I don't own Diablo... I don't even own shoes. This is a story starting in act II of Diablo 2, and depending on reception I hope to finish it soon...ish? Please rate, review and enjoy
Prologue
The brew was far too strong. Rhet wrinkled his nose as he raised the steaming mug to his lips a second time, hoping it would become easier to swallow if he kept drinking – it didn't.
"Where did you say you were from, stranger?" the tavern-owner hazarded. Rhet looked up from the odd concoction he'd been served and replied coolly; "I didn't".
The bartender shifted uneasily, causing his ample belly to wobble. Obviously Rhet's presence was disturbing to his rustic sensibilities. Rhet didn't blame him for feeling uncomfortable; discomfort was a feeling that seemed to follow him like a particularly curious storm-cloud. He mused for a moment, before placing one of his black gauntleted hands on the bar counter and sighing audibly. "I apologise," he started. "I don't usually interact with lively people. You could call it an occupational hazard."
The bartender seemed to relax a little and, leaning forward against the bar counter, he seemed to find his voice again. "I'm guessin' you don't do much work with people then?" his voice wavered, causing Rhet to chuckle quietly. "No." His voice took on an ominous tone. "People in my line of work have a tendency to avoid things with a heartbeat." He paused for effect.
The bartender's bottom lip trembled, which made a few of his chins bob in apparent agreement. "You a mortician then?" his voice cracked just enough to make Rhet feel validated in his performance; he carded his bone-white hair, flashed a set of impossibly perfect teeth and fixed the bartender with an emerald gaze. "More like a priest"
The bartender jerked slightly with surprise. Rhet couldn't take credit for it though, because the tavern door had been flung open causing a loud slam; Zakurah had a habit of making dramatic entrances.
Her whitesteel greaves echoed as she strode in, armour glinting, her brown hair behaving – as always – as if it was dying for attention. Her eyes met Rhet's, and he sighed again; her expression was always so imperious. "Rhet, why am I not surprised to find you here?" it wasn't a question, "You always find the darkest corner to hide in." Rhet cocked an ivory brow, "The glare from your ostentatious armour hurts my eyes, Zakurah." She glared at him; "At least I don't make villagers feel like they're talking to hell-spawn."
"And I don't make villagers feel like their souls are damned for eating meat on a Sunday," Rhet shot back; the corner of his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin, a rare sight for Zakurah, who huffed in mock desperation and dropped the issue. Obviously the exchange boosted the tavern-owner's confidence, because he seemed to find his voice as Zakurah sat down on the stool beside Rhet. "You two are an interesting couple."
The silence that filled the room was deafening. The air had suddenly grown thick, and before the bartender could be made aware of his mistake, Rhet had risen, and in one swift motion, swept out of the tavern. His long black cloak trailed him out of the door, which closed noiselessly behind him.
"Did I miss something?" the bartender asked thickly, Zakurah sighed and slumped forward as much as her shining breast-plate would allow. "I don't think you should pry here ser," she looked over to Rhet's mug, and something indecipherable flitted across her features. "It may get you killed ..."
That was enough to shut the tavern-owner up.
-oo00oo-
Akrimox was frustrated; he disembowelled a passing demon with one claw to illustrate his point. The little creature's entrails hit the brimstone floor with a wet, splattering sound. Akrimox's minions chattered and thronged, climbing over each other to escape their master's grasp. He did so enjoy when they scurried like that; it gave him a helpful distraction from the sordid state of things as they stood. Slumping down in his throne he raised a hand and made a cupping motion; instantly, a harpy was at his side, offering him a skull filled with human blood. "Disappear whore," he snarled, "before I violate your insides as well." The harpy did not need to be told twice, half-woman and half-bird she made her escape as swiftly as her bony, feathered wings would allow. Akrimox drained the skull and crushed it, hoping that he might relieve some of his frustration through violence – no such luck. His thoughts turned to the promise he'd made to his master and his clawed fingers sank into the stone throne like a knife into butter. He found himself to be in a very difficult situation but there was nothing for it as of yet. Enormous muscles rippled and the monstrous form lifted itself from its throne, the demon lord descended skeletal stairs and sauntered off in search of something he could fuck, kill or eat; and there was no rule that stated one unlucky stygian whore couldn't fill all three of those roles.
—oo00oo—
"Must you keep following me?" Rhet groused as Zakurah once again strode up behind him. She puffed up her chest and glared at him; she hated when he noticed her without even turning around. "Stop trying to be ominous would you?" she half-commanded half-pleaded. "Stop being so easy so to detect." He shot back without hesitation. Zakurah always had a feeling that Rhet's sharp tongue would get him killed, although killing him would be an almost impossible feat for anyone short of Diablo himself, she still didn't enjoy having to worry about him being incinerated by some sorcerer he had undoubtedly succeeded in pissing off.
Shaking off her defensive reactions, Zakurah softened her voice. "Please, Rhet," she started, "constantly bickering achieves nothing and we only wear ourselves down." He seemed to shift his feet as if he felt uncomfortable, then as soon as the emotion had shown it was gone again. "Fine," he said, "but no more of that awful brew;" he faked a gag, "it tastes like Devilkin blood." Zakurah sighed. "Fine," she said, "I'll buy you something imported from Kurast, just stop whinging." She turned on her heel and motioned for Rhet to follow; he hesitated for a moment, clicked his tongue, and followed suit.
The hangover Rhet experienced the next morning seemed the work of a particularly sadistic demon. He sat up in bed clutching his head and brushing white strands out of his reddened eyes. "I warned you," Zakurah's voice said from somewhere to his left. He replied with a grunt and an attempt to vault himself out of the bed, which failed.
"You really can't stop yourself when it comes to Kurast-brewed mead can you?" Zakurah queried jokingly. Rhet rubbed his eyes and looked up at her, as usual she was wearing her hair down and her armour reflected light that wasn't even there. Rhet looked down at himself, he noticed that he was naked and started searching for his robes and armour; both were haphazardly scattered around a wooden chair. Obviously in his drunkenness he had succeeded in falling out of his clothing, but not in packing or respecting his precious garb. He rose from the bed and mentally dispelled his hangover with a briefly uttered syllable. The magic swirled invisibly around him and cleansed his pain, instantly restoring the priest's sense of living balance. At the same time Zakurah blushed vermillion and spun around so fast that her hair could barely keep up. "Are you totally shameless!" she cried. Rhet blinked and looked down at his naked body, then back up, cocking an eyebrow "It's not my fault you attach perverted connotations to something natural." With that he sauntered across the room and set about pulling his clothes on. Zakurah winced as she heard the clinking of his bonemail vest. "It really is disgusting that you insist on wearing bones." She said without turning to face him. Rhet bristled, this topic had been a plague on him since the first time she had enquired as to 'what type of metal' his vest was made from. "Dread lord bones," he began, "are just as hard as your sanctified whitesteel paladin." He almost spat the last word. It was Zakurah's turn to tense up, "Rhet, I..." her voice trailed off as a distant sound rolled into the bedroom. Someone was screaming.
"EVELYN, NO. PLEASE GOD NO." A villager was on her knees, shrieking, in front of a gory mess that had obviously once been the girl named Evelyn. Rhet arrived first and stared at the desecrated body. Evelyn couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, her little body now smeared with blood and entrails pouring from where her belly should have been. Rhet regarded the corpse with a sombre expression as Zakurah jogged up behind him. Though she was a hardened warrior, Zakurah could not stifle her gasp at the sight. Evelyn had clearly been raped, her small frame was completely naked and there was a large gash between her legs that looked more like a rip than a cut. Worse though was her face. Her eyelids had been sliced off and her limbs had been tied at odd angles. She had either bled to death or died from the shock and pain; her limbs were still bound as if it didn't matter anymore. Zakurah – compelled by years of training and her holy charge – knelt next to the crying villager and laid a hand on the woman's shoulder. She seemed to struggle to find her words for a moment, but she felt she had to offer some comfort. "If you allow me ma'am, I will perform the rites to send her soul safely to the High Heavens." The woman sniffed and trembled in her yellow dress and apron, but managed a short nod. As Zakurah focussed on the corpse and began to chant with her palms together against her forehead, Rhet turned to the captain of the guard. " Ser Greiz," he began as the older man tore his eyes from little Evelyn, "I don't think that this was the work of a human." The greying captain stroked his goatee and met the taller man's eyes. "I agree. This looks like Radament's work." Rhet frowned, "Radament?" The name felt strangely familiar in his mouth although he did not know why. Greiz nodded, "He was once a Horadric mage of great skill. He was buried beneath Lut Gholein to safeguard the people of the desert, but when that wanderer came through the city, he..." Greiz trailed off and looked at the floor. "Rose from his grave." Rhet finished. Greiz nodded again and Rhet cursed "Trag'Oul damn it." Zakurah joined them having finished her prayer and consoled Evelyn's mother to the best of her ability. Greiz looked back up at Rhet, "We barricaded the sewers to keep him out of the city but," he motioned wordlessly to Evelyn's body, "obviously it didn't work." Rhet ran his fingers through his hair and Zakurah placed a comforting hand on Greiz's shoulder, telling him that he was not at fault. She turned to look at Rhet who met her gaze steadily, "We'll deal with this." He said as he nodded to her.
Half an hour later, Rhet sighed as he adjusted his gauntlets and greaves. The black metal glinted as if in anticipation of bloodshed. Zakurah stood beside him, expression stoic, armour shining as always. With sword and shield at the ready, she turned to look at Rhet, her face becoming questioning. A gust kicked up as Greiz undid the multiple wards and locks on the trapdoor to the sewers and levered it open, swirling Rhet's cloak around like a black shroud. He nodded to Zakurah, crossed his arms over his chest and dropped into the black sewers of Lut Gholein.