Three hours of still air and then the rain. A cloud of darkness was nestled comfortably above Tristram, and pouring with vengence. Cain was in the tavern as was Farnum and the usual assortment of hopeless drunks.
The wind was breezing past the hedges of the ancient rock wall that boardered the small stream. Even though Farnum was his usual self it seemed unlike him to stray to the door and actually exit outside the safty of
As Farnum stumbled off the step and into the small yard he heard a deep howling voice that seemed distant and fuzzy. "Ehh what's your old corkscrew up to this time Farnum?" The voice was clearer after Farnum thought about the words. "What? can't a drunk wallow in his sarrows in peace?" Farnum's words always delivered a feeling of drunkin comedy and damning remorse.
"Eih that he can, that he can old bones always said, but I be damned if our sarrow continue. You know as well as I that it's all behind us now." Griswold said all his words in a loving manner, never giving a spark of interest to anger or threats.
"Maybe." Said Farnum, it was a tone that set griswold of his steady feat. "What say yee old bones?" Griswold was listening so hard that anyone near by could just look into his ears and hear whatever he was listening to. "Nothing, it's just nothing yee hear? I ain't gonna be put through this hell again yee hear?" Griswold set easy again, as if just remembering that Farnum never spoke any sense before and he shouldn't be expected to now.
At that Farnum wabbled down the path that went around the fountain and dissapeared behind the house that hid his favorite drinking space. Griswold let out a sigh and turned to the wall, where his new creation waited to be finished. He had worked on it in secret for years, and after he got the hell forge hammer from the champion he was able to continue his work.
After many restless sessions of debating the name he would bestow upon it, he finally opted to the one he had origonally choosen for it, "the Levethian." He said it proudly, yet under his breath to keep it secret from any would be ease dropping old bones.
Unknowing and at best obliviously Pipin slept in his cot, dreaming of white light and blue magic streaming against currents of blood red potions. His dreams were always of this sort, and he prefered them so.
Perhaps 13 stories beneath Tristram, Lazurous lifts himself from his blood drenched ash ridden stain on the ground and moans a long heft sigh of half waking up and half dieing again. "Somehow I haft to get out more," lazurous said in a already echoing voice. At that endless moaning of the same sort could be heard all over the underground dwelling.
Some where within cains soul he felt a glitching pain, and perhaps that being the only warning of coming disaster, he shrugged it off and said his daily reminder, "I'm to old for this stuff."
Momnets later the screams from the cathedral and caves adjacent to the town, would be heard across the country side.
As was a custom in Tristram, every soul out and about the small town, would soon die. Farnum had resolved his life crisis with a long and closely fatal does of his chosen poison, yet he knew that he was safe to sleep within his smudged green tunic/garb. Griswold however had heard screams from the direction of the cathedral, with a brute grunt he sized a warriors axe and a helm of the wolf from his small assorted arsenal, based on his past experiences it wasn't to much to expect of him.
Moments before, Cain had decided to stand and walk his slow yet determined stride, up the stairs and into his new room. The second story was of a beastly nature, but had a charm unexpected for such a poor community.
There were medals of various types in a glass case along side the mounting to the stairs, some shiny, as if just recently polished, and some utterly black with soot and dust, like the mouths of phantoms ready to die again. When suddenly he hears someone’s voice from somewhere in the small yard. "Come and taste me blade yee foul beast!" it was surely the voice of Griswold, and judging from his ferocious tone he wasn't just acting out a scene from the battle below Tristram, (as he so often did for travelers passing by).
Although Cain had neglected his spell casting ability since he was a young scholar, he found all the ability that he ever possessed flowing through his ancient being. Seizing his gnarled staff with little effort, and steadying his gaze upon the small chest he had with him, he stepped over it, propped his staff level with the waiting wooden chest, with a light spell the box opened, revealing many old scrolls and many more tattered books. Pushing most aside he grabbed a solitary scroll, read the connotation and then out of the creaking walls of mulch came a stony muscle being, "protect me as you have always done my old friend, we may yet live to see another day." With that Cain ran downstairs and joined the others waiting for something to happen, as if demons roaming the land wasn't anything to sneeze at. A bit shocked by the short yet stone etched face of the golem, the villagers looked at Cain for reasurence."Have no fear, this creature has aided me countless times before and will by all his power do so for us today!"
Pipen awoke from crystallized realities to screams and thuds of breaking barricades. "By god, what is going on?" as he ran to his window he saw the sight he had feared for so long, demons amongst them. With great effort he pushed his healing wards and potions away from the window, ran to his closet, undressed himself from his silly Westmarch style sleeping clothes, then opened a secret compartment in the closet, bring a lantern from the small living area to light the abysmally dark corner. The light shown upon a cleric garment, made no doubt by the kings personal dresser, and a seemingly galvanized dagger. It took him only 2 minutes to outfit himself, and afterwards he opened the secret latch beneath his mattress that led to the tavern of the rising sun.
Griswold was blood thirsty with rage; he hadn't known a better release of anger since his wife died only a year ago. Swinging precise blows to devil kin and undead alike, all of which were streaming from the cathedral, only after a few more waves did Griswold notice forces coming respectively to the church which faces north, from the west, in the direction of the caves and the poor lad Wirt... Wirt, by god he thought, he's all alone. His mind and senses elsewhere he was helpless to stop the enormous sword, held by a champion skeleton, from plummeting into his belly. A cry, a blood flowing swallow, then hatred, and fear rushing again, he swirled and knocked the champion away with the recoil, he had no chance of getting the fine claymore out of him, without bleeding to death, or causing more damage, so he accepted it's being there for the moment. Until he realized the glowing inscriptions upon its grip, he hadn't studied magical imbuing scripture but this particular set of words caught his attention. It was a Fine Claymore of the evilest sort, poison of extreme potency was no doubt spreading to every vestige of his being, soon he would be nothing more then another corpse for Diablo or whoever to bring back and use for evil, disgusted with the idea he fell abruptly inside his workshop entrance. Passing away from consciousness, he's final thought were of only hate and remorse.
Wirt had stuck to his usual routine; the I'm to screw up to care act. He had asked Pipen to give him something for the bad dreams earlier, strictly under oath of secrecy of course, but still with a gracious manor. Walking back to his favorite place of recluse next to the overshadowing tree, of all the days to wake up to why did it always seem like Griswold took up the role of a father figure, Wirt could care less about family stuff, all he wanted was his due, enough many and then some, to get as far away as possible from this hell he knew as Tristram. Other then the occasional sale he made to passers by, he was far off from his goal, he had set it reasonably at 2 million and a half, and was confident that he could get there, sooner then later that is what he hoped. After a quite session of shinning and priming his items, he could of sworn he heard screaming from the town center, "that damned Griswold, isn't it enough that travelers know of Diablo? Why does he have to spook people into buying his armors and weapons? Sighing inwardly at himself, wirt snuggled up against the sturdy tree, the wind was blowing and the leaves of a dirty black fell pleadingly against the careless air.
Out of pure astonishment, Wirt stood back in utter shock, as a goat man of incredible build and obvious evil broke out of the once sealed cave entrance, as was his only option Wirt grabbed his emotion by a thread and waited for what was next. After the goat man came a distorted creature, looking much like a goat in the face but with a much larger dog like body, it's flesh was pale green, with dark patched surrounding his head and shoulders. Moving out of the way the goat man signaled in Wirts direction, out of only one indication it was over for Wirt, the hideous creature, seemed to be sucking in liquid energy into his gapping mouth, a ball of streaming white electricity formed and blasted from its prison, into the helpless mass that was Wirt. Luckily, Wirt believed in actually using his wares, he had a magi cloak of resilience upon his lucky shoulders. That however was of little help, the goat man strode over and tossed Wirt over his furry black shoulder. Running over to the edge of the city, the Goat man grabbed a scimitar from a near by skeletal guardian and stuck it madly into Wirts throat. Wirt was dead and his leg was just as useless now. The skeleton stood weaponless for a moment then seemingly out of spite to his goat companion strode on into the yard, where the other demons and undead were gathering.
The barricade that Cain had instructed to erect was holding but he knew all to well that the things that waited outside had nothing else in the world to do, but kill whoever was inside. As Cain regretted thinking such a foul notion he felt his balance sway, beneath him a board that seemed to be very much apart of the whole floor came loose, and with it came Pipen, potions and salves at the ready." I thought I might pop in for a quick drink." A quick laugh and varied bursts of emotion, the tavern keeper only nodded his head knowingly, as if half expecting such a thing to have happened earlier. "What about Griswold?" A feeling yet far of voice spoke over the demons cry's, "We can only hope he's holding up his own, he's got a whole damn arsenal in that shop of his." said another. "What of Wirt and Farnum?" said Pipen, "Farnum left the rising sun not a few moments ago, he should be at his usual place behind the old weavers store." said the Innkeeper. "And what of the witch? She is way at the back of town, she would of been the first to get it, right?" said another. "I have the utmost confidence in the one you so call a witch, she’s got a better chance then any here, and best you know it." Cain was out of character with those words, but no one was really expecting to hear his usual rhetoric. As his words ended, the door was given a mighty blow, almost completely breaking the door down, a large crack could be seen to the outside, and with it a blaring face of anger. "Dear lord! Griswold what have you become?" Astonished looks spread like wild fire across the room, "reinforce the door lads," screamed the since then silent old man in the corner. As the door was slammed back shut, Griswold’s voice could be heard echoing into the ears of all who were unlucky enough to have some,” Die you retched damnations, die!"
I would expect no reply for a week but two months? this is ridiculous.
I hope revenknight is happy, after all i did for him......
All of the story of two games is pretty dark, but I always thought murdering off Pepin, Gillian, Wirt, etc. (the leg of a crippled little kid is a major relic in the game??) was more than a little disturbing. Makes for a good story though. It's the only part of Diablo's story that has any sort of emotion in it, especially with as much as most of us loved D1 and it's NPCs.
Hmm, sort of off track here, but I really hope D3 has the morbid, disturbing horror that D1 had and D2 definitely doesn't. Stupid Tyreal, he's just annoying and pompous.
Stupid Tyreal, he's just annoying and pompous.
Somehow, I believe Tyreal had motives beyond what was stated in the game, and not all good. But maybe that's just me.
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