Varnae (Chapter 25)

Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,

Dinner was at Atma's: honey-glazed chicken, sliced apples, and noodles with cheese sauce, served with a Spigleau white wine of recent vintage. Simple fare, but after the trials I have endured even the simplest things are an unqualified joy. There are those who imagine Hell to be a sort of sinful paradise, where they may indulge in the depravity their social ineptitude denies them in this world, but no carnal pleasures are to be found there. Nor should one look to Heaven, which views all sensation as suspect. The joys of life are their own reward, and their own punishment, and must never be scorned for their mundanity. A single glass of wine holds more cause for exultation than all of Heaven's majesty.

On the subject of otherworldly affairs, this morning has seen some new developments. My old benefactor the Mule came to visit. The obligatory copy of his note follows:

Howdy!

This is all for you, a couple of charms and some poison rings. Somebody else might want your old rings, I'll take them back. Now, Big D's waiting for you, so get your tiny white heiny in there and whack him good!

-- The Mule

The charms are pestilent with additional useful properties, both considerable improvements over those I had. The rings, though venomous, are not as rare and valuable as the old ones, which I had hoped to keep a little longer. Though it seems I am powerless to stop him, I will never be at ease with this fellow's frivolous disregard for my rights of property; bestowing a gift means relinquishing all claim to it.

Tyrael had little to say on my return. The angel floating over the River of Flame is gone now, and Tyrael cannot account for his presence or behavior. In my opinion, it seems likely that the angel was, in fact, not an angel, but I assured Tyrael that just because Heaven has lost all confidence in him and is acting behind his back is no reason to believe he will be damned to burn in the darkest abyss for all eternity. I always try to spread a little ray of sunshine wherever I go. Sadly, Izual's betrayal dealt the poor fellow's self-confidence a serious blow, and my comforting words could not brighten his spirits.

The River of Flame is much as I left it, though the mages have abandoned the field, leaving Balrogs in their place. The giants are stumbling about as usual, and those peculiar floating insectile creatures are present in numbers. Though they are not effective combatants, my original conjecture as to their nature may be in error. Unless these creatures can reproduce themselves at an explosive rate, the Lords of Hell made too many for them to be a failed experiment. My new charms and rings have increased my venom's potency considerably; with the proper curse, a single thrust will lay the mightiest giant low.

As I penetrate deeper into Hell, a structure becomes visible in the distance, looming up in fractured glory through the stifling gasses of the river. The rough, glassy-soiled islands are gone now, replaced by platforms constructed from massive slabs of dark stone edged with spikes. This is Hell; always, there are spikes. These platforms and catwalks are laid out like a maze, full of cul-de-sacs and winding walkways turning back on themselves. Why, I wonder? Hell's enemies can fly, and would ignore these pointlessly confusing paths. From the sinners on the plain to the fiery pit itself, nothing in Hell makes a bit of sense.

Ah, a fortress of Hell, and my first clear exemplar of Hell's architectural style. Contrary to my expectations, there is little resemblance between the structure and those built by Heaven -- this infernal sanctuary resembles, more than anything else, a human cathedral. The massive walls, elaborate windows, flying buttresses, even the overall shape mirrors the four-pointed star of order, with a few twisted additions to destroy the symmetry. The evidence is indisputable: all Zakarumite architects go to Hell. There is justice in this cruel universe. If this analogy in stone holds throughout, what I seek should lie at the center.

Balrogs and the insects greet me at the fortress' door; further within are skeletal mages, now with units of less-intelligent warriors to command. I can positively affirm now that Hell has gone far beyond humanity in the quality of its undead -- one actually cast a curse over me! Lower Resistance is far-and-away my favorite; I was pleased to meet someone who shared my opinion, if only briefly. His minions bore envenomed blades, as do the local Balrogs, but even with the curse the poison is weak and ineffectual. I was almost embarrassed. While I applaud the creation of any undead being capable of casting such a subtle curse, curses can only uselessly weaken a foe unless complemented by a strong attack.

It seems I may have underestimated my opponents again. These priests of oblivion know a variety of curses, and are capable of summoning lesser spirits as assassins, all of which goes far beyond anything our servants are capable of. The curse of Decrepificaiton is turning out to be a painful annoyance, given how much my usual battlefield tactics rely greatly on speed of movement. Were I a vindictive sort, I would use it right back on them, and see how they like painful aches and snapping joints, but my better nature compels me in the direction of greatest personal safety. In common with living humanity, my foes are most accommodating to their guests when flat on their backs.

The center of the fortress contains an enormous pentagram, flat on the floor, nearly buried under piles of burnt and blackened human bones. Do the Lords of Hell know anything of subtlety? When it suits their purpose, I suppose; there is a pleasure to be taken in bold and extravagant statements. I sense spirits beneath the center of the design: a score of lesser evils and a trinity of stronger ones, but only one whose malfeasance shines as brightly as Mephisto's. Hmm... somehow, I expected to find Terror and Destruction together, though even Tyrael only said that Diablo fled into Hell. Where is Destruction, I wonder? More importantly, could I persuade someone else to pursue him? I weary of this business, and long to return to my private life.

While exploring the fortress's northern apse, I came upon a pair of odd devices embedded in the floor. Several cohorts of Hell's finest guarded them most zealously. Perhaps, like the concealed stairways in Kurast's temples, these seal up some subsurface evil... ah, of course. The stamp of Zakarum is everywhere in this fortress, and they are such creatures of habit. Especially the nuns. Ha ha! Oh dear, that was a bad one; I am tiring. Best break the seal (there should be five of them) and end this tedious pursuit.

Upon breaking the first seal, a gang of insectile beasts appeared from nowhere, led by one of great magical strength. Numbering nearly a dozen, this cohort was actually able to confine me in a small corner of the fortress and unleash their magic in waves, draining my energy and nearly taking my life. Only when they began to die was I able to wriggle free, and a few Corpse Explosions laid waste to the remainder. The remaining seal in this wing presents no further retaliation; fewer spirits glimmer under the central pentagram, and the great power appears vexed, perhaps because he does not have 5 minions to plague me.

The eastern nave contains one seal. Breaking it releases... of all people! Though much the worse for the passage of time, I cannot help but recognize Lord Caldonius Turpino de Seis! He's an old family friend -- he and father were at school together. Ah, the amusing stories I've heard of those bright college days... sadly, he doesn't seem to recall me. Perhaps he's embarrassed, though he does appear to have descended to a high station and should not be ashamed of any lack of ambition. Whatever the reason, I was made to feel unwelcome, as his manservants (three in number) attempted an assault on my person. Our happy reunion cut short, I never did have the chance to ask him if, on mother and father's first date, she only went because she had lost a wager, as I've heard rumored. What followed was crude and violent, unbefitting reading for those of discriminating tastes.

The southern apse contains, as one might predict, two seals. Terror does not send his last lackey until I broke the second, obviously hoping to trap me in a corner again. This time, I am prepared. My enemy charges en masse, herded in from the rear by their leader: they are Balrogs, large, muscular creatures with teeny, tiny brains, easily confused and distracted. The greatest of them is the infamous Infecter of Souls, master of disease and poison. Why is he so surprised when his whole host collapses in a struggling, contentious heap as the stupidest among them unexpectedly turn on their fellows? Surely he realizes he and I must deal with each other personally, as I am (in a sense) a follower of his. The student, if he is to become a master, must overcome his teacher.

The Infecter of Souls proved less than a match for me; being nearly immune to poison was an unfair advantage, but life isn't fair, is it? Now, after a short but impressive earth tremor, the fortress is filled with flame and glare; fear is so thick in the air I can smell it. The Lord of Terror has seen fit to sally forth from his chambers, greeting me with a clumsy threat: "Not even death can save you from me." As though I ever expected it to! Besides which... that's my line. The eldest brother fell in time, the youngest should fare no better.

The Lord of Terror is no more! Perhaps some foolish muscle-headed lout might have suffered defeat at his hands, but my intelligence proved greater than all his infernal power. Diablo's fiercest magics relied on his foe standing still and allowing himself to be struck, something I had no intention of doing; Terror was helpless before me! No, I should be more modest, and confess that my foe was not completely powerless to prevent his death: he could run faster than I. In posture, the Lord of Terror runs very much like a rabbit -- not a frightened rabbit exactly, more of an angry, world-devouring rabbit. Nonetheless, my time-proven tactic of envenoming a foe, then giving them plenty of exercise as the venom works its way through the body, proved effective. Such a simple strategy; if only it were not so time-consuming. This quest has gone on too long as it is.

A short stop at the forge destroys Tyrael's Folly, part 2. Back in Pandemonium, dear old Deckard Cain is nearly as overjoyed as I, and I believe Tyrael is not entirely displeased -- that damned serenity frustrates me again.

Gentle reader, though this would make a fine finish, my narrative is not yet complete. Trust an angel not to understand that things should end on a climax. Baal, Lord of Destruction, remained in our world, where he summoned an army and is forging deep into the northern highlands. There, he seeks something called the "Worldstone", which I have heard nothing of. Tyrael believes it to be of great importance; in fact, he implies that Diablo's journey into Hell and the army he had begun to raise were nothing but a distraction from the Three's real goal. Now, he wants me to go to the northern highlands, hundreds of miles from anywhere, and pursue the Lord of Destruction.

This foolish fluttering angel, of course, has no idea what he is asking. Those mounatins are full of the coarses savages imaginable! I cannot go among savages! I'm too pretty to go among savages! Tyrael's pure and virtuous mind cannot conceive of the horrible things those wild, hairy brutes would do to me. Someone else must carry the banner for humanity from here. There are many made of stronger stuff than I, even my sweetest Natalya would be better prepared to meet them...

My heart is breaking! What outrage fortune has in store for me, on what should be my day of triumph! Deckard Cain had hoped not to tell me, but while I was in Hell, my viper Natalya took what anyone would suppose was the easier road and pursued Baal into the highlands... at the cost of her life! I should have known, I should have prevented her! That is why she disappeared, I now know; the safety of all humanity must be valued higher than my love. This tragedy I cannot lay at Tyrael's feet -- if I thought for a moment that fluttery, superior, arrogant celestial had a hand in her death, I would make him pay in an instant! But duty to humanity called her. My viper would never consent to be ruled by an angel's whims, she is made of stronger stuff than I. Yes... duty calls, to save the world for a third and final time. This maddening quest must end!

Concluding thoughts:

1. Swarms of fast-moving monsters are meleemancers' biggest weakness; he doesn't have the attack speed or the blocking speed to deal with them. Retreating to use curses and Corpse Explosion was my best way to deal with Flesh Mothers and Maggots.
2. Clearing the Chaos Sanctuary went smoother than usual, except for the seal bosses. Oblivion Knight curses were almost meaningless, though the Bone Spirits still hurt.
3. A minionless Necromancer isn't as weak as I'd thought, but you have to be very careful. Strategy pays off, both in character design and in play. Poison Dagger still isn't a great skill, but a minionless artillery Necro could be fun. I'll have to try one again someday.