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{{Intro}}
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?
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==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