Marius de Vittoiré's Story

The last of the wagons had arrived last night during the rain. It blew in from the east and fell just before the sun rose over Tristram. The travelers had all been given room and board at The Inn, and Deckard Cain was expecting to brief them first thing in the morning. It is just after sunrise, and already Tristram is alive with merchants beckoning, farmers plowing, and roosters singing to the sun.

During their slumber, the travelers had all experienced a most unusual dream. They had been walking, transfixed, down a corridor lined with melting candles. In spite of their desire to look left or right, or to stop going, their bodies worked against them until one by one, the candles faded out. The floor beneath them began to crumble and give way to a fiery Hell. Even in the dream world, the hot breath of the hellfire could be felt on their skin, melting away their armor and weapons until they stood, naked, before Diablo. He towered above them, his red flesh brilliant in the light, his eyes giving off a glow more vibrant than the fire itself. His long, spiked tail whipped behind him, and he clutched the traveler in his claws.

SOON, NEPHALEM, YOU WILL KNOW TRUE SUFFERING. THE WORLD WILL BURN TO ASHES, AND ITS PEOPLE WILL FORSAKE YOU. EVERYTHING YOU ARE, EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE, WILL COME TO RUIN.

Diablo's jaws unhinged, and from his mouth poured a dark smoke with burning embers. With a final squeeze - one that left the travelers gasping even in their sleep - he thrust them into his mouth.

This is where our travelers, our heroes, begin their search for The Artifacts.

Marius awoke in a heavy sweat, breathing hard as his eyes tried to focus in the darkness of his room. It must have been just after midnight. The crickets sung and a few desperate tavern souls still jibber-jabbered over sour drinks and stale alcohol downstairs. He was lucky enough to get a room with a window overlooking the path that lead to the Monastery, a juxtaposed fixture of a hellish nightmare contained inside what was supposed to be solitude -- peace. It wasn't that he feared what lay in the shadows of the catacombs, no, he's seen enough death and suffering to grow a sort of numb sense to tragic loss. What intrigued him the most was how fate somehow managed to bring him back to his roots: Tristram.

What merciful deities existed must have turned a blind eye to the poor town, a town that has seen more than enough of its share of bloody memories. Fortunately Marius was not present when the Dark Wanderer had ventured off, leaving in his wake a terror of demons to maim what was left of the small community. Marius knew many of the people here, and to return to all of them having passed in such an unsettling did not conjure easy feelings whatsoever. The moment he saw an opportunity to return to his home town Marius jumped at such. Fate cast the bait and he took.

To say that his motives were based solely on the needs of Deckard Cain would be to speak a blatant lie. He had a personal engagement indeed: to find his son. Anthony never built a personal connection with his father like most sons do. Perhaps it was because of how busy Marius was during his stretch in the Zakarum church but truth be told Marius could have listed a hundred reasons. The old Paladin was never there when his boy needed him and this is the consequence. It was as simple as that. All Marius knew was that his son was on the warpath with a few others in his mercenary outfit. They must have seen conquering the depths of Tristram's Monastery as a road to fortune and fame. Marius could only hope that his son did not find a tomb instead.

The nightmare he had unsettled him, and there was something about staring at the ceiling in a dark room that triggered even more impulses of fear. Nonetheless Marius was not scared. He was weary, tired, worn and aged but he was not scared. The new men on the first shield line were scared, or the Paladin neophytes slaying their first true demon -- they were scared. Marius had grown accustomed to the feeling. There was only so much an individual can control, the rest was up to fate. The sooner someone accepted that the sooner they could realize there were things worse than fear.

In the morning Marius awoke, donning his armor and red beret before walking downstairs. His shield was strapped to his back, and he held his sheathed sword in hand while he made his way to. Marius ensured he was the first one to awake, and he'd imagine the others would be coming down soon as well. This would be the first good look he would get of his companions before wandering into the depths. Marius grabbed some breakfast: stale eggs, stale bread, stale ale and stale sausages before taking a seat in one of the more central tables. Marius figured he'd at least have a bite to eat with his companions before marching into hell with them. Marius was a man of unusual authorative presence, so his being there would be noticeable in itself, an unusual contrast against the common decor of the inn.

As her body had been thrown into Diablo's jowls in the dreamscape, she had broken into a sweat and her heart beat accelerated until the unconscious clutching at her chest had roused her. Her eyes opened. Having fully anticipated waking to see Diablo's guts, or some other unspeakable terror of Hell, she allowed herself the sigh of relief when she realized (remembered, even) that she was in Tristram's single Inn. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, letting the cool hardwood floors snap her out of drowsiness. She brought a shaky hand to her forehead first, then smeared the sweat from her brow and the tears from the creases of her eyes.

Just for breakfast and Deckard Cain's briefing, Oriana would not pile on the armor that lay scattered across the floor of her room. No one ever accused her of being organized. Bron, the bar and inn keeper, had afforded her a mirror, perhaps mistaking her for the type of woman whose priorities lie in her appearances. In fact, she'd chanced a glimpse in the mirror at her haggard expression and the reddish brown hair that clung to her neck and face. Oriana was not a husband-seeker; she was a demon hunter.

She stopped just short of her door, her hand hovering above the knob, when she heard footsteps pounding down the hallway and the stairs. Probably one of the other tenants, or possibly one of the travelers she'd seen stepping off the wagons from last night. When the footsteps indicated the tenant was downstairs, she slipped out of the door and descended to the main level. She saw the man with the red beret at the table, but took her seat at the bar.

"Mornin', Bron," she said, offering him the faintest of smiles. "Haven't got any hot tea, have you?"

Bron laughed heartily and shook his head. "No, milady. I'm afraid all we've got in the way of drinks are ales, beers, and rum. Have any of those, will ya?" His grin was broad and goofy.

Oriana laughed as well. "No. No, I'm afraid I won't." She looked over her shoulder at the red beret again. "I'll have whatever he's havin'." Then she leaned in close. "Do you know him? He seems terribly mysterious."

Bron leaned in on an elbow, his free hand tossing a towel over his shoulder. "His name's Marius. Not much of a talker, but I reckon a pretty lass like yourself could cozy on up to him no problem." Bron stood up straight, waggled his eyebrows at her, then disappeared into the back room after handing Oriana her plate.

She smirked, picking at the food with her fork, resigning to leave it be. No, she was too curious. She spun on the bar stool with her plate, set it straight down at Marius' table, yanked out the chair in front of him, and sat down. She smoothed the sleeveless tunic she wore, adjusting the belt that rested over her belly button. For now, she'd let the man (who she could now see was much older than she) stew. Oriana began eating her breakfast, waiting for a reaction.

Barely a quarter way into his meal, Marius couldn't bear to take another bite of this so called 'food'. Truth be told, it was probably his fault. For too long did the old veteran feast on fine cuisine that he was scraping the bottom of the food hierarchy his tastebuds were incapable of handling such change. The tavern was slowly coming to life, more and more traffic going to and from the counter as the early rays of the sun greeted the weary folk. To keep his mind off of what was on his plate Marius resorted to one of his favorite pastimes: people watching.

There are particular things to look for when you're creating a first impression of a person. Things like how they hold themselves, what they're wearing, how they keep their facial hair (if they are a gentleman of course) and how they stroll past all give clues to the personality of different characters. Marius was old enough to pick up on these queues fairly easily. Only a fool allows comfort for himself in a room full of unknown people -- unknown variables. Identification of any sort was the key to staying one step ahead of the thugs in the alleyway or a friend just about to stab you in the back, and Marius' youth gave him plenty of time to learn from those very mistakes. This 'skill' suddenly becomes more significant when you can pick out the particular individuals in the room that stand out from the rest, individuals that could potentially possess great skill -- for better or for worse.

At the moment there was nothing of note. Men clad in cloaks, rusted armor and aged swords nearly scraping the floor sat at their tables, enjoying their drink. And then there were the cutesy bar waitresses scurrying about like mice, raising their voices with the pure intent of sucking their victim dry of whatever coin was in his pocket that day. There was nothing different about this tavern than any other Marius was in, that was for sure. Marius slowly scanned the room, taking in his surroundings. These men and women surely weren't the salt of the earth, but there was something comforting about this moment he couldn't quite place.

Then in his peripherals Marius caught somebody of notice, a woman making her way towards the bar. She looked familiar, and she stood out from the weary townsfolk that filled the place. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of her as he got off the wagon when arriving here. He could already assume she was highly skilled, for a fair woman like her wouldn't compose herself so confidently if it weren't such. Marius was all too familiar with the damsel in distress facade that some women enjoyed putting up, but this woman was not that at all. He noted the rugged men at different tables childishly whispering in eachothers ears, admiring her slender form. Marius grumbled.

After her brief conversation with the bartender, Marius saw her walking towards his table. He sat there, still, his plate nearly untouched. Marius was a quiet man, his voice driven only with brevity and purpose. The woman did not seem to mind taking a spot at his table, so neither would he. Normally he would have expected some sort of introduction but she simply took a seat and started at her breakfast. There was a moment of silence between the two as Marius watched her, slowly piecing together a first impression. Then he finally spoke:

"I enjoy my share of pretty faces," there was a pause as Marius spoke, then his face darkened, "But I must warn you this food is shameful and has soiled my mood,"

That was Marius' attempt at an introduction. More importantly, Marius was dead serious about every word he said and that severity could be heard with every syllable. Nonetheless, Marius grew up on manners. After a moment he spoke again.

"I am Marius, thank you for your company,"

Oriana did not much mind the food. To her, it was merely fuel for her body and not a source of entertainment or pleasure. After consuming two sausages and taking a rather sizable bite from the bread, Marius had spoken, and her eyes came to meet his. She chewed. And chewed, and chewed, before finally gulping it down with a bit of his ale (she'd not gotten her own). Her eyes were of the lightest blue, like the clear skies of Mount Arreat or the tropical seas of Kurast, and her eyelashes dark and heavy. He may have noticed the kind of faint glow to them, how they cast the slightest of shadows, and undoubtedly he would know this was the mark of the Nephalem.

"I dare say, Marius," she said, smiling. "If something as trivial as food has made you such a sour man, I hate to see what a few days down in the catacombs will do to you." She pushed pieces of hair from the sides of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

There was not a spec of makeup on her face; she'd found that these things were too time-consuming, and that the demons or monsters who fell from her arrows seldom cared about her face. At any rate, Oriana fancied hoods, whose shadowing effects made face painting obsolete and, well, foolish.

She wiped her hand across her lap, and extended it to him. "You're welcome for the company, Marius. I'm Oriana. I assume you're here for Deckard Cain's briefing as well."

Zech awoke just as he had been thrown into Diablo's gruesome mouth. He was sweating and panting frantically as he looked around his room. A state Zech would never allow anyone to see him in. Zech's thin pale hand rubbed the back of his sweaty neck then made it's way to pushing his now wet fair hair out of his face. Zech swung his feet out of the bed and let them hit the refreshingly cold hardwood floor. He looked at his feet while he placed his hands on his knee to let out a sigh.

Zech stood up and walked towards his dark armor and black cloak he had neatly set in the corner the night before. He put them on and adjusted some making sure it was perfect. Then before he opened the door to the hallway, he carefully pulled the hood of the cloak over his eyes so they could not see his piercing iced blue eyes but he could still see perfectly.

The hallway had the same wood flooring as his room. Zech looked around for a moment to find where he would be given a briefing from Deckard Cain. Zech walked in quietly to the bar. Almost unnoticed as He took a seat near a man with a beret that looked much older than him and a woman across from the man that looked about Zech's age. Zech kept quiet as he was given breakfast. He had no desire to talk to them and began to eat.

The food wasn't to bad. Zech had eaten much worse before. Besides it was food and that was all that mattered to him. While he was quietly eating Zech thought about his dream. He knew exactly what it meant but couldn't seem to shake the doubt that was lingering in the back of his mind.

The most pleasant of nightmares had visited him in his sleep.

It wasn’t a mere frightening experience, one of those wonderful things that had him twisting and turning in his meagre bedroll at the side of the less-travelled road, awakening in a cool sweat and clammy palms that had soaked his clothes, his unkempt beard, the cloth of his gloves. No, this nightmare posessed, even when he was being devoured by the most fearsome of nemeses that he could imagine, a potent sense of purpose that drove him onward. Not only did he wake up with the sweat drenching him and the delightful fear clutching at his chest, but he had woken with a direction, an invigoration of the soul.

Archibald had even had to change his pants, something that he hadn’t had to do since he had just taken his vows and sworn himself to the light. Chuckling darkly to himself, he walked into the bar of Tristram - the evil radiating and soaking the place from ground to the tips of the trees, making him breathe deeply and exhale through his teeth - a purposeful man.

He wore nothing but tattered robes and a hood that was pulled over a smooth face and head, a red semi-circle dotting the place just underneath his clear, blue left eye met his hallowed and pale cheeks.

Underneath the tattered cloth was rusted, heavy plate that was oddly soundless as it moved, a blurry effect surrounding the metal. When the eye rested upon it, it was like it couldn’t focus properly.

He approached the slum of a bar with a sheer fascination, stooping to take in the rotting wood dotting the place and the wobbly nature of a stool as he passed. Archibald’s eyes searched the faces for the most well-armed individuals, and-

Aha. His footsteps took him forward, towards Marius and Orianna’s table, a slight limp to his steps. Standing beside the two, he bared yellow teeth as Orianna finished her question.

“Am too,” he grunted, his voice sounding strained, broken, “sounds like we’re to be traveling mates.”

He raised an eyebrow at Marius, giving him a long, searching look, the difference in the two men’s statures palpable.

“Archibald,” he said, offering his hand - tattered gloves attempting to cover a rusty, gnarled gauntlet - towards Orianna, shifting his shoulder to turn his back on the other veteran.

"I'm a man built on fine cuisine Orianna," Marius took her hand, shaking it firmly before grabbing the top of his cup of ale and sliding it back to his side of the table.

"I find it is a good coping mechanism for the little things that can get on my nerves".

Marius had already grown accustomed to the ever changing societal trends, the rebellious nature of the younger folk blazing a cement road over his own generation. He didn't enjoy the change but, it was a revolution that was way beyond his control. It suddenly dawned on him that well.. . he was getting old. Who knew how long his old bones would carry him for? Quite frankly a dastardly trek into the chaotic, claustrophobic catacombs of Tristram's monastery probably wasn't the best sort of activity for a man like Marius. He should be enjoying the splendors of the more fanciful locales in Lut Gholein. That would be nice. Marius almost got lost in a train of thought before returning to the conversation.

"Yes, I am here for Deckard Cain, but more importantly I'm here to see what sort of people he has decided to send into the catacombs,"

As if on queue another character dressed in the typical clothing of what Marius learned were called Demonhunters sat just nearby to them. Marius gave him a quick glance. He was obviously here for Deckard Cain too. Simply by the look of the armor he meant business and had little to no interest in speaking to them. Marius didn't mind, he's had his fair experience with the quiet enigmatic types. They tend to let their skill do their talking, and while Marius was perfectly fine with that he learned the essential component to any party was communication. If there was a shell cloaking anybody it had to be cracked, and due to the circumstance preferrably sooner than later. Noone has to be best friends but being able to trust the individual covering your backside is vital.

There was something about the solemnity of Marius' character that made Oriana giddy. She had spent many years around these types of men, who took themselves far too seriously and seldom left time for enjoyment. His grip on her hand was firm, a fact she greatly appreciated. She hated being treated like an injured doe, and so often had she extended her hand in greeting to be met with a limp grasp or a flaccid hand.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the other man sit down. She'd not conjured enough interest in him to yet speak hello, but instead felt a sort of competitive edge. He was a demon hunter as well, this she conceived of his attire and gait - the careful, silent steps of a hunter and the grip of a bowman. Or was it so? All of the demon hunters trained in her order had been masters with bows and throwing knives and she hardly knew of a better way to slay. At any rate, the childish urge to prove herself more capable than he came bubbling forth, which she deftly concealed in her eyes and the sidelong glances she threw his way.

When finally she'd resigned to bid him to join her and Marius, the man named Archibald had stepped up and thrust his hand at her. Her, not Marius, not the other. It was, to say the least, comical, and she'd perceived it as an attempt to undermine Marius' apparent seniority. Nonetheless, Oriana took his hand and shook it with the same firmness with which Marius had taken her own.

"Wonderful to meet you, Archibald. I am Oriana," she said, taking her hand from him and gesturing toward Marius, "And this is Marius. I suspect Deckard Cain will be here shortly to brief us all."

As if on cue, the Inn's door creaked open, and the elder came staggering in, a young woman at his side. She attended to him carefully, clutching at his elbow lest he fall, in spite of Cain's protestations. Oriana watched his every step, pained at the amount of effort he must issue to merely walk. The man had certainly tested the limits of human aging.

"Hello, travelers," Deckard Cain croaked, finally coming to sit near the hearth of the Inn's fireplace. The waitresses exchanged glances and retired to the kitchen. Even Bron raised his eyebrows and found somewhere else to be. The patrons in the bar seemed to become silent all at once, then idly ambled out.

"If you are here, it is because you have received word that the world needs your help again." The young woman next to him remained standing, her eyes staring into each of the traveler's faces, studying, calculating. "A group of cultists believe they can harness Diablo's essence and control him. They are called the Skartara Few, and I am afraid they have already collected two of the seven artifacts."

Deckard paused, breathing laboriously. At this, the young woman's face hardened. "The cultists are wrong," she said. "I've seen them - in my visions - and I've heard the whispers of the ancients. They cannot control Diablo; no one can."

Oriana shifted in her chair uncomfortably. It was just as well that Deckard wasted no time in splaying out the problem at hand, yet she could not help but feel uneasily around this girl. "And who are you?" she demanded, an eyebrow arching.

The young woman glanced down to Deckard sadly. "My name is Leah. I am Cain's niece, and the only person who can lead you to the artifacts."

Zech noticed the two looking at him. Especially the woman that looked of his age. Zech could see her making glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He was about to speak when he saw a man walk up to her and introduce himself. Zech closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair. The man's name Archibald. Zech heard someone walking into the room and he quickly turned his attention to a very old looking man that was Deckard Cain. Following him was a young looking girl.

Deckard spoke and told them what they needed to do. Zech already knew this and wanted to get on with it. He thought he could very much fine the artifacts himself but he was told he had to work with the other as a team. Something Zech was not use to at all. While Deckard was talking, Zech glanced over at the girl that was eying him earlier. A smirk formed on his face then quickly faded away to his usually unreadable expression. she had a competitive feel to her and Zech liked that. he loved a challenge.

Then this girl had questioned why the girl was there with Deckard. She had responded. "My name is Leah. I am Cain's niece, and the only person who can lead you to the artifacts.". Zech's full attention became focused on Leah. How could this girl be the only way to the artifacts. She looked so weak. Zech hoped they wouldn't have to waste time protecting her during all of this.

(I am waiting for everyone to respond to Cain's briefing before I post again, just FYI)

Arkas had arrived late last night, the barbarian could hardly keep his eyes open, a little bit of shut eye before visiting the cathedral was a good idea. The barbarian had sunken into a deep sleep at one of the tables and had slept an entire day away, paying the innkeeper when he came to hassle him out.

His sleep was visited with nightmares. The maws of demons, the last stands of his brothers at mount Arreat and the hand of the prime evils curling around his arm and forcing it towards his brethren.

SOON, NEPHALEM, YOU WILL KNOW FURTHER SUFFERING. THE WORLD WILL BURN TO ASHES, AND ITS PEOPLE WILL FORSAKE YOU. EVERYTHING YOU ARE, EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE, WILL COME TO RUIN. BE MY PUPPET. BE MY PAWN.

Arkas awoke to the sounds of talking, the old man with his niece was back to chortle and be weak. Every inch of his body wanted to sheath his claymore in the old man's bowels. The barbarian stood up, hand on his sword, ready to drag it free of it's sheath. The mark he had long since burned off his right shoulder tingled.

Arkas shoved himself off the table, wiping the drool of his mouth and stomped up to the old man, gazing over the other warriors, they looked weak. They would be bloody stains on the floor if they continued to talk rather than act.

"Where is the cult, old man. I will take those artifacts, but I make no promise to taking them to you. What could an old man and his..." Arkas looked the old man up and down, clutching his sword hilt so tightly that he could hear his knuckles popping.

Arkas stopped himself. "Where are the artifacts?"