A/N: Sorry for the long delays between chapters. I have a lot of work with research, and getting into grad school, so I find very little time to update.

OoOoOoO

Dust and sand billowed around a short figure in the dark. Her rasping breath bristled across chapped lips, cracked and bleeding from weeks of intense travel through the harsh climate surrounding the Jewel City, Lut Gholein. Grunting, she wrapped her traveling cloak tighter around her small body in an attempt to keep warm against the frigid desert night.

"Ilzan, how much farther is it to this fucking temple?" she called to her guide. "If you're lying to me about these snakes, I swear I'll cut you" she threatened, unsheathing her enchanted stiletto as she did. The Arabian woman narrowed her doe brown eyes in anger when Ilzan didn't respond right away. The knife flared brilliantly with a fresh enchantment, illuminating her plain, soft features in a warm orange glow against the soft blue tint of the desert night. Arcanna wasn't playing around.

"Just an hour boss – the claw vipers nested in one of those old Horadrim mausoleums, only a bit past that set of dunes" Ilzan pointed directly ahead to a mass of sandy lumps in the distance. They were covered in an ethereal fog, painted a silver-blue under the midnight moon.

Unseen by the pair of adventurers lurked dozens of feline shapes. Veiled in fog and covered in darkened fur, the sabre cats would have been neigh invisible against the sandy backdrop, were they within human eyesight. As it was, the far more acute vision of the large cat beings alerted them to the human presence making their way towards them without fear of being seen in response. The scouting party kept a watchful eye on the human pair while they waited for the runner to return with the rest of the clan. Var'Shaan smiled in a predatory manner, thinking of the praise their queen would give him, for he had been the first to spot Arcanna and Ilzan.

He fingered his barbed whip handle in anticipation. Boss'll be very pleased with this catch. His hand claws shot out and retracted several times as Var'Shaan inspected them. He would need to sharpen them after the raid, he mused.

Arcanna sighed, stowing her stiletto in the intricately designed golden sheath at her hip. The brilliant shine of the sheath contrasted harshly against the flat metallic tinge of her light plated armor and the shimmering emerald Zann Esu sorceress dress underneath. Reaching behind her back, she retrieved a deadly looking war staff and walked on. Just an hour my ass. He said that three days ago, and I'm still walking in this damnable desert. Anger filled her facial features, and she contorted her mouth in a sneer. Some of her sorceress brethren mocked her emotionally charged persona, but she never gave them a second thought. They had never experienced the exhilaration that was true rage. And rage… well that was something she could use. Cackling to herself, she remembered her placement in the last Zann Esu tournament. She didn't win; on the contrary she placed barely in the top third of combatants, but she had accomplished her goal. She beat out every witch from her clan. They couldn't beat me then, and these snakes won't hold up to me now.

Ilzan dutifully followed his leader towards the eerily translucent fog. The woman was driven, he'd give her that much. Most had outright laughed at her when she announced her destination to the mercenary captain just under a month ago. Claw vipers were deadly creatures, possessing amazing strength and agility, an impressive pack-hunting intelligence, and limited magical abilities. To steal an artifact, any artifact, from their main temple would result in a quick death for most would-be adventurers. Most of Greiz's mercenaries had laughed at her to her face. Ilzan wiped dried salt from his forehead, eager for the adventure sure to come. He wasn't like most of the dirty, hardly skilled mercenaries under Greiz. Gazing longingly at the yari in his hands, he felt confidence flush through him. Hone Sundan was a family heirloom, dating back at least eight generations, passed from father to first-born son until the spear came into his possession. No, he thought, not like most mercenaries at all.

The desert wind howled eerily across the sand. Sabre cats amassed behind sand dunes while adventurers bravely marched towards their goal. Blood would be spilled this night.

OoOoOoO

Intense pain was the only thing she could remember. A quick burst of light, a disorienting feeling of elevation, but mostly intense pain. Mutilated bodies lay strewn about her in sickening mayhem. The blackened pool of coagulated blood from fallen creatures, demon and human alike, had spread across the entire floor, caking the area with a sticky gel. There had been a battle here. A terribly costly battle for both sides, by the looks of it.

Shivering from an unexpectedly cold draft, she realized she was nude, save a small bit of red cloth covering her crotch. Well this simply won't do. Shoulders slumped in resignation as the immensely beautiful woman attempted to stand. Her limbs had already started to atrophy, causing her to stumble before she used a nearly shattered staff to support herself standing up. Finally standing, she surveyed the carnage around her in shock, with a slight bit of guilty pleasure. Battle seemed a familiar concept, and she felt a longing to return to it. In that instant she knew she was a warrior left for dead.

By luck, or more precisely, another's misfortune, an abandoned pack was readily available on the ground not too far from the woman. Fierce grumbling reminded her that she hadn't eaten in a very long time, so she made her way to the treasured pack. Most travelers and warriors kept foodstuffs in their bags, and she was not above scavenging in her weakened state. She prayed in thanks, to whom she didn't really know or care, when the beaten leather bag spilled stale bread, dried meat, and two water pouches.

Ravenously devouring the small cache of food, she failed to spot the last item in the bag until she had finished off the meat, bread, and an entire water pouch. Folded neatly, obscured from immediate sight at the bottom of the pack, lay a simple cloak. It was made for a larger man, she thought, thick, and colored a creamy white. Checking the sides, neckline, and hem of the cloak revealed none of the magical runes available on such pieces of armor– not even the common ones. The cloak she happened upon was completely ordinary, offering little in the way of protection in a fight. No matter. At least I won't have to run around unclothed anymore.

Donning the cloak proved to be more difficult than planned. Her weak arm could barely lift the heavy article of clothing over her head. She tried several times, but she knew that she couldn't manage it without two limbs. Grunting, she dropped the almost useless staff, letting herself fall to the ground as well. Utilizing both hands now, she slipped each arm into a sleeve, and fastened the strings in the front to keep it from slipping open. She didn't want to give some random passer-by a show if she could help it. Not that it wouldn't be funny. An innocent smile caressed her face. Despite circumstances, she was happy.

Freshly clothed and hunger satisfied, an overwhelming wave of drowsiness overcame her. Staving off the powerful desire to sleep, she stood without the aid of the broken staff, now feeling some of her lost strength returning. Unnatural recovery didn't faze her as she began her trek to the surface; the speedy reversal of her atrophied limbs didn't strike her as odd because she didn't have anything as base of comparison. She simply realized she was getting stronger, and continued onward. Careful onlookers however, would certainly gawk at her visibly expanding musculature. Limping turned to hurried shuffling, and eventually a sauntering walk as her body mended itself. Free of pain, she even began skipping, giggling as a child through blood entrenched halls, and up grisly bone staircases. Blood, she realized, brought her particular comfort. It brought a familiar warmth to her soul, though at the back of her mind, something told her that this newfound comfort was wrong. Much later she would be able to put a name to this little voice, but for now she ignored it, preferring to bask in the simple joy of her happy-go-lucky stroll.

Up was the direction that seemed most natural to her, so up was the direction she went. Wandering aimlessly from level to level brought an acute sense of claustrophobia upon her: the ceilings were definitely hanging lower as she climbed the seemingly endless sets of stairs, she mentally noted. She grew increasingly uncomfortable with the low slung ceiling, crouching lower than she needed to continue her journey, sweat dripping down her newly formed muscles, but not from exertion. For the first time in her short memory, she was unhappy. She ceased skipping.

As with all unsavory feats, the trek to the top seemed to take much longer than the half hour that it really did. Panting lightly from the trip, the woman stretched her arms and legs, arching her back. Cool tingling breezed through her with the refreshing morning moisture of the open atmosphere. It's funny – that I find myself enjoying such simple things. She casually fingered her long, electric blue hair, noticing the color fading gently to a more natural reddish brown. Tangles presented themselves to her during her personal preening time. I'll have to take care of that later.

"You have some pretty strange colored hair, lady." a child's voice interrupted her musings.

She jumped back in surprise, startled at the sight of the boy more than the sound. He was young, perhaps thirteen, pale in complexion, but most disturbing was his wooden leg. It was beaten and didn't seem sturdy enough to hold him up, though it did. Green pants and matching vest adorned his small body, stance heavily favoring his natural limb.

"You've got a pretty strange leg" she replied. This was obviously not the polite thing to say. The boy frowned at her remark, clearly sensitive about the subject. Neither spoke. They watched each other, woman cocking her head to the left, boy cocking his to the right in parallel.

Teeth flashed into a quick grin. Whatever anger had just presented itself had clearly been replaced with a jovial feeling. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, my dear lady."

She found herself grinning as well. The boy was just too damned charming, despite his shady appearance. Her stomach rumbled and the boy frowned again. She saw his mouth moving, figuring he was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear him. Peculiar waves of painful euphoria washed over her suddenly and she fell to the ground, moaning all the while. What is this feeling? It burns intensely, yet I don't want it to stop. Her body convulsed beyond control, and she panicked. Her mind raced; what is going on! Her fingers, curled in fright, gouged large chunks of flesh off her hands with her taloned nails. Consciousness ebbed slowly, darkening her vision in delayed fashion. The faint white aura emanating from her body was the last thing she thought about before allowing her eyelids to close.

"Well that was weird" Wirt remarked.

She dreamed of things both familiar and unknown. It seemed as if everything about her was a strange duality.

OoOoOoO

Var'Shaan was pleased. His queen had given him command of the second-line troops. The others in her army were not happy, hissing and grunting like spoilt kittens as he paraded before them. To be given such a position, especially to one so new to the group, was a high honor indeed. He smiled to himself, as only a cat warrior can do. The others in the queen's army were pathetic, useless creatures. As if to emphasize his thought, a pair crossed his path, mumbling under their breaths how certain they were that Var'Shaan would lead them to their deaths. Stupid mongrels.

Var'Shaan eyed his forces, brimming with pride. His newly acquired minions were stupid, yes. But they could throw with a degree of accuracy, and that was all he needed them to do. His precious potions would do the rest.

Truthfully, the poisonous potions he created were probably the reason he was promoted. No other sabre cat could brew a poison potion as lethal and painful, as his. Var'Shaan's tail curled around his left leg in thought. His queen was fond of pain, particularly when it was inflicted upon her enemies. Var'Shaan's potion was concocted to fulfill her desires, and she had been most pleased. Though other poisons worked faster, had a perfect kill rate, or both, his queen had favored Var'Shaan's magically enhanced poisonous potion over all others, simply because she "liked the way their faces contorted in pain".

His stomach squirmed at the thought of his queen's appreciation for pain, specifically that of any who crossed her. She was particularly fond of her barbed whip, he remembered, striking bound victims with it, ripping chunks of flesh out with each lashing. His queen's habits were disgusting to him, but Var'Shaan was one sabre cat destined for greatness. Dealing with an unsavory master – temporary master – was simply a required step to his destiny.

He heard quick, light footsteps. Spinning on his heel, he faced the source of the noise, a runner from the queen. The creature's tongue hung out of his mouth, as if trying to lap up the cold air into his burning lungs. As he came closer, Var'Shaan picked out details of the runner – it was the same one he sent to notify the queen of the human travelers. Var'Shaan ruffled his fur in an amused disgust. Sabre cats had an intrinsic agility and dense musculature provided respectable strength, when compared to their human counterparts. But this came at the cost of endurance; sabre cats simply didn't have the circulatory or respiration capabilities to sustain prolonged exertion. To make this runner travel such a distance, only to report and be sent back immediately… Well that was just cruel.

"Sir" the runner began. His lungs were numb now, chest heaving to catch his breath. Even his tail and ears hung low. He was about to collapse.

"What are her orders?"

Gasping. "She says to kill them now. She will be here shortly, and she would be displeased if things weren't in order by the time she arrives." Both felines inwardly shuddered at the word displeased. Var'Shaan remembered the last time she was not pleased. He shuddered again. He would not end up like that.

"Var', something big is about to happen. Boss had that look in her eyes again. Like when we raided Satiryah."

Var'Shaan understood what his subordinate was saying. Satiryah had been the groups first, and only, raid on a city. There were over ten thousand people in that city in its prime. Var'Shaan shuddered again. She burned them alive.

"Catch your breath and make your way to the backup camp. You're no good in a fight like this."

The runner bowed his head in thanks. Breaking formal etiquette, he spoke up again. "Thanks Var'. Be careful, okay? I don't like the smell of this raid." With that, the runner began the long trek to the band's hidden backup camp. Var'Shaan returned his attention to the two humans wandering in his queen's desert.

The male was much closer to the trap, but the female was nowhere to be seen. Var'Shaan bristled his fur in agitation. Where is she? He scanned the tracks from the male back until he could see two clearly defined sets of tracks. The woman's footprints just vanished, as if she disappeared into the ethereal blue night. This did not bode well for Var'Shaan's plans. He signaled to his troupe to start the attack. If they were separated, then it would be relatively simple to track down the woman after her burly bodyguard was dealt with, he thought.

The first volley of poisoned throwing potions crashed all around Ilzan, covering the area in toxic gas. The mercenary refused to go down so easily. He ran straight through the poison clouds towards the first group of Var'Shaan's minions. Var'Shaan noticed the mysterious green glow emanating from the spear-wielding human. So the human has magics to resist my poisons.

The human was very skilled, Var'Shaan noted. His spear-work was incredibly fluid. At times the human man would spin the spear around defensively, as if it was a Bo staff. Other times, he would thrust and slice like a sabre cat spear hunter. And yet he maintained a style and grace all his own. If he wasn't destroying half his platoon like child's play, Var'Shaan would have admired the artistry of this man's dance.

Var'Shaan gave the signal to his second platoon to attack. Another dozen sabre cats rushed into the fray, whips and javelins at the ready. They moved quietly and quickly. Var'Shaan took time to admire his own troops in action. They were dumb, they were crude, and most of them were quite annoying and disloyal, but they knew how to sneak attack. Despite mounting losses from this single human, Var'Shaan swelled with pride. This was his first act as second in command to his queen and his forces were performing quite well, all things considered.

Ilzan proved too quick for the projectile javelins and various magical potions, but the whips exposed a serious flaw in his fighting style. He was soon bleeding from numerous whip gashes. Sabre cats were naturally flexible and nimble. Natural agility allowed sabre cat warriors to redirect the path of the whip attacks with a flick of the wrist. Try as he might, Ilzan couldn't predict the erratic whip strikes. Pain laced his entire body. His muscles were overworked. He had to strain himself just to raise his spear to intercept javelins thrown at random intervals. He panted hard. He would not last much longer.

A sabre cat snapped his wrist at just the right moment, wrapping his whip around Ilzan's neck. Exposing canines in a feral feline grin, the cat pulled on his whip handle. Ilzan was yanked to the ground, struggling for breath. Fear coursed through him, yet he fought on. A javelin tore through the air with such velocity that the air was split apart in a wailing scream. The javelin ripped into Ilzan's right shoulder in a gruesome splatter of blood and flesh. Surrounded and immobile, Ilzan's mind fumed. Is this how I am to die?

"How does my javelin taste, invader?" Var'Shaan mocked. "Your kind should respect-" but he never finished his sentence.

Ozone burned in a palpable tang of electricity. Raging storms loomed overhead, sending chaos incarnate into the remains of Var'Shaans troops. Bolts of angry energy blasted a sabre cat bandit, then jumped to others. Flashes of shimmering green appeared all about the battle scene, and death always followed. One sabre cat had enough sense to break a vial of poison before exploding, and for a few seconds the elements seemed to calm, and the death-marking shimmering green failed to appear.

His stupidly brave men were cowed and confused, failing to follow any order. Then, the raider next to Var'Shaan exploded in a horrific explosion of fire, ruining his freshly cleaned coat of fur. It appeared the elements were not sated just yet. Sabre cats were struck down by raging storms, javelins made of ice, and explosions of fire. Var'Shaan didn't even consider that he was standing still in shock.

One of his men screamed in pain, breaking Var'Shaan of his paralysis. The elements swarmed around him in a brutal fervor, the likes of which he had never witnessed.

Var'Shaan fled.

OoOoOoO

Noxious gas clouds still filled desert air. Shattered vials lay under Ilzan's feet – proof of the gruesome battle that had just taken place. The sabre cats, two score at least, bled profusely into the desert sands. Most still grasped firmly onto the bit of life left to them, but their efforts were in vain. Faint gurgling emphasized the point as Ilzan waded through the carnage. Putrid odors wisped to his nostrils, and he crinkled his face in disgust. If the toxin doesn't get you, the smell sure as hell will.

Broken claws groped at his ankles as he passed a dying warrior of the desert, and Ilzan stopped in his tracks. The creature's face was contorted in pain, gasping for breath that would not come. Remorse flowed through Ilzan, causing him to shudder. Killing beasts or demons had never bothered him; but killing fully sentient creatures was a completely different thing. There was a time, he remembered, when the sabre cat tribes lived in peace with humankind. Trade flourished, and the feline race thrived. Now, the sabre cat species was dying out. They were among the first corrupted by Mephisto's return to power, yet they did not succumb to his will. It was credit to the inner strength of the species.

The feline pleaded Ilzan for mercy with simple eye contact. He was in pain, and Ilzan was the cause. Hone Sundan had left a single rent along the creature's chest, just below the left breast. It was deep, but he would live if treated quickly, albeit scarred horribly. Ilzan mentally recounted the healing potions left in his bag – he had more than enough to save the sabre cat, probably enough to save most of the dying creatures spread across the desert landscape. Ilzan wiped the blood and tears from his salted face, and sighed loudly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilzan caught a glimmer of green fabric. Arcanna teleported again, appearing by his side. Her expression was hard, eyes glancing about at random. They had no time to waste. Ilzan looked down upon the pitiful creature begging for help at his feet, and crushed its skull under his greaves.

Arcanna focused briefly, surrounding them both with a blue aura. They reappeared behind a nearby dune in preparation for the next attack upon the remaining raiders. Ilzan sighed loudly once again, pulling a look from his employer.

"What?" she demanded, the anger in her face perfectly matching the venom in her voice.

"It never gets easier."

Arcanna's expression melted into shock. Her mouth curled down in an empathetic frown, but before Ilzan noticed his employer's softened heart, the pair heard growls and hisses. Ilzan and Arcanna slowly crept to the top of the dune. What they saw instilled fear into their very bones.

An army over sixty strong spread across the desert under the waxing moon. It would have been impossible for them to distinguish the shapes from the backdrop of sand, were it not for the glowing satchels each bandit carried. An ugly green glow fought the silver moonlight for dominance in the night, the telltale sing of magically enhanced poison throwing potions. Ilzan didn't let his fear show, remaining strong for his Arabian princess.

Arcanna searched through her satchel, coming up empty. Dread slowly crept its way into her heart, and she realized the consequences. She watched the army progress towards her, eyeing the green orbs the figures carried. Inhaling fumes from one of those vials would ensure a slow, painful death. She knew firsthand just how excruciating sabre cat poisons could be, and she did not want to repeat the experience. And I just drank the last antidote potion. Growing resolute, Arcanna's face took on its familiar snarl. She would destroy this army to the last kitty standing. The bandit queen would certainly give them hell for defeating her troops. There would be no mercy at the end of this battle from either side.

"Ilzan" she warned.

"Yes, Arcanna?"

"It is time to kill."

OoOoOoO

A/N: That's it for chapter three. How did you like Arcanna and Ilzan? I was always fascinated with the mercenaries from act 2. They use paladin-granted skills, yet are a far cry from holy men. I couldn't resist the opportunity to delve into a character like that. As for Arcanna, she is Flux's sister, and their relationship will be one (of many) focal points of the story. They will both be major characters, as well as the sabre cat queen, and Var'Shaan.

Wirt and his injured female friend will also be an interesting part of the story arc. I intend to explore a different history in the near future, which will offer a different take on the events of the Diablo story line.

Next chapter will go back to Tristram and the interlude between the two Diablo games.