Varnae (Act V)
Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,
While I was wending my slothful way through Hell (everyone always believed I'd go there for some more interesting sin) Baal, Lord of Destruction, scorched his way through the northern highlands like a bolt of lightning. His goal in that uninteresting region is Mount Arreat, the highest, most inhospitable peak of the north, wherein something called the Worldstone rests. My host is reluctant to share with me the importance of this particular rock, except to say that since time immemorial, the inhabitants of the northlands have organized their whole lives around it, to the exclusion of all else. His argument is unconvincing; a savage may adore a rock as he pleases, but that is no concern for civilized men.
While Tyrael may fret with concern over his stone, I shall go into the wilderness with purer motives. Baal is an invader, an outsider defiling humanity's earth with his presence, and must not be tolerated. By whatever means necessary, his kind must be expunged, and the ways between our world and his closed forever. Then, finally, humankind can turn its attention to the angels. While they may leave of their own accord, more likely they must be shown the door by force. There is also the smaller, more personal matter of vengeance, and to save what remains of my Natalya. I have no doubt that my enemy has kept her, in some form, to toy with; anything to torture me, his most implacable foe.
Of the northlands, I know nothing save that they are rugged, cold, and inhabited by wild savages of warlike disposition. Respecting no law or code of conduct, these barely-human creatures wander aimlessly, their heads empty of all knowledge save that of hunger and the power of brute strength. They do not reap, and neither do they sew, but live out their lives in mindless circles of violence without the intelligence to comprehend anything greater than their own impoverished condition. According to Deckard Cain, barbarians have two popular gathering points (I cannot bring myself to call them cities): Sescheron, a tiny borderland trading post which serves them as a "capital", and Harrogath, nearer Arreat and unseen by outsiders. Razing Sescheron may have taken all of five minutes, but Harrogath still stands, and will be our destination. Deckard is eager to see the place; he knows nothing about it, which for him is more than enough reason to go. I considered asking if he knows about frying on a giant griddle, but the old dear wouldn't appreciate the irony.
The illustrious, noble, blessed archangel Tyrael is more than happy to send Deckard and I on our way to perform our duties: he to provide information in an area he knows nothing about, and I to what I hope will be the resolution of Tyrael's Folly, part 3. Duty is an ugly word... a word men use to excuse themselves when doing something stupid.
On first glance, Harrogath (if this be that place) seems surprisingly advanced. True, I have been in larger cities, but the wide streets are smoothly paved with closely-fitted stones, an improvement over Lut Gholein. The protective wall is also stone, high and impressively thick. Monumental sculptures adorn several nearby buildings, leading to the impression of an active arts community... ah, no: my first impression did not last. From the indelicate odor wafting past my nostrils, Harrogath lacks even a rudimentary sewage system. If we measure the advancement of a culture by the distance placed between humanity and its excreta, I am among savages. On the positive side, if there are no sewers, I will not be called upon to clear them out.
Not many people wander the streets; my arrival merited hardly a murmur. Those I do see are large, hirsute, unclean, and unkempt, with expressions of vacant stupidity spread over their broad, coarse faces. When dealing with ignorant savages, it is best to put up a strong front, making it clear that one is not to be trifled with. Also, in this case, I should restrict myself to words of less than two syllables, and sentences shorter than five words.
The first barbarian I spoke to laughed in my face, for a long time. I waited patiently, trying to ignore the snickering from Khaleel. As the fellow wiped his tears away, he apologized for his rudeness (!) and explained that the city has been under siege, short of food, steel, and manpower; laughs have been few and far between. I'm afraid I was at a loss, and mumbled something about being there for precisely that reason. This brought more laughter; it seems I missed my calling in life. Through his wheezing, he told me Baal's armies were outside the city gates, led by a most vicious general, Shenk the Overseer. For now, they have reached a stalemate, but there is an inherent weakness in Baal's army. His soldiers are all slaves, driven into battle with pain and fear; if Shenk died, his underlings would lose their motivation, and the siege could be lifted easily. It seems a simple idea, one I might expect from these simple people. Real battles are not won or lost by the "hero" defeating the single "villain." That only happens in sagas and cheap novels.
The town's other inhabitants behave more or less similarly. A small hospital by the eastern wall is full of bandaged, broken warriors -- my entrance provoked much laughter. The nurse, an older woman named Malah, is courteous enough, though she also sees me only as a source of mirth. Their captain of war, Qual-Kehk, charitably compliments me on my warlike looks, my bravery in coming to Harrogath, and my success at improving the morale of his men. Were he not an overgrown lummox with enough muscle to squeeze his brains right out of his skull, I'd think that was a subtle insult.
I can scarcely believe it, but I have found an island of sense and civilization amid this sea of sweat-soaked muscle! The world is worth saving after all. His name is Nihlathak, an older fellow but still sharp as a tack, blessed with a sense of reason and insight I thought would be entirely lacking in this forsaken place. I can scarcely believe he is from here, but he assures me his ancestors have dwelt in these mountains since the days of yore. Ah, the truth comes out! While they dwell among the mountain folk, all the tribal elders are of a different stock, set apart by blood. (I thought he seemed unusually slender.) Instead of wasting time with martial skills, the elders studied arcane arts, allowing them to raise a protective force dome over Harrogath, the only reason the city still stands. The other elders died, but these things happen.
Nihlathak is also full of juicy gossip about everyone else in the town. You can tell a man who knows himself -- he also knows everyone else. Old Malah is easily understood, generous to a fault, and bears no ill-will towards anyone, all sure signs of encroaching senility. A much-loved figure in Harrogath, she is virtuous enough to say exactly what she thinks, which happily amounts to very little. Qual-Kehk is a gifted warrior, accomplished enough to master the arts of war and foolish enough to attach importance to them. His whole life has revolved around responding to Baal; when the demon lord finally came, he was so overjoyed he immediately sent half of his own men to their deaths. I laughed myself silly hearing the tale. Ah... town life nourishes all that is worthwhile in men.
Sadly, I must leave my new friend and begin my search for Baal. Time waits not for me, and I've an entire mountain to explore. Beyond Harrogath's gates, death stalks the land. So much waste! Bodies are simply everywhere, and not all human. I have been able to identify Plated Demons, dwarfish creatures with thick, leathery skin but no special talents, and Earth Maulers, a genus of earth demon. These creatures have an odd trick of extending tentacles through the ground from their upper limbs, enabling them to strike opponents some distance away. I cannot imagine this to be a particularly powerful attack, especially compared with the potent magics I have faced before.
This is the most inconvenient battleground I have ever seen! Who dug all these trenches and platforms, anyway? True, the narrow bridges would be easy for one man to defend, but the single men I have seen here do not bother to stay in the narrow places. They make their stand in the open, where they may be swarmed from all sides as they brawl in a frenzy of mindless bloodlust. I prefer an open battleground, but not to stand still and be murdered! These narrow bridges mean I can only reach a few enemies at a time, and must wait for them to die before the next rank can advance. In the meantime, the Earth Maulers burrow through the ground and send spikes up through my feet. Khaleel's sorcery is well suited to this ground -- the narrow bridges force the enemy into compact groups, which his ice magics make short work of. I am almost certain the barbarians dug these trenches; who else would sculpt a battlefield into something so unsuited to barbaric tactics?
Ah, a quandary of mine has been answered. Periodically, as I slowly advanced, a ball of ice or lightning would fall from the clear sky. No enemies flew above, so I could not identify the source of these attacks. Infernal machines with a single long arm hurl these missiles, with incredible power and range. Physically, they are nothing but Plated Demons, twisted around and fused with a steel frame. Earth Maulers man these living machines, loading them with balls of elemental magic or poison to hurl downfield. Strangely, the machines are invulnerable to curses, but can be poisoned like a living creature.
Hey this is Khaleel. Just want everyone to know that for the battle with Diablo, I was there. He never even mentioned me, but I was there for D and Meph too. Don't listen to him whining, he's nothing but my curse-bitch, I do all the killing.
Who's been in my journal? Whoever it is, their penmanship is atrocious. Nihlathak must write more clearly than this, and I'm sure no one else here is literate. My future biographer can edit that out.
The further I advance up this hill, the more inspired my foes become. Some now wear bits of armor appropriated from who-knows-where, including some odd helms decorated with wings and horns. According to the smith (the very large fellow who still laughs at the sight of me) these are assault helms, their bizarre appearance meant to inspire terror in those who behold them. With an effort of will, I held my tongue on the subject of inspiring terror. Older pieces of headgear, made from animal hide and bone instead of steel, also dot the hill, but these he will not speak of. Perhaps, having devoted what little intelligence he has to metalwork, he has nothing to spare for antiquities.
The hills narrow up ahead, with a sheer cliff face encroaching on one side. A few warriors have managed to survive this far. A few Decrepification curses might aid them... if they ask nicely. Some groveling might help sway my mind. The narrows are guarded by, of all things, a pack of Imps! These mischievous little sprites date from the time when mages were foolish enough to think their wills strong enough to dominate demonkind. Small and easy to keep, Imps worked to enhance their master's magic, making it easier for them to prevail in magical duels. Soon, all sorcerers had at least one familiar Imp, but thought of them as mere tools, not living things with their own agenda and goals. Many a mage found himself being carved to pieces by his own Imps while still alive; the pieces were used to make more Imps. What surprises me is seeing them here -- they make poor combatants and do not belong on the battlefield. Striking them down is not difficult, once they have been cornered.
Further up into the hills, the ground becomes more open, giving me freedom to move about. I seem to be in their encampments; I've found food preparation sites, stashes of arms, and more of the machines which Deckard Cain has identified as "catapults." Unsurprisingly, their favorite food item is a big, juicy barbarian. They enjoy them so much, rabbits roam free and unmolested. Given what I know of demonic temperament, I would have expected them to crush the fluffy things out of sheer spite; perhaps they really do require constant supervision to be properly malicious. Their stores of catapult missiles are fascinating; I've taken one of their "poison" balls back with me to study, having had many opportunities to observe their potency directly. Even with the Jade Tan Do, this venom lingers; Khaleel has nearly died of the poison on more than one occasion.
Shenk the Overseer (I presume) is one of the least pleasant demons I have laid eyes on in my entire career. Grotesquely bloated, with long, stick-like arms waving an iron whip, the thing reminds me of a particularly incompetent middle manager I had the misfortune to deal with the last time I had business with my city's government. A wall of Plated Demons stands ready to defend their master. Knowing from previous experience that Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat scorned, I end-run the process and go over Shenk's head, cursing a few of his slaves with Attraction and circling around. Khaleel keeps them busy, leaving Shenk to me.
My, my! What a messy little demon Shenk turned out to be! I cannot be sure if his physical form dissolved, or simply collapsed under its own weight. When his underlings notice... well, that did seem to take the ginger out of them. Mopping up is easy.
Nihlathak is not impressed, though I cannot expect martial victories to find favor with such a man, especially considering how much remains to be done. My deeds do convince him that my tales of Hatred and Terror may hold some truth. In time, we can come to speak to each other more as equals; I feel I could learn a great deal from Nihlathak. Qual-Kehk, more easily impressed, commends me for my deeds, though his words mean little. Malah, good-hearted and pious old fluffy-headed den-mother that she is, described me as an angel come straight from Heaven to rescue the city! To my face, yet! Well, at least no one is laughing.
The hour is late; there are many empty homes in this city, so I choose one for myself to stay in. I believe I have made an adequate first impression, but apart from Nihlathak, I have no intention of spending any more time with these savages than I must. They are so very lucky I am here to save them, though I can't abide them at all. It's things like this, it occurs to me, that prejudice the common man against priests of Rathma. In spite of their flaws, I do love humanity -- it's people I can't stand.