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Ballad of Timekeeper


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There has been a silent war waging on for eons inside our beloved Runescape. For years we have revolted and resisted the tyranny of so called "Moderators", them who think themselves Gods. I myself was a soldier in this battle for many years in the beginning. Life however had other plans for me, and I was swept away from these lands across the borders into a harsh reality, it would be many years before I would be able to resurface.


Overnight, my most valued soldiers passed from the realm of Runescape, taken by the system that proclaims "order". He was 10 years old in Runescape, a man beyond his years. He had seen many things in his time, With his own eyes he had seen the creation of continents rising from the sea, he wielded a dragon battle axe when it was the most deadly of weapons, He stood on the banks of The Digsite as they excavated it for the first time. He traveled into the darkest caverns, to the tallest mountains, and sailed across oceans. Then they came for him, and in their one stroke of wisdom, they came for him while he slumbered. For surely if he was awake, there would have been a fight. I discovered the damage early this morning, treasures that could have filled a  throne room several times over, experience that made him a master in a dozen or more skills. He was truely a remarkable and most valued asset of mine.


This time an older man, a wiser man. I picked up arms and charged head first back into this silent genocide. They can get as big as they want, they can arm themselves to the teeth all they want, they can even invent new realms just to seek us out, but in the end they lack one crucial thing that has been the turning point of many wars. Numbers. They will be outnumbered until the day their servers fizzle out, until their data centers crumble, and until the day the very foundation of their headquarters gives in to the earth.


We all assembled here for our own selfish reasons, but we stay united under the same cause. That cause is freedom. True and absolute freedom. Freedom from sitting hours, days, weeks, in front of a computer. A slave to the system. I refuse to be a slave to their system. I refuse to let the the boundaries and rules they set forth and pretend to be law, to rule over me. Their world is mine, I did not come back to this place to serve, I came back to this place to rule.


As long as my lungs draw breath, as long as my legs carry me through this world, and as long as my reach still holds true, this battle will wage. 


I ask of you brothers


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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