Varnae (Chapter 9)

Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,

I think my brain is trying to secede. Remember: complain to innkeeper about noisy insects crawling inside walls. Can't now. Moving makes blood slosh in my skull.

Dear Diary,

Alcohol, like attending religious services, is a vice that carries with it its own torment. Even fools are interesting when you're drunk, and if the fool is drinking with you it only compounds the offense. Though it must be admitted, these are difficult times, and indulging my tastes when an opportunity presents itself is to be expected -- why, in the Rogue's camp, I was forced to live for a week on nothing but food and water. Sadly, I indulged far past the point where I could remember the awful things I did, which rather defeats the purpose. Let me see... the barmaid mixed a Black Mushroom (so many tales of woe begin with that) and I... proposed marriage? Oh, my my my... what an insipid frame of mind I must have been in. If she intends to hold me to that, I'm going to have to kill her.

Everyone in town seems to be avoiding me: crossing the street to walk on the opposite side, or hastily abandoning their shop fronts to rummage far away in the back. Not that I mind... but I'm dying to know what I did to merit such deference. Perhaps it was a recital of my "Twelve new uses for human skin" speech? That was a funny one. The tavern, despite the early hour, is still full of drunkards, slatterns, and other persons of little worth destroying their pathetic lives in cheap self-annihilation. Expensive self-annihilation is so much more becoming. That's how I would want it: dying, as I've lived, beyond my means.

The proprietoress is not speaking to me; good, I needn't do anything strenuous. I wish I could say the same for this huge oaf who's trying to get me to make a joke. He's easily the worst of this miserable lot, absolutely sweating alcohol -- I could make a lamp of him if I lit his head on fire. He might burn for a week. The greatest difficulty in getting rid of imbibers, I have found, is that... oh, no. Between his slobbery demands for wit, he told me he liked the "six foot boner" joke. That can only mean one thing. I told it.

Gentle reader, I shudder to relate the history of this particular piece of humor. The "joke" was first unwittingly told by a Skeleton Master of sharply inferior character, and became far more popular than it deserved to be with the lowest classes of my fair city, though even among them many considered it beneath their standards. It is without a doubt the lowest expression of drollery to be found among mortal men: guaranteed to curdle milk, upset farm animals, and alienate ladies of any social station. This naturally accounts for its irrepressible popularity, and my heartfelt oath never to repeat it, not even to describe it. To learn that I have let the "joke" pass my lips has awaked, for the first time in my life, a sense of sin.

This cloud may have a silver lining. Now possessing a notion of having sinned, I may embark on a novel project: repentance. As the worst of sins is to be dull (the "six foot boner" joke certainly qualifies) my repentance should be a tremendous undertaking, something worthy of the transgression which gave birth to it. I don't think I've ever repented before; this might be fun, particularly if the first step is to beg before a lady. Besides, given my real life-long devotions, it seems appropriate to beg penance from a barmaid, not a priest.

The tavern proprietoress (who is named Atma) has accepted my apology, on condition that I slay a beast haunting the city sewers. Her complaint against it is that it has killed her husband and her son, which seems a perfectly reasonable thing to be upset about. Relatives are inconvenient people one would normally have nothing to do with, but still should not lose too many of in too short a space of time. It smacks of carelessness.

To enter the sewers, I first must remove the mercenary whose assignment is to stand on the only maintenance hatch. He gives me the usual warnings: the nature of the beast is unclear, but it came from the great desert to the west, walks on two legs, is much taller than a man, and is responsible for many deaths. Until recently, it stalked the city at night like a tall, two-legged stalking thing (not very innovative, this fellow) absconding with helpless victims, but he and his mercenary crew have been able to confine it to the sewers. Every now and then, someone like myself "grabs a pig-sticker" and descends to dispatch the beast; in time, some will be found floating below the sewer washout, with pieces missing. Its previous victims were found in this condition as well.

The only appealing trait of mercenaries is their ruthless practicality; this one will not involve himself in my affairs unless he is paid to. The sewers of Lut Gholein are the nicest I have ever seen -- and if you think I have seen any others, we obviously travel in different social circles. From their function, one would think a sewer would be a rather wet place; these are dry and quite pleasant, as though a level or two of the city was buried intact, then built on top of. Where the city's sewage goes, I have no idea, but I'll count my blessings in the meantime. It's not here, and I do not mind in the least.

Oh, I thought I was alone. The Burning Dead are here. Burning Dead are demonic undead, articulated bones suffused with a light touch of hellfire. Their essential undead nature is not altered, but their inherent heat makes them less vulnerable to earthly flames, and imparts heat to their own attacks. These archers, for instance, fire flaming arrows: the wooden shafts crackle into flame in their hands. The curse of Confusion might have worked, if they weren't so resistant to their own form of attack. Still, it does give me the opportunity to approach and apply my dagger.

I've also encountered what I believe to be a new variety of Zombie! This creation, which I shall call a "Venomous Creeper" is made from a human corpse completely suffused with strong poisons. The result is as slow and addled as a standard Zombie, but with a venomous touch. They also smell quite pleasant. Because of the poison, its body seems completely immune to normal rot or attack by insect life -- the ones I have encountered here are leathery and dry, but completely untouched by normal decay processes. An additional danger comes with their destruction: when the body falls, it will often break open, releasing puffs of poisonous dust. The inconvenience is minor, but most hellish in its conception.

Note to self: never die here. I've found a pile of greenish goo, about the size of a human body but bearing no external resemblance to one. Within were a few coins and the remains of a man, almost completely digested.

Another note: why are there so many animal pelts down here? I have found three, one of which looks like nothing so much as a giant chicken. The "bold and hairy" look went out of fashion ages ago. A man is not now, nor should he ever want to be, a dog or a chicken or a bear or any other such thing.

My discovery is nothing new after all. The "Venomous Creeper" appears to be nothing but a local form of undead called a Mummy, so named because of the wrappings which enshroud their bodies. The custom in this land is to preserve the dead with sweet perfumes, scented oils, exotic spices, and a blend of poisonous preservatives strong enough to kill absolutely anything and keep on killing for centuries. Thus rendered resistant to decay, the revered ancestor is wrapped in several layers of cloth, even down to individual fingers. A body may survive for millennia, outlasting dynasties or even empires, and sometimes even maintains a fraction of its former intelligence if the brain is sufficiently preserved. Perhaps dying in this part of the world wouldn't be such a bad thing, provided my dutiful descendants get to me before the slime molds do. Of course, I would need dutiful descendants, and I've hardly endeared myself to the local ladies. Speaking of which, I've discovered that the Paladin is both the city's healer and its blacksmith. Heaven must be watching over me -- for their amusement. The one I most want to avoid is the one I can least afford to.

So far, I've found two levels of sewer, and there may be more. This "repentance" business is certainly an inconvenience, though at least not all the creatures down here are dead. Tall, rangy, four-armed things stalk the sewers, their top-knotted pin-heads scraping the ceiling as they glide gracefully along. Being alive, they possess little poison resistance, and die with ease. If only everyone was so gracious. With enormous effort, I took one of the bodies to the surface with me, but as much as they resemble the terse description of the Beast, my quarry is not one of these. "That's just a Sand Raider," they say. Hmph. Incidentally, I've found a number of bodies here on the second level, most in a state of dissection. The Beast is not a mere animal, nor do I think it eats human flesh; the cuts are made with precision, exactly as a surgeon or anatomist might make them, with no preference for fat, meat or entrails. A suspicion grows in my mind: my prey is engaged in a "necromantic" project, if I may use the vulgar term.

Now I am sure there is something wrong with this sewer. No matter how desperately they were looking for recruits, the Horadrim could not possibly have a reason to build a waypoint down here. It does make my life easier, but this must have been a functioning part of the city at some point, perhaps built over after it sank below the earth in some cataclysm. Why doesn't it flood, though? The ocean is directly adjacent to the town, and I am sure I have descended well below sea level.

These "sewers" are endless! I must have passed through three entire cities by now, all full of demonic servitors. The Sand Raiders are few in number now, but have been replaced by cat creatures which walk on two legs and use weapons. This is all rather depressing: I am very fond of cats. I wouldn't kill them, had I any choice, and wish they weren't trying to kill me. They don't seem to be actual demons, though that may be my own wishful thinking speaking.

There, only one corner left. As I approach, my nose tells me penance is at hand. Nowhere else is the odor of rot so strong, not even among the "fools with pig-stickers" whose bodies I found earlier. My arrival has been noticed, a horde of skeletons is heading this way. Some are the Burning Dead who've made every level of the "sewer" their home. Others are Skeletal Mages, also burning with Hellfire. A few are ashy black in color -- those must be Horrors, a particularly strong variety of Skeleton I've always wanted to see. I really should be careful of what I wish for. Behind them all, something is laughing... I believe it just said, "I shall live again." Now I'm simply DYING to see it. I'll just clear these skeletons away.

Oh, confound and bother it all! Whatever the Beast is, it can raise Skeletons from the dead, like those irritating little Fallen One shamans back in the Rogue pass. So it's magical, as well as murderous and greater than the height of a man; I should have realized, after seeing its necromancy project. Well, it's not the only one who can grasp a dead man's soul. A good corpse explosion releases the spirit bound to those bones, and helps put the rest down as well. If only it weren't so tiring... the Beast might simply outlast me. Best to lure some of its servants away, hopefully out of range of its magic.

Gracious, what a crowd of minions the Beast has. It's been a very busy little bee, hasn't it? Corpse Explosions makes a messy dungeon -- some refer to the spell as "paint job," and after so many applications I'm beginning to see their point. After dozens of blasts, this sewer is beginning to look like a sewer, probably for the first time. Nonetheless, I can now approach the Beast, and hope it can't kill me on sight. I've probably set its project back a ways.

The battle is done. I could cry, thinking of what I have destroyed! The Beast was beautiful, a golem-like construction of preserved flesh and bone towering to the ceiling. Akin to the Mummy, but far more advanced, the Beast was mostly human, but with some animal parts added for greater size, strength, and perhaps innate magical powers. Some of its pieces had recently been replaced, such as the arms and skull; they were poorly preserved, it must have had to replace them continually. As wondrous as it was, I could not let it live, and not only because it desperately sought my death. Beyond it, hanging half-complete from a crude rack, I saw another of its kind being assembled from bits and pieces of the dead. Undead able to reproduce at the expense of the living would be an incomprehensible threat, one which could grow exponentially. The Beast must not be allowed to exist.

As is typical of the undead, poison was almost useless. Its preserved body made it highly venomous, so I spent a great deal of time uselessly hacking away with the Jade Tan Do, poking tiny holes in it. In the end, I hacked it down with Soul Harvest, picking up the dagger to dispel its poison only after it lay in pieces on the floor. That was when I made a horrible discovery. What I had taken to be another body, was nothing but human skins, tanned and sewn together in a rough approximation of a living human form, but of much greater height. It was a "human suit," hollow and meant to be worn. The Beast's old skull, the fang-filled maw of a giant lizard, lay in a corner. Its original arms were gone, but I have no doubt that they were not human.

What an isolated existence this one-of-a-kind being must have led! Separated in flesh and spirit even from others of its kind, the poor Beast must have come to Lut Gholein seeking the company it had known and cherished in life. Its appearance, calculatedly horrific, presented an insurmountable obstacle, so in a clumsy and ineffective way, it tried to change itself and once more blend in with society. The suit would fool no one... the Beast's intelligence was not intact. But making the attempt spoke volumes of its loneliness.

The Great Beast had a few possessions, no doubt brought from its tomb. Amulets, rings, and some books and scrolls which did not survive the journey it undertook. A fragment of text described the Bone Armor spell I myself use. One scroll was complete, but written in a runic language I am unfamiliar with. I shall examine it at more leisure later. This "repentance" business is wearying, only Paladins would undertake such foolishness. Atma's deed is done, and I shall never repent anything I do again. I am going to bed.