Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 5)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

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Varnae (Act I)#Chapter 5

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-Dear Diary,
-One should think that, having made so many concessions to these ladies' tender sensibilities, a man might be allowed to rest at end of his daily exertions.  No further proof of their lack of hospitality need be sought than their behavior last night.  While on a side trip to a distant farming town, I came upon the last survivor of a demonic attack, an old man kept alive and unharmed in an iron cage.  I took him to be nothing but the local village elder, but no good reason for him to be singled out presented itself.  His appearance was in no way remarkable.  The rest of the village received no kinder treatment than a sword in the gut.  Despite my initial suspicions, I couldn't leave the poor old fellow there... I'm not made of stone.  In retrospect, had I realized the extraordinary effect his presence would have on my hostesses, I might have done things differently.
-High priestess Akara recognized him at once as Deckard Cain, last official member of the most famous glee club in the sorcerous world.  I speak of the Horadrim, an ad-hoc organization of the best and brightest of the mage clans, unified to rid the world of demonic intruders.  In their sage wisdom, they felt the best way to accomplish this was by taking the three most dangerous devils Hell had to offer and imprisoning them here, in the mortal world, in broken cages they knew very well would never hold them.  Once purged of the delusion of a common cause, their great and heroic enterprise swiftly became a sickly, quarrelsome convalescent as its members fell back into their old sorcerous habits, throwing snowballs or giving each other hotfoots.
-Unlike the vast majority of his predecessors, this Deckard Cain has no magical abilities at all, which may make him not only the last of the Horadrim, but also the least.  How such a man could gain entry into a magical fraternity, I have no idea; standards must have been very lax indeed in the group's dying days.  Despite his lack of talent, Akara became very excited when she learned of him.  Her reaction led me to wonder if these oldsters might have a past together; while it could never make her fascinating, having a past invariably makes a woman more interesting.  Tellingly, I speculated too wildly.  Only his name and reputation aroused her interest.
-To compensate for his lack of spellcraft, master Cain chose the path of knowledge.  Learning unburdened by power is his king.  I dislike the company of well-informed men.  Their minds are like antique shops, jammed full of dreadful monsters priced far above their true value.  At any moment, dust kittens the size of tigers might come roaring out of a forgotten corner and devour all of one's time and patience.  Nonetheless, Cain had a reputation for sage council, and Akara was eager for his advice.  The old dear hardly had time to chew a crust of bread before she was regaling him with the sad tale of her monastery's downfall.
-Lest any infer that I do not respect knowledge, I cannot stress its value too highly.  Power can accomplish nothing of value if undirected -- witness the entire history of the sorcerer clans.  Even the Horadrim's shining moment in the sun was brief, and full of well-meant but misguided actions.  If only others saw fit to place understanding before action!  Knowledge is humankind's most powerful weapon, and our only sure guide into an uncertain future.
-Happily, in the time it took to tell the tale (again), Cain was able to recover somewhat from his ordeal.  Food and water were his most urgent needs, which he satisfied while lending her his otherwise-unused ears.  I dozed off twice: Floria jabbed me to wake me up again.  When Akara was done, he began his own story, a far more compelling narrative.
-The town, Tristram, was a peaceful little place.  Their king was a generous and just ruler, aided by noble knights who personified chivalry, and advised by a wise archbishop.  Yes, an archbishop; this farming town of perhaps seven buildings had its own cathedral.  Despite its minuscule size, Tristram was the central seat for religion and politics in the entire area.  I'm afraid that on hearing this, my initial suspicions returned, with reinforcements.  To be frank, I couldn't believe a word of it -- what reasonable man would?  My reservations were unvoiced, but perhaps Cain sensed them, as his story addressed them all as he went on.
-In the final days of the Sin War, the Lord of Terror was run to ground and imprisoned in a soulstone, a sort of spirit trap given to the Horadrim by Heaven.  To insure that no agent of Hell could ever find the stone and free Diablo's essence, it was buried hundreds of feet below ground in an isolated spot of countryside the Horadrim were sure would never amount to much.  (Judging from what I saw, they chose uncharacteristically well.)  The location was recorded in a few private journals, but marked only by a small, undistinguished chapel.
-That, it seems, is the point where history took an unexpected turn.  The church's influence waxed and waned in the west, but that chapel was always kept occupied.  The constant presence of monks and knights increased its prestige, and its power outstripped the other local temples.  Over time, the chapel's original purpose as a simple marker was forgotten; it was enlarged several times, and deep catacombs dug underneath.  When one of the local nobility took on the mantle of royalty, he transferred the chapel knights' loyalty to himself by a show of religious piety, donating capital for further construction and making the little town which served the monks his capital.  Ah, the plans of men!  The very act of guarding the place, but telling no one why, turned a hopeless backwater into a seat of power, and gave the Lord of Terror all he needed to contrive his release.
-For those acquainted with demonic infiltration, the remainder of this tale will be familiar.  The king went mad, his knights committed regicide, the archbishop became regent for a young prince, the prince vanished (I'm sure he was delicious) and demons slaughtered almost the entire town.  That last is peculiar -- they're usually joyously thorough.  Word spread, and help came in the form of adventurers, brigands, itinerant sorcerers, a contingent of archers from the Rogues (led by none other than Blood Raven) and other mercenary gold hunters.  They scavenged through the catacombs and the lava-filled caves below, their altruistic motives generously supplemented by the large piles of loot someone left lying about.  Cain remarked on the quantity of gold and precious items that came out of that cathedral, far more than he ever remembered going in.
-Most of these explorers, including Blood Raven, did not reach the deepest depths.  When the danger became too great, they were happy to escape with their lives (and new wealth) and return home.  A local boy, motivated by more than a quest for his own fortune, faced Diablo's gauntlet of death and survived to meet the Lord of Terror in person.  Shortly thereafter, he left the town as well, and all the demons he was supposed to have killed came up out of the ground and finished the town off.  Except for this one man, that is...
-As I said, the tale was familiar.  However, enough deviations from the common pattern exist to trouble my mind.  Though their approach may seem mindlessly straightforward, the Lords of Hell rarely play their hand in a simple way.  Deviousness and deception herald them as surely as blood and slaughter, and often what seems to be victory instead means something has been overlooked.  However, by the time Kashya finally saw fit to release me, it was far too late at night to think on it.  Even my humble cot gave forth a siren call I was helpless to resist, though sleep came fitfully.
-At dawn this morning, the strangest person woke me by kicking my bed over and knocking me into the dirt!  Though he resembles my people to a degree, his behavior was unusual and most distressing.  Had I not been befuddled from sleep, I would certainly have taught him manners, but he was here and gone before I could even find my own head.  No one in camp saw him leave, either.  I shall record his words, to the best of my recollection.
-"Wakey wakey, merry sunshine!  Up and at 'em, there's all kinds of things waitin' for you to git out there and kill 'em!  They're finally tough enough that Gull won't get 'em in one hit, so we can see just what poison does.  Try this dagger for a while -- it's called The Diggler!  I'll be back with more stuff when you're big enough to use it.  Ta ta for now!"
-The dirk left on the remains of my cot is what I believe the jollier sort of mercenary calls a "ballocks dagger."  The blade is heavy and broad, with a round bulge at the point.  The guard resembles two golden orbs, side by side.  The hilt is smooth, with the pommel in the design of... I will not go into that, but I am not about to touch it.  The Rogues may dispose of it as they wish, I will leave it here.  No, on second thought, I would not want a lady to find such an item among my possessions.  But I am certainly not walking about with that in my hand, it would give entirely the wrong impression.
-As per our arrangement, Floria accompanies me into the wilderness.  Sadly, she is wearing a shirt underneath her leathers.  Perhaps the armor was stiff with age, and began to chafe; though their impression on the eye is greatly diminished, I will accede the issue on grounds of practicality, considering these trying circumstances.  The woods I discovered last night were repopulated during my visit to Tristram, with stronger foes.  Goat demons, their sooty black skins marking them as members of the Night clan, are present in numbers, with ugly brutes of Sasquatch as well.  All take at least three arrows before they die, so I encourage Floria to scatter her shots among them, giving me time to experiment a bit with their fleeing lives.  I wish she were less sharp-eyed than she is.  Twice now she caught me trying to dispose of that obscene dirk, and I had to hide it again.
-Always we go further up into the pass.  A marsh lies above the woods; curious, it's usually the other way around, but geography was never my strong suit.  The brutish, axe-swinging monstrosities which surround me have ceased to command my attention; my mind will not let go of last night's revelations.  It occurs to me, was I meant to find Deckard Cain?  He was certainly meant for someone to rescue, if not me.  Yet... he is so unmistakably only a man, not even an interesting man.  What possible demonic plot could use a man with a head full of Horadric knowledge about demons against me?
-Nothing occurs to me, and I should not let myself be distracted from battle.  Overusing my head could result in parting company with it.  The marshes are dull, though I have kept myself entertained.  Gheed has gifted me a fine suit of chainmail; and father used to think so poorly of him.  A shrine allowed me the luxury of experimenting with poisonous gases, which sadly proved nearly useless.  The old-fashioned approach to envenomation works best.  One of the Sasquatch was carrying a totem head in a jar -- he might have wanted to drink the preservative liquor, but happily was unable to open the bottle.
-As the totem was not useful to me, I sold it to Charsi, hoping the sight of it might dim the sunshine of her smile a bit.  She laughed, and asked if I wanted another, made of metal.  Then she could say she was forging ahead.  Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with that girl.  I'd make a more concerted effort, but that might result in my being hugged.
-Back in a secluded corner of the marshes, I have found the remains of a tower, or perhaps a small keep.  It was obviously destroyed by fire a long time ago, and little remains.  Ah, dear Floria informs me "the bloody countess" dwelt here long ago, the one said to have bathed in the blood of 100 virgins.  What a dull country this is, that anyone could find 100 virgins.  The account I read mentioned that the woman was rich, and much of her wealth was rumored to be buried with her.  Those who arrested her would not let her keep her wealth; I have never known a churchman to pass up coin just because a sinner laid hands on it.  Legends of buried treasure invariably disappoint, but the tracks of Goat Demons lead in and out of the remains of a cellar.  I'd best go in and be about my business.
-What a surprising place this is, full of goats, and ghosts, and perhaps the ghosts of goats.  Human bones, all quite ancient, litter the floor, but I can find no alchemical apparati or any other means for making use of so many dead bodies.  In one corner, a shrine in the form of a kneeling angel offers up a bowl full of blood.  This "countess" may have had only a primitive understanding of the live-giving power of blood, one more influenced by religious teachings than science.  Also, the quantity of ghosts hints at a shocking number of pain and fear-filled deaths.  Far more efficient techniques were available, even in those days.
-After five levels of cellars, I hope never to see another set of stairs in my life.  Whoever dug all of this out had a great deal of money and an uncommon need to hide dead bodies.  Also, considerable foresight.  In addition to money (mostly coin) I've also found a small armory of Paladin weapons and shields.  That may explain where this woman found 100 virgins, and why the church was upset enough to bury her wealth with her.  I also suspect the woman is still alive, or has been revived to serve a demonic master.  Someone lit all these candles.
-I have met the Countess, and she is mine.  In the rear of the deepest cellar, I found a boiling cauldron of blood, the closest thing to a potion laboratory in the place.  Beyond, attended by a pack of Blood clan goats and revived female corpses, a woman of noble bearing awaited my pleasure, soaked head to toe in blood.  For a moment, I was quite impressed, and wondered if my mother had any relations in this part of the world.  Then I noticed the weapon in her sanguinous hand: an axe.  At that moment, all admiration for her vanished, and she became nothing but another creature to kill.  Honestly, how could any woman be so graceless?
-Happily, though her tastes were unforgivable, her reputation for wealth did not disappoint.  I suppose many believe it is better to have an income than style.  If they all made it so easy for me to arrange their deaths and take their wealth, I could find it in me to forgive them.  I also suppose this places me among the ranks of "treasure hunters."  Well, perhaps not a treasure hunter... more of a treasure finder.

Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 5)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

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