Varnae (Chapter 4)
Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,
There are those in this world who cannot abide women and detest their company; I do not number among them. Women are the charming sex, wonderfully unreasonable and meant to be adored. In defiance of this ideal, there are a few who will not (or cannot) be charming, and disgrace their entire gender: the merely female. My hostesses are exhaustingly poor company, primarily due to the influence of their leaders. Their priestess, with labored dignity, has taken responsibility for events far beyond her control on her aged shoulders and will not allow herself - or anyone else - a moment's rest. The war leader, perhaps concerned that some feminine weakness has led to her order's downfall, seems determined to erase that character from every girl under her power. Perhaps it with this in mind that she has assigned one of her scouts to accompany me into the field.
Her name is Floria. Shy and slender as a lily, with the delicate blush of palest rose in her cheek, I cannot help but wonder how she came to be planted on this mud heap. Perhaps this one has not been here long enough for her bloom to die. Then again, some of the most fragrant blossoms only grow on the dunghill; it may be that unexpected strength lies in her supple limbs, and fierce thorns guard this flower. I do hope so; an iron fist in a velvet glove is a so fetching on a woman.
As a test, I explore two large mausolea in the Rogue cemetery with her. Apparently, they are too impoverished to afford more. Inside the first crypt, we encounter Ghosts, the most beautiful of the undead. Beings of pure spirit, their ethereal grace is a wonder to the eye; they may be observed in their natural habitat (any graveyard or torture house) and are well worth the trip. A close approach is not advised; they have been known to materialize and set upon visitors, feeding by sapping away spiritual strength. It does not surprise me to find those in the crypts braced to attack on sight. Sadly, the anger of the dead did not pass with Blood Raven, so she could not have been directly responsible for them. As splendid as she was, she was but a tool for some greater power.
I did not predict the presence of Goat Demons alongside the ghosts. Goat demons are odd creatures, quite unlike other demons in appearance. It may be they were once another kind of people, from some distant place now consumed by Hell's power. Many commoners believe them to be a hybrid between man and animal. Perhaps to our rural cousins, lustful thoughts involving farm animals seem normal. It matters little; these creatures must be defeated, and I'm afraid dear Floria is performing quite badly. She does not appreciate that while attacking, Ghosts must make themselves vulnerable, and Goat demons are shot as easily as a man. Her timidity indicates a lack of experience. I must confess to disappointment, but this cloud may bear a silver lining. Obviously, Kashya cannot have had much of an influence on her as yet, and she may benefit from my tutelage.
My first order of business is encouraging her to dress suitably. The crypts offer up a splendid set of leathers, which have survived entombment in remarkable condition. Of rare quality and a far more flattering cut, the name "Death Suit" has been sewn into the collar. They're also jet black; who could want for more? I dare say I'd try them myself, if I could do a thing with scooped necklines. Her hunting bow I replace in the second mausoleum, with a much bigger one (I understand bigger is better here) set with two tiny demon skulls from my own growing collection. The bones of magical demons can be harvested, providing a wise user with energy-stealing weapons or death-reflecting shields. I've set two in a shield myself; if I cannot prevent being struck, at least I can provide a quick reprisal.
On our way up the mountain, I notice Floria seems uncomfortable, tugging and pulling at her new armor in a decidedly uncivilized way. I hope this doesn't indicate a reluctance to loot the dead; that tendency is sadly common, I can't imagine why it persists. Besides, here and now, the dead have been arrayed against the living; disarming them is only sensible. Hmm, she's complaining of cold! Odd, I hadn't noticed a draft... and her new ensemble isn't any better ventilated than her old one. I suspect insincerity. After a long explanation of the enchantments on her leathers and the advantages of the skulls, she quiets down and seems to accept my judgment.
Further up the pass, the ground turns rocky. Everywhere I turn in this land, new creatures await my eye; here, demonic crows flap about. Of course, making observations has become difficult with Floria; everything alarms her, and once startled she reflexively starts shooting, with deadly accuracy. Her martial skills would be more valuable to me if she could only learn patience. Not everything is best dealt with by a spray of arrows. Despite her incessant trepidation, I have been able to observe some odd behavior in these birds. Rather than eating dead flesh, they shred it and stick it together in large nests, heaps of meat up to ten feet high. Communities of birds dwell in these structures, perhaps even being spontaneously generated in the rotting heart. Living nests are a novel weakness; poison affects them as it would any living creature. When they "die", these carnal accretions collapse like a souffle, revealing a large hollow within. How they remain standing is a mystery.
I have found another aspect of this girl's company I do not appreciate. As I noted before, this is my best opportunity to study demonic responses to poison, but I cannot follow the full progress of my venoms if she kills the beasts before their time comes! While I admire her enthusiasm, my goal is not just to kill -- human knowledge may be expanded immeasurably here, but only by experimentation into the unknown. I already know what a cloth-yard shaft through the wishbone will do. We have spoken about this several times; she always nods quietly, and immediately falls back into her old ways. I wonder if she understands me at all. While her behavior has improved since the crypts, I find myself torn as to whether she is making a positive contribution to this expedition.
The red Fallen Ones have more menacing cousins, blue devils known as Carvers after their favorite method of torture. It will surprise no one that a few were here, gathered inside a circle of standing stones. When Floria began shooting, as of course she would, sparks of deadly lightning sprayed across the wet grass of the field. This phenomenon, thankfully rare even among demons, was described to me in fear-tinged tones during my school days; poison is the only good answer to the enchantment. On this occasion, I am willing to allow Floria her desire for a quick and painless kill, but I feel compelled to instruct her to switch targets while I stab the demon myself. Three envenomations are required to bring the foul little thing to its knees; the greatest danger came when Floria shot it.
Thankfully, demons enchanted with elemental forces are rare, and singular; a run-of-the-mill Carver is virtually identical to its red cousins. Most of my journey through these green fields is unworthy of comment, little more than moving from place to place, slaughtering endless hordes of the minions of darkness. A few bare notes will suffice:
First - There are a great many scepters among the dead here, leading me to conclude that the Rogues are not the first martial religious order to inhabit the area. It may be that the "monastery" no longer functions as one, but retains the title from a remote era.
Second - Within a ruined building, I found several books. Most were illegible with mold, but a few fragments described a bit of local history. These people did not understand, but it is obvious that one of the local noblewomen was experimenting with life-extension magics. The unfortunate woman was put on trial for "bathing in the blood of 100 virgins" or some other such rubbish and buried alive. Perhaps I should take a lesson in caution from this. Original thinkers meet violent opposition from mediocre minds, and as they are usually outnumbered things always end badly. I shall be nicer to dear Floria in the future.
Third - On the subject of being nice, I have been visiting Gheed. Only he and the caravan leader have traveled at all; I am sure he must be bored. Lest he lose his ebullient charm to idleness, I have been engaging him in conversation on any subject that comes to my mind. When we spoke last, he gave me a helmet (polished mirror-bright to impress the ignorant) on the condition that I never speak with him again. I am sure he's just being coy.
That is all for today, I must rest. This "hired sword" business is as exhausting for the body as it is wearying for the mind, flatly alternating crushing boredom with stark terror. Perhaps summoning a servant or two to take care of routine business, would be acceptable? I shall sleep on it.
Dear Diary,
After consideration, I have decided to stick the course of my original plan. An unseen enemy works behind the curtain here, and defeating this considerable force may require all of my efforts. Taking the easy route, though tempting, may cause me to lose focus and allow my strength to dissipate. These demonlings are not so difficult to defeat, but provide valuable opportunities to hone my chosen technique. Later on, I will doubtless face stronger foes; it is the habit of demonkind to send their weakest against the enemy first.
The pass continues up into the mountains, but a faster route is available via an underground passage. The caves in this area really are agreeable, and absolutely wasted on their present inhabitants who don't appreciate them at all. Demonic Rogues and Carvers guard the caves, but also Skeletons, using bow and arrows! When I first saw them, I could scarcely believe my eyes, but repeated observation has confirmed it beyond all doubt: these dead retain the ability to use complex weapons! It pains me that so much knowledge is being used on the field of battle, and I can do so little to tease out my enemy's secrets. I myself might obtain results of this quality, but it would take years of experimentation on the Rogues' dead, and I'm afraid they simply wouldn't understand.
Another novelty in the caves are the Misshapen, a classic demonic form well documented in the annals of my people. Among the least powerful magical demons, these creatures can attack with their claws or spit balls of lightning; they do neither with any aptitude. Primitive tribesmen in the northlands are reported to use their skulls as helmets.
At a much greater altitude, the caves exit into an empty, dark wood. The hedgehogs are growing larger and more intractable, capable of hurling many quills at once. The Carvers have their own shamans now. Sadly, these are only variations on creatures I've found before. An unfortunate side effect of learning is that new discoveries become progressively more difficult to make, and ennui inevitably sets in. This dank forest seems empty, without even any dead spirits to provide entertainment. I was about to give up on the place when I discovered a great tree, thoroughly dead but probably more active in death than it had ever been while alive. A multitude of spirits shelter inside its flesh, possibly accounting for the emptiness of the rest of the forest.
Sasquatch guarded the tree, as though I needed any more indication of its importance. I have been reluctant to record this before, but I have temporarily halted my efforts to study the use of poison. Field research is trying at the best of times, and I'm afraid other matters prevent me from concentrating on it. The main issue is the Rogues, as it always is; they are concerned about their short-term survival, and feel my priorities may be misplaced. Those who know death intimately realize this is not an important issue, but we cannot expect the common folk to understand that their lives are nothing next to the improvement in the human condition an increase in knowledge might bring. Sadly, though I realize I should not allow their difficulties to stand in the way of progress, my own personal survival is a matter I must consider. I walk amongst the heathen unguarded, and must compromise my standards or the war leader will be allowed to have her way with me. To keep the peace, I have been using a curse of physical infirmity, so the enemy may be killed with greater speed. As dissatisfying as it is, a few sacrifices now may lead to more opportunities later. We of the ancient order of Rathma always win in the long game.
After "wasting" the Sasquatch - and what a waste it is! - I turn my eye to the tree. The spirits are strangely unresponsive to my entreaties. Perhaps the many markings in the skin of the tree provide them with protection from outside influences; knowing how that works would more than make this journey worthwhile. The latter pages of this journal have been removed for rubbings; it takes a great many pages, the tree is large and extensively worked. One picture in particular leaps out to my eye: it looks like the stone ring I discovered earlier, with the stones indicated by a series of runes in a particular order.
By means of teleporting stones (they are common in this land) I return to the circle, which I had previously done my best to ignore. Indeed, each stone has been decorated with a single rune. But what to make of this? Knowing that the enchanters of ages past often took great efforts to make their work seem effortless, my first experiment is to touch the stones in the indicated order. Flashing blue lights and a loud tone announce the success of my intuition. The complete sequence brings lightning flashing from the sky, striking each stone and forming a web of crackling power around a red portal at the center of the ring. My predecessors in the field of magic made great things, but subtlety was not their strength.
My curiosity has shown its heels to my better judgment; I have entered the portal and find myself in the burning ruins of a small village. Judging from the local vegetation, rainy climate, and a few scattered livestock, I am still in farm country, not far from the Rogue pass. Of the town, little remains besides ghosts and ashes. My enemy has been active here: Skeletons armed with bows hammer the point home. Besides the Skeletons, the town is plagued with Carvers; so many shamans are here, I feel as though I've stumbled across a convention. A single Zombie of great strength stalks the western fields. Curses and poison simply will not stick to the creature; I absolutely MUST know how my enemy does these things!
The spirits are especially strong here; the earth remembers them well. Here, a girl and her grandmother cry together in their home. A man still waits outside the door of an inn, sadly staring at his burnt signpost as though he blames it for something. West of the town square, a great and shining spirit comforts a faint and twisted one. Next to a well, a desperate spirit hangs... oh, that one's still alive. I can't imagine why, but these demons have hung an old man up in a cage, where he is crying to be let out. As the immediate danger here has been eliminated, I can't see why not. One of such advanced years might make good company, though I'm not getting my hopes up. Many elders spend their time complaining about their bowels, if they've enough remaining mental faculties to think about anything at all. I shall inquire of him tomorrow; this has been a trying and exhausting day.