Author's Notes: This is the culmination of a massive writing project I've been developing on and off since my college days. I doubt if this will be the final iteration, and I don't plan for it to be professionally published... I've been writing it mostly for my own entertainment. But I've been steadily encouraged to present it to more than just myself and a few select friends - so I bring it here. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: The following is an adaptation based upon Diablo II by Blizzard Entertainment. Similarities to the game, its characters, and its situations are entirely intentional. This story is intended to be an homage, and is distributed solely at the author's discretion and without intent to obtain monetary profit, and... oh, just read it, already, would you?

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Between the Darkness and the Light

A Diablo Story

by Matt Morwell

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Prologue
The Sightless Eye

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Warriv tucked his pipe between his lips and moved closer to the fire. Though its blaze was as tall as he, and it crackled and snapped loudly, it seemed to offer little protection against either the cold or the darkness. The wind seemed to return the snapping a little more fiercely, tugging at his tunic uncomfortably. The perpetual night-drizzle of the region might once have been a reassurance to frequent visitors from Lut Gholein, but now it was a farce and an omen.

His periphery picked up the sight of a face that was pale and hair that was paler still, hovering at the portal of a rudimentary tent made of thick black cloth. The man’s pallor was a singularly uncommon sight in the wilderness, and the sight of such a man wrapped in loose black robes – a brand of clothing worn most frequently when one wished to hide one’s true wrappings or possessions – had been enough to startle the Sisters on the battlements above upon his arrival.

The only color the man had borne was a brown traveler’s pack slung over his shoulder, more nondescript than anything else about him. It had looked almost out of place. But it had been just enough to convince them that this was not the strange traveler that had haunted the gate of the monastery – aside from a large weapon, the previous visitor had borne no possessions.

And, Warriv thought dryly, his skin was darker.

The only interaction anybody had witnessed this new outsider engaging in was a few softly spoken words to Akara. For her part, she had retreated into her tent and had not exited since; but she had not sent the visitor away, which was enough of an indication to the rest that he’d been permitted to stay the evening in the encampment.

Warriv took a seat upon one of the makeshift log benches surrounding the fire and stared into the blaze. Although the drizzle was not nearly intense enough to have any impact on the fire, it nevertheless seemed to burn less brightly than one might have expected.

It wasn’t long before the looming girth of the encampment’s resident scam artist cast a shadow next to Warriv’s own. The desert-born man let a puff of smoke through his nostrils as Gheed seated himself on the log a little too close for comfort.

“A necromancer,” Gheed muttered. “I hoped I’d never have to lay my eyes on one of their kind again.”

“Recent troubles have brought out all kinds,” Warriv noted. He kept his tone nonchalant, but his curiosity was piqued. Necromancy was a taboo art and the only ones he’d ever heard of as common practitioners were the Priests of Rathma. Supposedly they were natives of Kurast, but for all the gossip inspired, few said so with any measure of sincere certainty.

“How can you be so calm with one of them here?” Gheed probed. “He could be playing with your brother’s bones, for all you know.”

“Doubtful, as I have no brothers,” was Warriv’s response, followed by another puff of smoke. He shot a sidelong glance at the other man. “What about you?”

A scoff issued from the merchant. “None worth mentioning. I’m just saying. The gates close, there’s no traffic to this place, and someone like that shows up. Makes me nervous. Sure as hell it makes these ladies here nervous too.”

Sure as Hell? Indeed, Warriv thought. He deigned to offer no reply; he wasn’t terribly interested in carrying on a conversation that would likely only stoke Gheed’s self-satisfied bigotry.

Of one thing, he was certain – that the man was allowed into the camp meant he was less Hellish than whatever had now taken up residence in the plains beyond it.

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© Matt Morwell, 2011

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Those already familiar with my work will note that this section, as with those that will follow, is much shorter than my typical update. Hopefully this will help those who don't have an entire afternoon to slog through page after page of this stuff! I will do my best to ensure this story is updated regularly. I hope you who read this will find fit to cram my Inbox with thoughts, remarks, criticisms, and general hubbub!