Part III
Grisly Remains

Slicer stood up, wiped the blood from his sword, and looked around at the remains of the town. This once thriving farm community was now a collection of burning and damaged buildings. At his feet lay a dead blacksmith whom the rogues identified as Griswold, a once kindly man cursed and corrupted by an evil Slicer could not fathom. His mind seethed with unanswered questions.

What had made those rogues in the forest so violently evil?
Who had corrupted the great beasts ?
What had given birth to those foul demon crows whose incessant attacks had become a fact of life for the past three days?
Where had those axe Wielding goat demons come from?
What the hell had got into Sissy that she barely spoke to him anymore?
What strange defilement had been done to the Great Stone Circle where the Imp captain Rakanishu, a lightning spewing hell spawn, had led a horde of Carver demons against them?

Three of Kashya’s scouts had fallen to that monstrosity’s bolts. Saucy and Sissy had both been badly burned during that fight before Eddy had cracked the Imp’s skull open with a blow of his shield. Slicer had lost the hair off of one leg to a searing bolt of white energy. His left foot still tingled.

Better back home, he thought, where demons haven’t yet touched the soil.

Saucy was examining some high quality bows hidden in the smith’s shop that had escaped the flames. She sought replacement for her own hunter’s bow, broken across the skull of a Carver Shaman. Gwinni and Aliza, the two rogue archers, were gathering spent shafts and talking in subdued voices. Eddy and Sissy sat next to a well, exhausted from the running battle that had raged through the still burning town. They were holding hands and quietly reassuring one another that they were still alive. It still grated on him that, even though he had been the one who had saved her from the fire, it was Eddy she always sought out once a battle was over. Juju women, he thought, more trouble than they are worth. Slicer looked down at the old man, gritted his teeth, and shook his head.

Cain. Deckard Cain, the old man called himself. What had that old fossil been doing in a crow cage in the middle of a burned out town? What power had preserved him from the grisly end the rest of the town had suffered: burned buildings and crucifixion had seemed to be the order of the day, or simple butchery. Cain still wept over the remains of three of the bodies he had asked them to recover. An old white haired man--Pepin--lay next to the well with his arms crossed over the gaping hole in his chest. A raven haired, buxom woman wearing a bracelet that said “Adria,” lay face down to hide the butchery done to her once lovely face.

And the young boy.

Slicer shook his head again.

Cain had cried loudest when the boy had been brought to him. Wirt, it seemed, had been a cripple. The demons had not cared, and had eaten at least half of his body before tiring of him and seeking other townsfolk to slaughter. His remains were now covered by Saucy’s tattered cloak. Cain’s pleas to find a tavern owner named Ogden, and a young lady called Gillian, had been fruitless. No other bodies were recognizable enough, or unburned enough, to know what their names might have once been.

“Eddy,” Slicer called, “I have had enough of this ruin. Let us return to Akara, and let Cain consult with her on how to find the demon did this to Tristram. I have no stomach for the smell of burnt flesh, unless I am cooking dinner. Saucy, Sissy, gather what loot you like. Then let us go back through Cain’s portal. We cannot help them anymore.” With solemn nods from the two rogues, they had all silently agreed that they could help Tristram no further. They turned their backs on the black smoke and stepped through the portal.

Back at the camp, Slicer busied himself with preparing the string of trout that caravan master Warriv had caught in the stream that afternoon. Gheed had traded him two bags of rare herbs and spices for a bejeweled dagger Slicer had found in Tristram. The process of preparing food was cathartic, easing both his physical aches and his frustrations with Sissy. His mind wandered back to the mountains, and the great banquet hall of the local hetman where his father had been head chef. He started singing as he worked, and his spirits rose. Soon the smell of spiced trout and garlic-baked turnips drew everyone to the campfire. They soon joined together in the oldest of social customs, the sharing of food and fire. Good food, cool ale, and fellowship pushed the darkness back for an evening, and led to the coarse humor that all soldiers share.

Saucy started it off.
“So, what’s the last thing the goat demon saw when he met a Necromancer?”
“His teeth,” Eddy replied with a grin. “How is a Fire Sorceress like a bowl of peppered lentils?” This earned him a sharp glance from Sissy.
“What is it about ‘hot babes’ that I oughta know, Eddy?” she asked heatedly, as green as her dress.
Slicer chimed in, “They are both hot and spicy. What is it called when an Amazon dies her hair red?”
The poke in the ribs from Saucy was been worth the laughter when Sissy shouted, “Brain surgery!”
Sissy continued with the theme.
“Say, what did the Amazon do when she got a composite bow for Winterfest?”
“Easy,” Kashya replied, “she went crazy trying to put her hair up with it.”
Saucy turned red, and riposted.
"So, what do you call a Cold Sorceress who enters a Monastery?"
"A blue nun!" replied Aliza. She grinned and then asked:
“So, what’s the difference between a Paladin, a Barbarian, and a Necromancer?”
The entire assemblage paused, shaking their heads, until Elly, one of the rogues, called out:
“Nothing! They all look the same in a kilt-- standing on their heads!”
Inspired, Slicer mooned her, which resulted in a number of remarks about how one could see a moon with all of the cloud cover, and why Barbarians shaved their heads, but not their cheeks..
“Why did the Vizjeri cross the road?” Elly continued.
“It was too far to go around,” Saucy replied. “What is the difference between a Rogue and a pipe weed farmer?”
“Easy one,” Eddy called, “one fills the barrels with ‘baccy, the other fills your back with arrows!
"What's the best way to tell if a Barbarian is drunk?"
"Easy," called Saucy, "give him a pike. If he walks in a straight line, he's drunk!
"What do you call it when a Paladin sends signals to a Shaman?"
Kashya spoke up. "Holy smoke!
"What do you call a Paladin who can't sing?"
""A Blessed Hummer!" hollered Elly.
Slicer snorted. "I thought a Blessed Hummer is when a Sister kisses the Sightless Eye!"
This earned him a volley trout bones from the rogues, and any number of comments about the trouble they'd had until recently, finding a barbarian who eats fish.

From there, the evening had degenerated into more catcalls, soldier’s songs, drinking and rough humor until the ale had left them sprawling, comatose, on the ground. Only Cain and Akara had refrained from the revelry and heavy drinking. They stayed awake in quiet conversation, long after the laughter was replaced by snores, and some heavy breathing in a few of the tents. A man of Slicer’s physique who could cook gourmet fish platters was considered quite a “catch” by some of the rogues, who seemed bound and determined to teach him about seafood, humming, and the Sightless Eye. Saucy had bet Kashya that she wouldn’t have to pay a single copper for the bow in Gheed’s wagon that she had had her eye on.

The following morning, Akara and Cain had addressed the group.

“Head into the Tamoe Highlands, and reconnoiter the Monastery,” said Cain. “It is as we feared: Andariel, lieutenant of Diablo, drove the rogues from their Citadel: even worse, she turned many of them against the Light. You must harden your hearts, and slay the corrupted sisters where you find them. Only thus will you set their souls free from the bondage of darkness.”

Kashya silently shook her head and waved back three rogues who volunteered to accompany the party into the Black Marsh.
“You must remain sisters. We have to preserve our forces. There are few enough of us left; another scouting party lost is a victory for the enemy. And even a moment’s hesitation to slay a sister you once knew could cost your life. I need you alive to fight the darkness. Let Eddy’s band scout out the enemy dispositions. They will not be slaying old friends if the black rogues sally forth.”

A letter home

Donal “Dicer” Justinson, Village of Frostvale, The Barbarian Highlands

Greetings, brother; may the howl of the wolf greet you at day’s end.

Please tell Mother and the rest that I am well. I write to you from the encampment of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye, in the hills of Ensteig. So much has happened to me since I left our village . . .
The situation is dire. Evil such as has never touched our homelands now walks in daylight here. I pray to our Ancestors that our sacred highlands escape this curse, this destruction.

When I left home with naught but Grandfather’s sword and my cooking pots, I dreamed of glory and heroic victories. How naive I was. I was ambushed by the Shadowspawn they call Fallen as I left a stand of trees and was nearly vanquished. Grandfather's sword, though beautiful, seems ill-suited to the style of fighting necessary here.
I had to take a short, curved sword that an evil rogue wielded against me, and carry that still. I do not understand what is wrong. Perhaps I am not skillful enough yet, or the sword feels I am unworthy-- I may need to complete some quest unknown to me now.

As I traveled south, I found increasing evil; villages are burned, isolated farms have been utterly destroyed. The center of resistance to the evil is the Sisters’ encampment. Here, I found fell-handed companions for the struggle.

Four of us have banded together against the Darkness: our leader is Eddy, a Paladin of Westmarch. My other companions are Saucy, an archer of great skill from the Amazon Isles, and Sissy, a sorceress from the East. What a woman.

Dicer, I am smitten, against my better judgment, with Sissy. You will laugh, and tell me the sayings of the Bear Clan are now coming true, but she ties my insides up in knots. Should I throw myself on the ground at her feet in abject worship, or stretch her across my knee and spank her? Maybe I should do both. I understand Father's frowns better now.

She is shallow and vain, and plainly prefers Eddy’s company to mine, but at the same time she is as deep as the lake below Whitefall, and her power is undeniable.
Eddy is the finest warrior I have ever met, even though his ways are alien to ours. He is a steadfast comrade and plunges into the thick of the fight with no regard for his own safety if one of the others is threatened.

You always said that I lacked a confidence. I have it now! The name that the village boys gave me in mockery of my work with mother and father, preparing roots and vegetables for stew, I have now given new meaning:
I am a Slicer of Demonspawn! Come join me, brother; we will Slice and Dice evil together! I know that you will not be leaving on your Dream Quest for another two years, but the time to resist evil is now. If the Lord of Terror triumphs, dreams will all become nightmares.

You have always shown skill beyond your years with a blade, and we need warriors! This battle against the Evil Three is the only battle that counts. Defeat means the world, and our family and homeland, dies. Come to the camp of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye as quickly as you may, Dicer, and join your sword to ours.
Your brother,
Malcolm Justinson
But "Slicer of Demonspawn" in the Tamoe Highlands

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