Normally, my grandfather would start all his boyhood stories with his laugh that sounded like a hoarse hyena. He often told Mary Ann and I tales of the strange creatures he encountered while roaming throughout Gielenor, and the many quests he had embarked on and things he had accomplished. Tonight, however, was different. For some time now, my grandfather had been resigned to remain in bed, and with each passing day he slept more and more. We worried, Mary Ann and I, that he would one day never wake up, but when he did we hoped he'd stay awake long enough to tell us more about his life. Mary Ann had taken up the notion to write down every story, so that one day, if our grandfather did never wake up again, we'd have something to remember him by and pass down to our children.
Tonight, like I said, was different. Mary Ann could scarcely hold her quill still over the copybook as our grandfather shared such a riveting, dreadful tale that it shook the very faith in Saradomin that we had. His eyes were filled with hatred, and for many moments throughout that story hour, we thought him to be possessed by Zamorak himself. No... he wasn't possessed, but there was no denying that he felt betrayed.
I never thought that such terrible things existed in the world, and it occurred to me that witnessing such horrific acts must be hard to erase from memory. We pleaded for our grandfather to stop, but he insisted that the story be told, to serve as a warning for us all. Taught to respect our elders, we nodded, we listened...
We watched as he drew his last breath at the end of the story, and for a moment we could only stare in shock. He had died, and we had killed him by letting him tell this tale, we were sure of it. There was nothing more that can be done but pray that Saradomin had taken him to his home, and not the dreadful Abyss.