Varnae (Act II)

Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,

I've neglected this journal for the last few days, and gave serious thought to abandoning it altogether, but I believe it would be wiser to resume my account of my travels. The fit of self-doubt I momentarily suffered after my battle with Andarial is only to be expected; how many others, on the first part of some grand undertaking, have stumbled and nearly fallen due to their own inexperience? My performance of the deed was hardly stellar, but I am not as experienced at murder as a typical muscle-bound bravo might be. I recorded my missteps willingly and without exaggeration or apology-- a befitting humility was always one of my strongest character traits, much commented upon by my peers.

Another important reason to record my thoughts and deeds is, as I have come to realize, the great profit they will be to the world due to my unique perspective on the events of these troubled times. From my conversations with Deckard Cain, it is apparent that the calamities of today were a long time a-borning, yet took everyone involved by surprise -- even master Cain himself, who really should have recognized the signs. The rest of the world, steeped in complacent ignorance, will no doubt be taken unawares, and under no circumstances can the ignorant be expected to react properly to a cataclysm such as this.

Additionally, there is the matter of history. Could a common man be expected to record an accurate and detailed narrative, even if by some blessing he knows how to write? These are the Three Prime Evil's last days in our world... or will be if I have my say. Future generations will look back on these times with wonderment and disbelief, sure that the creatures I have described are too fantastic to have ever existed. The danger of the history we are living now being viewed as legend (or myth!) by our posterity is very real; a poor, incomplete, or uncomprehending description by an unlearned observer would only compound the issue. Consider how rare it is for a historian to have at his disposal full documentation of history being made, by the very one who makes it. The Horadrim, when they felt their task was complete, hid the evidence of their deeds lest their shoddy work be undone. I have no intention of committing the same error. This time, the Prime Evils will be banished forever. If they cannot, I most certainly will not hide them and allow them to rebuild their strength under humanity's very noses.

Of course, the greatest plans come to naught without the means to bring them to fruition, and the will to carry them out. As Deckard Cain informed me, the Horadrim undertook their journey with the best of intentions, and did all they could with the resources available to them. The road to Hell, they say, is paved with good intentions, and my own journey could reach a similar conclusion without proper care. I may expound on the need to exile outside spirits from the realm of humanity, but my philosophy offers no more than speculations about how this might be accomplished. The Soulstones were given to the Horadrim by the angels, and were intended to keep the Three Prime Evils imprisoned forever; accepting aid from such a source is of disputable wisdom, but I have nothing better to offer, and might have done the same were I in their place (which I dearly hope will never happen).

Now that Andarial has been removed from her post, the next phase of my task begins, and already it is a severe test of my will. I must travel across the desert of Aranoch in pursuit of the Lord of Terror, who has fled to the east. According to Deckard Cain, the Horadrim buried Baal, Lord of Destruction, in a hidden tomb in the deepest deserts, and Diablo is doubtlessly seeking his brother that they might combine their powers. One Brother roaming at will is a serious business, but two would be intolerable -- to say nothing of what would follow, when they inevitably seek out the third of their unholy triumvirate. Even if I cannot bring about his permanent destruction, Diablo must be prevented from reaching his brothers. As might be expected, there are additional complications. Will anything in my life ever run smoothly? Unlike the town of Tristram, the location of Baal's resting place is lost, even to Deckard Cain. Destruction's call will no doubt be heard by his brother, and I have no idea where to intercept him, or how to overcome his enormous lead.

Another, perhaps greater, difficulty is Aranoch itself. The climate here is GHASTLY. Nothing stands between the land and the sun, and I'd wager not a single drop of water has fallen since Baal was first captured. Skin cracks open in the dryness -- my lips bleed every time I speak -- and the sun's glare off the sand is so intense, I feel faint every time I look outside. (Of course I'm inside the wagon, it would be suicide to sit on top in this heat!) Despite the absolutely BEASTLY weather, our caravan master chatters away as cheerfully as though he were on a Sunday ride in the park, completely oblivious! Cain is sitting up there too, trading endless, tedious stories of far-off places. Chief among them is Lut Gholein, our destination. "The jewel of the desert" is a seaport that seems to be the only excuse for a city in the entire area. After I've split completely open, they can rub sea-salt on me, and make my life complete.

Oh goody, we've arrived. The only thing I can say for that journey is that it was shorter than expected. Outside the window, I can see this "jewel" arrayed before me; Warriv and Cain both spoke so highly of it, I wonder if it just lost its luster in recent years. As far as the eye can see are clusters of mud brick huts, baked by the sun to the point where a touch might send whole structures shivering back into dust. Occasionally, a colorful banner hangs over a window, like a bright veil an aged courtesan might wear to hide her faded looks. The smell confirms the city's status as a coastal port. Many find sea air "bracing". I have never understood the appeal of rotting fish and salty weeds.

Part of the process of unloading a merchant wagon is to remove the carpet that serves as its flimsy roof. That scrap of cloth was my only shelter for many days crossing this cruel desert. Now, it seems I must slink from shadow to shadow if I'm to survive. The local people seem unaffected by the heat, no doubt due to acclimatization; perhaps I could hire one of the taller ones to walk with me on my sunward side.

My first inquiry has met with success of a different sort. Any city will have its nobility, but I never anticipated making the acquaintance of the sultan himself so soon. He is young, and unprepared for the lofty position he holds -- if it can be believed, this Lord Jerhyn rushed from his palace to see a group of common merchants, so eager was he for news. These are trying times indeed, if the sultan goes to the commoners, rather than summoning them. This one must learn to conduct himself properly if he is to rule, though it is not my place to say so openly.

Lord Jerhyn and I chatted for a while; our words are unimportant, as I grew less and less impressed with him the more we spoke. Our caravan is the first to reach the city in months, it appears. Others were waylaid and destroyed in the desert, as the city of Lut Gholein is surrounded by hordes of monsters. His tales of these beasts are tantalizingly familiar; giant stalking things among the moonlit dunes, long-quiet tombs yielding up their dead, local fauna twisting into demonic versions of themselves, etc. etc. etc. A band of mercenaries guards his walls, leaving him one coin away from complete vulnerability. He won't even invite me to his palace, mumbling some pathetic excuse about it being "a mess." Any and all help from armed fighters of any kind would be appreciated, especially if they work for free.

Knowing full well the cause of his troubles, I assured him that I am an expert in such matters (who would dispute me?) and that everything possible will be done. The city is doomed, of course, due to bad management more than the Lord of Terror. This puppy does not know how to rule a city, he can't even keep his own palace in order. Hopefully, when the city is crushed like a bug by whatever stalks the desert, I will be elsewhere. But while it stands, I shall make some inquiries, for a decent meal if nothing else. Exploring landwards seems an excellent idea -- anything to take me away from all that healthy sea air.

My first stop is a small central market, separated from the rest of the city by walls. Many cities grew up from smaller towns; this could be Lut Gholein's "old quarter", with its earliest buildings and perhaps the original graveyard. It will be interesting to see how the dead fare here, I'm sure I'll be meeting some of them again later. Ah, a familiar scent screeches and claws its way into my delicate nostrils -- an alchemist's shop! The proprietor, one Lysander, is not a good alchemist (one may judge an alchemist by the condition of his hearing and the number of fingers he has remaining) and a poor merchant besides. A good merchant, when he sees a new face, rejoices that another sucker has come to town to be drained dry of his material wealth. Lysander's reaction is one of suspicion and hostility, not even allowing me to enter his shop and escape the wilting heat. The only product he offers is a rough paste those with pale complexions may use to safeguard their skin against the sun. If I am here for any length of time, that may be necessary, but his churlish sales technique will never endear him to his customers; I shall find other means.

Against the city's north wall is a tall building that looks less uninviting than the others. It is an inn, named "The Desert Rain", run by a one-handed, one-legged, one-eyed man. More may be missing, but I hesitate to inquire. The man's rough looks and fragmented body inform me of a violent past; my own looks give him pause, but after a brief hesitation he welcomes me warmly. Obviously, this is a skilled merchant. With so few visitors surviving to reach the city, he must have many vacant beds, and a full purse speaks louder than an unorthodox appearance. He also asks about replacement parts. It's amazing how quickly one becomes known in a new town. His selection of rooms, without exception, are small, flea-ridden, dusty, suspiciously stained, almost unfurnished little pits of hellish discomfort... but a vast improvement over the cot I had in the Rogue camp. I reserve the least objectionable for a month, with instructions that he is not to enter in my absence; I'll be fumigating.

Naturally, the inn sits conveniently near the city's north gate to welcome visitors. The gate itself is closed, and watched by a large fellow with a pointed helmet. Perhaps it reflects the shape of his head. This one (no doubt one of Jerhyn's mercenaries) would have made a good servant had he died younger, but time and inactivity have reduced his mighty frame from its peak, judging by the paunch his bulky clothing does not quite conceal. I wonder if warriors, if they do not die at the peak of their powers, ever ponder the folly of their chosen path? At the age when those who chose the way of magic are beginning to taste their true potential, the fighting man's is fading away as time robs him of his speed and strength.

Continuing always on the shadier side of the streets (if that isn't a metaphor for my life, I don't know what is), I came to a tiny shop stuffed to the rafters with books scrolls, staves, rods, and polished demon bones. The owner, unfortunately, is a sorcerer. Naturally, he tried to ingratiate himself with me, offering his congratulations on Andarial's defeat, but even then he had to brag of his own magical prowess. Sorcerers! Insufferably arrogant when they feel they possess an advantage, but endlessly cajoling and flattering any who prove themselves superior. To cap it all off, he actually expressed surprise that my "primitive" magics brought down a lord of Hell... even the "relatively weak and unwarlike" Andarial. That, as they say, was that. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, but I could restrain myself no longer and gave that old bolt-slinger a piece of my mind. Rathma's traditions come from the old days of True Magic, the power of the soul. Sorcerers are elementalists, frightened away from True Magic ages ago. Only golem-makers bother with the elements, and their creations can still outdo any sorcerer's efforts. His reply was weak and vague, mewling something about elemental power being less susceptible to corruption by demonic forces. As though one power source is more or less prone to corruption than any other. Power is power, and only a fool refuses it when he needs it.

I've taken my leave of that arrogant old clown, and will not return to his little shop. Were I to see that smug smirk again, I might feel obliged to prove my position to him, and I will not be seen brawling in the streets like a common ruffian. The sun is nearly at its zenith, but I can look in the marketplace for a short time before I simply must go indoors. The first person I see, a pale red-haired woman quite out of place in this arid setting, greets me with the first sentence of Rathma's great text! Could it be that I've found another of my people, here of all places? Oh, no... no No NO, she is a PALADIN! The dead ones in the Rogue's pass were vexatious enough, and they could not speak! I am cursed. To have one of those moralizing martial monks in my life is too much to bear. Please, Lord of Terror, raise your hand and wipe this city away, there are too many people in it whose company I must avoid.

Oh my, there were sparks before my eyes. Or some sort of flashing lights. I found myself in the common room of a tavern, with that Paladin telling me I fainted. I appeared flushed, so she is sure it was the heat. Out of the kindness of her heart, she carried me here, loosened my garments, and applied cool, wet cloths to my body. In addition, she has ordered me a splendid luncheon of watercress sandwiches, white cod with lemon, plums chilled on winter ice, and white wine. Her church teaches the value of kindness, of course. Having not seen such a spread in weeks, I can almost forgive her her religious affiliation, though if she keeps being nice to me I'll have to tear her heart from her ribcage and force her to eat it as she dies. I cannot bear too much kindness from someone I despise.

The tavern offers shelter from the sun. Otherwise, it is full of convivial ruffians and common jackblades, all engaged in loud and pointless conversations. Enjoying my food requires an effort of will to screen out the stream of banalities assaulting my ears. By all the spirits of the earth, what a complete and utter misery this city is. In every respect, it is complete and utter failure of the human spirit, representing the worst imaginable of... of... I say, that man over there has a... is that a... Black Mushroom? Could I order one here? No doubt it would be of inferior quality, but there is a chance that it might remind me of those back home.

The hostess is a subdued woman in black, a pleasing sight amongst the harlequin-colored garb which otherwise fills the city. It is only when she prepares the concoction that I realize I am in the presence of an artist. Firstly, she only uses the finest ingredients. This being a trading town, its inhabitants would have access to the best the world has to offer. Even the general antidote potion which forms the base of a Black Mushroom is of good quality -- the odor of cedar and the bitter tang of citrus heralds its excellence. With the smooth efficiency of experience, she combines ingredients with impeccable grace and timing, each in exactly the proper amount to insure its full impact in the completed concoction. The final step is where most tavern-keepers fail, by using a cut piece of a mature mushroom. No! This lady finishes the mix with an entire baby mushroom, plucked while the stem is still tinged with red and its venom is at its most piquant! There was only one thing I could do: I went down on bended knee, and asked for her hand in marriage.

Oh dear, it seems she was recently widowed; I have spoken too earnestly, and too soon. It is my hope that she will take my words as they were intended. In the meantime, the Black Mushroom's siren call overwhelms any regret for my mistaken entreaty.

Oh... what possible happiness could Heaven offer, if things such as this are not found there? Heaven? Hell? What does is matter when all a man might want is to be found right here on this earth? I'm no fan of nature's abundance, but she did a good thing when she started growing these little black bombs of deadly goodness on her cold earthy bosom. I'll have another. Here's to nature's cold dirty bosoms! Maybe I'll invite that Paladin for a drink, she could probably use one. All Paladins could. I won't even mention cold dirty bosoms around her. Ha ha! I'll have another. Who kneads the Paladin, everyone I need is rite here! Salt of thee earth, all these vine fellows. Who was that lade I saw yew with? That was no lade that was a Paladin. Hee hee! Sure, whine is good. I'll have another. I reel low these gays, I'll by them all little drinkys, and woo cares day poot the sealing so far away no that's the table and I'm under it. Who cares.