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Crash Landing

Notes:
1. This story is part original story, part fanfic, all done just for fun. It follows the story of my RS character throughout his adventures in the RS world. These aren't quest re-writes; while the plots may take inspiration from the RS quests, they're generally original storylines.
2. Gielinor in this canon is remade to be more realistic; particularly geographically. For example, Tai Bwo is just one of many tribes in the jungle and only occupies a small piece of land on Karamja. The cities we know are just the major ones; there are dozens of small villages, with days of travel between each.
3. The glider in Part 1 is basically a gnome glider that’s had a bit of work done (but it's still just a glider).
4. This is not intended to be a complete, neat story, but rather one tale of many, so the plot may seem to sprawl every which way, or reference ‘previous stories’.

Warnings: Violence, depression/suicide, minor drug use. Some parts won’t be posted here, but they won’t necessary to the plot, if you get my meaning.

Critique is very welcome; both on the plot and on the writing. Feel free to make suggestions; while I have the entire plot written down, this story is intended to be an experiment in how useful such an outline is, and how much I can test those boundaries.



The storm really picked up, tearing into him in all its intimidating fury, somewhere between Port Khazard and Brimhaven—although the turbulent waters swirling beneath him could just as easily be the Void Sea or the Entrana Strait. He had no way of knowing how far off course the wind had blown him, and would not know until the skies cleared.

It was terrifying how flimsy the glider felt, how ineffectual the controls were. In good weather it was nothing to do a lazy swoop through the air, pull in or out of a dive, but here all fancy flying was dropped in favour of staying in the air long enough to get within sight of land. Oh, the glider would be lost, of that he was sure, but his life would be spared, and that was more than enough for him.

Shifting in the small seat, Marshall dragged a hand across his goggles to wipe off some of the rain obscuring his vision and peered into the fog and spray beneath him. He was flying low enough that the worst of the storm was above him, high enough that the heightened waves could not reach him. It was a small window of relative safety with far too few thermals or drafts to be comfortable, and it took a large amount of his concentration to maintain his position, leaving precious little else to get his bearings, even less to pay attention to his freezing face and hands.

A particularly harsh gust of downward wind forced the more unsteady of his two wings too low and in the same moment, a wave of seawater vaulted towards the sky. Marshall hissed through his clenched teeth and pulled up sharply, the wind turning his steering into a haphazard spin through the wind. Spitting an obscenity that didn’t even reach his own ears, he glanced towards the compass on the dash, remembering too late that he’d lost it to a harsh gust of wind a mere half-hour before.

The momentary lapse cost him; again, the unsteady wing dipped, but this time, although Marshall tried frantically to pull up, he was too late, and the wave tore through the oilskin, shredding it to pieces. The framework buckled, and although he didn’t dare take his eyes off the controls again, Marshall could hear the sickening snap of wood even over the roar of the storm. He felt it, too, a moment later, as the broken wing dragged, fought against the controls, overpowering his able hands until it was all Marshall could do to keep the plane from rolling upside down. Taking a chance, he nosed the glider into what normally would have been a smooth downwards glide, but instead was made a jolted, awkward drop by the wind.

Twenty feet above the water, his strength finally left him, and he lost his grip on the wheel. The glider dropped from under him, pulling him along only by the belt strapping him into the seat, a belt that Marshall belatedly realised would continue to harness him even as the glider sank. Hurriedly, he fumbled for the buckle, cursing as the plane hit the water with a large splash, shaking the buckle from his hands.

There was a long moment during which he watched from the corner of his eye as a wave towered above him, impossibly tall, almost unsure of which direct it would fall in. The slightest tip in his direction and then a torrent of water came crashing down upon him, driving him underwater, filling the well of the glider, his boots, even his goggles with icy water, not even giving him time to take a proper breath. Almost at once he felt the need for air and renewed his efforts to unbuckle the belt across his chest that, as he’d predicted, was keeping him trapped to the sinking glider.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the sting of the salty water, and although he couldn’t see anything in the pitch darkness, it helped him get his bearings, and he soon had the buckle undone. Kicking the remaining wreckage of the glider away from him, he struggled towards surface. His movements were slow in the thick water, weighed down by his jacket and boots, but he kept on, spurred on by nothing more than the promise of air. A reprieve from the tight, pounding pain in his head.

He broke to the surface with a ragged gasp that was lost in the crash of the waves around him. Another wave swept near, but he was ready for it this time; he took a deep breath the moment before the water poured over him and his swim to the surface was much easier.

Given a moment’s rest from the waves, Marshall pulled his goggles away from his face and glanced around himself as he tipped the water out of them. He could see barely a hundred feet before the fog obscured his vision. All around him, waves towered like hundred-year-old groves, making him feel small and vulnerable in comparison, about to be crushed. He steeled himself as another wave of water washed over him, frowning at the weariness in his arms as he swam for the surface once more. There were still many hours until the storm blew over and the waves calmed to safer levels, and he had little strength left, most of it squandered to work the glider while it had still been in the air.

Wiping water from his goggles once more, he readied himself for a long night of treading water and peering into endless fog only to catch glimpses of imagined landforms.

^ Um, what happens next is actually a bit boring.

Um, notes: This is set before Tai Bwo Wannai Trio, so Timfraku's sons are still missing (the 'quest' will be completed before CL is over). Also, Broodoo! Broodoo everywhere!



The coarse sand shifted under Marshall as he moved, and his bare fingertips dug into the grains as he struggled to sit up. He was on land, at least. When he opened his eyes he had to squint against the bright sunlight, and it took him a few moments to adjust before he could look around and suss out his surroundings. The sand stretched out in a long, curving strip in two directions, long enough to fade into the distance—he was most likely on the Karamjan mainland. The sea stretched on likewise before him, but glancing over his shoulder, he was only able to see a few metres into the foliage of the jungle.

Carefully, he stood, minding the way his joints and muscles protested against the movement. He could not remember how long he had struggled to stay above the line of the water, much less finally reaching land. Already the sun was high in the sky, and from the way his skin smarted, he had been burning beneath its rays for some time.

His boots and jacket came off, and he picked left at random, liking the look of the beach in that direction far more than to his right. He walked for some time, sand crunching underfoot, before he finally spotted a figure before him, and hurried up to greet them.

The figure turned out to be a young man of nineteen or twenty, barely old enough to be handling a fishing spear with such skill as he did. Marshall stood behind him for some time, watching as he moved carefully through the water, skinny legs barely rippling the surface, and jabbed into the water with the spear over and over. More often than not he came up with a fat silvering fish wriggling on the end, which he plucked off and threw into the basket on his back.

“You’re very good with that,” Marshall called out after a while.

The man turned, waved, and thrashed back to shore with more speed than finesse. He was older on closer examination, tall, and clad in faded clothing. “Hello,” he said, setting the basket down on the sand. Water trickled out through the weave, drying up quickly into the hot sand. “I am Karaday. Are you lost?”

“You speak, English,” Marshall said, rather impressed. “Well, that makes things a lot easier for me. Yes, I am lost. Where am I?”

Karaday frowned at his words for a moment before understanding dawned on his face. “Karamja, outside Tai Bwo Wannai. Luo Wannai next closest, that way.” As he spoke he pointed first to the jungle line directly across from them, then to the jungle farther down the beach. “Tai Bwo is better.”

Marshall smiled at his enthusiasm. “Then may I come with you to Tai Bwo?”

“Yes. You will meet the leader.”

With that, Karaday picked up the basket and the motioned for Marshall to follow him. The journey was silent, with Karaday saying nothing but orders to watch for a branch or root, and Marshall too distracted with the treacherous footing to spare much thought for pleasantries. There was beauty among the thick, endless foliage: the occasional blossom nestled within a sea of wavy leaves, trilling birds attached to the thick vines that hung from treetops so thick they seemed to be a ceiling and in one small clearing, a pond only deep enough to dip a hand into, tiled with bright red and blue stones.

They passed a number of small, solitary buildings, sturdy-looking shacks made of light wood, but did not stop. The distances between these dwellings decreased as they went on, and more and more people appeared to pass them on the thin trail. All stopped to stare at Marshall with surprise and hints of suspicion.

After some time they came to a large fence that seemed badly in need of repair, threatened by foliage with twisted into the slats. Marshall peered closely at it as they went through the gate.

“Wait. Are those scorch marks?"

Karaday turned back to look where he was pointing. “Yes. It is the Broodoo.”

He hurried onwards without saying anything more on the subject, leaving Marshall no choice but to follow.

They passed a crowded cluster of small shacks, all surrounded with more low, shabby fencing, inside of which was a small crowd of woman, all paused in their work to look over at him. Marshall hunched his shoulders and stuck close to the young man, not liking the frowns they sent his way. He was almost ready to bolt when they stopped outside of a house painted over in elaborate patterns. Karaday stuck his head in the door, shouting in Karamjan at whoever was inside.

Marshall looked around, wondering how often travelers came upon their village if they all looked so surprised to see him.

There was a tug on his sleeve. “Go in,” Karaday said, pointing to the doorway. Glad for an excuse to leave the distrustful stares, he entered the low-roofed building.

There was only one room. At first Marshall thought that he was alone, but at a cough from the far end of the room he spotted an older man sitting on a thick, bright carpet. He was adorned in colourful robes, beads and a feathered headdress that looked more ornamental than practical, lending him an air of superiority that the other villagers lacked.

“Are you the leader of Tai Bwo?” Marshall asked finally, unnerved by the silence.

“Yes. I am Timfraku.”

“I’m Marshall Cote. Um, thank you for seeing me.”

“Yes, yes. Come, sit, tell me what you want.”

Marshall did as he asked, settling himself on the floor beside him. Aside from the carpet, there was nothing in the room. The walls, however, were heavily decorated with fabrics and woven mats, and he found himself forgetting the leader until he coughed again.

“Well?”

“Oh. I crashed my glider into the ocean last—”

“Glider?” Timfraku asked, mouthing the word carefully. “What is a glider?”

“It’s a thing that flies through the air—made of light wood and oilskin.” He trailed off at Timfraku’s confused look. “Never mind.”

“Stranger stories have been told. But there was a storm over the ocean last night, yes. You fell in?”

“Yea, I spent most of the night in the ocean and even before that I was completely lost. I was wondering if I might get shelter for a while until I can build a new one”

He shook his head. “I cannot grant that request. With the danger, Tai Bwo does not allow strangers. You should move on now. North.”

Marshall winced. “I’m not allowed in Brimhaven. Long story.”

Timfraku was silent for a while. “The jungle is still dangerous. We have lost too many visitors to the undead that roam in the jungle, and our customs don't allow us to preform our rituals on foreigners. So they rise and fight against us.”

“I won’t be killed,” Marshall said. “I’m not a tourist from Brimhaven.”

Timfraku nodded. “I could tell that—during the tourist season, there are guards set across the path to warn the weak away. You seem strong enough, if a little short—are you a warrior?”

Marshall nodded. “I’m a honourary member of the Gnome Legion and I also do work for the Falador White Knights.”

Timfraku shook his head. “I have not heard of them. The ‘glider’ is part of that?”

“The Gnome Legion, yes. But I also travel alone.”

Again Timfraku was quiet for some time, looking off to the side of the room. In the silence, he could hear people moving about outside, but could not understand their words.

“Very well. I have decided that you can have the chance to prove how strong you are by fighting our strongest fighter. My own son is Tai Bwo’s champion, but he has been away for some time now, so you will fight Banatu. If he is satisfied with your skill, then you may stay.”

“That seems fair,” Marshall agreed. “When will we fight?”

Timfraku looked over at him. “Oh yes, you spent all night in the ocean, and Banatu is likely unprepared. You will fight tomorrow morning, but until then you must stay inside the village with the women and children.”

Marshall sighed. “All right.”

“You may leave now.” He waved Marshall towards the door. “Tell Karaday to come in before he takes you to the visitor’s hut.”

Marshall nodded, and left the hut, surprised by how much warmer the air was outside, how much the lower the sun was in the sky, and he wondered how long he'd been talking with Timfraku. Karaday was sitting beside the door, the fish nowhere to be seen, and he looked up when Marshall tapped him on the shoulder and gave him Timfraku’s message.

“Wait here,” Karaday told him. Marshall nodded, watching him disappear into Timfraku's hut, and then looked around. There were less people about, only a few peeking out from windows and doorways. Their stares were less threatening than they had been before, and despite the pain from the previous night, Marshall felt quite peaceful.



Next: The fight with Banatu, an injury, and more about the Broodoo.

Marshall is going to get his butt kicked by Banatu I just know it!
Marshall is not very familiar with the region/terrain type and I also bet that Banatu is a cheat -- using his surroundings to defeat his opponents.

Then again, their might be raid of Brodoo during their fight. This will prove that Marshall is a great fighter -- even if it is defending the tribe from those hideous things.