Varnae (Act I)
Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,
Another day of traveling is behind me. Alas! many more loom ahead. Endless roads ramble through verdant greensward, studded indiscreetly with flowers and butterflies, all bathed in endless supplies of bright warm sunshine. I am in hell. I expect to see puppies and kittens gamboling at any moment.
The worst aspect of the countryside is the people one meets. They rise early, work with industry all day, then go to sleep at sunset to prepare for another day of exactly the same thing. Is it any wonder they have nothing to say, with habits such as these? When they do speak, their speech reminds one of ragged washing strung out on a line, or a series of damp sponges full of mold. No; the sponges might have some interesting colors among them.
Before I continue, I ought to include a few biographical elements. It may well be that no one will ever read this journal, or will dismiss it as the ravings of a madman (a fond hope) but as I have been forced on an assignment of uncertain value, an explanation of my task for any future biographer is in order. Not that I desire one just now -- you only know a man is truly dead when someone has written his biography.
My full name is Varnae Cesare Amygda von Rhus, a well-established initiate of the order of Rathma. Do not worry, I will not eat your soul. I have very little interest in matters of the soul; I have been very happy to be an initiate for the last several years. Were it not for my blessed father, I'd be at home still, feverishly occupied with the task of being idle. He died some years ago, of course, but being dead didn't take nearly as much out of him as it ought to have. I'm still waiting for my inheritance.
Mine was not a happy childhood. Our home was one cave among many, in a vast intestine of a city dug into the sodden earth of the largest marsh in the world. Outsiders may wonder: why dig a city under a marsh? Given the prevalence of a substance known as "water" in such places, won't your tunnels flood? To them, I say: YES!! Every moment of every day, on and on without end! But do not worry; the walls and ceilings are supported by iron-hard braces, made from the bones of those who died of diseases brought on by the prevailing dampness. There is almost an endless supply of them, which increases daily. As water pools, it drains to lower levels where armies of our servants ferry it, one bucket at a time, back to the surface. This is the most complex sewer on earth, larger by far and consuming more "manpower" than the city itself. The closest analogy I can imagine is building a city below the tide mark, then keeping the ocean from flooding it by means of constant bailing.
As you might imagine, members of our order (and we are all, by compulsion, members of the order) differ somewhat in appearance from those who live elsewhere. A resemblance to fish has been noted; also, to the recently drowned. Disease and general ill-health are common, and mistakenly attributed to our rites rather than our living quarters. Most of us learn to swim before we can walk, and develop a tolerance for foul odors I dare say is unparalleled. Actually, that last may have more to do with our rites than not.
But I diverge from the subject: me. Recently, word came to our city that the forces of Hell are at work in the outside world. Why, I hear you ask, should this concern me? It doesn't, particularly. According to the high priests, Heaven has been having a go at it for some time. If the order is as dedicated to "maintaining the balance" as they keep droning on about, why shouldn't Hell get to have a bit of fun every now and then? They habitually object that the infernal side of things is "less moral." Strange how that's so often said about anyone who's getting more fun out of life than you are.
Sadly, my usual tactic for evading unpleasant tasks prevailed me not. Father found me, and I have been sent out into the world with a few family heirlooms, to seek either demons or death. I have been told neither should bother me overmuch, yet remain unconvinced. The novelty of walking on the surface has long since abandoned me. As I have yet to see either death or a demon, I shall continue on this way, at least until everyone at home has forgotten me and I can sneak back.
Ah, an occurrence! At last, something has broken the tedium of being alive. At sundown, I came upon a fortified campsite by the side of the road, and convinced those within that I am, in fact, alive. There was some doubt in their minds; how charming these simple villagers are. To my surprise, nearly everyone within the walls was female, and armed as well. They explained to me that they are Rogues, a monastic order dedicated to protecting a mountain pass. Before you take this seriously, let me describe them in detail.
These "monks" have a sort of uniform, consisting entirely of leather fitted tightly to the body. An abbreviated vest barely covers more than the chest and upper back. On the lower body, a short loincloth provides a meager shred of decency, but the thighs, hips, and much of the buttocks are left exposed. The legs are well-covered by boots extending far up the thigh. The head is left uncovered, perhaps because almost everything else is.
If you, gentle reader, have followed me this far, I am sure you agree that the image which presents itself is not one of quietly reserved monks. In fact, if all those pretty young things were laid end to end... well, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised. Unfortunately, as splendid as their costumes might be, these poor girls have no idea how to present themselves. Can you believe it, the leather is left its natural color! It was all I could do not to say, "Ladies, please! Dun brown may be acceptable for the cow, but you should have more ambition." Perhaps these folk haven't heard of dye, though the color of their war leader's hair suggests otherwise. More on her in a moment.
When I first entered, a prosperous fellow in a shabby blue tunic greeted me with the smile of a born glad-hander. I immediately sensed he was a salesman, the sort who is a friend to everyone and makes quite a good living off his friends. He might stab you in the back for a penny, but does it in such a kindly way you'll scarcely notice you're bleeding. Naturally, being everyone's friend means he is no one's intimate. Looking into those blue eyes is like looking out a window -- assuming windows can appraise you back.
The ostensible leader of this band is called Akara, a lady gifted with perpetual old age, but not a single redeeming vice. One can forgive any amount of sin, but a woman must never, ever allow herself to become dull.
Their war leader I have already mentioned: Kashya. Perhaps father was right, and travel is broadening -- I had no idea monasteries kept war leaders. A deliberately striking woman, she possesses every virtue a man could hope for except a tolerance for false humility. This is a woman of high standards; I must be careful never to live up to them.
As is common among warlike bands, they have an armorer, a girl named Charsi. Only one adjective comes to mind for her, and it does so with the weight and authority of 300 pounds of rotting suet stuffed into a 5-pound sack: perky. The girl is a happy, pleasant, perpetually smiling mass of saccharine sweetness with arms that could choke an ox. I DESPISE perky people. I'd bite them, but I fear they'd stick to my teeth.
To my surprise and delight, I have an old acquaintance here, stuck like sewage in a clogged drain. The merchant Gheed, who has provided my people with valuable goods and many hours of entertainment over the years, is taking shelter in this encampment. It seems something is wrong with the pass, and his wagon cannot go through. "You mean you're trapped here?" I asked. Perhaps I looked a bit too pleased. "I hoped I'd never have to lay eyes on one of your kind again!" he said. "Your money's still good, but remember this: I know you're alone here, so don't even think about trying anything!" "I wouldn't dream of it," I lied. "I'm simply happy to see a familiar face! That's all, I swear it."
Perhaps I could remain here for a few days, if the alternative is returning to the countryside. The simple life of country folk has its appeal to those who want simple lives; it is only in large gatherings that company becomes worthwhile. This is the chief advantage of cities -- no one is truly civilized anywhere else, and this does seem to be the largest gathering of living people I have yet seen. The dead in this area have been more tedious than usual, wailing on about fire and evil. It's not unusual; dead minds are so slow, they can only concentrate on one thing at a time. And father wonders why I so rarely talk with them.