Sea blue eyes scanned the horizon. Muscles tense and body rigid, he gripped his bow. A dragon longsword hung in a simple leather scabbard draped across his hips, and green dragonhide clung to his chest and legs. Flowing brown hair was harnessed back by a strip of leather to keep it from blowing into his eyes. Mithril tipped arrows quietly jostled against each other as the quiver bumped against the man's knee.
Edgeville was lined with fighters of all sorts. Archers like himself stood quietly in front. Some had metal to defend themselves if bows snapped or arrows were lost; some did not. All colors of dragonhide blended together in a unified rainbow, and bows of all sizes and woods were ready in the hands of the archers. The occasional crossbow dotted the row. He had made his own bow himself. Carved from a yew branch, he was proud of its delicacy yet sturdiness. Prepared for a misfortunate snap, he carried a few extra bowstrings.
Behind him were the mages. They were more experienced than the archers. Orbs of every element were in the capable hands of the mages. Ancient mages were scattered evenly throughout the mage row, garbed in studded robes taken from Ahrim's tombs. He shivered. Dangerous places, the Barrows Brothers' tombs were. Great rewards came to those who could survive it, but many brave souls who entered shared the same tomb as the Brothers.
The lines of warriors were scattered everywhere. Most of the warriors were behind the rangers and farcasters, but a single line of them lay in front of him. These were the most diversely armed of all. Bronze to Rune metal hung proudly from the warriors, along with Barrows armor and fabled dragon pieces. A Verac's flail swayed back in forth like a pendulum as its wielder rotated his hand impatiently.
The silence deafened him. No one dared to breathe. Here they were: Saradominists, Zamorakians, Guthixances, Zaroists…Men who followed no being but their own thirst for glory. He himself was a Zamorakian, with an unholy symbol rubbing against his neck. In normal situations, he would be fighting these people. Turning his head slightly, he glanced at the ranger next to him. A Saradominist. Had he met this man in battle not long ago?
He reminded himself of why they were allies. They shared a common enemy. The Shadow Clan. Notorious for their thirst for blood, the Shadow Clan would stop at nothing to kill all who opposed them.
He looked over at the Saradominist ranger again. The holy symbol was barely different from the unholy symbol he was wearing. Then, he blinked. The second his eyes opened again, a crudely made arrow was protruding from the ranger's chest.
Not the only one to notice the single flying arrow, the line of rangers drew their bowstrings. Heart pumping madly, he yanked the string to his cheek. The single line of warriors before him drew their weapons, and he could hear the whoosh of summoned energy radiating from the mages' staves. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted into the horizon. Just then he saw it. The Shadow Clan. Impending doom.
Dark figures came into view, and the archers set off a volley of arrows. Waiting for the arrows to clear the sky, the mages let loose the bursts of energy they had charged up. Warriors advanced slowly and stepped carefully over the ditch. The rangers and mages followed them over the ditch, but stopped and began preparing for the next attack.
With a crack fiercer than lightning, wood and earth burst all around them. Mages, rangers, and warriors all garbed in dark, blended colors jumped out of nearby buildings and wildlife. They had been there the whole time.
Pure chaos broke lose. Lines broke ranks and the people scattered. He fired off arrow after arrow. Gifted with an eagle's eye and swift reflexes, his arrows rarely missed his targets, yet every shot he fired missed. Systematically sweeping up an arrow from his quiver, nocking it, pulling the bowstring, and letting go after aiming, the flurry of his arrows dispersed everywhere. The Shadow Clan was too skilled, though, and easily rolled out of its path.
A thick rope was thrown around his neck and his mind went fuzzy. Vulnerable, he dropped his precious bow and drew his dragon longsword. Grasping its hilt like he would a lifeline, he lashed out at the rope's wielder. A hiss of pain slit through the blood curdling screams of battle which told him he hit his target. He took the brief moment he had to retaliate and cut the rope binding his neck. With his free hand, he massaged his sore neck. He had only been in the rope's clutches for a few seconds, but it had been enough to nearly collapse his windpipe and rub the skin around his neck raw.
