Varnae (Chapter 30)
Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,
Nihlathak's temple is a magnificent building; the style and quality of construction clearly mark it as the work of the Precursor people. There is something here I find peculiarly familiar, even comforting. Far down in a secluded hollow between three peaks, the wind and biting cold do not reach here; I suspect no one could enter invited.
Honestly, where has my head gotten to? Piles of corpses strewn about the front garden is not a welcome sign, particularly here. I doubt if I will ever grow accustomed to these new zombies. Their smell no doubt contributed to that air of familiarity; I wonder, has Nihlathak made them? It would explain their presence here, and around the Ice Curse block. Is the world ready for servants like these? While they are durable, I cannot help but feel dismayed by their resilience. Tramping back and forth through the veil separating life and death so determinedly smacks of the infernal.
My name is Khaleel. I am 34 years old. I am in Harrogath with a weird guy who likes dead things. He is very efamin eefemani ephe girly. I used to be in Kurast, which was really cool because I liked my boss. She was hot, and cool. Sometimes at the same time. Then I went to hell and kicked major demon ass. That was cool too. And hot. I have to fill 3 pages with writing every day, but I ran out of paper so I took girlyman's book.
I cannot let myself be distracted for a moment! While I was risking my life battling a zombie enchanted with fire, who do you suppose was hiding behind a pillar, with MY journal? He certainly thinks his little joke was funny; perhaps in the future he could write comedy. At least his penmanship is improving. That zombie, I feel compelled to mention, was the most pathetic wreck of a corpse I have ever beheld, as though legions upon legions of heartless thugs had repeatedly used it for target practice, without remorse or pity. The look in its one remaining eye was of resigned terror and utter helplessness in anticipation of yet another beating. I could only feel pity for the poor thing.
The interior of the temple is in a shocking state. The stonework is in deplorable condition, far worse than anything in Harrogath. Fallen stones have been replaced with, of all things, human bones, a most curious choice of building material. Was this meant to be an imitation of Rathman techniques? The floor is covered with filth, so much so that its condition or even the original texture cannot be perceived. This cannot be Nihlathak's temple -- that stupid girl must have made a mistake. And yet, there are zombies... many, many zombies, with a scattering of Minotaurs. Clearly, this is home to someone with knowledge of reanimation who is allied with Destruction. And yet... what I see here cannot be. Nihlathak spoke reverently of his ancestors -- how could he treat their memory so shabbily?
I suspect that my reception was prepared specifically for me. The mixture of zombies (who are nearly immune to my venom) and Minotaurs (creatures much too dangerous to kill slowly) is a formidable one. The zombies would fall easily to a forceful approach, but the presence of Minotaurs makes taking up the maul too hazardous. More than usual, Khaleel feels he is carrying the weight of our encounters single-handedly, though Corpse Explosion does some good, when he is kind enough to leave me a body. I suppose it is easy to forget my servant. I often wish I could.
Tombs are scattered throughout the temple, of course, perhaps hearkening back to the days of the Precursors themselves. The local people now cremate or deflesh their dead, storing the ashes or disarticulated bones in ossuaries. Perhaps they believe this denies men like me the chance to "enslave" the spirits of their ancestors; I will admit, it is an inconvenience. The tombs, like everything else, have fallen into disrepair. Most are covered with filth, their legends unreadable, or have collapsed under the weight of time's passage and not been restored. If Nihlathak is responsible for this place, I am becoming deeply disappointed in him. My first impression was of an entirely different kind.
This is Khaleel, stealing the book again. He is heart-broken over Nillytek Neelachuk whatever. They were in love. He says to write comedy, so here is a joke I heard from old man Cain:
The six-foot boner joke
A Necromancer walks into a bar and
(Transcriber's note: at this point, the page is torn and the writing partially defaced.]
Sorcerers! We are battling through legions of foes with all possible speed in the desperate hope that all is not lost, and that supercilious sorcerer cannot stop playing pranks! It is well past midnight, I have had no sleep, and need all my concentration to do battle, not to watch out for my own servant! Later, I shall think of a punishment. I have found the bodies of a few local people, recently killed by slow torture. Has Baal made a loan of his harem-slaves as well? If Nihlathak allowed this to be done to his own people... granted, they are not the best people, but letting Succubi have at them goes completely beyond the pale.
Deeper in the temple, things have grown perceptibly worse. Large sections of stone have fallen and been inadequately patched; columns of welded bone support the ceiling. Many of the bones have been worked, or even enchanted -- none so much as the Infernal Torch, but wands are present in numbers. Large packs of Death Maulers (resistant to cold, ha ha!) now come alongside the seemingly infinite legions of zombies. Their tunneling and burrowing is not improving the temple's architectural integrity. I would kill them first simply to preserve the structure, except that another sort of creature has taken greater priority.
My newest favorite is without a doubt the ugliest demon I have yet laid eyes on, the foulest to the nose, and the most horrid in its habits, for which I chose to dub it a "Defiler." The creature resembles an inflated bladder with a spindly body hanging beneath, and floats at a height 6 to 8 feet above the floor. Extended, spindly forelimbs with the predictable razor-sharp claws help the creature to push itself about, but in addition is another extremity whose function was not initially clear to me. Repeated observation has confirmed that this is the Defiler's generative organ. This limb is long and flexible in the extreme, with a sharp tip the creature will insert into any nearby victim. All of its partners are unwilling and its attentions unwelcome in the extreme, but this does not dissuade the Defiler in the least. Even zombies seem aware of the Defiler's vulgar intentions, and attempt to avoid the creature, but never resist or retaliate once caught.
After the brief relationship is consummated, the Defiler's victim is left in great agony, and positively eager to enter combat. Death, it seems, is preferable to its fate: carrying the Defiler's offspring. Should the victim die soon after inception, that is the end of the matter. However, the Defiler's habit of remaining at the rear of combat means its victims face a long, excruciating journey to death, enough time for the offspring to gestate. After their host's death, worm-like spawn burst from the skull, as quick and vicious as a Flesh Mother's pups. The Defiler avoids combat unless cornered. It strongly resists cold, to Khaleel's annoyance, but poison functions admirably. I have found resisting its advances will forestall the Defiler's attempts -- or if not, the offending organ is easily cut short.
Ah, I should have known! The temple has a Horadric waypoint. Through this, Nihlathak could have visited other parts of the world, furthering his education -- no one, no matter how intelligent, could develop as sophisticated a perspective as his in this intellectually-impoverished region. He must have learned about the order of Rathma while traveling, and naturally his curiosity was aroused: Rathma may be the only magical order as old as his own ancestors, if not older. Sadly, he never seems to have studied with us, a tragic loss for us both. Throughout the temple, I have found the remains of obvious attempts to replicate old Rathman experiments. Notably, he used human subjects, an unwise decision in this area. I should also note that he has studied Corpse Explosion intensely, leaving signs of his interest deeply embedded in the walls. I do not wonder at the temple's condition now.
I take this to be the lowest level of the temple. The walls have all been braced with bones, though the stonework is mostly intact. Populating this basement are Plated Demons, and the long-anticipated Succubi. The Plated Demons were the true surprise, though their presence could also have been easily predicted. Knowing how these creatures are used, Nihlathak's stragety is easy to guess at; he has played his hand too soon. There is no reason now to doubt his involvement in this, as difficult as it is to accept. The wisest man in Harrogath is instead its greatest fool.
As for the Succubi... I can only say I am deeply, deeply disappointed. I have found in this demesne evidence of the worst sort of behavior, scandalous in the conventional sense and all involving Succubi. If their sluttish charms could turn his head, I was truly wrong about him. It seems impossible. What sort of sad, pathetic little man would sell himself for a harem of painted strumpets? Selling oneself for knowledge I could understand, though no demon would tell a mortal man what he needs to know to save himself.
The deed is done. His plan was simple: engorge Baal's slaves as their Overseers do, send them against me, then set the resulting corpse off again after death. His skill with the spell was greater than mine, I knew, but the stratagem was easily countered. I simply held my hand, and gave Khaleel the pleasure of all the kills. His ice left no intact bodies, and with no corpses to use, Nihlathak was helpless. He even sent his cherished Succubi to me once my ow plan became clear.
What a waste. Nihlathak was familiar with the arts of several magical cults: he could teleport himself, and summon a chilling blast of wind. That last spell, even I did not recognize. That so much learning, so much raw ability, should be squandered for so mean a reward... he did not sell himself dearly enough at all. As I knew it would be, the relic Anya spoke of is gone. It is also morning, well past dawn. I am exhausted, but in such a state of nervous tension I know I will never sleep. For the first time, it occurs to me that no one may ever read this journal. These pages will burn, with all else that is.