Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 6)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

Redirect to:

Varnae (Act I)#Chapter 6

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-{{Varnae nav}}
+#REDIRECT [[Varnae (Act I)#Chapter 6]]
-Dear Diary,
-After exploring the remains of the Countess' tower, I find myself in an entirely novel position, financially.  Long ago, my family was quite wealthy, but all that remains from those days is a good name, expensive standards, and unpaid debts, some of which date back centuries.  My family's long and wasteful history is a fascinating one; I should write a book, but vulgarity distresses me.  Now, for the first time, I find myself with a great deal of disposable wealth, and no agreeable way to dispose of it.  I'd waste it senselessly, but lacking wine and song, the undertaking would seem a hollow sham.  Paying family debts would set a bad precedent; others might expect me or my descendants to pay for our things in the future.  I suppose I could try to behave sensibly, and set a judicious fraction aside against my frail old age, but I doubt I could break my many well-established habits this late in life.
-To my younger readers, who might be considering a life spent searching for hidden treasure: finding troves isn't all it could be, despite the hold they have on the popular imagination.  Hoards of incalculable wealth tend to be located far out in the wilderness, nowhere near any hotel with decent room service.  Traveling costs, which must include transporting one's hard-won booty back to civilization, could easily render the entire operation moot.  The Countess' tower may seem an exception, but consider the tower's guardians, who effectively prevented its being looted for several centuries.  All decent hoards are either inconveniently located, unacceptably hazardous to those who gain entrance, or impossible to find, or they would have been looted long before you were born.  If you wish to spend your life digging for money and dodging axe-wielding maniacs, consider a career in the civil service instead.
-After leaving the tower (and climbing all those stairs AGAIN) my dear girl Floria and I set off up the pass once more.  It wasn't until we were well into the highlands that I realized I could have used a portal to go back to camp, then return to the marshes by means of a teleporting stone.  As you can imagine, I was just kicking myself, or would have been if my feet weren't so tired.  It's doubtful that the Rogues even have a good masseuse.  Incidentally, I learned from Deckard Cain that the teleporting stones are called Waypoints; the Horadrim made them all over the world, whenever they thought they might want to visit a place again.  They must not require much effort to make -- I've already found five, all in places I'm quite sure I'll never want to visit again.
-We are near the monastery itself, which is guarded by more demonic servants.  Fallen Ones abound in the form of Devilkin, those souls wicked enough for demons to be flattered by the resemblance, but lacking sufficient drive to really make something awful of themselves.  With heads full of malicious thoughts rarely translated into deeds, the Devilkin are placed on the lowest rungs of Hell's long ladder until they get some ambition.  The undead are also out in force, shooting bows or wielding elemental magic.  Ah, magus ossia... a bit of a misnomer, but a forgivable one.  This servant knows no magic (having nothing to "know" with) but is simply infused with one spell, which it activates repeatedly when threatened.  Still, making one is no mean feat, and making large numbers is more impressive yet.  If my enemy is the Lord of Terror as the Rogues fear, I will be facing an extraordinary battle.
-Finally, I have gotten to the top of this pass!  Mountains turn up in the worst places.  The monastery is huge, its high walls bridging the pass from one side to the other.  This lump of a building reeks of the ponderous style of the church of Zakarum.  The stonework is, I suppose, of acceptable craftsmanship, but graceless, flat, and unimaginative -- no style at all in the whole construction.  Its architects were doubtless the sort who'd call a spade a spade, and who should have been forced to use one as their only avocation in life.  The gates, at least, are adorned with a pair of lovely female figures (obviously done long after this ceased to be a true monastery) surmounted by large blank eyes.
-Our entrance is unopposed.  In an effort to be friendly, I ask Floria's recommendation: will we need to search the entire building for our enemy?  She has no idea, but suggests following the corrupted ones back to their foul source.  Followers of Heaven can be so melodramatic --but so can followers of Hell.  A short corridor leads through the thick outer walls, past two guard posts, and into a small garden.  The grounds are pleasant enough, for those who like green and growing things.  The demons have seen to it that the plants are well-fertilized with bone and ashes, obviously hoping for a different sort of crop.  The cloister centerpiece is a marble statue of three heroic Rogues, twice life size; it is left curiously untouched by the invaders.  One wonders if they have some purpose in mind for it.
-I wish I could say my visit to the cloisters was properly contemplative, but there was little time for quiet meditation.  All I heard was howls of pain, the screams of the dying, and the mindless gibbering of the irretrievably degraded.  Sasquatch, children of nature, made the gardens their lair.  The local Rogues took an idea from the Night clan, blackening their skins with the greasy ashes of the dead.  The effort is intended to transfer a victims' strength to themselves, though further rituals to bind the  soul are needed.  Sorcerers have no idea what they're missing, restricting themselves to the elements.  The mindless rage and fanaticism of my foes is growing, and I've grown less fond of being physically struck by them.  A shield set with skulls is worthwhile if one cannot avoid being struck, but I've felt less need for revenge as their blows grew powerful enough to do me real damage.  To fend them off, I'm carrying a larger shield, set with diamonds.  They are a girl's best friends.
-Another gate leads through to the inner cloisters, but the way has been barred.  It seems my approach was not subtle enough, and my arrival was anticipated.  Happily, another avenue presents itself.  Floria has told me of another way in, a circuitous route through the Rogue barracks and a prison.  These jails are underground, and she feels they should be reasonably safe.  I have my doubts, but a dangerous route is better than none at all.
-The barracks are well fortified with Devilkin, Goat Demons and corrupt Rogues.  Of course, anyone assaulting a barracks should expect armed resistance.  Strangely, a Toad Demon is also in the barracks, working at a blacksmith's forge in a back corner.  Toad Demons are resentful things, made from the flesh of the most beautiful prince of the angels to mock his vanity; their heavenly origin gives them unusual power and high status in Hell.  Of greatest use is their strength, which suits them to heavy manual labor like smithing; they delight in making ugly things, or making beautiful things ugly.  Now, I'm no ravishing, come-hither beauty, but the fight it gives me was inspired.  None of my venoms have much effect on that blob of twisted flesh; I'm almost ashamed I cast the curse of frailty and stabbed it to death, but my ends prompted my means.  After it finally died, I discovered all that fervor was to protect... a hammer, a tiny little thing like a shoemaker might use.  It doesn't seem to be a smith's tool at all, yet there it was, in a place of honor on its own special rack in the smithy.  What a peculiar thing, though it does seem to be magical.
-The Rogue prisons are underground, with an entrance in the barracks.  These rooms may have been intended for another use before the Rogues occupied the building.  Signs of pain and despair are all around me, starting with the slow torture of caged starvation and working upwards.  My mood has improved considerably; even Floria finds it worthy of comment.  All the torture equipment has been recently used, with bodies left everywhere to rot.  Sadly, none of the materials left littering the place could have been of any use to me.  Their souls have already been bound in Hell's service as Skeletons and ghosts, with just enough Goat Demons that my venoms aren't completely worthless.  As frustrating as it is to say, I could grow very weary of the undead.
-A most terrible thing has happened.  On a trip back to camp, I turned that little hammer over to Charsi.  Oh, for the joy of life I once possessed...
-With a squeal like a guinea pig being trodden on, she grabbed up the hammer and held it tight to her muscular chest, exclaiming, "Oh, thank you for finding my malus!"
-Not quite hearing that last word right, I replied, "I never suspected you had a malicious bone in your body.  You must tell me what glorious thing I've done to unleash it."
-That's when the terrible thing happened.  She scampered (as difficult as that is to imagine) from behind her anvil and... oh, I can hardly bear to put the words to paper!  That brute of a girl took hold of my body and hugged me!  She picked me completely up off the ground and twirled about three times with me in her grasp, giggling with glee!  "Thank you thank you!" she said, oblivious to my agony.  "You're so nice!  Did I tell you I really like the bony whirly bits you keep flying around?  That's really neato-keen!"
-Floria was off to one side, obviously enjoying my screams of anguish.  After all I've done for her!  I fear I've taught her not wisely, but too well.  "Do you know he sounds just like a 12-year-old girl when you do that?"
-"That is my ribcage fusing!" I explained as calmly as I could.  This exhilarated amazon was going to be the death of me in another few moments.  "Please tell me what I've done, so I'll know never ever to do it again!"
-Releasing me, she went to hug Floria, who took it bravely.  I wondered whether it would be wiser to flee to some safer place, or lie on the ground and feign death.  Before I could reach a decision, Charsi came bouncing back.  "This is the Horadric Malus!"
-"Oh... a malus," I said.  Common tradesmen have specific names for all their tools; I plan never to learn any of them.  "Isn't that lovely.  Perhaps you can forge me a new spine."
-"Aw, don't be silly, Mr. Spooky-man.  You don't fool me!  Get up off the ground, your whirly bones are getting confused."  After pulling me to my feet, she held up the malus, beaming with joy.  "This is the Horadric Malus!  I can use this to make magic items!"
-By all the spirits of the earth, this girl is pure sunshine.  It was all I could do not to vomit all over her.  Somehow, I know even THAT wouldn't impress her!  Re-swallowing the lunch she'd nearly squeezed out of me, I said, "Ah, magic items.  Lovely."  I try, but they can't all be deathless witticisms.  I was not having a good day.
-"Yeah!  Anything you want, I take an unenchanted item, and make an enchanted one out of it!  But it only works once, it has to recharge on its rack.  Is the rack still there?"
-"Young lady, there are some things it is not acceptable to speak of out in public, and one of them is a girl's rack.  Besides which, I have no particular interest in yours.  I return to my task, but should I have any need of your services, you will be the first to know."
-The Rogue's jails are extensive; they must have had a great need for prisons while the pass was open for business.  I can happily lose myself in them, and try to wipe recent events from my memory with torrents of blood and ectoplasm.  Sadly, I cannot escape the trauma.  Every time Floria smirks, I remember, and she has begun to smirk a very great deal.  It's actually a joy to see the sky again when we leave the jails and enter the inner cloister.  The center of the cloisters is the center of the monastery: a cathedral.  A cathedral represents everything Zakarumite thought and architecture aspire to.  I despise every stone of it instantly.  I am sure it is full of horrors, but will not enter it tonight.  A waypoint graces the garden outside its doors, and the jails have exhausted me.  It is time to retire, and hope one night will not give my enemy time to cut me off again.
-Back in camp, Deckard Cain wishes to speak with me.  He is confident that my enemy is not the Lord of Terror.  The local hero who defeated Diablo, and was no doubt possessed by him, had gone on about "the east" before he vanished.  Baal, Lord of Destruction, was entombed under the sands of Aranoch, the great desert east of this very pass.  This fact, the pattern of corruption of the Rogue women, and the use of the most lowly demons, leads him to the conclusion that Diablo did pass this way, but has not remained.  A less powerful demoness, Andarial, the Maiden of Anguish, is in the monastery, guarding Diablo's path and preventing any pursuers from interfering with him.
-If there is any truth to these speculations, humanity's situation is grave indeed.  If the lesser evils now support the greater, Hell's leadership issues have been resolved and their forces may reunite under one banner, which is good news for no one.  My knowledge of Andarial's ways supports his hypothesis, though.  I confess, the chance to lay eyes on the infamous Maiden of Anguish interests me.  According to our lore, she is the most beautiful of demons, mother of the Succubi and first among seducers.  Unfortunately, she is also queen of spiders and nearly immune to poisons.  According to Cain, she is not fond of fire; how I can use this, I have no clear idea as yet.  A night's sleep may help focus my mind.
-One last note: I heard this conversation outside my tent, before nodding off.
-A Rogue (no idea which) asks, "So, what's he like?"
-My Floria answered, "He's not that bad."
-How flattering.  Another asked, "He looks creepy."
-"Yeah, he's kind of creepy," Floria answered.  Good girl.  "But he's pretty harmless.  He likes to talk about stuff.  Hairstyles, men's fashions, interior decoration, things like that."
-One of the girls laughed.  "Is he into musical theater too?"
-Floria said, "No, never mentioned that."
-What could be wrong with musical theater?  A well-performed aria is transporting beyond all worlds, but I can't imagine anyone in this rural setting appreciating opera.  No point losing sleep over women's gossip, I'd best put this from my mind.  If Cain is right, tomorrow will take all of my concentration.

Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 6)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

Navigation menu

Search