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Chapter — The Bandosian Depths
The hum of the Nautilus was softer now, a low, living murmur beneath our feet. In its heart, Xiamul had prepared something new—a diversion, he said, for men who had seen too much sea.
It was a console of glass and brass, humming with faint blue light. A thousand fine threads coiled within, shifting like kelp in current. Upon its surface shimmered a miniature world—fields, mountains, fortresses—alive in moving color.
Consciovs tilted his head. “A game, master?”
“A reflection,” said Xiamul. “A memory of the surface. You may call it... Runescape.”
Slish’s eyes glinted. “Runes carved by fate itself,” he murmured, voice like the sea in moonlight. “Let’s see if destiny can be farmed for XP.”
Avngd cracked his knuckles. “Aye, if it’s got monsters, I’ll bash ‘em. Where’s the boss?”
Xiamul gestured, and the map shifted—snow swept across the world, revealing a colossal fortress ringed in ice. “The Bandosian Stronghold,” he said. “Home of General Graardor, war-spawn of the old gods. He strikes like thunder, and even the ice quakes when he walks.”
Slish leaned close to the image, lips curved faintly. “Thunder’s just a heartbeat too loud to love.”
“Romantic nonsense,” Avngd snorted, though his grin betrayed excitement.
We armed ourselves in the virtual hall: spectral armor shimmering about our avatars, blades of data and prayer. Xiamul observed, offering quiet instruction.
“Graardor’s attack is pure melee,” he said. “But his bodyguards strike with ranged and magic. Keep distance. Protect from melee when close; protect from missiles when retreating.”
Consciovs bowed slightly. “Prayer flicking, then?”
“Exactly,” Xiamul replied. “Watch the rhythm. Count his steps—one, two, slam. Flick the moment before contact. Keep your health above half; Graardor’s hits can crush through even blessed armor.”
Slish’s voice drifted behind us. “Half health, half heart. All love.”
Avngd grumbled, “You’ll get us killed whispering riddles, old man.”
“Better to die in poetry than lag,” Slish answered, smiling in the dim light.
Inside the frozen keep, General Graardor appeared—towering, all sinew and fury. The floor cracked under his boots. Snow sprayed in pixels.
Avngd was first in. “I’ll tank him!” he shouted. “Range and mage, keep ‘em off me!”
Xiamul, calm as glass, intoned, “Keep your protection active. Step back after each hit. Heal with Saradomin brews—sip, don’t gulp. Too fast, and your stats fall.”
Consciovs darted between pillars, casting bolts of light. “Minions down! Focus Graardor!”
“Mark his stomp,” Xiamul warned. “That’s the quake attack. You can evade if you move two tiles east at the second tremor.”
I followed the rhythm: one, two, tremor—sidestep. A green flare crossed the field as Slish appeared beside me, his avatar cloaked in crimson smoke.
He did not fight as we did. He danced. Each dodge a pirouette, each strike a whispered confession.
“You see,” he breathed, “the secret is not to fear the slam... but to want it.”
Graardor’s fist missed him by inches.
“Want it?” Avngd bellowed. “You’re insane!”
Slish smiled faintly. “Insanity is the shortest route to perfect timing.”
The battle surged. Health bars flickered like candlelight. Consciovs’ calm commands blended with Avngd’s roars. Xiamul watched silently, every gesture a note in his invisible symphony.
At last, Graardor stumbled. His roar broke into pixels, the fortress trembling. The screen flared white—victory.
Avngd leaned back, wiping sweat that existed only in imagination. “That’s how we do it in the North.”
Consciovs nodded approvingly. “Excellent teamwork. Loot the chest.”
Inside lay shimmering relics—Bandos chestplate, coins, strange sigils.
Slish stood apart, fingers brushing the console’s edge. His reflection rippled across the glass. “All this,” he said softly, “and yet we play at war even in peace. Perhaps the real loot is the heartbeat we borrow.”
Avngd rolled his eyes. “Or maybe it’s the chestplate worth three mil.”
Laughter filled the chamber. For a moment, the Nautilus felt less like a prison and more like a tavern beneath the sea—a place where friendship, rivalry, and quiet madness lived side by side.
And somewhere in the depths, unseen but listening, the engines of the Nautilus pulsed with what almost sounded like approval.
The hum of the Nautilus was softer now, a low, living murmur beneath our feet. In its heart, Xiamul had prepared something new—a diversion, he said, for men who had seen too much sea.
It was a console of glass and brass, humming with faint blue light. A thousand fine threads coiled within, shifting like kelp in current. Upon its surface shimmered a miniature world—fields, mountains, fortresses—alive in moving color.
Consciovs tilted his head. “A game, master?”
“A reflection,” said Xiamul. “A memory of the surface. You may call it... Runescape.”
Slish’s eyes glinted. “Runes carved by fate itself,” he murmured, voice like the sea in moonlight. “Let’s see if destiny can be farmed for XP.”
Avngd cracked his knuckles. “Aye, if it’s got monsters, I’ll bash ‘em. Where’s the boss?”
Xiamul gestured, and the map shifted—snow swept across the world, revealing a colossal fortress ringed in ice. “The Bandosian Stronghold,” he said. “Home of General Graardor, war-spawn of the old gods. He strikes like thunder, and even the ice quakes when he walks.”
Slish leaned close to the image, lips curved faintly. “Thunder’s just a heartbeat too loud to love.”
“Romantic nonsense,” Avngd snorted, though his grin betrayed excitement.
We armed ourselves in the virtual hall: spectral armor shimmering about our avatars, blades of data and prayer. Xiamul observed, offering quiet instruction.
“Graardor’s attack is pure melee,” he said. “But his bodyguards strike with ranged and magic. Keep distance. Protect from melee when close; protect from missiles when retreating.”
Consciovs bowed slightly. “Prayer flicking, then?”
“Exactly,” Xiamul replied. “Watch the rhythm. Count his steps—one, two, slam. Flick the moment before contact. Keep your health above half; Graardor’s hits can crush through even blessed armor.”
Slish’s voice drifted behind us. “Half health, half heart. All love.”
Avngd grumbled, “You’ll get us killed whispering riddles, old man.”
“Better to die in poetry than lag,” Slish answered, smiling in the dim light.
Inside the frozen keep, General Graardor appeared—towering, all sinew and fury. The floor cracked under his boots. Snow sprayed in pixels.
Avngd was first in. “I’ll tank him!” he shouted. “Range and mage, keep ‘em off me!”
Xiamul, calm as glass, intoned, “Keep your protection active. Step back after each hit. Heal with Saradomin brews—sip, don’t gulp. Too fast, and your stats fall.”
Consciovs darted between pillars, casting bolts of light. “Minions down! Focus Graardor!”
“Mark his stomp,” Xiamul warned. “That’s the quake attack. You can evade if you move two tiles east at the second tremor.”
I followed the rhythm: one, two, tremor—sidestep. A green flare crossed the field as Slish appeared beside me, his avatar cloaked in crimson smoke.
He did not fight as we did. He danced. Each dodge a pirouette, each strike a whispered confession.
“You see,” he breathed, “the secret is not to fear the slam... but to want it.”
Graardor’s fist missed him by inches.
“Want it?” Avngd bellowed. “You’re insane!”
Slish smiled faintly. “Insanity is the shortest route to perfect timing.”
The battle surged. Health bars flickered like candlelight. Consciovs’ calm commands blended with Avngd’s roars. Xiamul watched silently, every gesture a note in his invisible symphony.
At last, Graardor stumbled. His roar broke into pixels, the fortress trembling. The screen flared white—victory.
Avngd leaned back, wiping sweat that existed only in imagination. “That’s how we do it in the North.”
Consciovs nodded approvingly. “Excellent teamwork. Loot the chest.”
Inside lay shimmering relics—Bandos chestplate, coins, strange sigils.
Slish stood apart, fingers brushing the console’s edge. His reflection rippled across the glass. “All this,” he said softly, “and yet we play at war even in peace. Perhaps the real loot is the heartbeat we borrow.”
Avngd rolled his eyes. “Or maybe it’s the chestplate worth three mil.”
Laughter filled the chamber. For a moment, the Nautilus felt less like a prison and more like a tavern beneath the sea—a place where friendship, rivalry, and quiet madness lived side by side.
And somewhere in the depths, unseen but listening, the engines of the Nautilus pulsed with what almost sounded like approval.
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