Setting and snippets: Diablo 2001

[BlueNinja]

For the moment, this thread is little scenes that I've written out of my head in an effort to cement the entire setting of Sanctuary, fast-forwarded to approximately the modern level of technology. Some of the ideas inside have been built off my previous three stories (follow the link to my website) and some from reading the game manuals many times over. In some ways, the level of "technology" (which, technically, is more techno-magic-ology; say that three times fast) is more advanced, and in others, less.

With each scene, I'll post more information of the changes that have happened to the world of Sanctuary between the time of the Diablo games and "now." For starters, the country of Westmarch conquered both Khanduras and Entsteig, controlling all the land west of the Aranoch desert and south of the barbarian steppes. That area is now called the Empire of the Setting Sun, and is run similar to a constitutional monarchy, except that the ruler has powers similar to the president. The main currency, the Rugen, would be equal to about ten gold coins from Diablo2.

----

Mario's hand trembled as he punched the pause button on the remote. The holographic display hovering above the crystal tri-d display stopped, the image looking somewhat blurred. Still, the words were clear-cut and evident. So was the number beneath them. His hands twitched, sweaty from nervousness as he bounded up from his couch.

Several times, he reached for the phone, only to back away again. Lights and noise came from outside, whenever an aircar would zoom past the apartment building, but they hardly registered on his mind. Finally, he took a deep breath, sat down in front of the phone, and punched in the number.

The screen displayed the standard ZI logo, and he remembered just in time to turn off the video display before someone on the other side answered. "Hello, and thank you for calling Employees Unlimited! How can I direct your call?"

He sat there for a moment, and then started stuttering. "Um, well, I-I saw a commercial with your number, and ..." He stumbled to a halt as she interrupted him.

"Of course sir, hold on while I look it up. What did you see in the commercial?" He looked back at the tri-d, a look of irritation crossing his face at the cheerfulness in her voice. The words and number had been haunting him for weeks now, no matter where he went or what station he changed it to, they would always appear within a few minutes.

"Um," he started again, then slowly read the words out loud. "I have an ex-parrot named Dave." A blush spread across his cheeks and down his neck as he realized just how ridiculous they sounded.

But if the receptionist on the other end thought it was odd, she didn't show any sign, just hummed tunelessly to herself for a moment. "Ok sir, I'll transfer you to your extention now." Before he could protest, the phone started playing the usual angelforsaken music.

It lasted for about two seconds before it cut off, and a deep, resonant voice answered. "Hello Mario, I was wondering how much longer I would have to wait for your call. You're surprised, I know," and the man had actually leapt out of his chair by now, "But that message was magically sent out for you, and only you. I'm here to offer you a purpose. You've spent your whole like looking for something big and dramatic you can do to affect the world. Meet me at McSwiney's down the street in twenty minutes."

Mario ran to the door, and had his hand on the knob before the voice spoke again. "But for angel's sake, throw some clothes on first!" He stopped moving completely, looking down at his naked body and turning sheepishly towards the closet as his phone turned off.

Nineteen minutes later, he stood in line at McSwiney's, staring blankly at the menu and wondering what he was supposed to be doing here. It was true, he'd spent years knowing that he was somehow different from the people around him, the sheep who wandered from home to work, supporting the Empire of the Setting Sun without a second thought. Could that person on the phone really have something that he could sink his teeth into, something he could grab ahold and ride to his destiny?

"Hey man, you gonna order or not?" The teenager behind the counter was glaring at him, and Mario dropped a gold Rugen on the counter, mumbling his order and waving away the change. He picked up his Barbeque Burger and moved to a table, unwrapping it lethargically and taking a bite. More than likely, this was all some scam by one of his friends.

"Mind if I sit down?" The same voice from his telephone spoke, this time from less than ten feet away, and he looked up in surprise. Belial stood before him, no more than human height, dressed in inoculous clothing and holding a cheap plastic tray. "You are the only person who can see the real me, so let's not make a scene, alright?" he added quietly, sliding into the chair across from the human.

A few furtive glances around the restaurant didn't help to settle his sudden attack of nerves. He swallowed twice, trying to work past the lump of fear and excitement in his throat. "Why don't they notice you?" he whispered, automatically jerking his hand towards the nine-to-fivers waiting in line to bring home some artery-clogging food for dinner.

The Lord of Lies chuckled, kicking his feet back on the next table and pulling out a few fries. "You're different, Mario. You can't be fooled by tricks or illusions. Magic just doesn't work around you the way it should." He munched on a few fries, making a face that would have been pure ecstacy, were it human. "You might have noticed that over the years."

He did remember suddenly all the broken tri-d sets, the failing aircars, luck spells he'd buy for a test that went awry. "I have," he said guardedly, finally putting down his burger. "What does that have to do with you?"

The demon smiled, swinging his feet back to the floor and leaning in closer. "Like I said, I'm here to offer you a purpose. Are you interested?" He carefully extended one hand, the gems inset to his talons glinting in the harsh flurescent lights.

Mario stared at the hand for almost thirty seconds, then finally wiped the grease off his fingers and shook. "Now what?"

Belial smiled, sitting back and unwrapping his own burger. "I hope you like things hot," he said, before taking a giant bite from the sauce-smeared pork. "Because tomorrow, you'll be flying first-class to Lut Gholein."

Returning to his own burger, the human felt something inside him slowly being filled as his new boss outlined his plans.

[BlueNinja]

I know people are looking at the thread, so please feel free to say something. :howdy:

The Society of Rathma gradually gained both influence and acceptance in the Empire, due to their power over the nature of death. While the bodies of the dead were relatively worthless for lawful purposes, their spirits could be brought back from the afterlife for a short period of time. Police departments also found a few clay golems to be incredibly useful for riot control.

----

"Your honor, the defense would like to call Otto Jeffries to the stand." Her voice was rather bland, but curious comments started up from the people filling the room, and confused looks went flying through the jury box.

The judge peered at her curiously, using the gavel to scratch his nose. "Ms. Young, I hope you did read yesterday's paper. Mr. Jeffries died of a heart attack two days ago, brought on by a bad batch of medication."

She smiled, and turned to a young man standing behind the rail, sitting somewhat nervously at ease. "Yes, Your Honor. That is why the defense has asked Mr. Dewey, from the Society of Rathma, here for the afternoon to act as an interpreter." The courtroom erupted in bedlam, as the prosecution's lawyer started screaming vehement objections and the crowd behind the railing ramped the volume on their conversations up a notch.

The media were loving the whole bit, of course, as Judge Barrak broke his gavel in half shouting for order. Not until the bailiffs moved in to silence the crowd did everything quiet down - but the distinctive glow of LDCs (long-distance voice crystals) could have lit the room by themselves. Irritably, he used the broken handle to gesture the two lawyers to the front of the room. "Your Honor, this is highly irregular. This case is just a simple murder trial, and despite the defendant being a high-profile member of the Zakarum church, this is uncalled for."

Before she could do more than open her mouth, the judge waved her down. "Yes, Ms. Young, I know there's precedent, and yes, I know that objection is the biggest load of dog **** I've ever heard in my courtroom in twenty-five years on the bench." His eyes turned further back, to the non-descript olive-skinned man sitting, hands in his lap, behind the defense attorney's table. "But I'm afraid you'll have to find another member of the Society. You can't bring my nephew into my courtroom," he said loud enough for some of the crowd to hear as he overrode her, "and expect me to remain impartial."

The youth smiled, standing from his seat. "It's ok, uncle Barrak. My oath prohibits me from being anything but truthful and impartial, regardless of the actions of anyone else in the courtroom." After a long few minutes of glaring, he finally motioned with the broken gavel for the Rathman to come out from the seats, and take his place on the witness stand.

The reporters, of course, were practically beside themselves with glee. It was very rare for anyone, prosecution or defense, to spend the high amount of money it required to bring an accomplished Rathman summoner to the stand, and many of those who had learned the hard way that a fee of ten million gold Imperial Rugens (whether in real gold or paper credits) did not guarantee a testimony beneficial to their position. Even with those tremendous fees, there were some cases that a Rathman would simply refuse to touch. And now, one of them was on the stand, ready to summon the soul of Otto Jeffries, a well-known retired general from the Zakarum army.

Of course, it couldn't live up to the hype. The man simply sat on the witness stand, pulled out a small wand of bone, and said the name. The room seemed to dim, and a transparent figure of the legendary general was suddenly standing in the middle of the courtroom. The bailiff held up a copy of the Collected Prophesies, somewhat nervously, but the general merely chuckled. "There'll be no need for that, lad," he said with a smile, "I know my duty. I recognize a courtroom, been in a few. With a Rathman at my back, I can't help but tell the truth anyway." His smile melted away at the last part, and he turned stoically towards Ms. Young as she started to question him, every person in the courtroom hanging on every word.

She started out with fairly standard questions, asked of every witness who had taken their place on the chair so far. Even with truth spells, it was possible to wiggle your way out of revealing things - but not when faced with a Rathman. Their control over the dead, even the souls of those passed, was iron, and they always told the complete and total truth, no matter how embarassing or self-incriminating. "What were you doing on Midsummer's Night, at approximately an hour past sundown?" she asked, finally getting around to his whereabout on the night of the crime.

"I was with Archbishop Michael, in his cottage on the grounds in Tristram," he said simply. The Rathman narrows his eyes, but said nothing, and General Jeffries offered nothing more.

"Was anyone else with you? Specifically, do you remember Sarah Winslow being present?" Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were cold and hard. This next answer would be crucial to whether or not her client, the Archbishop, would have a conclusive alibi for the murder. All of the evidence, everything, was inconclusive, only giving the Archbishop as the most likely suspect.

General Otto Jefferies opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it unhappily as the Rathman magic clamped down on him. "She came to visit, hoping to seduce the Archbishop even though her previous attempts had failed." That sent a ripple through the courtroom, and a pained look to Michael's face. "He sent her away without telling her I was there." He stopped, but the magic racheted down another notch. Pain on his face, and his eyes downcast, he finally admitted, "He didn't want her to find out that we were lovers."

That caused the courtroom to be cleared, as the crowd started shouting, the reporters especially trying to suddenly fight their way to the front of the room where the Archbishop had burst out in tears. The bailiffs threw everyone out, taking some evident pleasure at breaking the broadcast crystals the reporters were using. Twenty minutes later, the courtroom only held the judge, defense and prosecution, and the jury. The doors were barred, with a pair of visiting Clan mercenaries volunteering to guard the doors. "You can continue your questions, Ms. Young," the judge said, his voice quiet and still shocked.

"Did you see her again after that, General?"

He gulped, and nodded. "Yes. She burst in through an unlocked window, catching Michael and I, um, in flagrante delicto." Even as a shade, his blush was quite evident. "There was a great deal of shouting, and she stormed out. I put my clothes on, and convinced Michael to let me handle it, then chased after her. She hadn't left the grounds yet when I caught up to her. I had hoped to talk her out of revealing it, but she was obviously too angry that her fantasy of marrying Michael had been ruined." With an unneeded deep breath, Otto raised his eyes and looked at his lover. "So I took the dagger off my belt, and stabbed her in the heart. I didn't realize until later that I had grabbed the wrong pair of pants when I left - we're the same size."

"No further questions, Your Honor," Ms. Young said, sitting back in her chair with a shellshocked look. Her client was innocent - which she had been sure of, of course - but this was not what she had expected.

"The prosecution would like to drop all charges against Archbishop Michael."

Smiling, Mr.Dewey lowered his wand, and the ghost vanished with one last forlorn look.

[BlueNinja]

There's been 14 views by people other than myself. Surely someone has a comment, a critique, a flame, something to say?

With the destruction of the Worldstone, and the end of the Barbarian tribes task to protect Mount Arreat, the druid and the barbarian tribes slowly unified, with each tribe keeping most of the traditions and names. A unified council of elders meets every year, alternating between the rebuilt city of Sescheron and the clearing at the foot of the Glór-an-Fháidha. Mercenary groups were established by each tribe, led by druidic Loremasters and backed up with sheer barbarian might. With the unification of the Empire of the Setting Sun, the need for the honorable warriors-for-hire lessened, except for occasional invasions from the demon-worshipping countries east of the Kehjistan and their separating mountains. So, with nothing else to do, many of the mercenary groups became ... sports teams.

----

The stadium was huge, a varied battlefield in the shape of a rough circle and almost a mile across. In a special clearing, two men approached each other while a referee waited silently. Hovering in the air were dozens of broadcasting crystals, and dozens more were hidden around the arena.

For this month's clash, buildings of grey stone had been rapidly constructed, and the air was heavy with grey smoke. Recorded screams echoed on the broken ground, giving the almost perfect illusion of a piece of Hell, transported to Earth. The stands, filled with thousands of fans, was hidden from view by the smoke and the high walls, but neither really cared. "Lorekeeper," one spoke.

The other nodded, smirked, and said, "Lorekeeper," back. "How's your niece doing anyway?"

The referee started to sputter as the two opponents picked up the small talk. "Ah, you know how most girls are at five summers. She wants to run away from home and join the Amazons. I heard your sister married into the Crane clan?"

"Heh, yeah, bright fellow too. Not a warrior, but we can't all be perfect." He glanced up at the referee, then grinned broader. "Oh yeah, I forgot. Ahem. I, Burning Tail, Lorekeeper of the Second Wolf Brigade, shall show you the meaning of defeat today, girlie man!"

It took the other Lorekeeper a moment to stop laughing, and his mouth was still curling up at the corners as he spoke. "I, Crushing Paw, Lorekeeper of the Fourth Bear Brigade, shall bury your honorable corpse here after our battle!" He fought back another bit of laughter. "Angels above, why do we say this nonsense anyway?"

"Because the audience at home eats it up, remember?" He winked, mouthing back, "For great justice!"

The referee glared back and forth between the Lorekeepers. "You know, we could just start right now. I'm sure that such skilled warriors as yourselves don't need to know the layout of the arena." In an instant, both of the leaders were silent and attentive, and she smirked. "Much better."

Turning towards the nearest crystal, she spoke clearly, both for their benefit and the audience, watching the arena live or in holograms at home. "This month's arena has been modified to appear like a piece of the City of the Damned in Hell. With that fitting location, the arena will momentarily be stocked with balrogs, stygian hags, and tainted - all specially caught for the occasion.

"In addition, the arena has been laced with traps to stop the unwary - blasts of hellish flames, collapsing buildings, and sudden sinkholes. As always, any soldier can activate their shield amulets to escape from a trap, and any soldier ruled to have received a mortal blow will have their amulet automatically activated. Still, accidents happen, and we at the arena encourage you not to allow your children to watch, in case of an accident."

The two Lorekeepers shared a worried look. "This is going to be a lot worse than the living Kehjistan jungle, isn't it?" His opponent merely nodded.

"Enough talk," she said, glaring at them. "You've both had a chance to see the arena. Back through the doors to meet up with your teams, before you're released into the arena. The Wolves will enter from the north, and the Bears from the south." With a last smile at the crystal, they vanished behind the steel door, and the demons were let loose into the arena.

[0xDEADCAFE]

It's all good. :thumbsup:

Very interesting mix of Diablo II and modern/futuristic elements. Something for fantasy and sci-fi fans as well. The writing is great. I am especially impressed at the paucity of common flaws like misspelled and misused words, grammatical errors, typo's, etc. It's either very thoroughly edited or else you are a writing machine.

My favorite concept is that of raising the dead to testify in court. Very compelling. Although in that world it is apparently rare, imagine what it would be like if it became routine, for example, to call a murder victim back to testify in court or to help in the police investigation. It would certainly change things. I can see it now: "Law and Order SOR (Society of Rathma)". Great stuff.

Also enjoyed the broken gavel, the blushing shade, the greasy remote and the kibbitzing gladiators. Your writing is vivid and fun. For great justice! :lol:



There's been 14 views by people other than myself. Surely someone has a comment, a critique, a flame, something to say?
Yeah, I feel your pain. My advice would be to get used to it. The pace of feedback on this forum is pretty anemic, but what it lacks in quantity it usually makes up for in quality. Feedbacks tend to be thoughtful and in some cases they have been very helpful to my writing. I invite you to read and comment-on any of the works I have posted.

I look forward to reading more from you.

[BlueNinja]

It's all good. :thumbsup: Thanks! I think it's turning out fairly well for a group of randomly-thought-up scenes.

Very interesting mix of Diablo II and modern/futuristic elements. Something for fantasy and sci-fi fans as well. The writing is great. I am especially impressed at the paucity of common flaws like misspelled and misused words, grammatical errors, typo's, etc. It's either very thoroughly edited or else you are a writing machine. I write 99% of my stuff off the top of my head whenever I can get a spare moment. Whatever the auto-checker in Word doesn't fix, I do. Still, I've found minor spelling mistakes, swapped words, misplaced punctuation, even after going through a story twenty times. So if anyone spots a mistake, point it out and I'll correct it ASAP.

My favorite concept is that of raising the dead to testify in court. Very compelling. Although in that world it is apparently rare, imagine what it would be like if it became routine, for example, to call a murder victim back to testify in court or to help in the police investigation. It would certainly change things. I can see it now: "Law and Order SOR (Society of Rathma)". Great stuff.

Also enjoyed the broken gavel, the blushing shade, the greasy remote and the kibbitzing gladiators. Your writing is vivid and fun. For great justice! :lol: I try to put in as much humor as I can without breaking the mood of the scene. Sometimes it's just to get the audience to laugh, and sometimes it helps to make the characters slightly more real.

Yeah, I feel your pain. My advice would be to get used to it. The pace of feedback on this forum is pretty anemic, but what it lacks in quantity it usually makes up for in quality. Feedbacks tend to be thoughtful and in some cases they have been very helpful to my writing. I invite you to read and comment-on any of the works I have posted. I'm going through the forum slowly, and I've commented on a few stories. I tend to ignore the giant threads until I know I will have a large block of time; my last one was spent reading Fulcrum. (Odd, isn't it, how every assassin character based off a PC sleeps with other women? :scratch: )

----

And now, the next scene. Going from the map of Sanctuary in the Diablo2 manual, there's a fair bit of the world left unexplored. So in my stories, the Kehjistan fades into a temperate rainforest as it goes to the east, and a mountain range similar to the Himalayas (but without the Tibet plateau) separates it from the lands further east. In the time of the Diablo games, the whole country was one great empire. The Worldstone was reconstructed in their capitol, seven years after Tyrael shattered it, and the remnants of the Viz-Jaq'taar order joined with the imperial gunsmiths to form an organization called the Protectorate. More about them will be explained later. A few decades later, when Na-Krul was loosed in Sanctuary, the empire divided in a brutal civil war, as two different factions sought to topple the emperor, and turn the rest of the population to worshipping the Prime Evils as they did. As a result, the land is now divided into three kingdoms - one controlled completely by the Protectorate, and the other two highly feudal kingdoms worshipping Baal and Diablo. But again, more on them later. :)

To the south, across the Great Ocean, is a pair of continents. In composition, they are both a great deal like Australia, with a narrow strip along the coasts being habitable for humans, and the interior vast deserts that occasionally are flooded with monsoon-like storms, sparking brief growth spurts from the plants. The two continents are separated by a narrow channel, about twenty miles wide, and the coasts along the channel are hotbeds of volcanic activity. In the deserts, there dwells an intelligent reptilian race called the Mazu. In appearance, they resemble a diamondback rattler grown to be about twelve to forty feet long, and between one and three feet thick. Behind their head, in four lines about a foot in length, grow a number of small, prehensile tentacles that the snakes use for grasping and manipulating tools. There is a small amount of trade that goes on between the Mazu, and the small Zakarum colonies on the coasts, as the snakes can easily find high-quality gemstones in the desert dunes. In addition, they produce (through an as-yet unknown process) a strong material similar to silk, prized by many celebrities and designers.

----

It ought to be cold on New Year's Day, Victor thought grumpily as he mopped sweat from his forehead. Cold, with snow falling over Tristram, piling up to your knees, light and fluffy enough for a proper snowball.

Instead, he stood in the middle of the white-gold blazing expanse of sand, a large but thin straw hat resting on his head as he wiped the damp handkerchief over his forehead again. "Where are those Mazu, anyway?" he asked his companions, but they all merely shrugged.

"Pardon our latefulness," a voice suddenly hissed from before him, and Victor jumped as a section of sand reared up. The pattern of scales was almost hypnotic, only dulled slightly by the snake's passage through the hot sands of his homeland, a place almost completely inhospitable to humanity. "There is a sandstorm to the southwest, three of your miles away. We must conclude our business swiftly."

More sand moved, clearing into another four of the Mazu, unwrapping bundles with their tentacles and spreading them out on the sand. Two were of some kind of silk that the snakes manufactured, gleaming a bright emerald green, almost like the color of their eyes. The others were gemstones, polished but uncut, and they would be worth a fortune back in civilized Zakarum society. Of course, he had to get their caravan back there first.

"Right then," Victor mumbled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few small items. They were simple things, and he wasn't sure why his occasional trading partner had requested them specifically. The tentacle, dry and smooth like well-oiled leather, brushed against his hand, taking the two LDCs and inspecting them, then casually flipping them to another Mazu as he inspected the Protectorate gun. "That's just a basic model," Victor said, somewhat nervously, as the snake turned it and examined it from several angles. "It's not loaded."

Glittering green eyes suddenly fixed on him, and the human trader automatically took a step back. "We requested ammunition as well. I was very clear about that." With a shaking hand, Victor motioned to one of the others, and they pulled out a small metal box, opening it for a different Mazu. They had a half-dozen types of bullets and a few needles as well. "Very well then, the gems are yours."

As the humans scrambled to wrap up the stones and the silk, the Mazu gathered together again, hissing sibilantly in their native tongue. {The sandstorm is too close. If we do not offer them guidance, then these humans will perish.}

{So? They are merely humans. Their fate is not our concern.}

{They have been valuable trading partners in the past. Honest and discrete. It will take much time to cultivate a new partnership, and our fortunes maybe worse next time, Striker.}

{Very well,} said their leader, and he calmly slithered back over to Victor as he prepared to jump onto the small wagon, wrapping up his face again. "Wait. The sandstorm will be here soon. I will guide you to safety."

He missed the jump completely, barking his shin painfully on the iron corner joist. "You're going to help us?" he asked incredulously. When the Zakarum had first encountered the Mazu, and discovered that despite their knowledge of Heaven and Hell, they gave aid and comfort to neither side, they had almost gone in to exterminate the snake-ish beings. Now they existed in an uneasy neutrality, where neither side did much to help the other. "Why?"

Striker hesitated a moment. "For the moment, having you as an ... ally ... is to our advantage." Ignoring further questions, he started moving, pausing only to spit out a small piece of the silk humans prized so highly, holding it visibly in a handling tentacle so that the apes could follow him. {Return to the All-Mother,} he ordered his companions. {Expect me back tomorrow to make my report.}

{It shall be done,} they replied in unison, their voices lost in the rushing winds, and completely unintelligible to the humans. Most of them, anyway.

[BlueNinja]

Burning Tail and Crushing Paw (their stage names only, as no self-respecting mercenary would ever use a name that trite and hackneyed for real) met up with their respective squads, detailing the layout of the arena and the opponents they would be up against. "This is no joke," the Bear Loremaster said grimly. "The worst aspects of fighting in a city combined with a demonic army ten times the size of both teams put together."

In an almost identical room, on the opposite side of the stadium, one of the Wolves perked up. "Hey boss, I think I got a feed." He twisted the crystal in his hand and the silver wires attached to it, and a grainy hologram sprang into being. For the moment, the broadcast crystals were silent, but they still picked up the image of the stadium. "I bet that Caleb's hacked the feed too, the bear's pretty crafty."

Burning Tail looked over his squad and nodded. Two of them lifted massive miniguns, each of the Protectorate guns custom built for their squad and weighing at least twenty pounds. Then they were layered with enhancement spells, both from the Loremasters and from Zann Esu sorcerers. All of them had standard side arms, and the three brawlers hefted vibro-axes, the wire-thin blade edge as tall as their torsos. "Are you guys ready to go out there and kick some ***?" The shout, bellowed from two-dozen strong Barbarian throats, rattled the room and actually broke one of the lights.

The Loremaster glanced at the timer on the wall, counting down - five more minutes left. Then they'd have to raid the arena, find the beacon (as always, hidden somewhere out of camera view), and get it back to their bunker before the Wolves beat them to it. "Caleb, what's the demon situation look like?"

Despite standing at least seven feet tall, and normally wielding a maul made of a solid, magically created diamond, Caleb's voice was unusually high pitched. "I'm counting at least two dozen balrogs, about twice that of Tainted. Those dogs are roving in packs, natch, about ten a piece. The hags have split up into two groups of about eight or nine each, staking out flanking positions near the doors." He looked up with a glittering sparkle in his eyes, eager for the battle to begin. "Little bastards won't know what hit them."

"What're the likely locations for the beacon?" Crushing Paw bent over the map, considering the question. "I'm guessing that some of these larger buildings - houses, or stores, the ones with the roof still on." He glanced at the timer again, and then started chanting. At ten seconds to go, the room was halfway full of fog, spilling out through the cracks in the door into the arena, making the thick, acrid air even harder to see through.

The buzzer echoed through the stands, and cheering fans leaped to their feet to watch the outcome. The Wolves stepped straight out of their door, the miniguns opening up to slaughter the Hags before a single worm could be sent against them. The others, armed with an oddly eclectic mix of axes, swords, and rifles, easily took down the charging squad of balrogs without a single injury. "Alright men, move out, formation Alpha! First site, move!" Burning Tail emerged from the doors last, transformed into a werewolf nearly eight feet tall, steel claws donned for the coming battle.

Fans of the Bears were disappointed at first, as the jumble of fog poured out, enough to cover several blocks, thick enough that even the protected cameras mounted in the wall around the door saw their exit as little more than a dark rushing shape. When the fog finally cleared, ten minutes later, the Bears were well into the square mile of arena, and the hags and balrogs gamely took up the chase as the fans cheered, realizing the deviously clever idea of getting the demons to follow them - hopefully, right into the unsuspecting Wolf team.

Half an hour into the combat, neither team had found the Beacon yet, and both teams were supporting wounded members. Unknown to the teams, this battle had a nearly limitless number of demons, and for every fiend they killed, another was let loose into the mock-landscape of Hell. Running short on ammo, both sides had been reduced to melee weapons, saving their last few bullets for their desperate exit once the Beacon was located.

Only the audience members knew where it was located, thanks to the glowing arrow above the fray, visible only in the stands and in projected holograms in homes around the world. Hidden on the unstable second floor of a building that might once have been an inn, the green glow of the coveted trophy barely reached the windows. But now both teams were converging on it, having exhausted their other likely locations.

Burning Tail roared, rearing back and making a throwing motion with his hand. The small rock shot forth, expanding in size and bursting in a fiery explosion against the pack of worms chasing them down the street. His werewolf form had flown away as his strength ebbed, but the dozens of cuts and bites on his arms and legs failed to hinder him as he leaped through a window, the members of his squad forming up to protect each other as they fled into the building, hoping that it was not a death trap.

From the other direction, Crushing Paw had finally taken his werebear form, larger than the next two squad mates combined. Caleb let fly with his maul, sending a worm flying through the air hard enough to rip the wing off an over-eager balrog. One of the other barbarians slammed into the door, easily crushing it and the hag waiting behind it. They poured down the hallway, keeping the demons at bay in the enclosed space. "There's the stairs!"

Both groups came around the corner, stumbling to a halt as the lead members regarded each other uneasily. With a painful growl, the werebear form slipped away, and the two Lorekeepers stepped together to confer in whispers, inaudible over the din of battle. Spectators at home watched nervously as the rear guards fought desperately to keep the hallways clear, the army of demons pressing their advantage of numbers.

Then in unison, the Lorekeepers charged up the stairs, and the Beacon, that little golden cup that signified the winning team, sat in plain view on a table, filling the room with a pleasant green light. Grinning, they each grasped one of the handles on the cups, and the announcers went berserk as they ran back down the stairs. Both the Wolves and the Bears had lost a half-dozen of their members, the men lying on the ground, paralyzed and unconscious but protected by the special amulets they wore for these competitions.

With their hands still linked on the cup, they raised their free hands, pressed them against the other wall, and roared. Druid magic surged through them, and the wall blasted away as a tornado shredded the building apart, leaving a free passageway to the outside. One balrog in the wrong place at the wrong time got picked up, the tornado throwing him a hundred feet into the air. The demon spread his wings, diving towards the stands, only to hit the magical barrier and hang there for several seconds as a few thousand volts surged through his body.

Working in unison, the squads made their orderly retreat from the building, and again the Loremasters held a hurried whispered conference, barely two words. Then, shouting orders, they started a charge towards the edge of the arena where they had both met before the match began those long forty-five minutes ago. The men fought desperately, melee weapons in one hand and pistols in the other, every strike a perfect kill. Even so, another five of the men fell before they reached the steel doors.

"I can't believe the nerve of these two," one of the announcers said piously as they banged the Beacon against the door. "This is supposed to be a competitive match, and yet they join up the moment they find the trophy they're supposed to be battling for. The quality of the warriors this month is just pathetic, I mean - what the blazes are they doing now?"

The last words were shouted, as she leaped from her chair and almost threw herself into the hologram, shouting at the cameraman to zoom in on the picture. Down below, the remaining warriors stood in a tight semi-circle around the two Loremasters, who had once again taken their were-forms. Then with their free hands, they scooped them into the gray soil of the arena, lifting and roaring, infusing the giant ball of dirt and rock with fire, and hurled the missile at the door.

Above it in the stands, spectators screamed and fled, jumping over seats and running down the rails to either side as the boulder smashed into the doors, blasting them completely off their hinges, and the warriors of Wolf and Bear clans backed inside, again closing the space down and forcing the demons into a death trap. "Open fire!" Crushing Paw shouted, and the few miniguns opened fire with the last of their ammunition, clearing out the tunnel mouth for the moment.

The announcer skidded to a halt at the base of the corridor, as armed and armored security personnel (fortunately with demon-specific weapons for the match) came charging up behind her, taking up positions at the tunnel mouth to allow the beleaguered warriors a chance to rest. "By Baal's Foot, what do you call that debacle out there?" she shouted at them, face red with fury.

The two Loremasters looked at each other, and then in unison chucked the Beacon at her, bouncing it off her forehead and knocking her unconscious. "A tie, you twit," Burning Tail grumbled. "Say, after everyone's recovered, want to get everyone together down at the Kingsmarch Gardens for a pint or two?"

"I'm game," Crushing Paw said as he inspected the damage to his greaves, "As long as you're buying a plate of those mozzarella sticks. I love those things."

"You're on!" he laughed, shrugging out of his own plate mail. The audience at home watched as the picture faded out to the "Arena - Barbarian Deathmatch!" logo, and almost universally changed the channel. Morgan the Teenage Zann Esu could never be half that entertaining.


-----
"What do you want to do tonight, Baal?" "The same thing we try to do every night, Diablo - try to take over the world!"

http://www.geocities.com/the_blue_ninja

[BlueNinja]

In a world with a rebuilt Worldstone, it's natural that the nature of magic powers should change somewhat, and it has. While traditional mages continue to be powerful (though slightly fewer in number and far more busy), more people have emerged with the psionic powers utilized by the Viz-Jaq'taar order of old. Since the remnants of the assassin order were made part of the Protectorate, they have taken over training anyone who shows a measure of psionic power. While most of their recruits show only meager levels of mental skills (imagine, on a game rule scale, having a sole point to put into any skill except traps), the most powerful and adaptable of the psions are called the Ghosts. They serve as spies, internal security to ferret out any demon-worshippers trying to infiltrate the Protectorate and subvert the Worldstone, and the trainers of anyone psionically active. A high-powered Ghost is not someone you want to annoy casually.

----

The entire village was turning out into the square, prepared for the ceremony celebrating the longest night of the year. Despite the cold weather, no one missed this occasion, not the ceremony to celebrate and worship their great lord Baal. Many of them had traveled here from smaller villages nearby for this night, risking their lives to the bandit-covered roads for this.

The high priest stood on the platform, dressed only in the ceremonial paint for the summoning, ignoring the snowflakes drifting down from the sky. Families, both rich and poor, gathered up around the raised platform with the engraved pentagram, the poor dressed in their finest clothes, the rich surrounded by their goatman guards. Many had their eyes on the high priest, others on the trio of succubi that laughed and gyrated behind him at the center of the pentagram, and a certain nervous few kept their eyes locked on the large clay pot, easily large enough to fit a person inside, resting on the first step down from the platform.

The moon was just over a quarter, moving towards the new moon and barely visible in the sky when the clock in the demonic cathedral struck the midnight hour, the deep, echoing bell rolling through the crowd like a visible wave of water. All conversations stopped, everyone in the village dropping to one knee, heads bowed facing towards the platform. The high priest remained still for a moment, then reached into the clay jar before him and drawing forth a small clay tablet, reading the name pressed into it.

Trembling, a man rose from the crowd, kissing his family and walking towards the platform. He shed his clothing as he mounted the stairs, and the succubi moved from the quiescent pentagram and lifted smaller pots, painting his body with a dark liquid. The high priest picked another dozen names from the pot, and one by one the people emerged from the crowd, climbing onto the platform and being anointed by the succubi, a strange cross-section of the population of all ages and backgrounds. At last they all knelt on the platform, a small circle of humanity at the edge of the summoning circle.

One by one, the chosen villagers began a chant, their voices blending discordantly on the breeze as the slow snowfall covered the crowd in a thin blanket of white. At last the high priest joined in their words, the resonant baritone causing the platform to shiver as the succubi knelt, silent, behind his feet. Small traces of red fire were starting to race through the engraved lines as their chanting filled the air, and all at once it burst into life with a blast felt only to those who knew magic.

Andariel rose from the opened circle and the assembled crowd shouted their allegiance to her master Baal who sent her to them, their voices shaking the village. The Maiden of Anguish turned slowly in a circle, surveying the crowd and the thirteen chosen sacrifices, her giant face bursting into a grin. Then she turned back to the high priest, her voice low and reaching every person intimately. "Tonight, for the services your people have rendered the great Baal, he has instructed me to take only six back with me."

An almost imperceptible tremble swept through the thirteen chosen who still knelt around the pentagram, then one of them rose slowly to his feet. As though in a dream, he stepped carefully over the line and knelt at Andariel's feet. Then an elderly woman rose to her feet, joining him in the circle and the position of obeisance. As three others rose, one by one to the middle of the circle, the high priest's face deepened into a frown.

He opened his mouth to speak, then his body froze to almost statue stillness. As Andariel watched him, her eyes filled with curiosity, he stepped over the lines of the circle and paused, then moved slowly to take his place in the semi-circle gathered in front of Andariel's feet. One of the spike-tipped arms that grew from her back moved in a blur, spearing him through and yanking him off the ground, even as the succubi reveled in the spray of blood.

The crowd roared in glee as she bit his head free, swallowing it as she looked out across the village, the loudest voices calling her name coming from the eight painted humans right outside the pentagram. Then her eyes found what she was looking for.

Azka met the stare with ease, her body immaterial and resting in safety inside the wall, only her face sticking free to watch the ceremony. You dare to interfere with this worship ceremony to Baal? the demonic, feminine voice of Andariel echoed through her head.

Funny, I'd never picture your mental voice as being a soprano, Azka replied, her mouth quirking into a grin. As for my interference, I don't see you complaining.

Andariel laughed, another arm spearing one of the other sacrifices. I care little which human dies and which lives. You are nothing but ants to us, she shot back, her words ringing with music. But my brother may object.

The Ghost merely rolled her eyes. The last time Baal took on a Ghost, he was slain and banished from Sanctuary for a century. Would you like to test my abilities? They locked gazes again, and the Maiden broke first, grabbing the last four victims with all of her arms and rending the life from them. As the cheering crowd shook the foundations of the village, the great demoness sank back into the circle, the hellish light winking out in an instant.

Slowly the crowd dispersed, the forsaken sacrifices slowly donning their clothes and rejoining their families, forgetting about the paint that still covered their bodies. Some shivered in the cold now, the excitement of their yearly worship ceremony worn off with the unusual ending. Like her position implied, Azka slipped away from the village, out into the bandit and demon-filled wilderness and towards the border of the Protectorate.

Not bad for two years of undercover work, she thought. But it was definately time to get back to real civilization.

-----
"What do you want to do tonight, Baal?" "The same thing we try to do every night, Diablo - try to take over the world!"

http://www.geocities.com/the_blue_ninja

[BlueNinja]

Just to make things clear here - about 20% of humans have the ability to learn a little the psychic disciplines that the Protectorate teaches. Less than 2% can spontaniously use them without training, and they tend to be rather dangerous, being overwhelmed by their powers. Less than 0.1% of humans are nulls, humans who are completely immune to all forms of psychic powers - and not only immune, but they're more like black holes of psychic power. A Ghost who tried to do a mental blast, or a Jedi mind trick, would end up draining themselves to death by accident, unless something was done to break the psychic connection first. Needless to say, the rare nulls that exist tend to be quite valued as both police and counter-intelligence agents.

Most nulls live their life without ever discovering their rare ability, just as most humans never get training to utilize their psionic powers. However, they usually tend to gravitate towards positions like law enforcement, border patrols against the demon-worshipping countries, and lawyers - positions of confrontation, leading some psychologists to theorize that the null genes are linked with higher levels of aggression.

----

Detective Elijah Bailey, Kingsport Fourth Precinct, hated trying to run down a suspect in the rain. And this wasn't just rain, oh no - this was what had been, up until two weeks ago, a major hurricane before it narrowly missed the Amazon Isles, and was taking the opportunity to dump as much water as a storm could on the streets of Kingsport.

On top of that, he was running uphill.

His suspect, running with more desperation, but no more speed, was less than a hundred feet ahead of him. He couldn't have been more than thirteen, fourteen at the most, but Detective Bailey knew most of the officers in the City Watch would have been running just as hard - in another direction. The kid was a danger to everyone, and he probably didn't even realize it.

Tearing around a corner, the kid almost slipped, and Bailey grabbed onto a lamppost to keep from doing the same, making his turn into more of a barely-controlled skid across the smooth sidewalk. A few cars were on the street, blaring their horns as they fought to keep from running down the two clearly insane pedestrians cutting across their lanes.

Fortunately for Elijah, he had worked this section of the city as a beat cop before he got promoted, and had a pretty good idea of where the kid was going. There was a warehouse, about two blocks away, that was often used for raves and drug parties. But at nine o'clock in the morning, the place should be deserted. Sure enough, the kid cut left across another lane of traffic, racing down an alley. Grinning, the detective let him run, passing by the alley in favor of a more subtle entrance.

Five minutes later, he was climbing in through the fire exit on the second story, standing on a catwalk that crossed the width of the building. He crouched down, creeping silently towards one of the ladders as he listened to the kid, breaking the back door in the offices. Muffling the sounds of his descent completely was impossible, but he reached the floor without alerting his quarry, and crept across the cracked concrete floor towards the back.

Sure enough, a moment later the kid yanked the door open, rushing out to exit the front of the building, and tripped perfectly over the foot sticking out across the doorway. He screamed in fear, rolling over onto his back even as Detective Bailey started shouting at him, "City Watch! You are under arrest for the illegal use of psionic powers!"

He would have said more, but the kid threw a hand towards him. Elijah felt nothing, of course, but he watched as the youth started to tremble, then convulse fully. Sighing, he pulled the billy club from his belt, still talking as he knelt. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say will be used against you in the Imperial Courts. Continuing to use your psionic abilities on the police can be punishable by death, you know."

The billy club made a light thud against the boy's temple, and he slumped into unconsciousness. Not too soon, either, he thought, because it would have been a damn shame if he'd died of psychic burnout. He pulled his LDC from his belt, tapping the activation button twice to make it glow green. "This is Detective Bailey. I caught the runaway psycher."

A burst of static came through, and he winced before the other voice spoke back. "Roger that, Detective. We'll alert the Protectorate. What's your location?"

"The abandoned Wesson warehouse, near King William and Fifteenth streets." He paused for a moment, then added humorously, "You think the Protectorate folks will have a problem dealing with a null like me?"

"That's their problem, not mine," the response came back with a small chuckle. "I just work dispatch. HQ, over and out." Bailey dropped the LDC back into the pouch on his belt, and glumly sat down on the cold floor to wait.

-----
"What do you want to do tonight, Baal?" "The same thing we try to do every night, Diablo - try to take over the world!"

http://www.geocities.com/the_blue_ninja

[Anyee]

Yes, it is silly. But submittable. Come on over.

[BlueNinja]

Thanks, Anyee, but I think I first need to finish my current project, and sit down to lock into my brain what the plot will be for this setting I'm building.

This part was more for fun.

----

"Kingsport mission control, this is the Lucky Money. You finally track down that errant signal?" Gene sat in his seat, rather bored, with a book propped open by a finger. The thick glove, that he was supposed to be wearing at all times due to regulations, was resting in his lap underneath it. His partner, Roger, was asleep in the other chair.

"One of the wires pulled out of a plug. It's being fixed as we speak." The voice on the other end was just as bored, but much more interesting to listen to compared to Roger's snoring. "Hold up, they just came back in." There was some muffled voices through the intercom, and the joyous woman's shout woke up Roger. "Alright, Lucky Money, this is Kingsport mission control. We are back on schedule for one hour from now. Copy?"

"Hell yeah, mission control!" Gene said back, quickly shoving a rubber band around the book and clipping it into a magnetic pocket underneath his chair, wrestling the book back into place. "Lucky, you ready to go?"

A flat, almost toneless female voice echoed around him. "With the repairs completed, all of my interior systems reading are perfect." Roger calmly rebuckled his safety harness, reaching for the fishbowl helmet sitting on the console in front of him.

"Good to know," Gene said, attaching his own helmet. "Ready to be the seventh pair of men to go outside the atmosphere, Roger?"

His partner just shrugged. "It's getting to be routine. Last trip up, the media barely covered it at all. Kind of sad, that the only reason they're here is because you're a null." He stretched his arms, wiggling his fingers and ensuring he could reach all the important parts on the console.

Making a face, Gene imitated him, then leaned back in his seat. "Well, they have to find out sooner or later. Might as well be sooner." Roger simply shrugged, remaining outwardly silent as the psionicly built computer ran through checklists with him mentally.

Over the next forty-five minutes, they went through a dozen simple checklists for emergencies, listening over the intercom to the ground crews finishing everything and the soft rumble of the fuel tanks being filled and prepped by the fire mages. Then they were down to the final countdown, waiting, both of them filled with nervous energy.

The computer on the Lucky Money started the final countdown at five minutes, and Gene and Roger stopped their nervous twitching and settled down, waiting for the last second and flipping switches as their training and the preparations called for it.

"Ten." They were down to the last seconds now, and Roger gripped his Zakarum cross tightly. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition."

The rocket shook as the spells took hold, blasting away at a pressurized stream of potent alchemical potion, enough to drown a city block in, and it slowly lifted off the ground. The metal holding arms easily fell away, waiting earth mages catching them and lowering them gently to the ground to wait for the next mission. The two astronauts saw none of it, of course, as they were fighting the sudden thrust as they attempted to start their mission on a good foot.

Twenty minutes later, they were crossing out of the atmosphere. The view through the front, triple-thick and heavily enchanted glass, was spectacular - millions of stars crossed the sky, thicker and more brilliant than could be seen from the surface, even from as tall a mountain as Mount Arreat.

"Lucky Money, this is Travincal regional communications station. How's the weather up there?" Gene almost broke a switch off as the sudden, unexpected voice chattered from the speaker.

Roger chuckled, tapping a button on his helmet with a slow, even movement. "Roger, Roger here. The weather is beautiful. Clear as a diamond and twice as valuable." He moved his hand back to the panel with the practiced ease they taught, preparing the astronauts for the weak, magically created gravity. Boy, did he pity the first mission sent up here, who didn't believe that gravity would stop!

Before they could receive an answer back, one of the warning lights suddenly lit up the console with an ugly, red glow. "Warning," the computer intoned aloud and painfully in Roger's mind, "radar says that there is an object directly ahead of us at a distance of one mile. We will impact it in four seconds."

Both of them swore as they leaped into action, fighting against the weak gravity and the restrictions of the safety harnesses to try and activate the thrusters, even as the Lucky Money herself was trying to dodge as well. A sudden, painful lurch hit the ship, and the whole room vibrated with a loud metallic clang. "Lucky?" Gene half-shouted as he furiously worked the micro thrusters to try and adjust them back into their previous flight path. "What the blazing hells just happened?"

There was a moment of silence as the shuttle stopped the strange, almost graceful spinning relativev to Sanctuary. "We were struck by a metallic object approximately twenty-three centimeters in diameter," the computer intoned. Roger looked grim as it relayed more information to him. "The left wing is damaged. We do not have the parts to complete all of the neccessary repairs while in space."

The two men shared a bleak look, and then Roger voiced his concerns out loud. "We only have enough food for ten days up here, Lucky. Can the ISA send up another shuttle for a rendevous before then?"

Another tense moment of silence ran through the room. "That is beyond my ability to assess, captain." The warning light slowly faded out on the console, and everyone seemed to take a moment to try and regroup their thoughts. Then the light blared to life again. "Warning, another impact in -"

A brilliant white light flared to life in the sky above the mountains that separated the Zakarum and the Protectorate, then faded away.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Roger, Roger. On board for all the snippets so far but had a partial black-out on this one. 23 cm? Got the brilliant white light - BOOM! Got the intriguing mixture of sorcery and technology, but missed the mission briefing. Please update the flight plan. Over and out.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hmm...part magic, part technology, imbued with an infectious and enjoyable air of whimsy and a good sense of humor...I like it.

The only major question I had after reading your collection of scenes is...where's this all going? Are these background for another story you're writing? Or is each piece a stand-alone snapshot from this modern interpretation of Sanctuary? (Not that there's anything wrong with that; in fact, I kinda prefer it that way. It's just that since you're creating a world that differs greatly from what's in the game, especially with the psions part, it seems to me like you're setting up a larger epic or something.)

Also, I agree that your lack of grammatical and spelling errors is commendable... :thumbsup: Nice job with that.

Edit: Oops, didn't see your plans for these stories when I wrote this. Scratch that question.

[BlueNinja]

Roger, Roger. On board for all the snippets so far but had a partial black-out on this one. 23 cm? Got the brilliant white light - BOOM! Got the intriguing mixture of sorcery and technology, but missed the mission briefing. Please update the flight plan. Over and out.

I'm aware that the astronaut snippet is the weakest scene of them all. It is there more for the technological comparison with our world, to show some of the areas where Sanctuary, 2001, lags behind our world - most notably in computing and exploration. After all, with magical communication such as town portals, divination, and waypoints, what need is there for satellites?

The way I see it, all of the seven rulers of Hell have their own followers among humanity. Depending on which Prime Evil those humans worship, they can be granted different powers based upon their loyalty, skill, and worhip of their master. In the hierarchy of worshippers, some naturally rank higher than all others - and for Asmodan, the Lord of Sin, his most powerful followers are the living embodiments of the seven deadly sins. They don't always cooperate, and they often don't know who each other are, but when their master calls them, they had best put away their differences if they know what's best for them. Some of the Deadly Sins are chosen semi-randomly for how closely they match the particular Sin, and others tend to be passed down from generation to generation. Lust, in particular, is practically expected by Asmodan to have a sole baby girl at some point to raise to replace her - whereupon, she usually becomes the next Envy.

And no, I didn't accidentally replace a 'h' for an 'r'. :uhhuh:

----

Greed was bent over a microscope, watching the slow chemical interaction with great interest. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to, he was unable to focus his full attention on it. With irritation and a small amount of reluctance, he raised his face, looking across the table at the man making the noise. "Really, Jack, must you eat so loudly?"

He shrugged his fat-covered shoulders. "You don't see me complaining when you duck outside every ten minutes to check your stock quotes," Gluttony shot back at him, licking his lips and casually tossing the stripped chicken bone into the trash can, already overflowing with pizza boxes, empty cartons of stir-fry and egg foo yung that the suffering Gheed was sure he had licked clean.

Still, in the interest of his master Asmodan's plan, he bit his tongue and looked back at the microscope. "It seems to be proceeding just the way we wanted it to." He glanced to the end of the table where their third member was sitting, legs propped up on the table with a notepad and a calculator in her lap. The fact that the delectable Lust was wearing less than a billboard underwear model was another fact he had been trying to ignore for most of the last two weeks. "Any brilliant ideas?"

She sighed, sitting up in a graceful movement that caused both mens' hormones to reach up and grab them around the hearts. "If we distribute this drug as an injection, the odds of an overdose are too large. Same with smoking it." She turned her face towards Jack, raising an eyebrow. "But I think, with a bit of your specialty, we could package them in something like a gumdrop."

He sat back, the rolls of fat shifting about like a turbulent ocean wave as the chair creaked ominously. "The gelatin mix would slow the absorption rate of the drug, true. What about the chemical reaction with sugar though?" he asked, all business even as he dipped one hand back into the bucket of fried chicken.

Lust tossed the notebook down the table, and Gheed caught it, glancing over his notes, trying to remember as much of his college chemistry as possible. After all, his position as Greed led him to focus on accounting, not drug interactions. "It doesn't seem to be a problem," he said, setting the notebook down on the table. "Now who do we test it on?"

Both of them looked at Jack, who had picked up the bucket and was looking at the empty container forlornly. "I'll call out for pizza; I know one of the delivery boys is a druggy. Mostly minor stuff, dreamweed and the like, but for a free sample, we could probably get him to try it." He tossed the bucket towards the trash can, missing and ignoring it as it spun on the floor. "Do we have anything else to eat?"

Gheed sighed, looking down into the microscope as he fought down a wave of revulsion. "I think there's some sandwiches left in the fridge." He stopped, realizing what he said, and looked at the doorway to the kitchen. "Um, the blue fridge, that is."

Diane shook her head, thin fingers quickly rebinding her flowing hair into a braid. "No, he had that for breakfast," she said with a measure of shared revulsion. "Let's take that sample, and see if we can get one good gumdrop made from it."

They spent the next ten minutes mixing the chemicals into a measuring cup, pouring it into a small jello mold and setting it in the freezer, while Gluttony spoke on the phone to whoever the teenager was. Doubtless every delivery place in Kurast had his address memorized.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came to the door, and Greed and Lust hid back in the kitchen, their mixture prepared while they listened to the ball of fat in the living room talking to the delivery boy. Then he stuck a hand through into the kitchen, and she dropped the small gelatin cube into his outstretched hand, waiting to see the reaction.

The kid apparently paused for a moment, as they felt Gluttony's magic work on him subtly, encouraging him to try the tasty treat. He swallowed, and the drug hit him like a freight train. All three of the Deadly Sins could feel their own focus of power coursing through the young body; the rush of hormones, the desire for power and the feeling that you deserved whatever you could set your eyes on, the stuffed satiation only possible from a meal of the highest quality.

For thirty minutes, they basked in the flow of emotions and subtle magic that the drug invoked in their first victim. Then the teen started jerking on the carpet, fighting for breath, as the power of the drug started burning out parts of his body. Gheed and Diane drifted out from the kitchen, watching him breathe his last strangled breath before expiring in the middle of the carpet.

"Well, that was a disappointment," Greed said. "We'll have to reduce the dosage before we can start marketing it." Gripping the corpse by the ankles, he dragged it into the bathroom. "I'll bribe a couple of hit men to dispose of the body."

Throwing on a raincoat, Lust nodded. "So, where are we supposed to start production first?" Her brow furrowed and she looked at her fallen notebook in confusion. "What are we going to call it, anyway?"

Heaven, or perhaps just H for short, said a voice familiar to all of them. Start distributing the drug in Tristram, Viz-Jun, and Raveil. It will spread from there, Asmodan said.

Successful, the three of them all shared a bow towards each other, and the two Deadly Sins left. As Jack returned to the fallen dozen pizzas, he wondered whether or not a human really did taste like chicken.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Now that's more like it. :thumbsup:


Fun imagery.He sat back, the rolls of fat shifting about like a turbulent ocean wave ... they listened to the ball of fat in the living room talking to the delivery boy.

But are you sure that's where she grabbed them?She sighed, sitting up in a graceful movement that caused both mens' hormones to reach up and grab them around the hearts.

Nice irony.Heaven, or perhaps just H for short, said a voice familiar to all of them.


:winner: (nods approvingly)

[BlueNinja]

Now that's more like it. :thumbsup:
But are you sure that's where she grabbed them? I am at least attempting to keep my writing for this setting in a PG-13 mold. I'll probably slip up somewhere. However, I couldn't think of any elegant way to say that if they hadn't already sold their souls to Asmodan, they would have for a night (or three) with her. So, I left it the way it was.

After how easily the Zakarum High Council was corrupted by Mephisto, and then the next High Council corrupted by the temptation of the corrupted shards of Worldstone, the paladins returned en masse to Travincal, evicting the priests and installing themselves as the head of the Zakarum order. Since their powers come more directly from Heaven, and since Hadriel has a tendancy to show up and permantently curse paladins who horribly abuse their oaths, the Zakarum church has remained largely a beneficial organization. Men and women from every light-friendly group on the planet come to join the ranks of the Church in all capacities - paladin, priest, soldier, teacher. Of course, those who do make it through four grueling years of instruction and practical exams still have to pass one last test.

In case you're wondering, no, the name is not a sign of forboding. He's not evil.

I think. :scratch:

----

He sat on the rather beaten plastic couch, ignoring the smell of disinfectant that barely covered the other smells of blood and vomit. Par for the course for a hospital like this one, he thought, and his hand momentarily strayed to the small, silver cross around his neck beneath the pressed shirt.

When the door to his left opened, he looked up expectantly, and put on his best smile as the harried woman looked out at him. "Come in, come in, don't just stand there all day," she admonished him, vanishing back into the recess of her office. "What did you say your name was again?" she inquired, picking up a set of spectacles from the desk and sorting through the massive stack of papers to find his file.

"Arthas," he said, sitting down across from her. "Arthas deBeers," he added, pausing for a moment before extending out his hand. But she didn't notice as she read the paper (again, he hoped), and he lowered it after another moment of awkward hesitation.

With a snap, she closed the folder, dropped it into the trashcan next to her, and leaned forward to stare him down like a saber cat. "Well then, Arthas, I must say it's not every day that a prospective paladin turns up at my office in the glamorous John J. Lepetomaine Memorial Hospital," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want to be a medical intern for a year to satisfy the terms of your initiation into the paladin orders?"

He nodded slowly, doing his best to hold up his show of confidence. From the moment his Arbiter had told him which hospital he'd be fulfilling his request of a medical internship in, he'd been regretting it. Almost, he'd begged for the chance to change his mind, to go on a demon-hunting crusade into the Aranoch desert instead, but a paladin does not falter. "That's right," he said. "Three months in surgery, three months in the burn unit, and six in the emergency room."

She raised an eyebrow at that, and leaned back, the ancient office chair creaking in protest. "I fully expect you to be walking out of this hospital at six months and one day," she said, "slinking back to your Arbiter and begging for another assignment. Something simple and safe, like singlehandedly disrupting the yearly worship ceremony to Baal in Caracun." She snorted, looking up at the ceiling. "But, angels know how much we can use any set of helping hands. Get your butt up to the fourth floor, and talk to Doctor Fox."

He rose from his chair hurriedly, giving a quick but graceful bow, and launched himself out the door. When this was over, and he was a full member in the Paladin Order, he was so going to kick his older brother's behind for this.

[BlueNinja]

As the Kingdom of Westmarch was slowly expanding and becoming the Empire of the Setting Sun, the Zakarum were expanding as well. With the paladins now in charge of running the church, they turned to expanding the area of their control southward, wanting to encompass all of the tropical Kehjistan jungle and the more temperate lands of the south. They made alliances with the Vizjerei mage clans, inviting them in to use their elemental magics for the benefit of their theocratic empire. And as they continued to press southward, they faced off against the saber cat tribes that had always lurked around the edges of human settlements, watching warily for danger from the apes.

While some of the saber cat tribes worshipped the Prime Evils, others did not, preferring to rely on the faithfulness of earth-based magic rather than the unreliable demonic sources. After several decades of guerilla warfare, the demon worshipping tribes were all exterminated or fled east across the mountains to the kingdoms there. The tribes who followed more sedate traditions were gradually allowed to join the Zakarum kingdom, excelling in their army. Their speed and natural ability to run longer than the most hardy barbarians make them excellent scouts, and a few of them are present in every battallion in the Zakarum army. They do not follow the Zakarum faith (much to the disappointment of many priests) but they have proved their loyalty to the satisfaction of the paladin High Council.

Oddly enough, only saber cat females ever leave their homes, leading to a variety of rumors about their society. But since the traditional homes of the tribes are off-limits to all humans, and no saber cat will ever speak of their differences, they remain only rumors.

----

"Rrasi?" he said quietly, both hands holding the compound longbow easily, an arrow pulled back and ready. The last thing she'd said was something about hearing their quarry, a small pack of ghouls. When they could eat live prey, ghouls were some of the more dangerous undead, being both swift and cunning in addition to the unnatural undead strength. But they'd been chasing this group for three days now, hardly stopping to rest, so by now the ghouls would be weakening, losing some of their speed and strength.

"Rrasi?" he called again, wondering where his partner had vanished to. For the third time since he'd arrived to be partners with her, he was regretting his assignment. He sighed softly, slipping between a pair of bushes and looking up at the snow-covered mountains, so close to the east, that separated the Zakarum theocracy from the demon controlled kingdoms on the other side.

A sudden scrabbling noise made him turn, raising the bow and firing the moment he saw the ghoul. It tried to dodge, but weakened by days without feeding the arrow caught it in the shoulder, slamming it backwards into the fallen tree that had, a moment ago, been its shelter. Snarling wordlessly, the ghoul yanked on the arrow, but the barbed magnesium head was stuck firmly in the log, and the shaft was designed to take a beating. Vladimir drew another arrow, carefully lining up the shot, and pinned the ghoul's arm to the log as well.

"Say g'night, you filthy bastard," he said, drawing forth a lighter from his pocket. The arrows had a core of magnesium, with a small piece sticking from the base of the shaft, just for situations like this. While the ghoul raged impotently, still trying to attack him, he flicked the lighter and held the orange flame against the base of the arrow, his eyes almost squeezed shut. With a quiet hiss and a blinding flame, the magnesium caught fire, and he leaped away as the ghoul screamed. The burning metal had already started melting away the shaft, dripping molten aluminum into the core of the rotting body.

"Yeuch," he muttered.

"Could you be quieter?" He looked up at the voice on the branch above him, catching sight of Rrasi at last. "You're going to scare away the rest of them," she muttered, her tail tip barely flicking as her sharper ears and nose tried to find the other three undead remaining.

Closing his eyes, Vladimir took a deep breath, then picked up his bow and set another arrow to it. His ghoul had already stopped twitching, filling the forest with the stink of burnt flesh and melted plastic. "Where are they?" he whispered at last.

Looking up, Rrasi had vanished again with the usual silence of a saber cat on the hunt. "Remember, you moron," he muttered to himself as he walked around the fallen tree, "you requested this assignment."

His rant probably would have continued, but something smashed into his back, sending his prepared arrow flying off to vanish in the fallen leaves even as he rolled forward, accepting a nasty laceration on his forearm to protect his bow. Rolling back to his feet, he pulled out another arrow, stabbing the over-eager ghoul through the eye with it and ducking around a pine sapling, trying to stall for enough time to back away and fire another arrow at it.

To his surprise, the ghoul just stood there, trembling, as it tried to pull the barbed arrow from its eye socket. "Oh, the hell with it," Vladimir said, yanking the flare gun from his belt as a second ghoul emerged behind the injured one. It was unarmed, and ignoring the branch that had so effectively clubbed him, charged. At the last moment, the scout turned, hitting it in the chest with his palm and shoving the barrel of the flare gun between the ghoul's teeth.

When he pulled the trigger, the rotting head exploded, showering him with putrid flesh and impaling bone splinters in his skin. Spitting, he tried to wipe his eyes free, and almost groaned. Rrasi was standing a few feet away, leaning against a tree, having already disposed of the wounded ghoul. "I thought human males were supposed to be intelligent," she sniped.

"I'd be doing a lot better if you'd bother to teach me anything, like you're supposed to!" he shot back, pulling a large, squishy piece of unidentifiable flesh from his hair. "This is only my first assignment as a scout. You're supposed to be my mentor."

They glared each other down for a moment, then the saber cat turned around and casually leaped over the fallen tree. "There's a stream back here," she said over her shoulder as her tail vanished. "I'll start a fire so you can clean up.

Still muttering about all his stupid ideas, Vladimir followed her.

[Hunt3r_kill4]

wow..these stories are extremely addicting.

I spent a whole afternoon reading these, and threw a tantrum when they ended. :lol:

Intense descriptions, gets reader caught up in story

[BlueNinja]

While the strength of magic lessened somewhat with the destruction of the Worldstone, magic was obviously a very important part of the world. The Viz-Jun clans, considered to be the most widely studied since the Horadrim died out, joined the Zakarum and formalized the studies of the elements. Eventually, schools were founded across the world for those lucky few with the spark of magic. Each school focused on one specific element out of the four, and a friendly sort of rivalry sprung up between each branch of the elemental colleges. Once magical enchantments could be tuned to producing things in an assembly line fashion, modern culture was born, and with it, all the nuisances that come with it.

Like PETA.

----

"Dad was right, I should have gone into training as a Fire mage instead," Julie said irritably as she measured out powder onto the scale, almost grain by grain. Her voice was quiet, as a breath at the wrong moment would scatter the careful work all over the countertop, and require her to spend another half-hour calibrating the scale for the fourth bloody time, and was really not in the mood for it.

"You'd have hated it," Thomas replied in his usual tone, sounding as though his mind was somewhere in orbit.

She inhaled sharply, cutting herself off halfway as the powder stirred in the small plastic tray, then carefully turned her head away to take several deep breaths. "When this is over, you are so going to drown in your own coffee, you vapid air mage," she spat at him before turning back to her own work.

"Hey now, you're the one who chose to work in research and development. Don't take it out on me." He leaned back from his own scale, the chair squeaking as he turned around. "Ready when you are."

Julie held her breath, watching the scale as she carefully brought it up to the exact measurement, calculated to the microgram. She backed away slowly from the counter, moving into the more open area of the room. "Go for it," she whispered, crossing her fingers.

Raising his hand, Thomas reached out with his magic, and two streams of powder combined in the air, mixing with each other until they had solidified into a small sphere about the size of a ball bearing. "Hurry up," he said, some of the magical strain creeping into his voice, and she wordlessly hurried across the room with the flask, an ugly brown liquid sloshing around inside. Almost imperceptibly, the powder drifted down in a perfect spiral into the flask, the water swirling around to mix perfectly.

When it was done, they both stood there gazing at the small flask and the electric blue liquid contained within. "Think it'll actually work to cure the Horribus plague in the Entsteig provinces?" she asked nervously.

"Only one way to find out," he said, and moved towards the door to the next room. "Time to kill some rats."

Grimacing, she slid open one of the drawers, pulling out a pair of syringes and a pair of clean needles, and that was when the door burst open from an explosion. "Not again," she growled, as the unmistakable uniforms of those insipid animal protection mental cases. "Not again this week!" she shouted, and Thomas turned back from the door to the room as one of them leveled a pistol in his direction.

Truthfully, the Animal Protection Society Squads had never been very successful in attack research facilities like these, because it took very powerful and skilled mages to do most of the research. To their own detriment, it never stopped them either. A blast of hurricane force wind hurtled across the room, toppling sensitive equipment, sending chairs flying, and hurling all but the two most tenacious rebels back outside. "Don't you people ever learn?" Thomas asked in a bored tone, hearing the retort of the pistol and the disconcerting feeling as it shot through his immaterial body and tore a chunk out of the door.

Outside on the lawn, the wind-tossed intruders were regrouping themselves when all of the sprinklers suddenly erupted. What would normally have been an inconvenience suddenly turned into a deadly trap, supplemented by Julie's magic. The water slapped at them like hailstones and slicked the top of the grass like oil. Their weapons, normally fairly immune to the elements, suddenly started rusting away as they fought to retain even a crawling position outside.

Then the security squads drove up in their jeeps, brandishing weapons and magic themselves. Handcuffs and ropes flew through the air, attaching themselves to victims as they were levitated out of the destruction that had been the doorway. Rubbing her hands together as though cleaning them, Julie climbed down from her perch on the counter, leaving the professionals to do the cleanup. "Now, tell me again why I shouldn't have been a fire mage instead?"

Her partner just smiled that tiny smile, the barely-lifted corner of his mouth as he shook his head and straightened his hair. "Because, annoying as they are, it is technically against Imperial law to kill them." He almost said more, then caught sight of the flask on the counter, shattered by one of the bullets that had missed or gone through him during the fighting. "You know what?"

"**** the job, let's take the day off?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah. I'll buy the first round."

[talkkno]

nice job on the last one. but maybe you should list elments?....... for a little refence

[BlueNinja]

but maybe you should list elments?....... for a little refence Sorry, I thought it would be obvious that I was referring to the four traditional Greek elements - Earth, Air, Fire, Water.

----

While the Ghosts are the epitome of psychic power and its potential, the Gunsmiths are the flip side of the Protectorate coin of power. While they all have at least small amounts of psychic potential, none of them have the mental power to be anything more than a mental irritant to demons, mages, and other psionics. The Gunsmiths focus more on the interactions of the physical world, with a special love for gadgets and explosions. Each Gunsmith builds their own customized weapon, designed to accept dozens of types of ammunitions. As they progress in both their knowledge of traps and increase their psychic powers, they can imbue their weapons with elemental damages. Frequently, they also hire mages to enchant ammunition, so that they can save their own minor skills for the more dangerous situations.

Outside of the Protectorate, guns have become more common in the world, though only the most skilled could ever approach the training that a Gunsmith goes through. Still, when looking for a break from the constant demonic raids on their country, Gunsmiths are often found in the other lands, hiring themselves out to police, or freelancing with private detectives.

----

"Fire in the hole!" Rama shouted, ducking backwards behind the wreck of the police car. The metal door, reinforced with sheets of steel by the drug runners hiding inside, crumpled inward with a disappointingly soft whump. Erratic gunfire spattered against his car, and a few of the others, as the S.M.A.S. (Specialized Magic Assault Squad) hefted shields and weapons and charged for the door.

Rama pulled out his short rifle, popping up over the hood of the car long enough to see the windows. Three windows facing the street, all of them boarded over. The one on the left had a gap, and a glimpse of moving steel inside. The first two bullets shredded the side of a board, and the third blasted splinters of wood inside to rake the room. He heard someone screaming even over the noise of gunfire and the clashes and clangs of melee combat. He didn't envy the cops, that was for sure - but as the third window exploded outward in a blast of fire, sending some unfortunate soul with it, he had no sympathy for the drug runners, either.

That was life in the ghetto of Haven, he thought darkly. He thought it was rather stupid for the late King Roland to rebuild it, especially after his great-uncle had gone to such great lengths to burn the forsaken place down four and a half centuries ago. Then a bullet skipped off the hood of the car, breaking his chain of thought, and he rolled his eyes, following the angle easily and killing whatever poor bastard had climbed onto the roof of the small tenement building. Rama strolled around the car, moving for the door, figuring that he could at least help any injured cops back outside. The armored van was, after all, waiting two blocks away, after the first roadside bomb they had hit.

He snickered, reaching into a pouch hanging on his belt, where one of the other four was waiting for him. Gabriel's mercy, he thought, what clumsy idiots - he was surprised none of them had blown themselves up by now. He scanned the dim hallway, as skeletal beams of light illuminated the disturbed dust. "Well, at least no cops are dead yet," he muttered, stepping over some nameless criminal who hadn't been so lucky. Most of the doors had been kicked open, others just weren't there, so he could easily scan the main rooms of the building.

Of course, what he really wanted right that moment was a potion to stop his sense of smell. The entire building reeked of urine, stale sweat, and he'd just crushed a rat under his boot. Looking down at the blood-matted fur stuck to the treads, he growled in irritation, then stopped at the rickety stairwell. He closed his eyes, extending his rifle towards the dark shadow under the stairs as he tried to ignore the fighting going on above his head.

His eyes popped open in shock as he recognized the taint of a demon-trained psionicist, and then jerked. A face emerged from the shadow, connected to the arm holding the knife now buried in his intestines. Grimly Rama pulled the bomb from his belt, and took a deep painful breath as his opponent's eyes widened.

"Fire in the hole!" he screamed, and hurled the block of explosive down the hidden stairwell into the basement. S.M.A.S. members hurled themselves out of the windows, most of them able to land safely or levitate down, and ten seconds after his scream faded away, the entire building collapsed with the shock wave from five pounds of plastic explosive going off next to the building's gas line.