Finding His Purpose

A light drizzle fell into midmorning Varrock, affecting only the few who were out and about. One such person was a boy of sixteen, the young Vereor Magus. He wore only a plain brown shirt and pants, and a plain, low-grade bronze dagger was in his worn belt. Everyone on the street looked away from him, his deep red eyes, his medium length stark white hair, his unusually pale skin. Vereor responded by completely ignoring them too, in his mind they were insignificants who were little better than the beggars in the gutter.

Vereor turned a corner, and entered a well built structure that housed Aubrey the Mage and a small number of mages who made their money by teleporting miners to the Rune Essence Mine. The room was filled with chests, stools, and tables upon which were stacked various items of interest. A set of vials filled with every potion known to man covered one table. Another held a pestle and mortar along with a pile of herbs of every sort. One more table was covered in a large pile of runes and coins. Vereor’s eyes were drawn to each of these towers, eager to explore the mysteries of the potions, the power of the runes.

The thick, finely made wooden door had opened silently, but Aubrey the Mage looked up at the door nonetheless. Aubrey was an old mage, with wrinkles all across his face, his long, white beard and hair testimony to the long number of years he strode across Geilinor. His great, well made white robe and cape depicting a Rune Essence represented his status as one of the highest ranked mages in the world.

Vereor crossed the room, and Aubrey stood up, bones creaking, to greet him. “Ah, my son, you are up early this morning,” Aubrey stated. Aubrey was one of the few who did not judge Vereor by his looks and attitude.

Vereor glared at Aubrey, who pretended not to notice. “I told you a week ago that I planned to leave today… Did you remember to get my supplies I paid you for?” Vereor asked impatiently. He unconsciously started tapping his foot, his hard leather boot thumping against the floor.

If Aubrey was insulted, he did not show it. He merely turned away and walked over to a large chest in the back corner of the room. He rummaged around in it for a few moments, finally coming up with what he needed. He then straightened back up, a difficult feat, and grabbed an old looking and plain staff from the wall, along with a brown hooded cloak.

Aubrey walked back over to Vereor, who stopped tapping his foot immediately upon spotting his new staff. Aubrey handed Vereor the items; the staff, the brown cloak, and a small bag of runes. “Here you go, my son. Good luck on your journey.”

Vereor nodded his thanks, and, wasting no time, turned and walked out the door. He didn’t see Aubrey shake his head after he exited, he didn’t see Aubrey worry about his journey.

Vereor put the cloak and hood over his head immediately, to keep the gathering rain out of his white hair and off his cold-looking face. He took a moment to go through the pouch, there were enough runes for twenty Air Strikes before he ran out, probably enough to get him all the way to the tower. Vereor leaned on his newly acquired staff for a moment, thinking about the long journey he was about to take, then he set off into the rain.

Vereor passed through the west gate of Varrock within an hour, traveling the west road that would lead to the Barbarian Village. Vereor hated the Barbarian Village, how they used brute strength to solve their problems and had a horribly restraining code of honor.

So, Vereor decided to travel south just before he got to Barbarian Village Bridge that spanned the River Lum, deciding to use the more rarely traveled stepping stone route across the River Lum. He passed by the Champions Guild without a look, although he hoped to one day be a champion, to be respected and admired… Not shunned.

He reached the stone crossing in the afternoon, his staff thumping on the hard, well traveled ground around the stepping stones. He reached a problem. How was he to cross the wet, slippery stepping stones with his inconveniently long and hard to balance staff?

He really did not want to take the southern road, which would waste about a week as he traveled around Lumbridge. He shook his head, finally deciding that he wanted to get there as fast as he could, get out of this stupid world and to the Wizard’s Tower where the greatest mages in the world came to be trained and to study.

He leaned back, and then rushed forward, jumping hard to the first stepping stone. He landed perfectly, his feet catching onto the slippery stone and somehow not slipping off. There were a few seconds where he almost lost his balance, but he managed to keep on his feet.

He glared forward at the next stone, and took a second leap, but this time he didn’t land perfectly. One foot hit the side of the stone and slid, racing to the freezing, fast moving water. Vereor tried to catch himself. A stronger, more athletic man might have succeeded, but Vereor was a frail boy. He plunged into the water, his head going under.

Vereor could see nothing underwater, only the dark rush. He was being pushed downstream at a fast pace. He felt his head hit a rock, and he almost lost consciousness. Darkness closed in around him.

Then the river turned, and Vereor was thrust up on the bank. He was wet, he was hurt, he was almost drowned.

He forced his right arm to support him as he forced himself up, but blackness closed in again and he fell to the beach again. He felt the top of his head with one hand, and he was alarmed at the blood that was flowing out.

Then he passed out.

Vereor awoke in darkness, still very wet. He looked around, fearing that he may be blind, but he could see the stars in the nighttime sky. He reached up to his left, and found his staff, which was now mostly dry. He got up, using the staff to support his weight as he forced his feet underneath him.

When he was able to stand, he felt the top of his head; the bleeding had stopped. He wiped his hand across his face in relief, and then attempted to get his bearings.

A quick look around told him that he was less than one-hundred meters away from the stepping stone crossing, and before him loomed the terrible Draynor Forest. Dead trees blew in the breeze, scratching against each other in a cacophony of evil sounds.

Vereor shivered, and walked towards the forest. He did not enter it, only snatched up some of the wood at the edge. He took these over to the beach, and arranged it so that he could start a fire. He pulled out his small stone tinderbox, and spent the next five minutes attempting to light the fire. Just before exhaustion would have forced him to stop, the fire came alive.

Vereor fell back in relief, the warmth caressing his skin and drying his clothes. He fell asleep at his campfire, with sinister shadows dancing around and the even more dangerous Draynor Forest rustling less than twenty feet away.

Vereor was up and ready to move before midmorning the next day. He had eaten some of the bread he had brought with him, and cleaned up his fire, scattering the ashes on the wind in case some roving goblin band was nearby, a likely chance.

He turned and looked into the dark forest. He could follow along the River Lum, but that would take him hours. So he trudged straight ahead.

As soon as he entered the forest, the sun disappeared. It seemed as if it was night once again. He heard the sound of something approaching from the left, but when he looked he saw only trees scratching against each other.

The Draynor Forest was a frightening place. Everywhere Vereor looked, he saw dark faces. Even the dead trees were alive with evil malice. More than once, he was knocked down to the ground by a strong push on his back, only to get up and see a dead tree standing where the push came from.

Vereor shook his head the third time this happened, glaring at the trees. He thought fondly of taking an axe and chopping it down, but the legends said that a woodcutter came in here with that purpose and was found days later, missing a few vital organs.

Vereor shook his head one more time, his white hair moving on his head, and looked south, the direction he had been traveling for some time now. There, he could finally see the edge of the forest.

Excited, Vereor ran for the tree line. It was a leisurely run that turned into a terrified sprint as the trees around him came alive. They reached out and scratched him, tripped him, attacked him. He was certain then that the trees were some evil force, and they wanted to kill him.

Just when Vereor could stand no more attacks from the dead trees, he burst out of the forest and into daylight.

Before him, was the crossroad that led east to Lumbridge, west to Port Sarim, south the Draynor Village, and north to Draynor Manor.

The sun beat down on Vereor with great heat. Heat that he was thankful to feel. He glared at the living forest of dead trees, and proclaimed his victory. Silently, he swore that he would one day return and burn it to the ground.

He then turned, and headed south down the crowded roadway to Draynor Village, and past that, to the Wizard’s Tower.

Vereor came through Draynor Village without incident, the people moving away from him. He looked terrible with his gaunt features, deep red eyes, white hair, and thin body. He didn’t care, he thought they were rats, cursing each and every one of them silently in his mind. They would come to respect him in time.

Traveling south on the now empty road, the sun starting to go down, Vereor finally caught sight of the tower. It stood thrusting up to the heavens on a small island, to which spanned a great stone bridge. He stopped a moment, admiring the great sight. Here is where nearly every mage in all of Gielinor went as a young man to train and become great, at least that is what Aubrey the Mage at told him.

Then he nodded to himself, and walked forward slowly, his staff thumping on the ground. Then he heard the voice of one of the Wizard Guard’s at the bridge, “Welcome to the Wizards’ Tower.”