Varnae

Diablo II Notation Basic Class Skill Item Ally Quest Area Monster Tale Iron Frenzy Hardly-Able GotDex Poorman Homocide Squad Kwikwilyaqa Terror in the Tower Guardian Thorn SenSitiveSkin nOOdists Advance Mizor I II III IV V Xanthippe I II III IV V Thaddeus I II III IV V Tearlach I II III IV V Varnae I II III IV V Amanita I II III IV V Bodiccea I II III IV V I have little experience with Necromancers. My first, Quincy, used skeletons: an Overlord or Skeleton Master or whatever you call that build. Trouble was, once I had enough skellies to be effective, the game became boring. I never had to do anything. I'd enter a new area, watch them all fight, maybe cast a curse or a Corpse Explosion (if I felt like it), then raise up replacement minions, grab the treasure, and move on. Others may like that kind of play, but I found it genuinely dull, and quit before I even reached Andarial. The second, Yorick, used Bone Spear and Bone Spirit from behind an Iron Golem. He was a lot more fun, but playing him was about the same as playing a junior-grade Sorceress. My meager explorations of the class leave plenty of room for other viable approaches. Let's avoid the "piles of minions" strategies, though I may find room for a golem. The ranged spells are also out. He'll do his own killing, by hand; the only melee skill is Poison Dagger. Hmm... I haven't used poison much, with any character. The Necromancer is supposed to be a great poisoner; this looks like a good opportunity to give poison a shot. For skills, Poison Dagger is a must, for the attack rating bonus if nothing else. The damage looks pretty low, but poison charms should help. The Necro is a fragile thing to be in melee range, so Bone Armor is called for. My curse of choice will be Lower Resistance -- another level 30 skill, but I'll limp along until then. If I use a golem at all, it will be a Fire Golem, and my merc will be an Act III Sorcerer. Since Poison Immune monsters are fairly common, some back-up damage source is called for: either Corpse Explosion or the Decrepify curse and a big whacking implement. No reason not to try both. What are Necromancers? Priests of Rathma (whoever Rathma is) come from an underground city hidden in the most distant swamps. The order seems more philosophical than religious, striving for understanding of what is, not an ideal that might be. The consummate Necro is pragmatic, content with the power provided by the dead and unconcerned with infernal or celestial power. Beyond good and evil, the Necromancer stays in balance and is immune to the Hellish temptations that plague lesser mortals (at least in theory). The Prime Evils are now loose, and Necromancers are trying to rid the mortal realms of all outside interference once and for all. Heaven is willing to keep out of the mortal world, but Hell was never so principled and must be ejected by force. Personally, what might my Necro be like? His main weapon is poison, possibly backed up with explosions. From what I've learned watching forensic detective shows on A&E, poisoners and bombers share some elements of their "typical" psychological profiles: a high intelligence and education, meticulous habits, a great deal of patience, above-average ability with lying and deception, and a passive-aggressive personality with just a hint of cowardice. In a nutshell, everything a Necromancer would aspire to. For a name: Varnae, after the third most famous undead monster in history... or is he fourth by now? Act 1 Chapter 1 Dear Diary, Another day of traveling is behind me. Alas! many more loom ahead. Endless roads ramble through verdant greensward, studded indiscreetly with flowers and butterflies, all bathed in endless supplies of bright warm sunshine. I am in hell. I expect to see puppies and kittens gamboling at any moment. The worst aspect of the countryside is the people one meets. They rise early, work with industry all day, then go to sleep at sunset to prepare for another day of exactly the same thing. Is it any wonder they have nothing to say, with habits such as these? When they do speak, their speech reminds one of ragged washing strung out on a line, or a series of damp sponges full of mold. No; the sponges might have some interesting colors among them. Before I continue, I ought to include a few biographical elements. It may well be that no one will ever read this journal, or will dismiss it as the ravings of a madman (a fond hope) but as I have been forced on an assignment of uncertain value, an explanation of my task for any future biographer is in order. Not that I desire one just now -- you only know a man is truly dead when someone has written his biography. My full name is Varnae Cesare Amygda von Rhus, a well-established initiate of the order of Rathma. Do not worry, I will not eat your soul. I have very little interest in matters of the soul; I have been very happy to be an initiate for the last several years. Were it not for my blessed father, I'd be at home still, feverishly occupied with the task of being idle. He died some years ago, of course, but being dead didn't take nearly as much out of him as it ought to have. I'm still waiting for my inheritance. Mine was not a happy childhood. Our home was one cave among many, in a vast intestine of a city dug into the sodden earth of the largest marsh in the world. Outsiders may wonder: why dig a city under a marsh? Given the prevalence of a substance known as "water" in such places, won't your tunnels flood? To them, I say: YES!! Every moment of every day, on and on without end! But do not worry; the walls and ceilings are supported by iron-hard braces, made from the bones of those who died of diseases brought on by the prevailing dampness. There is almost an endless supply of them, which increases daily. As water pools, it drains to lower levels where armies of our servants ferry it, one bucket at a time, back to the surface. This is the most complex sewer on earth, larger by far and consuming more "manpower" than the city itself. The closest analogy I can imagine is building a city below the tide mark, then keeping the ocean from flooding it by means of constant bailing. As you might imagine, members of our order (and we are all, by compulsion, members of the order) differ somewhat in appearance from those who live elsewhere. A resemblance to fish has been noted; also, to the recently drowned. Disease and general ill-health are common, and mistakenly attributed to our rites rather than our living quarters. Most of us learn to swim before we can walk, and develop a tolerance for foul odors I dare say is unparalleled. Actually, that last may have more to do with our rites than not. But I diverge from the subject: me. Recently, word came to our city that the forces of Hell are at work in the outside world. Why, I hear you ask, should this concern me? It doesn't, particularly. According to the high priests, Heaven has been having a go at it for some time. If the order is as dedicated to "maintaining the balance" as they keep droning on about, why shouldn't Hell get to have a bit of fun every now and then? They habitually object that the infernal side of things is "less moral." Strange how that's so often said about anyone who's getting more fun out of life than you are. Sadly, my usual tactic for evading unpleasant tasks prevailed me not. Father found me, and I have been sent out into the world with a few family heirlooms, to seek either demons or death. I have been told neither should bother me overmuch, yet remain unconvinced. The novelty of walking on the surface has long since abandoned me. As I have yet to see either death or a demon, I shall continue on this way, at least until everyone at home has forgotten me and I can sneak back. Ah, an occurrence! At last, something has broken the tedium of being alive. At sundown, I came upon a fortified campsite by the side of the road, and convinced those within that I am, in fact, alive. There was some doubt in their minds; how charming these simple villagers are. To my surprise, nearly everyone within the walls was female, and armed as well. They explained to me that they are Rogues, a monastic order dedicated to protecting a mountain pass. Before you take this seriously, let me describe them in detail. These "monks" have a sort of uniform, consisting entirely of leather fitted tightly to the body. An abbreviated vest barely covers more than the chest and upper back. On the lower body, a short loincloth provides a meager shred of decency, but the thighs, hips, and much of the buttocks are left exposed. The legs are well-covered by boots extending far up the thigh. The head is left uncovered, perhaps because almost everything else is. If you, gentle reader, have followed me this far, I am sure you agree that the image which presents itself is not one of quietly reserved monks. In fact, if all those pretty young things were laid end to end... well, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised. Unfortunately, as splendid as their costumes might be, these poor girls have no idea how to present themselves. Can you believe it, the leather is left its natural color! It was all I could do not to say, "Ladies, please! Dun brown may be acceptable for the cow, but you should have more ambition." Perhaps these folk haven't heard of dye, though the color of their war leader's hair suggests otherwise. More on her in a moment. When I first entered, a prosperous fellow in a shabby blue tunic greeted me with the smile of a born glad-hander. I immediately sensed he was a salesman, the sort who is a friend to everyone and makes quite a good living off his friends. He might stab you in the back for a penny, but does it in such a kindly way you'll scarcely notice you're bleeding. Naturally, being everyone's friend means he is no one's intimate. Looking into those blue eyes is like looking out a window -- assuming windows can appraise you back. The ostensible leader of this band is called Akara, a lady gifted with perpetual old age, but not a single redeeming vice. One can forgive any amount of sin, but a woman must never, ever allow herself to become dull. Their war leader I have already mentioned: Kashya. Perhaps father was right, and travel is broadening -- I had no idea monasteries kept war leaders. A deliberately striking woman, she possesses every virtue a man could hope for except a tolerance for false humility. This is a woman of high standards; I must be careful never to live up to them. As is common among warlike bands, they have an armorer, a girl named Charsi. Only one adjective comes to mind for her, and it does so with the weight and authority of 300 pounds of rotting suet stuffed into a 5-pound sack: perky. The girl is a happy, pleasant, perpetually smiling mass of saccharine sweetness with arms that could choke an ox. I DESPISE perky people. I'd bite them, but I fear they'd stick to my teeth. To my surprise and delight, I have an old acquaintance here, stuck like sewage in a clogged drain. The merchant Gheed, who has provided my people with valuable goods and many hours of entertainment over the years, is taking shelter in this encampment. It seems something is wrong with the pass, and his wagon cannot go through. "You mean you're trapped here?" I asked. Perhaps I looked a bit too pleased. "I hoped I'd never have to lay eyes on one of your kind again!" he said. "Your money's still good, but remember this: I know you're alone here, so don't even think about trying anything!" "I wouldn't dream of it," I lied. "I'm simply happy to see a familiar face! That's all, I swear it." Perhaps I could remain here for a few days, if the alternative is returning to the countryside. The simple life of country folk has its appeal to those who want simple lives; it is only in large gatherings that company becomes worthwhile. This is the chief advantage of cities -- no one is truly civilized anywhere else, and this does seem to be the largest gathering of living people I have yet seen. The dead in this area have been more tedious than usual, wailing on about fire and evil. It's not unusual; dead minds are so slow, they can only concentrate on one thing at a time. And father wonders why I so rarely talk with them. Chapter 2 Dear Diary, Rosy-fingered dawn has made her presence known to the world, and to me. Nature has her enthusiasts, but I am not to be counted among them, and the sun is not a welcome novelty. I fully realize all life owes its existence to that brilliant orb, but it is much too hot, far too bright, and rises a great deal earlier than is acceptable. At least clouds obscure it now, and I feel it is safe to wander the earth once more. On my way to breakfast, I noticed Gheed. The poor fellow nicked himself while shaving this morning. Naturally, I let my gaze linger over the injury... eyes widening... then slid the tip of my tongue along my upper lip. The effect was immediate and most gratifying. I really could grow to love that man. Once, father seriously considered having him executed on some pretense and raised as a Zombie, just to see the expression on his face. My quest for victuals has come to naught. My niggardly hosts, concerned for their material survival, will not provide for my needs without some form of compensation! It seems I am not in polite company, and my cash reserves are at an ebb. There is my wealth of goods, of course, but parting with family heirlooms in exchange for chicken-and-turnip surprise would be unconscionable. I have not eaten for some days, and would be willing to set aside my normal feelings for turnips, but all the same... Many would simply continue on their way when dispensed such ill-treatment; I do not feel I was entirely wrong in giving voice to my complaints. After all, I have been having a very difficult time. Entirely unsympathetic, the Rogues informed me that while they are out in the wilderness, their resources are limited and necessity forces their hand. Some sort of revolt within their ranks has led to their present exile, and a general pall has settled on their land. They blame these things on demonic influences. It is common for monastic sorts to blame any sort of trouble on demons; the alternative is to admit that their lives are dull and empty, and any sensible person would rise up in revolt. With effort, I held my tongue, and over the growling of my stomach gently inquired if some other means might be found to reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. As miserable as these people are, they represent the best this land has to offer. I am unlikely to find nobler or more interesting company; as sad and frightening as that thought is, I must face facts. A deal was struck. In exchange for a cot and all the turnips I should like, my services will be accepted in lieu of gelt. To wit: I must hire myself out. Oh! that outrageous fortune should place me in such a predicament! And for such meager wages... My first task is to empty a nearby cave of its denizens. This "den of evil" which strikes such terror into their delicate hearts lies out on the local moor; reportedly, the dead walk there and demons roam freely. The dead would be less of a difficulty than the living, I am sure, but it may be best to wait and see what lies in this cave. For all I know, these bumpkins have mistaken some local family of inbred cannibals for demons. Meeting such people could make for an entertaining evening. The moors are a dreadful place. Knots of sepia-colored grass and brush alternate with pools of standing water, breeding grounds for all manner of pestilential insects. Even worse, loose soil and tendrils of greenery cover much of the water; it is almost impossible not to step into stagnant pools and splash into the mud. My shoes are an absolute disgrace, and I nearly turned an ankle. Despite my initial misgivings, I must admit the local fauna are behaving oddly. Large hedgehogs with extraordinarily long spines crawl about in the bracken. I killed one with difficulty, and my examination of the corpse was not encouraging. The creature's forelimbs are greatly lengthened, so much so that it can no longer crawl on its paws, but must hobble with the entire forelimb on the ground. My search for the cave continues, but more distressing revelations have come to light. The hedgehogs can throw their spines with a flick of their tails... and they are not alone on the moor. The dead do walk here, and do not respond to the spell which should send them to sleep again. You must understand, gentle reader, this is the first thing any member of the order of Rathma must learn. Priests often raise servants who resist the spell, but the priest must be very skilled indeed if the Zombie's only reaction is anger. I was forced to beat it down with my wand, a use for which it is most unsuited. An abandoned house on the moor provided me with a moment's respite, to clean up and consider my course of action. Well, father... it seems you were right. We first learned from demons how to raise the dead, though we turned the knowledge against them. Only a fool refuses a weapon. Now, someone or something is raising the dead and altering animals. In all likelihood, that unknown is infernal in nature; celestial powers disdain our arts, and our own order is unlikely to be involved. Also, it is not likely that this is disconnected from the revolt in the monastery. A serious investigation is called for. The house's kitchen supplied me with a large knife. Raising my own servants to combat this great unknown might be viable, but it seems to me that a subtler approach may be more likely to succeed. Any being powerful enough to raise these servants will be powerful enough to dispel mine, and then where will I be? Instead of leading an army of the dead, the quieter path of the lone assassin, striking alone with an envenomed blade, may be more fruitful. Our science is well advanced in discerning the ways death works in nature; how fitting it will be to destroy the infernal with the mundane. A short distance from the house, my destination became apparent. No charming savages met me in the cave, only Zombies being corralled by little red demons. I identified them as Fallen Ones, the weakest of demonkind. Evil souls of the common type, the sort one sees walking the streets every day, are torn to pieces when Hell takes them. Each shred, barely even demonic, becomes a Fallen One. They vaguely recall their former existences with equal parts of resentment and shame, and react to the living with spiteful hostility mixed with embarrassing cowardice. Their resentment is perfectly understandable, but if they had done anything truly worthy of shame, they certainly would have risen higher in Hell's hierarchy. Searching the cave thoroughly yields a large crop of Zombies and their tiny masters; perhaps Zombies are the only things Fallen Ones can master. One dead strongman gave me a goodly clout to the head before returning to the earth, but I am reluctant to wear a helm. It is so dreadfully difficult to keep a good hairstyle with any kind of helmet, though a bloodstained bandage doesn't look fetching either. Somehow, Akara found out I emptied her cave before I returned to camp, though I used a portal and arrived instantaneously. Then I remembered, these charming ladies worship an aspect of the orderly heavens. In the ages-long battle between Heaven and Hell, both sides have developed complementary methods. As Hell delights in hiding and deception, so Heaven has developed skills of spying and forcing truth. The "Sightless Eye" these ladies refer to is doubtless some aspect of that. Our conversation was uninteresting, but I shall record it here for the edification of future generations. "You have cleansed the Den of Evil," she said as soon as I appeared. "You have earned my trust, and may yet restore my faith in humanity." Please recall, I was still somewhat taken aback. "Perish the thought, dear lady. Humanity and I have as little to do with each other as possible, to our mutual benefit." This seemed to puzzle her. "No matter. Take this ring as our bond of friendship." "A trifle, I am sure." Then I looked at it. "Yes, a trifle. Mind you, I have many friends, all of whom have grown to despise me. None love me more than my enemies -- they go out of their way to provide me with amusements. Now, so long as you're willing to trust me, I have a fine property to the south I'm anxious to sell..." Sadly, we were interrupted by the war leader, whose name has slipped my mind. "I've just gotten the report from my scouts! There's been a violation of our graveyard!" Now, why do you suppose she looking at ME like that? "I beg your pardon?" "One of our sisters, Blood Raven, is in our own monastery graveyard! She's raising our dead for an army! Someone has to stop her!" Hmm... were the local servants being raised by one of these women? What a fascinating idea. "Worry not, ladies. I shall go and see her forthwith." "Don't be stupid. She's one of the most dangerous priestesses in our monastery." "Oh, I do hope so." Chapter 3 Dear Diary, Gentle reader, if there is one piece of advice I can offer you, it is this: never let yourself fall into circumstances where your labor can be had cheaply. Working for food is a miserable state of affairs, yet it is the best this blighted landscape has to offer. I've half a mind to go home and hide in a cupboard, demons be damned. (Now there's a phrase. I really ought to have been a writer, you know; my talents are wasted here.) I will grant you, the quest has its charms. My hosts have allowed me, in the depths of their gratitude, to exchange things I find at pawnbroker's rates. The moors have supplied me with enough abandoned and looted possessions that I could afford a few material comforts, were any available. Those with a stronger back and weaker mind than I might find these prospects tempting. Another issue of importance is the opportunity to test a variety of poisons on living demons. The study of the full course of a venom's effect is one of the most difficult, partially due to a lack of test subjects (extrapolation from humans can only go so far), and also because a complete understanding requires vivisection -- a messy affair that prevents reuse. Despite superficial resemblances, demons are not rats: one cannot simply go out-of-doors and hope to trip over an inexhaustible supply of them. However... if the cave outside is any indication, research material abounds here. The opportunity is exciting, yet frustrating -- lacking a suitable laboratory, I cannot take proper advantage. Field research can be so imprecise, but it is my only recourse if I hope to make a contribution to human knowledge here. Wasting none of the morning, I traveled across the moors to a wooden fence with a single gate, guarded by a lone archer. She rather imperiously informed me that great danger lay ahead. Ahead of what, I asked? This innocent question prompted an exhaustive cataloguing of the terrible ills their order has suffered in recent weeks. I may have written it all down sometime before, or I may not. Others' complaints tend to make my mind wander. Near the tail end of this, she revealed that demons and persons allied with them are present in great numbers further up the pass. Neither wanting nor needing to hear more, I thanked her for the pleasure of her company and went on my merry way. Cold, wet plains lie above the moors, blessedly free of mud. Just beyond the fence, a large stone slab carved with sorcerous symbols lay in the ground. Its appearance is maddeningly familiar, and its size and placement lead me to believe it an artifact is of some importance, though its purpose is a mystery. I was never the most diligent of students in the carefree days of my misspent youth, and my study of sorcerous magics was sadly neglected. Well, one simple stone shouldn't be too difficult to puzzle out. The stone's main feature is a circle, surrounded by symbols of air, lightning, the earth, and a few others I do not recognize. It is possible that this is a Summoning Circle, a protective ring intended to isolate a sorcerer from whatever unearthly force he is attempting to bargain with. Why would such a thing be out here, in full view? A Summoning Circle would be kept indoors, hidden from prying eyes; even Sorcerers foolish enough to dabble in the infernal aren't stupid enough to let absolutely everyone know about it. Nevertheless, there is no sign this wasteland was ever home to a magician's tower; no ruined foundations or blasted walls lie within view to tell of its sudden and fitting demolishment. My examination of the slab's external features yields no insights, apart from a haunting sense of familiarity. Cautious scrutiny must now yield to active experimentation. Progressing with the hypothesis that this is a Summoner's Circle, the safest place to stand must be inside it, despite its resemblance to a target. As logic dictates, I enter the ring; bluish flames leap up from the stone's corners, and I suddenly remember where I've seen this rock before! Another just like it lies back in the Rogue's encampment, very near the smithy. When I first saw it, I thought it was a piece of local artwork, and did everything I could not to acknowledge its existence. Call me old-fashioned, but the "new primitivism" movement that's so popular these days does nothing for me. Artisans of the past made rune-covered rocks because they had giant muscles and brains the size of a walnut. Cities are the highest apex of culture; no artist produced anything but stones and doggerel before our times. While the image of that other stone was in my mind, an odd thing happened. In an instant, I was longer where I was, but back where I was before. In short, a teleport! The Rogue's encampment surrounded me, with its hastily codged-together walls, omnipresent piles of chicken excrement, and the less-than-ideal fragrance of masses of unwashed femininity. Be still, my heart. The smith, who thankfully did not notice me, was engaged in conversation with three of her cohorts. "I think he just acts creepy," the smith said. "He can't be that bad." Oh, I can't, can I? I'm going to have to start working on her. One of her companions replied, "Yeah, he could! I mean, look at him! Ewww!" "The last time I saw that color," the third said, "I was looking under a rock." "Aw, c'mon!" the smith chided them. "Remember, he has a mom just like anyone else." Naturally, I have a mother. My memories of her are a blend of neuroses, too little clothing, far too much make-up, and sadism. She raised me as though it was an arduous duty, using simple cruelty in measured doses. Between her and father, there was great passion, hatred, worship, wrath, and slavish devotion, but nothing like love. She would flirt with anyone so long as he was watching, and kept no secrets except what made her happy. Pity any child born to such a union. "Well..." the third said, "maybe a really long time ago. Even Bartuc the Bloody had a mom, that doesn't change anything." The smith smiled, radiant as the sun's face. "Maybe all he needs is a great big hug!" Thank the earth for her blessings! Her friends' screams of dismay concealed my own. The teleport-stone took me away in a flash, back to the comforting chill of this demon-infested wilderness. Now, after a short rest to settle my nerves, I feel ready to resume my quest. My observations on the effects of poison on demonic creatures will come later; I am not sure I can calmly comment on them in my present state. Begging your forgiveness, gentle reader, but this important matter will simply have to wait. In the meantime, I shall comment on the local life (or unlife). The Fallen are out in numbers, with shamans who can raise them from death to their former state. Lest anyone believe this means they are highly skilled in matters of life and death, I must remind you that a Fallen One is not precisely alive. "Raising" one is a relatively simple matter of repairing the broken body, rather than entrapping and returning the soul. Interspersed among these demons are a number of women, obviously of the Rogue order but now fallen from even that lowly state. Distressing as it is, the priestess was correct: they are obviously under Hell's influence. No woman, not even these martial matriarchs, would appear in public looking like that. I shall say no more for modesty's sake. Journeying over the plains, I have found a number of fascinating novelties. The Fallen Ones have made camps, decorated in proper barbaric fashion with the bones and skulls of those whose lives were happier than their own. Some have even made rude tents of flayed human skin. To my knowledge, this degree of social organization has never been observed before. Another unanticipated development is what I shall call a High Shaman, capable of restoring a lesser shaman to action. As interesting as they are, I am glad I've only encountered one, as killing it was a dangerous proposition. The death released an explosion of internal energy, spattering blood and bile for yards around. Field research is not without its risks, but I am not being paid enough to tolerate all this mess, that is the simple, final truth. There is one beast I have neglected to describe thus far: the Sasquatch. Huge, hairy bipeds with an unpleasant aroma, these creatures plod about in forests up and down the western continent. A few laired in the cave on the moors, and I have found more in another cave here. Sadly, their presence forces practicality on me: I am now wearing a helmet. One blow to the head is bad enough, but these creatures are so tall that that is their only target and I am fond of my brains, thank you very much! All the same... very few helmets are made with any thought beyond protecting the head. None have style, there's no sense of elan; they say nothing beyond the wearer's admission that there is something valuable inside his skull. Even the occasional plume or riveted pattern is only added as an afterthought. The caves are quite enjoyable; I thoroughly kill every last thing inside. Naturally drained of water, they are relatively dry and near enough to the surface to get plenty of air. Perhaps if I am successful here, I can cut a deal when the local real estate market opens up. These caves should be reasonably priced, this far out in the countryside. Ah, there's the rub; local real estate will be cheap as dirt, because no sensible person wants to live here. Leaving the cave and my flight of fancy behind, I finally make my way to the local graveyard. I've spent many a happy day in such places; how saddening that such familiar things should distress me now. The undead are out in force. New Zombies, fresh from the earth, shamble about aimlessly without orders -- until they see me. Skeletons, the flesh long since fallen from their bones, also react violently to my presence. As poison is a material embodiment of death magic, it has less effect on reanimated corpses, but beating them to death the old-fashioned way works as well as ever. By the willow in the center of the graveyard (itself decorated with fresh corpses) a vision in white awaits me. She is most palpably evil, with skin like fresh bone and ivory horns growing from her head. The dead respond to her immediately, rising from the ground at a gesture; I cannot make out what she does to protect them from my magic. So as not to disturb her at her work, I hide behind a convenient headstone. I'm not sure what intrigues me more, the ease with which she casts, or the grotesque way her body has warped. This evil lady has unmistakably given herself completely to darkness, but knows so much of death. I wonder... would father approve of her? Oops! No time for that; she's seen me. Just done with the battle; triumph and sadness fill my heart. From her bow, she shot fiery arrows at me; quite a "hot" girl. Then she ran to a new position; a "fast" girl too. I had to exert all my manly prowess just to challenge her pace. Sadly, her entourage of followers came between us. She and I ran up and down through the graveyard, among and around that throng of the dead; the battle was almost a ballet in its use of point and counterpoint (no pun intended, please.) It was almost with sadness that I plunged my dagger into her one last time, and watched her soul slip away, dragged down into the depths of Hell. Her knowledge, her subtlety, the way she screamed when wounded... she was truly a vision. Understandably, I was full of melancholy as I returned to camp. The war leader, who I'd never expect to understand, greeted me with open amazement. "I can hardly believe you've defeated Blood Raven! She was one of our proudest warriors... and my greatest friend." "Yes, a truly amazing woman," I said, a tear trickling down my cheek. "I doubt I'll ever see anyone like her again." "Uh... yeah," she replied. "She didn't hit you on the head, or anything?" Never let it be said that I pay no attention to a lady's feelings, even one who would kill me if I called her a lady. Perhaps I was also feeling a touch maudlin. "Your concern is touching, but you need not worry. I was... anxious that you might be upset by the deed which had to be done. She wasn't the sort of girl one would take home to mother anymore." Actually, she and mother would probably have gotten on smashingly. From her expression, it was obvious that my show of sympathy was unconvincing. It was equally obvious that she didn't want to believe the truth, and would accept the sham. Entire political philosophies have been based around that sort of decision. "O... K. There's no way we can pay you, but one of my scouts can serve you as a mercenary." "Ah, a servant!" It's about time these people came to understand what class of person they're dealing with. "I shall treat her as well as one of my own." "You'd better not," she said, suddenly very suspicious. "If I hear you've done one thing..." "Gentle... Kashya, is it? I'd never harm a hair on her head. Should she die, I will of course respect your ways and leave her to molder in peace. I swear it." With a cynical snort, she nodded. Will nothing convince this woman? "Yeah. Right. Your gear looks beat up. Why don't you get Charsi to fix it?" A not-unreasonable fear gripped me. It was true, father's quilted vest had suffered in the battle, and his dagger could use a new edge. Then I remembered: I have a servant! "You there! Take these things to the smith's and have them tended to." "Um... hi. My name's Floria." "Excellent. Hop to it, I wish to retire early, there's a good girl. In the morning, a simple breakfast will do: tea, buttered bread with black currant jam, and the least offensive bits of ham you can manage. I take it precisely at 8, and do not appreciate slacking." Quite suddenly, I found the war leader standing between my new girl and myself. I asked, as politely as I could manage, "What is the meaning of this?!" "I said as a mercenary," she snarled like some sort of beast, "Not a serving wench. A mercenary warrior. Understand?" Long experience had taught me when I am about to experience pain. In fact, my nature is so sensitive that I can often feel it before it is inflicted. As one's ability to see the light of reason correlates directly with the pain one is suffering, it took nothing more to convince me that I had made an error in judgment. "Ah, of course," I replied. "Silly me! What a terrible thing I said! It will never happen again. Please, I bruise like a grape." Chapter 4 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. Chapter 5 Dear Diary, One should think that, having made so many concessions to these ladies' tender sensibilities, a man might be allowed to rest at end of his daily exertions. No further proof of their lack of hospitality need be sought than their behavior last night. While on a side trip to a distant farming town, I came upon the last survivor of a demonic attack, an old man kept alive and unharmed in an iron cage. I took him to be nothing but the local village elder, but no good reason for him to be singled out presented itself. His appearance was in no way remarkable. The rest of the village received no kinder treatment than a sword in the gut. Despite my initial suspicions, I couldn't leave the poor old fellow there... I'm not made of stone. In retrospect, had I realized the extraordinary effect his presence would have on my hostesses, I might have done things differently. High priestess Akara recognized him at once as Deckard Cain, last official member of the most famous glee club in the sorcerous world. I speak of the Horadrim, an ad-hoc organization of the best and brightest of the mage clans, unified to rid the world of demonic intruders. In their sage wisdom, they felt the best way to accomplish this was by taking the three most dangerous devils Hell had to offer and imprisoning them here, in the mortal world, in broken cages they knew very well would never hold them. Once purged of the delusion of a common cause, their great and heroic enterprise swiftly became a sickly, quarrelsome convalescent as its members fell back into their old sorcerous habits, throwing snowballs or giving each other hotfoots. Unlike the vast majority of his predecessors, this Deckard Cain has no magical abilities at all, which may make him not only the last of the Horadrim, but also the least. How such a man could gain entry into a magical fraternity, I have no idea; standards must have been very lax indeed in the group's dying days. Despite his lack of talent, Akara became very excited when she learned of him. Her reaction led me to wonder if these oldsters might have a past together; while it could never make her fascinating, having a past invariably makes a woman more interesting. Tellingly, I speculated too wildly. Only his name and reputation aroused her interest. To compensate for his lack of spellcraft, master Cain chose the path of knowledge. Learning unburdened by power is his king. I dislike the company of well-informed men. Their minds are like antique shops, jammed full of dreadful monsters priced far above their true value. At any moment, dust kittens the size of tigers might come roaring out of a forgotten corner and devour all of one's time and patience. Nonetheless, Cain had a reputation for sage council, and Akara was eager for his advice. The old dear hardly had time to chew a crust of bread before she was regaling him with the sad tale of her monastery's downfall. Lest any infer that I do not respect knowledge, I cannot stress its value too highly. Power can accomplish nothing of value if undirected -- witness the entire history of the sorcerer clans. Even the Horadrim's shining moment in the sun was brief, and full of well-meant but misguided actions. If only others saw fit to place understanding before action! Knowledge is humankind's most powerful weapon, and our only sure guide into an uncertain future. Happily, in the time it took to tell the tale (again), Cain was able to recover somewhat from his ordeal. Food and water were his most urgent needs, which he satisfied while lending her his otherwise-unused ears. I dozed off twice: Floria jabbed me to wake me up again. When Akara was done, he began his own story, a far more compelling narrative. The town, Tristram, was a peaceful little place. Their king was a generous and just ruler, aided by noble knights who personified chivalry, and advised by a wise archbishop. Yes, an archbishop; this farming town of perhaps seven buildings had its own cathedral. Despite its minuscule size, Tristram was the central seat for religion and politics in the entire area. I'm afraid that on hearing this, my initial suspicions returned, with reinforcements. To be frank, I couldn't believe a word of it -- what reasonable man would? My reservations were unvoiced, but perhaps Cain sensed them, as his story addressed them all as he went on. In the final days of the Sin War, the Lord of Terror was run to ground and imprisoned in a soulstone, a sort of spirit trap given to the Horadrim by Heaven. To insure that no agent of Hell could ever find the stone and free Diablo's essence, it was buried hundreds of feet below ground in an isolated spot of countryside the Horadrim were sure would never amount to much. (Judging from what I saw, they chose uncharacteristically well.) The location was recorded in a few private journals, but marked only by a small, undistinguished chapel. That, it seems, is the point where history took an unexpected turn. The church's influence waxed and waned in the west, but that chapel was always kept occupied. The constant presence of monks and knights increased its prestige, and its power outstripped the other local temples. Over time, the chapel's original purpose as a simple marker was forgotten; it was enlarged several times, and deep catacombs dug underneath. When one of the local nobility took on the mantle of royalty, he transferred the chapel knights' loyalty to himself by a show of religious piety, donating capital for further construction and making the little town which served the monks his capital. Ah, the plans of men! The very act of guarding the place, but telling no one why, turned a hopeless backwater into a seat of power, and gave the Lord of Terror all he needed to contrive his release. For those acquainted with demonic infiltration, the remainder of this tale will be familiar. The king went mad, his knights committed regicide, the archbishop became regent for a young prince, the prince vanished (I'm sure he was delicious) and demons slaughtered almost the entire town. That last is peculiar -- they're usually joyously thorough. Word spread, and help came in the form of adventurers, brigands, itinerant sorcerers, a contingent of archers from the Rogues (led by none other than Blood Raven) and other mercenary gold hunters. They scavenged through the catacombs and the lava-filled caves below, their altruistic motives generously supplemented by the large piles of loot someone left lying about. Cain remarked on the quantity of gold and precious items that came out of that cathedral, far more than he ever remembered going in. Most of these explorers, including Blood Raven, did not reach the deepest depths. When the danger became too great, they were happy to escape with their lives (and new wealth) and return home. A local boy, motivated by more than a quest for his own fortune, faced Diablo's gauntlet of death and survived to meet the Lord of Terror in person. Shortly thereafter, he left the town as well, and all the demons he was supposed to have killed came up out of the ground and finished the town off. Except for this one man, that is... As I said, the tale was familiar. However, enough deviations from the common pattern exist to trouble my mind. Though their approach may seem mindlessly straightforward, the Lords of Hell rarely play their hand in a simple way. Deviousness and deception herald them as surely as blood and slaughter, and often what seems to be victory instead means something has been overlooked. However, by the time Kashya finally saw fit to release me, it was far too late at night to think on it. Even my humble cot gave forth a siren call I was helpless to resist, though sleep came fitfully. At dawn this morning, the strangest person woke me by kicking my bed over and knocking me into the dirt! Though he resembles my people to a degree, his behavior was unusual and most distressing. Had I not been befuddled from sleep, I would certainly have taught him manners, but he was here and gone before I could even find my own head. No one in camp saw him leave, either. I shall record his words, to the best of my recollection. "Wakey wakey, merry sunshine! Up and at 'em, there's all kinds of things waitin' for you to git out there and kill 'em! They're finally tough enough that Gull won't get 'em in one hit, so we can see just what poison does. Try this dagger for a while -- it's called The Diggler! I'll be back with more stuff when you're big enough to use it. Ta ta for now!" The dirk left on the remains of my cot is what I believe the jollier sort of mercenary calls a "ballocks dagger." The blade is heavy and broad, with a round bulge at the point. The guard resembles two golden orbs, side by side. The hilt is smooth, with the pommel in the design of... I will not go into that, but I am not about to touch it. The Rogues may dispose of it as they wish, I will leave it here. No, on second thought, I would not want a lady to find such an item among my possessions. But I am certainly not walking about with that in my hand, it would give entirely the wrong impression. As per our arrangement, Floria accompanies me into the wilderness. Sadly, she is wearing a shirt underneath her leathers. Perhaps the armor was stiff with age, and began to chafe; though their impression on the eye is greatly diminished, I will accede the issue on grounds of practicality, considering these trying circumstances. The woods I discovered last night were repopulated during my visit to Tristram, with stronger foes. Goat demons, their sooty black skins marking them as members of the Night clan, are present in numbers, with ugly brutes of Sasquatch as well. All take at least three arrows before they die, so I encourage Floria to scatter her shots among them, giving me time to experiment a bit with their fleeing lives. I wish she were less sharp-eyed than she is. Twice now she caught me trying to dispose of that obscene dirk, and I had to hide it again. Always we go further up into the pass. A marsh lies above the woods; curious, it's usually the other way around, but geography was never my strong suit. The brutish, axe-swinging monstrosities which surround me have ceased to command my attention; my mind will not let go of last night's revelations. It occurs to me, was I meant to find Deckard Cain? He was certainly meant for someone to rescue, if not me. Yet... he is so unmistakably only a man, not even an interesting man. What possible demonic plot could use a man with a head full of Horadric knowledge about demons against me? Nothing occurs to me, and I should not let myself be distracted from battle. Overusing my head could result in parting company with it. The marshes are dull, though I have kept myself entertained. Gheed has gifted me a fine suit of chainmail; and father used to think so poorly of him. A shrine allowed me the luxury of experimenting with poisonous gases, which sadly proved nearly useless. The old-fashioned approach to envenomation works best. One of the Sasquatch was carrying a totem head in a jar -- he might have wanted to drink the preservative liquor, but happily was unable to open the bottle. As the totem was not useful to me, I sold it to Charsi, hoping the sight of it might dim the sunshine of her smile a bit. She laughed, and asked if I wanted another, made of metal. Then she could say she was forging ahead. Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with that girl. I'd make a more concerted effort, but that might result in my being hugged. Back in a secluded corner of the marshes, I have found the remains of a tower, or perhaps a small keep. It was obviously destroyed by fire a long time ago, and little remains. Ah, dear Floria informs me "the bloody countess" dwelt here long ago, the one said to have bathed in the blood of 100 virgins. What a dull country this is, that anyone could find 100 virgins. The account I read mentioned that the woman was rich, and much of her wealth was rumored to be buried with her. Those who arrested her would not let her keep her wealth; I have never known a churchman to pass up coin just because a sinner laid hands on it. Legends of buried treasure invariably disappoint, but the tracks of Goat Demons lead in and out of the remains of a cellar. I'd best go in and be about my business. What a surprising place this is, full of goats, and ghosts, and perhaps the ghosts of goats. Human bones, all quite ancient, litter the floor, but I can find no alchemical apparati or any other means for making use of so many dead bodies. In one corner, a shrine in the form of a kneeling angel offers up a bowl full of blood. This "countess" may have had only a primitive understanding of the live-giving power of blood, one more influenced by religious teachings than science. Also, the quantity of ghosts hints at a shocking number of pain and fear-filled deaths. Far more efficient techniques were available, even in those days. After five levels of cellars, I hope never to see another set of stairs in my life. Whoever dug all of this out had a great deal of money and an uncommon need to hide dead bodies. Also, considerable foresight. In addition to money (mostly coin) I've also found a small armory of Paladin weapons and shields. That may explain where this woman found 100 virgins, and why the church was upset enough to bury her wealth with her. I also suspect the woman is still alive, or has been revived to serve a demonic master. Someone lit all these candles. I have met the Countess, and she is mine. In the rear of the deepest cellar, I found a boiling cauldron of blood, the closest thing to a potion laboratory in the place. Beyond, attended by a pack of Blood clan goats and revived female corpses, a woman of noble bearing awaited my pleasure, soaked head to toe in blood. For a moment, I was quite impressed, and wondered if my mother had any relations in this part of the world. Then I noticed the weapon in her sanguinous hand: an axe. At that moment, all admiration for her vanished, and she became nothing but another creature to kill. Honestly, how could any woman be so graceless? Happily, though her tastes were unforgivable, her reputation for wealth did not disappoint. I suppose many believe it is better to have an income than style. If they all made it so easy for me to arrange their deaths and take their wealth, I could find it in me to forgive them. I also suppose this places me among the ranks of "treasure hunters." Well, perhaps not a treasure hunter... more of a treasure finder. Chapter 6 Dear Diary, After exploring the remains of the Countess' tower, I find myself in an entirely novel position, financially. Long ago, my family was quite wealthy, but all that remains from those days is a good name, expensive standards, and unpaid debts, some of which date back centuries. My family's long and wasteful history is a fascinating one; I should write a book, but vulgarity distresses me. Now, for the first time, I find myself with a great deal of disposable wealth, and no agreeable way to dispose of it. I'd waste it senselessly, but lacking wine and song, the undertaking would seem a hollow sham. Paying family debts would set a bad precedent; others might expect me or my descendants to pay for our things in the future. I suppose I could try to behave sensibly, and set a judicious fraction aside against my frail old age, but I doubt I could break my many well-established habits this late in life. To my younger readers, who might be considering a life spent searching for hidden treasure: finding troves isn't all it could be, despite the hold they have on the popular imagination. Hoards of incalculable wealth tend to be located far out in the wilderness, nowhere near any hotel with decent room service. Traveling costs, which must include transporting one's hard-won booty back to civilization, could easily render the entire operation moot. The Countess' tower may seem an exception, but consider the tower's guardians, who effectively prevented its being looted for several centuries. All decent hoards are either inconveniently located, unacceptably hazardous to those who gain entrance, or impossible to find, or they would have been looted long before you were born. If you wish to spend your life digging for money and dodging axe-wielding maniacs, consider a career in the civil service instead. After leaving the tower (and climbing all those stairs AGAIN) my dear girl Floria and I set off up the pass once more. It wasn't until we were well into the highlands that I realized I could have used a portal to go back to camp, then return to the marshes by means of a teleporting stone. As you can imagine, I was just kicking myself, or would have been if my feet weren't so tired. It's doubtful that the Rogues even have a good masseuse. Incidentally, I learned from Deckard Cain that the teleporting stones are called Waypoints; the Horadrim made them all over the world, whenever they thought they might want to visit a place again. They must not require much effort to make -- I've already found five, all in places I'm quite sure I'll never want to visit again. We are near the monastery itself, which is guarded by more demonic servants. Fallen Ones abound in the form of Devilkin, those souls wicked enough for demons to be flattered by the resemblance, but lacking sufficient drive to really make something awful of themselves. With heads full of malicious thoughts rarely translated into deeds, the Devilkin are placed on the lowest rungs of Hell's long ladder until they get some ambition. The undead are also out in force, shooting bows or wielding elemental magic. Ah, magus ossia... a bit of a misnomer, but a forgivable one. This servant knows no magic (having nothing to "know" with) but is simply infused with one spell, which it activates repeatedly when threatened. Still, making one is no mean feat, and making large numbers is more impressive yet. If my enemy is the Lord of Terror as the Rogues fear, I will be facing an extraordinary battle. Finally, I have gotten to the top of this pass! Mountains turn up in the worst places. The monastery is huge, its high walls bridging the pass from one side to the other. This lump of a building reeks of the ponderous style of the church of Zakarum. The stonework is, I suppose, of acceptable craftsmanship, but graceless, flat, and unimaginative -- no style at all in the whole construction. Its architects were doubtless the sort who'd call a spade a spade, and who should have been forced to use one as their only avocation in life. The gates, at least, are adorned with a pair of lovely female figures (obviously done long after this ceased to be a true monastery) surmounted by large blank eyes. Our entrance is unopposed. In an effort to be friendly, I ask Floria's recommendation: will we need to search the entire building for our enemy? She has no idea, but suggests following the corrupted ones back to their foul source. Followers of Heaven can be so melodramatic --but so can followers of Hell. A short corridor leads through the thick outer walls, past two guard posts, and into a small garden. The grounds are pleasant enough, for those who like green and growing things. The demons have seen to it that the plants are well-fertilized with bone and ashes, obviously hoping for a different sort of crop. The cloister centerpiece is a marble statue of three heroic Rogues, twice life size; it is left curiously untouched by the invaders. One wonders if they have some purpose in mind for it. I wish I could say my visit to the cloisters was properly contemplative, but there was little time for quiet meditation. All I heard was howls of pain, the screams of the dying, and the mindless gibbering of the irretrievably degraded. Sasquatch, children of nature, made the gardens their lair. The local Rogues took an idea from the Night clan, blackening their skins with the greasy ashes of the dead. The effort is intended to transfer a victims' strength to themselves, though further rituals to bind the soul are needed. Sorcerers have no idea what they're missing, restricting themselves to the elements. The mindless rage and fanaticism of my foes is growing, and I've grown less fond of being physically struck by them. A shield set with skulls is worthwhile if one cannot avoid being struck, but I've felt less need for revenge as their blows grew powerful enough to do me real damage. To fend them off, I'm carrying a larger shield, set with diamonds. They are a girl's best friends. Another gate leads through to the inner cloisters, but the way has been barred. It seems my approach was not subtle enough, and my arrival was anticipated. Happily, another avenue presents itself. Floria has told me of another way in, a circuitous route through the Rogue barracks and a prison. These jails are underground, and she feels they should be reasonably safe. I have my doubts, but a dangerous route is better than none at all. The barracks are well fortified with Devilkin, Goat Demons and corrupt Rogues. Of course, anyone assaulting a barracks should expect armed resistance. Strangely, a Toad Demon is also in the barracks, working at a blacksmith's forge in a back corner. Toad Demons are resentful things, made from the flesh of the most beautiful prince of the angels to mock his vanity; their heavenly origin gives them unusual power and high status in Hell. Of greatest use is their strength, which suits them to heavy manual labor like smithing; they delight in making ugly things, or making beautiful things ugly. Now, I'm no ravishing, come-hither beauty, but the fight it gives me was inspired. None of my venoms have much effect on that blob of twisted flesh; I'm almost ashamed I cast the curse of frailty and stabbed it to death, but my ends prompted my means. After it finally died, I discovered all that fervor was to protect... a hammer, a tiny little thing like a shoemaker might use. It doesn't seem to be a smith's tool at all, yet there it was, in a place of honor on its own special rack in the smithy. What a peculiar thing, though it does seem to be magical. The Rogue prisons are underground, with an entrance in the barracks. These rooms may have been intended for another use before the Rogues occupied the building. Signs of pain and despair are all around me, starting with the slow torture of caged starvation and working upwards. My mood has improved considerably; even Floria finds it worthy of comment. All the torture equipment has been recently used, with bodies left everywhere to rot. Sadly, none of the materials left littering the place could have been of any use to me. Their souls have already been bound in Hell's service as Skeletons and ghosts, with just enough Goat Demons that my venoms aren't completely worthless. As frustrating as it is to say, I could grow very weary of the undead. A most terrible thing has happened. On a trip back to camp, I turned that little hammer over to Charsi. Oh, for the joy of life I once possessed... With a squeal like a guinea pig being trodden on, she grabbed up the hammer and held it tight to her muscular chest, exclaiming, "Oh, thank you for finding my malus!" Not quite hearing that last word right, I replied, "I never suspected you had a malicious bone in your body. You must tell me what glorious thing I've done to unleash it." That's when the terrible thing happened. She scampered (as difficult as that is to imagine) from behind her anvil and... oh, I can hardly bear to put the words to paper! That brute of a girl took hold of my body and hugged me! She picked me completely up off the ground and twirled about three times with me in her grasp, giggling with glee! "Thank you thank you!" she said, oblivious to my agony. "You're so nice! Did I tell you I really like the bony whirly bits you keep flying around? That's really neato-keen!" Floria was off to one side, obviously enjoying my screams of anguish. After all I've done for her! I fear I've taught her not wisely, but too well. "Do you know he sounds just like a 12-year-old girl when you do that?" "That is my ribcage fusing!" I explained as calmly as I could. This exhilarated amazon was going to be the death of me in another few moments. "Please tell me what I've done, so I'll know never ever to do it again!" Releasing me, she went to hug Floria, who took it bravely. I wondered whether it would be wiser to flee to some safer place, or lie on the ground and feign death. Before I could reach a decision, Charsi came bouncing back. "This is the Horadric Malus!" "Oh... a malus," I said. Common tradesmen have specific names for all their tools; I plan never to learn any of them. "Isn't that lovely. Perhaps you can forge me a new spine." "Aw, don't be silly, Mr. Spooky-man. You don't fool me! Get up off the ground, your whirly bones are getting confused." After pulling me to my feet, she held up the malus, beaming with joy. "This is the Horadric Malus! I can use this to make magic items!" By all the spirits of the earth, this girl is pure sunshine. It was all I could do not to vomit all over her. Somehow, I know even THAT wouldn't impress her! Re-swallowing the lunch she'd nearly squeezed out of me, I said, "Ah, magic items. Lovely." I try, but they can't all be deathless witticisms. I was not having a good day. "Yeah! Anything you want, I take an unenchanted item, and make an enchanted one out of it! But it only works once, it has to recharge on its rack. Is the rack still there?" "Young lady, there are some things it is not acceptable to speak of out in public, and one of them is a girl's rack. Besides which, I have no particular interest in yours. I return to my task, but should I have any need of your services, you will be the first to know." The Rogue's jails are extensive; they must have had a great need for prisons while the pass was open for business. I can happily lose myself in them, and try to wipe recent events from my memory with torrents of blood and ectoplasm. Sadly, I cannot escape the trauma. Every time Floria smirks, I remember, and she has begun to smirk a very great deal. It's actually a joy to see the sky again when we leave the jails and enter the inner cloister. The center of the cloisters is the center of the monastery: a cathedral. A cathedral represents everything Zakarumite thought and architecture aspire to. I despise every stone of it instantly. I am sure it is full of horrors, but will not enter it tonight. A waypoint graces the garden outside its doors, and the jails have exhausted me. It is time to retire, and hope one night will not give my enemy time to cut me off again. Back in camp, Deckard Cain wishes to speak with me. He is confident that my enemy is not the Lord of Terror. The local hero who defeated Diablo, and was no doubt possessed by him, had gone on about "the east" before he vanished. Baal, Lord of Destruction, was entombed under the sands of Aranoch, the great desert east of this very pass. This fact, the pattern of corruption of the Rogue women, and the use of the most lowly demons, leads him to the conclusion that Diablo did pass this way, but has not remained. A less powerful demoness, Andarial, the Maiden of Anguish, is in the monastery, guarding Diablo's path and preventing any pursuers from interfering with him. If there is any truth to these speculations, humanity's situation is grave indeed. If the lesser evils now support the greater, Hell's leadership issues have been resolved and their forces may reunite under one banner, which is good news for no one. My knowledge of Andarial's ways supports his hypothesis, though. I confess, the chance to lay eyes on the infamous Maiden of Anguish interests me. According to our lore, she is the most beautiful of demons, mother of the Succubi and first among seducers. Unfortunately, she is also queen of spiders and nearly immune to poisons. According to Cain, she is not fond of fire; how I can use this, I have no clear idea as yet. A night's sleep may help focus my mind. One last note: I heard this conversation outside my tent, before nodding off. A Rogue (no idea which) asks, "So, what's he like?" My Floria answered, "He's not that bad." How flattering. Another asked, "He looks creepy." "Yeah, he's kind of creepy," Floria answered. Good girl. "But he's pretty harmless. He likes to talk about stuff. Hairstyles, men's fashions, interior decoration, things like that." One of the girls laughed. "Is he into musical theater too?" Floria said, "No, never mentioned that." What could be wrong with musical theater? A well-performed aria is transporting beyond all worlds, but I can't imagine anyone in this rural setting appreciating opera. No point losing sleep over women's gossip, I'd best put this from my mind. If Cain is right, tomorrow will take all of my concentration. Chapter 7 Dear Diary, As I have recorded here, on a previous occasion a most ungentlemanly person entered my quarters, threw me to the ground out of a sound sleep, gave me an embarrassing dagger, and slipped away without alerting my hostesses. He was here and gone so quickly I hardly got a look at him, but sleep did not come easily last night -- I already had one eye half-open when my visitor arrived, and was able to catch him at his business. Note that I did not see or hear him enter. I dare say professional burglars creep about with less grace, despite his burden, an alarmingly full haversack which nearly bent him double. Again, I shall record our conversation here; my future biographer may be able to make more of this enlightened individual than I can. As soon as I noticed his presence, I rose and put my dagger to his throat, the perfect way to greet uninvited guests. "That is far enough, my good man." "Howdy do!" he replied, irritatingly unruffled. Before I knew what was what, he'd taken father's dagger out of my nerveless hand. It was instantly replaced by a much larger one, with a beautiful reddish gold blade that undulated like a swimming serpent. "There ya go! That's the Jade Tan Do! You'll like that a lot better!" Gentle reader, you should not think it surprising that I found myself at a loss for words. Very few are lucky enough to see an artifact of such power in their lifetime (only Blackbog's Shard is considered superior), and no one could expect to have it thrust into their hand before breakfast. It was genuine beyond any question, as was my astonishment. What would you have done in my place? I claim no sophistication to my actions, no eloquence in my response. I rather roughly took hold of the fellow, and sputtered, "WHO? WHAT? HOW? WHERE? WHY?!" "I'm the Mule!" he replied with a broad smile. "That's the Jade Tan Do, and here's Soul Harvest and a nice bone shield. I'll get ya a better one when you're big enough. Me and th' boys live out on the disk; don't see much action out there, so we carry stuff for you and your friends to use. Don't you worry, I've got your best interests at heart. Can't let Andarial whop your butt before you've really gotten started! Now I gotta run so you can get movin'. With that dagger you're mostly immune to poison, so remember to keep in close and whack that spider-momma good! We're all waitin' on ya!" With that, he was gone. I must have allowed myself to be distracted by the scythe and a beautiful collection of polished demon bones leaning against the tent flap, as he slipped my grasp and vanished, again without alerting the Rogues. 'Sightless Eye' indeed. What could this "disk" he referred to be? Some cosmologists have speculated that the world is shaped like a wheel, which spins endlessly in repeating cycles. I'd never thought of that as more than a clumsy analogy. But to return to the matter at hand: the Jade Tan Do, and other items my benefactor left. Daggers of this design are well known and feared in the eastern nations, where they are used as weapons of assassination. Many a prosperous ruler has gone to bed at the end of a hard day's oppression and found such a dagger on his pillow. The wise need only one warning. No one left the Jade Tan Do in some sultan's harem, though; its loss was mysterious, but not as mysterious as its return. The scythe Soul Harvest has a more straightforward story. A member of my order, eager for power but impatient with learning, commissioned it as part of an ensemble he intended to wear in battle. Having a simple mind, he had a simple idea: if an opposing force is frightened, they will fight less effectively. His first battle was a terrible disappointment for him -- the enemy simply brought archers to the field, and never saw him close enough to be frightened. The weapon is intimidating to behold, despite its history, and may serve me well if employed more judiciously. With great kindness, the Rogues put their all into preparing breakfast for Floria and myself; I am reminded of the last meal of a condemned man, but I smile and thank them as I make my way to the waypoint. Skeletal mages with lightning guard the cathedral doors, and inside are more and stronger horrors than I've seen in days. How delightful to know I've made such a fine impression -- my enemy has sent out her very best in my honor. The undead abound, so I put both of my new weapons to the test. Soul Harvest is a fine implement of destruction, especially for those pesky creatures on whom venoms lack effectiveness. The Jade Tan Do is, as anticipated, a powerful weapon, but the true gift is the shield. I don't think I shall ever return to those heavy, clumsy, metal-and-wood things. Light and quick in the hand, yet broad enough to cover me, this wall of bone suits me to a tee -- and so stylish, too! With a proper helm, I could almost consider this a life worth living. Within the cathedral, I found one great work of art and spirit: a skeletal mage imbued with poison instead of an element. The bones may have come from a priest (or likely a priestess) as it would not leave the main altar; devoted souls often have a few lingering memories that guide them in undesired ways. Cursing the fate that brought me so much opportunity and so little time, I allow Floria to kill it, then escort me into the catacombs. Normally, tombs are friendly places, but an enraged demonic presence stirs under my feet. The dead will rise and oppose me again and again, I am sure. Even the earth bleeds in my enemy's presence; pools of it bubble out of the broken floor, giving me an indication of her power. I cannot say if the knot in my stomach is terror or eagerness. Of course, before I can meet this dark lady, I must deal with her servants. The catacombs are deep and very full, but I meet surprisingly few undead. Demons abound -- Dark Ones, the strongest of the Fallen Ones, and the Misshapen. Strange that Andarial should be here with them... according to my studies, she prefers prettier demons. She is also not fond of combat, preferring to sow anguish and despair by tantalizing and tempting, then crushing the hope she herself created. Why am I reminded of mother again? A very peculiar little oddity I've just encountered is tiny little men, hardly bigger than the ubiquitous rats. These rat-men are very small, with huge heads that are mostly mouths full of sharp teeth. Obviously they're demonic, but I do not recognize them at all, which troubles me nearly as much as the vivid floral-patterned skirts they wear. Demons come in endless variety, but I never thought I'd see any that like flowers... The catacombs are full of martial implements, as befits the burials. Frustratingly, most of it is Paladin gear, like shields and a mace called Crushflange, but I do find a new bow for Floria called Eagle Horn. Odd name, that. I notice she's wearing a suit of scale mail now. I sold that suit to Charsi, but Floria bought it back for herself. It's terribly unflattering... but there are more important things to worry her mind just now, sadly. Soul Harvest, I find, is most useful against slow creatures like shamans, or single opponents. I'm also finding Corpse Explosion very useful, with such strong starting materials. As we go deeper, the undead make their first appearance: flesh-devouring Ghouls lie within many of the sarcophagi. I've never understood why anyone, even Demons, would want Zombies as servants. They're utterly filthy and smell impossibly foul, and there's that dreadful habit of eating living flesh as thought it might do them any good. They're especially drawn to brains. Perhaps they miss their souls, and if they can't have their own back, mine will have to do. Another new creature is the Gargoyle. These are immobile, and to all intents and purposes appear to be stone decorative elements, but start spitting balls of fire the moment anyone comes into their range. Destroying such a thing should be difficult, but the construction carries an inherent weaknesses: they are alive, and thus susceptible to poison! Demonic knowledge does not extend to mechanical artifice -- almost everything they produce is made from twisted flesh or harnessed souls. Give a demon a lump of raw metal, and he'll have no idea what to do with it. It is rumored that a mysterious clan of mage-killers, hidden from the rest of humanity, avoids demonic tampering by specifically using only mechanical devices, though I doubt there's any truth to that. Our last edition to the bestiary is the Vampire, banished ones which haunt the darkest tombs far from the light of the sun. They're even more sensitive to it than I am. Perhaps I should make note of something at this point: currently, in the weaker sorts of popular fiction, there is a trend for making Vampires out to be intelligent, sensual, impossibly beautiful beings who are superior to dull humanity in every respect. Seeing one in the flesh leads the viewer, not to admiration and awe, but to wonder just what sort of people the authors of these cheap novels know, that a Vampire would be superior to them. Shrunken and leathery, with mean, glittery eyes starting greedily from their grinning skulls, they know only enough to blast victims into submission with fireballs before they try to devour them. I've seen Zombies with more erotic appeal, which says very little for the Zombie in question. The deeper we go, the more palpable anger radiates up through the floor. There can be no doubt at all a demon lord is in residence. At the deepest level, someone has arranged what can only be described as a corpse garden. The whole chamber is decorated in a Dead Rogue pattern -- impaled on pikes, slammed over stakes, splattered against the walls or ground into jelly and spread on the floor like carpeting. A woman's touch is evident. In the center of the room is a pool of blood and naked bodies: perhaps Andarial's bath, or her larder, or both. After clearing the last of her servants away, I open the door to her chambers. Of course, we haven't been invited, but I know we're not unexpected. Oh my dear blessed ancestors, I am so damned lucky to be alive. That was the clumsiest fight I've ever been privileged to survive. At the first sight of her, I actually laughed; I know demons are rarely subtle, but she was too much of everything, and too little of everything else. Then she struck. Andarial's first sting was a cloud of poisonous gas expelled with such force I was knocked clean off my feet; it ate at my flesh and shrieked in my lungs, even with the Jade Tan Do in my hand. I confess, I ran like a frightened rabbit. The demoness turned on Floria, who dissolved into a puddle of blood and bile before my eyes. It was over, literally, in seconds. Then she turned her attention back to me. Completely forgetting myself, I brought out Soul Harvest. Perhaps my desperation amused her; I think she actually let me hit her, once. Then the four stingers on her back came down and I remembered why I should never have put away the dagger. Drawing it cured the poison, but then a greater problem faced me: how was I going to kill a Lord of Hell with a glorified kitchen knife?!? Over twice my height, this giantess hardly needed poison to rend my flesh from my bones. I'm not ashamed to say I retreated, and that I retreated very rapidly. The stairs up into the catacombs beckoned me; with sufficient speed, I might escape. The Rogues would be upset, but I've repaid them for their meager hospitality by clearing out most of the monastery. This is a big world, there are many places I could go and let some hero with big muscles and not much on his mind kill Andarial. As abject cowardice filled my mind, I fear I didn't look where I was going, and turned right where I ought to have gone left. There was a wall where I'd hoped to find a door, and in front of the door, all the way over there... was her. Laughing. "YOU DO SCREAM JUST LIKE A LITTLE GIRL." The voice wasn't heard so much as felt, rumbling through the violated earth. I wish I could say I was inspired to put up a valiant stand, but my knees nearly gave out from under me and I wished I was already dead so it wouldn't hurt so much. But there was a hope: I just had to get her away from that door. Steeling myself as much as my quivering frame could manage, I ran across the room into the cloud of venom. Vision failed me; I knew I'd gone the wrong way when I bumped into a mountain of mad flesh that slammed four stingers into my back, right in the middle of the big yellow stripe doubtlessly adorning it. After stabbing until she let go, I ran in another direction until I found the wall. I found it very hard indeed. The next few hours (probably only 20 seconds) are a blur of green clouds and gigantic thighs suddenly filling my view. I was aware that she was chasing me. Never in my life have I had a woman chase me; I'd always hoped it would be more pleasant than it was. Finally, some small part of my brain still capable of rational thought informed me that I was still alive, so I must be doing something right. Continue doing this, but add something to the mix that might kill Andarial. Being no stranger to this part of my mind, I bowed to reason, and when she next loomed out of the clouds, I plunged the Jade Tan Do into her belly and ran away. All at once, a strategy came to me. Even those resistant to poison are not immune, and in my hand is one of the most powerful single sources that exists. If I can stab her repeatedly, yet keep out of her range, she must eventually fall. All at once, my terror vanished. I was not out of the woods yet by any means, but fear no longer had any hold on me. The corpse garden in the front hall would do for a battleground. Keeping her running would encourage my poison to do its work. And so, I led her around and around the pool, trying to stay out of her arms' reach, yet dart in to stab when my venom's effect had faded. My foe, naturally, was not stupid, and quickly realized what I was doing. Her venomous spit flew thick and fast, but the dagger protected me from most of that. The greater danger was her enormous strength. I had to brave her blows to get close enough to stab, and we both knew it. And that, dear reader, is how the battle eventually ended. Once I saw a path to victory, I did not flee her presence. Her overwhelming arrogance would not allow her to retreat. It took many minutes full of short yet violent encounters, but in time the giantess fell. My own body was very badly hurt; a few links of that chainmail will remain with me until the day I die. The Rogues were overjoyed. The clouds that had covered the sky ever since the monastery fell broke, and brilliant sunshine kissed the blighted landscape. I could take no pleasure in it. Even if I liked the sun, how could I explain that the only reason I stayed down there was because, in a moment of panic, I couldn't tell my right hand from my left? What a maudlin exercise this journal is. I wish I could put something more flattering in it, or at least less shocked by all that violence. A long rest is called for, perhaps a permanent one. Surely, father would agree, this was enough for anyone. Ah... Deckard Cain has reminded me of Diablo, the one who started this whole mess. He and his knowledge of the demon lord must journey east, to aid whatever cause has doubtless arisen to fight off the Lord of Terror in whatever land he's plaguing. Why do good people always have to be so brave? Now I'll have to go with the old addlepate to keep him safe. Concluding thoughts: You'd think a Necromancer would have an easier time dealing with undead. The Necro is not fun in one respect: he squeals like a little girl every time he gets hit. Poison dagger is OK, for hit and run. A poisonous missile weapon would be much nicer. Even with a dagger, Necromancers are slow. The Flayer Jungle will not be fun. Exploding slaves will be even less fun. Achmed the Cursed will be no fun at all. Act 2 Chapter 8 Dear Diary, I've neglected this journal for the last few days, and gave serious thought to abandoning it altogether, but I believe it would be wiser to resume my account of my travels. The fit of self-doubt I momentarily suffered after my battle with Andarial is only to be expected; how many others, on the first part of some grand undertaking, have stumbled and nearly fallen due to their own inexperience? My performance of the deed was hardly stellar, but I am not as experienced at murder as a typical muscle-bound bravo might be. I recorded my missteps willingly and without exaggeration or apology-- a befitting humility was always one of my strongest character traits, much commented upon by my peers. Another important reason to record my thoughts and deeds is, as I have come to realize, the great profit they will be to the world due to my unique perspective on the events of these troubled times. From my conversations with Deckard Cain, it is apparent that the calamities of today were a long time a-borning, yet took everyone involved by surprise -- even master Cain himself, who really should have recognized the signs. The rest of the world, steeped in complacent ignorance, will no doubt be taken unawares, and under no circumstances can the ignorant be expected to react properly to a cataclysm such as this. Additionally, there is the matter of history. Could a common man be expected to record an accurate and detailed narrative, even if by some blessing he knows how to write? These are the Three Prime Evil's last days in our world... or will be if I have my say. Future generations will look back on these times with wonderment and disbelief, sure that the creatures I have described are too fantastic to have ever existed. The danger of the history we are living now being viewed as legend (or myth!) by our posterity is very real; a poor, incomplete, or uncomprehending description by an unlearned observer would only compound the issue. Consider how rare it is for a historian to have at his disposal full documentation of history being made, by the very one who makes it. The Horadrim, when they felt their task was complete, hid the evidence of their deeds lest their shoddy work be undone. I have no intention of committing the same error. This time, the Prime Evils will be banished forever. If they cannot, I most certainly will not hide them and allow them to rebuild their strength under humanity's very noses. Of course, the greatest plans come to naught without the means to bring them to fruition, and the will to carry them out. As Deckard Cain informed me, the Horadrim undertook their journey with the best of intentions, and did all they could with the resources available to them. The road to Hell, they say, is paved with good intentions, and my own journey could reach a similar conclusion without proper care. I may expound on the need to exile outside spirits from the realm of humanity, but my philosophy offers no more than speculations about how this might be accomplished. The Soulstones were given to the Horadrim by the angels, and were intended to keep the Three Prime Evils imprisoned forever; accepting aid from such a source is of disputable wisdom, but I have nothing better to offer, and might have done the same were I in their place (which I dearly hope will never happen). Now that Andarial has been removed from her post, the next phase of my task begins, and already it is a severe test of my will. I must travel across the desert of Aranoch in pursuit of the Lord of Terror, who has fled to the east. According to Deckard Cain, the Horadrim buried Baal, Lord of Destruction, in a hidden tomb in the deepest deserts, and Diablo is doubtlessly seeking his brother that they might combine their powers. One Brother roaming at will is a serious business, but two would be intolerable -- to say nothing of what would follow, when they inevitably seek out the third of their unholy triumvirate. Even if I cannot bring about his permanent destruction, Diablo must be prevented from reaching his brothers. As might be expected, there are additional complications. Will anything in my life ever run smoothly? Unlike the town of Tristram, the location of Baal's resting place is lost, even to Deckard Cain. Destruction's call will no doubt be heard by his brother, and I have no idea where to intercept him, or how to overcome his enormous lead. Another, perhaps greater, difficulty is Aranoch itself. The climate here is GHASTLY. Nothing stands between the land and the sun, and I'd wager not a single drop of water has fallen since Baal was first captured. Skin cracks open in the dryness -- my lips bleed every time I speak -- and the sun's glare off the sand is so intense, I feel faint every time I look outside. (Of course I'm inside the wagon, it would be suicide to sit on top in this heat!) Despite the absolutely BEASTLY weather, our caravan master chatters away as cheerfully as though he were on a Sunday ride in the park, completely oblivious! Cain is sitting up there too, trading endless, tedious stories of far-off places. Chief among them is Lut Gholein, our destination. "The jewel of the desert" is a seaport that seems to be the only excuse for a city in the entire area. After I've split completely open, they can rub sea-salt on me, and make my life complete. Oh goody, we've arrived. The only thing I can say for that journey is that it was shorter than expected. Outside the window, I can see this "jewel" arrayed before me; Warriv and Cain both spoke so highly of it, I wonder if it just lost its luster in recent years. As far as the eye can see are clusters of mud brick huts, baked by the sun to the point where a touch might send whole structures shivering back into dust. Occasionally, a colorful banner hangs over a window, like a bright veil an aged courtesan might wear to hide her faded looks. The smell confirms the city's status as a coastal port. Many find sea air "bracing". I have never understood the appeal of rotting fish and salty weeds. Part of the process of unloading a merchant wagon is to remove the carpet that serves as its flimsy roof. That scrap of cloth was my only shelter for many days crossing this cruel desert. Now, it seems I must slink from shadow to shadow if I'm to survive. The local people seem unaffected by the heat, no doubt due to acclimatization; perhaps I could hire one of the taller ones to walk with me on my sunward side. My first inquiry has met with success of a different sort. Any city will have its nobility, but I never anticipated making the acquaintance of the sultan himself so soon. He is young, and unprepared for the lofty position he holds -- if it can be believed, this Lord Jerhyn rushed from his palace to see a group of common merchants, so eager was he for news. These are trying times indeed, if the sultan goes to the commoners, rather than summoning them. This one must learn to conduct himself properly if he is to rule, though it is not my place to say so openly. Lord Jerhyn and I chatted for a while; our words are unimportant, as I grew less and less impressed with him the more we spoke. Our caravan is the first to reach the city in months, it appears. Others were waylaid and destroyed in the desert, as the city of Lut Gholein is surrounded by hordes of monsters. His tales of these beasts are tantalizingly familiar; giant stalking things among the moonlit dunes, long-quiet tombs yielding up their dead, local fauna twisting into demonic versions of themselves, etc. etc. etc. A band of mercenaries guards his walls, leaving him one coin away from complete vulnerability. He won't even invite me to his palace, mumbling some pathetic excuse about it being "a mess." Any and all help from armed fighters of any kind would be appreciated, especially if they work for free. Knowing full well the cause of his troubles, I assured him that I am an expert in such matters (who would dispute me?) and that everything possible will be done. The city is doomed, of course, due to bad management more than the Lord of Terror. This puppy does not know how to rule a city, he can't even keep his own palace in order. Hopefully, when the city is crushed like a bug by whatever stalks the desert, I will be elsewhere. But while it stands, I shall make some inquiries, for a decent meal if nothing else. Exploring landwards seems an excellent idea -- anything to take me away from all that healthy sea air. My first stop is a small central market, separated from the rest of the city by walls. Many cities grew up from smaller towns; this could be Lut Gholein's "old quarter", with its earliest buildings and perhaps the original graveyard. It will be interesting to see how the dead fare here, I'm sure I'll be meeting some of them again later. Ah, a familiar scent screeches and claws its way into my delicate nostrils -- an alchemist's shop! The proprietor, one Lysander, is not a good alchemist (one may judge an alchemist by the condition of his hearing and the number of fingers he has remaining) and a poor merchant besides. A good merchant, when he sees a new face, rejoices that another sucker has come to town to be drained dry of his material wealth. Lysander's reaction is one of suspicion and hostility, not even allowing me to enter his shop and escape the wilting heat. The only product he offers is a rough paste those with pale complexions may use to safeguard their skin against the sun. If I am here for any length of time, that may be necessary, but his churlish sales technique will never endear him to his customers; I shall find other means. Against the city's north wall is a tall building that looks less uninviting than the others. It is an inn, named "The Desert Rain", run by a one-handed, one-legged, one-eyed man. More may be missing, but I hesitate to inquire. The man's rough looks and fragmented body inform me of a violent past; my own looks give him pause, but after a brief hesitation he welcomes me warmly. Obviously, this is a skilled merchant. With so few visitors surviving to reach the city, he must have many vacant beds, and a full purse speaks louder than an unorthodox appearance. He also asks about replacement parts. It's amazing how quickly one becomes known in a new town. His selection of rooms, without exception, are small, flea-ridden, dusty, suspiciously stained, almost unfurnished little pits of hellish discomfort... but a vast improvement over the cot I had in the Rogue camp. I reserve the least objectionable for a month, with instructions that he is not to enter in my absence; I'll be fumigating. Naturally, the inn sits conveniently near the city's north gate to welcome visitors. The gate itself is closed, and watched by a large fellow with a pointed helmet. Perhaps it reflects the shape of his head. This one (no doubt one of Jerhyn's mercenaries) would have made a good servant had he died younger, but time and inactivity have reduced his mighty frame from its peak, judging by the paunch his bulky clothing does not quite conceal. I wonder if warriors, if they do not die at the peak of their powers, ever ponder the folly of their chosen path? At the age when those who chose the way of magic are beginning to taste their true potential, the fighting man's is fading away as time robs him of his speed and strength. Continuing always on the shadier side of the streets (if that isn't a metaphor for my life, I don't know what is), I came to a tiny shop stuffed to the rafters with books scrolls, staves, rods, and polished demon bones. The owner, unfortunately, is a sorcerer. Naturally, he tried to ingratiate himself with me, offering his congratulations on Andarial's defeat, but even then he had to brag of his own magical prowess. Sorcerers! Insufferably arrogant when they feel they possess an advantage, but endlessly cajoling and flattering any who prove themselves superior. To cap it all off, he actually expressed surprise that my "primitive" magics brought down a lord of Hell... even the "relatively weak and unwarlike" Andarial. That, as they say, was that. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, but I could restrain myself no longer and gave that old bolt-slinger a piece of my mind. Rathma's traditions come from the old days of True Magic, the power of the soul. Sorcerers are elementalists, frightened away from True Magic ages ago. Only golem-makers bother with the elements, and their creations can still outdo any sorcerer's efforts. His reply was weak and vague, mewling something about elemental power being less susceptible to corruption by demonic forces. As though one power source is more or less prone to corruption than any other. Power is power, and only a fool refuses it when he needs it. I've taken my leave of that arrogant old clown, and will not return to his little shop. Were I to see that smug smirk again, I might feel obliged to prove my position to him, and I will not be seen brawling in the streets like a common ruffian. The sun is nearly at its zenith, but I can look in the marketplace for a short time before I simply must go indoors. The first person I see, a pale red-haired woman quite out of place in this arid setting, greets me with the first sentence of Rathma's great text! Could it be that I've found another of my people, here of all places? Oh, no... no No NO, she is a PALADIN! The dead ones in the Rogue's pass were vexatious enough, and they could not speak! I am cursed. To have one of those moralizing martial monks in my life is too much to bear. Please, Lord of Terror, raise your hand and wipe this city away, there are too many people in it whose company I must avoid. Oh my, there were sparks before my eyes. Or some sort of flashing lights. I found myself in the common room of a tavern, with that Paladin telling me I fainted. I appeared flushed, so she is sure it was the heat. Out of the kindness of her heart, she carried me here, loosened my garments, and applied cool, wet cloths to my body. In addition, she has ordered me a splendid luncheon of watercress sandwiches, white cod with lemon, plums chilled on winter ice, and white wine. Her church teaches the value of kindness, of course. Having not seen such a spread in weeks, I can almost forgive her her religious affiliation, though if she keeps being nice to me I'll have to tear her heart from her ribcage and force her to eat it as she dies. I cannot bear too much kindness from someone I despise. The tavern offers shelter from the sun. Otherwise, it is full of convivial ruffians and common jackblades, all engaged in loud and pointless conversations. Enjoying my food requires an effort of will to screen out the stream of banalities assaulting my ears. By all the spirits of the earth, what a complete and utter misery this city is. In every respect, it is complete and utter failure of the human spirit, representing the worst imaginable of... of... I say, that man over there has a... is that a... Black Mushroom? Could I order one here? No doubt it would be of inferior quality, but there is a chance that it might remind me of those back home. The hostess is a subdued woman in black, a pleasing sight amongst the harlequin-colored garb which otherwise fills the city. It is only when she prepares the concoction that I realize I am in the presence of an artist. Firstly, she only uses the finest ingredients. This being a trading town, its inhabitants would have access to the best the world has to offer. Even the general antidote potion which forms the base of a Black Mushroom is of good quality -- the odor of cedar and the bitter tang of citrus heralds its excellence. With the smooth efficiency of experience, she combines ingredients with impeccable grace and timing, each in exactly the proper amount to insure its full impact in the completed concoction. The final step is where most tavern-keepers fail, by using a cut piece of a mature mushroom. No! This lady finishes the mix with an entire baby mushroom, plucked while the stem is still tinged with red and its venom is at its most piquant! There was only one thing I could do: I went down on bended knee, and asked for her hand in marriage. Oh dear, it seems she was recently widowed; I have spoken too earnestly, and too soon. It is my hope that she will take my words as they were intended. In the meantime, the Black Mushroom's siren call overwhelms any regret for my mistaken entreaty. Oh... what possible happiness could Heaven offer, if things such as this are not found there? Heaven? Hell? What does is matter when all a man might want is to be found right here on this earth? I'm no fan of nature's abundance, but she did a good thing when she started growing these little black bombs of deadly goodness on her cold earthy bosom. I'll have another. Here's to nature's cold dirty bosoms! Maybe I'll invite that Paladin for a drink, she could probably use one. All Paladins could. I won't even mention cold dirty bosoms around her. Ha ha! I'll have another. Who kneads the Paladin, everyone I need is rite here! Salt of thee earth, all these vine fellows. Who was that lade I saw yew with? That was no lade that was a Paladin. Hee hee! Sure, whine is good. I'll have another. I reel low these gays, I'll by them all little drinkys, and woo cares day poot the sealing so far away no that's the table and I'm under it. Who cares. Chapter 9 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. Chapter 10 Dear Diary, This morning was even worse than I had anticipated. In addition to a growing contempt for myself - what was I thinking, risking my life in a sewer to please a woman? - there is the matter of Jerhyn. This morning, he came to see me, here at the inn. Needless to say, I was aghast. Any leader, if he is to have the proper respect and fear of his subjects, must remain aloof. Mixing with the commoners creates familiarity, and familiarity breeds contempt. If the boy absolutely must speak with me, then he must require me to make the effort to go to him, not the reverse. Who is master here? He has to learn sometime, so after hearing of his presence I rose leisurely, taking all the time I need and more to prepare for the coming day, in the hopes that my insolence will remind him of his station. It has not; he is pacing back and forth in the street under my window, impatiently awaiting my pleasure with no notion that his time should be more important than mine. The position of sultan is hereditary, I understand; did his father not educate him in these important matters? Perhaps a bit more insolence will help, but I'd best not indulge my worse nature too enthusiastically; he has the larger force behind him. The discussion began badly -- he actually said he was glad to see me. It is I who should be glad to be allowed into your presence, you puppy! But before I could think of a suitable way to express this sentiment, he distracted my mind and purpose most unfairly, by presented me with important information. Against all expectations, a man resembling Tristram's local hero came to Lut Gholein a few weeks before my arrival. Accompanied by a small man who was obviously feeble-minded, the stranger kept himself heavily cloaked at all times, despite the heat. Of everyone he met, he asked the location of Baal's tomb. No one still living knows the whereabouts of Baal (the Horadrim did one thing right) so the stranger left, with as little ceremony as when he arrived. The implications of this are fascinating. One theory concerning demonkind states that they do not truly exist in a material sense, but interact with our plane by manipulating the astral connections associated with living minds. Being from a dimension beyond our own, the insensible matter which makes up our world is inaccessible to them except through indirect means, a way of explaining why demons use devices infused with native souls to interfere with our material world. More importantly, existing beyond our reality implies that any two demons will be able to perceive each other outside our plane using their native senses, and so could never be hidden from each other. If that was indeed the Lord of Terror (and there is little reason to doubt it) it would seem that he is unaware of his fellow demon's location: Baal is lost to him. Jerhyn also notes that the assault on the city began within hours of the mysterious stranger's departure, no doubt emptying the surrounding area so Diablo's search would not meet interference. The desert will certainly be full of demons, revived corpses and corrupted animals until Destruction has been found, or even afterwards if Terror's malevolence has not been satisfied. I occurs to me that the Soulstones may be responsible for this strange turn of events; spirit traps of our own invention affect demons oddly, who can say what a Heavenly trap would do? It also occurs to me that I haven't much time for dilly-dallying. As offensive as it may be, educating Lord Jerhyn about his title will have to be forgotten, if not forgiven. Finding Baal before Diablo has the chance to free him appears to be my only alternative; either that, or finding Diablo himself. The former option seems the least hazardous. Exploring that sun-blasted wasteland will not be good for my health or disposition; traveling across it was enough punishment for the sins of one lifetime. Lest the heat kill me before the demons do, I need a way to protect myself, even if it means giving Lysander my business. There are many jolly merchants in the marketplace, all eagerly anticipating my patronage. Who's to say the followers of Rathma are not welcome wherever they go? Deckard Cain, who seems fond of sitting by wells, is very happy to have the decayed scrolls and tomes I brought up from the sewer -- it takes so little to please him. Ah, I've no need for Lysander after all! A fellow here is selling folding sun-shades called "parasols," which may be carried in one hand to provide cover for the head. Necessity is the mother of invention, so 'tis said. My armaments do not leave me a free hand, but that's what servants are for, and they're for hire. My only quibble is the colors and patterns available, all floral things in gaudy shades. The least offensive is a subdued peach. The rocky wastes outside the city walls are absolutely impossible, alternating between small hard stones just large enough to trip over, and shifting sands which slide out from beneath one's feet. My hired man, one Zanarhi, is not being very helpful. I demand only one duty of him, but he seems to feel it is beneath his dignity. A servant has no right to dignity, but perhaps the only example of a master he has known is Jerhyn. I've had little opportunity to correct his misapprehensions, however, as almost from the moment we stepped out of the gates we have been beset. The spear he insisted on carrying along has seen enthusiastic use, and he will not remain close and give me shelter as I've instructed. The creatures of the desert are, blessedly, living things one and all. Firstly, there are the Sand Leapers, extremely active reptiles with more eyes than is acceptable in a vertebrate. As their name implies, they are energetic runners and jumpers, forever bounding hither and thither to avoid our blows and attack when our backs are turned. Zanarhi finds them a terrible consternation, but a single dose of poison is all that's required. Second come flocks of four-legged birds, resembling a combination of the worst of vultures and jackals. Having two wings and four legs gives them a total of six limbs, which I have not observed before in any natural animal. Zanarhi says are new to the area. These birds weigh about 30 pounds each, but are powerful fliers capable of reaching great altitudes, though lacking the aerial grace to attack while on the wing. Also inhabiting the area are cat people, like those in the sewers. Quick and agile, though perhaps not terribly strong, these are beautiful creatures who really should not be in league with Hell. Why any cat would care for Heaven or Hell is a complete mystery to me; sensible earthiness is one of the cat's most charming traits. Another reminder of the sewers can be found half-buried among the rocks: the bones of enormous reptiles. The sewer beast's old head may have come from a juvenile of this species. Ah, a discovery! The local people do not keep graveyards; each family has a large tomb for the preserved remains of their honored ancestors. Zanarhi wishes to avoid the tomb, as it does not belong to his family, but my curiosity must be assuaged. Seeing how the dead are treated here is more than a matter of curiosity for me. As might be expected, the revered ancestors object to my adventurous spirit, but strenuous arguments convince them to lay down their arms... and legs, heads, etc. etc. etc. Being out of the sun has improved my mood somewhat, though it irritates me that now Zanarhi sees fit to remain close. He's also forgotten the parasol; if he lost it, a new one will come out of his pay. The deepest part of the tomb conceals a couple of armories, as I suspected it might. This is news to Zanarhi; the family patriarchs must not share the knowledge of these holdings with their more rash and impetuous sons. He is an irritatingly efficient killer, even more so than poor Floria. The first armory is guarded by an especially revered ancestor; after Zanarhi kills it, it explodes in a blast of ice, injuring him severely. The mummy was obviously trapped, to teach anyone who violates its tomb to a fatal lesson. The second armory has powerful guardians. The family whose tomb this is could not have placed them there -- they would never see their heirlooms again. These demons resemble beetles externally, these demons are the height of a man and walk on their hindmost legs. The forelegs are shaped like axes, and are used to attack. Being struck by one, though certainly painful, was not the greatest danger; that came when we retaliated. Bolts of electricity jolted up our weapons, sending sparks of brilliant lightning dancing about the room and giving us both near-fatal shocks. Every muscle in my body was trembling as I ran away, with Zanarhi not far behind me in any sense of the term. After some minutes, we returned to find the beetles dead. Poison is such a great gift. The best loot in the tomb is a suit of chainmail. Perhaps its a measure of how far my steps have deviated from my intended path that I value this. The joys of nihilistic transcendence are far from my mind, now taken over by the crass concerns of material survival. Back on the surface, Zanarhi nearly "forgets" to pick up my parasol; as punishment, he shall have to carry it while we are in the city. I have no idea why it amuses the townsfolk so to see it, but carrying it embarrasses him and that is enough. Finding for the tomb of Baal could take years, and it seems I must fight every step of the way. Up in some low hills, I have found the remains of monumental stone statues. In style, they are very different from the tomb sculptures, but seem more recent; erosion has touched them less, despite being more exposed to the elements. We are not far from the city, so I am sure they have been well described elsewhere and I will not waste my time on them. Were there anything else of interest to note, I would not have mentioned them at all. This land is a misery, hot and dry and plagued with blood-sucking insects. The only novelty I have discovered is an enchanted scimitar, which floats and attacks without human guidance. At least, it did before Z broke it in two. The day has been an exhausting one. There is another tomb in the hills, but I will not go in tonight. On any exposed skin, I am burnt painfully. Sand is everywhere -- in my boots, in my gloves, my skin has been abraded to the point of blistering. My only desire is cool water and a soft bed, but know I shall find neither until I accomplish my goal and leave this desert far, far behind me. Someone has been in my room. Nothing was taken; instead, things were left, along with an insulting note. "Wow! Them lightnin' bugs are bad trouble, ain't they? Here's some gear to help you out with them, and don't you worry, there's more coming. You just needs to be patient. -- The Mule." My benefactor has returned. The gear will be useful: gauntlets, a sturdy belt, rare jewelry and a pair of steel boots with the name "Goblin Toe" written on the sole. What is a goblin, I wonder, and why should I value its toe? Never mind that; my brains have been simmering in the saucepan of my skull all day, I cannot trust my thinking. Perhaps rashly, I will write a letter of my own in return, and leave it on the floor to be picked up. Here is a copy: "My dear benefactor, Your latest gifts have been received, and let me offer my heartfelt thanks. Though I hesitate to inquire into what may be a personal matter, my curiosity has overborne my deference and I feel compelled to put a number of questions to you: Who are you really, and why have you decided to bless me so magnanimously? How do you come by these things? In an earlier encounter, you mentioned companions, and a disk. Does your assemblage support the theory of our world being flat? Most educated persons align themselves with the spherical theory, being so much better supported by astronomical evidence. In the hopes that I find you and any compatriots well, I remain Yours sincerely, Varnae C. A. von Rhus" Chapter 11 Dear Diary, Upon awakening, I discovered my letter had vanished, and a response lay in its place. Next time, I shall construct a deadfall above the door. The missive is written in black ink on plain paper of the commonest quality, with no visible watermark. In all respects, the penmanship betrays a well-practiced hand: each line of text is perfectly straight and horizontal on the page, the margins are sharp as knife blades, and every letter is perfectly, even identically, formed. No hesitation or clumsiness mars the smooth movements of the pen, as one might expect from an uneducated simpleton trying to produce a document. Yet, my correspondent is trying to fool me into believing him such a simpleton by using coarse colloquialisms and deliberately poor grammar. I also notice his spelling is absolutely perfect, yet another flaw he forgot to include in his masquerade. There is no need to betray my realization at this stage, however; people are generally much more honest and forthcoming when they believe themselves disguised. Here are his words: Hi there! I'm the Mule! Don't have no other name, that's as deep as I go. Me and the others live out here on the disk where you sleep. Used to be I was the only one, but there's a whole bunch now! There's some carrying weapons, one's got belts -- they all come from generous folks like you. If you find anything the boss wants, you'll see me again. The world isn't flat; it don't really got a shape. Hear that whirring? We all sleep on that disk, and when it whirs like that, the world comes off the other disk into the RAM. While you're in the RAM, you're in the world and doing stuff. Now get off your butt, get to the Halls of the Dead, and find that Horadric Cube! -- The Mule Fascinating. I don't believe a word of it, of course. My bed shows all the expected signs of having been slept in, by no one save myself and a few million vermin. Nor is any "whirring" to be heard, here or elsewhere. Lastly, no cosmologist, philosopher, or even priest has ever postulated a universe that requires insertion into a sheep to function. Nonetheless, my correspondent's reference to the "Halls of the Dead" is interesting. I believe I saw another tomb entrance among those hills yesterday. It looked like a pleasant enough place; heat doesn't penetrate far into the earth, providing a welcome respite. Searching it should make a worthwhile afternoon's labor. Before I sally forth, I'd best make inquiries as to the nature of a "Horadric Cube," especially why I or anyone might want such a thing. Just back from speaking with Deckard Cain. The poor old dear was more than willing to share everything he knows about this mysterious cube, just so I'd stay a while and listen. I doubt he gets many visitors. The Horadrim came from all the magical disciplines, including alchemy, and the Horadric Cube was one of their inventions. All manner of transmutations (far more than I care to remember) can be effected by simply placing the ingredients inside the cube and activating a switch. Besides the usual potion manufacturing, arrows could be changed into crossbow bolts, spears into javelins, sockets added to weapons... the list was endless, or perhaps it just seemed so. Before I made my escape, the old dear brought up something from the sewer beast's books which may be of importance. Apparently, the Horadrim mummified their dead, and the most powerful were invested with magical amulets, replacement parts, and other "improvements" that they might guard their tombs against robbers. As much as it could be described as a single being, the sewer beast was named Radamant, and while alive had been present for the capture and binding of Baal. When Baal was imprisoned, the Horadrim realized the Soulstone they had could not contain him for long. One of their number thrust the stone into his own body, thinking his spirit could match the demon lord's and he could make a spirit trap of himself. The idiot had a very high opinion of himself indeed, though we must remember he was probably a sorcerer. His fellows could see no reason to dispute his assessment, so they entombed him alive, congratulated themselves, and went back to their old rivalries. The tomb was not forgotten -- its location was deliberately wiped out, but the Horadrim could never stand the idea of anything in this world being truly inaccessible. Why do you think they've salted the earth with all those silly waypoints? Every member of the band which bound Baal had a staff made which could open the tomb, though how these staves were to be used was never recorded. The Lord of Terror, when last seen, did not have a staff, though I cannot presume a demon lord would require one to make his way past whatever keeps Baal imprisoned. Should I find one of these staves, it might be amusing to enter the tomb and destroy Baal before Diablo has the chance to free him. The look on his face would be just priceless. A pity I won't be there to see -- I'm not a fool. Until then, the Halls of the Dead beckon. My hireling was hiding in the tavern. He really ought to have known that was the first place I'd look for him. The tomb is indeed called the Halls of the Dead -- it's carved right on the lintel, in case anyone should be confused or unnaturally stupid. The entry chamber is large, with a dry well in the center (no doubt a symbol of some kind in the local religion) and three doorways, each sealed by a heavy slab of stone covered with glyphs. Very large, very strange bats that look something like insects inhabit the tomb. I am reminded of the many-eyed Sand Leapers, and the electrified beetles. Happily, these tiny creatures make mere sparks; even Zanarhi is not bothered by them. The doors slide down out of the way at a mere touch, with remarkable smoothness and very little noise. I'd suspect hydraulics, but water is so scarce here it seems implausible. Beyond the door, I find my first Horadric Mummy since Radamant. This one cannot speak (or cares not to) and seems to possess no motivations beyond destroying interlopers such as myself. Like Radamant, it can repair its servants or recreate them after their destruction; unlike Radamant, its servants are of poor quality and no real threat to my person. This one seems content to behave like an ordinary monster; a pity, considering that its preservative-laden form could survive for centuries. All that time, and so little thought to occupy it... Plundering the tombs fills many a happy hour. The dead disapprove, but a few well-placed explosions calm their tempers. The technique works especially well on Mummy servants, not only damaging the survivors but scattering the remains so their masters cannot call on them again. I did see a severed hand clawing at Zanarhi's ankle. Such devotion! I was almost sad when he stepped on it. In a deeper level of the tomb, there are more javelin-throwing cat people. They die easily; it still tears my heart out to do it, but since it must be done I am glad it is easy. Once, while opening a treasure chest, Zanarhi wandered away. Soon, I heard the sound of howling cats and clashing steel, but by the time I arrived, all were dead. I suppose I should have been pleased, but I was not. Getting himself out of trouble would be far less exasperating if he weren't the one getting himself into it! But I will say nothing. I have learned, through long and painful experience, that his only response to my objections will be an eloquent shrug and the only word with more than two syllables he knows: "whatever." Many disparate meanings can be read into that word, but he really ought to learn another. I have found an interesting novelty. The most honored dead lie in heavy stone sarcophagi here, but someone found a most extraordinary use for one. It was standing upright in an embalming chamber. I was not shocked to see a lesser Mummy come out and attack me; the second was more surprising; by the fifth, I knew it to be enchanted. Stacking so many in one coffin is a physical impossibility, even with their cooperation. Are the dead summoned from some other location, I wonder, or are they hidden below a trapdoor in the floor? Had I more time, I could investigate, but survival's demands are strict. Sigh! I suppose father's training in morality has had some effect on me: I am being "good," diligently devoting myself to a task. Though I'm not all good, all the time. The good die young, no doubt because even they cannot tolerate the strain of their company. Just finished a hard battle: a group of four Horadrim Mummies in the same room! The quartet proved impossible to separate, and their servants formed a veritable army. As great as the danger was, there was no alternative but to enter their chamber and meet them face to... navel. To my astonishment, the stratagem proved wise. With their servants close about, when one fell, a corpse explosion could do a great deal of harm to the survivors. A few more would fall, and... well, the term "paint job" is a crude but apt description. These dense packs of creatures in tight spaces are making corpse explosion a blessing. At least the Mummies cannot raise each other. To be sure, I spent quite a bit of energy blasting their bodies into tiny little bits. I wonder, was that healthy spite, or am I losing my normally sunny, devil-may-care disposition? The lowest level of the tomb hides the real treasure, as before. Turning left from the main entrance, the first chamber is guarded by three Horadric mummies and two packs of spear-throwing cats. Who could guess that centuries-dead bones would have so much energy in them? The battle is a cacophony of exploding servants and howling cat people; my clothing is nearly ruined. But in the chamber is a treasure chest, and in the chest is a cube covered with inscribed runes. If the Horadrim had restricted themselves to alchemical devices, and not strayed into saving the world, humanity's lot would have been much improved. The rest of the tomb has worthwhile treasures as well, though the battles were tedious and messy. One armory yielded a set of scale armor. Experimentally, I have Zanarhi wear it. It looks to be good protection, though he fidgets even more than Floria did. Why, I wonder? Dressing him is certainly less fun. Men simply aren't decorative; even when women try not to be, they still manage. Would that we all could succeed so effortlessly. And so long as we are on the subject of success, the Halls of the Dead are now empty of life and unlife, save for ourselves. There is nothing further to be gained here, so we take our leave. Chapter 12 Dear Diary, Much has been written about the harsh deserts of Aranoch, especially in the cheaper sorts of romantic fiction. According to these sources, this is a land of mysteries concealed amid moonlit dunes, gentle breezes wafting over the temptations of perfumed seraglios, and cool nights spent at lush oases excite the heart with sensual delights. A sufficiently imaginative writer could make a cesspool sound delightful, I suppose. In my experiences, the mysteries among the dunes are things no one would want to discover, and the perfume's real purpose is to conceal the rarity of bathing. As for the oases... Gentle reader, I now request your indulgence, as I take you on a journey to a place I pray you are unfamiliar with. Imagine, if your mind can grasp it, a union of all the worst of desert and marsh. Where the ground is low, brackish water percolates up from some subterranean source, carrying with it the dissolved salts of ten million gallons of desert sweat. High ground is covered with plants, all blessed with thorns ranging in size from tiny, hairlike thistles that invisibly worm their way into the skin, to spines capable of being driven straight through a man's torso. Date palms form the only exception to this rule, but where date palms grow, one finds either desert camels or rotting dates; which smells worse is debatable and entirely irrelevant. This is an oasis. Yet, the feast for the senses pictured in your mind is not finished. No description of an oasis would be complete without making a note of the insects. Every sort of mosquito, flea, tick, or other bloodsucking parasite makes its home here, sustained by an abundant diet of camel and desert nomad which keeps them happy and numerous. None love anything better than armor, under which they can hide and breed without restraint. The noise alone is enough to drive a man mad. I am sure some little corner of Hell must sound exactly like this; trust a demon lord to know a good thing when he hears it. And the Lord of Terror has been here, of that there can be no doubt. I have swatted many a mosquito in my life, but never one that burst in an explosion of blood and fire. Small creatures abound in the oasis. The deformed raptors that were so common in the west have made their way here, though the climate has not been kind to their nests. Being made of meat, a large amount of moisture is necessary or the structure dries into a leathery husk, unsuited to these creatures' needs. Those ubiquitous four-legged carrion birds are present, but seem to be dead, doubtless from dining on the poison-laden flesh of mummies. Death did not agree with them, and they are now eager for a change in diet. A curious thing has happened. In the ruins of a large building, a group of giant beetles had made their lair. Perhaps being out in the bright sun was unpleasant for them; one had an old leather jerkin draped over its back. While I was examining my unimpressive prize, it vanished from before my eyes, and a note in a familiar hand appeared. Hey, Blinkbat's Form! Congratulations, that's one we were missing! Find Twitchthroe, and you'll make me a happy mule. Look for gloves too, while you're out there. -- The Mule Of all the nerve! I'm seriously considering discontinuing our correspondence. Unfortunately, I may have little say in the matter, if this fellow can appear and disappear at will, taking or giving as he pleases. Perhaps I am deluding myself, but this may bear the mark of Heaven's meddling. Though not particularly subtle, the celestial powers prefer to manipulate (for our own benefit, of course) rather than employ temptation or force. Despite the impression of lackadaisical whimsy my benefactor is trying so hard to project, the faultlessness of his penmanship betrays a rigidly controlled disposition, a hallmark of Heaven's penchant for order and perfection. The implications of this are not clear, as yet. For the moment, my course of action shall be to pretend dumb ignorance, until more of his hand is revealed. Only a fool refuses a weapon, and he has provided. Nonetheless, while Heaven's gifts may be useful, no one has yet demanded that I use them in Heaven's service. On the subject of dumb ignorance... Zanarhi has tried to lose my parasol twice today. There are trees in the oasis (horrible palms oozing sticky sap) so I want it less frequently, but we shan't be here forever. I'm beginning to run out of punishments for him, unless I use some that would interfere with his job as bodyguard. Much to my surprise, while the lightning-enchanted scarabs are the largest vermin to be seen, they are not the largest to be found. At the edge of the oasis, a pit resembling that of an ant-lion, but many times larger, presented itself to me. Having seen these creatures procure their meals, and not wanting to suffer a similar fate, I sent Zanarhi down. Nothing leapt forth to devour him, but the pit led to a series of tunnels. Like many insect tunnels, the walls are a mixture of saliva and sand, nearly as hard as stone. Unlike many insect dens, the tunnels are large enough to stand in comfortably. There are also several human corpses dotting the floor and walls, all covered with a green slime that seems to be slowly dissolving the flesh and bone. My first encounter with the tunneling beasts was very fruitful. They are indeed gigantic, and strongly resemble the aforementioned ant-lion: a segmented body with six pairs of legs, long barbed mandibles ideal for catching at prey, and a singular ability to quickly dig through loose desert sands. Between 10 and 15 feet in length, the creatures are far too large and sluggish for the quick leaps and snatches of their smaller cousins; they compensate for this by laying eggs, which hatch with Hellish speed into tiny, more agile versions of themselves. Killing the egg quickly is highly recommended. What curious creatures these insects are turning out to be! I have found a large chamber, with three of them inside, along with two highly decorated traveling strongboxes, such as merchants use to secure their most valuable goods. The chests were obviously secured with some care, as they have not been damaged in any way; their trim and gilding is unmarred. Why, I wonder? One might hypothesize that these insects chew wood to make the walls of their tunnels, and animal instinct would drive them to collect this resource. If that were so, would not other pieces of a wagon do just as well? None are to be found. These creatures have obviously waylaid a caravan; did they simply save the prettiest things, or are they aware of what these boxes contain? If only I could spend more time here... I have just been to the tavern, spoke with the proprietoress, and learned two things. The tunneling insects are well known: they are unimaginatively called Sand Maggots. In happier days, they were raised for their eggs, and bred to be prolific layers. Recently, their eggs turned poisonous and the creatures turned on their masters, spitting venom and tearing innocent herders to shreds. What a surprising turn of events that must have been -- like all cows taking up arms and rising in revolt against the milk bucket. Fortunately, bovines remain well-behaved, placid creatures, disinclined to violent excess. My other lesson was about parasols. Apparently, their use is generally restricted to the fairer sex, and everyone in town has been wondering about me. The proprietoress tried to put it gently, but speculation has been rampant, and several aspects of my character were brought up for scrutiny. Indeed, my very manliness has been openly called into question! Naturally, the idle chatter of a tavern full of inebriates with nothing better to do all day but spin rumors about their betters is nothing to me. Let them spread their silly gossip all they like, more important things occupy my attention. Zanarhi is now openly defying me, refusing to carry the parasol in town. Circulating rumors are now more important than my wishes, and he will not be reasoned with. Simply because I care about my appearance, appreciate fine food and drink, and know what colors clash does not mean I am some sort of deviant. His response was as pithy as ever: "There's lots of reasons to think you're some kind of deviant. Like that 6-foot boner jo--" In an instant, I was at his throat, with a clear order never to bring that up again. Unmanly, indeed! The Maggot tunnels make a formidable maze. Other insects lair here with them, including Lightning Scarabs, and mosquitoes in such dense clouds, they almost form a solid mass, and move about as though they formed a single being. Many of their chambers have stolen strongboxes in them, not all decorated; something besides bright colors must attract them. In one, I found a crystal sword: a blade of pale blue stone, nearly as clear as glass, polished to a glittering shine. These pretty things are popular with angels, who appreciate their spark and keen edge, though crystal is not as practical for battle as common earthly iron. I have just had the most extraordinary battle, in which I acquitted myself most manfully, I do believe. In a huge chamber, something I can only describe as a Sand Maggot queen lay on the floor, immobile under her own immense weight. Half a dozen of the normal sort escorted their queen. With only a dagger (or a spear) we might have been overwhelmed, but they did not reckon with my power. It is when I am pressed by great numbers that I am at my most dangerous. The first Corpse Explosion, there in their most sacred chamber, alarmed them greatly; the next few sent death splattering around the room in glorious, gory excess. There is something to be said for "cutting loose" on occasion. After enough explosions, the room was clear of foes. The queen herself, too bloated even to attack, was last. If only I had known how much pressure that balloon-like body was under! The instant we were through the chitinous outer shell, her body literally burst, spraying the entire chamber with venom-laden guts. Poison was so concentrated inside that vile body, it even affected me. Zanarhi would have died, I am completely convinced, without the quick administration of an antidote potion I found earlier. Plainly, the Maggot Queen was Diablo's creation -- the Lord of Terror is fond of spiders, maggots, rats, and snakes, for the irrational fear they inspire in the hearts of many. True to the Maggots' nature, the queen has a chest of valuables in her lair. Surely, the most valuable treasure should be here with the queen -- but there is nothing in the chest but some random coin and an old, worm-eaten staff. The shaft isn't even straight anymore. Ha! It appears I am in luck! Dear old Deckard Cain has identified that decayed bit of wood as the Staff of Kings, property of a great Horadrim magus. Were it in good condition, this staff could open Baal's tomb, but it may be too damaged. Ah, well; it makes a charming collector's item, relic of a bygone era when the mage clans weren't constantly at each other's throats. In its present state, I don't think even Drognan would pay money for it. Not that I'd sell it to him, but it pleases me to imagine that he might want it. Chapter 13 Dear Diary, The world was in darkness when sleep released me from its grasp. I didn't mind so much -- the desert is cooler at night -- but wondered about the time. Under normal circumstances, I sleep as the innocent do, and never wake early; besides, I know I did not oversleep. I woke as refreshed as a night in this flea-ridden hovel could allow. Glancing out of the window confirmed my suspicion that something was amiss. The entire sky was black as bile, without a single moon or star visible. Others are roaming the streets as well, their expressions fascinating mixtures of confusion and dread. If only I were the cause! But I am as baffled as they. The most confused of all seems to be poor old Deckard Cain. This has no precedent in his long memory of ancient facts and rote history, so he is utterly at a loss. Can you believe, he recommended that I seek out Drognan? Being flayed alive by angry ducks would be preferable; with that in mind, I went to speak with Lysander. Since my first visit, I've devoted my evenings to failing to acknowledge his existence, but the irksome old coot's memory may be long enough to provide some clue about the present predicament. Dear old Lysander's hearing bespeaks his skill as an alchemist, as do the many blast marks on the ceiling of his shop. I quite insisted that he have nothing in his hands while speaking with me; he may continue working in the dark after I am well clear. Being so old, he is stubborn as a mule and as easy to steer in conversation (the mule might be a pleasanter companion, actually) though the darkness is as much on his mind as anyone's. Something of this sort did happen before, in the antediluvian days of his childhood. The solution was simple: a race of beings called Claw Vipers was responsible. These villainous beings hate the sun and hide from it in desert caves, where they spend their days stealing candy from babies, tearing wings off of butterflies, and other beastly depravities. An heroic sortie by the soldiers of the sultan's guard put an end to the menace. Only two members of the guard could be found, both standing at the palace gates. Neither would not leave their appointed post, and their pip-squeak of a master was nowhere to be seen. Recruiting mercenaries might be difficult, as I would have to outbid the pip-squeak for their services. It appears I must I do everything myself. My great quest against evil has decayed into something much worse: it is now work. Still, risking my skin in the desert will be less work than trying to amuse myself in the city, if marginally more hazardous. The night's chill has not left the sands. What should be furnace-like winds blasting away all moisture are instead shrill whips of frost invading every crevice of my armor. Whenever I believe I have suffered every torment the desert has to offer, some new circumstance arises to correct my misapprehension. Though I'd never confess, it is a bit disturbing to be in such absolute darkness and not be underground. While a tomb may be dark, the walls are never far away; finding one's way by touch, or by listening to echoes, is possible. Here, there is absolutely nothing around me. My voice and footsteps vanish into the distance, never to return. Noises come to me, but the things making them may be far away, or close at hand. I cannot know until they appear in my feeble circle of lamplight and attack. Stumbling about blindly is an excellent way to lose oneself, and while lost, one may find lost things. In the deep desert, there is a set of ruins known as "the Lost City." Losing an entire city should be too much even for these people, but they refer to the spiritual loss of the city's residents, who are now plague-ridden zombies. Despite the designation, everyone knows where the city is. There is even a waypoint for our convenience. When not stalking after the flesh of the living, the zombies remain peaceably in their city, where they move things from place to place, make incomprehensible scribbles on any surface they encounter, and at the end of the day, congregate in a central marketplace to exchange rocks, sticks, and dirt for small, shiny objects, all the while faintly moaning to each other. I wonder if Zakarum has considered establishing a church here. So long as the priest doesn't smell too appetizing, he couldn't ask for a more agreeable congregation. But no church will be built here; Hell arrived first, and left Cat People and Sand Leapers. The cats have mastered the making of poison gas potions. Such elegance and intelligence, so cruelly used, saddens me. Like Lut Gholein, this city has an underground level of tunnels and basements. Perhaps in the past, some catastrophe buried both cities, and the inhabitants rebuilt on top of the old ruins. If so, Lut Gholein is the older city, with three underground levels and a waypoint which may fix the date of subsidence. This city has but one; Lut Gholein must have been rebuilt at least three times, possibly many more. The presence of Sand Raiders indicates that the city underground is now a bandit hideout -- somehow, they've made peace with the mummies. As for the mummies, my people really should appropriate the preservation techniques used here. One of them retained enough intelligence to cast a curse, and I had to use the scythe to kill it before its cohort killed me. This city must have been home to many mages in the past, to judge by the number of wands and staves among the dead. At least it isn't more Paladin shields... honestly now, I could have built a house from what I've found so far. Or at least hammer them flat and set a table for 12. The marketplace is in the lower section of the city, full of zombies and four squat towers shooting fireballs. My equipment renders me highly resistant to flame, but destroying the towers is still quite an undertaking with spear and scythe. A sledgehammer would have suited the task better. Perhaps these towers are similar to the Gargoyle traps in the Rogue jails? I must remember to investigate the resemblance further. On a nearby flat-topped hill, an ancient temple looks over the city, but a few changes have been made since humanity was last here. Flanking the temple entrance are two statues of rearing snakes, with fang-filled maws, impressive shoulders and pectorals, muscular arms, and long claws on their four-fingered hands. Claw Vipers, I presume. Even if the carvings were of acceptable quality (they are not) such bald self-promotion would be irksome; the one thing I cannot tolerate is arrogance. My own arrogance, of course, is perfectly natural and in keeping, but for others such self-importance is dull and ugly and I will not abide either. When we first entered the temple, Zanarhi commented that it was as dark as a tomb. A bit of a fatuous comment, I thought -- is there anywhere that isn't dark? I appreciate his simple wisdom a bit more now; the temple is full of mummies. In all probability, this was a place of entombment for the city's higher social circles before some final catastrophe turned the city into a necropolis. The Claw Vipers may have had a hand in that; snakes carry diseases, and the zombies are infected with some plague. The Vipers themselves are few in number and not particularly dangerous, though they have a way of bunching up and launching themselves great distances through the air to slam bodily into a victim. Curiously, they are icy cold; I have never known a reptile which could exist with such a low body temperature. Despite years of Claw Viper occupation, something yet remains of the old temple's grandeur. Wall murals depict various scenes. A common motif is a cow, with broad white wings and a beard similar to those of the "laughing heads" statues I have seen in the desert. My instinct seems to have been correct; those are more recently sculpted than the austere seated figures. Also depicted are the slaughter (possibly sacrifice by beheading) of cows, and Sand Maggots beside spear-wielding figures. I cannot say if the maggots are being attacked or merely herded. They are painted as smaller than the spear-wielders, which is most certainly not the case today. Another, more sinister, mural depicts what is doubtless a Claw Viper holding a human head. Two nearby human figures regard this calmly, not engaging the Viper in any way. They are unarmed, and from the context, I would say that they are conversing with the Viper, despite its apparently murderous actions. As I have already noted, another painted scene shows what seems to be the sacrifice of a cow by beheading; could this be a human sacrifice meant to appease the Viper? If so, it did these people little good in the end. I would not be surprised if the Claw Vipers caused the plague that wiped out the whole lot of them. After all the business with demons, one would think humanity would have learned not to sell out to powerful beings, hoping to profit by the arrangement. But what can be said? The fool's bandaged finger inevitably goes wabbling back to the fire, in the hope that though it burned him 500 times, the 501st might turn out differently. A small note: in a side chamber, I found what was obviously the remains of a mummification workshop. Human corpses, all of great age, lay about in various stages of preparation, with the tools of their handlers still beside them. Many of the artifacts were smashed and broken in the ensuing melee, but all was not lost. An ancient tome, beautifully preserved, lay open on a table; a glance revealed instructions on the preparation of mummies, still as clear as the day they were written. Frustratingly, I fear Zanarhi saw me eyeing the book, and objected that the knowledge it contained belonged only to the local priests. I assured him that he was perfectly correct; in fact, it may be that the knowledge was best lost. We have seen how his own ancestors were used so horribly by Hell's power, have we not? He agreed; men of little learning fear knowledge, and can be relied on to agree enthusiastically to its destruction. To satisfy him, a small number of tomes and scrolls, those already ripped to shreds or covered with ichor, were committed to the fire. The deepest part of the temple, where the holiest alter was once kept, shelters the bulk of the Claw Viper force: perhaps a dozen great snakes. Their leader, a huge brute colored an incongruous shade of lilac purple (and others think me unmanly?) is enchanted with lightning. Zanarhi cannot seem to understand that repeatedly poking the creature is, in fact, the last thing he should do; poison works so much better! Once they all are dead, we fall to looting, an activity I mind less and less as time goes on. Human bodies, naked, gutted, and missing their heads, line the chamber walls. Some are still warm, and cannot have been dead more than half an hour in this cold. Where did they come from, I wonder? To judge from the height of the ceiling and the shape of the chamber, this shrine once had a central dais. In its place, there is now a pit, with a single low stone slab encrusted with gemstones and bits of jewelry. The simplest way to retrieve the valuables is to roll the altar out of the pit and knock the jewelry off on the floor; violating this "temple" can be regarded as an added bonus. Removing it from the pit was easier than I expected, and when dashed to the floor, the slab broke in half. A number of bright lights whisked out of its interior, filling the chamber with a iridescent glow. I have seen spirits escaping material confinement before, but these did not alarm me as much as they ought to have. After fluttering about like little fairies, the lights rose to the ceiling and pierced the stones. A brilliant shaft of sunlight shone down; true to Lysander's account, the slaughter of the Claw Vipers brought the sun out of hiding. Though it will be easier to see, it's almost a pity that daylight has returned. I was beginning to enjoy the darkness. Chapter 14 Dear Diary, Upon my return to camp this evening, Deckard Cain informed me of two things. Some of the jewelry I freed from the clutches of the Claw Vipers was of Horadric make -- is there any kind of enchanted craftsmanship those old busybodies did not engage in? One of the pieces may be the headpiece for the staff I already found, and could be reunited with its shaft using the Horadric Cube. More interestingly, Jerhyn wished to see me, and left clear instructions that I was to come to his palace at once. A welcome change, that. At least he has sense enough not to linger about the tavern door like a quean awaiting her special fellow. My instruction (despite his rank, I cannot call it a command) was to go at once. So, I made my leisurely way back to the Desert Rain. The innkeeper keeps a "lost and found" of random detritus other guests left behind as they hurriedly made their way out of town; I had nothing better to do, so I went through the pile. Most of it had been cast aside with good reason, but tossed behind a weather-beaten croquet set -- why was that here, anyway? -- was a thing of beauty. While I had heard of demon skulls being used as helmets, much like the nest of demon bones I was using as a shield, I never would have guessed that the result could be so aesthetically pleasing. I normally do not favor such "barbaric" splendor, but as they say, live and learn. A healthy bribe convinced the innkeeper I was the original owner (memory is so fallible.) The helm is enchanted too, but I almost don't care. I was still admiring myself when Jerhyn's guardsmen retrieved me. I do hope he'll be angry, any proper sultan should be. No, he isn't; he's consumed with fear. All my hopes for he and his kingdom are dashed. A leader should never, EVER be seen as afraid, especially when he is. Ah... the truth comes out. The city has been under attack from three directions all this time. There were those outside the walls, and those who infiltrated the sewer -- those Jerhyn could not hide from his people. Those inside his palace he could hide, and did. Lut Gholein was built atop a Vizjerei fortress, which would explain the underground tunnels and waypoints. Down in a deep palace cellar is a dimensional gate, (!) which has sat quietly for centuries. A short while ago, a visiting Vizjerei of doubtful sanity asked to examine the gate alone. (!!) Jerhyn granted this request without a second thought. (!!!) The sorcerer disappeared, and the gate began to function again, disgorging wave after endless wave of demons into the palace. Lord Jerhyn's harems -- apparently quite sizable -- were put to the sword. The two palace guardsmen who retrieved me so efficiently are the last two he has. By tonight, they will be gone as well, unless something is done. There will be no rest for the wicked tonight. The Lord of Terror, if he awaits my pleasure, will have to wait some more. More likely, Lordling Jerhyn's deceitful cowardice has cost me the race. Jerhyn is asking... nay, begging me to stop the demons and their sorcerous master; any and all valuables I can haul away will be mine without question. Of course, I would have done this regardless. In all this desert, where else but here could I sleep and store my things? Odd -- having a mighty lord offer me the jewels of his crown and the wealth of his kingdom should be delightful, yet all I want to do is slap him for wasting my time. At least on the upper floor, Jerhyn has little wealth to pick over. Most likely, it's all lining the mercenary captain's purse. There is a strange wanted poster in the guard quarters: WANTED: Tearlach Height: Bigger than his britches Weight: Always thrown around Eyes: Full of primal rage Hair: May be cause of primal rage Sex: Not in this lifetime Distinguishing features: Frozen orbs On charges of: Assault, nasal: first degree Creating a public nuisance Female abuse Conduct unbecoming to the king of the world Reward! Call LGPD for more information. Keep our city clean. What a thoroughly unpleasant brute this must have been. So glad he's nowhere to be found. Downstairs, the lord's personal quarters were almost empty, stripped of their ornaments and valuables. Below that lay the harem, as opulent as legend. There is a kind of madness in the decoration of harem rooms -- the colors must be bright and clashing, the textures shining yet soft, with all manner of patterns juxtaposed in every combination. The effect may seem overdone, but one must remember that "dignified understatement" is not a phrase associated with harems. The harem is a celebration of excess, in which a powerful man may flee harsh reality into a fever dream of carefree abandon and suckle at the teat of self-indulgence. If good taste is also abandoned at the threshold, so be it. None of this is to imply, of course, that I would voluntarily spend time here, especially not as things are. My preferred forms of self-indulgence are... different from those of the common man, let us say, and even under more sanguine circumstances I would not favor the harem's charms. Hmm... perhaps I should say LESS sanguine; the whole palace is literally soaked in the blood of dozens of women. I have never seen so many in one place, all cut down in their prime. A lesser number of palace guardsmen lay among them. Some clearly died "with their boots on," (despite the local lack of closed footwear) while others were taken alive and died, quite miserably, a short time later. Then, there is the enemy: Desert Raiders, and enormous fat giants with tiny pin heads. From my studies, I seem to recall creatures called "Urdar" by the lords of Hell, and these beings fit the description well. Slow and flabby, Urdar are very strong, but not nearly as powerful as they are heavy; a quick opponent will run them in circles, and forceful thrusts penetrate their layers of fat easily. I find poison works very well on them, perhaps because their hearts are already overtaxed by their lumbering exertions. In addition to living foes, skeletons from the sultan's own basement crypt are present in extraordinary numbers, all with bows or magical enchantments. The curse of Attraction works wonders for distracting their attention in open areas, such as the large dance arena which occupies the center of the harem. Both the harem and the cellars beneath feature plenty of iron grillwork, which the skeleton mages and archers are fond of using to their advantage. Of course, I find this feature to my advantage as well, again for the curse of Attraction. Creating dissension in the ranks of my enemies is such a simple pleasure. I have just noticed something very odd: the cellar stairs are in the corners of each basement level, but not in matching corners. I went downstairs in the northeast corner of one level, but arrived in the northwest corner of the level below, and the stairway was not nearly long enough to traverse such a distance. Excepting the current inhabitants, these cellars are utterly mundane; the plain sandstone walls and stored household junk hint at nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps this is a relic of the Vizjerei, who were fond of reality-flopping tricks in their days of greatness. Under the pretense of making the illusory nature of earthly reality clear to lesser intellects, the Vizjerei went to a great deal of effort to play tricks on men's senses. Myself, I think it likelier that they wanted to make everyone else look stupid, a bit of adolescent pridefulness one often finds in intellectual wizards, especially those who boastfully claim to be above such things. The cellars have been cleared; that was dull. The dimensional gate (that is what it is, there can be no doubt) is classic Vizjerei work: two silver spires crossed like an X, with a solar disk spinning freely in space between the upper branches. Naturally, the gate itself occupies the space between and under the spires, and is low enough that one must bow to enter -- the sorcerous desire to humble those who take advantage of their devices, no doubt. I have just gone through the gate, into a wondrous new dimension! This place is absolutely fantastic! If only I had time to study it, curse the fate that makes haste so necessary. So much knowledge is slipping through my fingers like water, and I can only let the merest taste of it touch my lips. This must have been built by Vizjerei, there can be no doubt. A mere physical description must do: marble pathways hang suspended in an endless starry void, lit by classic Balrog braziers. Slender silver columns and spires guard the corners, the orange light of endless fires dancing across their cold surfaces. Perhaps sorcerers are not wholly unworthy: they did decorate their sanctums with great style. This understated elegance is positively rejuvenating after the sumptuous overripeness of the harem. The creatures of this strange dimension are completely unlike those in the palace. Though I found no other way into the cellar, I find it difficult to believe that the palace demons came from here. Our old friends the Goat Men are putting in an appearance, and Vampires like those who served Andarial. Ghosts are abundant, though I have no idea if they are "native" to this place or were summoned from afar. Clearly, these are some of Terror's favorites. No matter; I know them well enough not to fear them. Whoever made this dimension must have been very powerful indeed; I have found one of his treasuries. Never before have I seen so many rare things, precious jewels and adornments. For defense, this unknown architect adapted decorative spires to a new use: by placing a triad of tines at the apex and suspending a ball of electrical energy within, he created a trap of lightning, like the fire towers in the desert necropolis. Curiously, these metal spires are vulnerable to poison, while the stone fire towers were not. I hereby revoke my kind words for sorcerers -- I have had quite enough of this place, thank you very much! A misplaced fondness for optical illusion has led to the creation of the most confusing set of paths imaginable. Wiser architects laugh at plans for impossible buildings and move on; this intellectual imbecile just HAD to show off and make some! At least he only made one section require teleporting through gates; any more of that, and I would have become quite sick to my stomach. The errant sorcerer who has caused so much mischief is no more. He was hiding on a platform that might once have been a study, wearing the bright ceremonial robes and crown of a high Vizjerei archmage. To put it mildly, he was not worthy of those trappings. A single dagger thrust, applied simply and directly, put an end to his delusions: like a moth too close to the flame, he crumbled and vanished in a puff of smoke. The platform where he sought succor is obviously a place of power. Six strange sigils dance in empty space, and a pile of books awaits my perusal. Oh, I should have known! One of the books is a journal, identifying this dimension's maker: Horazon, archmage extraordinaire and the second most egotistical sorcerer of all time. The first was his brother, Bartuc, now a slave to his former slaves down in Hell. I fell to reading it at once -- I love reading other people's diaries. Never my own, though; the scandals of my past lack novelty. Never let it be said that I have refused to learn from sorcerers; Horazon has taught me a few very important things. First: the old crank was a hopeless voyeur. He watched, and kept notes on, almost everything that happened during his life. Yet, there is never any note of anything he himself did. Watching seemed to be all he was good for. Second: only great egotists keep journals. Who else would imagine that anything they think could possibly be worth recording? Thankfully, my personal pride is well-deserved. Third: For the sake of your readers, don't be dull! Horazon, a born bean-counter if there ever was one, is so wearisome a writer it ought to be a sin for him to put pen to paper. This journal describes some of the juiciest sorcerous follies in history, but I almost nodded off before I found his account of the binding of Baal. With meticulous detail, Horazon recorded more than anyone would ever want to know about Baal, those arrayed against him, and their final solution to the demon lord problem. The local Horadrim, steeped in their cultural traditions, had their remains mummified and entombed in a small gorge they called the Canyon of the Magi. Coincidentally, the battle to subdue Baal took place nearby, and the soulstone they intended to imprison him in was damaged. The "foremost" of their number, one Tal Rasha, impaled himself with the damaged stone, and both were entombed in a vacant crypt in the canyon. There, the spirits of Tal Rasha and the Lord of Destruction were to wrestle for all eternity, an estimate of the mortal's endurance I find frankly laughable. Horazon offers no opinion, but he does note the location of the canyon, a portal incantation which leads directly there, and which tomb contains our eternal wrestlers. To my astonishment, this detour is the most productive path I could have taken. If only I'd known of it earlier! Jerhyn will have to suffer in some way; I'm sure I can think of something humorous but lingering when I have time to put my mind to it. Perhaps involving boiling oil... or would molten gold be more fitting for a fool of his station? Chapter 15 Dear Diary, As might be expected, for their own convenience the Horadrim built a waypoint in the Canyon of the Magi. I took it back to Lut Gholein. Inside Horazon's sanctuary, there was no way to track the passage of time, but my adventures so exhausted me I was not surprised to see the pale light of dawn peeking over the canyon's edge. The idea of exploring a dark tomb late at night had lost its characteristic appeal for me. After a hearty meal (hunger is the best spice) and a nap, it is now nearly noon on a new day. I am tanned, rested, and ready for the task of destroying Destruction, and Terror as well, should the need arise. (The tan conceals the aristocratic blue of my veins; unwelcome, but unavoidable.) The steep walls of this little valley must make access difficult from the outside. Both ends were blocked by avalanches of rock, obviously to seal it off further. The effort was useless; burial urns, chests, and boxes lie scattered on the canyon floor, the remains of many past tomb raids. Perhaps half are as yet unopened. Fresher bodies -- resembling local nomads, and none more than a few weeks old -- also decorate the sands. These people must have been coming here for years, dragging easily-ported valuables out into the sunlight, away from the Horadric Mummies who no doubt guard the tombs. What a shock they must have had to return one day and find their treasure cache inhabited. Terror's demons are here, though they keep close to the canyon walls. In this high desert, only mad dogs and priests of Rathma go out in the noonday sun. The first sign of them was the roaring of Sasquatch. What could induce them to come here? The poor things were obviously suffering horribly under their heavy coats of fur; as angry as they were, the heat rendered them powerless. Did Diablo bring them from the mountains, then abandon them in this wasteland? How like him that would be. Additionally, there were javelin-throwing Cat People and more Sand Maggots. I have no idea what their presence here signifies. It is known that demon lords summon their minions to themselves, which may mean that the Lord of Terror has been here. On the other hand, it is doubtful that he could have visited every tomb I explored; all were inhabited to various degrees, which implies that he scattered his minions far and wide across the land, and may not yet know of this place. All seven tombs are intricately and uniquely embellished, with monumental columns, carved lintels, and other adornments hewn directly from the rock of the canyon wall. Judging from the lesser tombs I have raided, all contain dozens if not hundreds of burials. The statuary in the canyon is all of the older, more severe style, and substantially less weathered than the surviving examples outside. Some of these statues and columns are still erect, their glyphs faintly legible -- if only anyone knew how to read them anymore. The seventh tomb, at the lowest end of the canyon, is the correct one. In the entrance chamber, I find a large chest; a tomb raider must have dragged it this far, then abandoned it, for its former owner is still guarding it. I have the feeling that, by the time I've explored this tomb, I will be thoroughly fed up with Horadric Mummies. Perhaps that's why cursing the Mummy to attract its own minions is so amusing -- the look on its face as its own retinue of Burning Dead slaves comes back to carve it to bits is just priceless. Self-willed dead, though inherently troublesome and difficult to discipline, are fascinating creatures. They will even run (well, shuffle at above-average speed) away from danger if their circumstances warrant it; this one is doing so as fast as its dried-up legs can manage. The chest is empty, except for two of those flying scimitars. Beautiful things, but the way the chest was being guarded, I expected more. Other than ghosts, the Mummies are the only creatures here, and I am becoming thoroughly sick of them. This place is a veritable warren of tunnels and rooms, all positively crawling with the pestiferous things. The Canyon of the Magi was in use for a very long time; either that, or the Horadrim were more numerous than I knew. The tomb's decorative elements are all of the old style: standing or seated human figures with rigidly straight postures, beardless faces, impassive expressions, and plain garments with no visible pleats, folds, or seams. I may call this the "Kingly Period" for their regal aspect. The newer smiling, bearded men are almost absent; only a few coffins feature paintings resembling the style. In addition, there seems to be a third style of sarcophagus, elaborately decorated on lids and sides, but not with human representations. Most feature a black basalt jackal reclining on the lid, though hawks, lions, and strange chimeric hybrids are also portrayed. This hard stone is difficult to carve, but the figures are executed flawlessly. The tomb has preserved its decorations very well, and their absolute age is impossible for me to determine; the dead refuse to answer my queries. I suspect the "Animal Period" lies between the "Kingly Period" and the modern. As befits the rich and powerful, these tombs are riddled with traps. I've had 3 Frost Novas go off in my face in as many minutes, all from canopic jars. If they were a significant threat, I would worry more. I suppose I am looting, something these ancient fellows do find rather objectionable. Is it any wonder that we're not on speaking terms? Before Terror corrupted the dead, the logic of traps was quite sound. Most thieves dare not approach, and those wealthy enough afford protection should not need to go raiding tombs. I do it for curiosity's sake. "Archaeologist" sounds so much more dignified than "thief." I have found the seal on Baal's tomb, intact. For a time, I was afraid all my suffering would be for naught. Now, I must make a decision. Dare I wait here for Terror, and ambush him in this chamber? Or should I enter the tomb, dispose of Baal (little will remain of Tal Rasha) and then ambush Terror with less risk of his brother aiding him? Ah... sometimes, simply stating the problem correctly reveals the solution. After rejoining shaft and headpiece in the cube, I insert the completed staff into a receptacle on the floor. After a pretty little light show and an earth-shattering blast, the rear wall of the chamber is split asunder, opening the tomb. That display of raw power was portentous, pretentious, and unforgivably pompous. It must have been designed by a sorcerer. Oh, what a horrible place that rent in the wall led to! I'm still trembling. In my haste, I went through the door first instead of sending Zanarhi. Beyond was a deep pit, full of the most horribly indescribable FILTH imaginable! I FELL IN IT!! FACE FIRST!! A horrible maggoty mass launched itself out of nowhere and landed on me!! I think it said something, but I was not listening. Good, faithful Zanarhi came to my rescue, stabbing the thing until it retreated, dribbling ichor all over me. It was huge, it was horrible, it STANK and slavered and had axes for arms and was COVERED in FILTH!! oozing out of every possible orifice and more besides! Only my natural fortitude kept me from fainting dead away. Dear Zanarhi and I were in a pit of ordure, full of maggots and worms and roaches and all manner of filthy manure-eating bugs. The thing, like a giant larval queen with a face, arms, and a dozen caterpillar legs, was grinning malevolently. For once, I could not stomach slow death; I pulled out the scythe, cursed the thing with Decrepification, and fell to hacking away it its obscene bulk like a common soldier. I could feel THINGS crawling in the muck covering me, wriggling into my armor and over my body. Midway through the battle, some small, sane part of my mind reminded me that this creature fits the description of Duriel, the Lord of Pain. Lord of All that is Slimy and Disgusting might be more appropriate. After enormous exertions, the thing lay dead, its horrible form burst open, spraying its ropy intestines and foul internal jellies everywhere. Blessedly, I had almost nothing in my stomach to lose. Murals of a chained man with a large red gemstone graced the chamber. Duriel had two quivers of crossbow bolts, and nothing else. Toothpicks? Hors d'oeuvres spears? I spent no more time there. If only there were a way to scrape off this muck. Oh, joy. Oh, goody goody. My life is now complete. Not only did the Lord of Terror bypass the seal, it seems angels can do so as well. One of them was waiting for me, his dainty feet floating ever so gently above the scorched and blackened filth of the tomb. Allow me to describe the setting: beyond Duriel's pit is a short corridor, full of crawling worms. Past that is an enormous chamber with a central pit, in which stands a natural stone column which can only be reached by a narrow wooden bridge. Hovering placidly over said bridge is the Angel, perfectly polished, unblemished, not a hair out of place, everything in perfect order. "Greetings, mortal," the angel intoned in that perfect-peace-and-sublime-snobbery voice they are so well-known for. "I congratulate you on coming this far... though I did expect you earlier." When dealing with a pompous ass, it is my habit to let them do the talking, but I could not bear to do so this time. Gentle reader, you must realize that my nerves were frayed and my normally mellow temper at a low ebb. Even under ideal circumstances, who could speak with an angel and not feel at least a little insulted? "Oh, my dear SIR," I began, "please lower your expectations and allow me to beg forgiveness for my untimely entrance! Or should I kill myself right now and spare you the embarrassment of my presence? Had I but known that you might be even slightly inconvenienced, I would have let that corpuscular blob on your doorstep run me over a few more times, in the hopes that my dead spirit might find its way back to you more quickly. How stupid of me! Please, please let me humble myself properly in your divine presence, o great fluttery dustmop! Your most contrite servant awaits your word, suitably chastened that he could not do that which could not be done, though he had to slog through hell to not do it!" With that, I "accidentally" flicked a bit of filth on him. It slid off. I find that I DESPISE angels. As peaceful as ever, glittering in that oh-so heavenly way, the angel replied, "What you did not do here must be done. Diablo has fled with Baal. I was unable to stop them, and the energies that tie me to your reality were weakened by our battle; I cannot stay to help you. You must travel across the seas to Kurast, where Mephisto, Lord of Hate, was imprisoned. Beware, mortal; that land was overrun by his hate, and the church of Zakarum corrupted by his lies and deceptions. If the Three Prime Evils reunite in your world, it will be your doom; you know this to be true. As I aided your cause in the past, I will do so again. Until I am able, you must face the minions of darkness alone. Hurry, mortal -- time is running out for all that you know." What was I to do? What could I possibly say? Every word was true; angels may conceal the truth, but they never lie. I was at a loss for a response. Requesting more information would be pointless. Arguing would be pointless. Spitting on him would be pointless. Following his instructions... was the most galling thing I've ever done in my life. I feel like my tongue is dripping venom -- I could SPIT bile right now. Like a good little minion of Heaven, I'm getting on a ship (arranged by Jerhyn, who will NOT suffer the painful death he so richly deserves) to sail across the Twin Seas to the holy city of Kurast, bastion of divine Order, highest home of the high and mighty church of Zakarum. I DESPISE ANGELS. If looks could kill... this boat would fall to pieces and I'd poison the entire sea. I UTTERLY... oh, bother. Concluding thoughts: The Necromancer looks cool with a scythe, and isn't quite as slow as I'd feared. He also looks good holding a staff. In the Barb's hands, a staff looks like a pool cue. Bone Helms look good on a Necro, and no one else -- I'd say they were made for each other. Circlets would be all right, letting his hair flow free. Attract is a very nice curse. I'm going to have to play more "converting" characters, sowing confusion in the ranks of my enemies to bring about their timely demise. Usually, I don't like minions, but if I have to mix them up fresh for each battle it could be fun. Act 3 Chapter 16 Dear Diary, Ship: A vessel for transport over water, combining all the charms of prison with the added chance of drowning. In the days of yore, ships provided civilized men with the advantage of variety, allowing them to escape the fools of one country and dwell for a time amongst those of another. Speedier ships have rendered travel less costly, negating this key benefit: the traveler will now find that familiar fools have followed along in tourist class. It must be said, there is nothing better for calming one's nerves than a long ocean voyage. Maintaining a proper sense of outraged wrath for such a long period is beyond all but the most poisonous of minds. Despite a spirited effort to nurse my grudge against the world, I find it has gone and died on me. Dear old Deckard Cain believes the angel in Baal's tomb was Tyrael, former patron of the Horadrim. Yes, gentle reader, he is still following me. Such a hoary head ought to hold more wisdom. The archangel Tyrael provided the Horadrim with the soulstones, and instructions for their use. In that sense, he is the author of all humanity's woes, at least at the moment. Supposedly, an edict from higher in the celestial hierarchy forbade direct involvement in any earthly affairs, but acting as a mere advisor allowed him to weasel out of it. Order's forces are keen on adhering to the letter of the law, but violate its spirit whenever it strikes their fancy -- when mortals do that, they call it "sin." We must strive for a future without such powers meddling in our world, well-intended or not. I never knew of a being who had better motives for all the trouble he caused. Despite our captain's skill as a navigator (or perhaps because of it) we may have difficulty finding the city of Kurast. The whole of Kehjistan lies under an all-concealing mask of greenery, and almost all his navigational landmarks are invisible. He is not even sure if he has sailed up the correct river. I rather suspect it is; if the number of human bodies drifting by is any indication, a large city used to be further upstream. On the first day sailing up this river, I counted 114 corpses, all in advanced stages of putrefaction. They were more numerous yet on subsequent days, but I had lost interest in tallying them by then. Dear Diary: Very little to write about the last few days. The further up we go, the more corpses fill the river; the water has gone absolutely black with rot, and the smell is beginning to affect even me. In many places, the dead had piled up like sand bars, completely blocking our progress. Clearing them away was necessary and thoroughly unpleasant work for the crew. For some reason, they thought I should involve myself with the labor, or might want to. Just now, the captain has found a thin spot in the greenery, with a dock. My eyes see a protective dome extending far out over the water; whether this is Kurast or not, we have found an island of succor amidst the inexorable greenery. Our captain steered us true. This is Kurast, the great holy city... or what remains of it. The welcoming committee (only one fellow summoned up the initiative to greet the ship) is an odd-looking little fellow named Hratli, an enchanter and smith. I suppose combining the two eliminates the middle man, resulting in considerable savings for him. Hratli is a shockingly honest fellow with a socially unacceptable sense of humor, especially strange in a merchant. His prices are completely unreasonable, and if I don't like it I can go to Hell. Either he is of unparalleled skill, has a complete monopoly locally, or is a damned fool. Unless the last is true, he will be no fun at all. Ignoring merchants as they wheedle and flatter has always been one of the high points of my day. He does seem to be responsible for the dome, which indicates some power. It seems that all is not well in the church of Zakarum. The followers of the church have become paranoid fanatics, drenching the whole country in the blood of innocents and sinners alike. Huge numbers of the persecuted have risen again in spirit or flesh, and demons roam openly, all with the blessing of the Que-Hegan. That alone should have aroused suspicion, but the holy father explained them away as slaves under the control of the church, a "means justifying the ends" argument. His followers evidently accepted that without a qualm. The city suburbs have been devoured by the jungle, nothing recognizable remains of vast areas of formerly inhabited land. The urban areas are haunted by the last bits of the church's power, lorded over by their masters, the hordes of demons and undead. A pity the situation has degenerated so far, but any knowledgeable person could have told them it would come to this eventually. Sadly, some cannot be convinced by mere words; they have to see it happen for themselves. For the moment, the only "safe" territory is a few hundred square yards of dockside around some artificial islands near the mouth of a tributary. Even this is being inexorably squeezed out of existence by a greater power in the jungle outside. Once again, I have arrived just in time, like a noble hero out of legend. Father would be turning over in his grave, if only he'd stayed there. The disadvantage of the "noble hero" business is the lack of decent lodgings, as one is always out in the wilderness or some other dangerous place. It is doubtful that any decent inns remain here, though I may as well look regardless. At the center of the dome stands a stepped pyramid of the classic design. I seem to recall such structures from my studies, connected with the Taan mage clan. Now, what have we here: a Taan mage! An impressive fellow of indeterminate age, he bears all the tattoos and bodily decorations characteristic of that enlightened group. The Taan were glorious in their day, full of understanding of life and death. True, they feared death, and sought to extend their lives by various means (some quite unsavory, even by my standards) but at least they spent their time contemplating the body and soul, instead of the simple elements. If I ever again must deal with a Vizjerei, I swear I will throw a fit. I have just spoken with the Taan. He looks healthy in body (they all do, until the day they die) but his mind is far, far gone. Unless he's doing it deliberately, in which case I'd rather host a Vizjerei self-congratulation party than converse with him five minutes. Now Varnae will write, once hand is on pen. He once was in a desert, was Varnae, with sand in his boots. Now, backwards run his sentences, until reels his mind. WIZARDS!! Warriors, at least, know they're simpletons and don't pretend to be anything else. Before my eyes glazed over completely, I gathered that the Taan is named Ormus, and he is a poet. I have met more pretentious poets. Were there art in his pretensions, he could be fascinating, but I'll wager that a walk in the ocean of his art would scarcely dampen my feet. A few buildings stand off to the left of the pyramid. Larger structures, such as the pyramid, are built atop massive logs rammed far, far down into the mud of the riverbank. Wooden buildings sit atop stilts; all have a ramshackle look that bespeaks the rapidity with which wood decays in this climate. Most of the lesser buildings are little more than fisherman's shanties, but one is much larger and flies colors: a wolf head on a plain background. Heraldry is not my strong suit, but I suspect the owner is of a martial bent. The house's... inhabitant is warlike, the head of a mercenary band. When I said warriors know they are simpletons, obviously I spoke too soon. SHE is named Asheara. Physically, she is not too old, and quite short, to her obvious disappointment. Clearly, she devotes a great deal of time to muscular exercises, and wants everyone to know she is proud of what it has done for her body. Though her estimation is not misplaced, the degree to which she indulges her pride is almost laughable. In absolutely EVERYTHING she boldly presents to the world the statement "I AM WOMAN!!" as deliberately and unsubtly as possible. Her attire consists only of two strips of cloth, concealing a bare minimum of her form (it's not THAT warm, darling!) from the eye's perusal. Around her shoulders, she carries an albino python... yes, a white, round, living cylinder of pure muscular power, which she will not let go of. The crowning touch of this enlightened fashion statement is her demeanor. With a steely glare, she DARES the viewer not to take her seriously. Double-dares, in fact! Gentle reader, leave aside your amateur psychopathological theorizing and consider this: overcompensation is an ugly thing in a man or a woman, but giggling will only exacerbate the situation. Whenever someone strains so effortfully to project a commanding presence, it is always best to pretend that they have succeeded. Otherwise, they will strain even harder, and may become violent. A truly confident and competent person can put up a pretense of humility; my abilities were in no way lessened by bowing to this tempestuous teapot in her own house. The display appeased her instantly. Perhaps later, when I have gained more of her fragile confidence, we can work on her wardrobe a bit. If this woman ever heard the phrase "less is more," it was either completely lost on her, or she applied it mathematically to the square inches of cloth she ought to burden herself with. One of the ramshackle fishing huts I mentioned earlier smells familiar: an alchemist works there, I am sure of it. I invite myself in; he doesn't mind in the least, happily. Alkor (what a name for an alchemist!) is a pleasantly acerbic little monkey of a man, with a fascinatingly hideous face warped by age and many layers of light burn scars. We have a glorious time swapping recipes and old lore. Much of the alchemical arts trace back to discoveries made here in the east, even right here in this city. What a pity so much has been lost, and must be discovered anew. Religion and knowledge rarely coexist peacefully. When I left Alkor, the sun was sinking into the river like a tarnished copper. I so easily lose track of time in the company of stimulating intellects. More of the dockside remains unexplored. To the right of the pyramid lies another large artificial island that was an open-air market in the recent past. If you're fond of bananas, Oh... oh, my... what vision is this before me? I have fallen instantly, deeply, passionately in lust. This woman is tall and fair, and unlike Asheara she intimately knows how to undress for success. My tongue positively tingles at the sight of that ebon leather on bare salty skin... I adore a woman in black, and she almost wears it scrumptiously. My heart is hammering in my throat! Must calm myself, or I'll never make a proper introduction. How does that old song go? "I want a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad..." Chapter 17 Dear Diary, Oh, what a truly glorious day this is! I feel giddy as a schoolgirl! Her name is Natalya, an absolutely perfect name for a perfect creature of the night. What imaginings those three little syllables evoke... I could not put them to paper, mere words cannot suffice. Had I a year, I might succeed in crafting prose to summon up the cold curl of her sneer, but with the tiniest flick of mood, that disdain would break into the appraising grin of a predator spotting her natural prey and my puny efforts would be for naught. The tale of Tal Rasha's tomb had reached her ears. The ice in her eyes chilled me to my depths -- a thousand deaths could have sprung upon me, I stood frozen, I could do nothing! My trembling terror meant as little to her as my failure in the desert. She was impressed! With me! My heart might burst with joy! I feel as though I could stand astride the whole world; what terrors can Hell hold for a man in love? Great Rathma's ghost, I'm beginning to sound like a poet. What does it matter? Splendid deeds wait to be done! I shall summon my servant and sally forth into the jungle, truly like a hero of ages gone by seeking his lady's favor. Granted, hers would not be a spotless white kerchief, but I wouldn't want such a thing and neither would she. Ah, what leather does for the right woman... say, where is my servant? The brute's scampered off somewhere. Come to think of it, did he ever get on the boat with me? No... no, I don't believe he did, and I was too upset to notice. Of all the cheek! I shall get another; I couldn't be seen without a servant, not now. My precious viper might interpret that to mean my financial situation is unsound -- women care deeply about that, if mother is any indication. Mercenaries are for hire from Asheara, which gives me an opportunity to speak with her again. If I accomplish nothing else here, I simply MUST do something about her. As might be expected, Asheara rebuffs my attempts to reform her wardrobe. Honestly, I do believe that woman thinks herself more manly than I. Making such a huge overstatement of oneself does nothing to hide a fragile ego -- the flaw is only accentuated by the effort made to conceal it. Then again... the poor woman tries so very, very hard to impress, she could never allow anything to endanger her carefully constructed self-image, though only the naive would see her as she wishes to be seen. The Makeover of Asheara will be a long-term project. Incidentally, her mercenaries are all Vizjerei sorcerers. Mercenary and mage, wizard and poet, enchanter and smith -- this land must not encourage specialization. The most costly (and therefore my first choice) is Khaleel, a specialist in ice magic. Keeping a Vizjerei as a servant may not be so bad, so long as he recognizes his place. With my new servant at my side, I sally forth into the wilderness, again. So much of my life is sallying forth into the wilderness now. This wilderness is more pleasant than others I have sallied into, at least -- while warm, it isn't so infernally dry and the sun is perpetually hidden by the canopy. Besides, it is good to have solid earth under my feet. I am simply not made for sea travel; I must find another way home once this business is done with. Once on land, my first encounter was quite unanticipated -- a tall man in a concealing cloak, shuffling into the jungle. Of course, I instantly realized he was not what he appeared to be: an unarmed peasant, walking calmly into a demon-infested area? I gave chase, and blocked his path. His face was invisible, but a hellish red glow filled his hood -- all I had to see to know what it was. As I attacked, the demon vanished, leaving behind a quartet of fleshy worm-like things which tried to bite me off at the ankles. Here Khaleel demonstrated his usefulness for the first time, freezing my enemies into immobility. I've made my way well into the jungle, and encountered a few new creatures, but never for very long. The reason is simple: Khaleel sees an enemy, blasts it into immobility, then applies his magic until the profound temperature changes shatter its body and it falls to bits. Should I wish to involve myself, I may or may not take a stab at something, but I need to be quick about it. The simple, dare I say "muscular," power of the sorcerer's art, though completely lacking in subtlety, is interesting to see up close. Vizjerei are well suited to the demands of a mercenary's life, being little more than walking weapons with no need for style or intellect. Oddly, though being deeply chilled may render a victim immobile, their metabolic processes continue unabated and poison has its normal effect. Previously in this journal, I have made note of the demons and other creatures I encounter, and may as well continue now. Perhaps in the near future, I could publish a bestiary based on my discoveries. The jungles contains many new horrors. Here, mosquitoes are the size of large dogs. Those who call me "parasite" know nothing of what that word means. True, they come singly rather than in clouds, but given their size I cannot say which is more revolting. The jungle monkeys have been changed into large thorn-skinned apes, their fur so green with mold they blend into the bushes perfectly. And then... we have the Flayers. Gentle reader, a short review of my adventures in the Rogue catacombs will acquaint you with a group of little rat-like men I found there. At the time, I thought them no more than an odd curiosity, but the error of my presumption has been driven home with overwhelming power. Imagine, please, a tiny creature with legs but a few inches long, far away across a clearing. Before one can raise a weapon, the creature has closed the distance and struck, leaping up to take hold of its victim and stab repeatedly with a knife nearly as large as itself. Not only are they appallingly numerous, but they are led by shamans, who can not only raise their followers from the dead, but breathe fire, a nasty little trick I would have thought them too primitive to master. Far more than with Fallen Ones or Horadric Mummies, it is absolutely imperative to destroy the shaman first, and a greater danger. Fortunately, they are easy to spot, as they are always carried about on the shoulders of a lackey. Perhaps this reinforces their social status; for all I know, it merely allows them to see over bushes. Khaleel's ability to freeze enemies is proving a great asset. He is becoming irritatingly essential, and seems to know it. Paladin shields are turning up wherever I go. How many of those holier-than-thou blithering numskulls were there? This is their home territory; perhaps I can find a few and interrogate them. I have also found a set of claws, just like those my precious bears... Oh, of course she would not want these claws! How stupid of me! Completely unenchanted, nothing worthwhile in them at all! I condemn the foul things to the river bottom. My servant catches her eye; yes, I visited Asheara. No, I am not impressed with her at all! She is laughable! Laughable! Indeed, a tough-talking mage who has never faced a real threat in her life, no doubt of that! You are flawless in every way, precious darling... What a perfect day this is! One smile, and I feel lighter than air! It occurs to me that I have been lax in caring for my personal appearance. Over a week has passed since I last had new clothing. Hratli has a few suits available; perhaps I can find something that isn't too atrocious. How about a great helm? The "intimidating" look may -- UGH! The bone helm is superior in every way. Perhaps a suit of splinted armor? Hmm... not bad, not bad. Ah, field plate! Practical, yet fashionable: the suit comes in black. Much better! A short distance from the docks, in a clearing festooned with spider webs, I have found a Horadric waypoint. Perhaps this was a place of importance, to merit its own waypoint when another is so close by. Structures once stood here; little remains besides foundations and an odd statue of a six-armed woman. Ah... a cellar, almost hidden by a flap of webbing, much like the lairs of certain hunting spiders. Gigantic spiders lurked in the Rogue catacombs as well; it seems the Flayers were not the only creature imported to the west. So far as I know, spiders are solitary creatures, and do not relish the company of others of their kind. Finding groups of the horrid things, each larger than a man, is daunting. At least two species are present, one mainly green, the other red. These animals could not possibly have a use for treasure, yet one carried a worthless jadeite statuette of a scowling, barbaric warrior. The quality of the carving was dubious at best, and the subject bordered on the offensive. Why, oh why do many foolish men believe that ignorant tribesmen grubbing about the mud are freer and nobler than themselves? Even the most downtrodden serf enjoys a standard of life those primitives would envy, were they capable of comprehending it. Simple logic is lost on deluded romantics, I fear. Romance is the core of life... ah, Natalya... but the beguiling cliches of cheap novels are a poor place to seek it out. As it turns out, the statuette does have value, after a fashion. Perhaps a century ago, when most of the "Barbarian hero" literature was actually written (the good old days weren't all good) these images were made and sold to the genre's undiscriminating fans. Our ship's captain is one such fan, and this particular degenerate was missing from his collection. Though he lacks the wherewithal to compensate me properly, in my kindness I allow him to persuade me to take another piece from his collection -- one made of gold. To my discerning eye, it resembles an ornamental funerary urn, and could be an antique of genuine value. Who would have thought that simple seafarer could have something so precious and rare, even if he had no idea what sat under his ignorant nose? I must show it to Natalya -- she will appreciate its beauty. Ah, disaster... debacle... nay, a romantic catastrophe of nigh-mythical proportions! With a look and a word, my viper cut my triumph off at the knees. What could I have been thinking, cherishing a mere golden bird, when heroic deeds should occupy my attention? Love is a many-splendored thing; she lifts me to rarefied heights, then with a cruel laugh, coolly casts me down into the depths of utter despair! This is the most exciting woman I have ever met! I wonder if it's too early to set a date for our wedding? As a side note, the urn contained the ashes of a renowned alchemist. Alkor, in exchange for certain spider parts that interest him, mixed a potion for me from the remains of that ancient sage. I've never honored someone by drinking him before, but when in Kurast... During our chat, I inquired after Ormus; is his madness a recent development? Quite the contrary: Alkor noted that he has been speaking in rhyming riddles for years, probably to hide the fact that he has nothing intelligent to say. I cannot dispute this. There is some beauty to be found in this country. A few archaic shrines built of human bones remain, despite the church's zeal for removing all that offended its standards. How joyfully unorderly they are! These blessed skeletons are immune to the effects of the local climate as well; even bone could not normally survive long here. The power of the dome over the docks is beginning to concern me; it is visibly smaller every time I return from the jungle. My concerns are shared, of course -- Hratli has told me of another local artifact, the Gidbinn, an ancient dagger made to store magical power. This item was kept hidden from the church in Kurast's suburbs, though no one still living knows where. It was used in Skatsimi rituals, so the Gidbinn was doubtless a sacrificial dagger, and if untapped could conceivably be a great power source. Deeper we go into the endless greenery. To think I found the desert monotonous! The few bits of art and architecture we find are rapidly being ground into nothing under the weight of the jungle's fecund growth; there is absolutely nothing to contemplate. In another patch of jungle given over to spiders, a webbed-up section holds more than spiders: Sand Maggots from the deserts of Lut Gholein live with them! To all appearances, the Maggots and spiders cohabit harmoniously, a prey species and a predator -- absolutely unprecedented. Were it not so late in the day, I would describe their situation better, but the light is fading and I am weary from my exertions. One of the larger red spiders has a well-enchanted dagger, but it is not the Gidbinn. Behind that spider, hidden in a chest(!) is an intact human eye, free of all corruption. The eyes, as we all know, are the first things to go; its state of preservation is truly remarkable. But sleep calls; more details on the morrow. Chapter 18 Dear Diary, Upon rising, I found that my old correspondent Mule visited me during the night. Atop a pile of shining metal and bone was another of his precisely-scribed ramblings: "Congratulations, you're almost ready to really start kickin' butt! Here's some more stuff you're finally big enough for. The helmet takes 'Ort Sol' and the shield is 'Shael Eth', make sure you get the runes in the right order. That's the most fashionable armor we could find, so deal with it bein' red. Might even help against Flayers. -- The Mule" The armor is indeed blood red, a side effect of its life-enhancing enchantments; not my best color, but I could do something with it. Unlike most heavy armor, which is a combination of iron plate and chainmail, this suit is precisely shaped steel plates articulated by hinges and rivets, without a mail backing. The result is less bulky and restrictive, though it is odd to look upon and seems fragile on first inspection. There is also a ring, but the real prizes are the grim demon skull helm and the nest of bones which will serve as my new shield. Four primitive-looking little rocks inscribed with mysterious squiggles must be the "runes" the letter refers to. I'd best check the encyclopedia, which will give me the opportunity to ask him about the eye from the spider lair as well. The eye, according to dear old Deckard Cain, can only be a saintly relic. According to the teachings of Zakarum, the remains of saints are incorruptible, proof against normal decay and even the ruinous touch of evil. The belief is quite senseless to me -- if saintliness makes one incorruptible, angels should be inviolable; during the Sin War, Hell's forces should have been helpless before them. It is altogether more probable that the myth of saintly relics is but one more way the church deludes and manipulates its followers, showing off some dried-out bits of meat and bone (which may or may not have come from anyone special, that's hardly necessary) to bleed "donations" from fools eager to save themselves from the eternal damnation they no doubt richly deserve. However, none of my opinions can change the fact that I hold in my hand a disembodied human eyeball: it is slightly damp, flexible to the touch, and cannot be crushed or cut by any power I possess. Also, unless I am mistaken, it is still warm. At this time, reserving judgment seems the most sensible option. Fitted with the correct runes, the new helmet is not only lovely to look upon, but seems to improve my powers of recall. The shield is also marvelous, light and quick in the hand. Yes, these will do. Now, to harmonize the ensemble. Being made of disparate elements not chosen for each other, creating a suitable "look" takes a bit of doing, but with time and a few accessories, I manage something. Black is ever so much easier to work with, but red and white aren't so bad, so long as they are blood-red and bone-white. I wonder what Natalya will think? Devilish woman; can nothing I do impress her? Her only concern is finding the Gidbinn, and arresting the wall of greenery creeping ever closer to the docks. With all her watching and waiting, I should think she would have time to consider something besides her own needs. Granted, tendrils of greenery have been winding their way around the outermost buildings, including Alkor's hut. Given some of the things in his potions, it would not be wise to move his workplace closer to an inhabited area, nor to allow the jungle to take it over. When I was in the deserts of Aranoch, I longed for the soothing dampness of home. Here, in a place very much like home, I long for the unbroken horizon of the desert. I've always been difficult to please -- anyone with any taste should be -- but hacking my way through this great miserable swamp is nightmarish. At one point, I paused to rest, and could easily watch the brush growing without being bored. Cut stones and a few bits of crockery are all that remains of Kurast's suburbs. The only reminders that this area was inhabited only a few short years ago are the dead, who have been pressed into service by their church and greet me at every turn. The local zombies are so saturated with disease-ridden water, it splatters out of them on every strike, but they freeze well enough. Those whose souls were stronger are now Wraiths, called "Will o' the Wisps" by the ignorant. I understand these spirits tend to be those of dead children. When they become visible, Wraiths are ethereal wisps with no identifiable form; I find ghosts more pleasing to the eye. A few living creatures find their way through this muck. The waterways and stagnant pools follow a regular pattern here (perhaps they were streets and squares in happier times) and are frequently home to Tentacle Beasts, snake-like amphibians with two arms. They must be very large, though I have not yet seen the body of one, merely its arms and long neck. A large species of frog has been corrupted by Mephisto; they now weigh as much as a man and spit fire. Am I the only one who cares about aesthetics here? Upon reaching higher ground, I paused to clean the mud off my boots, and a few tiny darts pinged off my armor. The plate was tougher than it seemed, which was pleasing, but I could not find my enemy. They were Flayers, of course, hiding in the greenery where they were nearly invisible, despite their flowered sarongs and enormous white teeth. I stepped forward to dispatch them, and a few dozen of their closest friends scuttled out to join the fun. The little things are not strong (a single strike will kill one, eventually) but they are so terrifyingly fast I hardly knew what to do. Khaleel made himself invaluable with his explosions of chilling ice, I cannot doubt the value of my investment. NEVER go cheap on a bodyguard. By all that is holy or unholy, these are desperate days. When I spoke of a dislike for Flayers earlier, I really had NO IDEA. These tiny freaks are EVERYWHERE! I have tried everything to deal with them. The curse of Attraction is only a small help -- the one I cast it on is torn to bits and EATEN(!) by its fellows almost instantly! Decrepification only serves to bring their speed down to a brisk sprint. Any I kill, the shamans raise again! Corpse Explosion forestalls that, but they move too quickly for me to catch enough of them in the explosion's radius, and it's so tiring... No wonder Mephisto uses these, even an army would be hard-pressed not to be EATEN ALIVE by these land-based piranhas! I have been surrounded and nearly bitten off at the knees more times than I can relate; I simply cannot change targets quickly enough to fend them off; the moment I turn, they are on my back in an instant. Very slowly, I have been working my way further and further into the jungle. Looking behind me, it seems as though the jungle is paved with brightly-colored sarongs, there are so many lying on the ground. I should mention that other creatures share the area. Some trees and brambles have taken on a life of their own, uprooted themselves from the earth, and now stalk for prey. This development is not unexpected, and even less welcome. Whether they profit by devouring what they kill (again, it would not be unexpected) or act out of simple, wholesome malice is unclear. There is a waypoint, next to a large pond. Bless the Horadrim! (I hope no one I know ever reads that.) With the effort I put in (three hours to cover a few hundred yards!) I deserve a short rest. While Hratli is picking Flayer teeth out of the joints of my armor, he comments that when I finally meet the Zakarumites, I should find them much like zombies, but far less charismatic. "I wish I'd said that," I replied; I admire a good insult. He smiled thinly, and said, "You will, Varnae; you will." As if I need to, though it is tempting. Hratli, passive as he is, would never dare object. Even old Alkor knows him: "Hratli is only good for making his silly magic weapons. It's not like he has the stones to actually use them on anything." Quite so! And properly attributed. Like many other irascible men, he shares the gift of seeing others as they are, with the curse that he honestly tells others what he sees. The pond by the waypoint has a small island in the center; a tiny wooden bridge leads out to it. Did the Flayers build this? It is appropriate for their size. The bridge barely supports my weight; the island is empty apart from stone stairs leading down into the earth, obviously not made by Flayers. Khaleel is fearful of the place; apparently, a few of Asheara's mercenaries went into these "Flayer lairs" in the early days, but none ever came out again. I'd best be cautious. The first room reminds me of home -- the walls are muddy stone with water drizzling down them, and the fetid smell of mold suffuses my every breath. The floor is littered with bones, most of them too large to be human. Ah, here is a skull; it was a cow... an entire cow. The image of a pack of Flayers stripping a cow to the bare bone with their teeth is one I shall carry with me to my grave. It is good they are so small, or Mephisto might have tried to consume this land by having them go out and EAT the whole place. As I I am lucky to be alive. Gentle reader, I believe I have explained why I do not enjoy fighting the undead. My feelings for Flayers should be clear as well. When I tell you that a pack of undead Flayers came charging into this room, I am sure you can predict my reaction. I was not happy. The horror... without flesh to encumber them, they are even faster. Poison has little effect. And when they die, they do not simply fall down, oh, no... that would be too easy. No doubt created by their shamans (who have given me yet another reason to hate them) these skeletal Flayers are held together by the most primitive binding spells. Enormous amounts of energy are needed for even one, and when the spells are broken, they collapse explosively. The battle was a frenzy of chasing the little monsters all over the room, and desperately trying not to be close by when they died. Khaleel wanted to leave, and I actually considered it for a moment. Then it came back to me: my people abandoned those binding spells because they are so costly, one can only make a few servants. There cannot be many of these undead; in all likelihood, the worst is behind us. There are surprisingly few Flayers in this pit -- I dearly hope they were all outside. Instead, we find Wraiths, Ghosts, and even a few mummies. How the mummies survived the climate and their manic lairmates is anyone's guess; perhaps the Flayers prefer their meat warm and screaming. Some tiny mummies, well-wrapped, sit in niches in the wall. At first, I wondered if these beings revere their dead as men do, until the damned thing fired a cloud of poison gas at me. A trap, from a rigged body. Genocide sounds perfectly reasonable now. The pit is quite deep, leading down into an array of sewer-like tunnels; a familiar layout. At no point do I meet any more skeletal Flayers; my guess was correct. The Flayers converted the pit into a temple or relic storehouse; there is a great deal of loot. In addition, Asheara is impressed by Khaleel's tales, and her estimation of my abilities seems to have grown. To think that he wanted to run after our first battle... perhaps now, she can be convinced that the truly capable need not make such an effort of projecting an image. I will speak to her of it when I've reached Kurast, there should be no further doubts in her mind by then. More of the jungle falls behind me, slowly and painfully. According to Khaleel, we are near the city's outer walls, but it's impossible to see more than 5 feet through this growth. Flayer ambushes are so constant, I cannot honestly say we are ever taken off-guard. In a large clearing, we find a small village. This is the Flayer's home village, I am certain: I don't think I could stand up inside the huts, and everything is covered with sharp spikes. A few human bodies, growing mold with visible speed, lay before an idol. This must be the Flayer deity, for them an awesome being of gigantic stature, capable of spitting spiky death high over their heads. It stands nearly to shoulder height. On the opposite side of the village clearing, suspended over a small altar, is a small bronze dagger. The aura of power it puts off is palpable -- even Khaleel feels it. Of course, he calls it "evil." Vizjerei... I'm tempted to take this thing for myself, though I have no doubt it is the Gidbinn I seek. Once I'd cleared the village, I took the dagger; one last guardian appeared out of nowhere, but it was quickly dealt with. The dagger's power could be tapped by Ormus, to further power Hratli's spell. There is an advantage to different magical traditions cooperating; while they lasted, the Horadrim were a powerful organization. To congratulate me, Ormus presented me with a magic ring (useless to him, and to me) and a poem, composed in my honor: He hates Flayers, they really make him sick! Every time he sees one, he just goes "ick! ick!" There was more, but if I tried to write it down, my brain would explode. The poem was a waste of time, air, ink, paper, and my patience. I considered doing him an injury, but Khaleel would have none of it: he thinks it is bad luck to attack the mentally enfeebled. Asheara was even more impressed, treating me to a manly punch in the shoulder (ow) and an offer to take me to some night spot called "The Slippery Fist." She assures me I'd fit in well there. I went to speak with Natalya she said I was AMAZING!!! I got the Gidbinn like she wanted and she smiled at me and she smiled at me and she said I was AMAZING!!! and then she said something about the church's midget minions but I forget she said I was AMAZING!!! I feel lighter than air! Back to the jungle. Hello trees! Hello flowers! Hello pile of severed human heads! Hmm. There is another Flayer lair here. I'd best quit tripping lightly over the verdant greensward and get back to business. The lair was empty and quiet when we first entered. Dead quiet; there was nothing, not even the scuttling of rats. I mentioned this to Khaleel; "Yeah, too quiet," he agreed. Then, I will swear upon anything you care to name, I heard a tiny squeak of a voice say, 'what him-sa say?' Another replied, 'him-sa say it too quiet!' With a million psychotic shrieks, the horde descended on us, with skeletal Flayers along for good measure. I do so deeply hate Flayers... This pit must be the Flayers' last stronghold, the site of their final, ultimate, very very last stand. At least, that is my hope. They have come in wave after wave; only the narrow corridors have kept them from simply burying us under their combined weight. We have both avoided being blasted to bits by the skeletal ones (Khaleel is a good man, much more sensible than I gave him credit for) and dealt with the other occupants of this pit as well. There are a few Tentacle Beasts, more watery zombies, ghosts (all green) and mummies. Before the Flayers took this area over, perhaps these were catacombs under neighborhood churches; that would account for the sheer numbers of undead in both Flayer lairs. I've even found an old funeral mask. It would make a passable helmet, if I didn't have a better one. The depths of the pit is another layout of sewers, draining the upper levels. I wonder how the water is ultimately removed; probably magically, there seems to be a lot of that around here. It does indicate that, like my people, the Zakarumites did not originally come from a swampy climate. It seems to me that people who live in watery areas would never have a cultural tradition for underground tunnels, or preserving things by burying them. In the node at the back corner of the level, what must be the chief Flayer and his retinue have made their lair. How very convenient. The curse of Attraction confuses them wonderfully, and Corpse Explosion clears away any resurrectable minions. Even Khaleel has a laugh, watching them kill each other. The last dies of my venom. His treasure is imposing: an enormous axe, a giant sword, and... a brain? Out in the light now, and that is indeed what it is. A human brain, slightly damp, flexible to the touch, and unharmable by any power I possess. I feel a sense of foreboding, as though some saint will soon bless my life with his presence, radiating beams of golden luminescence, thereby making it impossible to sleep at night. Speaking of light, the day is quickly vanishing. I have Khaleel climb a tree to see where we are; he says we are very near now. A bit further upriver, and there it is: the holy city of Kurast, crumbling before our eyes. Every tree in the jungle stands higher than those walls; the city looks wide open to any invader. Perhaps that is what the Lord of Hatred wants us to think. I will not be so tempted -- I am going to bed. Chapter 19 Dear Diary, Glorious Kurast, city of saints and angels! With a god in every golden cloister, and a temple in every stinking tavern. Depending on the religion of the moment, there might have been a tavern in every temple as well. Zakarum frowns on anything enjoyable now, but in the past, who knows? Every conceivable form of worship has at one time and place been condemned, and at another been decreed the worshiper's most sacred duty. Despite this, the enormous skulls decorating the city walls are a bit of a shock. Perhaps my religious education was as inadequate as it was biased, but my impression was that the current lot of prelates rather disapproved of that sort of thing. One last bunch of walking trees guards the only gateway; the gates themselves are absent. As I said, it is as though all the defenses have deliberately been left wide open. The city is in ruin. Corpses lie rotting in every hovel, never concealed by the ubiquitous greenery. The Zakarumites still inhabit the city, I am happy to say, and they come in droves to die. What pathetic ragamuffins these are! Given the number of Paladin shields I have found, I should think they could afford least one among them, or enough filthy clothing to make a single shirt. But no; they come at me with farming tools, almost naked, half-crazed with hunger, and seem happier after I've sent them from this world. If they believe dying while fighting me will guarantee them a place in Heaven, they will be unpleasantly surprised. Besides Zakarumites and wild animals (should I distinguish them?) other creatures inhabit the city. Vulture Demons exactly like those in Lut Gholein's deserts feast on the dead here; did they travel here when I did, I wonder? Or have they been here longer? To spread their evil so far, The Prime Evils would need an enormous network of assistants. Ah, Hatred had the church to do his bidding; he must have sent minions to assist his brothers the moment he sensed their escape. No! How could he sense them? Diablo could not sense Baal. If only we understood the nature of demonkind better! For now, I am stymied, though I must focus some of my attention on survival. The great apes which roam here may once have been mere temple monkeys before Mephisto took them under his control. They look quite formidable now, huge and muscular, with enormous fangs and spines growing from their backs and shoulders. Hatred did not devote as much care to their minds; they fight with neither enthusiasm nor skill, and would rather run. After my frenzied battles in the Flayer jungles, Kurast is almost anticlimactic. Not that I mind the more leisurely pace -- oh, no! -- but my fellow denizens of the dockside still feel a great deal of concern for me. While in the jungle, my frequent lamentations and the quantities of broken teeth embedded in my flesh burdened their thoughts considerably. How touching. (I kept all the teeth, by the way; the pile is nearly seven and one-half inches high.) Old Alkor offered me something special in his own peculiar way: "I hope you survive, my pasty friend. Would you care to take a gander at my grimoire? I have a recipe that can pick you up and put you right down again." I declined; even my constitution, hardened by years of dedicated abuse, can only withstand so many of his concoctions in a day. During our conversation, it also came up that Alkor is eager to peruse a book of prophecies confiscated long ago by the church. This book of "heresies" was not committed to the fire for some reason, but kept preserved in one of their high temples. The stupidity of Zakarum never ceases to amaze me, yet it is so inconsistently applied. The book is well known among my compatriots. Deckard Cain babbled a long and utterly irrelevant account of the history of Lam Esen, particulars of his historical period, etc. etc. etc. Ormus calls it "The Black Book," and jokes that it has much in common with a coffin: both are the shape of the future. Hratli speaks of it almost reverently, hoping the world can bear the prophet's revelations. I would have expected Hratli's comment from Ormus, and the reverse. In my experience, prophets and soothsayers are always better able to lighten one's purse than enlighten one's mind; nonetheless, Zakarum's singular treatment of the book intrigues me. Natalya is wearing new leathers they're even tighter than the others and she said Lam Esen's Black Book of Prophecies is very important to her and if I find it she will be impressed! I will return with the book if I must gnaw down a tree and make it myself!! My explorations have revealed something of the city's structure. Kurast was built in layers, but not upwards, as Lut Gholein was. The city grew outwards over the flat alluvial plain where her two rivers joined. The section I have been in, Lower Kurast, is the newest and the least pious, with no large temples or other devotional areas. Further upriver is the Kurast Bazaar, then Upper Kurast. Perhaps calling it "Middle Kurast" was too unimaginative even for Zakarumites, though simply calling it "Kurast Bazaar" is hardly an improvement. One note of limited scholarly interest: when simultaneously frozen and envenomed, demons explode into toxic ice fragments which will kill any grass they land on. Would demon blood, enchanted with death magic, make a useful defoliant? More Zakarumites occupy the bazaar, of course, but also some of their priests. Thank the earth and all that's in it, these "advanced" religious fanatics cannot raise their minions from the dead! They do heal them, as well as any other creature they see fit, which is nearly as bad. As with shamans, they merit a quick death. The Zakarumites are a bit better clothed; I've seen the occasional helmet, though others have human bones braided into their hair, which may offer them some measure of protection. To my astonishment, the bazaar once featured ornamental trees arranged in aesthetically pleasing patterns, judging from the holes they've left. Nothing of Zakarum, not the temples, cathedrals, nor anything in Kurast, indicated to me any sense of beauty. The trees are scattering cherry blossoms everywhere they go, and are fairly dangerous if they manage to surround a victim. Worst of all by far are the swarms of biting flies, another horror I hoped I'd seen the last of. They are not dangerous; I refer merely to the sound of their many tiny wings. As a threat, insect clouds merit fumigation, not a battle. More notes on the architecture: many larger buildings here feature giant skulls like those on the walls. Some have intact eyes of blood-red glass. Less commonly, a few have great gouts of blood and gore dripping from their jaws, though they are high up on the walls and apparently immobile. I do not linger by them. Zakarum's views were never balanced, but this is more unbalanced than expected, and in the wrong direction. Incidentally, the apes from the lower city seem to be in their natural form. Piles of skulls lie scattered about the bazaar, where their large teeth were used as a source of ivory. Mephisto has hardly touched them at all, so their reluctance to enter battle on his behalf is understandable. Why they fought at all is now a mystery. Two temples grace the bazaar, a northerly and a southerly. Perhaps there is some meaning in their placement which is lost on me. The southerly one is closer, so I enter the temple's inner chambers by the poorly-concealed trapdoor behind the main (very bloody) altar. The interior is covered with murals, much the worse for abuse and the passage of time; a large number of "sanguinary events" has raised the humidity inside the building, and the plaster is beginning to molder. The only image I can clearly make out is a dark-skinned man kneeling before an unearthly being, offering up his own blood. How ridiculous! If one must make a sacrifice, make sure it is from someone else. That is why we have servants. Just had a very messy battle. First came a wave of Sasquatch -- Sasquatch, here of all places! These were followed by a hordette of nuns, wearing even less than their men, and obviously freshly come from some very wicked activity. Gentle reader, if I may be permitted to offer up unsolicited advice, I implore you to leave wickedness to the naturally wicked. The good and pious, when they fall into wickedness, completely lose all sense of proportion and go far beyond where they ought to. Those born and raised to depravity know when to embrace evil and enjoy it, and when to put it aside. These nuns, for instance, while quite fetching in their gore-spattered lunacy, would have been much more dangerous had they not been quite so naked and unarmed. Tearing an enemy to bits with bare hands and teeth may sound like great fun, but there are other, more efficient ways to accomplish that end. A stroke of luck! The Black Book of Lam Esen sits on display in this very temple! The tome is ancient indeed, by the look of it... bother! It's written in glyphs. While I have studied these symbols, I am not as familiar with them as I would need to be, especially if this is written in the vague style prophets are so fond of. Even with proper reference materials, I would not have sufficient time to attempt a reading. It seems Alkor will read it first after all. I will show it to Natalya first. My heart is broken! I cannot believe it. She did not care at all! She looked disappointed I was even here! I quote: "Oh, you have the book. I'm surprised you made it. You must be very resourceful." THAT'S IT!?! Where is the kiss and the lady's favor for the conquering hero? Gave book to Alkor, and drank something from his shelves. Don't know what, he didn't look. Feel funny. Just like mother, I was never good enough for her. Grab something else; Alkor says don't drink, that's a slow poison. So who's in a hurry? Chapter 20 Dear Diary, Wormwood! I LOVE wormwood, it frees the senses! Green potion had wormwood, must have been. Little green fairies dancing in a line around the rooooom wheee la da-da da-da DA! DA! da-da da-da da! da! la-da da-da da World clearer now. Someone dropped something heavy on my stomach, a great big heavy hammer. That was rude. Now my stomach hurts nearly as much as my head, which feels as though there's a Flayer living in it. Oh, a note came with it: guess who. "Now that you're strong enough, try this. It'll be slow, but maybe it can work out anyways. The damage is good, and besides, look: it's got a skull! The Mule" After a few hours further recovery, I am able to examine the object: a sledgehammer, such as a mason might use for crushing gravel or pulverizing limestone. The black iron head is shaped like a skull, and a few decorative spikes form a "spine" partway down the shaft. Is this someone's idea of a joke? While many martial implements are, more or less, well-adapted forms of everyday tools (witness the scythe) the requirements for harvesting wheat and slicing demons are entirely different. A battle scythe is lighter than the common farm tool, the weight of its blade balanced by a counterweight on the base of the haft so it is quicker in the hand. Even I, who have devoted so much time to remaining ignorant of warlike things, understand these undeniable facts. Adapting a cumbersome stone-cracking hammer to the quick-as-lightning demands of real combat will require more than a few cosmetic additions. While examining my newest "gift," who should come visiting but Natalya. That witch wanted me dead, for no better reason than my existence proved an annoyance for her. She's just like mother, she really is. I don't know what I EVER saw in her. I don't know HOW I could have been so wrong! My precious viper has dispelled all my worries with but a few sweet words. She was not sad to learn of my survival at all, it was just that my daunting presence overawed her into an unaccustomed reticence. "Your power surrounds you like a... like an aura of power!" Perhaps not the most eloquent exposition, but eloquence has a way of abandoning us when we we are most overawed. Even I could not help but be impressed by her sheer honesty, the undeniable, powerful reality of her feelings for me. In the future, I shall have to keep that "aura of power" carefully hidden... she must understand that I am, after all, but a man like any other. Once more into the breach, then, dear friends! Not completely unwilling to abandon Soul Harvest (for the stylishness, if nothing else) I tuck it away and strap the Mule's offering to my back. Devils and angels, that thing is heavy. Apparently, my indiscriminate consumption of Alkor's medicinals was even less wise than I thought -- my man Khaleel last saw me on my feet some three days ago, and is surprised to see me again at all. This may mean I am, once again, too late to intercept my target. If so, I may soon face The Three united, a prospect which would make Heaven's mightiest quail in fear. Of course, Heaven's mightiest would announce their arrival with blasts of holy fanfare, and ride into open battle on glittering beams of radiance. I am not that stupid. The marketplace holds no Zakarumites, but their animals have repopulated the ruins. Here is something I had not noticed before: the giant, red-eyed skulls I had thought were randomly placed on these buildings are not sculpted naturally. Judging from the remaining stones, the skulls grew inside the walls and forced their way through the outer casements. Another feature I missed are two sewer entrances. Almost certainly, Kurast's municipal bowels are full of the most disagreeable forms of evil, which I must personally cleanse if there is ever to be regularity in her again. How did I come to embrace this quest, I wonder? The sewers of Kurast are not as indescribably filthy as they could be, no doubt because they are no longer in active use. Horrors abound, but again nothing is as bad as I first feared. My first encounter was a group of Horadric Mummies, which was a bit of a surprise. How they maintain cohesion in this damp climate is beyond my powers of rationalization. Their leader was enchanted with an aura, which chilled and slowed all of my movements. Experimentally, I used the new hammer on him (or her; difficult to tell now.) The battle was decided with five blows, but I nearly died of boredom. Even without the aura's effects, this crude hammer is too slow to be of use. These sewers are, in fact, nearly empty. A few Horadric Mummies shamble about here and there; an assortment of bats aimlessly flutter about and die; Tentacle Beasts have made homes for themselves in some of the larger nodes; otherwise, my attention is little diverted and free to wander. Did the Horadrim have a tradition for mummification in Kurast? Surely, I would have heard of it; a sleepy backwater like Lut Gholein could keep such a thing secret, but not the greatest city of the east. Best check the encyclopedia. Dear old Deckard Cain knows of no mummies in Kurast. The Taan dabbled in mummification long ago, and these may be a remnant of that time -- I might ask Ormus. I think it would be just as profitable to consult the leaves from my morning tea, and say so, which made the old man laugh. "Ormus would like you to think him mad," Cain said. "I am perfectly happy to indulge him," I replied. Personally, I suspect these are creatures Diablo and Baal enslaved in the deserts of Aronach and summoned here for my entertainment, and they are not the only ones. Between the giant spiders, the apes, and the lightning bats, I wonder when I will see my next familiar face. Why, Blood Raven! Is that you? I'd hardly recognized you. Kurast's sewers are as broad as Lut Gholein's were deep, and there is no sign they were ever anything but sewers. Two more entrances connect the sewers to the upper city -- none go to the lower. Either lower Kurast post-dates the sewer's construction, or the were not worthy of the gifts of sanitation. In one rear corner, a sluice gate leads to a sump, so the sewer might be flushed or drained for maintenance and the like. Flushing the sewer sounds like an excellent plan; the floor will be slippery, but those damned Tentacle Beasts won't be everywhere, getting smart ideas about attacking me. After a good, long flushing, Khaleel and I go down to see what of value might have washed out. Heavy things, like gold, tend to be caught in sumps, and it is so much easier to check there than to explore every pipe. (Gentle reader, if you wonder how I know so much about sewers, let me just say that at home, this is the stuff of our daily existence.) A jumbled-up lot of monsters are struggling around in the muck down there -- some Tentacles and a few Mummies who weren't dashed to bits by their watery ride -- but nothing I can't take care of. And the treasure! Very few people realize how much wealth is lost every day in a large city simply by being dropped, and how much of that goes into the sewers. Most of my finds are coinage and jewelry, of course, but sheer volume compensates for that. Also in there is a golden strongbox, containing a human heart... well-preserved, slightly damp, flexible to the touch, and unharmable by any power I possess. When I drop it in the sump, it bobs on the surface, repelled by the filth. Nothing even STICKS to it. I'm tempted to leave it down here out of sheer spite. Never mind the heart; it can sit with its former associates. On to the upper city, where I can loot a better class of corpse. The paladins are here in force, all true zealots eager to die for their cause. When men are willing to die for what they believe, they really ought to put more effort into finding out if what they believe is true. Their priests tell them what they do is right, and that is enough. The upper city's decorative trees have also been rallied to the cause, and more of those infernal vultures flap lazily about. How do my host and his brothers expect to entertain me like this? Unless they provide me with more variety soon, I shall become very cross, and may do one or more of them an injury. To my delight, one of the houses has a silver mirror which survived the recent upheavals. I am sure Natalya will love it, once it has been polished and otherwise restored. Goodness, I look a fright! Alkor's potions may not help me to live forever, but they can help make me look as though I had. Two dreadful battles behind me now. The first was a group of walking trees, quicker than average, led by one able to throw curses. I do wish I understood how Hell could work such magic out of a tree. While I knew to retreat, Khaleel unthinkingly let himself be surrounded, and was being pounded into paste before I pulled him out. The second was far, far worse: a group of those damned priests led by one of their cantors, or ministers, or whatever exalted title they give themselves. Perhaps because they find weather more celestial, these priests summon lightning and storms of icy rain, but more importantly they heal each other. The slow death of poison was meaningless to them; despite my misgivings, I had to beat them to death with the sledgehammer. I am growing hourly more annoyed with this instrument. Two grand temples grace the upper city. Inside the first, one of those fluttery bats has an aura which lowers my magical resistances. Altering probabilities so effortlessly must be marvelous; according to father, Paladins are capable of it, though I have seen no evidence of that. Another temple feature I have just noticed here are the reliefs on the walls. These older expressions of religious fervor were covered over with the scenes of bloody submission I noted previously. They seem more subtle, though the carvings are now so abused it is hard to say what they once depicted. Heaven has always worked more subtlely to extract worship; Hell is content with fear, preferring to use discretion in battle. Beyond the upper city is a large lake, with a stone causeway leading to a small island. Two more temples are visible on either side of the causeway -- Kurast's water control systems are miraculous indeed, to put underground temples in the middle of a lake! One temple is lair to a vampire, completely immune to Khaleel's icy magic. The sledgehammer takes care of it well enough, I suppose, but it seems so wrong to choose mere practicality over style. Not that I haven't made that choice already, so many times... I hope this is not the last dying gasp of my artistic standards. According to Deckard Cain, the island in the lake is called Travincal, the religious heart of Kurast, site of the tower where the Horadrim buried Mephisto. The patriarch of the church was possessed by the Lord of Hate (good choice), the High Council of Seven has been twisted into evil mockeries of their former selves, and so on. This much anyone could have guessed; there is more. Cain absolutely insisted I speak to Ormus this time, I couldn't avoid it. Mephisto's power over the local area is focused through a device, unpoetically called a compelling orb. The orb is in Travincal, with the council guarding it. Destroy the orb, and all the little Zakarumites will be free to do as they will for the first time in years. While I do not anticipate profound changes in their behavior, destroying the orb should put an end to the jungle's growth. If all the Flayers died, I would be in ecstasy. However, the price of failure would be terrible indeed. Should I die on this quest, Ormus has promised to write a poem commemorating my heroism. THAT simply CANNOT be ALLOWED to HAPPEN, UNDER ANY AND ALL CIRCUMSTANCES. My artistic standards will never be allowed to pass so quietly into that long dark night! Tomorrow, the council will die! Chapter 21 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: 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. Act III mercs make lousy tanks. 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. Act 4 Chapter 22 Dear Diary, What an extraordinary place Hell is! And so nicely presented as well: who would have known that the lords of Hell would favor classic Early Gothic? White marble and antique bronze are excellent choices for materials; ethereal arches and graceful buttresses give the space the perfect air of elegance, dignity, and understated strength. Even the spikes atop the walls are pleasing to the eye. Though I did imagine Hell as being a bit larger. Oh, I should have known. The same minds that conceived Mephisto's fortress and Andarial's throne room could not have built this. Perhaps my anticipations had too firm a hand in guiding my thoughts -- the common man believes Hell to be terrible, so I fully expected it not to be. The star of divine order, subtly worked into every surface of this fortress, marks it as an outpost of Heaven. Dear old Deckard Cain, who I was sure I had finally abandoned to his fate, is here; he's such a devoted old thing, I doubt I'll ever be rid of him. Before I could do more than express astonishment at his presence, he began babbling in a frenzy. From his excited ravings, I gleaned that this is not quite Hell, merely Pandemonium, a land between the earthly realms and Hell. Supernatural battles were fought here for ages, earning the locale its noisy name. This fortress is the most distant outpost not abandoned to Hell. Cain arrived before I did because the archangel Tyrael brought him here; the angel was patiently waiting to speak with me. Gentle reader, it may seem incredible that I did not notice the angel when I entered, given the extraordinary presence such beings are known to project. I cannot fully account for it myself, except to say that in that fortress, the archangel did not stand out. Every stone (if they truly were stones) radiated much the same aura as he; we mortals took on an air of otherworldliness, our very earthiness a stark contrast to the surroundings. Nevertheless, I am not unhappy to see the angel. Open intrusion is far more tolerable than meddling from concealment; this way, I can give him a piece of my mind whenever I like. Of all the impudent, irritating people! Our conversation went thusly: As I approached, the archangel intoned, "It is good to see you again. I hoped your quest would end in the mortal realms, but Diablo has fled into Hell and must be pursued. During the dark journey you must face, this fortress will serve you as a place of rest." "Splendid!" I replied. "When I knew I was going to Hell, the first thing that passed through my mind was how beastly difficult it would be to find a good hotel. Bring my luggage up immediately, there could be a generous gratuity in it for you." "Your possessions are here, and I have brought mortal allies to aid you, such as your friend Deckard Cain. That is all the assistance I may offer." "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said most insincerely. "I should have realized proffering aid would be beneath your dignity; like the Horadrim, I must do everything myself lest your hands be soiled by taking action. Or do you fear another beating at Terror's hands?" "I have been forbidden from aiding you," Tyrael droned on, unruffled. "Humanity has taken shelter under Heaven's wing for too long. It is time you met the forces of Hell on your own. This must be the hour of mortal man's triumph -- your triumph. You must face Diablo alone." This, of course, was unacceptable. The extended folly of the Sin War should not be dismissed so lightly, especially by its biggest fool. "Noble archangel Tyrael... it is well known that you guided... or I should say, misguided... the Horadrim during their pursuit of Diablo and his brothers. Your actions created a disaster worse than anything they could have devised on their own. Now that the full consequences of your actions have come to light, you say you will do nothing?!" If my words had any impact, the angel's infuriating serenity concealed it. "None may know all ends; there are things concealed even from Heaven's light. The Brothers' reign of fear over your lands called for action; none could foresee what might come. This is not the time to regret past decisions -- the entire future is at stake, and you must act. Your order recognizes the importance of humanity taking control of its own destiny; it is necessary that you defeat the forces of Hell without my aid." Of all the... "Of course, yes. I wouldn't want your help if you offered it!" "All I can offer is a few bits of wisdom, and the help of mortal allies. By the fortress gate, two great heroes of the Light stand ready to see to your needs. Diablo has hidden in a Sanctuary of Chaos just within Hell's border, and summoned the greatest generals of his old legions to himself. You must journey down to the River of Flame, where the Sanctuary lies, and destroy the Lord of Terror at his strongest." "Sounds peachy," I muttered. Could he hear my teeth grinding? Did he care? "There is one thing more..." "Oh, just one?!" I snapped. The sincere regret and perfect humility radiating from the angel's divine countenance were driving me mad. "Just one. A dark, tortured soul roams the plains of Pandemonium: Izual, my lieutenant and friend. Many centuries ago, he led a failed assault on the Hellforge, but was captured by the forces of Hell. Under torture that slowly destroyed his physical form, Izual surrendered some of Heaven's most precious secrets. As punishment, he was imprisoned within the body of a powerful beast of the abyss. I believe he has suffered long enough. If you find Izual, I ask you to destroy his prison of a body, and free him from his agony and sorrow. But beware; he has some strength left, and may not know friend from foe. May the Light and the powers of Heaven shine on your path, even if you do not welcome them." That was... he requested... he... AAHHHH! To think that I, who have long maintained that we should be free of Heavenly "aid," will be receiving no aid in the time of my most desperate need! HOW DARE THAT FLUTTERY DUSTMOP AGREE WITH ME!! Topping it off, Deckard Cain is naive enough to congratulate me on gaining his confidence! "Tyrael must have great faith in your ability" indeed! That is just what I need right now, an admirer! A passive admirer to stand by admiring me and do nothing! The Pandemonium fortress has a Horadric waypoint, of course, so I take a short trip back to Atma's tavern for a spot of tea and a light luncheon. It does me a world of good, as do all my new admirers in the town. Word has gotten out, apparently, and I am now famous. I always knew I would be either famous or notorious someday. Adulation is something I could easily grow accustomed to -- what more could a man want than a crowd of beautiful idiots to praise and flatter him as he slides headlong into well-earned debauchery? Ah, Natalya... there will be a special place for you there too. Khaleel introduces himself to the joys of the Black Mushroom. Soon, he is no shape to face Hell; I won't be going anywhere, so I have one myself. Ah... Dear Diary, What would Hell be without a hangover? If I'm going to Hell, I ought to sin a bit first. My order has always been diffident on the subject, but it is well known that many human souls migrate to Hell after bodily death; those summoned back to our realm unanimously describe their time spent here as unpleasant. So: is it for punishment, as Zakarum claims? Is this a refuse heap where undesirables are disposed of? Or do Heaven and Hell compete for the energy of human worship? An inquiry would be problematic, given the difficulty of obtaining reliable information from either demons or angels. With any luck, Diablo will boast about it, though I expect him to lie, or use those parts of the truth most likely to deceive me. The "great mortal heroes of the Light" by the fortress gate are nearly as serene as their angelic master. They do not introduce themselves, and take even less interest in me than I in them. Snubbed by servants! I must not meet Heaven's standards of respectability; good. The fortress actually hovers over the vast steppe of Pandemonium, floating much as Tyrael himself does. There may be a valid reason for this: the soil of Pandemonium is pulverized volcanic glass, and gets into everything. After ten steps, I am itching over every inch of my body. I am sure that after a few hours out here, my skin will be rubbed raw. After my first encounter with Hell's forces, I am fully prepared to go back to Atma's and not come back. Two horrid things, four-legged lumps of loose flesh, approached me and began expelling little worm-like terrors from openings on their ventral surfaces. They seemed very familiar, and not merely as a misogynist's least-favorite nightmare. As I was swarmed by the hungry young (they were nearly as quick as Flayers) behind them came Corpulent Demons, stomachs on legs made by Hell to destroy the bodies of their enemies. They can eat most creatures whole in one gulp, even things larger than the Corpulent itself. In addition, the Corpulent's muscular gut can expel a partially digested corpse with enough force to knock a man over, and the fleshy spawners insured they would not lack ammunition. Leaping reptiles like those from Aronach abound here; I knew there was something unnatural about those things. The curse of Attraction helps me somewhat, dispersing the crowds who would otherwise overwhelm me. Exploding the corpses is a better strategy, as it denies the Corpulents their favored mode of attack. Neither approach works very well; my enemies are too numerous and too quick. All across the steppe, the shattered remains of structures stand, cyclopean confirmation of the wars of ages past. Thick chains of some unguessable metal predominate, strung around and between tall pillars and cages full of eternal fire. Certain architectural elements remind me of Mephisto's lair. Scattered about are a few human souls, in bodies seemingly formed from the scratchy soil. A few attack me ineffectually; others lie wailing on the ground; some writhe in the cages, burning away forever. It is all quite senseless: no demon benefits from this pointless pain, and these now-mindless things cannot comprehend their suffering as a punishment. Pointless, senseless, devoid of reason -- I cannot ascribe anything but madness to what I see here. Frequent trips to the healer have kept my skin on my body; I pity anyone trapped in this place without such a service. And to think, this isn't even Hell proper... what tortures await me there, I wonder? Once again, I am lucky to be alive. Five of the fleshy spawners, faster than usual, with a dozen Leaping Lizards and 4 Corpulents, all at once. If the powers of Heaven really do shine upon my path, they must have been horribly embarrassed by all that screaming and running about. Their chosen champion (or should that be dupe?) may be ill-chosen. Though I have no idea how much time has passed, it must be very late, as I am weary beyond all words. With no sun to guide me, it is impossible to gauge time's passage; I could have been out there for an hour or a day. Hell's forces seem endless, and constantly replace themselves. There is nothing for it, I must rest. If Tyrael disapproves, he can go to Hell. Of course, he won't -- that might help me, and we can't have that. Chapter 23 Dear Diary, Heaven's Fortress possesses an austere beauty, but more than compensates with its lack of amenities. None of the physical comforts which give the merely mortal joy are to be found within these walls, with the exception of the fireplace, and even that burns with an eternal flame which produces no warmth; I can stand directly in it and suffer no harm. Of food and drink, there are none. Never mind that I have felt no need to partake while in this unearthly place -- there is more to dining than the satisfaction of bodily requirements. Sleep is also unnecessary: last night I merely rested, lying on the floor without even a cot to save my back. There are no furnishings, not even chairs, nor anything soft or comfortable. While I realize this is a military emplacement, that seems to me to be taking things a bit too far, but simple pleasures appear to be beneath Heaven's consideration. Nothing here is unpleasant, but nothing brings joy, except the quiet contemplation of staid perfection, for those who like that sort of thing. If I should seem ungrateful to my host, I must protest to the contrary. For a sharp contrast with conditions in the fortress, one need only step downstairs to find a place where physical sensations are both abundant and extreme, each nastier than the last. Even the glassy soil seems to crawl under clothing and seek out skin to rub raw with a will of its own. Should I die, I dearly hope my soul will remain in our world. Neither alternative is promising. After I rested, I rose, but having nothing to look forward to, nearly lay down again. How absurd that breakfast should assume such an important motivational role! Nobler sentiments, such as saving the world and all humanity, pale beside the smell of frying bacon. Memories of good earthy things are all I have to sustain me. Pandemonium has been repopulated in my absence; a group of Flesh Mothers lay in ambush at the bottom of the stairs. These are the most disturbing and disgusting of all Hell's effluvia (having said that, my next encounter is guaranteed to be something even worse), but despite my desire, it is clear that I will never be able to kill them all. I do not like leaving an enemy alive behind me, but searching them all out would require an army and more time than I can spare. Avoiding them while driving in quickly and quietly, hoping against hope they do not circle behind and surround me, may be necessary. A cliff separates the steppes of Pandemonium from a lower set of plains, with a single narrow set of stairs leading down. I am going into Hell, so downwards should be the right direction. In my earlier years, I had imagined my descent into the abyss would be more of a slow and languid spiral of debauchery and dissipation; I certainly should be having more fun. Hello, a blue Balrog is charging up the stairs. I seem to recall that Diablo resembles a Balrog. The beast was not Diablo, but the fallen angel Izual, who Tyrael asked me to look for. I had half-resolved not to find him, but it seems he found me. His body was unusual, made in the form of a common Balrog, but of the same blue crystal Heaven favors for their crystal blades. Both poison and ice proved poor weapons, so I beat him to death by force. Once his prison was shattered (there can be no doubt that Heaven built that body) Izual proved even more tedious than Tyrael. I never would have thought that possible; those who make the best moral examples are usually the worst company. His joyful ranting followed the predictable pattern of a penny-novel villain, though he did reveal a few tidbits: Tyrael is a fool. So nice to have it confirmed by an outside source. Tyrael is far too trusting. Such naiveté is sadly common among the excessively virtuous. The soulstones are not, in fact, spirit traps, but powerful amplifiers of spiritual power. Given time, the Lords of Hell could focus their energy through the stones and corrupt the mortal realm entirely, turning it into a permanent outpost of Hell. Humanity is doomed, etc. etc. etc. Informing the wise and benevolent Tyrael that his bosom friend has always been his greatest enemy would be an act of unjustifiable cruelty, so of course I rushed right back and told him. The poor thing's wings actually fluttered, he was so upset. My conscience would not let me leave him in such a state, so I tried to find the silver lining in this mess. Izual had betrayed Heaven, and should have gained infernal power, but did not and was left open to Heaven's wrath. A common fishwife would know better than to make a bargain that leaves her open to reprisal. Izual has lost none of his angelic innocence if he expects Hell to deal with him in an open and honest manner -- in fact, he still believes that his new masters will render unto him his due, though they plainly have no intention of doing so. Being so foolish, he will be easy to destroy when it comes to that. Tyrael did not seem to find comfort in the idea. Back to business. From the top of the stairs, I can see structures in the distance, far across the plain. It looks to be a city, though I cannot imagine who would build a city down here. Having no other goal before me, I shall make my way there. The plain is full of foes: great Balrogs, highly resistant to poison even after being cursed; fluttering Wraiths, familiar spirits found in sad and lonely places; and, of course, more Flesh Mothers. This truly is Hell. When our lives are not being immediately threatened, Khaleel amuses himself blasting the damned souls we occasionally come across to bits. It is easy to keep his mind occupied. My Bone Armor is proving nearly useless: the bones only intercede against physical blows, and the true danger here seems to be the Wraiths. How many battles have raged across these plains? An uncountable number, to leave so many dead behind! I have heard Wraiths tend to be the souls of children, I cannot imagine so many dying in one place, especially not this place. Of course, it is also said that a lonely and isolated death is needed to make a Wraith: they should not come in packs. These must be imported. Nonetheless, enormous quantities of bones lie scattered across the plain, and not all the dead spirits escaped. Occasionally, I find one that has taken refuge inside a nest of old bones; after destroying their tormentors, I happily set these free, and often receive material compensation for my trouble. It is so much easier to be good when it lies in my self-interest. From up close, these buildings look no more like a city than they did from afar. Everything here is huge, at least twice life-size and made of solid iron. Chains spread like spiderwebs across every archway, hooks dangle from every balcony, and every edge is as sharp as the blade of a knife. How can buildings be so huge, so unconventional, so threatening... and yet so dull? Once again, it is confirmed: I am in Hell. Could it be that Hell has exhausted its supply of Flesh Mothers? So far, there are none to be found. The city is inhabited by Corpulent Demons, parties of undead mages, and some odd flying creatures which are entirely new to my experience. The Corpulents are as before, perhaps a bit larger and darker in complexion. The mages are skeletal or mummified, wearing what I take to be Hell's most fashionable armor, and have apparently have retained much of their former intelligence. Their spells are varied, including Bone Armor and various missiles, and they make good use of the terrain and other creatures while in battle. Perhaps I'm just fooling myself, but I believe I see a few familiar faces among them. It is pleasing to see an enemy relying on Bone Armor, and finding it just as useless as I did. The last monster I encountered merits a more thorough description, as it is of a type I have not seen nor heard of, and which may be new. This undead being, in appearance, resembles a flat layer of ribs or insectile legs, arranged vertically with no intermittent spaces. There is no obvious face or legs, though the outer ends of its "ribs" are capable of some movement. The creature levitates slowly from place to place, approximately a foot above ground, with no visible support. In size, one is about the height of a man. These are Hell's creatures, so naturally they attack on sight. All are capable of casting a lightning spell peculiar to them, which sends tiny sparks along the ground. These do little harm, but have the property of seeking out the enemy on their own, with no need to be aimed. Such a spell, with power behind it, could be dangerous. While certainly odd, they are not fierce opponents. Their broad, flat surface provides a large target area, and their thin bodies are easily punctured and broken. Venom and cold are equally effective. The lightning spell, which I suspect is instinctive, requires the creature to closely approach an enemy, making their vulnerability easier to exploit. My instinct is to label them one of Hell's failed experiments. A curious observation: in the middle of the city, a mockery of a cathedral stands above a fiery pit. Its walls and windows were a perfect blasphemy of an earthly house of worship. The stained-glass windows were an especially nice touch, writhing with unholy images -- until I saw that they actually were writhing, like living things. Experimentally, I scratched one with the Jade Tan Do, and could see poison crawl through the pane until it shattered and... "died," I believe. Khaleel destroyed the rest of the windows. Something about this city of the damned seemed familiar to me when I entered, and I have just now seen what it is. At first, I thought these structures might be the remains of siege machines or other engines of war, but that is not the case. As I walked along a covered walkway, I noted the shapes of the arches, graceful curves of iron with pointed crests in superior and inferior positions at the apex. Now that I have returned to the Pandemonium Fortress, I see that the fortress's gate is identical, in bronze instead of iron. Heaven's version of the arch is also more delicate, but the shape is identical. Other architectural elements favored by Heaven can be seen in the city as well... I did wonder why Heaven would use representations of devils as finials and braziers in their fortress. The wise and pure archangel Tyrael denies any association between Heaven and Hell, as he would. With complete confidence, he assures me that they have always been desperate enemies, and would never borrow architectural elements from each other. While it is true that the Pandemonium Fortress has devil figures everywhere, they are merely decorative and nothing should be read into them. Could both Heaven and Hell have "drunk from the same well," as it were, taking inspiration from some common source? Quite impossible, he insists; nothing else exists, and Heaven and Hell have always been at war. Deckard Cain has joined our discussion -- too bad, it was going so well. The old man seems to think I was terribly unkind to poor Tyrael over the matter of Izual, and that he must come to his rescue lest I be too cruel. I, for one, think that angels should be able to withstand a few unpleasant truths. But Deckard, the kind-hearted old dear, reminds his magnificence that Pandemonium was occupied by Heaven during the Sin War. The city may have been a place for mortal heroes to live and worship during the siege on Hell, and naturally would share some architectural features with the Pandemonium Fortress, which was constructed at approximately the same time. In fact, if his memory serves (and it always does) there should be a Horadric waypoint in the city, built to serve those heroes of old. Back in the city now, looking for this waypoint. I don't know whether I want to find it or not, it would be so much more satisfying if I could say without doubt that Heaven and Hell have common features, perhaps even a common origin. Tyrael would be so vexed, I'll wager he might even raise his voice. None of this alters the necessity of my quest; the soulstones must still be destroyed. Nevertheless, walking out of Hell with verified knowledge that could embarrass Heaven would be so very satisfying... Damn, there's the waypoint, next to a hole blasted down into Hell. A set of floating stairs bridges the gap between Pandemonium and the River of Flame, Hell's outermost moat and favorite staging area. It seems the city and cathedral were built by or for Heaven; Hell took them over and corrupted them. Ah, well; at least the question of how a city so impressive could also be so boring has been answered. Down below, the River of Flame glares painfully bright after so much time in Pandemonium's gloom. I could go down, but I am tired and the waypoint is here... oh, bother the fortress. A night of sleep, REAL sleep in a bed, will be just the thing for me. Chapter 24 Dear Diary, The River of Flame is the ultimate source for humanity's legends concerning Hell, of course: a massive flow of lava, continually producing combustible gasses which ignite the moment they reach the air. Most of Hell lies far beyond, and is quite different according to the few reports available, but the river leaves a strong first impression on the casual viewer. Not that the River of Flame sees many "casual" visitors; for the most part, only those in league with Hell or Heaven ever see it, and few of them make reliable witnesses. Had I such a person sworn to truthful testimony to cross-examine, my first question would concern their sanity, whichever side of the conflict they feel is less despicable. Nevertheless, I must confess to a quavering of fear at the sight of the River of Flame. Its appearance is so very like the description Zakarum's texts give it, even the most pragmatic realist would doubt his faithlessness. The wilting heat, the burning gasses which actually do smell like charring flesh and bone, even the sound is almost exactly like the screams of a million souls being slowly reduced to ashes. Naturally, my own order has little to say about the river, or anywhere else outside our plane of existence. In a weaker mind than mine, the sights, sounds, and smells of Hell might produce a religious epiphany. The blessing of apathy leaves me immune to such things -- forming an opinion on such an unpleasant subject would require giving it thought, which is far more trouble than it's worth. A stairway from Heaven leads downwards, to a rough island amid the lava. Close to ground, the heat is not so intense, and the air fresher; the heat and miasma must rise heavenwards, leaving these islands (a series of them are visible from here) relatively cool. Nothing can be seen in the river itself; even Hellspawn are vulnerable to that heat. On land, I have found giants, undead mages, and more of those peculiar bone-insect creatures who attacked me so unsuccessfully in the city above. The giants are all a disconcerting shade of green, despite their fleshiness and apparent liveliness. At least my Bone Armor does me some good against such creatures, though their enormous strength rapidly batters the magic to bits. Completely unexpectedly, the River of Flame has its own curious story to tell. The soil here resembles the glassy grit of Pandemonium, partially melted and fused. Perhaps some fell from above, shaken loose by frequent conflicts, and heaped at random on the river's bed. It is obvious that the river was much lower at some time in the past: the tops of buildings can be seen jutting up from the flames, even through one of the islands on occasion. From what is visible, these were ponderous fortresses with heavy stone walls, absolutely covered with spikes and spines yet not completely dissimilar from Heavenly architecture. I wonder if Hell finds is more to their advantage not to build, but rather to allow Heaven to build, then take the structure and redecorate according to their own tastes. Additionally, I should make a note of the bones I have found in such abundance, here and elsewhere. Hell's inhabitants value filthy lucre much as we mortals do, I have found plenty of wealth secreted among the remains of battles past. Some of the bones are quite large, and I have just now found an intact skull, beautifully formed, though far larger than any mortal man's head could be. None of the giants has so sweet a face; could this be an angel? Not even Tyrael has such a swollen head. The wizards I have encountered here and in the city deserve special mention. Mentally, the undead are rarely worth considering; even those whose minds remain suffer serious losses in intellectual ability. While these fellows retain more of a spark than I have ever seen in any formerly-live being, I cannot say their minds remain intact after death, one of the great aims of my order. Even Hell cannot achieve that elusive goal... or they have no desire to. Of course, I could be wrong -- engaging my enemies in conversation is difficult, even with those who still have tongues, so my estimate of their intellectual ability may be grounded on biased or incomplete data. My only other comment is that, among their ranks, it seems to me that I am seeing a lot of familiar faces. Another observation: after a short but sweet battle with a crowd of giants, a skeletal being came crawling up out of the River of Flame. I kicked it back down, and it has not made the attempt again. What a dreadful place this is, enemies can come from anywhere. Only my desire to be out of this hell of tedium and terror carries me on. Ahead, a large island looms above the roiling miasma of the river, with some sort of structure at its peak. I can see this from the apex of an arched bridge, which connects two other islands. It appears that Hell will build when it wants to, just not very well. I cannot imagine that Hell has no architects -- there are so many who certainly should be here. The structure is some sort of forge, to judge from the sounds, and is energetically guarded by hordes of demons. My approach was met with a wave of magical attacks and the howls of frenzied giants, so I am certain something of importance lies on that island. The curse of Attraction provides me with some vicarious amusement, and exploding corpses is always a joy. Hmm, the hammering sounds have stopped. I have slain a creature much like the jailhouse smith from the Rogue's monastery, with much less risk to my own person I am happy to say. This one was quicker than the first, and no doubt much stronger, but the poisons I use are so potent now, the muscle-bound clod-head didn't stand a chance. I like that in an enemy. Clearing the island is simple enough. Now, I have a forge and smithy, should I want such a thing. Perhaps that beastly girl Charsi could be persuaded to come here? I wouldn't mind seeing her in Hell. Then again, knowing her, I am sure that the moment she set foot down here all of Hell would freeze over, then burst out in clouds of flowers and butterflies. I actually prefer it the way it is. According to Deckard Cain, Hell's endless state of war (whether with others or itself) means that armor- and weapon-craft is a major growth industry. Hundreds of "Hellforges" on the River of Flame churn out arms, each equipped with tools capable of shaping, bending, or breaking any material known. Thanks to Tyrael's blundering and humanity's naivete, there are three things we desperately need broken, one of which is in my possession. Destroying even that one will prevent The Prime Evils from invading our world. For this gift, I'll forgive Hell the name "Hellforge." Honestly, I thought only Heaven was that unimaginative. Mephisto's spirit is visible in his Soulstone; my, he looks upset. Doubts nag at me; Tyrael and the Horadrim were wrong about so many things in the past, can I trust them this time? It could be that breaking the stone will release Mephisto's spirit into Hell, a bit like imprisoning a rapist in a harem. My alternatives are few. Keeping the Soulstone is not an option; it is clearly a weak prison at best. In Hell, it will eventually be found by some loyal follower of his. Returning Mephisto to my world is NOT an option. Perhaps some of the wiser Horadrim felt this frustration; I cannot know if Tyrael is wrong until I have done as he says. Smashing demon lords certainly does produce a pretty show. The scream of impotent rage was an especially nice touch. A group of human spirits I had not noticed in the stone floated heavenward after I shattered it; where did they come from, I wonder? Now empty of power, a few bits of gem-quality stone are all that remains of Tyrael's Folly, part 1. My doubts have not been relieved, but I must confess: that was fun. A bit further on, four monumental statues decorate an artificial island, made from blocks of stone instead of whatever scorched detritus everything else here is. The statues are gigantic and purposefully intimidating, yet tediously representational and artistically valueless. I am reminded of the monumental works erected to glorify some of our more dictatorial kings, only to a greater degree. Though I do my best not to notice their existence, some fear at the back of my mind is trying to convince me that these statues are watching me. There are no spirits in them, that is impossible... yet the feeling persists. This place is beginning to affect my mind. Could I have been possessed without realizing it? Now I am beginning to doubt my senses! There is an angel here, attired differently from Tyrael, speaking to me. Something about five seals to break... Back in the Pandemonium Fortress. Deckard Cain looks like Deckard Cain: old, ineffectual, with bits of pea soup dripped down the front of his robe. Oh, happy soup-stain! The very simplicity of it is reassuring, which is as sad a comment on my frame of mind as you are likely to hear. Tyrael is agitated. Poor avatar of order, are things not going according to plan? The other angel is Hadriel, I am not possessed, and I could stand some other simple, earthy food to calm my nerves. Despite the misgivings of the rest of humanity, we followers of Rathma are an earthy lot, deeply concerned about the fate of the world and the souls of all men and women. We are certainly not suited to hobnobbing with angels! I wonder, does Atma serve pea soup? A bowl of that would hit the spot. Chapter 25 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: 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. 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. 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. Act 5 Chapter 26 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. Chapter 27 Dear Diary, Breakfast, among barbarians. The source of certain odors is now unnecessarily clear; these people do not believe in the power of dietary fiber. My morning meal choices were Roast Rabbit (complete with ears), Roast Rabbit sans Innards (for those with delicate sensibilities), and for the gourmet, Roast Rabbit in an Unidentifiable Brown Sauce. Without exception, the animals were served nearly raw. At Khaleel's suggestion, we broke our fast at Atma's. I have no idea why the Horadrim built a waypoint in Harrogath, but I thank them from the bottom of my heart. Before leaving, the mountain of meat who serves as Harrogath's blacksmith offered to set any item I liked with jewels or gems. His people are fond of such barbaric splendor, I have seen. Many times in the hills, I passed by some half-naked savage, grunting in the snow, who nonetheless shone with gold and jeweled finery, and whose weapons glittered with various shiny rocks. Higher-status warriors positively gleam, though they may not have enough cloth among them to make up one shirt. Deckard Cain has spoken of the northern tribes as being legendary for their heroic constitutions. Myself, I suspect their vigor springs from their way of life; those not built like an ox are killed off at an early age. Though I have little cause to trust his skills as a jeweler, it amused me to hand over my Jade Tan Do, and see what he'd make of it. Should he ham-handedly destroy the dagger, I would of course be upset, but every cloud has a silver lining. That mountain of flesh would make an ideal servant. The Jade Tan Do confused him (perhaps it challenged some larger = better dogma of his) but with unexpected ingenuity, he hollowed out a socket in the handle and set it with gold wire, ready to accept a gem. More than that, he explained, risked destroying the strong enchantments woven tightly through the blade. Now, what to set in the dagger? Emeralds provide death magic, and would enhance the Jade Tan Do and my magic still further -- but the dagger's blade is reddish-gold, and my current ensemble is red and white. I cannot imagine a way to make green, even a small note of it, work with me. A red gem or a demon skull would be safe choices, but not pragmatic ones, and I must bow to practicality. Then again, the matter is moot if I do not have any of these things. Let me see... a topaz... a sapphire... ah, a "shael" runestone! One of these would lighten the weapon, quickening my strike. Aesthetically neutral, yet highly practical; my best choice at the moment. Curious things, runestones -- their appearance suggests a form of magic as ancient as my own art, yet they were completely unknown to me until a short time ago. I wonder where the knowledge were hidden away for so long. Better prepared than ever, I set out to the higher mountains, where my enemy searches for the Worldstone. Harrogath's wives and daughters, out corralling rabbits, stare as I go past; I must cut a fetching figure, though perhaps strange to their eyes. The way is made easier by steps carved into the bedrock... with a rail beside them? Yes, a hand railing, out here in the wilderness! Perhaps these clumsy louts are top-heavy with muscle, and have difficulty with stairs. At the top there is another waypoint. Hmm... the Horadrim must have explored these mountains sometime in the past. Obviously, they did not find anything of importance, or Destruction would know how to reach his goal. A small party of Plated Demons ambushed me out of the steppe, but without a leader they are no threat. Perhaps they were scouts, or messengers. Beyond is a vast open steppe, littered with Imps. Yes, Imps, by the dozen! Numbers do not help my foes: a single stab disposes of them, even Khaleel needs but three blasts. What is Baal thinking, sending such ill-suited soldiers against me? A few armored Behemoths accompany them as riding beasts, but too few; perhaps one Imp in five can find a seat in their howdahs. It seems my enemy cannot muster decent troops. This battle is over before it properly begun. Continuing upwards, it appears my greatest enemy will be exhaustion. It is fortunate that the mountains are so cold -- in Lut Gholein's heat, chasing down all these Imps could kill me. Signs of nomadic savages litter the ground, for those with an eye for such things. Piles of skulls and bones (probably those of their ancestors, left exposed to the elements) serve as territorial markers, or perhaps crude temples for their vulgar religion. Curiously, these bones are somewhat animated: when I approach, the skulls turn to regard me, and occasionally toss out a crude weapon or a few coins. Who could have guessed that the rites of Rathma might be respected in this awful place? Another unexpected novelty! Stretching across the steppe is a wall, perhaps eight feet high, built of sticks and frozen mud. Baal's forces, hastily assembled and ill-prepared, could not have made this. Only the mountain's human (if barely) inhabitants could be responsible. But what prompted these rude savages to bodge together such a structure? Ah, Tyrael's words return unbidden to me: the inhabitants of the northlands have organized their whole lives around the protection of the Worldstone, to the exclusion of all else. This primitive barrier must have been built in imitation of the protective walls around cities. Strange... Harrogath is all stone. There is plenty of stone in the area. Stone is a much more durable material than mud, which would melt if the temperature ever rose above freezing. They possess the materials, and the skill; why did these barbarians not make their wall of stone? While I do not expect great things of them, even they can't be THAT stupid. Perhaps I should not be unhappy about the wall's fragility: Baal's troops have commandeered the structure, and armed its towers with hellfire cannons. While Khaleel picks off the towers, the task of battering through the wall falls to me. Fortunately, the sledgehammer was made with this purpose in mind, and I possess one of the most heavily enchanted hammers that exists. Behind the wall is an shockingly clumsy wicker cage -- definitely demon-made -- with a few captive savages. The sight is comical; even I, with my bare hands, could escape that cage! Take away a barbarian's axe, and he falls to pieces. Well... I should be charitable: they are unarmed, isolated in the midst of their enemies. Certainly, they could escape with ease, but would never get far. At my earliest convenience, I cast a portal these fellows can use to return to Harrogath, and return myself. Who knows? Should Baal have better quality soldiers in his personal retinue (a likely possibility) I might need some cannon-fodder of my own to distract them. While in town, I ask Nihlathak about the wall. It seems it is one of many ringing the mountain, meant to slow an invader's progress. Harrogath is an ancient city, built by some precursor to his people that he will not name; no living northman knows how to work stone. All is clear now: in a distant age, a great people must have occupied these hills, and suffered some cataclysm which wiped them out. Now, where great men once lived, a primitive race roams, ignorant of their art. They must have been great artisans indeed, for Harrogath to have remained intact so long under the care of these savages. Now that I understand them better, battering these barbaric walls to bits is something of a pleasure. It's almost an insult that these feeble structures were meant to imitate the strong stone walls of the ancients. What might they have been like, I wonder? Little outward sign remains, but they must have been a highly advanced civilization. Harrogath's structures are large and spacious, quite unlike the few miserable huts I have found dotting the steppe. They even laid out different kinds of stone, all strong and durable, so their varying colors formed decorative patterns in the columns and gateposts. Yes... my first impression of the city's grandeur has been borne out, and has nothing to do with her present occupants. I am growing to despise these Imps. They love nothing more than to teleport behind a rock or a bush, then laugh and vanish away as I approach. I wish my studies had extended to assassin spirits, that would be just the thing for the little runts. Smashing one of their tiny huts is a pleasure indeed. All the same, a magical solution to the problem they represent would be convenient. Decrepification does not prevent them from teleporting. Their spells do so little harm, Attraction does not serve. They move too quickly for Corpse Explosion. Dimming their vision helps, but I am inexpert with the curse and its range is limited. Ah, well; were they a threat, I would alter my strategy to accommodate them, but these pests give me little reason to alter my habits, inefficient as they may be here. Another mud wall falls behind me. This one had two cages, with plenty of muscular brutes to liberate. Let the demons go hungry for a change. Further up the mountain, I come across the unexpected sight of a Hell gate, glowing red over a fiery crack in the earth. An invasion point for Destruction's troops, perhaps? A staging post? Or simply an opportunity to warm up? Whatever it is, I am certain more demons wait on the other side, and it would be unwise to leave them at my back. Should the gate close, I can simply seek out a waypoint; they are everywhere, after all... Hell does lie beyond the gate; specifically, an island in the River of Flame. Like those near Terror's fortress, this island is artificial, built of stone blocks. Unlike those islands, this one seems recently and hastily constructed, with large gaps between the stones and spots which nearly drop into the river's magma. I must be cautious. No large fortifications are visible above the river's shimmering heat. As seems to be Hell's habit, they have made a maze on the River of Flame. In keeping with the theme, this one is supplied with Minotaurs. Huge beasts bulging with brute power, they are strong, quick, and very aggressive. Fortunately, they are not numerous; a large pack of them could be the death of me, particularly if they resist Khaleel's cold blasts or my venom. With them come Plated Demons, and generals similar to Shenk; I had hoped he was unique. Not that he was dangerous, but killing him made such a mess... This open maze has presented me with unique opportunities. Frequently, I can spy my foes on the other side of an open gap. The curse of Attraction causes much enjoyable confusion in their ranks. I have made a curious observation: the "general" creatures (who may be related to Toad Demons) are using magic in a strange new way. One will summon up some life energy, and use its whip to transfer that energy to a nearby Plated Demon. The smaller demon swells with the excess energy, and after a short pause (long enough to run close to an enemy) it literally explodes. In effect, a Corpse Explosion before the victim has died! I am very glad to have first observed this from a distance. These islands are obviously a staging area. Iron war wagons and pieces of catapults lie about in disarray; some were apparently driven about in such urgent haste, they fell into the river! I cannot help but pity Destruction. His only strength is in numbers, and perhaps a few tricks which are easily countered once they become known. Any sense of urgency which possessed me has long since evaporated. The spoils are of poor quality, but I can afford the time to make a thorough search of the mountain. He will not escape my wrath. In Harrogath, Qual-Kehk is kind enough to thank me for rescuing so many of his men. My presence seems to have humbled these great slabs of meat: I've hardly heard anyone talk about how weak and pathetic civilized men are. Perhaps they could be even be educated, though I'll happily leave that to another. To express his thanks, Qual-Kehk gave me a set of runestones, saying they should be used in a shield. Of course! These runestones must be the magic of the precursors, that lost civilization which once occupied this area. No wonder they seemed so "barbaric" when I first laid eyes on them. These primitives have a kind of magic, for the same reason they live in stone buildings -- they inherited both from a greater people. I'm amazed I hadn't seen it before now. Chapter 28 Dear Diary, Hey its Khaleel again. I know why pasty hates Imps: they look just like him I swear! They got the hair and the snotty faces but better tans. I still do all the killing. More scribblings; they look like chicken tracks, but the northmen do not keep livestock of any kind. Must I have a lock put on this journal? I had not even time to take breakfast before old Malah was in my quarters, urgently insisting on speaking with me. There is something horrible about the very old; where once greatness might have been, only simpering impotency remains -- though I doubt that of Malah, except for the last. When I am to die, let it be at the height of my villainy. That having been said, I hope it will not be soon: dying on this cold, rocky mountain would be most uncomfortable. But I digress. Dear old Malah is absolutely apoplectic over the disappearance of her chief elder's (the eldest elder?) daughter, someone named Onion. Ah, the quaint customs of these simple people. This pungent "lily of the mountain" vanished from Harrogath shortly before my arrival, and suspicion for her unannounced departure has fallen on Nihlathak. The women of the northlands, who seem to be cruelly-used slaves for the most part, remain indoors when blood-letting is called for. Being more likely to survive battles balances out the fraction who are killed by their own husbands, and returns the gender ratio to equality. The issue of sexual egalitarianism is a foreign one for these people, and foreign ideas (indeed, any ideas) are actively discouraged. Should I ever bother to broach the subject, even those who stood to gain the most would greet the idea with hostility. Mother, of course, felt that a woman willing to settle for mere equality ought to get what she deserved. But I digress again. It seems my fancy will alight on anything but Malah's concerns, perhaps because I wish to dismiss them out of hand. I do so dislike listening to old people prattle on, doubly so when it's an old woman humbly requesting aid for another. Humility is not to be trusted; on the rare occasions when it is not a false front, it's a sure sign of religion. Give me a self-interested woman, I'll know where I stand with her. The situation is worse than I feared. When I spoke to Nihlathak of Malah's visit, he actually snapped at me! Apparently, Malah is so convinced of some wrongdoing on his part, she has been spreading rumors everywhere her idle tongue can reach, and his reputation has begun to suffer. All who have suffered under the slanders of a malicious old gossip will know of what I speak, and the anxiety created by the invasion has only made her work easier. A self-righteous oldster with the respect of the community makes a formidable enemy. It is no wonder his temper has grown so short of late. As for the girl (Anya, not Onion) she seems to have been a headstrong young thing with more devotion than sense and more stubbornness than either, common enough traits among these people. During a lull in the siege, she left Harrogath, seeking what remained of her kin elsewhere on the mountain. Thoughts of her obviously trouble poor Nihlathak, and I can see her loss has affected him deeply. I wonder if they were fond of each other? Unfortunately, words speak loudly among the northlanders, despite Qual-Kehk's insistence to the contrary. It is saddening to see a great man who has already suffered so much brought lower still by a campaign of whispers. Had he a share of my own warmth and charisma, I am sure Nihlathak could dispel the rumors, but the focused malignity of all those around him has left the man an unstrung and acrimonious wreck. Even old Deckard Cain, who I hoped would be more sensible, finds him so disagreeable he is willing to believe anything which discredits him. All over a girl! If my understanding of the situation is correct, elder Nihlathak is one of the few inheritors of the north's Precursor people remaining. Even if she had a face fit to launch a thousand ships, no girl is worth the loss of that knowledge. My exploration of the mountain continues. Baal has massed more ground troops on the high plateaus, collecting crowds of Plated Demons and their overseers. As yet, I am unsure what to call these creatures; even the resemblance to Toad Demons is slight. Khaleel refers to them as "blubber bags" for their tendency to burst open like 10 pounds of suet in a 5-pound sack. As they are ugly and not very dangerous by themselves, I am reluctant to devote much thought to nomenclature, but "Frog Demon" is preferable to "blubber bag". Plated Demons are a braver cousin of Fallen Ones, also not particularly dangerous except in numbers. Packs of them can easily surround me if I am not cautious, especially near one of their huts -- an absolutely shocking number of them can cram inside those lean-to's. The real danger comes when a Plated Demon is charged with life energy from an overseer's "Body Explosion" spell. Judging from their expressions and the suicidal enthusiasm of their attacks, I would say the spell is extremely painful for the demon. The final result, I can attest, is also very painful; twice now, the blasts have reduced my bony armor to splinters in an instant. Happily, the remains contain enough energy to make a decent Corpse Explosion, a useful alternative to poison for creatures who no longer fear my blade. The natives were restless in this area, it is apparent. Not only are there the anticipated walls, but hovels with fenced-off areas beside them. In association with each structure is a pile of animated skulls and bones, reinforcing the supposition that they must serve some sort of religious function. The presence of fenced areas is striking. All are square or rectangular, between 20 and 40 feet per side. Posts are set deep into the frozen earth perhaps 10 feet apart and cannot be easily removed. Set across the gaps are planks, from the ground up to a height of 3 feet. These are not temporary barriers, but permanent barriers. Though they are now empty, and no signs of life remain (not even prints in the snow) I cannot help but feel these were used as livestock pens. To the unenlightened, this may not seem surprising -- after all, many primitive peoples have domesticated animals. However, there is an order to these things. The truly primitive keep no stock, just as they cultivate no plants. Wandering without any restraining laws, taking from nature's bounty as they please, satisfies their meager wants completely. We call these "nomads." A more advanced sort has domesticated animals -- the "pastoralist." Even these still drift from place to place with few attachments, taking their animals with them as they roam. The most advanced "agriculturalists" have finally settled and devoted themselves to cultivating and improving their land. It is to these last that we owe the existence of towns, cities, and civilization itself. Given this, finding evidence of domestic animals among a people reputed to be simple nomads is unexpected; evidence of permanent corrals is shocking. A hypothesis comes to mind, that these corrals are no longer in use and may represent an older society. It cannot be that the present inhabitants of the mountains domesticated animals, then abandoned the practice for a more primitive way of life. However, the fencing appears too recently made to date from the Precursor age; even the cold, dry climate of Arreat's slopes could not preserve wood so well. The only reasonable assumption is that these barbarians have something akin to an advanced culture, which the rest of the world is ignorant of. Advancement from nomad, to pastoralist, and thence to agriculturalist, is as inevitable as the adoption of stone tools, then those of bronze, and finally iron. My hosts have progressed further along this chain than they originally led me to believe; why, I wonder, was I deceived? Another peculiar discovery has come to light -- the Infernal Torch! This long-lost wand was part of an ensemble given to my people in ancient times, when even we were entranced by the delusion that Hell might be our friend. There is a mystery here, I can sense it, as though pieces of an ancient puzzle are falling into place. The animated "temples" scattered across the mountain form another piece, and the animal corrals a third. Far more has taken place here than my hosts are willing to let outsiders know. Personally making inquiries in Harrogath would be time-consuming, but that is what Deckard Cain is for -- the old dear said he would try to ingratiate himself with the natives. It is time to see if he can find some genuinely worthwhile information. Another pit of Hell pierces the tundra; within is another maze on the River of Flame, with more Imps, Plated Demons, and Minotaurs. I am becoming very grateful to my ancestors for the wisdom of creating the Attraction curse. If only Khaleel appreciated such subtleties... I have explained again and again, if they are frozen, they cannot kill each other, but he becomes bored so easily and cannot restrain himself. No patience, no style; he wants it all now, by the simplest possible path. Ha! I wish I had predicted it, but poor Khaleel has had a rather nasty lesson he won't soon forget from a group of Minotaurs. As they stared across a gap at us, I cursed them, as was proper. Khaleel moved further on, seeking a more advantageous vantage point, and placed himself near a bridge across the gap. The result was predictable... to anyone else, that is. The leader of this pack, a huge brute enchanted with lightning, charged across the bridge and Khaleel bravely stood his ground, blasting into the bull's face. The sight of the lightning, the smell of a frying sorcerer, and the sound of those two enormous axes clashing their way though Khaleel's armor was such a delightful feast for the senses, I fear I was a bit slow in coming to his aid. When Khaleel's bones knit, I'm sure he can find it in himself to thank me properly for his life. On the good side, he doesn't have that silly little beard anymore, or any of the rest of his hair. After Malah reassembled Khaleel, we returned to the mountain. His behavior has improved noticeably already. Further up, I have found a waypoint, possibly an indication that this was once an important place, though nothing now remains. At the top of the hill, a wall of ice blocks further progress, but a gap runs underneath. Should I turn away and go elsewhere, I wonder, or explore under the ice? Caves are favorite places for demons, and there should be plenty of time to investigate. Curiously, a tall urn of a type I have no experience with has been left on the plain near the cave entrance. It appears to be a funeral urn made of high-quality porcelain, completely different from the wooden ossuaries I have seen elsewhere on the mountain. Opening it disgorges three large spiders, an odd thing for any sort of urn to hold. Could this be a relic of the Precursors? Might there be more inside the cave? The hour is late, so any discoveries must wait. Before entering the caves, I feel I should tell Nihlathak. He is the only leader these people have, even if they do not appreciate him, and if I am to enter a sacred area I should give him a respectful warning. He says nothing, but I can see he is troubled. What secrets lie in those caves, I wonder? This is no time to speculate; I must wait for morning, and remember to tread lightly among those ancient ghosts. Chapter 29 Dear Diary, Rather than face Roast Rodent, I dined at Atma's; she has gotten a lovely claret in, lacking structure but with a heady robustness that complemented her Lemon and Orange Beef's zest grandly. While thawing out, it occurred to me it would be entirely sensible to stay there for the night. Not only would I sleep easier (a night spent shivering is not a restful one) but the opportunity to partake in a civilized night life again would be a pleasant one. Being a trading center, Lut Gholein is full of amenities to soothe away the weary traveler's cares. I can only imagine how things were when the harem guilds were operating. Khaleel's new hairstyle has garnered him sympathetic attention from the local mercenaries, a few of whom sport similar scars. If I cared to listen, I am sure I would hear all manner of overwrought tales of my harsh cruelty. Small men tell large tales. Of myself, the barest facts suffice. Ha ha its me again. He thinks hiding his diary under his pillow like a girl is gonna work! Just so you know, I took down that bull guy, he just stood there then ran around and said he was killing when he was just running around squealing like he always does. I still do all the killing, still. My ruse worked beautifully! That vituperative Vizjerei never noticed, but staying the night in Lut Gholein was all part of my plan. I knew perfectly well someone was writing their own notes in my journal, but my unwelcome co-author's horrible penmanship concealed both his intention and identity. There is only one person who had the opportunity this time: my own servant, Khaleel! I have confronted him, and he has confessed. For his punishment, I have been forced to go out of my way and find a child's book of letters. Every night, he must present to me three full pages copied from this text, in his own execrable hand, until he has achieved legibility. Not only will this irritate him, but the patience and effort required may improve his mind, something even he cannot consider detrimental. On returning to Harrogath, I noticed Nihlathak was not at home. Word about town is that he left during the night, though they presume too much based on this. In all likelihood, he has had enough of their chattering behind his back and taken his leave of them. I would have done so long before now; his people's mood is so foul, everything he says or does is viewed in the worst possible light. There is no point dwelling on it -- just contemplating their ungrateful attitude towards this superior man raises my bile. Besides, I wish to leave this icy wasteland behind me as speedily as possible, and staying in Harrogath to argue with fools does none of us a service. The ice caves are a remarkable formation, but one I suspect is not entirely natural. Lighting is provided by torches and bonfires, but even these merrily burning blazes do little do dispel the bone-clutching cold. Even directly over fires, this ice will not melt. A few jars, all crude pottery and basketry, sit in the corners. These contain bones and some valuables, but nothing like the elegant urn can be seen. Ah, there is one, as beautiful as the last! By all the earth and all my ancestors, I must be more careful! As I examined the urn, a large group of Minotaurs came from behind me! So completely was my attention occupied, I saw and heard nothing until they were upon us, and an aura of freezing cold caught me in its grip. So convulsive were my shivers, I could barely move! A few of them distracted themselves with Khaleel, who was in no better shape than I. Their leader and his favorites devoted all their attention to me. The curse of Attraction confused them temporarily while I took the better option and ran for my life. Khaleel sensibly followed, and there commenced a running battle, from the urn to the cave entrance and back again several times. Whittling their number down slowly with curses and poison, they went from six, to five, to three (two fell nearly simultaneously) and finally to two. At that point, nearly exhausted and in a great deal of pain, we stood our ground and met them face to face. Well, face to navel; Minotaurs are very large. It occurs to me they might well represent everything a northlander could want to be: huge, physically powerful, full of animal savagery and mindless bloodlust. If any of the local warriors ever made it this far, they might simply die of envy. Once that was over with, I was much more cautious. It shocks me that nothing else came during the battle, we all certainly made enough noise and these caverns are full of enemies. Besides the Minotaurs (again, blessedly rare!) I have come across Frozen Creepers, an odd name for an odd beast from Hell's frozen mountains. Not all of Hell is fire and blood; rings of mountains separate the outer territories from the inner, all populated by demons suited to high, jagged peaks. In addition... mmm, yes, how shall I describe this... suffering away in the icy cold are some of Hell's least capable combatants, Succubi. And I thought using Imps as troops was a desperate measure. Or does Destruction think their crude charms can delay or forestall my purpose? For one who has known true love, these harlots mean nothing. My Natalya is... was more beautiful and more dangerous than the lot. Perhaps these caves are natural, though the lack of meltwater even above fires compels me to believe otherwise. The local people use the caves for burials of their cremated relatives, in the aforementioned baskets and pottery jars. I never imagined I would see earthenware as primitive as this: simple coils of clay are piled up in a rough shape, then squeezed with the fingers until most of the gaps have closed. Even the simple idea of the potter's wheel eludes them. The contrast with the much-older porcelain urns I still find occasionally is shocking. Of all the luck, another group of Minotaurs surprised me as I was examining an urn! Have these creatures been informed of my tastes, and devised a scheme to lay in wait near art objects? This one was enchanted with lightning, and our battle was heard in the surrounding caverns. Before long, they were joined by four more Minotaurs, along with a harem's worth of Succubi and a dozen Frozen Creepers. What could we do? Even Khaleel had to behave sensibly at that point. From our hiding place in a corner, my Attraction created a riotous pell-mell of confusion, while he concentrated on maintaining a wall of frozen beef between the chaos and our tender flesh. Oh, how fiercely the sparks flew! As did the blood and bones; Corpse Explosion is ideal for situations like this. When our barrier finally fell, all that remained was two Creepers and the Minotaur; soon, there was only the Minotaur, and alone he stood no chance. The greatest danger lay in slipping while running from his bolts. Discoveries I have made in this maze of ice: either local warriors have penetrated the caves, or some were imported from the steppes to amuse the Succubi. Twice now, I have found bound and helpless men obviously killed by slow torture, as well as one poor woman whose fate I shall not elaborate on. My second discovery is that the ancient urns I have found are the cause of my misery, for they are trapped. A simple experiment confirmed this: when I touched the next one, I watched in one direction while Khaleel faced the other. Sure enough, a group of Creepers appeared out of thin air. I suspect the urns were enchanted to summon guardians long ago, in the antediluvian days when they were made. The spell has been twisted slightly to summon Baal's servants instead. I should note, the Succubi cast curses. Their choice is a poor one, a simple aim-enhancing curse my people abandoned ages ago in favor of Damage Amplification. The effect is barely noticeable. Another note: some the axes the Minotaurs use, one to each hand, are actually halberds. Should I tell Qual-Kehk and his mighty warriors, or would that break their little hearts? Brackish water has formed pools in a deeper part of the caves, and a sharp stench pervades the area. For a short time, I wondered what had died, before I met the Zombies. Always, there must be Zombies; all three of the Brothers are so fond of them. These carry weapons and wear the remains of armor, and will occasionally work themselves up to a fairly speedy charge. Having so much rotting meat slam bodily into one is disconcerting, and unusual for a servant. Obtaining any level of enthusiasm from a dead mind is next to impossible. Very well, I admit, I am impressed! The Zombie I killed rose again! I killed it, it was as dead as any dead creature had a right to be, but it got back up and tried to kill me again! In all honesty, I must confess I did scream fit to wake the dead (two more, in fact) when I saw that, though more from surprise than fear. To one such as I, seeing a servant drag itself up from its own destruction is both alarming and exhilarating! How did Destruction do that? How can I obtain the knowledge without being forced into some bargain? Nothing can stop me from killing him... no, nothing will, truly. I must maintain my focus. Another new creature has appeared, relatives of the Sasquatch of gentler climes. In their honor, I hereby designate these "Abominable Snowmen." There are also Succubi, but they do not hold my interest. Such common creatures. The Snowmen are shaggy and so inured to the frigid environment that Khaleel's efforts against them are nearly fruitless, even with the help of my curses. I order him to keep his eye on the Succubi, something he seems inclined to do anyway. Another side note: when flailing about in the midst of combat, take care not to upset any burial urns which should happen to be close by. Here near the water, the ice formations take on strange shapes, perhaps from repeated thawing and re-freezing. Some look humanoid, enough so that I wonder if they were carved into human shape long ago. Or is my imagination playing with me? The twists and turns of these caves are monumental; without the foresight to sketch out a map, I surely could be lost for the rest of my life in these tunnels. For any who travel in this area after me, please remember that pencil and paper are not a luxury. Do not use ink, it will freeze solid. Another wonderful discovery! And one I thought would be beyond Destruction's talents! He is known to use curses, but never to use the Ice Curse! This curse, like the Stone Curse, is one of the great forgotten spells of eons past, known to no one living... or so I thought, before I came upon this huge block of ice with a living person embedded within! I can see the victim is some young girl, plainly alive and unharmed. I know I simply MUST find some way to interrogate Baal before I kill him. This knowledge must not be allowed to pass out of mortal experience again. The ice block, as unyielding as legend insisted it would be, will give up none of its secrets; I must find Baal! Hmm. I wonder why this girl was cursed? Perhaps she knows something. If so, I should like to know as well. Questioning the girl will be difficult without freeing her; unlike the Stone Curse, the Ice Curse prevents all harm from coming to its victim. Sadly, I have neglected certain aspects of my education, and the ice resists my attempts to dispel it. Dear old Malah is a good hand at dispelling curses, as all healers tend to be... but going to her would mean speaking with her, and I'm not in the mood. Ah, but I should. There is so much to be gained. The meeting with Malah left a bad taste in my mouth. She is sure the girl is Anya, and that Nihlathak has done this. It is entirely possible that the girl is this Anya, though I attach no importance to the fact. As for Nihlathak... everything this old harridan sees becomes more grist for the mill in her open war on that man's reputation. If the foragers catch a skinny rabbit, it's Nihlathak's fault. If she dropped dead, it would be Nihlathak's fault. Actually it might be, but I attach no importance to that, either. While railing against "that snake" with all the pejoratives her limited experience could summon up, Malah mixed one of her anti-curse cure-alls for the ice. Such a waste... but I must get to that girl. Events have taken an unexpected turn. The girl is Anya, of the same slender racial stock as Nihlathak, and presumably all the other elders. Nihlathak was indeed the one who cast the Ice Curse; my respect for his knowledge grows by leaps and bounds. When I began to question her about the curse, she told me that Nihlathak obtained his knowledge as part of a bargain with Destruction. In exchange for the Ice Curse and other ancient Rathman rituals, Nihlathak has given Baal some sort of relic. She gave some description of it, but I'm afraid I was no longer listening. That moment, gentle reader, was when I felt the first presentiment of doom in my heart. How could anyone with any respect for knowledge not know what comes of bargains with the lords of Hell? How could anyone who felt the deaths of his people so acutely deliver them into the hands of humankind's greatest enemy? Have I been deceived again? The girl had to be lying, but I knew she could not be. What I saw with my own eyes precludes that. This Anya is, despite her age, already knowledgeable in the ways of magic. As a token of thanks, she has given me a totem, the head of a Horadric Mummy the blacksmith forged at her request. How in the world did these people get the raw materials for one of those? Or was it made from scratch -- as sweet Charsi joked, forging a head? Ha ha! So sorry. She has opened a portal to Nihlathak's home. That is good, I would like to visit him. Perhaps we can discuss this and clear up this whole business. He really should not have stayed away for so long, it's starting to look suspicious. Chapter 30 Dear Diary, Nihlathak's temple is a magnificent building; the style and quality of construction clearly mark it as the work of the Precursor people. There is something here I find peculiarly familiar, even comforting. Far down in a secluded hollow between three peaks, the wind and biting cold do not reach here; I suspect no one could enter invited. Honestly, where has my head gotten to? Piles of corpses strewn about the front garden is not a welcome sign, particularly here. I doubt if I will ever grow accustomed to these new zombies. Their smell no doubt contributed to that air of familiarity; I wonder, has Nihlathak made them? It would explain their presence here, and around the Ice Curse block. Is the world ready for servants like these? While they are durable, I cannot help but feel dismayed by their resilience. Tramping back and forth through the veil separating life and death so determinedly smacks of the infernal. My name is Khaleel. I am 34 years old. I am in Harrogath with a weird guy who likes dead things. He is very efamin eefemani ephe girly. I used to be in Kurast, which was really cool because I liked my boss. She was hot, and cool. Sometimes at the same time. Then I went to hell and kicked major demon ass. That was cool too. And hot. I have to fill 3 pages with writing every day, but I ran out of paper so I took girlyman's book. I cannot let myself be distracted for a moment! While I was risking my life battling a zombie enchanted with fire, who do you suppose was hiding behind a pillar, with MY journal? He certainly thinks his little joke was funny; perhaps in the future he could write comedy. At least his penmanship is improving. That zombie, I feel compelled to mention, was the most pathetic wreck of a corpse I have ever beheld, as though legions upon legions of heartless thugs had repeatedly used it for target practice, without remorse or pity. The look in its one remaining eye was of resigned terror and utter helplessness in anticipation of yet another beating. I could only feel pity for the poor thing. The interior of the temple is in a shocking state. The stonework is in deplorable condition, far worse than anything in Harrogath. Fallen stones have been replaced with, of all things, human bones, a most curious choice of building material. Was this meant to be an imitation of Rathman techniques? The floor is covered with filth, so much so that its condition or even the original texture cannot be perceived. This cannot be Nihlathak's temple -- that stupid girl must have made a mistake. And yet, there are zombies... many, many zombies, with a scattering of Minotaurs. Clearly, this is home to someone with knowledge of reanimation who is allied with Destruction. And yet... what I see here cannot be. Nihlathak spoke reverently of his ancestors -- how could he treat their memory so shabbily? I suspect that my reception was prepared specifically for me. The mixture of zombies (who are nearly immune to my venom) and Minotaurs (creatures much too dangerous to kill slowly) is a formidable one. The zombies would fall easily to a forceful approach, but the presence of Minotaurs makes taking up the maul too hazardous. More than usual, Khaleel feels he is carrying the weight of our encounters single-handedly, though Corpse Explosion does some good, when he is kind enough to leave me a body. I suppose it is easy to forget my servant. I often wish I could. Tombs are scattered throughout the temple, of course, perhaps hearkening back to the days of the Precursors themselves. The local people now cremate or deflesh their dead, storing the ashes or disarticulated bones in ossuaries. Perhaps they believe this denies men like me the chance to "enslave" the spirits of their ancestors; I will admit, it is an inconvenience. The tombs, like everything else, have fallen into disrepair. Most are covered with filth, their legends unreadable, or have collapsed under the weight of time's passage and not been restored. If Nihlathak is responsible for this place, I am becoming deeply disappointed in him. My first impression was of an entirely different kind. This is Khaleel, stealing the book again. He is heart-broken over Nillytek Neelachuk whatever. They were in love. He says to write comedy, so here is a joke I heard from old man Cain: The six-foot boner joke A Necromancer walks into a bar and (Transcriber's note: at this point, the page is torn and the writing partially defaced.] Sorcerers! We are battling through legions of foes with all possible speed in the desperate hope that all is not lost, and that supercilious sorcerer cannot stop playing pranks! It is well past midnight, I have had no sleep, and need all my concentration to do battle, not to watch out for my own servant! Later, I shall think of a punishment. I have found the bodies of a few local people, recently killed by slow torture. Has Baal made a loan of his harem-slaves as well? If Nihlathak allowed this to be done to his own people... granted, they are not the best people, but letting Succubi have at them goes completely beyond the pale. Deeper in the temple, things have grown perceptibly worse. Large sections of stone have fallen and been inadequately patched; columns of welded bone support the ceiling. Many of the bones have been worked, or even enchanted -- none so much as the Infernal Torch, but wands are present in numbers. Large packs of Death Maulers (resistant to cold, ha ha!) now come alongside the seemingly infinite legions of zombies. Their tunneling and burrowing is not improving the temple's architectural integrity. I would kill them first simply to preserve the structure, except that another sort of creature has taken greater priority. My newest favorite is without a doubt the ugliest demon I have yet laid eyes on, the foulest to the nose, and the most horrid in its habits, for which I chose to dub it a "Defiler." The creature resembles an inflated bladder with a spindly body hanging beneath, and floats at a height 6 to 8 feet above the floor. Extended, spindly forelimbs with the predictable razor-sharp claws help the creature to push itself about, but in addition is another extremity whose function was not initially clear to me. Repeated observation has confirmed that this is the Defiler's generative organ. This limb is long and flexible in the extreme, with a sharp tip the creature will insert into any nearby victim. All of its partners are unwilling and its attentions unwelcome in the extreme, but this does not dissuade the Defiler in the least. Even zombies seem aware of the Defiler's vulgar intentions, and attempt to avoid the creature, but never resist or retaliate once caught. After the brief relationship is consummated, the Defiler's victim is left in great agony, and positively eager to enter combat. Death, it seems, is preferable to its fate: carrying the Defiler's offspring. Should the victim die soon after inception, that is the end of the matter. However, the Defiler's habit of remaining at the rear of combat means its victims face a long, excruciating journey to death, enough time for the offspring to gestate. After their host's death, worm-like spawn burst from the skull, as quick and vicious as a Flesh Mother's pups. The Defiler avoids combat unless cornered. It strongly resists cold, to Khaleel's annoyance, but poison functions admirably. I have found resisting its advances will forestall the Defiler's attempts -- or if not, the offending organ is easily cut short. Ah, I should have known! The temple has a Horadric waypoint. Through this, Nihlathak could have visited other parts of the world, furthering his education -- no one, no matter how intelligent, could develop as sophisticated a perspective as his in this intellectually-impoverished region. He must have learned about the order of Rathma while traveling, and naturally his curiosity was aroused: Rathma may be the only magical order as old as his own ancestors, if not older. Sadly, he never seems to have studied with us, a tragic loss for us both. Throughout the temple, I have found the remains of obvious attempts to replicate old Rathman experiments. Notably, he used human subjects, an unwise decision in this area. I should also note that he has studied Corpse Explosion intensely, leaving signs of his interest deeply embedded in the walls. I do not wonder at the temple's condition now. I take this to be the lowest level of the temple. The walls have all been braced with bones, though the stonework is mostly intact. Populating this basement are Plated Demons, and the long-anticipated Succubi. The Plated Demons were the true surprise, though their presence could also have been easily predicted. Knowing how these creatures are used, Nihlathak's stragety is easy to guess at; he has played his hand too soon. There is no reason now to doubt his involvement in this, as difficult as it is to accept. The wisest man in Harrogath is instead its greatest fool. As for the Succubi... I can only say I am deeply, deeply disappointed. I have found in this demesne evidence of the worst sort of behavior, scandalous in the conventional sense and all involving Succubi. If their sluttish charms could turn his head, I was truly wrong about him. It seems impossible. What sort of sad, pathetic little man would sell himself for a harem of painted strumpets? Selling oneself for knowledge I could understand, though no demon would tell a mortal man what he needs to know to save himself. The deed is done. His plan was simple: engorge Baal's slaves as their Overseers do, send them against me, then set the resulting corpse off again after death. His skill with the spell was greater than mine, I knew, but the stratagem was easily countered. I simply held my hand, and gave Khaleel the pleasure of all the kills. His ice left no intact bodies, and with no corpses to use, Nihlathak was helpless. He even sent his cherished Succubi to me once my ow plan became clear. What a waste. Nihlathak was familiar with the arts of several magical cults: he could teleport himself, and summon a chilling blast of wind. That last spell, even I did not recognize. That so much learning, so much raw ability, should be squandered for so mean a reward... he did not sell himself dearly enough at all. As I knew it would be, the relic Anya spoke of is gone. It is also morning, well past dawn. I am exhausted, but in such a state of nervous tension I know I will never sleep. For the first time, it occurs to me that no one may ever read this journal. These pages will burn, with all else that is. Chapter 31 Dear Diary, What an overly sentimental gush my last entry was! True, I had grown to enjoy Nihlathak's company, and the loss of his knowledge is a sad one, unless he wrote his discoveries down, which he certainly ought to have. Writing is a remarkable invention, I wish more wise people would take advantage of it. Deckard Cain, for instance, always carries about a book, though I have never seen him refer to it once. Sometime, I shall have to get it away from him and see what the deuce he's so fond of it for. Perhaps Khaleel could give me a few words of advice on stealing books. Where was I? Oh, Nihlathak. Every barbarian in Harrogath was howling about his "betrayal" giving Baal the Worldstone. This worried me as well, I confess, for I had fallen into the error of confederacy: simply because I am allied with some force does not mean I share all their goals. To repeat: who gives a fig for the Worldstone? Let Tyrael and his savage servants wail and gnash their teeth over their precious rock! The Lord of Destruction is my enemy, my intent only the protection of the mortal world, leavened with a certain amount of personal vengeance. I had gone back to Atma's and had consumed my first Black Mushroom before that epiphany struck me -- bless that evil fungus for the mind-altering poisons which grant such clarity of vision! Don't mind the black spots before the eyes and the barmaid turning into a tentacled monster, an experienced imbiber learns to ignore all that. Now, I have come back to Harrogath to resume the chase. From my perspective, Nihlathak's giving Baal the Relic of What-have-you is to my advantage -- now, I know exactly where to find Destruction. Best not tell anyone, they think I value the Worldstone as they do, and it is to my advantage to let them go on thinking that. Off to battle! Khaleel is concerned that my present state of mind will prove disadvantageous for this little adventure, but I can assure him I drunk just as well when fight. Or intoxicated! Black Mushrooms don't really intoxicate anyway, the senses sharpen and the mind reels with pleasure as you see things as you want them to be. Drink too many, and you see things as they truly are, but I have had only one and am in no danger of that horror. The closest I have been to the summit is the ice caves, best to resume the climb from there. According to Anya, a side branch exits much higher, near another set of caves. Pleasant enough girl, this Anya, competent and knowledgeable, but entirely without womanly charms. Oh, my dearest Natalya... such a beautiful island of arrogant irrationality, a blessed relief from the dull cares of carnal existence. Soon, we will be together again. Demons in the caves: Frozen Creepers and Death Maulers. Ice and earth! According to the theory of Sanguinity, an idea first attributed to Trismageni, many lesser demons are created during battles between Heaven and Hell, when the blood or ichor of a powerful being falls on some receptive material. Earth demons, Ice demons, Lava demons, and various plant demons are well known. Why are they always demons, I wonder, even when the blood which created them was shed by an angel? Evil must be stronger than good. Don't tell the Zakarum, they might fall all to pieces. Oh wait, they already have. Ha ha! A few zombies guard a small temple area in one large cave. If circumstances allow, servants can survive their creator by centuries, though these ones do not. This is Khaleel. This guy is such a freak. He's giggling! At least he's not screaming anymore, man that got on my nerves. What did I say about the Nilly guy? A hot babe like Anya comes along, nothing. He wants a creepy old fart or a leather vamp. Freak. Ha ha! My happy smile (thanks to the Black Mushroom, I cannot quite conceal it) brightened Qual-Kehk's day so much, he told me everything I needed to know about how to reach the Worldstone. These people interpret joy in the face of impending annihilation as a sign of bravery. In my case, it's a sign of marching into combat with one Black Mushroom too many inside me. The Worldstone is, naturally, hidden in the most obvious place: the very tip-top of the mountain, guarded by gods who must deem a supplicant worthy before he may enter and see the holy of holies. Interestingly, he described the gods as the Ancient Ones. Could this mean that some remains of the Precursors can be found at the peak? Are there ancient guardians, perhaps some advanced zombies, or mummies preserved by the cold, dry air? Or will I only find superstitions and whispering ghosts? Whichever way things turn out, I am sure to find much to reward me there. Continuing on, always upwards. Burial urns become more frequent the further I go, both the ancient relics and the modern excuses. The Precursor urns are all trapped, but I have grown so accustomed to the "surprise" it means nothing now. Perhaps in those antique days, tomb robbers did not come armed and prepared for battle, so thieves rarely survived an encounter with a trapped urn and there was no need to vary their results. It also occurs to me that the Precursor people were accustomed to using their servants in ways it would be cruel to use a human being, placing them in limbo for centuries until a jar should be opened. Only my people now use servants thus, packing them into barrels and the like. Could there be a deeper connection between us, or do I flatter myself? The journey is not going well. These caves are the most confusing I have ever explored, so much so that drinking even one Black Mushroom before entering may have been unwise. A few others have been here before me; I have found their remains frozen solid into postures of supplication. Such brave fellows. Earlier, I had wondered if the ice had been carved into human-like shapes, but I suspect a more sinister origin now. Then again, I could be wrong -- Succubi guard this section of caves, and may be responsible. I imagine a Succubus would like her men hard enough to break. I should not let idle speculation distract me, however; the frozen men are a mystery, I'd best stay moving so as not to share their fate. Finally! I have reached the surface; it is now mid-afternoon. Trees are abundant, leading me to guess that Hell has not reached this height. I spoke much too soon. Of course Destruction has been by here, and doubtless ordered his minions not to touch the trees; they would all be destroyed had he not. Imps, cursed little teleporters, are using the woods to their advantage, firing their annoying little smoke-bomb missiles from behind every tree and bush. Ah, they were ordered not to fell the trees! A giant Crush Beast tried to approach through the trees, taking almost comical care not to disturb a single twig. Why preserve the forest, I wonder? To fool me? To taunt me? Only one being knows, and I doubt he will answer honestly. What a tedious business this is! The pattern of defense is so predictable: a sea of Imps between walls manned by Plated Demons, with the occasional crusher added like a meatball in sauce. Now, here is another infernal pit, just like those before it. His brothers had more imagination. Perhaps Destruction is simply well-named: Terror and Hatred are mental states, some thought must be involved to appreciate them, but Destruction is as simple as breaking glass or pitching over a cliff. Perhaps if Diablo or Mephisto had possessed Tal Rasha, the result might have been a more worthy foe, but no amount of magical knowledge will make Baal anything more than a predictable oaf. Man o man, those bull-guy dudes are bad. Boss is running around with some, but these ones are immune to cold! He's screaming at me like its my fault. What am I supposed to do? Again, I spoke too soon. In the pit I found a group of Minotaurs immune to Khaleel's chilling blasts. A few rounds of combat with them dashed my Bone Armor to bits, and I was forced to flee the field. Victory through sniveling cowardice is my specialty, however, and I was able to kill them all in time. Poor Khaleel! He bravely interposed himself between the danger and myself a few times, but it must be frustrating to feel so useless in the face of such a threat. Like most sorcerers, he tends to focus overmuch, never realizing that a broad skill base has advantages over expertise with a single spell. From here on out, we must be more cautious. And, I must find something for him to do when facing an enemy immune to his magic. Not that I need his help -- he just behaves intolerably when forced to be idle. That infernal pit was unusual. Like the others, it was made of stones dropped into the River of Flame, but seemed to have been constructed with more care. Walls decorated with spikes and pentagrams graced the upstream sides of the pathways. Perhaps this section is older than those I found below, though that would imply that Destruction opened his first infernal pits high on the mountain. That would be strange indeed. While bashing and dashing up this tundra, the answer came to me! The demon lord Baal is in possession of Tal Rasha, and his knowledge. The Horadrim built many waypoints here on Mt. Arreat, indicating knowledge of the Worldstone and its location. When Destruction came, he must have made straight for the peak, but could not move on from there to the Worldstone itself. Something (or someone) does guard the peak, and was powerful enough to repulse a lord of Hell. Since then, he has laid waste to the area, opening infernal gates as he moves around. I still do not know why this forest has been left intact, though it is doubtless an unimportant detail for Destruction. More importantly, those guardians still wait at the peak, and may need to be neutralized. But if these guardians were made by the Precursors, it may take cleverness to deal with them, rather than raw muscle; if that is the case, it is only natural that Baal should fail. Night is falling. As I have not slept in two days, I happily retire from the field, technically giving a few surviving Imps a short-lived victory. A new charm was among my possessions, and a note in a familiar hand: "Congratulations! It's been a rough road, but I know you can finish it! Here's the last thing I have for you, a Fungal Grand Charm of Greed! Not great, but believe it or not, this is the only +skills charm we have. Use it well, and watch out for the Ancients! -- The Mule" "Fungal"? Lovely. I suppose I should carry this thing around... well, it is to my advantage, and no one will ever see it. Smell it, perhaps, but the thin air should help that. No more analysis now. Sleep beckons. Chapter 32 Dear Diary, Despite my exhaustion (or perhaps because of it) I fell asleep quickly and awoke refreshed from a deep and dreamless rest. My manservant has not defiled my journal yet, so he must still be unconscious. For the first time in days, Destruction's armies cannot be seen from Harrogath's walls. The sky is an icy, unclouded blue, and the weather unseasonably warm and sunny, though not enough so to melt the snow and ice. Happy little flop-footed bunny rabbits gambol about outside, perhaps thinking that spring has finally arrived, with all its attendant glories, after a harsh and horror-filled winter. The sight is enough to raise one's gorge, until the alternative is considered. Without those fluffy happy bunnies, we would have no breakfast. Ah, life! Necessary antithesis of death, the light which casts that cool, comfortable shadow. Even life at its lowest is worth preserving, though I do not entrust my morning repast to the locals' culinary skills -- as I do not wish to visit Atma's this morning, I prepare my bunny myself. Off to the frozen steppes of the northlands! My infernal foes appear to have retreated during the night, concentrating themselves around the mountain peak. When I return home, I will have to ask father why the older generation ever used Imps. Perhaps as a servant on its best behavior, one might be tolerable, but I find the wretched little things an unendurable nuisance, worse even than Flayers. A few Plated Demons man the walls. The northlanders built so many of them; I wonder if the world will ever see a greater example of wasted effort. Unexpectedly, some local warriors have come out of the city to attack the walls. Why, one may ask, have they decided to spring into action so late in the game? Jealousy is the obvious explanation, very satisfying to see in those who once laughed in my face. At one point, we had to cross a flow of smooth ice, which afforded a moment's amusement when Khaleel slipped and fell. I should have thought he would be accustomed to ice slicks. Doing battle on ice was an interesting challenge. The Imps, perhaps thinking we could not move freely over so slick a surface, lay in wait for us there, but their plan was foiled when I discovered that sliding over the ice was quicker and less tiring than running. Maneuvering was a bit touchy at first, but I soon grew accustomed to the tactic and gave them a sound thrashing. I could grow fond of winter sports. At the top of the ice field is another cave, with a few urns unceremoniously thrown outside. None were trapped. Inside, I meet the standard combination: earth and ice demons, with a few Minotaurs. Ho hum. Even the caves themselves are tedious, long hallways with very little branching, and only a few trapped urns which summoned angry earth demons. In view of past experiences, I should count my blessings -- on previous occasions when I complained of boredom, my enemy obliged me with battles for my life. It is only natural that I should be watched from afar; what else could my enemy possibly find to interest him here? A lower set of caves is guarded by a group of Frozen Creepers. I fear Khaleel may be jealous of them, he took it upon himself to close ranks and attack with his sword. As a fencer, he is a capable sorcerer. After a time, when they began to genuinely threaten his life, I took him by the collar and removed him from harm's way before killing the beasts myself. Envy, as an acknowledgement of one's inferiority, should be encouraged in the lower classes, but not to the point where it becomes spite. That leads to contumacy, insurrection, inefficient battle tactics, and other pointless rebellions against wisdom and sense. The first thing I see in these lower cellars is a dead woman, tied spread-eagle to a wooden frame and skinned alive by someone who knew what she was doing. This means Succubi. They will be accompanied by either Yeti or Minotaurs. Ah, there are the Yeti. My foe is so predictable. Some legends speak of battles with the lords of Hell as fascinating contests of wits; those ancient heroes must have been very stupid. The strongest creature in the cellar was a Frozen Creeper, strong enough to be immune to Khaleel's cold spells despite all my efforts on his behalf. While my servant dealt with his servants, I went at him with the sledgehammer; I do wish the crudest stratagems were less effective, but c'est la guerre. The creature wore a hideously unstylish old helmet Deckard Cain said belonged to some long-ago adventurer named Sigon, which vanished from my pack as I made my way over to the smith. In the highest part of the caves, natural stone and ice suddenly gives way to broad steps and carved passageways. At the very top, a sharply-rising stairway leads to daylight. So steep are these steps that we are both forced to literally climb, going on hands and knees to get over the risers. Beyond is nothing but space... cold, clear, indigo-blue sky in which stars are faintly visible, even at noon. Accustomed as I have become to rarefied air, I feel giddy and unsteady on my feet at these dizzying heights. Where is everything? Perhaps I expected something different, and am due for yet another disappointment. The northlands have already given me so many, despite the fact that my expectations were never high. The peak is a flat area, perhaps 50 yards at its longest. The entrance from the ice caves is on the west. On the east, another entrance leads down into the mountain. In the center is what I can only describe as an "open air" temple, a circle of carved monoliths surrounding a small, simple altar and three statues. The statues are the greatest disappointment. Completely representational, each depicts a mighty warrior, large and strong, fitted with the finest armor and weaponry. In fact, these "gods" look exactly like the boobs in Harrogath, only slightly larger and with money. It has been said that man has rarely conceived a god truly superior to himself. These monuments display nothing but the northlanders' lack of imagination. I wonder how they made them. Once again, events did not go as expected, and it was a disappointment. The altar, as is to be expected, is the center of the temple. Approaching it released the temple guardians: the statues, of course. I really should have known. Perhaps I was clinging to a faint hope that the Precursors might do something unexpected, not subject me to a straightforward trial by combat against three muscle-bound louts with brains the size and quality of walnuts. But no; I am guessing that these buffoons were Precursors themselves, willingly petrified to serve as eternal guardians. They couldn't even pronounce their own name correctly -- everyone knows the name is "Nephilim." How could such a stupid people be responsible for the great things I have seen? How could their modern descendants have slid to such a low state of civilization? If you are curious about my trial by combat, gentle reader, nothing noteworthy occurred. The Precursors were strong, durable sorts who depended on their heroic constitutions to survive battles -- like their descendants, slightly magnified. Each had some "trick" maneuver he was fond of. One was armed with stacks of light axes, and threw them from a short distance. Another was fond of skipping across the field of battle like a spinning top, slashing weakly at anything within reach. To think others have accused ME of unmanly behavior! The third may have had a signature attack, but never used it; he merely lumbered from place to place with a great axe, and might have hurt me badly if I ever let him strike. Wait a moment, they just mentioned Tyrael! As I write this, the three defeated Precursors have re-petrified, and declared me worthy, to no one's surprise but theirs. It seems Baal is inside the "Keep of the Worldstone" and preventing Tyrael from entering, and... Oh, blast, bother, that DAMNED angel should roast in Hell! The Nephilim have told me the Worldstone's function: its energy suffuses this dimension, preventing outside spirits (like the lords of Hell) from drawing power for themselves. With the Worldstone, only powerful demons and angels may even enter our world, and none operate at full strength. The Worldstone is, in fact, the main reason our world has been free of outside interference for so long. Tyrael did not see fit to inform me of any of this. The angel must have supposed I would be happy to charge into battle like some Paladin, knowing nothing of the cause but willing to risk my skin without a second's thought just because he told me to. That damned celestial idiot... FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM NO ONE'S SERVANT!! That having been said, I go into the keep now. Not because I am ordered, but because I care so deeply about humanity and myself. Blindly following instructions, especially from a supposedly "wise and incorruptible" source, is the mark of a fool. I do this because I want to, and because I know I must. That, I am convinced, is a far purer and stronger form of "goodness" than anyone else will ever know. Chapter 33 Dear Diary, A short while ago, I made what I supposed might be my final entry in this journal. Tyrael, agent of Heaven and advisor to fools, sent me into the northlands to save the Worldstone, never seeing fit to inform me of its nature and purpose. Underestimating its importance, my search of the northern mountains moved at a leisurely pace, playing into the hands of my enemy, Baal, Lord of Destruction and commander of Hell's largest armies. The demon lord, unable to enter the Worldstone Keep where the stone lay, wrought havoc and destruction throughout the region, causing the northmen's last tribal elder, Nihlathak, to despair. In his wretched state, Nihlathak gave to Baal the key to destroying the Worldstone, hoping Baal would then leave his people alone. A drowning man will clutch at any straw, sadly, but by giving Destruction his desire, that poor man guaranteed humanity's doom. Cursing his memory like the others do might bring some comfort, but my sympathy for his terrible plight moves me only to pity. My curses go to the angel. Inside the Worldstone Keep, evidence of the Worldstone's destruction is everywhere. Many pieces of crystal, each the size of a house and red as life's blood itself, protrude upwards through the floor. While it was intact, I am sure the Worldstone was a marvelous thing, an epically-scaled, sanguine symbol of the beauty and power of mortal life, but little hope remains for it now. Even Khaleel seems to have realized that something is deeply wrong, and is flailing about in an endeavor to provoke me into returning to the Keep. I shall, in my own time. My own vengeance will be attended to -- and to finally, defiantly, spit in my enemy's face before darkness consumes me is a gesture I have always wanted to make. But I will wait. While in the Keep, I paused for a moment to admire the construction; a painful burst of lightning erupted beneath my feet, accompanied by what could only be my foe's harsh laughter. Obviously, Baal has already found what he sought and done what he set out to do, and is impatient to see me that me might laugh in my face. Gentle reader, you may think me spiteful, but I refuse to be goaded, by man, angel, or devil. The more I am pushed, he more I shall resist, to my dying breath and beyond. For my own amusement and interest, I shall record a description of the Worldstone Keep and its architecture, the likes of which I have not seen in all my travels. Overwhelmingly grand in style, the Worldstone Keep bears only a vague resemblance to other Precursor structures, but employs common thematic elements. There is nothing graceful or light in the Keep, quite unlike the Heavenly styles of Pandemonium, where stone and metal were presented in such elegant forms the dense medium seemed to float and soar like the ether. Here, all is close-spaced columns and flat lintels, each made from a single piece of stone. Shallow but precise cut-outs decorate the floor in maze-like patterns, always turning at right angles... in fact, I don't believe there is a single obtuse or acute angle in the entire structure. The star of Order is never seen, but strongly implied in this staunch regularity. Furnishings are scant to the point of being entirely absent; a few elaborate tombs break the endless emptiness of the square halls, as well as the ubiquity of right angles. All are adorned in the colorful styles I saw in Harrogath, using differently-colored stones side by side in geometric patterns; I suspect that the Worldstone Keep predates them considerably, though it is also possible that the Keep's style is special, reserved only for this most important temple. To my surprise, human remains can be found inside the Keep. Did Baal import some to feed his zoo of minions? Difficult to judge; only a few tiny pieces remain intact, the rest having been ground to jelly and smeared into the floor. The first floor of the keep is guarded by hordes of Imps and Minotaurs, with Defilers behind them to insure their enthusiasm for battle. More lies below, I am sure -- lumps in the otherwise perfectly level floor unquestionably indicate spots where pieces of the Worldstone failed to break through. Ah, I have found a human hand clutching a weapon; this person was not brought in by the demons, unless he or she died in some sort of gladiatorial sport. Perhaps a few local people served as temple guardians, though how they were chosen for this task I have no idea. If they had to face the same trials I did to enter, surely they could have dealt with Baal's army witho Another "hotfoot" from Baal -- any more of this, and I could grow to dislike him. Perhaps I shall try his patience as he has tried mine, judging by experiment exactly how slowly I may move and avoid his impotent wrath. The Minotaurs, I should note, are of the strongest variety, invulnerable to the chilling effects of Khaleel's magic. Their presence no longer fills me with fear, though I cannot explain why; now, they are nothing more than the first foe who must die. Perhaps, as I realize my mission cannot succeed, I also know death cannot interfere with my efforts and poses no threat. The second level of the Keep stretches rectilinearly before me, and I can easily see it is not the deepest from the holes in the floor. The crystal chunks which made them, of course, lie embedded in the ceiling, accounting for the lumpy floor above. For all this rude treatment, the building is still quite stable; architecture this muscular will not be demolished easily. A plethora of Plated Demons fills these halls, and by spying around corners I have seen some who are already bloated with energy, placidly waiting for me to approach. Their devotion is remarkable; even undead servants care more for their own existence. Perhaps that sort of thing is what encouraged my ancestors to take on demons as servants; a servant so eager to do anything I ask without question would be enticing. Apart from a waypoint, I find nothing of interest on the second floor. The third floor is a repeat of the first: Imps, Minotaurs, and Defilers. The halls all look the same, of course; the only indication of depth is a greater concentration of shattered crystal punched through the floor. Minotaurs are hard on the armor, but otherwise there is nothing here to interest me. Every conflict with Baal's army I have experienced has had a remarkable sameness to it: a mix of powerful infantry (the Yeti, Plated Demons, or Frozen Creepers) escorted by quicker but fragile magi (Succubi or Imps; exploding Plated Demons could be considered self-guided fireballs.) The Minotaurs are probably members of his personal retinue, which he has scattered here and there without rhyme or reason. Were they more concentrated, their strength would be insurmountable, but dissipated as they are they do him little good. It is as though the Lord of Destruction has a book entitled "How To Wage War"; it is a small book, little more than a pamphlet, full of poor advice which he never deviates from. An oddity of the Worldstone Keep has caught my eye. The maze-like patterns on the floor do not branch, and thus do not form a true maze. More properly, the path depicted is a labyrinth, which loops endlessly through the entire level. No matter how the path twists, it inevitably returns to its beginning. Were it not so damaged, and so heavy, I would be tempted to pull up the floor and carry it away home; nowhere have I seen a better analogy for life and death, especially on such a scale. The next level down is most probably the deepest. Fiery light suffuses every corner, leaving no shadows. Baal's strongest Minotaurs are present, but in groups of four, not two. Beside them are Succubi by the dozen, though these are the best I have yet seen -- their wings and other demonic features are golden, glittering like cheap tinsel. Perhaps Baal is trying to prove to the world that is really is possible to polish excrement. Horrors! These Succubi know a worthwhile curse, Damage Amplification. Decrepification is more to be feared, but to be so vulnerable to physical blows in the presence of Minotaurs would be terrifying indeed. The brutes are dangerous enough as they are. I'd best proceed carefully, and try to isolate them from each other. So much for isolating them from each other! In a small side room, I happened upon a huge group of Succubi with a few Minotaurs. It seems Baal has little control over his minions. I do not want to think about what they were doing in there, but at least this batch of bulls had to fight without their armor. At the rear of the level is what may have been a temple; Baal, in his infinite and completely undeserved arrogance, has made it into a throne room. There the great scuttler sits, on a high platform flanked by banners, deeply impressed with himself -- I suppose he does live up to his own meager expectations. I'm sure he is expecting a ferocious attack; perhaps I shall engage him in conversation. Surely, he and I can find something to chat about. My attempts were fruitless; Baal did nothing but laugh. Perhaps he suffers an embarrassing speech impediment. Reaching him was difficult, as he kept the best of curses for himself: Decrepification. Even climbing stairs under the weight of that curse would be an ordeal, and Baal worsened the matter by summoning more minions to protect him. Granted, his first try was only Fallen Ones, but they were followed by a pack of Horadric Mummies, with skeletal cold magi in company. These were a novelty for Khaleel, and the combination of Baal's curse and the chilling effect of their magic was more than either of us could tolerate. I have made a quick retreat from the room; Khaleel has recovered, and is picking off the magi at range. My future biographer will have a terrible time with this tale. To reiterate: I am facing an foe with magical power capable of laying waste to cities, and brain power insufficient to light a candle. His chief mummy was immune to my venom, but my alternate weapon took it down with sledgehammer finesse. After the mummies died, he re-summoned the Zakarum council, led by a familiar face: Bartuc, brother of Horazon, and easily the most egotistical sorcerer of all time, which as you can imagine is saying something. Imagine seeing him again after all these years. Now that I have disposed of Bartuc, Baal has brought in Balrogs. Where are the heroic battles of wits against a foe of my own caliber? Baal has provided endless armies, but defeating endless armies is more a matter of persistence than intelligence. I am sure this will not bring any satisfying final denouement either, unless Tyrael turns up. Great Rathma's ghost! Baal had one surprise up his sleeve: the last summoning must have been his personal bodyguard. I have no clear idea what they were, but they were quick, strong, and dangerous; note accompanying sketches. Their initial charge knocked my Bone Armor out so quickly, I did not notice it was gone; the second blow smashed me across the room and out the door, with the whole pack in pursuit. Khaleel did his utmost to stop the beasts, with such zeal that I had to drag him to a portal to save his life. Knowing they would stay clustered about the portal, I returned by waypoint. Arranging their deaths was a long game of cat-and-mouse through the complex; they were highly resistant to my venom, Khaleel's chilling magic... indeed, everything we had. Finally standing over their twitching corpses was a moment of enormous satisfaction, though as far as my interest in my enemy goes, it was too little, too late. Strangely, the lead creature had in its possession a Fool's Scepter of the Leech. Was this one of our kings in a former incarnation? When I returned to Destruction's throne, he was gone. A red gate stood at the rear of the platform, where Baal's spidery bulk hid it from view. Climbing up now is easy, and beyond the gate is a huge chamber containing the Worldstone. It can be nothing else. Imagine a crystal of purest ruby the size of an entire town, floating serenely in space, unsupported by any visible force. Now imagine that crystal turning black as corruption cleaves through the stone, twisting it into new forms better suited to Infernal energies. As you watch, crimson shards peel away from the main mass and float buoyantly away, slowly pushing their way out of the chamber through the solid stone walls. By the base, Baal waits, laughing and pointing out his handiwork, as though I couldn't possibly have noticed without his help. I'm sure he'll want to say more, but I have been so unimpressed with all he has said and done already I'm sure I can miss it. With all the satisfaction that comes from squashing a particularly noisome insect, that is that. The Lord of Destruction, while in possession of one of history's greatest sorcerers, fell to my venom and a sledgehammer lodged in his skull. And, on cue, here is Tyrael. I do dearly, desperately hate that INFURIATING angel! With sincere humility, that fluttery luminescent glowworm of a sorry tin-plated milk-blooded excuse for munificence APOLOGIZED for not telling me what the Worldstone did! He thought I understood its significance; everyone else in the mortal world does. That's because everyone else in the mortal world actually LISTENS to stupid angels and lets them tell them what's important!! Oh, I am so disgusted with him. After that, Tyrael destroyed the Worldstone. The main mass was no longer suitable as a vessel for our world's energies; corruption would soon fill it with infernal power, and it could only become a weapon for Hell. A few fragments remain, but not enough to maintain the interdimensional veil. I kept one; it is a beautiful thing, glowing red as blood in the light. Perhaps something could be done with it. And that, dear reader, is how the world stands as of today, a day that will be remembered as the day the world ended. I can hardly wait to tell father, he never would have thought I had it in me. I suppose, strictly speaking, the world has not ended... an age has merely passed away. You must understand, the Worldstone was placed in Mt. Arreat by Heaven to prevent outside agencies from using extradimensional powers in our world. This interfered with both demon and angel alike, and was the main reason Tyrael could do so little. The Brothers had the Soulstones, which drew power from the Worldstone. Once corrupted, the Soulstones allowed them to make use of their power unchecked. Now our shield is gone, and only our knowledge and our wits stand in Hell's way. When I am needed... look elsewhere, for I am beginning a long, well-deserved rest, at the suggestion of Tyrael. It was the only sensible thing I've ever heard him say. I remain yours truly, Varnae Cesare Amygda von Rhus Initiate of Rathma Slayer of The Prime Evils, Savior of Civilization Hey, it's Khaleel. We're back in Atma's, pasty is getting drunk. Guess who I met in here? This guy named Zanarhi who says he used to work for the scrawny bastard. hi. the litle werdo got thru to the end huh? Yeah, barely. You should have seen him when he walked into that one room with the bull guys and demon babes. Man, he turned pink! he terned pink owt here i had to cary a dam parasol for him Okay, the bulls and babes thing was kind of gross. i dont want to no! bad enuf to heer him yamering about ded guys Gods, I know! He is damn strange. This one time, he fell in love with this freaky old guy in this place we had to go. That was totally gross. somhow i kind of new hed go that way He tried to cover it up by falling in love with some leather-babe too. i kind of new hed go that way to Yeah, always going on about hair and clothes and interior decorating. he tryd to dres me up but im not into that You should have seen him at the end. Baal dropped this purple Gothic Plate called Rattlecage, pasty looked like he was in heaven. purple? he wor blak befor is purple the new blak? I don't know. And, of course, he thinks he's god's gift to magic. Look at that stupid signature up there. "Savior of Civilization" my left nut. man he puts lots of curly bits on his werds Whenever he gets too snotty, just start talking about the 6-foot boner joke. man i no it was so funy wen he told it then denid it he lies Anyway, I'm Khaleel, I killed Baal, and pasty was my Curse B!tch. good job my man Concluding thoughts: The Bloody Foothills, with their narrow bridges and passages, were unexpectedly difficult. Frequently, I found myself poisoning two monsters on a bridge, then waiting for them to die before I could get the rest of the horde. My merc killed more than I did, which is a sad thing to say when you're using an Act III cold sorcerer. Attract works as well on exploding slaves as it does on any other monster: not reliably. We hates the Frenzytaurs, we hates and fears them. They have to be envenomed more than once, and are too dangerous to kill slowly anyway. Ever had Tyrael's gate appear so close to the wall that you couldn't go through? Good thing you don't need to enter it to get credit for the finish. Quite an entertaining excursion, that. But now, let us put the Necromancer aside and begin the endless cycle anew. Where he was slow and methodical, the next character is known for her lightning speed and devastating damage. Naturally, I'll be avoiding those skills, but even so she'll have to be a faster killer than Varnae. (Any slower, and she wouldn't kill anything at all.) Cloaked in ebon night, I give you... the Assassin. Epilogue Stony, Patriarch Varnae (Diablo: IncGamers) Source Stony's Grand Tour was originally posted in Diablo: IncGamers (formerly Diabloii.net) Single Player Forum. While almost all original posts are long gone, Vesper, one of our Community Members, contacted him and was given the original documents, and permission to reproduce them at the Amazon Basin.