Diablo 2′s Hardcore mode remains fairly unique, especially given the modern trend toward MMO gaming with invincible characters. The concept of a character that only gets to die once makes for an exciting game — the knowledge that you’re going to lose both your items and the time you’ve invested makes every battle a razor’s edge.
Instead of eulogizing my characters, I decided to write stories about the unfortunate deaths they’d encounter, whether by my failings as a player, bad luck, or a battle for which they are not ready. This is one of those stories. And this was definitely due to my failings as a player!
Nine-Tenths
Lacerian, Level 9 Necromancer
Gaeleon was angry.
No, not Gaeleon. Brikok. His name was Brikok. He was still Brikok. Galeon was never angry. The momentary slip of his name made him even angrier, and a braying snarl escaped his lips. His axe flashed through the air, its rusted edge carving a slow arc through the air. He wished he could simply twist his elbow, change the flight of the blade, and carve a fatal chunk away from his own body.
Gaeleon wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t even will himself to hit one of the curving horns that sprouted from his head.
Brikok grew even angrier at the fact that he couldn’t hurt himself, and another snarl began forming in his throat. But before it could escape, the sound choked off. Gaeleon wouldn’t allow that, either. Gaeleon had sensed . . . something . . . approaching, and forbade Brikok’s second snarl.
Brikok’s past was nothing but fading memories that seemed an eternity long past. A young warrior of the Blood Clan, he had been raised with on tales of glory and the oaths of fealty. Elders told him tales dark labyrinths long forgotten beneath the earth. Warriors told stories of might adventures capable of cutting down hordes of their best, but who carried treasures that the goatmen clans had never dreamed of once finally defeated. Brikok had practiced and trained, aimed to be the pride of his clutch.
His reward had been Gaeleon.
Brikok could vaguely remember the disgusting, vile feeling he had woken up to, like a waterfall of grease pouring down his throat, splashing into a midden heap piled in his belly. That memory was fading from Brikok’s mind at Gaeleon’s request, though, like all of his memories before that morning. He had no idea who or what Gaeleon was. The spirit in control of his body never spoke.
A skeleton appeared in the doorway. There were many denizens in these dank passages, hidden beneath a long-forgotten and crumbled tower, but this skeleton was different. This skeleton was a threat. Brikok still urged his body forward, but was a hair slower than Gaeleon’s urging. Brikok wanted to wretch at the feeling of being a passenger on one’s own limbs, his trained and conditioned body being used as a puppet.
His large axe came down hard on the weapon the skeleton held, knocking it askew. Next to him, another member of the Blood Clan stabbed hard at the skeleton’s midsection, axe clattering through exposed ribs. Brikok wondered if he’d known those Blood Clan members before Gaeleon. Were they similarly trapped by spirits, or provided other “gifts?” Had they been drawn to this forsaken place by their own will, or the will of some overriding force they could not fight against and win?
Brikok’s adversary slashed back at him, cutting a wound deep into Brikok’s side, but the damage barely slowed him. He was able to take wounds that would have felled others, the only gift he could really thank Gaeleon for. The skeleton crumpled to the ground at Gaeleon’s . . . Brikok’s . . . return strike, and the other Blood Clan member slid to his left to engage another skeleton that had appeared through the door. Before Brikok, the battle parted like a crowd of insects. Standing directly in front of him, he saw the tall, gaunt form of a human. Recognition from tales learned as a child appeared hazily in Brikok’s mind: A Death-Walker!
The man was looking away from Gaeleon, watching one of his skeletons and what appeared to be a mass of earth battle three more of his companions. Gaeleon raised the axe above his head and crossed the distance with three great, lunging steps. The man never saw the axe that cleaved his head in two, crumpling him and his creations to the ground.
Brikok wondered for a moment if the Death-Walker might have had the arcane knowledge required to free him from Gaeleon’s grasp before the spirit completely took over. The only response he got was silence, and Brikok knew that he was doomed.