The following excerpts are taken from the diary of a young Monk-in-training, Laila, beginning on her first day at the monastery in the mountain city of Ivgorod. The pages are well-kept and tidy, interrupted occasionally by rough and intricate sketches of stances and techniques, as well as runes and holy symbols. Laila's whereabouts are currently unknown, though accounts of her reportedly-incredible feats - most likely subject to gross hyperbole and exaggeration – can be heard increasingly in many inns and taverns across Sanctuary.
Day 1
Master has advised that I keep a diary of my learning, "for reflection" - the first gem of his wisdom of which I have been allowed a glimpse. I am not well-acquainted with the art of journal keeping, though I believe it is common to begin with introductions.
My name is Laila, and I have long held a fascination with the Monks of Ivgorod since I encountered one in my home of Caldeum, when I was just ten years old. Walking home late, I heard a commotion in the shadows between two buildings and stopped to take a look. Three marauders, clad in crimson robes and obscured by head-garments, surrounded a lone figure on all sides. They wielded sabres and scimitars, yet the stranger appeared entirely unintimidated and, even more oddly, somehow unimpressed. They demanded his possessions and his gold, and when he remained silent, advanced on him. That was when the Monk made his move.
He seized a man by the sword-wielding wrist and, with a barely perceptible flick, snapped his arm as though it were a dry reed. The crack resounded in the narrow alley, followed by the shrill cry of the broken man. His partners hesitated, then charged at once at the Monk, who dropped with sudden agility to the ground, dodging their confused slashes effortlessly. He rose with a sweep of his leg, contacting one bandit's chin and sending him sprawling back against the wall, then followed by leaping off his anchoring foot and spinning it into the other's cheek. The men were defeated – dazed, but alive – and the Monk left the alley. He didn't see me that day, but he would in time. For, as fate would have it, he was the very same Monk under whom I now study.
Upon my arrival at Ivgorod, following a harrowing and tiring pilgrimage through the mountains that surround the city, I was initially denied entry (much to my frustration). The Monks herein are a reclusive and reserved people, and stray outsiders are not generally welcome. I managed to attain my place by means of a demonstration: ever since my encounter in the alley eleven years ago, I had studied the Monks' arts and had learned a thing or two that I was able to display. My technique is poor; my channelling of holy magic basic and flawed, but it has served its purpose. I was accepted.
My travelling clothes were taken and replaced with a set of basic, plain-featured robes. The absence of ornamentation I have no objection to, but must they be so meagre? It is an icy wind that runs down the steep slopes of the mountains by which Ivgorod is surrounded, and my skin is already raw and bare from exposure. My hair, too, was taken from me, but if these are the measures taken to allow me access then I have no objections. The chill bites into my scalp when I walk outside. It keeps me awake - aware - at all times.
I met my master, whose name is as yet unknown to me. He is stern and keeps to himself, but he is composed and impressive, and I believe he will be a good teacher. It is only my hope that I do not disappoint him, for though I am eager to learn, I am young and unskilled. I shall do my best, though.
The moon approaches, chasing away the pink sliver of day that remains upon the sky, and so I must rest. My journey here has been long, and that was not even the beginning of my trials. Training starts tomorrow.
- Laila, Monk initiate
Day 2
I awoke early, keen to begin honing the martial prowess for which the Monks were famous, but instead found my master and his compatriots eating breakfast quietly in the main hall. I was shocked – it was my impression that these Monks were faultlessly disciplined and in a constant state of practice and meditation, yet here they were gathered over bowls of soup and plates of bread. Was I to be disappointed by the order?
Evidently my new master sensed my doubt, for he beckoned me over to his side and offered a serving of the food. I accepted, and as I ate he explained the schedule of the days events. After eating and prayer, he was to take me beyond the city walls and familiarise me with the local environment and points of interest. This would take up most of the day, after which we would return to Ivgorod and I was to demonstrate what I already knew in the training ring. I was excited: this was my chance to show that I truly belonged here with the Monks, and that I could one day stand beside them in combat, with proper practice and development.
Though I was disappointed by the passive nature of the tour, it must be said that the area around the city was beautiful. I, of course, had seen it on the way here, but through the weary and jaded eyes of the pilgrim; what I now saw was Sanctuary in its perfectly flawed glory, watched from on high by the Monks of the mountains. My master taught me to see the thousand-and-one gods in all things: he showed me the orchards, rosy and picturesque with the blossom of spring, and told me of the gods that lived within the branches, the roots and the soil itself. We ascended to the summit of one of the lower mountains, capped by a thin veil of powdery snow illuminated in what was now the amber light of a setting sun, and requested that I place my head to the ground with him. If I focused right, he said, I would feel the gods within the ice itself and sure enough, as I places my stubbled head to the ground, I felt a ripple on the currents of holy magic that I have learnt to store within. After this, we journeyed higher into the mountains as the stars peered down in distant silence from the deep violet canvas of night, and my master gestured towards them.
"See there, my apprentice." It was the first time he had called me this; I could not help but smile at the acknowledgement. "The heavens are above us, just as the hells are below. And yet, beyond both of these dwell our gods, for though the angels and demons are powerful they too have their masters. I am proud to call myself a servant of the gods of angels." He gazed a while longer, as though in reminiscence, before trudging back through the thick snow that covered this particular peak. Calmness was in all his movements, and though the snow was easily up to his knees he glided through it as though it were vapour. "One day, I promise you, you shall be too."
It was by means of a portal that we returned to the haven of Ivgorod, for though well-defended the mountains were still just as much the domain of beasts as of Monks, and by night the predators of the animal world became unsettled and easily-provoked. My master explained that we would combat these beasts if it were necessary at another time, but first I had to show what I knew. He escorted me to the ring: a circle of warm, deep sand about twenty yards across, and opened the wooden gate for me. More Monks had gathered, and I was surprised by the variety present. Though my head had been shaved, there was no rule restricting the regrowth of hair (the initial shaving was apparently to allow apprentices such as myself to become accustomed to the cold) and the same applied to garments. There were men clad in little but a long skirt, wrapped tightly around their waists and trailing at their feet whereas many others wore a full set of robes, with or without sleeves. Some women I saw sported a shaggy mop of clean white hair, whilst others kept it trimmed close to their skin. Most of the men, I noticed, were bald - including my master, though he had a thick beard cut tightly around his chest. All eyes, it seemed, were on the newcomer: me.
"Apprentice," boomed a voice from deep within the shadows of the expansive training hall, and I quickly deduced that this must be one of the Patriarchs, "if you wish to serve the gods to which this order is dedicated you must prove your worth as their instrument. Your body must flow as easily and quickly as water, and your strikes must land as hard and unshakably as rock. Your mind must be as pure as air, yet ablaze with the will to cleanse the world of evil wheresoever it makes itself known. In order to stand amongst us as servants of the thousand-and-one gods, you must show that you are at one with them in all aspects. Is this understood?"
"Yes,"I replied into the anonymous shadows around the ring.
"Very well. Show us then, apprentice, that you are prepared to do the gods justice."
There was a crackle of fire in the air, and I soon came to notice that the room was becoming brighter. Runemarks shaped themselves in light out of thin air, intensifying until I could not bear to look at them, when suddenly there formed a shadow within them.
A beast – a demon? -stood before me, four legs to the ground and clad in the mist of the dissipating light. It was clear that I was to fight it, and so I dropped into stance: one foot extended forwards, the other bent low beneath me for support. I held one arm back, fist tight, and the other out before me, awaiting the attack of my foe. The creature, for it appeared as some kind of muscular, sinewy dog with a head warped far out of reality, stretched its maw wide in a battlecry and charged for me. I leapt to one side, rolling upon my hands and ending on my feet, instinctively ending in my stance. The beast was faced away from me and so I took the opportunity to strike, throwing myself to its side and arcing my fist down upon its skull. I summoned magic from within as I did so, imbuing my fist with the holy energy that I had brought forth and the result was quite spectacular – the creature's head was pulverized. That is the simplest way I can express the result of my attack: the neck ended, and from there hung a bloody pulp of shattered bone, dripping thick bile into the sand. The echo of my punch subsided, leaving the large hall in silence. I looked around uncertainly. Had I passed? Had I shown myself as capable? The beast was dead and I was unharmed, but had I done so correctly? The audience's faces gave away nothing, and I soon saw why.
The neglected corpse had sunk into the sand with a low rumble, and from it rose a dark cloud of something that looked like shadow given form. The cloud shaped itself, rising into a humanoid entity, and I gasped at the sheer horror of the vision. So it was a demon I was facing, surely, for this magic was beyond the world of beasts and men.
The creature was skeletal, with long, spindly fingers ending in claw-like points. Its skull glowed with the energy that held it together, and the ink-black ribs clicked together jerkily as though the form was not quite stable. The apparition hovered towards me, and I did not know how to face it. Would my physical strikes be enough? Of course not, this entity was ethereal. I would have to strike with my mind.
There was a technique I had read of, yet never deigned to practice, instead focusing on the physical techniques that were more evident in the Monks' fighting styles. It was clear, however, that I would have to draw upon it now, or be powerless against the spectral demon.
I settled into a focus stance, facing my opponent and bringing both hands together before my face. They began to glow with the energy I supplied them - a dull, golden aura, and soon wisps of gold dust spiralled around my tightly-clasped hands. From the corner of my eye, I saw my master's impassive face furrow a little in curiosity. I chanted quietly to myself, straining to voice words I had only ever read, until the magic in my grip was forcing itself against my skin. It was ready. Now was the tricky part: application.
The demon was almost upon me now, and so with no time to waste I let out the last word of the incantation as a shout, snapping my arms outwards and unleashing the magic as a radial nova of light. The demon's shadowy cloak was utterly expelled from its black bones, which smouldered and dissolved in the blast. Of my enemy, there was nothing left, and I knew I had succeeded.
Following this, I was escorted to my quarters without a word, from whence I now write. Only time will tell if my display was sufficient. Well... time, and the gods themselves.
- Laila, apprentice Monk
Day 9
It has been over a week since my arrival, and in that time I have forgotten my previous life entirely. Joining the Monks has been an odd rebirth for me – it is not as though an old life has ended and a new one begun, but more like what I was living before was a dream, and this is the awakening. I am starting to see the gods as the Monks do, their movement in the winds and their presence in the mountains that are becoming as familiar to me as the ridges of my red-raw knuckles.
The training, as expected, is arduous. My master insists that we are always refining ourselves: he includes himself, for the Monk is never truly perfected in his or her art. It is a great thing to study under someone so wise, but even better to know that he too is still learning, for it carries the promise that there will always be new secrets to discover.
Following my display in the training ring, my master explained that my physical prowess was clearly advanced yet my mental focus needed work. The regime he has worked out incorporates meditation, which was initially very difficult for me but I have since become accustomed to it. The foothills of the mountains are verdant and beautiful, and it has become easy for me to settle into a state of serenity when I recall the contemplative hours spent there. Since it is the mental aspect of my skills that needs work, my master has taken to teaching me new techniques one by one – most recently, the ability to call down the rejuvenating energies of the gods to heal wounds of the body. It is an incredible experience, a feeling that can only be compared to standing beneath a torrent of water, though different in that there is no weight to it. The skin of my hands is becoming thick and tough with the rigorous punishment they take: the martial art of the Monks is one of flurries of hard-hitting jabs, and this takes its toll on the unprepared fist. It is odd to think that I have been here for so short a time as nine days, for Ivgorod really does feel like my home now. I can barely remember Caldeum.
Today, my master took me to the orchard, where an array of rough bricks had been set up. I had heard previously that the Monks were capable of destroying stone with their hands, and I never doubted this to be a true. It seemed as though I was to be treated to a display.
Yet as we approached the semi-circle of bricks, each of increasing size and density, my master announced that I was to break them by myself. I was incredulous.
"There is no doubt in my mind that you can accomplish this, Laila. If you trust me as your master, there should be no doubt in yours either." This seemed reasonable, and I did not think that he would lead me to do something of which I was incapable. I strode to the first brick, and prepared my stance. The rock looked coarse and unyielding before me, and I couldn't help but hear a skeptical voice inside me declare that I was about to break my hand. Nevertheless, I dropped into stance and prepared my fist. It began to glow with holy magic, my fingers flexing a little with the intensity of the stored energy. I raised my hand. Brought it down fast.
And screamed.
The resultant crack was, sadly, not the brick, but the bones of my fingers, snapped between the rock and the force of my strike. I clasped the hand to my body, summoning a little of the healing energy I'd been taught earlier. It was a peculiarly sweet feeling that left a taste in my mouth not unlike honey, as the bones of my fingers knitted themselves together again. I turned to my master, still in shock. He shook his head lightly.
"You will not succeed if you do not believe you can break it. If you had believed, your hand would have passed through unharmed. Do it again. Do not merely try; break the brick with your fist, because you can." I nodded in response.
There was a small crack where I had left my mark, and this reassured me. I once again fell into my stance, imbued my fist with magic and, with a sharp cry, arced my fist down upon the brick.
It cracked in half, straight down the middle.
I was exuberant. For half a second I simply could not believe it. This was no pebble or sheet of slate, this was - by anyone's definition - a boulder, and I had split it like wood. My master nodded, barely visible in the ruffling of his thick beard, and gestured to the next, even thicker and stronger than the first.
It too fell beneath my strike.
"Hopefully you are starting to see that, as an extension of the gods' will, you are powerful. If rock cannot stop you, nothing can. That is what you must believe, for it is indomitable faith that will carry you through your greatest victories."
"And what of my failures?" I asked after a moment. He did not hesitate in responding.
"There will be none. That is what you must believe."
- Laila, apprentice Monk
Day 27
I am nearing the end of my month-long apprenticeship, having learnt the fundamental skills required to journey out into the world and being righting wrongs – or, should I so choose, remain here in Ivgorod and refine myself through meditation and practice, leaving only in times of dire emergency in the world below. My choices are open to me, and my master is very insistent that it is a decision that will be easy to make when the time comes
"If the world beckons, Laila, then you must answer. But if Ivgorod compels you to stay, then you must listen. Fret not, apprentice: the answer is within, and in a few days' time you will know it." He speaks the truth, of course, and there is no reason for me to doubt this, but I realise now that I actually know very little of my master. He has been a Monk my entire life, of that much I am certain, for the things he displayed in the alley when I was a young girl were clearly perfected over decades. Yet I have noticed that, between him as he is now and him as I remember him in the moonlit frozen images of my hard-etched memory, there are no differences. The thick mask of his beard remains untainted by grey, remaining a lush and healthy brown-black shade. His face, though roughened and hewn by years of the Monks' lifestyle, shows no more creases than it did eleven years ago. I have not asked about this, nor do I intend to, but if I were to conclude something from what I know so far it would be this: by proving that we are of use to the gods, they return the favour by ensuring us rich and full lives. I can only imagine that his apparent agelessness is an indicator of his dedication and servitude.
As for his usefulness to the gods, that much I have seen first-hand on two occasions now. Today, we walked through the orchards, their leaves slowly succumbing to the ripe green of early summer, my master stopped suddenly in the grove. He held up a warning hand, and I stopped too, looking around uncertainly. Try as I might, I could ascertain no disturbance.
"Do you feel it?" Asked my master, without moving.
"There's nothing I can see, master."
"That is not what I asked. Close your eyes." I did. Pushed my senses against the boundaries of nerves and flesh, and sure enough...
It was heat, what I felt, but not the comfortable heat of a hearth in winter and not even the oppressive heat of the sun on a labourer's neck. No, this heat was infernal. That was the only word for it. Heat from the Burning Hells themselves.
"Demons," I announced. I didn't ask; I knew, and slowly my master nodded.
Everything tore apart then, as before my eyes the very air was split by a deep red, an uneven line from the ground to the tips of the trees, which tore asunder with shocking violence. The rift was impermeably dark, bordered only by the same red light in the air, like a doorframe, and from this unseeable darkness stepped the most horrific beings I have ever seen.
The world of Sanctuary, as all are aware, is populated by beasts both wonderful and terrible, yet even the most unsightly and fearsome of these cannot stand to the lowest demon. And there were many of them, pouring through the crackling rift just yards away from where I stood. I was quite unshakably rooted in the ancient awe of demons to which we humans are heirs.
"Fight with me, Laila."
This was a simple enough request, yet it shocked me even more than the demons pouring out of thin air. I had not seen my master fight before then, save the incident long ago, yet from my training previously I knew he was an incredibly skilled warrior. And here he was, rightfully unafraid in the face of hellspawn... asking me to stand beside him. And I would. Gladly.
I dropped into stance, as I had done so many times before, though this time with a foe to face and a lot to lose. I realised, for all of half a second, that if I lost I would not just die, but suffer: demons were not so much known for their murderous nature as the anguish and agony they inflicted beforehand. Yet my master was wise, and if he had faith in me then I had nothing to fear. What was it he had said weeks ago? 'It is indomitable faith that will carry you through your greatest victories'. I hope this will be the first of many.
I had learnt to strike fast and first, and this was what I did now, raining down blows upon the closest demon with speed that just a month ago I would have discredited as an illusion. Where I was used to training dummies rocking and recoiling with my strikes, the demon – lacking the same enchantments applied to help it resist blows – came apart beneath my fists. With each punch, every blow a fragment of a second before and after the next, muscle turned to pulp, to paste, to goo, until the demon literally fell apart from the centre, a bizarrely stupefied expression locked forever on its mutilated face. But as I had learnt in the training ring, there was no time to breathe relief; only a moment to release and re-focus, before the next demon fell upon me. I met what passed for a jaw with the edge of my ascending foot, flipping it hard onto its back before bringing the same leg down sharp and heavy upon its heart. Like a fist through rock, my heel crushed the creature's chest.
They fell in this manner, under storms of pummelling fists and powerful, decisive stomps and kicks. These were the techniques I had found most effective at dispatching large numbers of weak foes quickly, and I was satisfied to discover that these demons (who I later identified as a tribe of Fallen) qualified for that. When the imps were defeated, only a trio of Overseers remained, crowded around my master. He was a silhouette amidst something I could not quite believe: a literal mist of blood, out of which the Overseers towered, their great club-like weapons raised threateningly. As the gore-fog settled, my master's form became clear – he stood low, one knee to the ground, one fist placed on the floor. It looked as though he were defeated, and panic petrified my entire body.
That was when I saw something more incredible than a portal to Hell cracking open in an orchard; more awe-inspiring than a vapour of demon blood hanging in the very air; something that endeared me to my master even more than being offered the chance to fight by his side.
As I watched, his corporeal form shivered into the air around him, materialising first as a frozen shadow here, then there, then there – again and again, each shadow locked in the pose of a strike. Before the shadows blinked in and out of existence, they slammed into the Overseers with unbelievable force, ribs and limbs cracking under the inexplicable power of my master's shadows. This went on for all of a few seconds, before my master reformed, still crouched in the centre of the swaying pack of Fallen. As he rose, he cast out his arms and blasted off a shell of energy - just as I had done in the ring. The demons were consumed by golden light, and with neither a shriek nor a roar, melted away into the red glow of the air.
We've camped upon a mountain tonight, where I now write as my master meditates higher up, atop one of the peaks. We did this because he wished to tell me a story. A legend, as it would turn out.
"Do you remember, Laila, when a star fell from the sky, many years ago? You will have been very young." I did not, but I had, of course, heard of the event. "Well, that star was a grim portent, a warning from the heavens. For the star, as it turned out, was an angel." This too I knew – the whole spectacle was of such world-shattering significance that it was still being discussed by scholars as though it were yesterday. Such a cataclysm had not occurred since the destruction of the Worldstone, long before I was born. "Justice fell upon the world of man, as prophesised, in the form of Tyrael, who had forsaken his place amongst the Angiris Council for a mortal life. Tyrael knew that Sanctuary's fate lay in its inhabitants, the humans... and, as it transpired, so too did that of the High Heavens themselves." So far, he was reciting common lore, and I could not help but wonder what point he was drawing to.
"After the star fell – whilst, in the eyes of the world, it still was a star – Ivgorod saw fit to dispatch a Monk they believed suited to dealing with whatever it forewarned. And so he went to the town of Tristram, where Tyrael had fallen. Struck half-dead and lost in amnesia, Tyrael was on the verge of death until the Monk restored his health and memory by reforging his sword, El'druin, with the help of the last of the long-dead order of Horadrim magi. With his purpose recovered, Tyrael warned the Monk and his companions of the coming Lords of Hell.
"He tracked them down, the Monk. And killed them." My master paused then, craned his neck to the darkening sky as though in search of a particular star. Satisfied that he had found it, he continued. "But not soon enough. Though Belial and Azmodan, the Lords of Lies and Sin, were defeated and imprisoned within a particularly significant soulstone, this stone fell into the hands of one who sought to resurrect not just these Lesser Evils, but the three Prime Evils themselves. A vessel was chosen... a girl, she was, no more than a girl. The demons, now as one Prime Evil, possessed and twisted her form. Diablo proved the strongest of them and so it was he who took her body, just as he had done with his past hosts of the very same bloodline, and made it his own.
"Following this, the Prime Evil did not waste time in marching upon the High Heavens – nor did the Monk, one step behind, waste time in pursuing. With the aid of Tyrael, the Monk saved the Angiris Council from imprisonment and death, finally facing Diablo in singular combat. Their battle was intense and lengthy, but the Monk did not tire, for there was too much at stake for mortal failings. No, he fought in Heaven and in Terror until the Evils were defeated." My master's tale had a while since gone beyond public knowledge, and I was beginning to suspect how he knew all this with such clarity. But could it possibly be true? It seemed there was a good way to find out.
"Master," I said after a moment, "the Monk was you, wasn't he?" As I had expected, he nodded.
"I paid my price to claim Diablo's head, Laila. I saw two allies murdered on my mission, and was betrayed by even more, so when the gods' intended balance was restored I did not join in the festivities. We do not mourn death or loss in this order, my apprentice, but we do not celebrate it. And it was in this quiet aftermath, the lull of the apocalypse that was only just not, that I realised I would need someone to bear what I had learnt. One who could hear my lessons, share my experience, so that should the demons return – a pattern, you must know, for which demons are notorious - there would be another such as I to stand against them. As I contemplated this on a brief rest in the city of Caldeum, I gazed into the night as we are doing now... and was interrupted by a band of thieves who had taken me for one of the peasantry. A common mistake, as I am sure you are aware.
"I did not kill them, for there had been enough blood shed on my voyage by that point and I suspected that the damage done would be enough to leave a lesson. But as I left the alley, I caught a glimpse of a girl watching me, hidden in the shadows of the plaza's edge."
I looked up at him now, blood drained from my face. He knew?
"I saw her. You. Saw the awe with which you regarded me, but there was more than that. You weren't terrified of me; you were curious, and it is that curiosity that led you here. As it should have, and as it always would have. I chose you because I recognised you, knew that you had pursued a dream conceived eleven years ago. Anyone that determined could surely follow the same path I had, should the need arise.
"So now you know, Laila. You know why you are here, and that is because I and the gods intended it to be so. The rest is down to you. I cannot say what nor when, but one day a great responsibility will be placed upon your shoulders, and I know you can handle it." My master rose, disappearing up the slopes to where he now sits in the snow. "I only wonder if you will accept it."
I will, my master. For you, I most certainly will.
- Laila, apprentice Monk
Day 31
The end of my master-and-apprentice period has reached its end and, following this, I am to make a decision as to whether I shall remain here or seek my destiny in the world. If I am honest – and what other purpose has a journal than honesty? - I had intended on staying here, but after what was said to me a few days ago by my master I have chosen instead to leave.
My master had few parting words for me, ever a man to let the gods speak for themselves wherever they could, though he did spare me a parting wisdom: "live with three things in mind, Laila. Strike only when it is the gods' will that you do so; strike only if you are willing to finish the fight by any means necessary; strike always before your enemy has the opportunity to do the same." With that, he left me alone in my chamber, gone to do whatever such a great mind as he does when equilibrium needs no maintenance.
I write this, the last entry of my journal, from the chamber in which I have resided this past month. I have decided to leave this diary, born originally of one of the many wisdoms it has been my honour and privilege to receive, in this very room, in the hopes that future apprentices may gain from it as much as I have gained from keeping it.
As for me, the path of the gods is a long one, and mine lies far beyond the walls of Ivgorod; as such, I shall take my first steps upon it without delay. There are many wrongs to right, many innocents to pull from the claws of corruption, and they will not be tended to by a girl sat with a book in her hand. The life of a Monk is an active one, and I am all too eager to begin it.
- Laila, Monk of Ivgorod.