Hand of Ptolemos

"By His hand we are guided."

- Rosaline Haines The Hand of Ptolemos is an order founded by Rosaline Haines, an undead that served the Mahjarrat Ptolemos.

Inspired by him and his cause, the Hand of Ptolemos reject the returning gods and have dedicated themselves to their removal from Gielinor at any cost.

History
While serving under Ptolemos, Rosaline was known to travel extensively for unknown purposes. It was later revealed that she was persuading men, women, and creatures to fight for his cause, and for the dark powers he could grant them. She succeeded in gaining the allegiance of several different parties. They took up residence in the many tunnels going throughout the ancient dragonkin site Ptolemos resided within.

However, upon his defeat, the cavern containing the ruins twisted and collapsed upon itself. Few made it out alive. Rosaline, although caught in the initial blast, was able to escape with her life. She gathered the survivors and led them to the Forinthry Ossuary, a place she had history with, and set up their new headquarters.

Ptolemos, upon his return, didn't immediately make his presence known. He walked among the newly initiated as an equal, reflecting on the order itself. He was impressed with what he saw. Rosaline was a capable leader, and coupled with Sacheverell's cold logic and Steven's genuine concern for others, they made an excellent committee.

After completing his own work, Ptolemos revealed himself solely to the three. They mustn't reveal his presence, he explained, or else the order would crumble. With the three under his guidance, Ptolemos led the order from behind the curtain up until his death.

Recent Events
With the strange appearance of a portal in the forest outside Lumbridge, a small party of members from the order are sent to investigate—and contain, if need be. Led by Marshal Lothar aus Ronasil, they travel to Draynor. On the way they're attacked by the Big High Army, resulting in the loss of some warriors and supplies. When they reach the town, they're met with resistance by the local guardsmen. They set up a command post outside the forest, and wait to be allowed entry.

One day, while waiting outside the forest, Marshal Ronasil sees Magus Concendo leaving it. He waves the wizard down, and the two discuss the portal forming within the forest. Both agree it's dangerous and should be destroyed as soon as possible. They then part. Afterwards, during one of the following nights, a man came upon their camp. Introducing himself as James, he and Marshal Ronasil talk about the portal and Magus. James shows interest in the wizard, and then says he'll return later, so that they may plan a way past the guards. He also tells the Marshal to keep an eye out for Magus.

During training sometime later, Magus returns to tell the Marshal that he and his men need to pack up and move. When questioned, he states that the whole thing is a military drill being conducted by the kingdom of Misthalin in preparation should an event like it happen in the future. Marshal Ronasil doesn't believe him, but grudgingly does as he's told. After giving the order for his men to pack up, Marshal Ronasil makes sure to ask where they can find Magus in the future.

True to his promise, James returns, although not personally. In his place is Lycan Roach, of the Dragonkin Worshippers, along with two others. They ask to speak in private, so Marshal Ronasil leads them to his tent. There they discuss the matter of the defenses of the forest, what lies past it, and Magus Concendo. Lycan proposes an alliance between the two groups, until the issues are dealt with anyway. The Marshal explains that he must first ask his leader before making any promises. As they leave, he also gives them a file detailing what he and his men have seen around the forest, as well as what's been entering in.

Marshal Ronasil approaches the Wizards' Tower, seeking Magus. He gives him an offer: in return for information that could save lives, Magus must allow him access to the forest. Magus allows this, and the two go to the forest. When they both get there, Ronasil is taken aback by what he sees. Magus then asks what information he has, to which the Marshal divulges his meeting with the Worshippers. He lies about their location, however, saying they're camped in the Lumbridge Swamps. Magus tells Ronasil to learn what he can and report back to him, lest he share in their fate. Marshal Ronasil then leaves.

Noticing an increase of traffic entering the forest, Marshal Ronasil prepares his men should the worse come to pass. He goes to the portal, accompanied by two of his men. After talking to Magus, the two, fearing the worse, devise a plan to get the Hand of Ptolemos to Lumbridge within the next few days. Messengers are sent and the call made.

The Hand of Ptolemos was going to war.

With the aid of Magus, the soldiers of the Hand of Ptolemos arrive a few days after the appearance of the two gods. Rosaline admits they'll be fighting with Zamorak, ar first, but after Zamorakian ships fire on her own men, she angrily refuses to work with Him. As it turned out, those ships were actually hired to act the part of Zamorakians. Rosaline learned of this after interrogating one of them who was caught following her back to the order's camp. Realizing that neither side could be trusted, she has her army split—half will fight for Saradomin, the other, Zamorak; both are to infiltrate their ranks and learn what they can while acting the part of willing soldiers.

While participating in one of the many skirmishes held within the crater near Lumbridge, Rosaline receives injuries. She decides to return to the Forinthry Ossuary and have Sacheverell mend her body, lest it fall apart on her. Ronasil is given temporary command of their forces until she returns.

Upon her arrival, Rosaline makes a discovery that changes everything. She is last seen leaving the temple on the back of the griffin Skelkesh. The order itself doesn't change much after Ptolemos' death since so few within it knew he'd survived the incident from before. Without Rosaline, Sacheverell is left to lead the order by himself as Steven was among those taken to Lumbridge.

After sustaining heavy casualties, the order's military forces withdraws from the Battle of Lumbridge. Marshal Ronasil is among the wounded; they retreat to the Forinthry Ossuary. Steven volunteers to stay behind and keep watch over the battle, as to alert the order of any outstanding outcomes should they occur.

While the rest of the order recuperates, Steven's drawn to the art of Divination by the appearance of strange energy rifts near the crater. Rosaline finally resumes contact with the order after her disappearance several weeks ago. After Ronasil recovers from his wounds received during the Battle of Lumbridge, he is told to leave the Forinthry Ossuary by Sacheverell. The icyene explains that many of its occupants blame him for their crippling loss at Lumbridge, and that it'd be only a matter of time before they call for his execution. Before leaving, Ronasil takes with him some of his loyal officers.

Membership
The Hand of Ptolemos doesn't discriminate when it comes to race or gender. As long as they dedicate themselves to a godless life, anyone is able to enlist. The order is also known to take prisoners of war and brainwash them into abandoning their gods.

Regions
The Hand of Ptolemos operates throughout all of Gielinor. Their headquarters is in the Wilderness, nestled against the Forinthry Cliffs.

Relationships
Presently, the Hand of Ptolemos has one ally: the Keepers of the Balance; however, it appears the group has disbanded. The order considers anyone fighting for a god their enemy, and even fought in the Battle of Lumbridge.

Notable Members

 * Rosaline Haines, founder of the order.
 * Steven Weaver, a druid.
 * Sacheverell Lessard, an icyene. Currently leads the order.
 * Brondn, a hill giant brainwashed to serve the order.  Killed in the Battle of Lumbridge.
 * Rekhyt, a humble initiate.  Missing in action.
 * Lothar aus Ronasil, former Marshal of the order. Wounded in the Battle of Lumbridge. Upon recovery, was forced to leave the order. Cannot return under penalty of death.

A Helping Hand
It was a rough night. My party and I had taken shelter in an inn, thinking to wait out the worst storm we've ever seen. The place was packed with all sorts of characters—dwarves, a few gnomes, even a goblin here and there. But most were human, as far as I could tell. Dain swore he'd never seen such a storm before despite the fact that he's only been living out of Keldagrim for about a year now. I started to remind him of that, but he interrupted me with a wave.

"You're buyin'." He then sat down at a table with Nabfi. The two began exchanging battle stories. Setra came up to me and smiled.

"You'd think they'd run out of battles to speak of by now." I snorted and shook my head.

"If only we were that lucky." She laughed and we both joined the two after I ordered a round for us.

About two hours passed before we realized the storm was going nowhere. Nabfi looked uneasy. It was the first time I'd ever seen the Karamjan anxious. I heard him mutter something in his native tongue. Setra must've heard because she cast him a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, Nabfi. I'm sure it'll blow itself out soon." Nabfi shook his head and said nothing.

"Bah! It better," Dain said, adding, "we've already been delayed twice now." As usual, the dwarf had already drank more than the three of us combined. "By Guthix's beard, I'll-" He stopped.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Dain flushed and tried to hide inside his beard. I glanced around at the other patrons and smiled apologetically. No one returned my look. The news was still too fresh for a lot of us. I saw one of the gnomes wipe away tears before returning to her glass.

"Try to be a little more respectful, will you?" I hissed. Dain murmured an apology while Setra sat, shamefaced, her eyes on her ale. Gradually, the noise returned. I laid back in my chair and sighed. No one needed to look outside to know the storm was still raging.

The four of us sat there for a while in silence. I wasn't sure what to say; in fact, I don't think anybody did. Not after what Dain said. Nabfi was staring out one of the windows when he suddenly sprang out of his chair and started for the door. Setra and I shared puzzled glances. "Where are you going?" Dain shouted after him.

Nabfi dashed out into the heavy rain and disappeared almost immediately. A few patrons were now watching to see what happened next. A minute passed and I frowned. I'd known Nabfi well over three years now, and he wasn't one to act without reason.

I was about to tell the others to wait while I went and got him when Nabfi emerged from the rain, carrying with him a man who looked half dead. The three of us sprang into action. I went to help Nabfi carry the man, while Dain rushed out into the storm to see if there were others. After examining the man, Setra began listing out ingredients for the barkeep to fetch for her.

We laid him on our table, brushing our glasses aside. Before I could ask, Nabfi spoke. "I saw him through the window. He was on horseback, alone." Dain came back inside and confirmed it.

"His ride looks about as good as him. Man must've ridden day and night, and in this storm..." He shook his head. Setra led the barkeep over to the table with the supplies.

"He's running a fever." She paused to prepare a mixture, her lips pursed. "Why would he ride in this storm? It just doesn't make sense." The patrons were now watching us, their attention fixated on the mysterious arrival. I looked to Nabfi and spoke.

"Tell them he's one of ours who's arrived late. We don't need them crowding him." Nabfi understood and did as I said. I turned my back on him and inspected the man for myself.

He was wearing a guardsman uniform, although he looked no older than twenty. I signaled for the barkeep and asked him if he knew the uniform. He told me the insignia was of Peakstone's, a small town only a few days ride on horseback from the inn. I thanked him and paid him for the extra supplies Setra was using. Instinct told me that something was wrong.

It took some time, but with Setra's knowledge of herblore, the guardsman finally woke. He was delirious at first, but thanks to Setra's reassurance he calmed down. He introduced himself as Alac and confirmed he was a guard from Peakstone. Once started, he didn't stop until all was explained.

According to Alac, Peakstone was under attack by bandits from the Wilderness. Normally such bandits rarely ventured out of the gods-forsaken land, he said, but these were no ordinary ones. Led by a hill giant, they declared themselves fighting for some ancient god.

The people of Peakstone were caught by surprise. Alac himself had fled during the fighting, he told us, in hopes he might find people to help save the town. Exhausted, he could go no further, and begged us to help the town.

My companions and I shared looks. If what he said was true, it meant lives were in danger. We were obligated to help them, no matter the cost. I told the barkeep what was going on and asked for directions to Peakstone. He told gave them, and then said he'd care for the man. I thanked him once more before leading my party out of the inn.

As we prepared our mounts in the pouring rain, I overheard Dain grumbling. "That makes three..."

We were fortunate; the storm died down until it was nothing more than a light drizzle. We spent the night and a good portion of the morning riding for Peakstone, but stopped for the afternoon to rest. We picked back up in the morning and rode once more. It took us about four and a half days to get to Peakstone. By our third day, we saw the smoke.

It rose lazily into the clear sky above. Dain compared it to a god reaching down their finger to the earth. I suggested we hurry and the others agreed. Nabfi rode ahead to scout the area and see whether or not the town had survived the week by itself. When he came back, I could tell from his dark mien that it wasn't good. We increased our pace.

We reached the town a little after high noon. The place was a wreck. Dead bodies littered the ground; entire houses were nothing more smoldering shells of their former selves. The surviving town militia wandered the streets aimlessly, while civilians picked through the debris to see if they could find loved ones. This was no bandit attack...it was a warzone.

We questioned a few of the guardsmen and found out their leader, a forty year veteran, had led an assault to push the bandits back. After that he'd made the townhall a shelter for the civilians and the house next to it a temporary headquarters for him and the milita. He and his men had been doing their best to push back the bandits whenever they attacked, but their numbers were dwindling after each encounter. It seemed like we'd arrived just in time. We made our way to the militia's headquarters and explained ourselves.

"Damn Alac, the fool," were his first words to us. "But at least he got us some support. Where are the rest of your men?" Dain scuffed the floor with his boot and replied sourly.

"You're looking at them." The mayor wasn't impressed.

We spent the remainder of the day discussing the forces they were attacking, as well as strategies. While we were escorted to the end of town where they came from, Setra caught sight of one of the enemy's amor and gasped.

"I recognize that symbol! It's the symbol of Bandos, the god of war. But his followers are never this organized, unless..." She shook her head, confused. I raised my voice in response.

"God or not, we've got to put a stop to this," I turned to the mayor. "Set up a barricade here and get your men ready. This ends tonight."

We finished the barricade just before the first torchlights came up from the enemies' front. They were at least fifty strong from what we could count. I didn't like our chances, but these people needed us and I wasn't going to let them down. Not while I still lived. The mayor rallied his men while I rallied my own. Although the situation was grim, they had decided to fight with me.

The war-horn was sounded.

The bandits surged towards the town, weapons raised. Their cries filled the air. Under the mayor's order, the town militia launched a wave of arrows once the enemy was within range. The first line of bandits, which were mostly goblins, were struck down. Despite their losses, the bandits kept coming and crashed into the barricade.

My companions and I fought together. Setra launched magical bolts into the enemies' ranks, crippling some with solid earth and setting others aflame; Nabfi and Dain both threw themselves into the mix, slashing and slicing with their blade and axe; I stood nearby, supporting the three with my own supply of arrows. As the barricade fell, the town militia charged into the fray.

I couldn't say how long we fought for. The bodies of both goblin and man lay strewn across the street, the symbol of Bandos and the insignia of Peakstone on the breastplates. When I saw the bandits began to retreat, I thought we had won. But I learned quickly that the battle was far from over; they were merely regrouping before their next assault. A quick glance told me that the guardsmen of Peakstone were in no shape for another fight. I prayed for a miracle as the bandits struck again.

I couldn't defend my companions as I had before. A hill giant, who I recalled as the bandit leader, lumbered before me with a javelin in hand. He threw it with such force that it went through one of the guardsmen and entered another before stopping. I used the last of my arrows to try and put him down, but his skin was tough. He turned his gaze upon me and grabbed another javelin from its case. It left his hand and caught me. Although it was a glancing blow, I felt several of my ribs bruised and broken nonetheless.

As I fought my own battle, my companions did the same. Setra, I saw, was engaged in a magical duel against a powerful goblin shaman while both Nabfi and Dain were surrounded by bandits, fighting a losing battle. I heard the mayor call for his men to fall back. Meanwhile, I stood my ground, eyes upon the giant before me. He watched me with amusement and reached for the javelin that would finish me off. It was then that a shadow fell over us both.

I looked up and saw, to my amazement, a griffin! It screeched and flew straight into the hill giant, knocking it off its feet. There was another war-horn blown behind us. I turned and saw men and women of all races charging through the streets to clash with the bandits. They slaughtered them without mercy, cutting down all that wore the symbol of the god Bandos. Those that fled were chased down, but what fate befell them I cannot say.

The hill giant was wrestled to the ground by the griffin. Although he struggled, the hill giant was quickly binded with chains and ropes by some of the new arrivals. I watched as they hauled him away by cart. My companions came to stand beside me, looking just as confused as I was. We watched as a knight, a woman I think, approach the mayor of Peakstone and start talking with him. Her armor was adorned with a strange handprint. I also thought I saw something around her neck, but a druid stepped between us before I could make it out.

"Hail, adventurers," he said, making a gesture with his hand. "You fought bravely, I see." I cleared my throat and asked the question that was on both my mind and those of my companions.

"Who are you?" The druid smiled.

"We are the Hand of Ptolemos."

They were an order, he said, formed by Rosaline Haines, the woman speaking to the mayor. He spoke of someone named Ptolemos, who fought the gods to free his race but was ultimately betrayed by them. Although he was killed, his followers refused to give up. Now led by Rosaline, they fight the gods and their followers in order to drive them and their influence from the world. The town of Peakstone, he said, was fortunate that the wizards within the order had divined out the bandits' presence.

Someone started shouting near us. Looking over the druid's shoulder, I saw it was the mayor. He was in an heated argument with the lady knight. The druid sighed. I asked him if he knew what the problem was.

"Unfortunately, our leader has decreed that in order for our order to grow, it requires more resources than we can provide ourselves," he said softly. "She had a special relationship with Ptolemos and, as a result, is far more radical than I."

The two's arguing had gained the attention of several others by now. Members of the Hand of Ptolemos reached for the weapons, their expressions dour. The druid looked somber. Rosaline's voiced could be heard over the wreckage of the town.

"If you don't agree to our terms, we can take all of your wares and your lives." She paused, letting the threat soak in. "You should count yourself lucky that we arrived in time. Now unless you have anything else to add...I didn't think so." She turned and left the seething mayor by himself.

With a shout, the forces of the Hand of Ptolemos began to withdraw from the town, taking what they wanted. The druid offered his sympathy to us and the mayor and bade us farewell. He hurried over to his leader, who was busy mounting the griffin that had felled the giant. I overheard their conversation.

"Don't you think you're being too harsh on these people," he asked in a hushed tone. "They've lost so much already."

"They have their lives, Steven. That's all they need." It was a curt response and left no room for argument.

"I...understand."

"Good. Tell the men to return to the Forinthry Ossuary, and inform Sacheverell of our new guests."

"Yes, ma'am. But where will you-" It was too late. The griffin had kicked off and soared into the sky. The druid watched it disappear above the clouds before leaving to do as he was told.

My companions and I remained with the town. We, like them, were in no condition to travel far. The dead were  disposed of properly, either burned or buried. With no supplies of any sort, the town could not be repaired. With each day that passed the townsfolk spoke of abandoning Peakstone. We did what we could to help those who had suffered.

In time, our injuries healed enough were we could travel once more. We could've left with the first of the caravans leaving the town, but we decided to stay until only one was left. The mayor led this one. He'd remained to make sure all of the surviving townsfolk were gone before going himself. My companions and I left Peakstone together, with him. I like to think that what we experienced that day forged a bond between us, tighter than any metal on RuneScape.

The Hand of Ptolemos had saved us, but at a great cost.

Crossed Fingers
It was uncomfortably warm inside the Forinthry Ossuary—at least, that was the impression Rosaline got from seeing and hearing her peoples' complaints. She, however, felt only cold and an emptiness that nothing would ever fill. But that was her gift given to her by Ptolemos and she took it in stride. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, she had walked these halls once before as a follower, not a leader. Many things had changed since then.

The Forinthry Ossuary had been abandoned since Azulra's attack led to its occupants' death. Rosaline recalled the event clearly. She had ordered her monks to face the mahjarrat's demons, knowing they had no chance of survival, while she herself had retreated into the temple in order to send a message to her master. She had succeeded, but was unfortunately unable to escape in time. What the demons did to her under Azulra's orders...

"Rosaline?" a man's voice called out. It was firm and alluring, and dragged her back to reality. She found herself lying bare on a stone slab, long enough to support her whole body. The room she was in was small and dark, filled with countless shelves and an alchemy lab. A robed figure stood at the end of the slab, not the least bit distracted by her nakedness. "Were you listening?"

"Yes, I heard," she answered, clicking her tongue. "So what? It won't stop me, Sacheverell."

"Yes, it can," said the icyene, sighing. He proceeded to walk beside the slab, tracing it with a finger. "Your body is deteriorating without Ptolemos' magic. If you continue to strain it, it will fail you." He stopped in front of an alchemy lab and started to prepare something.

"It won't-" was all she managed to say before being interrupted by a beaker being shoved in her face.

"Drink this." Rosaline was about to ask him what it was, but he interrupted her again. "It'll slow your body's decomposition rate and help preserve it against weathering." Shrugging indifferently, she did as he told her and wasn't surprised to find that it tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash to her now. Sacheverell was back beside his alchemy lab when she started to talk once again.

"You shouldn't waste your time fixing me these medicines, Sacheverell. I won't need them once I find him." The icyene scoffed. She continued angrily. "I know you don't believe me, but it's true: Ptolemos is alive. I can feel it."

"What I believe doesn't matter. What I know is that you lead these men and women, and without you they would fall." Rosaline regarded him closely. He had been one of the first she had recruited to their cause after finding him living alone in the mountains. Sacheverell Lessard was his name, an icyene that had turned his back on his lord after the disaster that was the God Wars. When questioned why, he accused Saradomin of leading his people to their death. Because of his answer he reminded her of Ptolemos.

"They can take care of themselves." Rosaline pushed herself off the slab and started to get dressed. "I'm going now." Sacheverell stayed silent. After fitting her armor back on, she made for the door. Only when she was leaving did he speak to her.

"If you're not careful, these little escapades of yours will be the death of you."

Navigating the Forinthry Ossuary was now harder due to the recent influx of recruits they had received. Many of them were freshfaced men and women with little combat experience whatsoever. Some were grizzled mercenaries who had been paid for their services. A few of them were of the exotic sort that they had come across during one of their campaigns in the Wilderness. Despite their differences, all of them had been given room and board within the temple until it was full. Those that had no room pitched up tents outside.

As she left the temple, Rosaline noted that they had gained even more recruits than she previously thought. There were far more tents this morning then there had been last week. We will soon be a force to be reckoned with, she thought.

Raising her fingers to her mouth, Rosaline whistled. Another whistle answered her call. Looking up, she watched as a griffin glide down beside her and incline its head in greeting. "Skelkesh," she answered in turn.

The griffin had been a gift from Sacheverell. He had befriended, or bewitched as some say, a nest of griffins to fetch food for him durings his time spent living in the mountains. They were brought along when he moved to the Forinthry Ossuary. He even had some of the dwarves craft them an aerie far above the temple. Skelkesh was a mother-griff, with two grifflets in her care. Her nest and children were protected in exchange for her service.

Skelkesh said nothing to Rosaline. Her vocal cords had been torn when she and the father-griff had fought long ago. Rosaline enjoyed the silence and was fond of her for that exact reason.

"We're leaving now." Skelkesh nodded once more and lowered one of her wings. They pushed off into the sky once Rosaline mounted her. As they drifted higher and higher, one of the gargoyles on the temple lifted its head and watched them disappear into the horizon.

For the past few weeks Rosaline had started to notice something peculiar. The abyssal ants that Ptolemos had brought from another realm were reportedly showing up in places they had never been before. At first she thought it was nothing more than pure happenstance. But the longer she dwelled on it, the more she began to believe that there was something going on. After conductiing her own investigation, Rosaline discovered that the ants were not simply moving aimlessly—they were migrating.

She had been tracking their movements ever since her discovery. Only recently did she realize that they were moving towards the North. That was her destination now. They flew the day away and were well into the night when a fierce snowstorm forced Skelkesh to take shelter in an icy cave. Rosaline foresaw this and had come prepared.

"Wait here until I return," she ordered while putting on the Fremennik-style fur cloak she had brought with her. The griffin nodded and settled in the far back of the cave. Rosaline then marched out of the cave and immediately vanished in the snow.

Rosaline had been to this area a few times before, but her sense of direction was all but lost in the snowstorm. She couldn't even see her hand when held in front of her face. More than once she thought about returning to the cave. It was unlikely, however, that she could even find her way back now. She continued forward, determined to reach her destination.

A few hours passed and still the snowstorm raged. The cold climate was starting to affect Rosaline's body; her movements were starting to become rigid. Angrily, she recalled Sacheverell's words: "If you're not careful, these little escapades of yours will be the death of you." Her mind was assailed by doubt and frustration. But there was no turning back now, and so she carried on. What Rosaline came across next surprised her.

It was a campsite nearly buried beneath snow. Upon investigation, she uncovered its owner was none other than the late Fykeric Bliem. This must be where he lived when Ptolemos ordered him here, she concluded. She quickly made a fire with the camp's supplies to keep her body from freezing. While waiting out the storm, Rosaline uncovered the dead man's journal and read through it. She was amused at his entries. His last one, however, wiped the smirk off her face.

Rosaline left the campsite as soon as the snowstorm receded enough to where she could travel without being hindered. The brief rest had revitalized her—if not in body, then in spirit. She could see now and increased her pace with each step. She had to know the truth...she had to.

It was morning by then. The white snow glared in the sunlight, forcing Rosaline to cover her eyes. When she could see again, her heart nearly skipped a beat—if it were beating, that is. A trail of red ants extended from the woods nearby. They were flowing north like a river of blood. Rosaline wanted to feel excited, but fear gnawed at her. The last entry in Fykeric's journal was burned into her mind. She had to force her feet to follow the ants.

More time passed. The ants never slowed, never faltered. They were heading to one place, the same place she was headed: the site of the ritual of the Mahjarrat. Curse that fool of a cleric, she thought. What did he know? In the end, his faith had cost him his life. He couldn't possibly know... Rosaline came to a halt. Ahead of her stood the ritual marker.

Rosaline felt numb. Her tongue swelled and her bowels turned to water. She knew it was all in her head, but that didn't mean she wasn't vulnerable to its effects. Meanwhile, the ants were still going on without her. They were climbing up and over the marker as if it were just another obstacle in their path. Rosaline commanded her body to move. She had to learn the truth.

Rosaline moved forward, inch by inch. She wanted to know what was behind the marker. She had to know. Her view, however, was blocked by the large stone, so she kept walking forward. She hesitated before it. It wasn't long ago that her master stood here, perhaps in this very same spot, to rejuvenate himself. One of them had even been killed here... She shoved those thoughts aside. The ritual marker was all that stood between her and the truth.

Drawing a deep breath, Rosaline walked around it. What she saw made her fall to her knees and sob.

Standing before her was no one.

"You were supposed to be here," Rosaline shouted. "I followed the signs!" She received no answer. The ants were the only other life forms with her. The ants. Rosaline got onto her feet and staggered over to the trail of them. They were still moving after climbing down the stone. She followed them with her gaze, staring as they walked over the edge of the plateau. Dashing to the edge, she looked over it and watched as the last of the ants crumbled into ash mid-fall.

Rosaline snapped. She roared and threw herself at the stone behind her. She beat it with her fists until they were a bloody mess. Even then it didn't sate her anger.

"You piece of shit! I trusted you, I believed in you!" Rosaline rounded the ritual marker and yelled into the woods. "I followed you when no one else did!" Her voice cracked. "I loved you and you left me..."

She reached beneath her armor and plucked the three-fingered amulet she wore from around her neck. It was a token of her devotion, her love. But more importantly, it held the last sliver of her master's mahjarratbane. Rosaline threw it with all her force and watched as it sailed through the air before disappearing into the woods.

"Now what do you have?"

Silence.

Rosaline gritted her teeth and trudged off.

A Slap on the Wrist
Steven Weaver was tired. He'd been spending a lot of time traveling the world, speaking in different kingdoms and cities about the Hand of Ptolemos and the Godless. So far he'd won over a few people with each visit, and hopefully those individuals would go on and spread the word further. However, recruiting was not the only thing he'd been doing during his visits. Because of him, alliances were being forged between the Hand of Ptolemos and other like minded groups. It was his job as the ambassador of the Hand of Ptolemos after all.

Steven stretched out on his cot. He was glad to be home—for the moment, at least. His position granted him one of the finer rooms in the temple know as the Forinthry Ossuary, which he was thankful for. The temple was cramped enough because of the amount of people living inside it and, as a result, the air was stifling. Rosaline Haines, after returning from the North, had the dwarves tunnel into the mountain in order to accomodate new members. So far they'd made excellent progress, with many new rooms already filled with people and their families.

Steven was worried about Rosaline. Upon her return, she had locked herself in her chambers and was only admitting Sacheverell entry. She left it only once when discussing the issue with the dwarves and their tunneling before returning to her room. The icyene, when questioned, divulged nothing about their meetings. Steven mused, then, that whatever Rosaline had found wasn't what she expected. Lost in his thoughts, it took a minute or two before he became aware the warning bell.

Steven left his room to investigate and was immediately plunged into chaos.

The halls were filled with men and women of all races racing this way and that. Soldiers and civilians alike pushed and shoved in their attempts to get where they were going. Steven was forced to shout above the cacophony of voices and bells to get the attention of one of the soldiers.

"What's going on? Are we under attack?" The soldier nodded gravely and gestured down the hall.

"Mountain trolls, sir," he said. "They've broken through the tunnel and have seperated our forces. Best you evacuate like the rest of the civilians." Steven thanked him and let the soldier go. I need to find Rosaline and tell her, he thought. She'll know what to do. Familiar with the route, Steven fought his way through the crowd to reach it. He found the door locked upon arrival.

"Rosaline," he shouted, hoping she could hear him above the noise. "Are you in there?" There was no answer. He tried again and received the same result. Frustrated, he turned to leave when the door was opened by none other than Sacheverell.

"Rosaline's preoccupied at the moment, Steven. Tell me what's on your mind and then you may leave."

"What?" Is he serious? "Don't you hear the bells? Trolls have breached the temple! We need to-" Sacheverell cut him off with a gesture.

"I'll inform Rosaline of what's happening," said the icyene, continuing, "I suggest you get yourself to safety while you still can."

"There are people trapped in those tunnels!" Sacheverell ignored him and was closing the door. Steven stuck his foot in the doorway. "Let me speak to her, Sacheverell."

"I'm afraid that's impossible." Steven was about to start again when Sacheverell withdrew into the room. A figure stepped up to take his place, was silhouetted against the candlelight from within. Steven gave a sigh of relief. He didn't need to see her to know who stood before him.

"Rosaline," he started saying. Before he could continue, her hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. He choked on his words as she lifted him off his feet. His struggles to break free were of no avail.

"Listen well, Steven. I won't repeat myself." Her voice was cold, and she wore nothing but a thin white gown. "You are going to find and order the wizards to collapse the tunnel." Steven tried to say something, but Rosaline tightened her grip further, cutting him off.

"Don't speak. Nod if you understand." He did so. "Good." She let go of him.

Steven fell to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. He blinked to clear his vision of the stars he saw. The door in front of him was closed by Sacheverell, now standing in the hall with him.

"I apologize for her behavor," he said, helping Steven to his feet. "She has grown impulsive ever since her return. I hoped to spare you her wrath, but..." He started down the hallway, beckoning for Steven to follow.

"Why?" Steven rubbed his bruised neck, his voice hoarse.

"Why is she acting the way she is? I can't tell you."

"But those people..."

"Acceptable losses."

By now the civilians in the temple had been evacuated. The halls were empty. Sacheverell motioned for Steven to stop. The two had come upon a fork in the hallways; one led to the exit, the other the tunnel.

"You have ten minutes before I return with the wizards. Ten," Sacheverell warned, emphasizing the word with a gesture. "Try to get as many of our people out of there." Steven nodded.

"I understand."

"Go, then." As Steven sprinted down the hall, Sacheverell's voice called after him. "Ten minutes!"

The cries of battle increased as Steven sped down the halls. He came across the first corpse at the entrance of the tunnel. It was a goblin, one of the few to have joined the Hand of Ptolemos. He picked up a sword that lay next to it. Steven had never received any combat training of any kind, so it felt heavy and clumsy in his hand. But he would need it nonetheless. Ahead of him rang the clash of metal and flesh. Steeling himself, Steven went to meet it.

He came across more bodies further in. Dwarves, humans, goblins, and trolls lay in pools of blood, their unseeing eyes open and, he thought, watching him. He called out, trying to reach the others above the sound of battle, while searching the rooms for any survivors. He found a young child and her mother hiding beneath their bed. After telling them it was safe to enough to leave, he continued onward. How many minutes have passed, he asked himself.

He came across a few more survivors; two arguing goblins, an elderly human, and a wounded dwarf. After some encouragement, Steven managed to persuade the dwarf to accept the aid of the goblins. They quickly disappeared down the way he had come. Meanwhile, the elderly man was having difficulty navigating his way through the slippery, cluttered hall. Steven was deciding whether or not he should offer him help when he heard it.

Chanting echoed throughout the tunnel. Magical words, words he couldn't understand filled the air. The walls of the tunnel started to shift. Steven froze. His ten minutes were up. He saw the elderly man ahead of him turn and cry out. At the same time, he heard movement behind him. Steven spun and held his sword out just as a troll lunged for him. He felt himself falling...

The wizards were gathered a few feet in front of the tunnel. They were chanting, runes held in their hands. Off to the side was Sacheverell, observing them. So far he had seen a few survivors make it out of the tunnel: a mother and her daughter, two goblins, and a dwarf. There had been no sign of Steven yet. Sacheverell frowned. The chant was reaching its climax. The tunnel was starting to twist and writhe beneath the combined magic. It tunnel was beginning to collapse.

A shout came from the tunnel. Sacheverell saw two men slipping and sliding down the tunnel, It was Steven and an older man. The bloodied druid was helping the other man run. Sacheverell determined that they wouldn't make it at the rate they were going. He glanced at the wizards.

Steven knew he wasn't going to make it. Although he managed to kill the troll, it had cost them too much time. The floor and ceiling had the consistency of sludge. Moving was difficult, but they had to try. They were so close... Steven stared at the wizards with pleading eyes. None of them saw him, enthralled as they were by the magic.

Without warning, one of the wizards collapsed. The others were too busy concentrating to notice, although they felt the strength of their spell decrease. The destruction of the tunnel slowed by a fraction of a second. Although it didn't seem like much, the lapse provided just enough time for the two to escape the tunnel. Steven flung himself and the old man out of the tunnel just as the magic destroyed it.

Later that evening, Steven was sitting by himself outside the temple, waiting for its repairs to be finished. It had suffered minor damages during the attack, but they were only superficial. The wizards had been efficient. Not a soul survived the tunnels collapse. He learned later that Sacheverell was the one who saved him by knocking over one of the wizards. Those he saved personally had came to thank him, but Steven paid them little attention. His thoughts were of Rosaline. He was waiting for her to show herself, to confront her about what had happened.

The doors to the temple opened and out strode Rosaline. Steven stood up and watched her. She saw him almost immediately and, after stopping to speak with one of the soldiers, made her way over to him.

"Steven," she said with a hint of amusement. "You look well." He knew she was looking at the bruise around his neck.

"You killed those people, Rosaline."

"I think you're mistaken," she retorted. "You relayed the order, did you not?" He glared at her in response.

"Don't look at me like that. You saved the temple," Rosaline said, adding with a sardonic smile, "you're a hero to these people." She winked at him, laughed, and walked off.

At that moment Steven didn't feel like a hero.

In the Palm of His Hand
It was a curious thing, really. He wasn't quite sure how it all began, but while staring at the object in the palm of his hand, Ptolemy Dean recalled just when and where it all started to end. The beginning of the end came about when he first set foot in Guthix's shrine. After leaving Varrock to travel the world, Dean knew he had to visit it. Apart from being a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he felt like he owed the dead god. He expected he wasn't the only one feeling like that either. Ever since word got out of Guthix's death it seemed like the entire world was mourning him. Despite being raised to worship Saradomin, Dean planned to at least pay his respects to Guthix. He arranged to travel with a merchant caravan heading for Kandarin.

In a matter of weeks they reached the kingdom's borders; overall, their trip was uneventful. Dean later split from the caravan to travel alone. He rode the rest of the way on horseback after buying one from a local village. On the road he met others on their pilgrimage to the shrine and accompanied them. It was an enjoyable, if somber, time. In fact, he hadn't even realized they'd reached their destination until one of the pilgrims informed him.

The archaelogical site itself was beyond fascinating; the stonework was like nothing he'd ever seen before... Dean felt a sudden twinge of guilt. Here he was gawking like some school boy over a place where more than one life was lost. He chastised himself for getting distracted, and then followed the other pilgrims as they filed into the shrine. A teleportation matrix took them to the main chamber.

There was a collective gasp from those assembled. From where they stood the face of the dead god Guthix could be seen, immortalized in stone. It was a depressing sight; Dean felt tears prick his eyes as he stared at His remains. He wasn't sure why it affected him so. Those around him openly wept, which comforted him.

It took some time but eventually the other pilgrims paid their respects and left. Dean wanted privacy, so he waited for them to finish before paying his own. When they were gone he approached the monument and bowed his head. Dean stood there in silence, unsure of what to say or do. After a few minutes of this, he shook his head and turned to leave. While doing so his hand brushed across something on the monument.

He stopped, bewildered.

Something—no, someone—had appeared before him. Looking around, Dean fully expecting to see the person standing right next to him. Instead, he saw no one. The chamber was empty. A cold chill went down his spine. He withdrew next to the monument and put a hand on it for support. Again he felt the thing, whatever it was. Lifting his hand, Dean examined it.

It was a coin. Not just any coin, though; a coin of balance. Dean recognized Guthix's symbol printed on it. Did one of the pilgrims leave it here? he wondered. Judging by the thin layer of dust over it, Dean reckoned that wasn't the case. It must be a token, he concluded. Left by an earlier pilgrim to serve as tribute to the dead god. Now that he was convinced it wasn't some dark magical artifact, Dean ignored the coin and glanced over his shoulder. He saw no one this time, which relieved him.

It's my mind playing tricks on me, he reassured himself. After all, I've been going through so much recently. It's no small wonder I haven't lost my mind! Laughing it off—nonverbally, mind—Dean left Guthix's shrine.

By nightfall he'd found a roadhouse and rented a room for the night. After eating little, Dean retired to his room, and while preparing for sleep, he saw something on his bed. Upon investigation, he discovered it was the very same coin he last saw in Guthix's shrine, much to his shock and horror. He quickly drew away from it. I don't believe this, he thought. How did it get here? It's impossible!

For what felt like hours he stood there, staring at the coin in disbelief. Eventually he worked up the courage to pick it up, although with extreme reluctance. It felt cold and heavy in his palm. He wondered aloud, "What are you?"

He wasn't expecting it to answer.

When he came to, Dean found himself aboard a foreign ship, surrounded by hairy men. Needless to say, he was baffled.

Two hours had passed and still Dean knew little of where he was or how he'd gotten there. Apparently he'd arrived in Rellekka a few days ago and asked for transport to the North. After paying these men to board their ship, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately and nothing the Fremenniks did could wake him. At least, that's what he gathered. Only one Fremennik aboard the ship understood Common, and he spoke it haltingly. When asked if they could turn around, he said no; a storm was coming, and to turn back now would leave them at its mercy. They had to sail on.

With nothing to do but wait, Dean started examining himself. He was in some sort of heavy fur parka, probably taken from Rellekka. Upon further inspection, he found the coin of balance tucked in one pocket. He quickly threw it overboard, fearing it cursed. Watching it sink below the ocean's surface, Dean felt as though a great weight was lifted off his shoulders. Like the coin, he sank down onto one of the ship's seats and fell asleep.

By the time they made landfall the storm was nearly upon them. The sea was disconcertingly calm. Dean offered to help the Fremenniks haul their ship inland, but Hrolfr, the one that could speak Common, said no, half-jokingly adding that he'd only get in their way. The Fremenniks gathered their equipment once they were done and headed further inland. The wind started to pick up; the skies darkened. Dean followed closely behind them. They reached the shelter of a cave right as a horrible snowstorm hit.

Luckily for them, the Fremennik had used this cave numerous times before. It was stocked with provisions that'd last until the storm blew itself out. Which, Dean noted, meant more waiting. He groaned inwardly. Aside from being cold and tired, he was also starting to believe his mind was slipping. How else could he describe the turn of events that led him to his current predicament? But what could he do? Nothing, he thought to himself. Nothing but wait.

Dean was awakened by a noise. He sat and looked at the others. They'd apparently heard nothing for they still slept soundly. Another noise, like a scream or shout. Is someone out there, he wondered. Who'd be crazy enough to brave this storm? Getting up, he ventured closer to the cave's mouth. There was more screaming—a woman's voice? He glanced at the sleeping Fremenniks and then to the storm outside. Swearing, Dean pulled the parka closer around him and stepped outside the cave.

He covered his face and trudged forward, straining his ears. It was no use. The woman's cries were drowned out by the piercing whine of the snowstorm. His other senses were just as useless as well in this weather. Struggling to remain standing as the wind assailed him, Dean tried to figure out what to do next.

He knew he was lost; the cave was gone as though the storm'd devoured it. As he stood there, the wind started picking up again. Then, just as he decided to turn back and try to find his way back to the cave, he heard a faint cry somewhere behind him. Biting his lower lip, Dean made up his mind and set off determinedly in the direction of the cry.

He didn't get very far.

Blinded as he was by the snow and sharp winds, Dean didn't see the steep snowbank until it was too late. With a yelp, he slipped and tumbled down it. It was a rough landing, but he survived with only minor bruises. He brushed the snow off him after lifting himself off the ground. At the same time he looked up and froze. He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was the ritual marker. The actual ritual marker used in the ritual of the Mahjarrat. This isn't real, Dean thought to himself. I don't believe it... His body felt numb, but not because of the freezing temperature. In fact, the snowstorm seemed to have finally dissipated. He could now see where he was, a forest it looked like, with the marker some distance past the treeline.

Dean took a tentative step forward, and then another and another. His eyes were glued on the ancient carved stone ahead. How many times had he read descriptions of it back in his office in the museum? And here it was, so close to him! He had to examine it properly. The history it could tell...

Something crunched under his boot, and it wasn't the crunching of snow either. He almost dismissed it for a twig or leaf, but it felt solid under his boot, like metal. Lifting his foot, Dean spared it a quick glance—he wanted to see the marker as soon as possible, after all—and was slightly surprised to see it was some type of amulet in the shape of a hand. It was broken now since he stepped on it, revealing something within it. After looking up to make sure the marker hadn't run off on him, Dean bent down to inspect the amulet.

It was definitely an amulet, nearly frozen over with ice. Carefully Dean scooped up the pieces into his palm. What was it doing here, he wondered as he sifted through it. Maybe it belonged to whoever I heard earlier—oh no! He jumped to his feet and frantically looked around. In all this excitment he'd forgotten about the woman's voice from earlier. Chastising himself yet again, Dean gazed through the forest. He saw and heard nothing during his search.

Without warning, pain lanced through his left arm; pain so crippling it left him on his knees, gasping. He didn't know what happened. At first he thought someone had stabbed his left hand with a thousand knives, but when he looked all he saw were broken amulet pieces. Had he accidently stabbed himself? Dean groaned; forcing himself to stand, he then carefully examined his hand.

Blood ran in rivulets down his hand and arm, making it difficult to see whatever'd caused it. He gently wiped what he could from his hand and was forced to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out from the pain that kept shooting up and down his arm. Finally he cleaned it enough where he could see the perpetrator: a sliver of metal was embedded in his palm. While staring at it, Dean realized how curious it was that a piece of metal like that could cause him so much pain.

And then he remembered.

Trivia

 * The concept for this order came after the conclusion of the The World Wakes and the repercussions such an event can have.
 * The order's symbol is also known as the Vulcan salute. It serves as a testament to Ptolemos' sacrifice, after he cut off his own hand in his efforts to rid the world of the gods.
 * The coin of balance mentioned in "In the Palm of His Hand" was placed there by Steven Weaver during a roleplay prior to the short story's events.