Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 11)"

Latest revision as of 18:20, 12 February 2017

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Varnae (Act II)#Chapter 11

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-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.

Difference between revisions of "Varnae (Chapter 11)"

Latest revision as of 18:20, 12 February 2017

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