The Cathedral

The Cathedral sat near the outskirts of Tristram, swathed in fog and decorated with the stench of death. It did not take the acute senses of a demon hunter or the battle-beaten instincts of a barbarian to feel the foreboding and the evil that radiated from these once sacred grounds. Many skeletal remains had found their home both at the threshold of the Cathedral, and within its decaying walls. It was no longer a place of worship, but a place of eternal rest, and eternal unrest.

All of these things were par for the course for this old haunted church, but both Arkas and Oriana would feel that something was distinctly off. It was a sort of static in the air, like an electrical hum of energy, and the closer they got to the Cathedral, the stronger it became.


Oriana would not afford herself so much as a grimace, not in front of Arkas. Always the competitive adventure-seeker, she was determined to prove him wrong in his accusations that she was only a book reader and a thinker. Why did barbarians see such flaw with thinking ahead, anyway? Was it so wrong to ask a few questions? The truth was, Oriana had been to the Catacombs - the dusty, filth-infested tombs that lay within the bowels of the Cathedral - and had spent enough time there for anyone's liking. And it wasn't the animated skeletons, the leaping creatures who lashed out with reptilian tongues, the howling man-beasts who swung battle axes and great swords, or even the grinning succubi who sent orbs of enchanting light that tore through entire bodies. No, something else frightened Oriana about the Cathedral, but there would be no glint in her eyes that would betray her. She would remain impassive, stoic, collected. Arkas could not - and would not - see her as otherwise.

The first thing amiss, she noticed, was the complete lack of activity. Often the Cathedral grounds were patrolled by skeleton soldiers or the walking dead, but there was nothing. Her glowing eyes surveyed their surroundings, feeling even more unsettled. Absentmindedly, she drew nearer to Arkas, as if the mere girth of his person would provide some form of security or reassurance that she was only being paranoid, or too cautious.

"Well," she said firmly, without so much as a quiver to her voice. "Shall we?"

Arkas grunted, nodding his answer to her question as he stalked into the grounds. The warrior cleared his throat and spat onto the unhallowed ground. It wouldn't go down well to have his calls and taunts get stuck in his throat in the middle of a battle, it was no lie that they were important to the barbarian way.

"You can't feel that, hunter?" Arkas stopped in his tracks, the red hairs on the back of his neck sticking up and the scorch mark on his bare shoulder tingled once again. It told him something about the church, something that made him uneasy but giddy at the same time. Arkas would turn around and grin lopsidedly. "The slaughter nears"

Arkas wasn't afraid, he'd seen more fearsome sights in Diablo's army at the steps of Mount Arreat. "We forgot a necromancer, hunter." He growled, looking smug. If only to disturb his companion and turn the numerous dead against their infernal masters.

The barbarian felt the daggers on either side of his waist, pausing over them for a moment before drawing the great-sword from his back and running it across the closest gravestone he could find to hone the edge. As he did so, he would look ahead at the empty grounds.

"Let's hope the dead aren't so dead. It's been awhile since I've drunk out of a skull."

As the edge of Arkas' sword eased across the face of the gravestone, the ground began to rumble. Whispers seemed to rise from earth, concealed in the fog that hung low to the ground.

Hands burst forth from the dirt, the mist began to swirl around, and a flurry of bats came to assail them. When finally they cleared, Arkas and Oriana would find themselves surrounded by a sizable army of skeletons and the undead. Something was different about them, though. Rather than leap for the adventurers, as they had been known to do, they stood completely still, staring, circled around them.


At the onset of the rumbling, Oriana's crossbows were already hoisted high, her feet poised to send her somersaulting for a better vantage point should she need it. Knowing that her arrows would be useless against the bare form of a skeleton, she sent an arrow flying into the first walking dead to come crawling from its grave. The arrow splashed into its head, knocking the unholy creature down, but it did not explode into a all-too-pleasing spatter of blood and guts. Instead, it pushed itself to its feet, once again standing with the others and staring.

She lowered her crossbows. "That was not quite what I expected," she said, angling herself so that her back was to Arkas' back.

While Oriana remained tense, alert, her weapons lowered only slightly, Arkas' words seemed to sink in all at once. "A necromancer?" Then, a smirk came ambling across her lips and she lowered the crossbows completely. "I don't think we've forgotten one at all," she said, gesturing toward them. "They're being controlled." She looked over her shoulders at the barbarian. "And I'm guessing Mount Arreat doesn't have a school for those rogue barbarians interested in black magic. So who's controlling them?"

Arkas stabbed the point of his greatsword into the ground, turning his head to whisper. "Whoever they are, they aren't helping their reputation." The barbarian swung his point free of the dirt and pointed it at the closest skeleton. "No closer, or someone loses their head again." Arkas snarled to the simple minded undead, switching one of his free hands to grip the hilt properly.

Arkas knew he'd need all his cleaving power to make sure the skeletons stayed down, the zombies weren't much of a problem with his allies accurate bolts. "Stop playing and come closer, 'mancer. It'd only be one of your kind." The warrior took a brave step forward, but so far as to break the back-to-back.

Arkas was like any other barbarian. Orianna was lucky she hadn't drawn a true first blood, otherwise there would've been a lot more action to his threats against the dead and their hidden master.

As if in response to the barbarian's demand, the resurrected all turned and began to stumble toward the Cathedral. They groaned and their bones gnashed together, nothing but the magic of reanimation propelling them forward.

Oriana narrowed her eyes at their sudden lurch forward. "I guess he's going to lead us straight to him." She would wait until the entirety of the army would pass them before turning toward Arkas. For the time being, at least, she did not feel any ill-will toward him, and the usual vitriol between demon hunter and barbarian had been silenced. Now, he was an ally, someone whose back she would watch if it meant her own life. Allegiance was blind in the face of pure evil.

"The question is," she said, her eyes caged on the rotted doors of the church. "Is he friend or foe?"

"Depends." The barbarian grunted and signaled for the hunter to follow him, keeping an eye on the last unholy creature to enter the foreboding church doors. "We haven't walked up here just to come back because a few skeletons gave us the spooks." Arkas replied, keeping his sword out as he opened the door and ushered the hunter to go first.

"You've got the eyes, I've got the sword." The barbarian grunted. Going first meant she could pinpoint any traps that would lie for them inside the church itself or maybe the master of the passive undead creatures that had proceeded them. Not to mention she was probably deft enough to dodge the aforementioned traps.

Not that Arkas couldn't... Damn crossbow wielding wench thought she was better than him, he'd prove her wrong when he killed the necromancer solo.

To imply that Oriana had only eyes, no gusto or how-to, and that Arkas would do all of the hard work meant that this barbarian truly lived up to his stereotype - stupid and uncultured. Bless his soul, she thought, but said nothing, a grin spreading wide over her lips as she quickly brushed past him to enter the Cathedral first.

The crunch of grime and bones and debris beneath her stiletto boots was satisfying, and for now, it was the only sound reverberating in the grand entryway. She kept both crossbows poised, her eye catching the last of the undead army drifting into a corridor. "This way," she said, picking up her pace in order to catch up.

The tell-tale feeling in her gut rose up, and she tightened her grip on the handles of the crossbows. Beneath thick leather gloves, her knuckles turned white, and the glow of her Nephalem eyes intensified. In her haste to find the necromancer (and her anxiety of having entered the Cathedral again), she was caught off guard by the chittering of a bat and sent a volley of arrows into a darkened corner. When the rest of the colony of bats came flying out, seeking refuge from the seemingly crazed demon hunter, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, crossbows lowered, in obvious disappointment.

"I'm sorry," she grumbled, now even more frustrated that she'd found it necessary to apologize to Arkas. She only begged that he wouldn't ask for an explanation as to why she lacked such cool resolve, and why she seemed to be biting her nails with uneasiness. "Let's just move on," she suggested. But she hardly waited for his response, quickly - almost at a run - moving ahead.

He had arrived in Tristram without as much as a glance from the villagers. As silent as pestilent death, he had made his way in to the Cathedral, his tattered robe fluttering like a crimson shadow in his wake and the shambling of rising bones sounding like a sweet symphony to those who could truly appreciate such power.

The smell of fresh dirt mingled with rotting corpses and the old stones of the Cathedral but it did not bother the looming figure who called to the dead that marched in to the old building. Rather it reminded him of where he truly belonged, below the dirt rather than walking on top of it but Zander could never return to that cold embrace he so longed for.

The arrival of the barbarian and the hunter was signaled by the rising of the Necromancer’s minions outside of the Cathedral. Zander could not hear them, even the barbarian’s howling threats but there was no mistaking the smell of living flesh. One of them had attacked one of the minions but that was hardly a problem when compared to the looming threat that awaited them all in the Catacombs. Besides, in the world of Sanctuary where angels and demons battled for the souls of Man, there was always more dead to be had.

A deep, guttural growl echoed from the shadows behind Zander when the hunter loosed her bolt within the Cathedral. Zander did not hold out a hand or even speak a command to hold the hound at bay for it was compelled by a greater power. Instead, Zander continued to wait near the entrance of the Catacombs for Cain’s heroes to arrive.

Arkas kept his chuckle low when she skewered a bat. He tried not to imagine the corrupted bats he'd heard tales about in the tavern, it wouldn't do to run into those. The barbarian hefted his claymore onto his shoulders and stomped after her hasty holiness, keeping an eye in the shadows for more bats.

When they came across the catacomb entrance and the necromancer and his foul dog, Arkas could only take a step back and scoff. It looks like luck was running high today, they weren't going solo after all. "Hello." The Barbarian croaked, wary. If this turned into a fight, he'd be ready.

There was plenty of scolding to go around, and just when she'd mustered the courage to spit something scathing in the barbarian's face (for his chuckle had not gone without her acknowledgment and utter chagrin), Arkas stopped short. Oriana came to her tiptoes in an attempt to see over his hulking form, but grew impatient and came to stand at his side.

There was something ... off about this man (if such a term could be used). She'd seen her fair share of hell hounds, of mysterious beings with hooded faces and foreign robes; she'd often been guilty of fitting such a description herself, as often the art of demon hunting required her to be both mysterious and foreign. She knew instinctively that what stood before them was neither alive nor dead, but could not be sure it was what held the skeletal army's allegiance. It was this uncertainty that caused her to grip her crossbows tightly again, and to give Arkas a nudge with her shoulder. When he looked at her, her eyes now tinged with a red glow beneath her heavy leather hood, she tried her best to shoot him a look that said, I'm not sure this is our guy, and most importantly, We should be careful.

She wondered immediately if barbarians were even capable of interpreting facial expressions as saying more than "To battle!" or "Where's the beer?"