Varnae (Chapter 21)

Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,

Unwisely, I have been reviewing this journal. Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL! Why must I subject myself to such agonies when it all turns out to be drivel? My adversaries simply will not behave in a appropriate manner! Where are the epic battles of wits, the uncountable armies marching to heavy drumbeats, the satisfying final denouements? All through the deserts of Aranoch, I had nothing to describe but aimless treks through empty wastelands, and robbing a few tombs. My enemy chose discretion and fled the scene before the final act, leaving a stumbling bunch of hastily-raised corpses in his place. My record is factually accurate and little more -- "Lady Liliwhite's Traveling Guide to Westmarch for Young Girls" contains more deathless prose. Perhaps I could do something in the editing, but I really will need more suitable material if I'm to make anything of all this. Who would have guessed that I would even contemplate writing a history? History is entirely too overburdened with facts to be worth my attention. Perhaps inventing something more flattering to my foe and myself will improve matters -- I'd rather be quoted than honest.

On the subject of books, Alkor has made some headway with the tome of Lam Esen. Events are unfolding exactly as foretold, and end with utter ruin for all humanity, according to his interpretation. More importantly, a few verses of prophecy seem to be about me, indicating that not all will go well for me. Vague, yet unpleasant; how reassuring. Of course, if these prophecies are sufficiently vague (and almost all prophecies are) they could be interpreted to mean I will die today, or 30 years from now of a morbid affliction of the toes.

My Natalya is wearing her finest leathers, polished to a ebon gleam. Now I remember what I saw in her. While I acknowledge some deprivation due to time spent among the ignorant, it is still pleasing to see someone who really knows what to do with leather. Despite all she has suffered, Kurast offers up a plethora of fascinating characters with whom to converse -- yet another testimonial to the power of cities to improve humanity. The gem in Kurast's battered crown is imported, it is true, but only to the city's betterment. With her blessing, and the promise of more in her eyes, I would venture into any lion's den.

Travincal, not quite as comfortable as an animal cave, is a small square island built up from the lake bed, serving as a base for the ponderous tower which sits like a wart on its eastern end. The rest of this platform is now full of temples, pavilions, and altars, perhaps originally constructed by the Zakarumites with the view of keeping vigil over the tower. Clear-headed thinking and religion rarely coexist. My main business is with the council, of course. Happily ignorant of Zakarumite ways as I am, I can only guess that they are in the tower, close to their master; I head straight in without delay.

The church's finest are arrayed against me -- some may have eaten today -- with all their cardinals and councilors behind them. With these come Vampires, out and abroad in daylight. Fascinating. Further on, in the center of Travincal, is a dais with four sacrificial altars and a pit leading down into blackness. The altars are much-used; the platform is ankle-deep in congealed blood, and I am sure far more went down.

On approaching the tower, I note a few pairs of tentacles sliding through the muck in the ornamental ponds to either side of the main entrance. Then, one of the council comes out to meet me. The sight is one of unparalleled hideousness. Prelate's robes are ugly, never made to be flattering, and these are worse than most. The cut, showing far more flesh than should be acceptable from a cleric, is unforgivable. The colors, hideous clashing blotches with no sense of harmony or design, are indescribable. The quality, using materials a hair-shirt wearer would find uncomfortable, is inexcusable. I have never beheld an uglier garment in my life. The kindest fate I can imagine for it is to burn it at first opportunity and wipe its very memory from the face of our beautiful green earth. Additionally, the councilor is half-demon, divided lengthwise. He looks very uncomfortable.

More councilors, in the same hideous garments. While their crippled bodies are a hindrance tactically, their magic is effective... when they remember to make use of it. Having one's brain divided down the middle may be worse for the powers of reasoning than religion, though that can't be helping either. One invoked a few fire elementals (the immobile serpentine form) before dying of my venom. In less time than it has taken to record, six bodies lay before the tower and the Council of Zakarum is no more. Absurdly simple, once I set my mind to it.

The tower reveals itself to be entirely hollow, a single room with its ceiling hundreds of feet above ground. Why build so much to contain nothing? For that matter, why build a tower at all? The Lord of Hate was buried below the lake's turgid waters. At times, the Horadrim seemed to lack even the commonest variety of sense. The chamber is empty apart from a crystal ball set on a ark-like pedestal, no doubt the Compelling Orb previously spoken of. It proves invulnerable to any means at my disposal; I cannot even tip it off its base. Ormus may know how to destroy it, though frankly, I'd rather ask Alkor. His formulae may not make a dent in it, but they'll be much more entertaining to watch at work.

On my triumphant return, Deckard Cain has some peculiar news for me: my luggage has begun to sing. Before going into the jungle, I left a locking storage chest with him, so that I might store valuables without walking all the way back to my personal hovel. Now, perfectly audibly, a Zakarumite hymn is echoing from within, in three-part harmony. The horrible noise began shortly after I left this morning, and has grown steadily louder since. This is uncanny, and not in a good way. Well... perhaps in a good way, but not MY way. I am almost afraid to open the chest: demons I understand well enough, but what fiend would do this?

I have come to the inescapable conclusion that my life is CURSED. When I opened the chest, the song grew louder, clearly coming from the Horadric Cube where I stored my collection of saintly relics. (They got everything else damp and sticky otherwise.) Beams of golden light shone through the gaps around the lid. Judging from the sound, an orgy of glimmering light and unfettered glee might overflow the cube if I dared to open it, and flood the docks with caramel-smelling puddles of pure sticky niceness. Deckard Cain, overeducated savant that he is, was convinced that this would be a good thing.

Then he noticed a piece of loot I'd recovered: the patriarch's flail, by tradition the personal weapon of the head of the church. Golden serenity radiated from every link of its chains. What happened next, I cannot be held accountable for. Deckard Cain, in a state of high excitement (a man his age should be on guard against that) placed the flail with the saintly relics. Helpless in a fit of nausea, I was powerless to prevent it. How was I to know it was there, or what might come of it? My understanding was that Mephisto had the patriarch, and I certainly don't expect the Lord of Hatred to be guarding his own front door. Once together, a tremendous flare of light heralded the flail's transformation. Now apparently made of gold, with the organs as balls on the ends of its chains, the weapon has obviously been imbued with heavenly power. And dear old Deckard Cain is insisting I make some use of it. I don't even want to touch the blessed thing.

Heaven cannot stop meddling, but this intervention is minimal. A single touch from the blessed relics shatters the Compelling Orb and the flail, all in one go. If only other conflicts between the celestial and the infernal resolved so neatly; more commonly, the fallout of their battles slays thousands, ruins kingdoms, and lays waste to entire regions. Of course, Heaven claims they are only trying to help us, like the powerful neighbor who comes over for a friendly visit and somehow manages to burn the house down. Hell burns the house down deliberately, but the end is much the same.

The orb's pedestal hid a large key, nearly three feet long; the keyhole is in the back wall of the tower, and so large I did not recognize it as such. Destroying the Compelling Orb seems to have broken Zakarum's back, as it were. The jungle is visibly dying back, and the lake smells better already. The zealous defenders of the faith who badgered me so persistently now run and hide, leaving their priests and vampires to their fate. Khaleel takes an innocent joy in slaughtering them all anyway. Most of the loot is cracked and broken, so after a short jaunt about the city, I drag him away and we descend into the tower.

The Lord of Hate's fortified basement is... well, I hate it. I realize that we are deep under a lake, and that the walls must be very strong and tightly sealed to keep all the water above us out. Even accounting for that, enough sins are built into this place to damn a dozen architects. The stonework is all dark metallic gray, set off by huge wall panels of polished, sealed brass. It is impossible to light these well; illumination either vanishes into the stone, or glares off the brass into the eyes. Every interior space, no matter how small, is split by screens of iron, eliminating any chance for organic flowthrough. After the church fell, things only got worse: now, spikes and spines project from every surface. Demons absolutely love spikes, beyond all sense of proportion: they even put spikes on spikes.

Another later addition are a number of chutes, emptying into pits in the floor. Corpses litter the entire structure; I cannot exaggerate their number, thousands would be a conservative estimate. The air is thick with imprisoned spirits, and the concentration of energy is awe-inspiring. Conversing with them is quite useless, as it has been everywhere demons roam; those who retain any memory have been reduced to gibbering incoherence by it. Even with the dead, I can be in a crowd, and yet understand no one.

Mephisto's personal guard (no more Zakarumites) consists of Vampires, who must be here for the blood, Giants, who may be here for the flesh, and a scattering of walking corpses. As I go deeper, another sort of creature joins them: skeletal Flayers. Hatred must have felt my hate for those damnable things, or Terror felt my fear. Khaleel can blast them to bits with my blessing; never let it be said I am indifferent to my servants' joy. Pits in the floor have been put to specialized uses. There are ossuaries, haematuaries, visceries, and treasuries. The latter occupy most of my attention, though the possibility of a golem made from such a quantity of pure viscera is an intriguing one. One that size could devour an army, growing all the while... no, perhaps the world is not yet ready.

A Horadric waypoint. They just had to leave the back door open...

Just now, I brought a powerful sword to Deckard Cain; the poor old thing began to cry when he saw it. I took it away at once, of course, but still wonder why a pacifistic gentleman like Deckard would be so affected by a battered, rusty broadsword.

The deepest vault of the tower is a pit, Hatred only knows how deep, full to overflowing with the dead. The amount of energy extracted from the kingdoms worth of souls ground up in this generator is unimaginable. The sight of that bubbling well of churning gore, heaving with putrescence, gives even one such as I pause. The smell is making Khaleel sick, but he'll recover soon enough -- he'd better. Despite being assured that the Zakarum council numbered 6, more of them are here. Their master must be close indeed, with his brothers. There is no sign of my enemy, though they cannot be unaware of my intrusion. A Hell Gate stands open on an island in the middle of the pit, ready for their use.

I have met Hatred, and he is mine. Terror and Destruction are nowhere to be found. I shall not spare the details. Mephisto, Lord of Hate and eldest of The Three, lurked in wait in the deepest part of the vault. In appearance, he was fascinating; I have never seen mortal flesh so extensively altered to suit a demon's fancy. (See accompanying sketch; words do not suffice.) It surprised me to see he was alone. Of course, he introduced himself by laughing and goading me, claiming I was merely a pawn of Heaven. Nonsense, I replied; you haven't a leg to stand on.

The battle was not a disappointment. My enemy floated on a cloud of noxious gas, which the Jade Tan Do rendered me nearly immune to. As I went forward, Khaleel, excitable as ever, threw a salvo of ice over my shoulder. Mephisto responded with his own, a solid ball of ice which burst on my shield. It nearly killed me; another certainly would have, so I engaged the demon lord at close quarters, ignoring the chill of his form and the slight burning in my lungs. When Mephisto struck, I eluded his blows or took them on my shield; when he began to cast, I struck, interfering with repeated quick blows. The stratagem was safe, but I saw that my foe would not soon fall to it. Venom meant little to the Lord of Hate, nor would the pricks of any dagger.

Though unstylish, I saw that a more muscular approach might prove efficacious. Without my dagger and shield, I was more vulnerable. Mephisto responded with powerful blows as I took out the sledgehammer, not employing his magic at all. Why, I wonder? Another ice ball, and I might have been done for. Despite his long reach and surprising strength, the Lord of Hate was not difficult to avoid, or to head off when he tried to flee. Yes, gentle reader, the most powerful of The Three attempted to escape me as his life ebbed. Khaleel was uninjured, never even threatened during the entire battle.

One last inspection of the vault reveals nothing. Diablo and Baal are gone. Three skulls lie on the ground where Mephisto fell. They suggest nothing to me, nor can I make anything of the ghost which manifested, struck at me, and vanished again as I examined them. This pit is so thick with spirits, I can hardly tell one from another, but the poisonous power of a Lord of Hell could not hide amongst these lesser souls. I had imagined that meeting one of The Three would answer more questions than it has, but I am simply confused. They wanted to reunite, that much is clear. That should have been their primary goal if their intention was to invade our world once more. They accomplished their goal, then parted company, leaving their greatest alone to meet me. What purpose could this possibly serve?

Deckard Cain is as confused as I, but feels the Hell Gate is key to whatever new plan they have devised. Opening a gate to Hell should be the first stage of an invasion, yet nothing is coming through. Our first instinct is that the gate must be closed, but I wonder if we should be so quick. Surely, they would expect us to close it, and would not leave it vulnerable if it served any further purpose. I think I begin to see... we mortals have grown accustomed to seeing Hell Gates as a way for demons to enter our realm; they also allow them to leave. If Andarial and Duriel are any indication, the lesser evils have forgotten their rebellion and fallen in behind the greater once again. Like kings returning from exile, Diablo and Baal would be welcomed with open arms (or appropriate appendages) in their infernal home now... and the Sin War would begin with renewed fury!

All is clear now. While his brothers were gone, Mephisto remained behind to either defeat me or hand me an illusory victory. Death means nothing to the Lords of Hell; one of them could easily be "defeated" if it meant throwing me off their trail. The quest is not over. I must forge on into the mouth of the abyss. I wonder if Hell is as bad as they say? Most of those reporting on Hell's fury were hardly unbiased witnesses.

There is little time to lose. My quest is not over yet, but there are a few errands I must run before resuming my pursuit. Ormus will not need to be silenced -- my victory impressed him beyond words, so no poem will be forthcoming. Asheara has seen the wisdom of my words, and found herself a bikini in black leather. It's a start. When I went to visit Alkor, I could not speak with him, as his face had recently collapsed. Hratli asked me to put in a good word for him down in Hell, but I feel no need to make introductions for him. He will follow me in his own time, I am sure.

But the most precious of all, my deadliest viper... she is gone. No sign of her remains; she has vanished into the night as silently as a shadow. The mirror, framed by Mephisto's skull (one of them, anyway) will not reflect the beauty of her mortality after all. Had she not disappeared with such style and artistry, I would be more upset, but it is clear that this is nothing less than a sign of her love for me. The prospect of my going to Hell frightens her (why should it not?) and she cannot bear to see me off on so hazardous a mission. It may even be that the power radiating from me is simply too beautiful to bear. Or perhaps she's more like mother than I ever imagined. Ha! I know better. Our paths will cross again, it matters little whether in this life or beyond.

Concluding thoughts:

1. I HATE FLAYERS!!! Hate hate hate hate!! Especially with poison, you do not want those little bastards to live long. They also keep running away in the middle of my attack. Damn, Necros are slow.
2. Act III mercs make lousy tanks.
3. Lower Resistances is a nice curse combined with poison. A pity that Poison Dagger isn't a very good skill. Decrepify may be more useful for a general meleemancer.