Varnae (Chapter 12)

Template:Varnae nav 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.