This is my first fan fiction and it is meant to be a backstory for the male Wizard in D3. I'm not a huge lore junkie, but this story uses a lot of it, so hopefully I got it mostly right (I think I did). There's also a lot of made up/extrapolated lore from after the events of D2 and what we know of D3. Here's a map for reference if you'd like: http://www.diablowiki.com/images/6/62/Sanctuary_map.png
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy it! Feel free to post any comments after you've read it, I'll appreciate them.
Redemption of the Vizjerei
I smeared the froth that had crawled down my stein and crept around the base, leaving a ring in its absence, as I pondered his question. But I had questions of my own. Who was this man? Why had he traveled so far from his home – and his destination – to seek me out? How had he known I was here? Was he familiar with what I had done; with the circumstances of my exile to this lonesome place? My pensive state was interrupted by the return of my stein, slammed heedlessly onto the table by the barmaid. Mead sloshed across the lip and began lazily meandering toward the old man sitting opposite me. He raised an unconcerned hand, halting the liquid’s movement entirely. His grey eyes penetrated me, searching for an answer.
He had come here from Caldeum, traversing the rivers that flowed south past the once-great cities of Kurast and Viz-jun. This frail old man had braved some of the most dangerous jungles in all of Sanctuary, completely alone, to travel to this unremarkable borough – unfit even to be called a village – for one solitary reason: me.
It was here, this tiny landing on the shores of the Sea of Light, that I had called home for nearly 18 years. In another life, I had been a student of the Vizjerei; a mage in training. I lived in the small town of Lut Armahn in the southern reaches of the mighty Aranoch desert. I was young then – a teenager – and reckless. My tutors often struggled against my capricious nature, but none of them ever foresaw the tragedy my carelessness would bring. I couldn’t live with the memories, with the guilt, so I crossed the Twin Seas and eventually brought myself here to live in self-imposed exile. I abandoned my learnings and became a drunk.
“Well?” inquired the old man, whose deep, dark voice belied his careworn body. The Sea, eerily bright as it always was, reflected in his eyes, turning them into pale pools of shimmering light. One parched finger gently caressed his sparse, white beard as the corners of his mouth moved, almost imperceptibly, into an inquisitive smile.
My eyes shifted to my mug: empty again. “I can’t,” I finally muttered, not even bothering to lift my gaze. My voice was hoarse from unuse. “I can never return.”
He lowered his hand from his face and ran it tenderly across the scarred and pitted surface of the old table. “This could be your chance for redemption, son. For setting right the ill deeds you have committed.” So he did know. But how? I slowly lifted my head and peered once more into those reflective pools of light. My lips parted to speak, but again he raised his faintly trembling hand and I was struck dumb. “I have learned of your transgressions against your people, though none remained to tell of them.” His voice remained calm, but became increasingly rough as he spoke. “There is more to your fate than even you know. This journey – if you like to think of it as such – is not one of adventure. Rather, it is one of erudition and deliverance. Your personal salvation, as well as that of the entire mortal realm of Sanctuary, rests in your hands.”
I laid my hands out on the table, palm up, and, finding my voice once more, spoke, “my hands are empty, old man.”
He drew a deep breath and scratched his head as he arduously emptied his lungs again. “It has been nearly twenty years that Sanctuary has enjoyed a tentative peace following the destruction of the Three. However, the forces of the Burning Hells have not lain dormant all this time. A civil war has been raging since the exile of the Three to the mortal plane. Only two of the Great Evils remained behind; Belial, the Lord of Lies and Azmodan, the Lord of Sin, who have been vying for control of the forces of Hell ever since. However, this war has reached an end at last and, as with the Dark Exile of the Three, the defeated has been banished to the mortal realm. The forces of the Burning Hells are upon us once again.”
His final words resonated somewhere in the back of my mind. Images flitted in front of my eyes. The demons ran rampant through the streets of Lut Armahn. Vile imps rent the flesh of the townsfolk with malevolent glee while great demons, blacker than the darkest night, hellfire scorching their veins, ripped villagers limb from limb and set homes ablaze with a mere touch of their scaly hands. The images faded as quickly as they had come, and I imagined I saw a derisive smirk disappear hurriedly from the old man’s face, as though he had been enjoying watching me relive my torment. I remained unwilling, but I knew I could no longer deny his request. “I will go,” I conceded.
He rose slowly from his seat at the table and turned towards the door. “Pack your belongings, then,” he said in a dry, vapid voice. “We set out in the morning.” Without even a backward glance, he walked through the door and was gone.
A loud knock on my door roused me from my uneasy slumber. The night was still dark; the soft, persistent glow of the Sea the only source of illumination. I stumbled from my dilapidated cot and slowly crossed the room to the door. I was greeted by the old man, wearing a keen smile. “The time has come, the journey begins!” he chortled sarcastically, if not mockingly. I did not respond, but simply grabbed my bag, sitting next to the door, and slung it over my shoulder. My possessions were few and worthless; the rickety shack I called my home was left all but barren as the door shut behind me.
We struck out northwest, and the old man began to relate our destination. “We shall reach the southern shores of Lake Mendalar before nightfall tomorrow.” This seemed to me a lofty goal; the great Lake, the largest in the sprawling kingdom of Kehjistan, was sixty miles distant at minimum, and we traveled by foot. As we walked through the morning hours in silence, I pondered this seemingly impossible feat, and, as the jungles thickened around us, my decision to come on this journey became laced more and more with doubt. My companion filled me with a sense of mounting unease. Despite his age and frail nature, he moved with uncanny swiftness. He carried with him no belongings and he wore only a grey-blue woolen robe, tattered and stained from countless years of use. He seemed to radiate an aura of calm; our surroundings were curiously tranquil, though I seemed not to reap the same benefit. The winds whipped wildly through the trees overhead and grasses in the distance swayed furiously. However, no nearby plant dared bend its stalk as we passed. Neither rat, nor snake, nor spider scurried through the underbrush.
The afternoon had turned to dusk when we emerged into the clearing carved by the great Lake Mendalar. Were we here already? The last two days seemed almost lost to me; following the old man in a dream state, my conscious thoughts must have slipped away. We had traveled here with incredible speed by any standard. The old man expertly crafted a fire as we set up camp on the lake’s shores. “Tomorrow,” he spoke, “we travel across the lake and north up the river. The journey to Kurast will take several days. From there, we book passage across the Twin Seas, to your homeland of Aranoch, and on to the last leg of our journey.”
The moon had replaced the sun high in the Heavens, shining its pale light down upon the glassy waters of the lake. A strange purple glow emanated from somewhere within the depths of the lake, coloring the water a deep, muted lilac. The air was cool, the jungle quiet, and the gentle glow of the lake soothed me entirely. Despite our rapid and distant journey to this place, I felt no sense of exhaustion. Rather, my body felt invigorated. The old man snored softly to my right, and the lull of waves lapping the shore quickly sent me to my dreams as well.
I awoke with a start. Something was wrong. The comforting glow of the lake had been extinguished, and the waters lay dark and listless before me. Clouds had overtaken the sky, blocking out the moon’s gentle light. The fire had burnt down to faintly glowing embers. A soft but chilling wind swirled the air about me, and I realized that the old man had abandoned his post at my side. My body was damp with sweat and dew. Darkness enveloped me. My head darted around frantically, but I could see nothing but the fire’s embers and my own trembling body. A grunt, like that of a horse, pierced the silence. I swiveled my body around to face it, but still I could see nothing. Slowly, pale orange shapes, like runic inscriptions, began to dance out of the darkness. I backed away toward the lake until its black waters bathed my heels. The shapes crawled toward me through the air, their glow gradually intensifying. By chance, the faint light of the embers caught hold of an enormous black body. The beast’s eyes flared open, blood red and full of malice. Its massive teeth gleamed unnaturally in the darkness. The pale orange shapes I had seen dancing through the air were actually a part of its body – scars, perhaps, or demonic script. They drew suddenly closer to one another as the beast prepared to lunge. A brilliant light stunned me; I recoiled and fell backwards into the lake. An aberrant, guttural howl shook the forest. Clearing the water from my eyes, I saw the old man standing on the beach, one hand raised defiantly to the beast. The creature’s skin boiled and writhed. A plume of flame erupted from my companion, striking the beast in the chest. Again, it let loose a howl that chilled my spine. It quickly turned and retreated into the jungle, its screams of anguish growing fainter as it fled. The old man returned to the campfire, reigniting it with ease. I pulled myself from the waters of the lake and returned to the shore. I searched the old man’s face for an explanation. “Sleep” was all he said.
The next morning dawned clear and bright. A small canoe rested on the shore of the lake, where one had not existed the night before. The old man had cooked – or, as he later informed me, conjured – breakfast. The food was flavorless, but nourishing. I pried at him for an explanation of the events of the night, but he refused to speak of them. No evidence remained of the encounter, not even a footprint of the beast in the sand. We broke camp quickly and set out onto the lake in the canoe. The waters were calm and peaceful, and their faint, soothing glow had returned once again. We paddled north, gliding smoothly and swiftly across the water towards the mouth of the river that would lead us to Kurast.
We spent four days on the river, which passed without incident. During our time traversing the capacious waterway, I had an opportunity to inquire more fully as to my companion’s ambition for our journey. “I seek knowledge,” he said simply. “In the accursed town of Tristram lies a Horadric monastery of some renown.” He smiled faintly. Of course I had heard of the horrific fate of that town, though I had still been a child at the time. “Since its corruption and abandonment,” he continued, “most of the Horadric heirlooms and treasures have been looted by unscrupulous, greedy adventurers. My journey rests on the hope that some of the texts that were penned by the Horadrim still exist there. The fate of Sanctuary – and even of the High Heavens and Burning Hells themselves – may lie in those tomes.” Despite my insistence, he would spare me no further detail.
On our fifth day on the river, we finally drifted into the blackened city of Kurast. Even after twenty years, the taint of Mephisto’s hateful influence still pervaded this place. As we floated up the river, my eyes drifted amongst the crumbling ruins; charred remains of once-magnificent temples, overgrown markets, destroyed homes. Strange creatures peered at us from the banks of the river, evidently unfazed and unalarmed by our presence. Buzzards and vultures circled overhead, eagerly awaiting their next meal. By dusk, we had come to a large tributary and turned west toward the docks, still protected by a magical barrier that the inhabitants refused to abandon. We continued up the river as night fell. The ground was mired in a thick bank of fog. Willowisps of various fanciful colors danced amongst the reeds on the river’s edge and floated off into the night. Eventually, lanterns came into view, looming eerily in the distance. We came quickly upon them, and stepped once more onto solid land. I quickly retired to the inn for a drink and some sleep while my companion arranged our passage west across the Twin Seas.
The next ship crossing the Seas wouldn’t be departing for a week, so my companion and I were faced with a short stay in Kurast. I passed my time much like I had back home. I spent the days and nights in the tavern drinking and conversing with the locals. Many of the fables I had heard since landing in the south turned out to be true. I was regaled with stories of a Dark Wanderer and the valiant hero who pursued him. Supposedly, this hero was the one responsible for subduing Mephisto and releasing his tarnishing grasp on the city. Although I could not explain why, the mention of this mysterious Wanderer piqued my curiosity. Unfortunately, none of the townsfolk seemed to know anything about him.
I had not caught a single glimpse of the old man since we docked, and as our departure loomed, I began to worry. I paced the docks anxiously as passengers and cargo were boarded for the crossing. Although the thought of returning to Aranoch after all these years filled me with trepidation, I felt a strange sense of duty – as the old man hinted I might – which made me yearn for the sands of my past. The sailors were preparing to pull in the plank and raise the anchor when the old man finally appeared, slowly hobbling across the rickety docks. He looked even older than he had before, and an air of dread hung about his shoulders. We boarded the ship hastily and were soon setting out up the river to the Seas. The journey would take us southwest, through the narrow strait that separated the Seas and the deserts of Aranoch from the Torajan jungles. From there we would travel to the small bay on the southern edge of the desert known as The Devil’s Thumb.
Aboard the ship, I inquired with my companion about his dreary shift of mood during our stay in Kurast. He seemed reluctant to speak of his troubles, but after several days, he finally elected to address them. “As I told you before we left,” he began, “one of the remaining Great Evils has been banished to our world following his defeat in the war for command over the Burning Hells. The Lord of Lies, Belial, has taken up residence in the eastern deserts of Kehjistan, near my home of Caldeum. This I knew.” Sitting in his small bed, he stared anxiously at the floor of our tiny compartment. “It seems now, however, that his corruptive influence has spread to the populace with alacrity and vehemence. Cults have sprung up to his worship and the city itself has been infested. I worry for the safety of my home and family.” After several minutes of silence, I decided to ask him what he knew of the Dark Wanderer I had heard of in Kurast. As soon as I mentioned this name, the complexion of his face drastically altered. He did not move, even lift his head, but his features seemed to darken and a wry smile crept across his face. He did not speak.
The ship docked late the next night at a small coastal town on The Devil’s Thumb that I did not know the name of. Late as it was, we were permitted to remain on the ship for the night. In the morning, the old man and I gathered our sparse belongings and vacated the ship. We did not tarry in the town, but quickly set out west across the desert. My companion’s mood had shifted once more. Though his cares were still clearly heavy on his mind, he seemed more energetic and spry now that we were back to traveling on our feet. He informed me that my home, Lut Armahn, was a three-day journey due west. The travel was difficult; much more so than any we had done before. The sand, the intense desert wind, and the scorching Aranoch sun all served to sap our energy. Still, we pressed on with the same fervor that had carried us through the jungles of the south so swiftly. As we closed the distance to my one-time home, I felt a change within myself. My sense of foreboding consumed me. My mind commanded my body to turn and run, to spare myself, but my legs continued to push forward.
We trudged through the sand on the third day of our expedition. The old man ensured me that we would be reaching Lut Armahn shortly. The pounding in my head emphasized his point. The wind blasted us; every grain of sand was a tiny needle driven into our skin. The sand around us billowed and heaved. The ground shook. Without warning, an explosion of sand in front of me sent my companion flying through the air. He landed several yards away, sprawled in the sand. A deep rumble broke the monotony of howling wind as a large, worm-like creature was retched from the ground. It leered towards me, and began hurtling its massive body towards the ground where I stood. As the monstrosity came careening down, the razor teeth that circled its mouth shone violently in the sun. I dove quickly aside and landed in the sand. My breath was knocked from me a moment later as the impact of the creature sent a shockwave through the ground and sand was sprayed high into the air like a fountain. It whirled around towards me, now fully free from the ground, and started slithering in my direction with alarming speed. Its gaping maw revealed rows upon rows of teeth reaching deep into its writhing gut. I couldn’t breathe; running would be futile. I lifted my hands to cover my face as the creature bore down upon me. An immense clap of thunder deafened me, and an intense flash of light washed my vision. Moments later, I had recovered, terrified and confused. The beast rested motionless, merely feet from where I sat. The stench of burnt flesh and electricity fouled the air. I looked around; the old man was still hunched in the distance, just finally beginning to struggle to his feet. The sky was clear and blue. My entire body tingled. I turned to the side and threw up. It had been many years since I had felt this way.
I lay back in the sand, physically and spiritually exhausted. The desert sun beat down on my body, but I felt chilled. I closed my eyes. I did not sleep, but as I lay in the sand, I could feel the sun moving slowly across the sky. It must have been an hour, maybe two, before I was able to summon the strength to sit up again. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see the old man sitting a few feet in front of me, waiting patiently. “Are you ready to continue?” he asked. There was no sign of tension, impatience, or urgency in his voice. I gingerly raised myself to my feet, stumbling as the blood rushed from my head. The old man hoisted himself effortlessly from the sand and began walking once more. I drank long from the water in my canteen before following.
We walked for several more hours as the winds once again began whipping furiously about us. The blowing sand dampened the sun and made it difficult to see more than a few yards. I followed the faint shadow of my companion as he unerringly led us toward Lut Armahn. As the darkened sun dropped toward the horizon, a large shadow loomed in the distance. My mind reeled and throbbed. The intensity grew stronger as we approached the shadow, until it felt like a massive storm was raging inside my head. The old man stopped as we came to the source of the shadow: the walls of Lut Armahn. The walls had decayed since I was last here, the wind and sand and the dryness of the desert slowly stripping them. We climbed over piles of rubble and across the wall. The sand inside the town was black, and the air, though raging outside the walls, lay still and musty within. The town was abandoned – I had been the only survivor – but curiously, there seemed to be no sign of any use at all. Not even a rat scampered through the black streets. My mind was free and clear now that we were inside the walls; the storm that had raged within seemed to have been left outside the walls with the whipping winds. My companion negotiated the streets as if he had been here a thousand times, and we soon stood before the main gates of the town, facing north.
My mind went dark as I fell to the ground, grasping at the sides of my head. My ears rang so fiercely I was certain I had gone deaf. I opened my eyes and found myself sitting at a small, round, wooden table in a strange cellar. Candles flickered softly all around me. A tiny patch of blue sky was visible through a small hole where the wall met the ceiling. I recognized this place. A large book lay before me on the table. Its dark brown cover was blank, and it had an ominous feel about it. I knew this book was evil, but I instinctively reached for it and flipped it open. The illustrations on the worn pages perfectly matched my surroundings. Strange characters littered the pages. A voice in my head began reading the arcane incantations aloud. It was familiar; my voice, though younger. My body began to tingle and buzz once more, as it had hours earlier in the desert. My hands rose from the book, against my will, and began writing in the air. Strange shapes, like the characters on the pages, appeared in front of me, suspended in space. Their colors fluctuated; blue at first, but slowly turning to a dark, putrid red. Almost instantly, the patch of blue sky above me was covered with sinister black clouds. Excitement and fear pulsed through me.
I had been a student of the Vizjerei since my childhood. My instructors lauded my natural proclivity for the magical arts. Many said I showed a potential that they had never seen the equal of. As the years passed and I entered adolescence, my magical gifts continued to develop at an impressive rate. However, I also became rebellious and reckless. My tutors encouraged this to a degree; they said if I could utilize this power correctly, safely, then my mind could become a fearsome weapon. I began researching the dark history of my order. I became especially interested in the forbidden powers of summoning that some of the most famous and powerful Vizjerei had employed. I believed that, unlike them, I could harness this power to my will; that I would be able to resist the corruption that had ultimately been their undoing.
The Heavens above me burned as ash fell softly to the ground like blackened snow. Smoke billowed from burning homes all around me. Depraved creatures – demons – cackled maniacally as they razed the village. None seemed concerned by, or even aware of, my presence. The frantic screams of the townsfolk had ceased; none remained to draw breath within these walls. Tears trailed through the soot on my cheeks. My foolishness, my carelessness, my arrogance had brought destruction upon my home, my family, and my world. I turned and fled.
The violent ringing in my ears faded. I breathed fast and heavy into the sand beneath me. My entire body shook, and a frigid sweat soaked through my clothes. My head swam and quivered with the tingling buzz that had taken hold once again. I lifted myself to one knee, and then painstakingly rose up on my rubbery legs. The old man stood in front of me, rigid and motionless as carved stone. His grey face showed no expression, but his ghostly eyes had again turned into those sparkling pools I had once mistaken for reflections of the Sea. I stared deep into them, and saw a peculiar shape.
A man strode across the desert sands with furious purpose. He wore a long, tanned robe that obscured the whole of his body. The hood was drawn, and his face was masked in darkness. This man seemed to radiate an aura of evil, of terror. A ratty little man crawled through the sands behind him, keeping a careful distance, but never losing sight. In the distance behind them, a shadow loomed, darkening the ground as it passed. A small town stood out from the sand. It seemed to sparkle magnificently in the sun, as if it somehow knew that the shadow would soon be upon it. Screams filled my mind as the darkness enveloped Lut Armahn.
As the images faded from my mind, I noticed that the old man had turned and begun walking away from me, towards the gate of the town. He passed under the timeworn arch and turned west. As he disappeared behind the walls, an unknown force compelled me to follow him. I did not understand this compulsion, but I had no desire to fight it. I moved quickly to the archway and bid farewell to Lut Armahn once more.
We continued west for several days, neither of us speaking a word, until the monotonous sands of Aranoch slowly gave way to the rolling southern foothills of the Tamoe Mountains. The gentle buzz in my head had remained with me since we left the ruins of my home. Darkness fell slowly here, west of the mountains, and painted the sparse forest brilliant shades of red and orange. We settled down beneath a grove of trees and my companion raised a small fire. He sat on the ground and leaned against the trunk of a tree, and then broke the days-long silence that had existed between us. “Tristram lies northwest of us now. We must seek the knowledge that, with any luck, still lies beneath the monastery there.” I asked him again what he hoped to find, but he changed the subject, cryptically telling me, “You must now seize your fate.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired, puzzled.
“The Dark Wanderer you saw – indeed, the same one you heard of in Kurast – was not human. This man’s soul fought a losing battle against the Lord of Terror, Diablo himself. The Wanderer you saw was, in fact, an ancient evil. Your dabbling in forbidden arts was foolish, yes. But the demons that destroyed your life were not of your creation. They ravaged the lands in the wake of the Dark Wanderer. You were never fated to abandon your training; to walk away from your true cause. This realization is why I sought you as my companion on this journey.”
My head swam and the buzzing intensified terribly. Long-abandoned memories seemed to flood in, and my mind throbbed. I do not remember falling asleep, but my next memory was of the old man standing above me. It was morning, and he spoke, “Time is short. We must make haste to Tristram.” We traveled swiftly once again, and as we walked, the old man did his best to re-teach much of what I had once learned. My mind often faltered, but I felt my power returning to me so quickly that it seemed like it had never faded. We were eating by the fire following several days of his traveling tutelage. The old man had informed me that Tristram was now only a day’s journey distant; that we would reach it the following evening.
“The Horadrim,” he said, unprovoked, “was an ancient order of magi. When the Prime Evils were first banished to Sanctuary, the High Heavens themselves bestowed the knowledge of magical Soulstones upon the Horadrim. These Soulstones would allow the mages to imprison the souls of the Three, so that they may not take physical form in our world. Unfortunately, the Three had been given knowledge of the Soulstones, and how to corrupt them, from the Angel Izual. He informed them of their ability to tap into the Worldstone, from which the Soulstones were crafted, and use its power to overcome their imprisonment.” He paused and sighed as a darkness overcame him. “Following the destruction of the Three, the Archangel Tyrael determined that their corruptive influence had contaminated the Worldstone, and that it must be destroyed. The explosion of Mount Arreat, where the Worldstone was contained, scattered splinters of the Worldstone across Sanctuary.” As he said this, he pulled a small, translucent gem from the folds of his robe. “I have obtained such a splinter, and now endeavor to forge it into a Soulstone. I have come here seeking knowledge of how to do so. It is my hope that, with the destruction of the Worldstone, the beings imprisoned within them would be unable to find the power to corrupt the Soulstone and overcome their banishment. I must hope that the Tome the Horadrim penned on the creation of the Soulstones still exists beneath the monastery. If I am successful, I must rely on you, great Wizard, to put it to use against the evil of Belial. This may be Sanctuary’s only hope.” This speech seemed to sap away his spirit, and he refused to talk any more. He fell quickly into a fitful sleep.
The next morning we rose, broke camp, and continued our journey towards Tristram. The day was bleak; grey clouds covered the sky and a thin, wispy mist lay across the moors as we traveled. The old man still refused to speak, and we walked throughout the day in silence once more.
Night had fallen by the time crude tents and lean-tos appeared through the mist. “New Tristram,” the old man informed me. I learned that this derelict town had been built to capitalize on the folklore surrounding Tristram, but that once the monastery had been looted bare, it had fallen into disuse and was abandoned. We continued on and, before long, stood on the banks of a small creek. Across the creek lay several foundations of buildings that had been burnt to the ground. Further removed, the Horadric monastery sat ominously above the destroyed town. “Stay here,” the old man ordered. I did not attempt to disobey. Though it was night, the town seemed steeped in shadow. My companion disappeared over the creek and chills shot down my spine and flitted across my skin. I stood unmoving on the bank of the creek, an uneasy sentinel. Mere minutes passed that seemed like an eternity. Finally, the silhouette of the old man appeared framed against the great façade of the monastery. An eerie, blood-red glow permeated the building and spilled out onto the ground outside the massive archway. The old man appeared hunched over as he entered, as though the place itself weighed heavily upon his body. His form vanished into the cursed structure.
I shook violently as I stood at the edge of the haunted town, now utterly alone. The calm and silence seemed to absorb everything. Not even the creek at my feet babbled as it flowed slowly through the grass and reeds. The clouds that had covered the sky earlier in the day had cleared, though no moon or stars shone in the night sky. There was no sign of any other soul, but I felt the piercing glare of thousands of eyes tearing into me. A dead tree swayed silently, though there was no wind.
As I peered into the darkened sky, it suddenly illuminated. Fantastical shades of red, orange, gold, purple, and white set the night aflame. I was awestruck; I could not move, but I no longer felt any fear. As I reveled in the extraordinary radiance of the sky, an immense cacophony struck, so terrifying and thunderous that it must have shook the High Heavens themselves. My sense of awe was stolen from me, replaced by an immediate and inconsolable fear. I fell to my bottom and started frantically scurrying backwards, away from the town. As I did, an immensity of fire fell from the sky above me. I watched it streak across the Heavens, igniting them into a grotesque blaze. The anomaly crashed to the ground, obliterating the monastery before my eyes and brutally quaking the earth. I was shaken to the ground once more as a surge of force crashed into me like an unholy wave. My thoughts were erased, my mind turned black, and I felt no more…
I can't recall the time period of this particular fanfic, but you'll notice on the official site everyone's either forgotten about what happened in Diablo II, refuses to believe it, or regards it as a myth.
Lake Mendalar, Lut Armahn.... - I've never heard about these. Is it your ourn fiction?
Yup. I was actually going to put an Easter Egg in by naming the lake Carvomot (or something...after the prolific spam bot) but I couldn't remember the spelling
Quote from "Archantyrael" »
Lake Mendalar is a blue spot on the Marshland in the map, isn't it?
Quote from "Archantyrael" »
And where are your male wizzard from?
Quote from "Kickin_It" »
I lived in the small town of Lut Armahn in the southern reaches of the mighty Aranoch desert.
Quote from "Seth" »
I can't recall the time period of this particular fanfic, but you'll notice on the official site everyone's either forgotten about what happened in Diablo II, refuses to believe it, or regards it as a myth.
I was actually banking on the isolation and removed nature of the place where the story begins to have prevented such gossip from fully reaching him (though he does mention that he had heard myths of the Dark Wanderer, etc.) but that explanation works too.
Quote from "ScyberDragon" »
It appears to be right at the beginning of Diablo 3 with the meteor crashing through the church.