Important Note- This may not follow Diablo II exactly.. cos i_suck_and
can't remember all the little details. Some of the
skills/items/people/enemies/things which i don't know the nature of yet in
this fanfiction will be from the original Diablo game, cos they rocked. A
lot. Or just things i thought were convenient for my purposes to insert.
cos i'm lazy. Also, i tend to go a bit slow when writing... (i don't know
if this story is good enough so that you'd care about that, but i said it
anyway, so you know.) here that would be (in part) a direct result of
losing the story skeleton i put together for this fanfic. GRAR! _. you've
been duly warned or whatever.
Also, please, no flames (not that you /wonderful/ people would do that.) this is my first semi real fanfic, so constructive criticism is welcome, but no_flames. Thank you, and have a nice day.
-~*v*~- Sorcledes gripped the hilt of his ice blue sword, and then drew it out of its scabbard with the ease of a much preformed move. He thrust it carefully into the hardened earth floor and raised a thick chain gloved finger to his cracked lips. His Prussian blue eyes closed, and he exhaled. Breathing in again, Sorcledes slowly opened his eyelids and began to move.
He reached two fingers to his sword, the wrought chain link iron of the ring mail clinking softly as it extended to allow for the movement. He blessed the blade, running his fingers lightly down its smooth metal surface, a soft yellow glow trailing in their wake, his blade now enchanted with the elemental power of lightning.
Securing his heavy belt firmly around his waist Sorcledes checked to make sure that the pots of full rejuvenation were ready and waiting for use when he would need them. The thin wisps of electricity emanating from his enchanted blade reflected off the sides of the small glass containers which held the saving liquids. He ran his hand across them, counting, to make sure there was a full set of eight potions there.
And then he prayed. Sorcledes clasped his hands together and begged for assistance in performing his impossibly difficult task. His voice was low and scratchy but still carried out his words with clarity- he spoke his plea to Tyrael.
"Blessed Tyrael, I come to thee in worship, but to also beg for thy holy assistance. For thy reach is great, And thy antonym - the powers of hell, Amass their leaders in their lord Diablo, To destroy the fair world which you're pure kin created. I call for your aid in vanquishing this evil. My muscle has not the strength to destroy it alone; And the metals of my weapon have not the power to annihilate it. Tyrael, as thy humble servant, I beg of your help! Tyrael..."
And lo! A flash of unearthly white! The angelic visage appeared before Sorcledes, Tyrael, in all of his heavenly beauty. Long streams of divine light emanated from his back and gently waved in the stale air of the long abandoned church.
"Sorcledes," Stated the timeless voice, a greeting and an acknowledgement at the same time.
Sorcledes fell to one knee immediately. Overcome by absolute reverence; he spoke barely above a whisper. "Lovely Tyrael..." He clasped his hands together and looked in awe up at the figure in front of him, whose ethereal wings pierced the gloom of the desecrated sanctuary.
"I know of your world's plight, noble hero. I shall grant you the aid that I can. This is your charge, though I shall tell you how you may banish your foe," Tyrael spoke.
Sorcledes looked at Tyrael with an expression of adoration and gratitude of a true man of the faith. "Th...Thank you Tyrael..."
Tyrael opened his mouth and let out something that seemed like a sigh and then stared into Sorcledes' eyes. "Your thanks may be premature. To prevent Diablo's return he must be contained."
Tyrael saw the questioning in Sorcledes' gaze and began to elaborate. "Diablo's body must be destroyed first, and that you shall do, with the assistance of your blade. I will imbue it with divine energy. The energy, while physically harmless, will stun him for a short period of time. The duration of this effect is limited though, and you will need to be quick with your sword to renew it. "
Tyrael stopped, almost sadly, as he considered the rest of his instruction and explanation. "However.you'll be more concerned with the implications of the containment. Diablo, as all entities not of your world, has two parts to his presence here- he does not merely cease to exist when his body is destroyed. His soul is immortal and will find a new human body, willing or not, to possess, and eventually morph into his own form."
As Tyrael paused one final time in his speech, Sorcledes felt himself growing older...grayer. Unsure.
"You must be that body. ."
-~*v*~-
Sorcledes' mind reeled. Comprehension became his immediate enemy, the consequences of such an act playing out over and over again in his mind. Sorcledes knew now what Tyrael wished him to do. He spoke with a shockingly resolute tone. "I understand, your holiness."
"Your courage is boundless, hero. I promise you that your act will be remembered.," Tyrael said, with the slightest hint of fatalism.
Sorcledes remained as emotionless as a man condemned.
"Hand me your sword.", Tyrael ordered.
Sorcledes pulled his sword from the ground and handed it over to the divine entity hilt first. Tyrael grasped it firmly with a strong hand and held the weapon out sideways in front of him, the blade of the weapon mirroring the movements of Tyrael's ethereal wings of light. He waved his free hand slowly above the weapon, which began to radiate a soft white light in addition to the small sparks of lightning that jumped and flared across its surface. Tyrael's hand movements began to grow faster, and the aura of the blade increased in density and strength as Sorcledes watched on, mesmerized by the angel's movements.
That weapon would only be the first angelic blade that was blessed with the touch of Tyrael's divinity. Over one hundred years into the future, Tyrael would become a sword smith again to forge a second sacred, fated blade. Both weapons would be tainted with similar breathtaking tragedy.
After the sword had become saturated with heavenly energy and attunement Tyrael passed the blade back to Sorcledes...
.passing the symbolic cup to Sorcledes.
Tyrael spoke softly, "Have faith...," then vanished.
Sorcledes was left alone.
He closed his blue eyes again and rested a hand over his heart, feeling the full force of fate pressing into his chest with the crushing strength of an irrevocable destiny. His breath was short and shallow, and the plate armor he was wearing over his ring mail felt heavy for perhaps the first time in his life as a holy warrior of the Zakarum church.
All too soon Sorcledes was compelled to unclose his eyes. He gripped his sword tightly and soon thick, resonating steps sounded out through the large church as he was drawn irresistibly forward to the end of his humanly existence on Sanctuary.
Those who are exalted will be humbled, and those who are humble will be exalted. This line from the Bible is true for everyone to some extent in many ways, only one of which Sorcledes would discover in his near future.
Diablo was not the only one out of luck.
-~*v*~-
Clap...Clap...Clap... Sorcledes exhaled with every step as he moved closer to confrontation... His thick plate greaves sounded heavily on the floor as he walked. Clap. Clap. Clap. The dull ringing of metal striking hardened earth, over and over again. Desolate, yet resigned. Remembrance.
The huge church base had thankfully been relieved of its original occupants, save one heavily muscled, ram-horned powerhouse bastard who unknowingly lay in wait for Sorcledes' attack.
He carried on. Step by step, awaiting the endless infinite...
Until his weary blue eyes chanced to land on a far away dull gleam of black energy.
The dark altar.
Also known as the altar of blackness, the dark altar was once a holy relic. Though it had been perverted from its angelloid state to its current demonic existence many ages ago, it still held a palpable aura of despair, which Sorcledes felt even from his present distance away from the altar.
As he came closer to the altar, he lost himself in his thoughts about the damned relic. Sorcledes did not know for who or what the altar was currently used for, but he did feel now a heightened sense of what he felt before, despair now harmonized with a pained feeling of incomprehensible loss and vile betrayal seeping from deep within the altar, like dark tears.
Before the charismatic Zakarum priests and their paladin protectors began their campaign for conversion, another order existed within the church...the ancient order of the fanatical Crusaders. The tenacious present day Zakarum seemed tolerant in comparison to the bigoted Crusaders of many yesterdays ago. Their strength and sheer will were unmatched, yet their hearts were tainted by their depravity and brutality. The altar was used to anoint Crusaders and charge them with their 'holy' task, but Sorcledes sensed that this may have only been a front, that its true purpose may lay elsewhere.
As he reached the dark altar, he held his blade out in front of himself to penetrate the gloom that blocked his sight. In many places ancient runes were scrawled in gold, recognizable but completely unreadable through the perverting bloodlines that ran cruelly through them. A blackened silver bell hung in the center of the altar, its tongue made of splintered bone. Sorcledes bit his lip. He now realized exactly what the dark altar's corrupted purpose was, and it chilled him. The time was now. He reached for the tongue and struck it boldly against the metal of the bell.
Also, please, no flames (not that you /wonderful/ people would do that.) this is my first semi real fanfic, so constructive criticism is welcome, but no_flames. Thank you, and have a nice day.
-~*v*~- Sorcledes gripped the hilt of his ice blue sword, and then drew it out of its scabbard with the ease of a much preformed move. He thrust it carefully into the hardened earth floor and raised a thick chain gloved finger to his cracked lips. His Prussian blue eyes closed, and he exhaled. Breathing in again, Sorcledes slowly opened his eyelids and began to move.
He reached two fingers to his sword, the wrought chain link iron of the ring mail clinking softly as it extended to allow for the movement. He blessed the blade, running his fingers lightly down its smooth metal surface, a soft yellow glow trailing in their wake, his blade now enchanted with the elemental power of lightning.
Securing his heavy belt firmly around his waist Sorcledes checked to make sure that the pots of full rejuvenation were ready and waiting for use when he would need them. The thin wisps of electricity emanating from his enchanted blade reflected off the sides of the small glass containers which held the saving liquids. He ran his hand across them, counting, to make sure there was a full set of eight potions there.
And then he prayed. Sorcledes clasped his hands together and begged for assistance in performing his impossibly difficult task. His voice was low and scratchy but still carried out his words with clarity- he spoke his plea to Tyrael.
"Blessed Tyrael, I come to thee in worship, but to also beg for thy holy assistance. For thy reach is great, And thy antonym - the powers of hell, Amass their leaders in their lord Diablo, To destroy the fair world which you're pure kin created. I call for your aid in vanquishing this evil. My muscle has not the strength to destroy it alone; And the metals of my weapon have not the power to annihilate it. Tyrael, as thy humble servant, I beg of your help! Tyrael..."
And lo! A flash of unearthly white! The angelic visage appeared before Sorcledes, Tyrael, in all of his heavenly beauty. Long streams of divine light emanated from his back and gently waved in the stale air of the long abandoned church.
"Sorcledes," Stated the timeless voice, a greeting and an acknowledgement at the same time.
Sorcledes fell to one knee immediately. Overcome by absolute reverence; he spoke barely above a whisper. "Lovely Tyrael..." He clasped his hands together and looked in awe up at the figure in front of him, whose ethereal wings pierced the gloom of the desecrated sanctuary.
"I know of your world's plight, noble hero. I shall grant you the aid that I can. This is your charge, though I shall tell you how you may banish your foe," Tyrael spoke.
Sorcledes looked at Tyrael with an expression of adoration and gratitude of a true man of the faith. "Th...Thank you Tyrael..."
Tyrael opened his mouth and let out something that seemed like a sigh and then stared into Sorcledes' eyes. "Your thanks may be premature. To prevent Diablo's return he must be contained."
Tyrael saw the questioning in Sorcledes' gaze and began to elaborate. "Diablo's body must be destroyed first, and that you shall do, with the assistance of your blade. I will imbue it with divine energy. The energy, while physically harmless, will stun him for a short period of time. The duration of this effect is limited though, and you will need to be quick with your sword to renew it. "
Tyrael stopped, almost sadly, as he considered the rest of his instruction and explanation. "However.you'll be more concerned with the implications of the containment. Diablo, as all entities not of your world, has two parts to his presence here- he does not merely cease to exist when his body is destroyed. His soul is immortal and will find a new human body, willing or not, to possess, and eventually morph into his own form."
As Tyrael paused one final time in his speech, Sorcledes felt himself growing older...grayer. Unsure.
"You must be that body. ."
-~*v*~-
Sorcledes' mind reeled. Comprehension became his immediate enemy, the consequences of such an act playing out over and over again in his mind. Sorcledes knew now what Tyrael wished him to do. He spoke with a shockingly resolute tone. "I understand, your holiness."
"Your courage is boundless, hero. I promise you that your act will be remembered.," Tyrael said, with the slightest hint of fatalism.
Sorcledes remained as emotionless as a man condemned.
"Hand me your sword.", Tyrael ordered.
Sorcledes pulled his sword from the ground and handed it over to the divine entity hilt first. Tyrael grasped it firmly with a strong hand and held the weapon out sideways in front of him, the blade of the weapon mirroring the movements of Tyrael's ethereal wings of light. He waved his free hand slowly above the weapon, which began to radiate a soft white light in addition to the small sparks of lightning that jumped and flared across its surface. Tyrael's hand movements began to grow faster, and the aura of the blade increased in density and strength as Sorcledes watched on, mesmerized by the angel's movements.
That weapon would only be the first angelic blade that was blessed with the touch of Tyrael's divinity. Over one hundred years into the future, Tyrael would become a sword smith again to forge a second sacred, fated blade. Both weapons would be tainted with similar breathtaking tragedy.
After the sword had become saturated with heavenly energy and attunement Tyrael passed the blade back to Sorcledes...
.passing the symbolic cup to Sorcledes.
Tyrael spoke softly, "Have faith...," then vanished.
Sorcledes was left alone.
He closed his blue eyes again and rested a hand over his heart, feeling the full force of fate pressing into his chest with the crushing strength of an irrevocable destiny. His breath was short and shallow, and the plate armor he was wearing over his ring mail felt heavy for perhaps the first time in his life as a holy warrior of the Zakarum church.
All too soon Sorcledes was compelled to unclose his eyes. He gripped his sword tightly and soon thick, resonating steps sounded out through the large church as he was drawn irresistibly forward to the end of his humanly existence on Sanctuary.
Those who are exalted will be humbled, and those who are humble will be exalted. This line from the Bible is true for everyone to some extent in many ways, only one of which Sorcledes would discover in his near future.
Diablo was not the only one out of luck.
-~*v*~-
Clap...Clap...Clap... Sorcledes exhaled with every step as he moved closer to confrontation... His thick plate greaves sounded heavily on the floor as he walked. Clap. Clap. Clap. The dull ringing of metal striking hardened earth, over and over again. Desolate, yet resigned. Remembrance.
The huge church base had thankfully been relieved of its original occupants, save one heavily muscled, ram-horned powerhouse bastard who unknowingly lay in wait for Sorcledes' attack.
He carried on. Step by step, awaiting the endless infinite...
Until his weary blue eyes chanced to land on a far away dull gleam of black energy.
The dark altar.
Also known as the altar of blackness, the dark altar was once a holy relic. Though it had been perverted from its angelloid state to its current demonic existence many ages ago, it still held a palpable aura of despair, which Sorcledes felt even from his present distance away from the altar.
As he came closer to the altar, he lost himself in his thoughts about the damned relic. Sorcledes did not know for who or what the altar was currently used for, but he did feel now a heightened sense of what he felt before, despair now harmonized with a pained feeling of incomprehensible loss and vile betrayal seeping from deep within the altar, like dark tears.
Before the charismatic Zakarum priests and their paladin protectors began their campaign for conversion, another order existed within the church...the ancient order of the fanatical Crusaders. The tenacious present day Zakarum seemed tolerant in comparison to the bigoted Crusaders of many yesterdays ago. Their strength and sheer will were unmatched, yet their hearts were tainted by their depravity and brutality. The altar was used to anoint Crusaders and charge them with their 'holy' task, but Sorcledes sensed that this may have only been a front, that its true purpose may lay elsewhere.
As he reached the dark altar, he held his blade out in front of himself to penetrate the gloom that blocked his sight. In many places ancient runes were scrawled in gold, recognizable but completely unreadable through the perverting bloodlines that ran cruelly through them. A blackened silver bell hung in the center of the altar, its tongue made of splintered bone. Sorcledes bit his lip. He now realized exactly what the dark altar's corrupted purpose was, and it chilled him. The time was now. He reached for the tongue and struck it boldly against the metal of the bell.