etrusk
19-08-2004, 19:31
Hi guys,
My first ever story, have a look please :)
This story is about all those Diablo characters you started and then abandoned for some reason or other: no fun, badly spent skill points, anything. It is set during the course of one day in the rogue encampment and told from the viewpoint of one of the guards, Torril.
Any comments/critique would be GREATLY appreciated. Also, I found it hard to put the idea of a character levelling up and choosing a skill into an otherwise realistic story, so please bear with me :)
Thanks!
__________________________________________________ _______________
Blood Oath - a tribute to abandoned Diablo characters
The approaching sound of wet, heavy footsteps brought Torril out of her reverie.
She had been daydreaming, leaning hunched against the damp, wooden bails of the barricade. The rain had stopped some time ago, but the cold, piercing wind limited her ambitions to conserving what little heat her tired, gaunt body could give. Slowly, she looked up trying to see anything in the fading twilight. The dark clouds overhead cast deep, murky shadows on the path in front, but there was still enough illumination for her trained eyes. She recognized the large, hulking form in the distance and with a weary curse she straightened up as much as her shivering muscles would allow it.
Picking up the bow from her shoulder she trailed two fingers along the string to shake off any lingering moisture. Then she carefully selected an arrow and notched it, not attempting to raise it or aim. Not that she was expecting any kind of ambush. The Fallen had long ago learned that they were no match for the rogues and their deadly skills. Appearances had to be kept, though. A sister of the Sightless Eye does not dose off on guard duty. Besides there was always a small chance the northerner would report her idleness to Kashya and Torril would rather be a hell-bride to Mephisto then let that happen.
She remembered the barbarian had arrived at sunrise. Travelers were scarce in recent days, scarce enough that on the pretext of restocking her arrows Torril went down to the forge to take a closer look. She was in time to see him choose an old, miserable leather armor and a worn out short sword with a blade so nicked it would be of better use to a lumberjack. As was the custom for some time now, between her pretty smiles and cheerful banter Charsi managed to part him of almost all the gold he had in a way that would make that old troll Gheed proud.
The barbarian took this stoically, regarding the smithy with a cool eye before finally cutting her off in mid-speech, taking the goods and leaving. Torril glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, noticing the tall, muscular frame and scarred, haggard face that could never be called handsome. He seemed almost identical to the others who came, as if they were all brothers from one, infinitely large family. She always imagined that somewhere, perhaps in the dark caves of Mount Arreat, there was a cast made of rock and bone where these men were spawned as if from a womb.
Later, she watched from her post at the gate as Akara muttered to him about curse and death, fate and loyalty. The toothless hag spun her story well and the warrior agreed to help in his strange heathen accent. It was a worn-out ritual, one which she had seen countless times and the result was always the same.
It did not matter if the priestess was convincing a barbarian from the northern wilderness, a sorceress from the western shores of Khanduras or a necromancer from Baal knows where. They always stood and listened and they always agreed. Akara offered rewards and they always accepted. Many never returned, but some did and claimed to have triumphed. The priestess always pretended to believe, although it was never true. The darkness always came back and the evil never died.
That old fool Cain woke up as the sun had moved two bells past noon. Torril was always wary of him, ever since he started turning up out of nowhere in flashes of bright, blue light. Old Deckard Cain and his crazy stories. She kept telling him that his tales could earn a fortune in the court of some western monarch, or maybe even as far east as Aranoch, but he always just looked at her and smiled tiredly.
The old man exchanged pleasantries with Gheed and then made his way over to Akara’s tent. He spoke briefly to the priestess, leaning hard on his gnarled oak staff. When they were finished, she brought his attention to the northerner who was busily trying to hammer some semblance of an edge into his new sword. Cain gave him a long, piercing look then sighed and shook his head. Torril remembered a time when he told his mad prophecy to anyone who would listen. That time was long past.
The sky had been covered all day with dark, menacing clouds and it had started to rain. A light drizzle at first that quickly turned into the torrential monsoon they called rainfall here. Everyone sought a hiding place except for Torril on guard duty and the barbarian still busily pounding away on his blade. Cain ran straight to Gheed’s tent. Their drunken singing started soon after and went on until Akara came out of her tent and muttered something, replacing it with loud snoring instead.
Soon after, perhaps deciding that the weather would not improve, the northerner gathered his things to leave. On his way he was accosted only once by the diminutive figure of Warriv. The merchant was an almost constant visitor to the camp and he was always welcome. He brought news and stories from the great western kingdoms of Westmarch and from the east, from cities like Lut Gholein and even as far as the jungles of Khajistan. It was a pleasant distraction to the rogues from the monotony of their daily existence.
Warriv was at the camp waiting for the pass to be safe again so he could move his wagons east. What goods he carried no one knew, but he guarded them well. Stories spread that he was now richer then most barons, yet he could never force himself to settle down. It was as if he was driven by a higher purpose known only to him. Torril wondered if he had a family somewhere, waiting. She saw him ask the barbarian a question and point east. The man stood still for a moment and nodded. Warriv chuckled happily to himself and gave the massive northerner a slap on the back. Then he went back to minding his wagons and Torril was left with nothing to do but watch the battle-scarred back of the barbarian disappear into the distance.
Now it was dawn and he was coming back too soon.
Stars began shining through the rifts in the sky and by their muted light Torril began noticing more details about the approaching figure. Fresh cuts covered the barbarian’s chest and arms. The earlier rain had washed the blood from the wounds down the man’s torso, diluting it and making him seem ruddy in appearance. Some areas on his body were blackened; the man must have killed his fair share of shamans tonight. The useless sword was now replaced by two axes, held fastened behind his belt. The armor also seemed to have changed, no doubt loot taken from the monster lairs. He was very close now, so near that Torril could see his eyes. She thought she saw a hint of quiet resignment about him, he seemed neither sad nor happy just… lifeless.
“Sankekur, warrior.” Torril was surprised to find herself speaking out loud. “How goes the hunt? You look as though you’ve been to hell and back.”
The barbarian stopped and looked at her impassively. There was no emotion in those eyes, none at all.
When he spoke Torril’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Don’t waste your breath on me, sister. I have failed my clan and my gods. Betrayed the voices that guide me. Or maybe… maybe they have betrayed me?” The man paused, puzzled for a second, but then shook his head. “It does not matter. En-Urath Nur. I am not fit to live.”
Torril’s muscles tightened impulsively. She knew what was going to happen next and she also knew that there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. It was useless to ask, but she did anyway. She always did.
“Wh…What happened?”
This time, the barbarian spoke and his voice was filled with resentment.
“Your priestess called it the den of evil. A cave, not far to the east. You must know it.”
She nodded.
“I was promised a reward.” The barbarian smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes. “I am no fool. I remember thinking that there must be another reason to this, a hidden purpose. No one gives away treasure for ridding a hole in the ground of a few monsters. Still, I went. Why else would I come here, if not to help? It was dark and it stank of death. I found a walking corpse waiting there for me.”
Torril shivered. The northerner continued obliviously.
“It was strong, more powerful then all the others I faced this day. As I struck the final blow I felt a shifting of the world. Amon-Shi hear the truth in my words. There was a sound like the ring of a distant bell. It was a moment of true clarity and all of a sudden I realized that I had a choice to make. The gods themselves spoke to me. They said I was a chosen warrior and that I was in their favour. They said they would make me powerful. They bid me to choose a weapon for myself. That weapon, they whispered, would make me invincible in battle.”
The warrior paused. He seemed wilted now, somehow thinner. Torril was shocked to see tears carving ridges down his blood encrusted face. Whoever heard of a barbarian of the north crying, she thought. Goddess, what horrible truth am I seeing here?
Clearly fighting an inner battle the warrior spoke again, his voice slowly rising.
“I felt the power coursing through me. It was… beyond words. The world lay at my feet and no one could stand in my way. I could feel in the distance the evil gods of men: Mephisto, Diablo and Baal watching me. Trembling! They felt my power and they were terrified!”
The northerner’s eyes gleamed in the starlight. It seemed to Torril as if the essence of life was being sucked from his body as he spoke.
“I looked around me for an appropriate weapon. Something befitting a warrior of the gods. Something I trained with all my life and something I could use like no other. I saw it lying in front of me in the pile of rotten bones. Two small axes, their hidden power concealed by their size. The walking dead had used them to slash and hack at me as it fought. It had used them wrong.”
The northerner seemed to be a shadow of his former self. There was something immaterial about his body now. With a final effort, as the last spark of life went out in his eyes, the warrior whispered his last words to Torril.
“I chose mastery over throwing axes.”
Lightning struck somewhere on the horizon. Torril instinctively closed her eyes, blinded by the unnaturally bright light. When she opened them, she was alone.
Her shift ended soon after, but Torril could not sleep. She had not told anyone of her encounter. Who would believe her? She did not want their fingers pointed at her, hidden grins behind her back. No, she would hold the memory of the nameless warrior to herself. She thought about her time at the camp, the countless others she had seen. Barbarians and sorceresses, druids and paladins. The ones that came back tormented by failure, the ones that simply disappeared. The ones so easily forgotten.
‘It was not meant to be like this.’
That thought rose gradually through her subconscious and slowly filled her mind. She remembered the northerner’s face, the despair in his eyes as he told his story. She remembered all the others.
‘It was not meant to be like this!!’
In that moment, that split second, Torril decided. All these years at the camp, this never-ending struggle against the darkness. Comrades and strangers dead and buried. And for what? Her mind was set. On the morrow, she would leave her order. She would cast off her name, honoring the endless legions of nameless heroes before her. Then she would take her fight to the gods.
‘How dare they do this?! How dare they take lives as if it was their right?!’
That night, in the camp of the sisters of the Sightless Eye, lying on her thin bunk and shivering from the cold Torril made an oath. An oath of retribution against the gods themselves. She whispered at first, in her native tongue of the island of Lysander. Gradually her voice strengthened, as if it was joined by an infinite amount of other voices. She began speaking in different tongues, but.the meaning always remained the same. She was alone and yet she could feel the presence of others all around her, all craving the same thing she desired. Vengeance. The abandoned and the cast-aways. The bastard children of fickle minds. No longer would they be treated as playthings, ready to be thrown away when broken. She could feel them lending her their power, the essence of thousands of lost souls.
The blood oath was complete.
My first ever story, have a look please :)
This story is about all those Diablo characters you started and then abandoned for some reason or other: no fun, badly spent skill points, anything. It is set during the course of one day in the rogue encampment and told from the viewpoint of one of the guards, Torril.
Any comments/critique would be GREATLY appreciated. Also, I found it hard to put the idea of a character levelling up and choosing a skill into an otherwise realistic story, so please bear with me :)
Thanks!
__________________________________________________ _______________
Blood Oath - a tribute to abandoned Diablo characters
The approaching sound of wet, heavy footsteps brought Torril out of her reverie.
She had been daydreaming, leaning hunched against the damp, wooden bails of the barricade. The rain had stopped some time ago, but the cold, piercing wind limited her ambitions to conserving what little heat her tired, gaunt body could give. Slowly, she looked up trying to see anything in the fading twilight. The dark clouds overhead cast deep, murky shadows on the path in front, but there was still enough illumination for her trained eyes. She recognized the large, hulking form in the distance and with a weary curse she straightened up as much as her shivering muscles would allow it.
Picking up the bow from her shoulder she trailed two fingers along the string to shake off any lingering moisture. Then she carefully selected an arrow and notched it, not attempting to raise it or aim. Not that she was expecting any kind of ambush. The Fallen had long ago learned that they were no match for the rogues and their deadly skills. Appearances had to be kept, though. A sister of the Sightless Eye does not dose off on guard duty. Besides there was always a small chance the northerner would report her idleness to Kashya and Torril would rather be a hell-bride to Mephisto then let that happen.
She remembered the barbarian had arrived at sunrise. Travelers were scarce in recent days, scarce enough that on the pretext of restocking her arrows Torril went down to the forge to take a closer look. She was in time to see him choose an old, miserable leather armor and a worn out short sword with a blade so nicked it would be of better use to a lumberjack. As was the custom for some time now, between her pretty smiles and cheerful banter Charsi managed to part him of almost all the gold he had in a way that would make that old troll Gheed proud.
The barbarian took this stoically, regarding the smithy with a cool eye before finally cutting her off in mid-speech, taking the goods and leaving. Torril glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, noticing the tall, muscular frame and scarred, haggard face that could never be called handsome. He seemed almost identical to the others who came, as if they were all brothers from one, infinitely large family. She always imagined that somewhere, perhaps in the dark caves of Mount Arreat, there was a cast made of rock and bone where these men were spawned as if from a womb.
Later, she watched from her post at the gate as Akara muttered to him about curse and death, fate and loyalty. The toothless hag spun her story well and the warrior agreed to help in his strange heathen accent. It was a worn-out ritual, one which she had seen countless times and the result was always the same.
It did not matter if the priestess was convincing a barbarian from the northern wilderness, a sorceress from the western shores of Khanduras or a necromancer from Baal knows where. They always stood and listened and they always agreed. Akara offered rewards and they always accepted. Many never returned, but some did and claimed to have triumphed. The priestess always pretended to believe, although it was never true. The darkness always came back and the evil never died.
That old fool Cain woke up as the sun had moved two bells past noon. Torril was always wary of him, ever since he started turning up out of nowhere in flashes of bright, blue light. Old Deckard Cain and his crazy stories. She kept telling him that his tales could earn a fortune in the court of some western monarch, or maybe even as far east as Aranoch, but he always just looked at her and smiled tiredly.
The old man exchanged pleasantries with Gheed and then made his way over to Akara’s tent. He spoke briefly to the priestess, leaning hard on his gnarled oak staff. When they were finished, she brought his attention to the northerner who was busily trying to hammer some semblance of an edge into his new sword. Cain gave him a long, piercing look then sighed and shook his head. Torril remembered a time when he told his mad prophecy to anyone who would listen. That time was long past.
The sky had been covered all day with dark, menacing clouds and it had started to rain. A light drizzle at first that quickly turned into the torrential monsoon they called rainfall here. Everyone sought a hiding place except for Torril on guard duty and the barbarian still busily pounding away on his blade. Cain ran straight to Gheed’s tent. Their drunken singing started soon after and went on until Akara came out of her tent and muttered something, replacing it with loud snoring instead.
Soon after, perhaps deciding that the weather would not improve, the northerner gathered his things to leave. On his way he was accosted only once by the diminutive figure of Warriv. The merchant was an almost constant visitor to the camp and he was always welcome. He brought news and stories from the great western kingdoms of Westmarch and from the east, from cities like Lut Gholein and even as far as the jungles of Khajistan. It was a pleasant distraction to the rogues from the monotony of their daily existence.
Warriv was at the camp waiting for the pass to be safe again so he could move his wagons east. What goods he carried no one knew, but he guarded them well. Stories spread that he was now richer then most barons, yet he could never force himself to settle down. It was as if he was driven by a higher purpose known only to him. Torril wondered if he had a family somewhere, waiting. She saw him ask the barbarian a question and point east. The man stood still for a moment and nodded. Warriv chuckled happily to himself and gave the massive northerner a slap on the back. Then he went back to minding his wagons and Torril was left with nothing to do but watch the battle-scarred back of the barbarian disappear into the distance.
Now it was dawn and he was coming back too soon.
Stars began shining through the rifts in the sky and by their muted light Torril began noticing more details about the approaching figure. Fresh cuts covered the barbarian’s chest and arms. The earlier rain had washed the blood from the wounds down the man’s torso, diluting it and making him seem ruddy in appearance. Some areas on his body were blackened; the man must have killed his fair share of shamans tonight. The useless sword was now replaced by two axes, held fastened behind his belt. The armor also seemed to have changed, no doubt loot taken from the monster lairs. He was very close now, so near that Torril could see his eyes. She thought she saw a hint of quiet resignment about him, he seemed neither sad nor happy just… lifeless.
“Sankekur, warrior.” Torril was surprised to find herself speaking out loud. “How goes the hunt? You look as though you’ve been to hell and back.”
The barbarian stopped and looked at her impassively. There was no emotion in those eyes, none at all.
When he spoke Torril’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Don’t waste your breath on me, sister. I have failed my clan and my gods. Betrayed the voices that guide me. Or maybe… maybe they have betrayed me?” The man paused, puzzled for a second, but then shook his head. “It does not matter. En-Urath Nur. I am not fit to live.”
Torril’s muscles tightened impulsively. She knew what was going to happen next and she also knew that there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. It was useless to ask, but she did anyway. She always did.
“Wh…What happened?”
This time, the barbarian spoke and his voice was filled with resentment.
“Your priestess called it the den of evil. A cave, not far to the east. You must know it.”
She nodded.
“I was promised a reward.” The barbarian smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes. “I am no fool. I remember thinking that there must be another reason to this, a hidden purpose. No one gives away treasure for ridding a hole in the ground of a few monsters. Still, I went. Why else would I come here, if not to help? It was dark and it stank of death. I found a walking corpse waiting there for me.”
Torril shivered. The northerner continued obliviously.
“It was strong, more powerful then all the others I faced this day. As I struck the final blow I felt a shifting of the world. Amon-Shi hear the truth in my words. There was a sound like the ring of a distant bell. It was a moment of true clarity and all of a sudden I realized that I had a choice to make. The gods themselves spoke to me. They said I was a chosen warrior and that I was in their favour. They said they would make me powerful. They bid me to choose a weapon for myself. That weapon, they whispered, would make me invincible in battle.”
The warrior paused. He seemed wilted now, somehow thinner. Torril was shocked to see tears carving ridges down his blood encrusted face. Whoever heard of a barbarian of the north crying, she thought. Goddess, what horrible truth am I seeing here?
Clearly fighting an inner battle the warrior spoke again, his voice slowly rising.
“I felt the power coursing through me. It was… beyond words. The world lay at my feet and no one could stand in my way. I could feel in the distance the evil gods of men: Mephisto, Diablo and Baal watching me. Trembling! They felt my power and they were terrified!”
The northerner’s eyes gleamed in the starlight. It seemed to Torril as if the essence of life was being sucked from his body as he spoke.
“I looked around me for an appropriate weapon. Something befitting a warrior of the gods. Something I trained with all my life and something I could use like no other. I saw it lying in front of me in the pile of rotten bones. Two small axes, their hidden power concealed by their size. The walking dead had used them to slash and hack at me as it fought. It had used them wrong.”
The northerner seemed to be a shadow of his former self. There was something immaterial about his body now. With a final effort, as the last spark of life went out in his eyes, the warrior whispered his last words to Torril.
“I chose mastery over throwing axes.”
Lightning struck somewhere on the horizon. Torril instinctively closed her eyes, blinded by the unnaturally bright light. When she opened them, she was alone.
Her shift ended soon after, but Torril could not sleep. She had not told anyone of her encounter. Who would believe her? She did not want their fingers pointed at her, hidden grins behind her back. No, she would hold the memory of the nameless warrior to herself. She thought about her time at the camp, the countless others she had seen. Barbarians and sorceresses, druids and paladins. The ones that came back tormented by failure, the ones that simply disappeared. The ones so easily forgotten.
‘It was not meant to be like this.’
That thought rose gradually through her subconscious and slowly filled her mind. She remembered the northerner’s face, the despair in his eyes as he told his story. She remembered all the others.
‘It was not meant to be like this!!’
In that moment, that split second, Torril decided. All these years at the camp, this never-ending struggle against the darkness. Comrades and strangers dead and buried. And for what? Her mind was set. On the morrow, she would leave her order. She would cast off her name, honoring the endless legions of nameless heroes before her. Then she would take her fight to the gods.
‘How dare they do this?! How dare they take lives as if it was their right?!’
That night, in the camp of the sisters of the Sightless Eye, lying on her thin bunk and shivering from the cold Torril made an oath. An oath of retribution against the gods themselves. She whispered at first, in her native tongue of the island of Lysander. Gradually her voice strengthened, as if it was joined by an infinite amount of other voices. She began speaking in different tongues, but.the meaning always remained the same. She was alone and yet she could feel the presence of others all around her, all craving the same thing she desired. Vengeance. The abandoned and the cast-aways. The bastard children of fickle minds. No longer would they be treated as playthings, ready to be thrown away when broken. She could feel them lending her their power, the essence of thousands of lost souls.
The blood oath was complete.