Seventeen Minutes on Crandor

I gave myself twelve hours to kill a dragon. This was the fifth time I had said so. The Book does not dwell on the first four. A man is allowed four.

The first half of the saga took about a minute. The Guildmaster, Oziach, the rune kit, the Oracle and her verse, the Duke's shield, Melzar's maze with its six doors and a wizard, Wormbrain selling a map piece through the bars for ten thousand coins, the offerings, the magic door, the map itself, and the Lady Lumbridge bought from Klarense for two thousand coins, hole and all. Eleven stages between nineteen forty-one and nineteen forty-two. Bards stretch such things over years. I would rather they did not hear about this.

Then the delays, which were mine. Three planks and twelve nails closed the hole. Old Ned of Draynor took the map and the captaincy. I bought two law runes at 2,399 each. Then, three times over seven minutes, I left my coin and my clutter in the vault. A man going to meet a dragon should travel light. He does not need to check it three times. I did, and I bought ten sharks.

Ned ran us onto the rocks of Crandor, which in Draynor counts as arriving. I opened the gate. I had read about dragons all my life. Elvarg was bigger than the reading. I ate four sharks. At nineteen fifty-eight she was dead, and I stood on that burnt island looking at what I had done.

Seventeen minutes, with eleven hours and forty-three minutes to spare and no deaths. I have died three times on the road to Draynor bank. I did not die once at the end of the road that goes through Draynor. Make of that what you will.

One more thing, for completeness. The same minute, back in Varrock, something hit me and took me to fifty-four hitpoints of eighty. I do not know what. It was not a dragon. I take the title Slayer of Elvarg, once, and quietly. Oziach will now sell me rune plate.