Guthix: Ah, the Stone. Known by many names, including, much to my discomfort, the Fist of Guthix. Its ancient power has opened up boundless potential, and the lust for that power has irrevocably scarred this perfect world. The races I brought to Gielinor have fought, died and longed for it. I set these events in motion, inciting millennia of conflict and death. I hold myself accountable for these atrocities. I sought to share its power with mortals, that they might not be subjugated by the gods. They left their gods behind, attracted by the potential of magic. I distilled the Stone's essence into runic magic, stones of power, but the discovery of magic spells I left in the hands of those that followed me to Gielinor. The diversity of magical effects they achieved was inspiring...though many only sought mastery of only the basest elements, drawing on them for raw offensive power. I should have seen this as a sign of things to come, but I hoped that in free reign they might see the harmful impact for themselves, and gain enlightenment from their destructive impulses. Alas, the colonists returned to me, empty-handed and hungry for more power; their desire for rune stones almost an addiction. Reluctantly, I sought to indulge them, but I sensed within the Stone a growing presence: anger, violent rage. It grew as I drew power from the Stone, and I feared that this terrible ferocity might be unleashed. I realised that I had abused its power too long, and the consequences if I persevered would be grave; so I hid the Stone, for our own protection. My refusal was poorly received. Some turned to desperate worship, others to violence over the jealously hoarded rune stones, now a precious commodity stained in spilt blood. In retrospect, I was motivated by cowardice and fatigue, but it was at this time that I withdrew into slumber. I hoped that, should I awake, I might bear witness to a more civilised age. That time did not come.