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The worldstone being shattered to stop baal's mad plans opens a crack in the void. Just the memory of Diablo was strong enough to find that hole and return to the realm, without corporeal form, pulled back by the whispered tales of those unable to forget. Slowly, as the feel of him in the air lingers, his mindless, formless power grows. He enters alone. Only he has the will such that his very name refuses to vanish. Not a true mind or being. Just the dust of terror. The whispered myth in the wind.
A lost tribe in the hills. They sense him and are afraid. They perform a ritual written long ago, by those long devoured... a mad ceremony to banish. But, it was written eons past for the unspeakable by those who served the Lord of Terror. For a time when he himself was a faint memory. When the unspeakable event of his defeat might occur. Unthinkable. But, only he saw deeply amongst the three.
He bursts forth from their foolish ritual and is quickly the only living thing in the deserted valley. The woods are more than silent. The night tears asunder with a bellow of unspeakable rage.
I want lazarus back! he is the best villian in the diablo franchise! If he is in, he could be the one who once again helped diablo to return to the mortal realm.
The Worldstone shattered at Tyreal's blow. Our only hope to stop Baal's mad plans. It's power was as of the Gods, but even that mysterious structure was imperfect and not intended to be ripped from the hidden seals it was meant to protect. A crack in the void. An imaginary imperfection in the seal buried far below the great keep in a place men cannot imagine. All might have been well but for our inability to conquer fear. Destruction can be repaired. Hatred passes as quickly as friendship. But fear... Fear lives with us like a soft blanket. It drives us forward. And it holds us back. Just the memory of Diablo was strong enough to find that trembling thread in the impenetrable and return to the realm, without corporeal form, pulled back by the whispered tales of those unable to forget. He enters alone. Not a true mind or being. Just the dust of terror. The whispered myth in the wind. Slowly, as the feel of him in the air lingers, his mindless, formless power grows.
Time passes. The years roll on... until.....
An old man walks slowly through the woods without knowing why. He has walked through hill, swamp, and mountain for weeks. His emaciated body is done for this world. His final thought is to remember... his last conscious effort is to push the memory away with his heart pounding and bile in his mouth. He remembers the sense of terror that washed over him as he sat up in his bed, the dream clinging to him like a tangible miasma. He remembers the terror that clamped onto him forever and then sunk into his bones. He remembers the hint of anguish at being forever lost in an empty place. And a terrifying taint of anger. A wrath that poured determination into him so strongly that it was like a physical blow. And a desire for revenge. Until all the world burns. He knows he lives only because of the power of the dream that will not end. And will not forgive.
He reaches the forgotten graveyard in the wreck of a village not even the forest will touch. Rain has barely softened the char on timbers that litter the grounds. The only thing standing is a small sign that hangs over a branch. Blown by the wind or by force he knows and cares not. If he could have read, it would have held just one word for him. Tristram.
Without knowing how, he finds a place in the midst of a collection of what were once markers of the dead. And with his bare hands he digs.... Clink.... He stops and immediately grabs his head at a spike of wrath that he may have damaged the treasure he seeks. His eyes begin to roll into his shrunken sockets but his back stiffens with a strength never intended for his frail, awkward limbs.
With the care of a mother handling a babe, he exhumes the skeletal remains with a light touch. Over hours he lays the body out, not a shard of bone or a finger out of place. His limbs fall to his side. His head lolling to one side. It is almost done. Even fear cannot drive him much longer. He stands. Without a change in expression he stabs his stiffened fingers into his own chest. They retract without a stumble with his own beating heart. With empty eyes, he opens his mouth and words never heard by any mortal race grate into the blackness. And his heart burns. With the last word, his form blackens and crumbles to dust, the heart falling with a thump onto the shattered bones of the unknown. They explode, shattering the night with a flash that is gone to quickly to have been real.
The forest almost seems to hold it's breath.
Without warning the trees bend nearly double, almost whimpering in the wall of wind that carries... something scabrous. With a flash that punctures the very earth, lightning consumes the shallow grave and most of the remaining hints that a town once stood here. With a sound like all the sorrow and suffering since the dawn of days the storm stops and the clouds disperse. A form rises from the ground. Haltingly. Then with increasing smoothness. It's head is down. It stands thus for many minutes. With inhuman speed the figure leaps to the top of the crumbling, stone wall and screams with a voice like knives being dragged over granite coated in tears. The howl goes on for what seems an age. Horrible beyond words. The woods seem to wilt.
At last it ends. And Lysandus the betrayed stands tall in the shadows of the town that once claimed him and nearly all the world. But, he remembers nothing of such things. All he knows is that his master is gone. He seems to listen. Motionless. His eyes come alight with the fires of hell. He strides purposely into the night. He stops once, at the wreckage of a cathedral. The voice of hopelessness rends the night.
I don't know why, but I just hated my post, so I changed it. Feel free to ignore it.
The Worldstone shattered at Tyreal's titanic blow. Our only hope to stop the demon Baal's mad plans. It's power was as of the Gods, but even that mysterious structure was imperfect and not intended to be ripped from the hidden seals it was meant to protect. A crack forms in the void. An imaginary imperfection in the seal buried far below the remains of the great keep in a place men cannot imagine. All might have been well but for our inability to conquer fear. Destruction can be repaired. Hatred passes as quickly as friendship. But fear... Fear lives with us like a soft blanket we clutch to ourselves in the darkness. It drives us forward, while it enslaves us. Just the memory of Diablo was strong enough to find that trembling thread in the impenetrable and return to the realm, without corporeal form, pulled back by the whispered tales of those unable to forget. He enters alone. Not a true mind or being. Just the dust of terror. The whispered myth in the shadows. Slowly, as the feel of him in the air lingers, his mindless, formless power grows.
Time passes. The years roll on... until.....
An old man walks slowly through the woods without knowing why. He has walked through hill, swamp, and mountain for weeks. His emaciated body is done for this world. His final thought is to try to remember how he came to be here. His last conscious effort is to push the memory away with his heart pounding and bile in his mouth. He remembers the sense of terror that washed over him as he sat up in his bed, the dream clinging to him like a tangible miasma. He remembers the terror that clamped onto him forever and then sank into his bones. He remembers the hint of anguish at being forever lost in an empty place, and a terrifying taint of anger. A wrath that poured determination into him so strongly that it was like a physical blow. And he remembers a desire for revenge until all the world burns. He knows he lives only because of the power of the dream that will not end, and will not forgive.
He comes to a forgotten graveyard in a wreck of a village not even the forest will touch. Rain has barely softened the char on timbers that litter the grounds. The only thing standing is a small sign that hangs over a branch. Blown by the wind or by force he knows and cares not. If he could have read, it would have held just one word for him. Tristram. Without knowing how, he finds a place in the midst of a collection of what were once markers of the dead. And with his bare hands he digs.... Clink.... He stops and immediately grabs his head at a spike of wrath that he may have damaged the treasure he seeks. His eyes begin to roll into his shrunken sockets but his back stiffens with a strength never intended for his frail, awkward limbs.
With the care of a mother handling a babe, he exhumes the skeletal remains with a light touch. Over hours he lays the body out, not a shard of bone or a finger out of place. His limbs hang limply. His head lolls to one side and never moves again. It is almost done. Even fear cannot drive him much longer. He stands. Without a change in expression he stabs his stiffened fingers into his own chest. With an inhuman strength and indifference his hands pull forth his own heart, sending gore arcing into the night. With empty eyes, he opens his mouth and words never heard by any mortal race grate into the blackness. His heart begins to burn with black fire. As the last word rasps over his lifeless tongue, his form blackens and crumbles to dust, the heart falling with the sounds of doom onto the shattered bones of the unknown. They explode, shattering the night with a flash that is gone too quickly to have been real.
The forest almost seems to hold it's breath.
Without warning the trees bend nearly double, almost whimpering in the wall of wind that carries something scabrous. With a flash that punctures the very earth, lightning consumes the shallow grave and most of the remaining hints that a town once stood here. With a sound like all the sorrow and suffering since the dawn of days the storm stops and the clouds disperse. A gigantic skeletal form rises haltingly from the ground, first like a puppet, then with increasing smoothness. It's head is down. It stands thus for many minutes. With inhuman speed the figure leaps to the top of the crumbling, stone wall and screams with a voice like knives being dragged over granite coated in tears. The howl goes on for what seems an age. Horrible beyond words. The woods seem to wilt.
At last it ends as Lysandus appears to freeze in uncertainty. He heavy skull moves back and forth as if posessed. His great hands convulse turning the stones of the wall to pebbles. Then Lysandus the betrayed stands tall in the shadows of the town that once claimed him and nearly all the world. But, he remembers nothing of such things now. All he knows is that his master is gone. He seems to listen. Motionless. His eyes come alight with the fires of hell. He strides purposely into the night. He stops once, at the wreckage of a cathedral. The voice of hopelessness rends the night.
Zarniwoop
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