A/N: This was the first fic I ever wrote and for two years I kind of left it alone, not sure what I wanted to do with it, if anything, while I dedicated myself to other stories, different fandoms. I often thought of pulling this down as I wasn't happy with the writing, the pacing, some of the characterizations. This week, for some reason, I started playing Diablo III again and while debating whether I wanted to level up my Demon Hunter or my Wizard, found myself wishing I could have them play together. Maybe it's because the woman wizard is voiced by none other than Grey Delisle, the voice of one of fantasy's most badass wizards ever, Azula, from Avatar (ok, she was psycho, but still...pretty awesome?) and that haughty overconfidence really shines through the character. And the man Demon Hunter is so moody, but ultimately caring. The plot bunnies got agitated and a result of that, I thought of this story, came back to it, decided to dust it off and give it a some much needed love...and life.
It's been edited and some parts have been rewritten. Chapter 4 is where I think things start getting really interesting. ;-)
I don't think you need to be a big Diablo III player to enjoy this-I just find the rapport between the characters can be very intriguing...
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1: Homecoming
"In winter, Sun is yonder.
The only warmth,
From a heart grown fonder."
Stanislas sat in a quiet stupor listening to the lilting singing voice of the young woman strumming her lute for the entertainment of the six or so guests amassed in the modest inn's tavern. Outside a storm raged, causing the already-jumpy guests to startle every time the wind rattled the shutters.
"Bad night," Bron, the innkeeper commiserated to one of his customers.
"No worse than the usual," the stout man grumpily replied, settling into what appeared to be a long night of drinking. "If it's not the torrential rains, it's the undead. I am quite done with that wretched farm."
"The militia couldn't…?"
"The militia!" the man interrupted the innkeeper. "A bunch of lads who don't know which way to wipe their arses!" The man's laugh was phlegmy and bitter. "The farm will soon be overrun. Too much trouble holding hordes at bay anymore. No one's left- or interested- to go on an incursion against them and reclaim the lost ground. And what for? Every day we saw signs they were approaching. I cannot bear it anymore. Theodora has already moved into the city. If my Wendel were still alive, we would fight, gain ground, make them nail their coffins shut from the inside…" his voice trailed off.
"It is a good thing you have come into the city, then" the innkeeper replied gently. "It's not wise to venture out there unarmed. Hopefully it is short lived this time and you will be able to return-"
The man shooed him with a dismissive wave of his hand and raised his cup to be filled.
Stanislas tried to focus again on the young woman, her shapely figure outlined in the velvety blue dress, but found his thoughts straying.
New Tristram is too cursed. Its fate has been sealed by the falling star.
He tossed back the remainder of his drink, slamming the cup down so violently when he finished, conversation in the room ceased momentarily and the young woman hesitated for a moment before resuming her strumming.
"What ails you?" Kormac leaned forward, a hint of concern in his voice. Even Leah glanced up from the large tome she had been perusing all evening.
I am tired. Yet, when I close my eyes, all I see are creatures stirring in the shadows. I feel their eyes upon me. I cannot go on like this.
Stanislas rose from the table wordlessly and tossed a few coins on the table before turning away.
He wondered if the others suspected anything.
Earlier they had been inside the old Cathedral, searching once again for the burning star that had hurtled down from the sky, setting the horizon in New Tristram ablaze. He could sense it humming, pulsing in his bones, insistently, a spell of sorts summoning him to the steps of the ruined Cathedral. Leah had called his name repeatedly while she and Kormac waited outside, as he wandered farther through the debris, mesmerized by the majesty and peace of the decaying ruins. Once-opulent rooms buckled under the ravages of time, dampness, rats…and other creatures. Sumptuously upholstered chairs had burst open at their brocaded seams, their stuffing oozing out in a tangle of mildew and fluff along the walls of what must have once been a meeting room. Tapestries detailing the heroic exploits of brave knights- King Leoric's, perhaps?- fluttered in shreds as the cold night wind blew through the broken beams in the roof. Stanislas gripped his crossbow tightly with one hand and his lantern's handle with the other, his knuckles white from the tension, listening with heightened alertness to the darkness surrounding him.
Demons. The undead. The walls were teeming with their presence. He inhaled deeply, his pulse quickening.
He caught a flicker of silver in a great cracked mirror and fell into a combative stance, quickly dropping the lantern.
Silence.
Peering back into the blackness of the mirror before him, he discovered the source of the eerie silver light: his own eyes, staring back from his angular, gaunt face.
What is this? he wondered, glancing around him, sheepishly picking up the lantern.
Is it fear?
He forged ahead, stepping over a pile of debris strewn across his path. The ground grew uneven, the stones loose.
No, I am familiar with fear. I knew it well. This is not fear.
He had emerged in the Cathedral's nave. Behind him he could faintly discern Kormac and Leah's calls, but he paid them no heed. In the desolate gloom, among burned, splintered pews, toppled statues, and crumbling arches, he couldn't help thinking there was something alluring, something darkly beautiful about the Cathedral.
Even as I tread this cursed ground, walking among the damned, among those who no longer retain any vestiges of humanity, who lurk in the darkness as they prepare to unleash their rage…Why is it? Why is that I feel this way?
That I feel as if I belong?
This, he had thought, pacing down the Cathedral's nave, is a homecoming: among the pillage and slaughter and absurdity and rot. This, he had realized, pausing before the altar, aware of an increasingly frenzied rustling in the background, is what I know best. All my life has become.
He set the lantern down on a pew, his demeanor stern but peaceful. He raised his crossbow before whirring around and rapidly firing an arrow into the oncoming ghoul. The grayish corpse attempted to rake the air before him with its razor-sharp claws even as it staggered back from the strike. Its beady eyes glistened bloodily, the arrow having hit it squarely in the forehead. Its gaping maw twisted into a pained grimace as it toppled motionlessly onto the flagstones.
A reverent quiet fell upon him. There would be more; they were coming. And when they arrived, they would find him waiting, ready. The moonlight filtering through the few remaining stained glass windows of the cathedral cast a ghostly blue glow around him.
Let us 'prey' together, my brothers and sisters, he smirked.