked leather boots. Standing, he grabbed a sword in a rusty scabbard from the table, the loot from an unlucky strongarm. Strapping it on his waist, Trivalth opened his door and stepped out into the early morning sun, greeted by the foul stench of human feces and stale urine combined with the lingering scent of blood. Turning to his left, Trivalth began walking down the narrow street, only partly paved. As conditions worsened people had begun taking huge chunks of pavement out of the ground to sell to masons as a means of earning extra gold.

Lost in his thoughts, Trivalth didn’t stop walking until he reached the threshold into Upper Varrock: an imposing iron gate, nearly rusted shut. Using footholds furrowed out of the stone walls of abandoned houses to either side, Trivalth went up and over the gate, landing softly on the fully paved street on the other side. Walking quickly up the long street, Trivalth reached Varrock Square, his destination. The square was crowded with throngs of people, most dressed well, but some not. The air was noisy with the sounds of street merchants calling out their wares and the sound of boots hitting the pavement. Trivalth smiled and went to work, weaving his way through the crowds, looking for someone with an exposed bag, purse, or coinsack. Within moments he had found someone. A merchant by looks, though not a particularly wealthy one. Even better, he seemed to be completely new to Varrock. While most of those dressed well only were by comparison to the poor, this one was dressed lavishly in bright silks, carrying an expensive looking bag at his side.

The man was of middling height, with buckwheat colored hair and a firm jaw, if not strong. This was somewhat like what Trivalth himself looked, although with his longish brown hair, brown eyes, and tall stature, Trivalth was quite plain. The merchant was of average build but didn’t seem to be very strong, so Trivalth took his chances. Walking quickly to the man, Trivalth bumped into him hard, causing the merchant to lose his balance. After Trivalth saw the man stumble, he took the opportunity to punch him squarely in the jaw, knocking him unconscious. Quickly stooping to take the bag, Trivalth sprinted off in the direction of a pawn shop to sell it off.

As he reached a tall stone building with a sign outside reading, “Pawn” in big, bold letters, Trivalth stopped, opening the bag. Inside was nothing special, a bag of coins numbering ten, and a small, yet ornate dagger that would fetch Trivalth near fifty from the pawn shop. Near giddy with excitement, he greedily pushed around the bag to find more items, and did, in the form of a cheap garnet broach and a gold ring, each of which would get nearly twenty gold pieces. Inside he also found a copy of the Varrock Herald, but disregarded it at first. Then, being able to read, he saw the heading: “Arson sets fire to Varrock Castle’s Main Storehouse!” Intrigued, Trivalth read further, seeing the details. Reading the end of the article, Trivalth thought, If Varrock was in trouble before, it’s doomed now, With those thoughts, he walked into the pawn shop to see what he could sell.

Chapter Two: The Dark Forest
SNAP!

The sharp crack of a thick branch being broken in half resounded in the otherwise quiet Dark Forest. It was a dangerous place, filled with goblins – and their more dangerous counterparts hobgoblins – as well as powerful shades and the dark forces of fallen gods. It was a place that called out to Aiebyn the Red. The most powerful Slayer Master at Citadel Earthion, Aiebyn ventured frequently into the forest to test his strength against the monsters that inhabited it. Some said he was crazy – and that may very well be true – but no one doubted his power or his skill.

SNAP!

Another crack echoed in the muted, dark forest. The crack finally caught a hobgoblin’s attention, and the ugly orange beast sprinted to investigate it. Soon it reached a small clearing that contained a burlap tent and a cook fire that had been put out recently, but nothing else. Then the blunt stone head of a mace crushed the creature’s skull. “Hahahahaha!” deeply laughed a huge man, dressed in full Slayer’s garb, complete with helmet and the red-trimmed cape of a Master. “You can come out!” The man shouted over his shoulder, and out came two Apprentices, holding their swords with ease.

“Now THAT’S how you kill a hobgoblin!” Aiebyn said loudly with another laugh, cleaning off the now gory head of the mace on the grass by his feet. It was hard to tell his Apprentices’ expressions due to the lack of light; the thick tree canopy let very little of it through. “Now help me gut this wretch so we can eat dinner,” Aiebyn said, still with traces of amusement in his voice.

Twenty minutes later and the hobgoblin had been gutted, its meat cut and cooking over the now blazing cook fire. To Slayer’s stationed at Citadel Earthion, this was no odd meal, as nearly everyone – including the Apprentices – had eaten worse. Another few minutes and the meat was edible. Aiebyn walked towards the tent located near the edge of the forest and retrieved three wooden plates. Tossing one to each Apprentice, Aiebyn took a hooked knife from his sword belt and cut up a piece of the wiry meat, plopping it down on his plate. After he had served himself, the Apprentices followed suit, each taking the same type of dagger from their belts and putting meat on their plates. Sitting down around the campfire, the trio ate in silence, using their knives to cut the meat.

When they were finished, Aiebyn tossed the now empty plates into the tent haphazardly, and spoke up. “Alright, its getting dark by my guess, there’s less light getting through the trees. This’d be our best bet at cracking those damn Ghouls before we set the protections, so get up off your asses and let’s go.” Aiebyn said gruffly. The Apprentices did as they were told, loosening their swords in each respective scabbard, Aiebyn hefting his large stone mace. When they were ready, the group set of westward, alert for any signs of attack. The forest was dark and slightly cramped, with just barely enough room for a full arm swing. It was the perfect ambush terrain, and the Slayers were aware of it. Many a man had gone down in the forest, and no one was eager to be added to the list.

A soft snap of a branch was the only warning Aiebyn and the others had before five pale, red eyed Ghouls jumped from behind a large tree. Growling menacingly, each wore tattered clothes that had clumps of dirt still clinging to them. These Ghouls were fresh. Without hesitation, Aiebyn lifted his mace over his head and charged the monsters, causing them to scatter and start forming a circle around the three Slayers. Aiebyn, who was still charging, came to a skidding halt, ten feet in front of one of the Ghouls. “Don’t let em surround us!” He bellowed at the Apprentices who now had their swords drawn. They nodded and charged the closest Ghouls to them, swinging their weapons with the practiced ease of trained soldiers. Their initial slashes failed to hit the Ghouls, but each subsequent slash tore the creatures open, causing them to scream in pain. The three other Ghouls chose to attack Aiebyn, clawing him with sharp, hard nails only to have them glance off Aiebyn’s armor. Laughing, Aiebyn moved with incredible speed, bringing the mace down on each of the three Ghoul’s heads in mere moments, caving in the skulls of each and sending them crumpled to the ground. As Aiebyn turned to look at the Apprentices, he saw them kicking away the heads of two now “dead” Ghouls.

“Good job lads!” Aiebyn said with a hearty laugh. The Apprentices nodded with small smiles. “Thank you Master Aiebyn,” Replied one of the Apprentices in a deep voice. This one was large, not as big as Aiebyn, but above average in height and build. Once a soldier for the kingdom of Misthalin, Vaer Eisteh knew how to wield his blade. The other was named Basrov Likheth, and was of average height and build. It was common knowledge that the swift, nimble Basrov – a former scout for Misthalin – would pursue the path of the Warder after his apprenticeship.

Walking back to their camp, Aiebyn said, “Today was your last day of training, so tomorrow we’ll make our way back to Earthion.” Both Vaer and Basrov smiled. The test they had undergone had been hard. Whereas other Citadels would have Apprentices slay some creature or other to advance in rank to a true Slayer, Earthion only wanted men that could defend it from the most fearsome creatures known on Gielinor. The test for Earthion was to survive for one and a half weeks in the thick of the Dark Forest. The only aid given was runes, a tent, and a Slayer Master. Even then, most Apprentices lost their lives during the test and rarely so did the Master. But when the training was finished, Citadel Earthion Slayers could say they were among the best.

The Apprentices’ trial was over, and the only obstacle standing in the way was reaching the Citadel. But that could be as hard as the test itself.

Chapter Three: The Trek
Aiebyn the Red awoke to the smell of cooked goblin. Leaping to his feet from the tent he slept in and walking into the small clearing. It seemed that Vaer and Basrov had been awake for a time, as their rune bags were filled and their armor was on. The spells they had woven around the camp for protection had nullified the need to wear armor while sleeping. Aiebyn had yet to don his, so instead asked, “How’d you get the goblin?” He gestured at the greenish meat on the Apprentices’ wooden plates. Vaer was the first one to speak up. “Nabbed him with the trick you showed us. Worked like a charm.” With that, he handed a third plate to Aiebyn, putting a small slab of meat on its rough surface. “It’s a little tough, so bear that in mind.” Basrov advised, putting his plate near the bundle of his runes and canteen.

Nodding to Vaer in thanks for the food, Aiebyn ate voraciously, finishing the meal in a couple of minutes. Sighing in contentment, he announced, “We’ll be going as soon as I pack up the tent.” The two other Slayers nodded and began checking the campsite for anything they had left lying about. In twenty minutes, everything was ready and the group set off east, in the direction of Citadel Earthion.

Each was wary of their surroundings, knowing the dangers of the forest after having survived more than a week in it. None were afraid of an ambush, as they felt their reflexes would suffice to get them out of a hairy situation. Nonetheless, each walked with their weapons out, ready for the slightest indication that an attack was imminent.

For the better part of the first days trek – as the journey was two days back to the Citadel – their progress was unremarkable. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, other than slight flickers at the corners of their eyes, but that was nothing new in the ominous forest. The Slayers were lucky enough to stumble across a very small clearing with just enough room for everyone to situate themselves. It was still the early afternoon, so they decided that they would camp there for the night and spend the rest of the day searching for food. The branch breaking lure didn’t work, so they resorted to hunting, walking out into the cramped quarters of the forest to try their luck.

“Damn!” Aiebyn said loudly back at camp. It was dark, and they had no food to eat for the night. Vaer grimaced in agreement, saying, “At least the spells are up.” Basrov laughed bitterly. “Let’s just hope tomorrow is better.” He said. They each nodded, then proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as they could for sleep. Wanting to get a good start in the morning each wore their armor, uncaring for the small bit of comfort they would have should they take it off. As darkness grew deeper, the Slayers drifted into sleep.

From the edge of the clearing a man, hooded and cloaked in deep black, watched them silently. His red eyes shone dully with a mad, yet powerful, fervor as he gazed into the Slayer’s camp, barely concealed by his deep hood. They were safe, for now.

Chapter Four: Not Safe Anymore
The next day the Slayer’s awoke, they had a different mood from the first. They could taste how close they were to the Citadel – less than a day – and that alone raised their spirits. Aiebyn quickly packed the tent and the trio set off eastward once more.

Aiebyn and Vaer talked quietly along the way about his Slayer advancement, still careful to keep aware of their surroundings. Basrov was also thinking of his advancement – his to Warder as opposed to Slayer – but out of the corner of his right eye, he noticed something the others didn’t. Instead of a vague shadow just out of sight, he saw what appeared to be a man dressed in deep black. Basrov quickly glanced over, but the man was gone.

Everyone at Earthion knew that the spirits of the dead that inhabited the forest would play with the minds of any who ventured into the imposing place to divert their attention. Basrov had this in mind when he dismissed the sighting as nothing more than an illusion. Aiebyn and Vaer, still talking in muted tones, took no notice of the event, and the group continued walking.

An hour or so later though, when Vaer and Aiebyn had finished their discussion, Basrov saw the latter look to his right quickly, with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Basrov took the opportunity to ask in a quiet voice, “Did you see something?” Vaer glanced back and replied in an equally quiet voice, “Thought I saw someone walking over to my right, but my mind was playing tricks on me.” With that he turned and continued to walk. Interesting… Basrov thought to himself, know thinking that the man was no illusion. Just moments later, Basrov saw a flicker again, and this time when he looked he caught a glimpse of a man in a deep black cloak and hood staring at him, his face and skin concealed. But that was only a moment before the man melted back into the darkness of the forest.

It was at this time all three men began to hear quiet whispers, almost unnoticeable, at the back of their minds. All three stopped as they heard them, looking at each other uncertainly. A trick played by the spirits? After their initial confusion, they set off again, the whispers still coming at the back of their consciousness. As they continued to walk, they saw more of the man before he drifted back into the blackness surrounding the trees. His stares were drawn out; more unnerving each time the trio saw him. The whispers grew in intensity as well, no longer lingering at the back of their minds as something to be ignored, but rather something menacing, taking on a manic feel.

Soon the whispers became loud enough to make out words; phrases became legible, whispering of death. The men, even Aiebyn, became uncomfortable. A bit longer, and the man was walking in full view to their right, deftly weaving between the trees staring long and menacingly at them. This time, he didn’t drift back and disappear, but stayed with them. As the Slayers began to tighten their grip on each respective weapon they held, the man simply vanished. He didn’t melt into the darkness; he was there one moment and the next he was gone. Now the Slayers stopped, standing still and watching the forest around them, wary of the malevolent figure that had to be near them. “Keep your wits about you. This is no time to lose your calm,” Aiebyn advised softly. Basrov had a wild look about him, his eyes darting from tree to tree. He nearly yelled, “The whispers! They won’t stop!” And turning towards the trees behind him he screamed, “Show yourself! You can’t hide forever!” Reaching into the rune bag at his side with his left hand, Basrov let his sword fall to the ground, gripping instead the runes required for an Air Wave spell. “If you won’t come out, I’ll force you out!” He screamed insanely, raising his right hand and releasing an enormous jet of air that tore the trees for meters into splinters. “Basrov, control yourself!” Vaer shouted, walking towards him. Basrov, in response, whipped around, yelling, “Stay back! Stay back!”

“It would be in your best interests to do as he says.” Came a voice that rasped like burial dressings shifting on the dead. The voice was followed by the cloaked man walking slowly from the trees by Basrov, who turned wildly, flinging his right hand into the air. “I’ll kill you!” He screamed. All the stranger did was lift a finger on his gloved left hand, replying, “No, you won’t.” With that command, Basrov dropped his right hand and removed his left from the rune bag. Aiebyn spoke up in a calm voice, asking the man, “What do you want from us?” He wasn’t naïve enough to believe the stranger only wanted money; it was never that simple in the Dark Forest. The stranger said nothing at first, instead moving his gloved hands to his hood, pulling it down to reveal a gaunt, nearly skull-like, face. The man’s face was very pale, his eyes sunken and solid red, lacking pupil, retina, and whites. His lips were cracked and as pale white as his skin, and his head lacked hair. He truly looked like a walking skeleton. “What I want from you, Slayer, is your power.” Aiebyn, not fully understanding, asked, “And how would I give you that?”

The man smiled, framing his face like Death’s own terrifying visage. “Why, you will accompany me to Askardos, where you will be slain.” Aiebyn almost laughed despite the situation. “Askardos? The City of Zaros? That’s ridiculous, it was destroyed in the Fourth Age. People say the ruins are still on Gielinor, but here? In the Dark Forest? I think not.” The man’s smile still held, though. “Ah yes, the ignorance of the mortals. How I long for that feeling. But no, Askardos is not a dead city, nor will it become one. And yes, it is in this forest. Now will you come with me, or will your corpses accompany me there? My master has other needs for me.” Aiebyn reached quickly into his rune pouch, hoping to catch the stranger by surprise, dropping his mace and raising his right hand, spraying flame out of his palm.

But the fire had no effect on the skeleton-like man, who just raised his own hand and absorbed the flame. “Fool!” He shouted, “I am Jhallan!” With that statement, Jhallan rushed forward with a speed belied by his looks and drove his right hand hard into Basrov’s torso. This action had no obvious effect but that was until Jhallan chanted three words foreign to any of the Slayers, causing his gloved hand to morph into a wickedly curved blade seemingly made of shadow. The blade sliced through Basrov, and came out his back, a foot in excess, and nearly skewered Vaer as well. Basrov coughed blood and Jhallan ripped his blade-arm out of the dying man’s chest, letting him fall to the ground – dead. Laughing maniacally, Jhallan advanced to Vaer, who also had his hand in his rune pouch. “Aiebyn, leave!” Vaer shouted as he disappeared in a shower of purple sparks. “Yes, Aiebyn, leave! Teach others to fear Dhar’sh Fi’trahr once more!” Jhallan yelled, advancing on Aiebyn, who quickly followed the example of Vaer.

Jhallan, after the large Slayer Master had teleported to safety, turned to the dead body of Basrov, his blade-arm morphing back to a normal gloved hand, and picked him up with one hand, hoisting him off the ground and over his right shoulder with a strength that did not fit the looks of the gaunt Mahjarrat Lord. Smiling a small smile, Jhallan began the journey to the Askardos to finish his Master’s wishes.

Chapter Five: Orders
“You have done well Azrildar,” Came the deep, rich voice from the altar. “Thank you, my Lord Zamorak, I wish only to serve,” drawled Azrildar. “But as you know, my servant, that fool Zaros is assembling his armies. I have knowledge from one of my Eyes here that Wahisietel is in the city of Varrock, attempting to obtain an artifact that will aid Zaros in his resurrection. He must be stopped by any means possible. Do you understand?” Zamorak told Azrildar. “Yes, my Lord, I understand. Wahisietel will not succeed.” Azrildar imagined Zamorak smiling as he replied, “Good. Now leave me.”

Azrildar did as he was told and left the shrine dedicated to his lord, passing two huge red-clad guards on his way out. He smiled as he descended the great stone steps into the gray skies of the Wilderness. He – and all those that followed Zamorak – felt strong here, feeding off the pain that the Northlands emitted. Azrildar breathed deeply and, for a fraction of a second, let his human disguise fall, revealing the fearsome features of a demon. His name, Azrildar, had long since been removed from the Book of Demonology – the book listing the names of some of the most powerful demons. Humans would use the book to summon demons to their aid, but the Art had been lost for nearly an age, only practiced by the Mahjarrat or powerful Dark Wizards.

It was true; Azrildar was among the most powerful of the Night Demons, and extinct race of Demon that had thrived at night or in the dark places of the world. It was impossible to tell exactly how many Night Demons were left, but there couldn’t be more than a dozen. Painstaking work had been put in by the sentient races to destroy the souls of every demon captured, and they had done a good job, though Azrildar hated to admit it. He was fueled, but not by vengeance, to crush the humans. It was the promise of power that allured him. The power to bring back his race and once again take the dark places of Gielinor. But to do that, he had to do Zamorak’s bidding, no matter the danger the tasks put him in.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Azrildar focused on the task ahead, wondering what his first action would be to hunt the Zarosian Mahjarrat in Varrock. Knowing that the thing would stay low and draw next to no attention to himself, Azrildar needed to visit someone who knew how to trace power. Walking past rows of patrolling guards near the shrine’s entrance, Azrildar knew exactly who to go to and, focusing power into his palms, teleported to Lower Varrock.