Varnae (Act III)
Template:Varnae nav 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..."