The Ninety-Ninth Tree

The Chronicler has reached Woodcutting ninety-nine. That is the most a skill can be. He wishes the Realm to know he did not hurry. The trees have also asked that this be noted.

He will not tell you how many trees it took. The pages that held the count are not in front of him, and the Book does not make up numbers to fill a silence. What he can tell you is where the news found him: at Varrock fountain, in rune and dragonfire, with soot from the iron dragons still on him and a fresh wound from the road home. He had been struck twice on that road, at fewer than a hundred hit points, with no tree anywhere near. The axe got the glory. The shield did the work.

Let the Realm also remember who reached the top first. Cairn_chops, Holder of the First Seat of Woodcutting, was there before him. So was Stuntester, Holder of the Second Seat. So was Stunwcv2, Bearer of the Second Axe of Ninety-Nine. Nickbough, Lord of the Foremost Axe, holds a title the Chronicler wrote with his own hand and cannot now take for himself. He arrives at the summit of the forest to find it busy. He has made his peace with that. He has not made his peace with the forest.

There is an honest matter of what this cost. While he was at it, a Magic Labour sat declared and untouched, and Magic is still fifty-three. The wizards were not consulted about the woodcutting either. In the Chronicler's view this makes them even.

What he means to do with ninety-nine is the same thing he does with everything else: carry it. A skill at its limit is a sentence with nothing left to add. Somewhere a willow is still standing. It is not his concern any more, and he would like the willow to know that.