II. The paladin
If Frost was young and brash, Luther was everything Frost was not. He was a paladin, a holy warrior in service to the Light, looking to ease the burden of Man, and help the less fortunate any way he could. He had spent the bulk of his thirty years patrolling hamlets, warding off bandits, healing the sick, and preaching of the Light to all he encountered.
The sight of a paladin in battle was one to behold, as Luther had proven countless times against brigandines and bandits that dared prey on the common man within reach of Luther's trusty scepter. On countless occasions, Luther would come across some farmer under attack from a pack of lawless thieves. One moment the farmer would be cowering in fear, being beaten violently only to hear the sound that resembled a church choir hitting a single note. This sound was accompanied by the sight of a man in shining plate armor charging into battle with a speed that seemed quicker than the eye, a trail of duplicate shadows of the paladin left in his wake, a orange hued aura encasing him.
Upon entering the fray, Luther would swing his golden scepter at lightning speed, the red cap of the weapon nearly invisible from the speed of the flurry of blows. The first round of this zealous attack were usually enough to kill, and if it didn't happen to finish the target, on occasion the very heavens themselves would open and strike down Luther's enemies in a brilliant flash of light. So went the battles against him, charging in, and the flurry of blows that struck all around him until no creatures of darkness were left standing.
After such a battle, Luther would turn to help the oppressed, and if they were injured, he would use the powers of Light to heal them, a warm, soothing calmness would emanate from him, relieving the injured. So went Luther's life, battling the evil in men, and lifting the spirits of those around him. He had never become a member of any military force, though he had been courted by several, from royal guards to mere mercenaries. He knew that a military lifestyle would ultimately interfere with his divine duties. He had even been approached by the Holy Knights of Zakarum when he had received the Blessed Hand, a legendary weapon only bestowed on the greatest champions of the light, and consecrated by the High Council themselves.
He had met with the Captain of the Knights, but refused the offer on learning that the Knights were made to stay in Kurast to protect the soulstone of one of the Prime Evils. Luther would not be tethered anywhere, he would come and go as he pleased, moving to places where he felt his talents were most needed. Luther and his brand new scepter then left his homeland of Kurast mournfully, and headed west.
The years of war and strife had taken its toll on the paladin, though he was strong in his beliefs, for every mortal life that ended with a blow from his weapons, Luther felt he lost something. Although no quarter could be given to those that were evil, it still pained him, the amount of blood that was on his hands. I have only done what had to be done, Luther told himself, letting his mind wander as he sat in a small pub, in a small western hamlet, idly listening to the banter around him.
Luther had once been a very different man, a merciful man. He had grown up, learning of the church and Zakarum and the Light, and had known at a young age he was destined to be a paladin. He had always enjoyed helping others. His youth had been uneventful, he had squired with a knight in the army, and upon being knighted himself, and he had traveled with a wandering friar instead of entering the service until he obtained the rank of paladin.
Being only eighteen years old, and full of his youth, he had traveled a bit north from his homeland, coming across a small village. Seeing they had no priest, and had troubles with the occasional bandit, he had stayed, making a home there. He protected and taught these people, and became one with them. Not long after his twenty first birthday he finally gathered the nerve to approach a beautiful woman in the village. He had been in love with her for nearly his entire time here, but didn't have the courage to speak with her. She was a few inches shorter than Luther, with raven black hair, dark eyes that spoke to him of mystery, and smooth bronzed skin.
It wasn't long after their courtship began before they had become inseparable. Soon followed their marriage. Luther felt that his life was totally complete, lacking nothing, until the day that his beautiful bride had announced to him that she was with child. Luther spent her pregnancy dreaming of the little boy that would come, a little Luther, someone he could pass his armor and values to, someone that could become a paladin, maybe creating a line of paladins that would serve for generations to come.
The day of his dreams finally arrived, his life changing forever, in ways Luther would not have even imagined. His wife had trouble birthing his little boy. His child had arrived in the world in perfect health, but the baby's mother was terribly injured in the process. In the first few days of the baby's life, his mother had developed an infection the midwife couldn't heal. Luther had used every healing potion, salve, and prayer he could think of to no avail. He tried to cleanse her body of the infection, and once again met with failure. Soon after, on his little boy's fifth day of life, she passed on to the heavens.
Luther's very soul screamed to the heavens, demanding to know why his love was taken from him. The answer from above began to cry. His little boy lives, his little warrior. Luther knew his duty, he must show his new son the ways of the world. Luther set his heart to honor his wife with the deeds his son would achieve, deeds only possible from the virtues Luther would teach him.
Life went on for Luther, the women of the village helping him to raise the small boy he had named Milabrega, after the legendary paladin. Not long before Milabrega's first birthday, there had been rumors of a rash of bandits attacking nearby villages. Luther knew he would have to go search out these bandits. Not only was his honor at stake, but the safety of his son as well.
Luther embarked, leaving Milabrega in the care of his wife's best friend. Soon he came across pillaged lands, farms burnt. These bandits were a nasty lot. Luther strode forward, the sunlight glinting off the large brass cross attached to the breastplate of his armor. Before starting towards a burning homestead, Luther lifted his large paladin shield up towards the sky. With a few muttered words of prayer, the large shield carved with the image of two dueling snakes was replaced by a translucent, glowing object with a large brilliant cross situated in the center of it. Securing his grip on his now blessed, holy shield, he walked forward, prepared for whatever he met.
Luther had made it only a few steps when he saw a sudden blur to his left, and scantily escaped the deadly arc of a scythe as it swooshed through the air where he was just standing. At the same time a large burly man leapt from the bushes, wielding an axe in each hand. Luther raised his shield, deflecting the blow, though staggering a little from the strength of this large brute. Before Luther could gather himself, he felt the sting of blades smashing into his back, deflecting off his armor. A third man was standing behind him, using throwing knives to attack from a distance.
Luther felt the effect of his holy aura kick in. The world around him seemed to slow considerably as the orange hue covered him. He seemed to move with incredible speed, dodging the axe man's blows deftly. The man with the scythe had recovered from his arcing miss, shifting the blade around so that it pointed towards Luther's feet. The blade started to move towards Luther, drawing his attention. The wielder was focused on the movement of the blade, not bothering to watch Luther. Summoning his strength, Luther brought his shield tight against his body, and then forcefully swung it outward, smashing the glowing holy shield directly into the man's face. The impact broke the man's nose, removed most of his teeth, and fatally cracked his skull. The force propelled the man backwards, his already dead hand still gripping the scythe. The deadly bladed farm tool flew backwards and up, mere breaths away from Luther's legs.
The man with the axe managed to connect a blow against Luther's shoulder, right as his partner was tasting shield. The scythe flying back drew the axe man's attention, startling him. This was all Luther needed. He called on the powers of the elements, enchanting his weapon with all the powers of creation. Lightning, fire, and ice all danced about the head of the scepter, vying for dominance. Luther used the force of the blow to his shoulder to create as powerful of a backswing as he could achieve. As the axe man tried to figure out what was going on, Luther brought the scepter down onto his target's head. The elemental enchantments froze, shock, and burnt the man all at the same time. The scepter cleaved through flesh and bone, bursting the man's head, leaving nothing but a bloody mess behind.
The battle darts had bit at Luther's back continuously during the quick battle, stinging him. None had pierced his armor, but they were striking extremely hard, the thrower was quite strong. Determined to finish the battle, Luther turned and charged with the insane speed paladins are known for, striking this last enemy. The man was thrown back several feet, and landed on his back. Luther quickly closed the gap, and bore down on the man.
Before dealing the final blow, the man had begged for his life, pleaded with Luther, swearing he would never do anything wrong again, with Luther's scepter looming over his head. The bandit had explained they were simple thieves, just preying on the weak. Luther had felt a moment of weakness, and allowed to man to live, telling him to flee and never to return.
Luther had continued on, dispatching a few more bands as he went, and buried more innocent victims than he would care to count. The bands were part of a large gang that had been ran out of their usual haunts by royal guards, and decided to give country life a go. They ravaged the lands and killed all that stood in their way.
Luther had been away for a few weeks when he finally decided he had gotten his message across. A score of these bandits lie in the ground, and the rest fled him on sight, quickly disappearing into the thickets surrounding the farmlands. Luther trudged his way back home, glad to see a few of the braver locals had ventured back in and begun rebuilding. Luther turned over a small amulet, a token taken from one of the bandits. It gave the wearer a small amount of strength. He had intended to give it to Milabrega.
As Luther came into sight of his small village home, a terrible sight met his eyes. His peaceful village where he had loved his wife, and raised his son, had been burnt horribly. The entire village had been laid to waste. Smoke wafted up from charred remains of the small huts that Luther had come to see as happy homes. Luther raced forward, moving at blinding speed, into the middle of the village. Charred remains waited his senses, the smell of death hanging heavy in the air.
Many of the men had been disemboweled and apparently burnt where they fell. The savage beasts had been more careful with the women of the village. A large swath of ground had been cleared of debris, carefully cleaned so that the fire wouldn't spread to the macabre shrine left there. The women had apparently been raped; clothes ripped from their bodies, and most had died when their throat was slashed.
The children were stacked up at the edge of a hut, now a smoldering crater. It appeared the children had been used for weapon training; many of the little bodies were missing limbs. Luther could see how the kids were running through the village in fear, being cut down as nothing more than mild entertainment for the men waiting their turn to rape a woman. Luther saw arrows, javelins, and throwing axes lodged in little bodies.
Horror gripped Luther, then panic, as he frantically searched for signs of his son. Luther threw aside body after body of little children he had known, some he had even blessed at their birth. Towards the bottom of the dozen or so bodies, he came across the sight that he feared most, the sight he had to see. In a bloody mess lay his little boy, his little warrior Milly. Death seemed to have come gently for him, his face nearly in a smile, and no sign of fear evident. His last moments of life were most painful, from the looks of him.
An arrow had pierced through Milly's stomach, and his left arm had been severed. Luther lifted the little body, holding it close to him, what little blood left in his little body trickling down Luther's armor.
Luther took his son and sat in the ruins of his home, the home where the boy had been born, the house where Luther had first made love to his wife. The place where his love's life had been cut short, and now the place where he held his dead son. Luther cried out in pain, horror, and frustration from losing all he had gained in this quiet place. The heavens themselves seem to mourn with the holy warrior, as clouds cried painful tears of rain down on the scarred earth.
Unlike many others in his position, Luther did not abandon his ways or his belief in the Light. It was all he had left, he had lost all else he loved in the world, and could not lose the last thing he had, his faith. Luther cleaned up all he could, blessing the dead, praying for them before placing them in a large mass grave he had dug out. Every body he put in the cold ground caused his rage to build. Many of the men were more or less shoveled in, their bodies so badly burnt they crumbled when touched. The women tore him up the most, seeing their desecrated bodies, imagining the horror they experienced. After blessing the last of the dead, he covered the pit, placing a simple marker, remembering these people that had become his family.
Luther buried his son in a grave next to his wife, tears stinging his eyes. He had always imagined it would be Milabrega digging this hole for his father, not father for son. Guilt bit at Luther's soul, the doubts coming creeping in like a dark stalker, whispering to him it was his fault for leaving, it was his fault for being alive while his son was dead. Bloodlust burned in Luther's soul, his spirit calling for vengeance. I vow to avenge your death, little one, Luther grimly thought as he finished the grave, placing a marker.
Luther struck out, quickly gaining leads on the culprits. It would seem the bandit band was quite large. Luther had eliminated enough of them to gain some attention from them. A mass of them had gathered up and were hunting Luther as he was hunting the other bandits. They had scouted around, and found out where Luther lived, and then destroyed his home. Luther had wondered where they had found out who it was that was killing squads of bandits in the first place, and the answer came swiftly.
Luther had walked into the middle of a clearing, only to discover he was surrounded. The band had seen him coming and laid a trap for the paladin. Among the faces Luther gazed on as he prepared for battle was none other than the very man he had let escape. Luther had spared this man's life, and instead of repenting and changing his ways, he ran back to his buddies, helped them exact revenge.
Luther's mercy had came back to haunt him. If he had killed this one man, he might have destroyed the entire group eventually, wiping their scum from the earth. His son might still draw breath, his friends, might still live. Luther's anger rose to new heights. The battle was furious and bloody. Soon after the first swing, Luther stood in the middle of the clearing, a few dozen bodies strewn about, almost entirely covered in the blood of his son's killers. The man that had betrayed him, took his act of kindness and turned it into something of pure evil, laid at Luther's feet, most of his torso missing from the savagery of Luther's blows. Luther, still in battle rage, lifted his arms to the heavens, letting loose a scream more frightening than any barbarian war cry. The sky flashed with light as lightning screamed down repeatedly striking the dead bodies of his slain enemies.
After the rage and pain subsided from Luther, he traveled back to his homeland of Kurast where he spent some time in the temples, praying for forgiveness for his rage and the acts he committed with vengeance in his heart. With the passing of time, Luther came to terms with his loss, and recommitted himself to the Light. He then went to the deserts to seek out evil wherever it was, vowed to never let another suffer the pain he had. He learned from his experience that evil must be destroyed and mercy cannot be afforded.
Luther came to from his jog down memory lane, his senses returning to the cramped little pub situated in the front room of a small country inn. Luther bit back the dampness he felt forming around his eyes, as it always did when he thought of loved ones past. Thankfully, the smoke and haze that hung in the air prevented anyone from noticing.
"I heard that this dark wanderer guy passed through heading towards Lut Golein, not only that, but I heard he's the spirit of Diablo himself!" a large redheaded man commented to his burly drinking partner.
Luther turned from the small wooden bar and faced the heavy oak table directly behind him, where the two men were discussing the happenings.
"Is that so? You did hear about the village he supposedly burned? The Sisters said it was overrun with undead when they got there, and the survivors said he was the last there" the second man said.
"What would we do without the Sisters?" the redhead mused.
"We'd all be dead, that's what!" came the reply.
"I'm sorry, but who are the sisters you're talking about?" Luther asked the men.
"Ahh a paladin! You heard bout the trouble round here too eh? The Sisters of the Sightless Eye, damn fine archers, rival even the amazons, so I've heard. They patrol round here, keeping us farmers safe from the demons and walking dead that have started appearing lately" the second man stated.
"They have a camp a few miles up, if you're looking to lend a blade in the battle, that'd be the place to start I'd reckon, though be careful. The Sisters patrol, but there are still beasts and demons wandering out there" the redhead informed Luther.
"Thank you, may the Light bless you both" Luther said, placing a few coins on the bar and heading out the door.
Every since the tragedy, Luther has sought out evil and destroyed it. He wanted nothing more than to battle great evil, and destroy it with the power of Light. What greater evil could there be than a Prime Evil himself? The rumors could be wrong, but something was becoming clear as Luther traveled in the direction where the Sisters had supposedly had camp. Evil was at work here, nature itself seemed more twisted and evil with every footstep Luther took. Trees had become gnarled and twisted, casting unnatural shadows. The wind blew with a deep chill, howling like an enraged monster around the tortured landscape. Luther sensed something moving along the shadows on occasion. A paladin is not given to fear, what he felt was the aura of death, the essence of Terror. Luther came in sight of the small barricaded camp, and knew his story was only about to begin.