|“||Once upon a time, things were simpler. Oh how glad I am it is not once upon a time.||”|
For all of his adult life, Rastaro has travelled throughout different parts of Gielinor in an attempt to study and train in as many places, with as many different teaching styles, as possible. During this time (starting since his graduation from the Yanille Wizard's Guild School of Advanced Magics and Internship with his father's friends in the Zamorakian Magical Institute) he experienced a lot, and remembers it all. This tends to lead to many interesting stories, which he gladly shares with anybody willing to listen.
When a Mommy Mage and Daddy Mahjarrat love each other very much...
His father travelled all around Gielinor in his constant pursuit of betterment and empowerment. With his affinity for magic, however, he settled down in the quiet little town of Yanille. It was there that he met his wife, Astra. Born and raised on the Lunar Isles, she was acting as an expert on behalf of the Moonclan for a research paper being written by Wizard Canaris on Astral Runes (due to their ties with magics of the Lunar Isle, the runes are difficult to obtain, hence the research into alternative creation methods). Posing in his human form, an Elementalist Wizard named Korinthos (as opposed to his actual path of study, a dual focus of Necromancy and Dagon'hai Chaos Magic), he gained entry within the guild, and proceeded to add to their research, as well as learn things he had never seen before (leading to his deep respect of the Guild). Some time after his entry, he was asked for assistance by Wizard Canaris with his study on Astral Runes. This led to the introduction of the two "expert witnesses". After the paper was completed (with no promising conclusion, much to the discontent of Wizard Canaris), Astra decided to remain at the Guild, claiming to want to study more into the connection between Astral runes and the altar on her home island. At this point, Zamojarrak had become smitten with the woman, and decide to reveal himself to her (not that, way...pervert). Surprisingly, she was unperturbed by this, and a romance blossomed. About 10 years later, a son was born, which would lead us to his
Tanithus was a pretty happy child. He loved to laugh and sing and cuddle with his cat Amache, but he also loved to learn. At a young age, Zamojarrak instructed Tanithus on many things, of both the academic and character building nature. Tanithus excelled, growing up running through the halls of the Wizard's Guild as often as he was sat at a desk, learning from the many experts available. At the age of ten, he was accepted into the Yanille Wizard's Guild School of Advanced Magics with a focus in Elemental magic, as well as Runes/Runecrafting. These choices seemed logical, due to his father's presented manifestation of magic and his mother's study of Astral Runes, but the truth comes from the push. His father, urging him to study Runecrafting, had his own agenda. Since the expulsion of the Zamorakians from the Wizard's Tower in the First Age, the followers had been cut off from the creation of the runes (primarily, the essence mines). Through this study, they would have an even greater understanding of the way things work, and a better chance at obtaining mass entry into the essence mines. Throughout his childhood, Tanithus had been bred to be a devout worshipper of Zamorak, learning his true teachings, not the propaganda of the Saradominists. From the age of 3 to The Awakening (see "The Awakening"), he was taught that Chaos is but an integral part of life, and that to learn control over that Chaos is to learn control over yourself, and by learning control over yourself, you in turn learn yourself. It is only through knowledge of Oneself that we may truly grow and learn and advance to reach our true potential, as Zamorak wanted. Destruction and Chaos for the sake of Destruction and Chaos is ignorant. If there is nothing to gain from the acts that advances you, then they are mindless acts of obvious regression. The inane followers who do, however, do these things are the vocal minority that overshadow the silent majority, which Saradominists use to portray Zamorakians in a false light.
By the age of 13, Tanithus had finished the Entry Program, and was moved onto the Advanced Magicks curriculum (a common advancement path). Tanithus was always pretty friendly to those around him, as long as they returned the favor. His major downfall, however, was that his tongue worked quicker than his common sense, and his fists didn't do much against the Foreign Exchange Ogre or any other students. In other words, Tanithus was a bit of a smartass. He soon realized that it'd be much easier to get somebody to defend him for being a smartass than to actually stop being one. Kids, am I right? For a while, he would just pay people (not always with money, sometimes in exchange for services), but he eventually grew tired of this routine, and knew that he'd need something more permanent for when he graduated. So one day at the ripe old age of 18 (a week before graduation) he had finally had enough, during their mandatory lunch concession, Tanithus snuck out and up to the room of Wizard Nax (Instructor of Persuasive Magicks) and stole a vial of powder (of which the ingredients were known only by Wizard Nax himself) that the Wizard had taught them about a week beforehand. This powder was supposed to grant loyalty to whoever placed a drop of their blood within the powder, forming a paste. Alternatively, you can add a universal catalyst such as water to the substance, as well as a drop of hydrochloric acid (making sure to keep the mix to 1:1:1 Blood:Water:HA precisely) to create a potion which can be drunk directly or added to another drink. Deciding to stick with the potion, Tanithus brewed it in the Alchemy Lab and prepared to give it to Oog-Oog, the Foreign Exchange Ogre (city-born and raised, he came to study at the guild as well as have his shamanistic magics of Bandos examined and experimented with at the request of Wizard Kixitxle, Instructor of Naturospiritualistic1 Magicks). Walking back into the large cafetorium, he swung over towards Oog-Oog and sat down next to him. Quickly explaining that he wanted to apologize for being a dick, Oog-Oog begrudgingly kept silent. Upon the first opportunity, Tanithus poured the substance into Oog-Oog's drink, as well as chili powder in his food. Oog-Oog, upon shovelling a large amount of food into his mouth, felt the heat. Grasping for his drink and downing it, it wasn't long before the potion took effect. As it would turn out, this wasn't a good thing for Tanithus. As it would turn out, when you accidentally add more hydrochloric acid and blood than you do water, you create a potion which causes the imbiber to seek out and kill the individual whose blood is in the concoction. Bet you didn't know that one, huh? Because I sure as hell didn't. Oog-Oog sprung into a rage and grabbed Tanithus by the arm, slamming him over onto the table. Ripping off a bench, he began to slam down upon him with great force, then proceeded to grab the barely conscious Tanithus by the leg and swing him into the wall, in which Tanithus' head hit first. It was at this time the Yanille guards had arrived, and the Wizards managed to use their collective magics to restrain the enraged Oog-Oog, though not for long. 108, 3, 1, 65, 1. 108 broken bones, 3 ruptured organs (liver, appendix, and pancreas), 1 collapsed lung, 65 stitches, and 1 dead Ogre. Practically lying as a rug before Death's hearth, Tanithus was rushed to the infirmary. The Clerics amongst the Wizards began their work on him, doing the best that they could to bring him back. But even magic is only so strong, and they were unable to save him. The last thing he heard was his mother's screams in-between sobs, and his father's voice, promising he'd come for him. This would be the end of the story of Tanithus of Yanille. But with every death comes life, and with life...comes new stories.
1Naturospiritualistic Magicks are disciplines of magic focusing on nature and spiritualism like found with the Shaman-esque Magics of the Ogre races, as it is believed to come from the power of Bandos, their warlike God
The following is an account translated from Ad Mori Vivere, or "Dying to Live", a book written about the Mahjarrat practices of Necromancy, authored by an unknown party. At the very end of the book, as the last entry, there is a transcription of a ritual performed by a very old Mahjarrat named Zamojarrak. Supposedly, he performed the Ritus Autem Vitae, or "Rite of Life". This Ancient Mahjarrat ritual is apparently one that has been passed down through the family for quite some time. Below is the transcription (bold text indicates narration of author):
Feverishly, the man with the glowing blue eyes began throwing ingredients together. To an untrained eye, it would seem as if he was doing this frantically, haphazardly, and without precaution. But to one as myself who has studied alchemy and herblore for many years, it was like watching a work of art being painted before my very eyes. The speed at which he reached for ingredients and added them to the arcane mixture was breathtaking. Never did he take even a single moment to weigh powders, spoon salves, or measure potency of reagents, and yet the look on his face told you that everything was exact. He seemed to know all the right synergistic qualities of ingredient amalgamation, causing for the highest possible potency. I was in awe. Taking out a dagger, he drew it across him arm without a flinch or wince of pain to be seen. Muttering to himself in a language I dare not try to hear, the blood drained from the wound in his arm like a crimson brook, and yet it only entered one drop at a time. The appearance is...indescribable. Watching it happen as I write this, it honestly fills me with fear. Each drop that fell into the cauldron sizzled like water poured in the deserts of Al-Kharid. When the mixture was done, he called out one word of which I do not know the meaning; Gaudete. The mixture in front of him proceeded to ignite, assailing the still air with wispy screeches of agony. Scooping in a cup and funneling it into a flask (as well as scraping along the bottom to bring up a paste), he called out to me:
"Come now, Scholar, we have a limited window of time to do this. The mixture is complete, I must prepare the ritual. Please wrap up anything you're doing and come here. Are you seriously writing down everything I'm saying? Lemme look at th-how in the hell are you writing so fast? Oh forget it, come now"
As the last words I write, I can say that I finally get to experience the greatest magic of all. The body of Zamojarrak's son suffered massive amounts of damage. He needs a new lung, pancreas, liver, and blood. I have volunteered myself to willingly give up these aspects of myself so that the son of a Mahjarrat may live. Hail Zamorak.
Found within a slightly beaten diary is an account of these events from the perspective of Zamojarrak. This diary, recovered from behind a loose stone in the part of the Yanille wall near his home, is the only insight into the mind of Zamojarrak during this event.
After my long, arduous work, and the noble sacrifice of the red scholar next to me (whom I shall give the proper Zamorakian ceremony to once this is over), the ritual is complete...though not without it's troubles and raised questions. Upon completion, my son's body began to shake violently before stopping. He proceeded to bolt upright, breaking the soft leather cravat restraints, and proceeded to scream in a voice that wasn't just his, but many others. As he screamed, the other voices that were synced with his started to fade away, until it was just his left. Once he was the lone screamer, he proceeded to collapse once more. Rushing to his side, I grabbed him and held him tight while he continued his Tonic-Clonic Seizure. Approaching the five minute mark, I began to worry, as a seizure of this intensity lasting more than 5 minutes may very well cause permanent brain damage, and his was already weak and recovering from being reanimated (which is most likely the cause of the seizures). Necromancy is a very potent, very risky, and very precise form of magic, and the results can vary based on a number of factors. His body was approaching the deadline for resurrection (within this ritual, 24 hours, but that time can vary based upon power of the Ritualist/ritual and state of the body), and I feared that it may have been too late. After 4 minutes 36 seconds, the shaking ceased and he resumed normal chest rhythm. His blood pressure was 150/95 (Stage I Hypertension) but was slowly and consistently falling until hitting an average resting rate of 100/70. His diaphoresis began to lessen, his fever (which had peaked to 108 during the seizure) dropped to 100, and he soon initiated REM sleep. All good signs, especially entry into REM sleep, as this indicates the brain is cognizant enough to repair itself. While it's still early on, I believe he may recover. However, the high rate of fever and seizure for nearly 5 minutes is very troubling, and I fear their may be some lasting brain damage. But none of that matters, because I've got my boy back. My beautiful baby boy, oh how my dear Astra will be relieved, she was scared it wouldn't work. We shall tell all the others that I have managed to save him, but we mustn't tell a single soul about the methods used. Necromancy is highly frowned upon here by the simple minded, and they may very well run us out of town, but not before ridding Gielinor of the "abomination". They can kill me, they can kill my wife, but I will see Yanille and the rest of the world burn before they take my son from me, hand to Zamorak and Mah herself.
I'm sorry, I can't do this 3rd person crap anymore. Do you have any idea how weird it is to talk about your own life in the third person? And how in the hell am I suppose to tell you about something that only I know about while in the third person? I'm just gonna move on into speaking in the 1st person (the best person, in my opinion):
When I was within my magically induced coma, I had a dream. I never told anybody about this dream, so it seems you're going to be the first. I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this, and I'm not any surer as to why you're still listening, but what closet-narcissist doesn't like to talk about themselves? I'll try to keep it as classy as I have been.
The first thing I remember was the smell of lavender and vanilla. I'm not sure why, but these have always been my favorite scents, and for some reason they seemed to smell extra great when mixed together. I opened my eyes, and I realized I was lying on a cloud. Slowly sitting up, I saw a hooded man with his back to me sitting down on the side of said cloud. Slowly standing, the man raised his hand and beckoned me over to him. Cautiously, I did so. Upon reaching the side, an authoritarian, yet not cruel voice came from the man. "Sit, Rastaro. We must have a talk, you and I". Sitting down, the man turned his head to face me. The entirety of his eyes were red, his skin a pale bluish-gray, and as he removed his hood I discovered he had red markings and facial jutting's similar to those of the Mahjarrat. Soon, I recognized who it was I was sitting with: Our Lord Zamorak himself. Sensing my newfound fear, he waved a hand in dismissal. "You have no reason to fear, Rastaro. I'm here to offer you some guidance and advice". Looking to him, I finally managed to speak "Why do you keep calling me Rastaro? My name is Tanithus, my Lord". Smiling, he replied "Because in my...our...mother tongue, it means 'Survivor'. And that's just what you are, Rastaro: a survivor. You've been through a lot already because of your sharp tongue and lack of verbal/social filter. But you hold promise, a fire forged with in you through which you must continue to feed, lest it die out as you had done. My advice to you, my guidance, is to never grow stagnant. If there is a problem, you face it head on and you resolve it. Be it through force, subterfuge, diplomacy, intimidation, it matters not. The only true power in this world comes from the advancement and mastery of Oneself. Go forth, Rastaro, and do so in my name". Then, he pushed me off of the cloud. Yeah I know, right? I get you're my God, I respect and worship you and all that, but you couldn't have given a little warning or something? But I digress. As I fell, I realized I was on a crash course for my own home. Passing through the roof, I landed on my bed, and woke up. Now, whether this was actually a vision from Zamorak, or a fever dream derived from being dead for 23 hours, I'll never know. But it was enough for young me to push himself to be the person I am today. But I'm getting ahead of myself a little.
Side Effects May Include...
The events that led to his resurrection gave the newly-dubbed Rastaro (which his father began calling him immediately, as he firmly believed in the importance of dreams, and chose to believe that his son had been visited by the All-Father of Chaos himself) a second wind and new determination. It did, however lead to some unfortunate side effects that he would deal with for anywhere from a day to the rest of his life. In terms of the permanent, he was diagnosed by the Head Cleric (whom insisted on giving him a check-up) with Undifferentiated Schizophrenia. He was given a precription for a special potion known as Oil of Larasidone that would help suppress the symptoms, but they still found a way to poke through every so often. Amongst these symptoms were visual and auditory hallucinations,
delusions of grandeur (how can they be delusions when I've achieved them all?), and states of catatonia (which functioned more like trances of intense, yet undismissable, thought) which sometime leaves to fuguelike wandering (one time, he woke up from a fugue state and discovered he had accidentally wandered into the bed of an ogress, which you'll never get him to admit to). Upon informing his father, Zamojarrak reverse-engineered the potion and began his work on refining the formula in order to possibly lead to a cure. After 3 years of work, Zamojarrak had not found a cure, but had found an almost-cure. This almost-cure would suppress the symptoms without needing continued dosing, but it would not completely remove the malady. Accepting the opportunity, Rastaro drank the potion and proceeded to live his life as he had when taking the Oil of Larasidone, but without needing to actually take it ever again. It was effective, and he had learn to live with it anyway.
Rastar began his adventure into higher education by going to study with the Chaos Magicians of Dagon'Hai in the Tunnel of Chaos. These members, some old friends of his father, welcomed him with open arms and prepared curricula. Though mostly uneventful, Rastaro spent the next 4 years studying with his fellow Zamorakians, learning a bit about using chaos as a magic. While there, he wrote a term paper on the importance of chaos within One's life, in order to uproot complacency and ensure the continuation of personal growth. This paper, when submitted to his professor, was well-received, and led to him being awarded a grant for independent study. Rastaro leaped at this opportunity, and worked his final two years there on the development of his inner powers granted to him from his Mahjarratian blood, as well as creating the building blocks for the amalgamation of Sciomancy and Miasmia (he did NOT create these forms of magic, he did some work on combining their effects and powers, though within the limited time he had to work he was not able to do anyhting more than create the foundations for the same work he would later continue, and is still continuing). After leaving, he enrolled at the Wizard's Tower to continue learning.
All Along The Arcane Tower
While studying at the Wizard's Tower, Rastaro took an interest in the creation of runes. Studying intently, he began the (currently life-long) hobby of creating runes for personal and monetary usage. While there, Rastaro took particular interest in the massive library held within, and dedicated much of his time reading the tomes found within. Due to his thirst for knowledge, this library was like a drug for the young mage. This experience is likely what spurred him to form the Lorica Lexiconus (sometimes LL for shorthand, and henceforth synonymous), an organization dedicated to the amassing, learning, and study of all knowledge they can get their hands on, dubbing themselves "The Loremasters".
Lorica Lexiconus and The Loremasters
Lorica Lexiconus (Infernal for Lexicon of Lore) is a small order formed by Rastaro shortly after his time at the Wizard's Tower. Simply, he created it with the intent to gather as much knowledge and information he can, and record/store it for the sake of building the Liberaria Magnificum (Infernal for Grand Library). Additionally, all members of all religions are allowed to join, as Rastaro heavily imparts the message that the pursuit of knowledge knows no race, color, ethnicity, or religion. If you seek enlightenment and a willingness to help enlighten others, then you are welcome. Currently, the order is secret, though Rastaro has considered opening up it's membership to other Gielinorians if they become interested.
Present Day Presently, Rastaro continues his travel around Gielinor, learning all he can and accomplishing whatever he can. Currently, he resides in Yanille with his wife and son (though his son is rarely around, due to his journeys as a Guthixian Paladin of Balance). He keeps a detailed description of his daily life, which he has stored in volumes within his own private library and the Liberaria Magnificum. Amongst these are stories of his travels through Canifis, his spiritual journey with an sect of monks, and the slaying of Fenrir, Haati, and Skol with the assistance of only his friend, Jimmy. If you see him, stop and say hello! Tell him your story, and he'll do the same. He's easy to befriend, and valuable upon reception.
This handsome SOB here is about 6' tall, and 150 lbs. He appears to be a dashingly irresistable olive-tan color, with an equally luxorious beard in place. His hair is black and his eyes are brown, but change color whenever he's channeling the Mahjarrat power within his blood. His equipment varies per necessity, but he is currently known to be wearing a set of Lunar Armor, gifted to him by his mother's side of the family on the Lunar Isle.
Rastaro's head is within the normal diameters for a human, but it holds a slenderness to it's appearance. Though the main features (eyes, nose, mouth, jawline, chin, etc.) were well-enough defined, there is still a certain softness about it. His beard, spanning across the entirety of the area above his lips and down to chin, is well-manicured and meticulously maintained (as it is his prized physical attribute). His eyes are sharp and clever, almost as quick as his tongue, for better or for worse. His eyebrows neatly trimmed, and his smile bright as a wisp, it's hard not to be entranced by this face (I mean, one time I looked in a mirror, and I was stuck staring for two years...alright, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm pretty damn handsome!)
Rastaro is 6 feet tall, and weighs 150 pounds. Though not overly muscular, he is not quite scawny either. His face is clear of scars and other blemishes, and his head is normally shaped. He's of a normal body type, though he walks with a limp. Due to this, he has studied magics involving the manipulation of the air around oneself in order to obtain the ability to levitate. His face is slender and soft, and he has a...well-formed...buttocks. His black hair is tied back in a ponytail to ensure his air doesn't get into his eyes (which is the worst, lemme tell you), He maintains it as well as he does his beard, and as such it tends to be soft and bouncy. Prefering the robes and other loose-fitting clothing he became so accustomed to in his youth, he can typically be found wearing the similar styles of robes, spare for when morphed or wearing armor. When at rest, he tends to resort to the method of meditation and centering taught to him by an sect of monks, which involves the balancing of one's completely vertical body, with nothing but a single hand. While difficult at first, it's now become a sort of habit (it's much less straining when you have come to grasp the concept of weight distribution, and associated methods). Overall, he holds himself with pride and self-respect, and tends to assure others around him in times of peril.
Rastaro is typically easy-going, amiable, and well-received by his peers and colleagues. However, his biggest downfall is that of his arrogance and dangerously persistant drive for self-enlightenment. Rastaro lives by the credo of "To better Oneself is mandatory/No matter who dies within the story/But evil for evil is an endless volley/Do only what's furthering, for all else is folly", which is a poem he wrote in a philosophy elective class on the topic of the necessity of some actions over others (IE: is it better to kill one person to save two, or let the other two die so that this one may live?). When within a group of people he has just met, Rastaro has a tendency to stay quiet and simply observe, which has been said to be "unnerving and creepy, making you almost intimidatingly unapproachable...Almost." It is most likely due to his unimposing image that cancels out most of the intimidation of being the unnervingly creepy mute sitting in the corner. When he has been acquainted with people, however, he tends to be very helpful and respectful, compassionate to the plights of others and eager to help them solve their problems so they may continue to better themselves. This is partially from a need to help people, but it also has to do with subconscious feelings of superiority and a desire to fulfill Zamorak's desire of all creatures bettering themselves. Rastaro is an ambivert, meaning he can function well in situations typically geared towards introverts or extroverts, but he prefers to spend his time tinkering away at home inventing, or reading a book by the fire. Rastaro will typically take on a position of leadership (oftimes offered to him), but he has no qualms with being led by another ("...for it is only he who follows blindly that is doomed to stumble in the darkness of the unknown, trapped by the myre of ignorance"). Being well-read, Rastaro enjoys talking to others and swapping stories, as well as speaking eloquently (if not sometimes perceived as slightly pretentious). Rastaro does not tend to anger easily, but when he does it is less of a visible showing. One time, Rastaro planned a two-year revenge scheme to steal a tidy fortune from a rival because he had made passes at his wife Tanivia. His anger is more one of advantageous vengeance than explosive rage. The only thing that is sure to result in your death (besides attacking him) would be the harming of his wife or son (Palatious; Lunarian for "Equilibrium"), which may be the only situation in which his rage will burst forth, frothing with anger and determination. Typically, whenever he encounters a stressful event, he takes solace in the respite of his wife's embrace, or catharsis in one of his son's stories. Rastaro is a staunch advocator of slavery, human trafficking, sex crimes, and imposed ignorance (forcing a peoples to be ignorant/uninformed as a means of easier controlling due to enhanced dependence upon the more educated upper/ruling class); as such, he will often fight against these when he encounters them, and uses the skills and information obtained in doing so to better fight against the same issues in other parts of Gielinor. He also believes that a coup or uprising is a healthy shake-up, requiring the ruling party to resist complacency and exert their superiority as a reminder of why they rule. To others, Rastaro appears to be a quiet, collected scholar and practictioner of magics, and this is just how he likes it.
Training, Skills, and Talents
- In his 201 years of life on Gielinor, Rastaro has learned to speak Commonspeak, Infernal, Elven (particularly difficult, but obtainable due to his Mahjarratian blood), Dwarven, Old Gnome (learned it as a hobby at the Gnome Stronghold), Dragonkin, and Ancient Mahjarratian
- He plans on presenting a project of his (Gielinorian Talent Ratings), which would give a numerical grade to the different standardized talents in order to give a concept of mastery.
- He is able to shapeshift at a very minimum level. The only two forms he's currently able to morph into is that of a Revenant (learned from his studying of Revenants) and his Mahjarratian form.
- He is particularly adept at magic, and likes to dabble in most hobbies he encounters. As a young adult, he had worked as a lumberjack in order to pay his way through school, and he has never lost his passion for runecrafting. He is also a mid-level student of Summoning.
- He holds access to the Lunar Spellbook due to his time spent there, and affiliation through his mother
- Rastaro is unsure of whether he holds his fathers immortality or not, but his elongated life span and minimal physical changes, he assumes he at least holds something akin to it.
Other Facts and Information
- "Mæster" is a word in the Ancient Mahjarratian language that is used to describe a learned man of magics
- Though not much of a drinker, Rastaro tends to enjoy Dwarven Ale and Wizard's Mindbomb
- For the most part, Rastaro wants little more than to study, learn, and grow in the name of Zamorak (and himself)
- Rastaro is known around Varrock for getting absolutely trashed, streaking through town, stealing the town crier's bell, and ringing it while running and screaming "IMPORTANT NUDES FOR YOU ALL!"
- Rastaro cannot stand willful ignorance, complacency, slavery, Saradominist zealots, and evil simply for the sake of evil (especially when they're Zamorakians; it's bad enough that they've already tainted the image of the great All-Father Zamorak)
- Rastaro is married to Tanivia of Lumbridge (Saradominist), and has a fully grown son named Palatious (Puh-lay-tee-us)