Legend tells us that a mighty hero was born near the town we now call Varrock, but no record of his birth or parents were ever found. A wandering group of travellers seeking sanctuary from the goblins and ogres that infested the land found a human child while following a river on a day when both sun and moon were mingled in the sky.
The child was unusually tall for one so young, with dark eyes and a fierce countenance, yet fair hair and skin, and a kind smile. The elders of the tribe saw this child as a good omen, and decided that they should set up camp at this place, and named their camp Avarrocka. The child was brought into the camp and raised as their own child, and they taught him how to hunt, and how to farm, and how to kill, for the times of legend were harsh and cruel.
And the tribe's greatest hunter taught the young men of the tribe the skills of hunting. He taught them the skill of silence, and of the parts of animals that caused sickness and should be removed before eating, and where to stand in wind and streams so that animals could not detect the hunter's presence, and of tracking the prey in the forests through which they moved. And the child was more gifted than the rest of the young adults, as well as standing a head taller. When the time came for the young men to hunt their first animals alone, the child brought back to the camp a large stag, with fair white skin and deep red eyes, and the elders saw this as a good omen.
And the tribe's greatest farmer taught the young men the importance of farming well, and of the times of the calendar that seeds would grow best, and of the changes in the clouds that showed how crops would grow, and of growing certain crops together to prevent the sprouting crops from being consumed by the birds, and by the pests of the land. And when it came for the crops to be harvested, all were awed by the height of the child's grain, and the succulence of his fruits, and the elders saw that this was a good omen for the village.
And when the tribe's mightiest warrior taught the young men how to fight, all were amazed at the prowess of the child, for he moved as though he had been born with a sword drawn, and his strength and speed were equal to men twice his size and age. And the elders of the village saw how fortunate they were that such a mighty warrior should have been delivered unto them.
So came the tenth year after finding the child, and by all reckonings they took the child to be around twelve years old, yet the child was still unnamed. So the elders decided to send the child on a quest to find a name, for they would not be able to call the young man 'Child' for much longer. And they said to him, "Go forth and bring back a name that your people may know you." So the child left the lands around the village for the first time since he had been found.
And the child wandered far, following the rivers and hills and clouds and stars to find his name. After a number of days, he did come upon an encampment of goblins who had discovered the village of Avarrocka, and did plan to make it their own with a nightfall attack. And as the goblins saw him, they screamed at him in their own language "arrav" as they attacked him. And they screamed "arrav" louder as he bested them, by individuals and by groups, until they all lay dead or defeated.
So the child returned to Avarrocka, and the elders asked him if he had found his name yet. And the child recounted the tale of the goblin camp, and how their murderous plans had been thwarted by his luck in finding them, and his skill in fighting them. And one of the wisemen said to him:
"Your name, Child, is now Arrav, for that is the name the fates have given you. It is a curse word in the goblin tongue. The fates have decided your true name to be a curse upon goblins, for that is what you truly are." All agreed that it was a good name, and much rejoicing was had for the village had been spared the sword and the flame.
And as Arrav grew, so did the village of Avarrocka, for it was situated on fertile land, and it became prosperous. As the tales of Arrav's defeat of the goblins spread among both humans and goblins the village grew larger, as humans came to live there in peace, and Goblins stayed away, for they were fearful of Arrav, the Curse of Goblins.
A Curse in the Land of Dreams
And one night, as Arrav visited the Land of Dreams, he encountered a man dressed all in black, with pale skin, and of dark countenance. And although Arrav knew himself to be in the Land of Dreams, where things cannot be trusted to be what they appear, this man was different from the other travellers he had encountered, and spoke to him by name:
"I know you, Arrav of Avarrocka, Curse of Goblins, Hunter of the White Stag, Child of Sun and Moon. I know you, and I do not fear you. I am Zemouregal of the Mahjarrat tribe, and this land is mine for the taking. I have seen our futures, for they are entwined together, and it ends with your utter defeat at my hand. You will serve me eternally as a slave, and the town you love so much will be destroyed at your own hand."
And when Arrav awoke, he was much afraid, for he knew not how he could face an enemy that could challenge him in the Land of Dreams, and make him remember the events of dreams, that normally passed with the hours of awakening, so Arrav went to consult the elders.
The elders of the tribe could not explain to Arrav how such a man could appear to him in the Land of Dreams, and were sorely troubled.
For seven days and nights the elders discussed Arrav's encounter in the Land of Dreams, and all agreed that it was a bad omen and that Arrav could not remain in Avarrocka for fear of woe befalling the town that it had now become. So they decided that Arrav must be sent on a quest that he could never complete so as to spare their town the wrath of the ominous and terrible man. Yet Arrav's strength and wisdom meant that any normal quest could not be given, as he could easily defeat any enemy and fetch any item.
Then on the seventh night, the eldest of the elders spoke up. He had a dimly remembered memory from his youth of tales of a fabulous shield that did not belong to this world, and that was strong against nearly every attack, but whose whereabouts were unknown. When the other elders heard of this tale they were puzzled, for none of them had ever heard such a tale, and they wondered how the old man could remember such a distant memory so clearly. In truth, the elder himself could not explain how this memory had come to him so clearly while he had slept, yet all agreed that this was the perfect quest to remove Arrav from Avarrocka and protect it from the portent they feared.
A Meeting with the Imcando
The journey continued for many miles as Arrav wandered through the countryside seeking those who knew of the shield he sought, across a mighty river that flowed seemingly entirely from the north to the south as far as he could see and close to a towering and icebound mountain. At the foot of this icy peak Arrav did encounter a race he had never seen before; they looked like men, yet were far shorter, and they seemed unafraid of Arrav as he approached them.
He spoke to them of the shield he sought, and although they denied any knowledge of such an item, he could see in their eyes a guardedness that made him doubt the truth of their claims. Arrav stood tall and asked them who they were, and they spoke to him, "We are of the clan Imcando, known far and wide for our skills with weaponry," and seemed puzzled that he had no recognition of them.
Sure that the dwarves knew more of the shield he sought than they admitted, Arrav decided to stay with them and gain their trust, and perhaps learn more of the whereabouts of the shield he had pledged to find.
Many moons passed as Arrav stayed amongst the dwarves, and eventually the leader of the Imcando summoned Arrav to him. "Your ways are strange to us, Arrav of Avarrocka, yet we see the honour with which you carry yourself. When first you came amongst us you spoke of a mighty shield. We know you suspect us of having knowledge of such an item, and that is why you have remained here. We have offered you our hospitality, and as we have come to know you we have seen you to be a man of honour, so speak now why you search for this item, for it is one of our greatest treasures and we cannot allow it to fall into the hands of the undeserving."
Arrav spoke of his encounter with the darkly dressed man in the Land of Dreams, and at the mention of the name Zemouregal he saw a dark shadow fall across the countenance of the elder.
"We know of this being who calls himself Zemouregal. For many years he has attempted to gain control of this shield, for it is a mighty artefact that will bring him great power against all races should he gain possession of it. Long ago we vowed that this must never happen, for we dwarves have memories of the time when gods walked this land, and do not wish to see such devastation return. Although we know you to be a man of great honour and courage, you cannot defeat Zemouregal, and we must never allow him the chance to gain control of such a powerful object. I fear that he has manipulated you and those you obey, and must ask you to leave as your continued presence here serves only to alert him to our settlement."
Arrav's heart was filled with sadness at these words, for he had become accustomed to spending time with the Imcando and learning their ways of mining and smithing, yet he knew the wisdom of these words. As the dwarf spoke them to him, he realised why the elders of Avarrocka had sent him on this quest, for their fears were the same as the Imcando's: that Arrav could bring nothing but woe and lamentations to them while staying in such a place. With a weariness in his heart, Arrav continued on his quest, for he knew that he must find the shield his elders sought whether he had the assistance of the Imcando or not.
A Battle of the Soul
Arrav wandered long through the fields and forests. He walked from the peaks in the West to the northern valleys, and at each town or village or camp he came to, he asked those he met of the shield in his dreams. Though the Imcando had welcomed him and told him that they held the shield, he could do nothing but hope that the shield might instead be found elsewhere. Each place he went he found few who knew of the shield, and of those that would speak with him, all paled and shrank from his presence when he would mention Zemouregal. So it was that Arrav became a Wanderer: a man with no home he could return to, a doom upon his heels, and the name of an outcast.
It was during this time that Arrav's spirits sunk low, and in his sadness he came upon a cave in which he thought he might live, away from those races that might suffer from his curse, and away from those that cast him out for his curse. There, crouched in the shadows like a hermit, he watched the grasses grow and the beasts of the field go by, oblivious to his presence. But this cave was not empty. Deep in the cave, as old as the shadows that hid it, a beast was stirring. The smell of sweat and hunger was on Arrav, and the beast that had not woken for a thousand years flicked a single eyelid open. A silhouette against the dim light of the cave's entrance, the beast looked at Arrav as men look at cattle. As silent as sleep, it uncoiled itself from its slumber, remembering the power in its limbs and the fire in its soul. Arrav, oblivious, watched the world go by with misery.
The beast, standing upright now, moved like darkness towards Arrav, long talons straining forwards in anticipation. But the beast had no conception of Arrav's senses, nor his reflexes, nor his strength, and as it came to lay a chill hand on his shoulder, Arrav spun with a blade already in his hand.
The two battled for two days and a night, each as strong and fast as the other, each fighting for survival against the only worthy foe either had faced. Then, as the sun reached the horizon on the second day, Arrav's sword caught the last ray of light and blinded the beast long enough to plunge his sword deep into its chest. A hellish scream broke from the beast's throat, the echo in the cave lasting long after it had fallen dead.
Gasping from the long battle, Arrav pulled the beast into the twilight to better see its face. Wiping the grime of centuries of sleep from its face, Arrav looked down at a creature so like himself he wept.
'I am on the wrong path,' Arrav thought to himself. 'Had I stayed here, in this cave, I should in the fullness of time become this beast - all hate and rage and hunger. I have my destiny, and I must confront it regardless of what the gods might throw in my path.'
Thus energised, Arrav went from the cave to return to his people, knowing that though they feared his curse, they also must miss his strength.
Avarrocka Burnt
As Arrav came across the fields to the south of Avarrocka he saw over the trees a column of black smoke. It was a windless day, and this column - climbing straight and true into the sky - looked to Arrav like the finger of an angry god. He hastened his pace, racing through the forests beyond which lay Avarrocka. A few beasts lunged at him from the surrounding vegetation, but he paid them no heed, swatting claws and teeth back with swift flicks of his powerful hands.
As he broke from the forest, he saw that which he feared: Avarrocka was burnt to the ground. A few sturdy posts still stood, though they were charred and splintered. And there, in the midst of the scorched earth and smouldering remains of Avarrocka's fields, Arrav saw that goblins had done this. There were short arrows scattered about, and mismatched plates of armour and rusted mail.
Finding the few survivors hidden in the tribe's sacred place to the east, Arrav took the strongest of the men and the swiftest of the boys, and set forth west, to the land that the goblins had claimed dominion over. The men of Avarrocka came upon the village late in the evening, while the goblins were resting after their victory feast. A few were bickering over ownership of a farmer's scythe, several were lying asleep near to the fires. There were few guards, for which Arrav meant to make the goblins suffer.
As the men swept out into a wide semicircle about the entrance to the village, lurking beneath the cover of the rocks, Arrav saw from the corner of his eye a glimmer as of steel in the moonlight. He looked across at one of Avarrocka's men who had come with him. The man's eyes were hard and determined, and his teeth were set in a snarl. He was hunched beneath a hanging rock and in his hand he held a dagger taken from the ruins of their town. Through the liquid darkness that stood between them, Arrav saw both man and beast in that body, and his heart fell.
Arrav knew that though his people had been wronged, he could not lead an attack on an enemy unaware. He had been raised with honour and pride, and he saw that it would be a slaughter more than a battle. Then, thinking hard on it, he realised that goblins and men had been killing each other needlessly for the length of history.
Motioning to bring his men back to him, he stood tall and raised his voice to the night:
'Goblins, hear me! We came upon you this night to take a blood revenge for what you have done to our homes and families. But I see now that we are like brothers who have fought for our father's attention.'
He paused a moment, waiting for the goblins to quiet themselves from their shock. Three of the largest goblins came forth from the village gates and walked towards Arrav and his men, stopping only a few yards away. In the tongue of men, broken by the harsh goblin accent, one of them spoke.
'We listen, man. What you say? Speak! Or kill you like your families.'
'I suggest peace, brother,' Arrav said. His men looked at him with shock and a few curses, but a single glance from Arrav was enough to silence them. No man of Avarrocka could deny their greatest hero's honour or compassion, and even in those days were those virtues among men. 'If you will agree to never again attack our human settlements, we shall never again attack yours. We shall share these lands like brothers under the sky.'
The goblins bickered then, and as Arrav stood and waited he watched them bicker as the sun rose, and still bicker as the sun reached its peak. Finally, the smallest of the three goblins stepped forward and spoke.
'We take your peace, man. We goblin are weak against men, and you men are few against our goblin warriors. Peace is only end to war. Come to our village to trade and we go to yours. Now leave, we have heads to crack to make peace stick.'
With that, the goblin turned about and kicked his companions sharply on the shins. As they hopped about, the goblin who had just spoken walked back down to the village and started yelling and waving his fist at those goblins hidden behind fences and clustering in the shade of the buildings.
And so it was that men and goblins came to live in peace, with no wars ever again scarring their relationship. In my days it is not uncommon to see humans go to visit the goblins, and some few goblins come to the market to trade. Despite his victory over savagery and barbarism, Arrav returned to Avarrocka to rebuild with a weight in his heart, for he knew that his curse was not yet lifted and that Zemouregal was still out in the world, plotting the destruction of Avarrocka. And he knew that Zemouregal would accept no peace.
The Curse Renewed
Avarrocka was rebuilt, and before three summers had passed it was again a bustling town. Merchants - no longer afraid of goblin raids - brought three times as many goods to the markets, and bards came from across the human lands to see the man who had brought peace with the goblins.
Arrav, for his part, was restless. Each night he would look to the sky for portents; signs that his doom was upon him. He knew that should he see those signs, he must flee from his home to save it. Each night he would watch the skies and the stars, noting movements in the darkness, comets, the flight of birds.
Then, just as he was forgetting his fate with time, two years since the peace was struck with the goblins, Arrav dreamt again of the dark and sinister figure.
In the middle of a field of dream-black wheat, beside a river of ghostly water Zemouregal came to him. Once more the mahjarrat was clad in black, black greaves upon his legs and black gauntlets covering his hands.
'You have failed, Arrav,' Zemouregal spoke with a voice made of a thousand whispering blades, 'I will come to Avarrocka and destroy it. There will be no tears for this town, for I shall lay waste to all mankind - you upstarts will see the elder race return to claim its dominion. My legions shall blot out the horizon on all sides, and you shall be the last to see the light. This I promise you.'
Arrav opened his mouth to speak, but only spiders came out. They ran across his face, biting, scuttled down his chest and over his arms. The mute horror consumed him and he woke with a scream.
Those few of the elders that had escaped the destruction of old Avarrocka heard the scream and knew that Arrav would leave them. In the morning all rose to seek him out, but his hut was empty. He took nothing with him save his armour and his weapons. His home was as if Arrav had merely gone out to hunt.
The elders were afraid now, and talked among themselves about the danger of Arrav's destiny, of the need to find help from old allies. They sent out their scouts to seek the counsel of the dwarves and the men of far-flung towns.
The Shield Given
For Arrav, though, the path was clear. He ran for six days, resting only for moments to drink water and eat hard bread, turning his course to the Imcando. There, he knew, was the only hope he and Avarrocka could dream for. At the end of the sixth day he stood before the Imcando chief, close to collapse and asking for their help.
'Wise friend, I have again dreamt of Zemouregal, and now he promises to destroy not only my home, but all my people wherever they may be.'
The chief raised his hand to silence Arrav. 'Arrav, we know of your fate, and we know that the Enemy is rising. Our sages have felt the emanation of darkness from the north. In the flames of the sacred forge they have seen the futures, and only a single path is open to us. Once the Enemy is done with man, he will turn his gaze on the dwarves and we shall be swept aside and completely annihilated. The shield shall be yours, for you are the only one who can stop his evil.'
With that, Arrav straightened himself and rose to his full height. The dwarves saw his nobility and brought forth the shield. Though it looked to Arrav like any other, the Imcando could see the mingled metals and the enchantment it held. Arrav held it before him and hoped to see what the dwarves could see.
The Imcando chief stepped forward, barely up to Arrav's waist, and explained, 'The spells of this shield shall protect you from any magicks the Mahjarrat can summon. This is why Zemouregal wants it: if he could possess it he could defeat any of his tribe. The Mahjarrat are a solitary and jealous race and always desire to topple each other, to enslave one another. Take this shield with you and Zemouregal shall have no power over you.'
Arrav hefted the shield onto his arm, bowed and left.
