Fallere Ballatro

The Invincible Fallere


         He was a hero once…and brave.  At least, this is what Fallere Ballatro would have the numerous heroes sojourning to the crumbling town of Tristram, believe.  He'd lived through the town’s decimation and was its self-proclaimed protector.  “The only reason Tristram stands is because of God’s belief of my sanctity,” he would tell the few survivors still residing in the God forsaken landscape.  He never hesitated to spread this ‘Holy Word’ to every adventurer wandering through. 
The small group of townsfolk that remained only knew Fallere as disillusioned or, some joked, mad from an over abundance of ale.  For what the town lacked in hope, it made up for in mood altering spirits.  Sometimes it was indeed the ale attributing to his curious nature; most of the time it was just plain Fallere.
Tristam had not always been a town of misery and despair.  No, Tristram had once been beautiful.  A bright pearl of Khanduras, reflecting magnificently off the river Talsande.  Rich in soil and minerals if not in money and culture, it was a town with citizens who were more than happy to build their lives there.
Then Archbishop Lazarus released the demon Diablo from its unholy prison located beneath the thriving yet unknowing village.  Those who did not flee from the subsequent madness emanating from within the halls of King Leoric’s Cathedral were beguiled by Lazarus, who led most of Tristram’s townspeople into a massacre orchestrated by the detestable demon known only as The Butcher.  A fitting name.
It was shortly after this massacre that Fallere had declared himself an emissary of God.  He'd somehow napped through the madness and awoke to find his fellow townsmen slaughtered where they'd stood.  Baffled, he could only find one reason for why he'd slept through it.  He ran through Tristram screaming “God has spared me!  Truly I am His vessel for He has spared me from unspeakable horrors perpetrated by the devil himself!”  Fallere would later tell Griswold and Cain that God had made him lethargic.  “Dost thou see?” he asked. “I do not normally take momentary rests.  This is how I know a certain divinity has intervened for mine own protection.  I know this protection given unto me shall now be passed, like the Holy Movement, thither through me.  I shall be the protector of Tristram.”  Upon hearing these words, Griswold the blacksmith – studier than stone and tougher too – would only shake his head and continue with his work; Cain – always eager to share his wisdom – would sigh, slump his shoulders in sorrow, and return to his favorite spot by the well to continue his contemplations.
Over time Fallere’s misappropriated beliefs brought Cain more and more grief.  He'd been an Horadric monk.  He'd followed the Lord and, aided by the angel Tyrael,  imprisoned Diablo within the vast darkness of the catacombs beneath the old monastery.  Cain’s sole purpose of occupying Tristram was to overlook the safety of the soul-stone implanted within the earth below and secure its, and the town’s, safety.  I have, he thought to himself, failed.  Now he could only advise young men and women on how to stay alive for maybe one minute longer.  One minute filled with absolute torment.
Fallere’s response to the adventurers coming to Tristram, to try their hand at banishing the evil from the land, was to offer his services as a guide.  He was, after all, God's chosen one.  Adventurers had nothing to fear.  “In fact,” he would say, “look at my sign.  It speaks the truth.”  It read: “The Invincible Fallere:  The Chosen One of God.”
*******************
         Fallere Ballatro sat outside his home, pointing excitedly at his sign which he had carved out.  Ho, he thought, this sign could hopefully persuade would be adventurers in hiring me as their protector and guide.  It looked to him that the dirt-laden group standing before him was about to accept his virtuous offer.
         “Mine fellow brave souls,” said Fallere, “God has chosen me.  I would not stand before thee and thee this very day,” he said, pointing at each warrior within the party who'd come looking for a guide, “if I spake falsehoods.”  Fallere gazed eagerly upon the young warriors; hungry for an answer.  “It would be in thy favor and my pleasure to accompany this brave group to the deep chasms of despair,” he  told them.  Unbeknownst to these brave warriors, for the first group (and every one thereafter) to accept his offer, it was their undoing.
         The rag-tag group was certainly wary from a long journey and their primary thoughts were of attaining a few moments of rest before embarking on their harrowing task.  However, they curiously considered this odd man standing in front of them.  Fallere was standing on his porch step,  in an obvious attempt to make himself seem grander than he really was.  He was of average height with a less than average build.  It was easy to tell that this “Invincible Fallere” had scraped his way through life in Tristram.  Even the smallest woman in the party had more muscle than Fallere.  Still, in a town full of missing townsfolk, here he was: alive.
         “He speaks rather...odd,” commented Rowen, leaning into his nearest companion, Erik.  Rowen was speaking of the many “thees” and “thous” Fallere was using, amongst other obsolete vernacular.  There were only a few left alive that still spoke in the old tongue.  Sanctuary was changing with the times and with it most dialects had become more colloquial.  Had Fallere been elderly, his dialogue wouldn't have been as curious, but Fallere looked hardly in his thirties.
         “That isn't the only odd thing about him,” agreed Erik.  “Still, I think we could use him.”  Fallere continued his practiced speech he had given to the few adventuring parties that had come before.  Not one of the warriors who journeyed into the dungeons beneath the monastery without Fallere had come back alive.  This only fueled Fallere more to offer his protection.  The fact that every warrior who had hired Fallere were just as dead as the others, did not occur to him.
         “First,” said Rowen, “we rest.” 
         “And then?” wondered Erik. 
         “I have heard stories of the darkness that dwells within. And of others like us not escaping that darkness.  Maybe we should ask for Fallere's services.  We could use a little...invulnerability,” said Rowen, accentuating his last word to show his disbelief.  Erik acquiesced and turn his attention to the strange man standing in front of the decaying old house.
         “Fallere, my good man,” said Rowen interrupting Fallere.  “I believe we shall take you on your offer.  We could use a good guide and I see none the better than you.”  In truth, there didn't seem to be any other guides.
         “Oh praise God!  Thou shalt not rue thine decision!  Go and rest.  I shall make the preparations.  We embark at dawn!”  Rowen was satisfied with that time frame.  The sun was easing over the western hemisphere of Sanctuary, giving them enough time to get a few hours of much needed sleep.
         “Where can we make camp?” asked Jeffrey, the youngest of the party.
         “Anywhere!” happily exclaimed Fallere.  His happiness faltered for a brief moment.  Fallere had not been completely honest with the group.  If he had been honest with the warriors he would have said that of every group of warriors before him who had hired his services he was the only one to survive.  This only strengthened his resolve in his invincibility and in his being chosen by God.  Fallere comforted himself by rationalizing that the previous attempts at raiding the dungeons were flukes.  Had the other warriors been braver or studier, like the ones standing before him, they would have survived.  Yes, he thought, these warriors will not succumb to the harsh environment.  Fallere was correct only in the latter part of his musing.
**********************
         Heat emanated from the bulbous sun awakening from its slumber.  It was the antithesis to the dreariness encompassing Tristram.  No birds chirped their happy songs.  No morning rooster's called alarm to enliven the morning farmers and farmhands.  No Fallere awoke to take the party into the dungeons.  He had overslept. 
         “Where is our supposed guide?” one of the party members asked.  She had been the last on watch and thus the first awake at dawn.  The group had packed up their camp, made last minute repairs to their armor at Griswold's, and spoken with Cain.  Near Cain's musing spot, he warned Rowen to be wary of Fallere.  Noting that Fallere's intentions were amiable but the ends were horrible.
         “What do you mean?” asked Rowen.
         “Fallere has, indeed, been in the dungeons before.  He has also led others before.  However, he has been the only one to survive.  Every time.”  That last bit of truth hit Rowen profoundly.  Why would Fallere lie to me?  He voiced his concern with Cain.  “He is afraid no one would hire him knowing the truth.  His intentions truly are innocent in heart.  He only wishes to restore his home and this land to purity; but one cannot deny the fact he is an oaf.  Though one can also not deny his resilience.”
         “And what of all the talk of him being the chosen one?”  Rowen had never believed it, but he had to ask.
         “Fallere is lucky.  Nothing more to it.  He is accident prone and lazy.  Let me ask you, where do you think he is now?”
         “I don't know.  He said we would embark at dawn,” answered Rowen.  He assumed that Fallere was making last minute preparations.
         “He is still asleep, no doubt.  Did you know he slept through the massacre of the townsfolk?”  Cain retold the story of the Butcher to Rowen.  Rowen's hardy face seemed to grow a few more wrinkles by the end of the disheartening tale.
         “I had heard rumors of such a tragedy, but did not know the veracity in them, until now.  Fallere really slept through it?  He is a lucky man,” noticed Rowen.
         “Laziness saved him that day.  He has illusions of higher hopes and believes he is living them.  If you take him with you, please, be careful.”  With that, Cain seemed to shut down.  He closed his eyes and whispered words in a language Rowen did not speak.
         When they were back at camp, still waiting on Fallere to wake up, Rowen shared with Erik Cain's earlier wisdom.  They argued both sides of why Fallere should or should not come and in the end, both agreed that an extra man couldn't hurt.  If not to swing a sword then to distract an enemy sword or claw.  It wasn't a pleasant thought, using a man as such; but these were not pleasant times.
******************
         Immense cold forced itself against Fallere's bony left cheek.  What hast transpired? he asked himself.  Slowly, he lifted his eyelids and still, black was all he saw.  He knew he wasn't in his home.  But where could he be?  With slight trepidation and on wobbly knees, he eventually found the will to stand.  Faint flickering off to his left caught his attention.  The beat of his heart was almost audible.
         “God is on thine shoulder,” he continuously repeated to no avail as he wandered towards the flicker.  “Tis but a torch, aha!  A source for heavenly light to fill this ghastly hollow knocked thither to the earth.”  Fallere bent down to retrieve the torch but was stopped short as he attempted to yank it from the ground.  “Hmm.”
         Squinting his eyes, Fallere slowly moved his head closer to the handle of the torch and discovered why it hadn't pried loose under his mighty pull; a hand held firmly to the bottom.
         “Ah!” screamed Fallere in a sudden panic.  He heard a sound, too quiet to be classified a whisper.  The patter of a rat's feet would have sent thundering echoes by comparison.  Fallere gathered his wits and followed the hand to the arm and then the person it was attached to.  “Rowen!” 
         “Fallere.  You idiot.”  This was all Rowen could mutter before his body gave way to death.  Fallere did not move.  A sudden rush of memories struck hard through his brain.  He remembered a violent shake, perpetrated by Rowen to wake him up from his catatonic slumber.
         “Fallere, let's go.  We've broke camp and are ready for you to guide us.”  Rowen's eyebrows were furrowed and he wore a scowl that probably could have killed a lesser man than Fallere.
         “Ah, yes,” he yawned.  Fallere's arms shot out in full extension, stretching what little muscles graced his poor frame.  “Let us embark.  I trust God blessed thee with dreams of victory?”
         “Something like that.  Hurry, Fallere, we've been waiting all morning.  The sun is high and the time is right for vanquishing evil.”  Rowen normally didn't speak like this but he thought, correctly, that Fallere would respond positively to his speech.
         “Good, good.”  Fallere hopped clumsily out of bed using Rowen's bulky shoulder to support himself.  He went straight for the door and reached a flat hand out to push it open, but Rowen stopped him with a question.
         “Don't you need anything?  Surely you need supplies.  At least a weapon.”
         Fallere laughed  “I am but a guide.  I need not weapons nor armor forged by man.  The Holy Armour of God envelopes me.  You shall see.”  Fallere continued on his way outside and noticed the rest of the party standing near his porch; all held their arms  folded impatiently across their chests. 
         All wore stern faces, no doubt hardened by numerous battles.  Some of the warriors' scars crept out from underneath leather armor; perpetual remembrances of their many conflicts.  The only warriors not donned with leather tunics and wooden bucklers, were Rowen and Erik.  At least, Fallere thought he over heard Rowen call the gigantic man, Erik. Erik was tall with long, straight blonde hair and muscles that could forge steel.  Fallere couldn't tell where one muscle ended and another began; Erik was that solid.  He wore platemail and wielded a heavy axe that took two hands to swing and probably four Fallere's to carry.
         Rowen wore the same armor but his weapon, a longsword, was securely sheathed to his left hip.  Exiting Fallere's humble abode, he retrieved his kite shield that rested against Fallere's outermost wall.
         Fallere said no words as he made his way past the war-ready party and headed north east towards the ruined monastery.  Each member of the party shared one thought: about time. 
         They eventually reached the large wooden double doors that led into the dungeon.  Each warrior made last minute adjustments to armor and packs, probably filled with healing concoctions and bandages.  Fallere doubted any magical items would be found in their packs; none of this brood looked the sorcerer type.
         Fallere offered up a hand, inviting Rowen to be the first through the double doors.  He nodded, wondering why the guide wasn't leading the way in, but accepted the offer and roughly kicked open the door.
         Each warrior flinched into battle mode as Rowen executed the kick, expecting a sudden rush of evil to escape the monastery as if the doors held a magical seal, imprisoning everything nasty and vile within.  No inexplicable evil rushed out, though, only air.  The party erupted into a tumultuous sound of laughter, fed by the gravity of what lay before them.  One by one, they entered the monastery.
         Fallere winced, and was brought back from his thoughts.  He remembered everything, and it was almost too much to bear.  When they made it into the dungeon, battle erupted instantaneously.  Deafening war cries erupted from each warrior.  Countless bones, centuries since flesh encompassed them, crushed under Erik's mighty swing.  Ghouls' limbs severed from razor sharp slashes and thrusts of Rowen's sword.  His swordsmanship was beautiful.  Rowen's movement was smooth, yet fast at the same time.  It was as if he moved in slow motion while his enemies moved in real life.  He deflected, parried, thrust and moved onto his next target with expert timing and precision.    Magnificent, thought Fallere, who was heroically hiding behind a sarcophagus.  After all, he was only the guide.
         The battle continued; each warrior holding their own against the armies of the undead.  Slowly the room began to clear leaving piles of dead - permanently dead - creatures scattered across the floor.
         The room was dimly lit and as each warrior made his way through the abominable mess, the action became harder and harder to see.  Not one to miss a fight, at least, not one to miss seeing a fight, Fallere ducked low and skittered between different sarcophagi.  This maneuver worked in that no creatures saw him, or that no creatures cared about him,  but Fallere still managed to fall victim to his worst enemy: his own clumsiness.
         In his last attempt at running to another sarcophagus, Fallere had become emboldened and thus less aware.  As he neared his final destination, Fallere felt something loose beneath his foot and before he could catch his momentum, stumbled over the mysterious object, landing hard against the final resting place of someone very important. 
         When he fell against the sarcophagus it slid roughly to the floor. As it shattered into pieces, a misty substance poured from the tomb, filling the air in seconds.  It was at this moment Fallere mustered all of his courage, and fainted.
         He looked down now, at the lifeless body of Rowen, and knew what transpired.  The other warriors, having been much braver than he, were able to continue the fight and actually cleared the entire level of everything wicked.  However, one by one each warrior fell; even the mighty Erik.  Even Rowen.  He had fought off the poisonous fumes as long as he could, but was unable to escape the corrupted air.  Rowen fell to his knees, still grasping a torch in his hand.  He had chosen the ability to see over his ability to defend himself and had discarded his kite shield further back in a different room. 
         Rowan lay there alone, dying from the gaseous substance when came The Invincible Fallere. Standing before him the dimwit had tried to take his precious light away from him.  How?  How did he not die from the trap?  His inner questions were good ones.  Fallere was ground zero in relation to the trap he'd sprung, yet there he stood, alive and well. 
         A sudden epiphany struck Fallere, for he too had the same questions.  He manifested this physically by shooting both hands above him and clamping tightly to his recently shaved head.  “My God,” he said in just a whisper.  Whether he was afraid the bones surrounding him would pick themselves back up or he didn't want to desecrate Rowen's final resting place, was unknown. 
         “My God,” he continued until eventually he was screaming at the top of his lungs.  His voice resounded throughout the dungeon, amplified by the brilliant architecture from long ago.  “My God, I know now what thee wanted to unveil unto me!  Mine eyes are no longer blind!  This was but a test!  A test to vanquish any inner doubts of my invulnerability!  I shall rejoice, Lord, yes I shall rejoice!”  Fallere extended his screaming all the way out from the dungeon until he reached his shabby home.  Cain glanced over at the ruckus, as did Griswold, but both cared not for the inane ramblings.  They did care, however, that Fallere returned alone.
***************
         Fallere's ineptitude as a guide and endless clumsiness continued for the next month.  Heroes came and listened to his spiel.  Further and further into the dungeons, and eventually into the catacombs went the hunting parties, but each only made it through one layer of Diablo's evil.  Any moment of glory was soon trampled by Fallere's idiocy and amazing ability to find any trap not disarmed; and spring it, ultimately leading to every warriors' death.  With each accident and near death experience, Fallere would run from the darkness and into the light, screaming of how much God loved him and how evil should fear the name of The Invincible Fallere.
         Until one crisp Spring morning a new hero came to town.  Immediately the remaining townsfolk of Tristram could tell he was different.  He strode forward with an air of humility mixed with strength.  His plate armor glimmered in the early light and seemed to hold the sun's rays, as if magically binding them to its shiny surface.  His face was chiseled and clean shaven.  His look demanded respect while at the same time conveying utmost empathy.  Beautiful blue eyes shone compassion on anyone who gazed.  It was easy to see that many women had lost themselves within the vast oceans of his mighty iris';  lost themselves and never returned from their lovestruck shipwreck.
         Fallere was the first to approach the newcomer and for the first time in a long while, Fallere was at a loss for words.
         “Excuse me, sir.  Could you show me to a blacksmith?”  The voice that came from the strange man was the perfect pitch.  Not too deep and booming, causing ear drums to burst, nor too high, pressing confusion on how a man could talk so much like a lady.
         “Um, uh...Yes, good sir,” Fallere stumbled out.  He was awestruck as he continued looking upon the mighty man and finally remembered he had been asked a question.  Fallere raised his hand and pointed past the well, to Griswold's shop.  When the stranger walked past Fallere, a feeling of calm enveloped him.  Fallere couldn't quite place it, but it seemed the stranger had an aura of harmony and beauty surrounding him that followed his every move.
         Fallere watched as the man walked over to the blacksmith and struck up a conversation.  Every now and again the hero would point to a spot in his armor or at the shield held firmly in his left hand.  Fallere assumed he was showing Griswold certain points of weakness that needed repaired.
         Shaking his head, Fallere let go of his boyish curiosity and returned to his home.  He was tired and he wanted a nap.
*****************
         Fallere awoke to a loud knocking at his front door.  “Have patience!” he pleaded from his bed, slowly rising and putting on a ratty garb that could barely be called a robe anymore.  To Fallere's relief, the knocking stopped.  Considering the sad shape of the door, there was no telling how many more knocks it could withstand.
         Still feeling lethargic from his mid morning nap, Fallere shuffled forward towards his door not unlike the walking dead.  He reached for the latch, twisted his wrist, and pulled open his destiny.  In reality, he didn't need to use the latch.  The poor shape of the door made the security in his home nonexistent.  Anyone could push open the door and Fallere's belongings, not that he had many, would be honor bound to someone else.
         “Good sir,” said Fallere, seeing that it was the new hero standing on his front porch.  The combined weight of the hero's tall, muscular body and his heavy armor bent the wooden planks beneath them.  They creaked in inanimate pain.
         “My name is Victor Fortis.  And you, I see from your sign, are The Invincible Fallere”  he said, cutting straight to the introductions.  It was apparent to Fallere that Victor was a man of action who wasted little time with idle talk.  Also, upon hearing his self-given monicker, all previous timidness vanished.
         “Yes.  Yes I am.  The best guide money can purchase.”
         “I see.  Well, I certainly could use one.  The blacksmith and the elderly old man over there,” Victor said, waving at Griswold and Cain, “said your services were available.”  Fallere glanced over in Griswold's and Cain's direction; both were staring curiously at Victor and Fallere from under Griswold's shop overhang. 
         In all honesty, Cain and Griswold had done what they always did when speaking of Fallere.  Cain gave his usual warning about Fallere and his unusual ability to survive the unfortunate fates all accompanying him fell victim to.  When Victor asked Griswold about Fallere, he made a gruff grunting sound and told Victor not to bother with him.
         Both of the men's unusual perspectives on Fallere only heightened Victor's curiosity.  He had heard of The Invincible Fallere before arriving to Tristram and of Fallere's unusual boasting that he was God's vessel.  Victor had wondered if, in fact, the opposite were true.  A vessel of God, or an instrument of Tyrael, would not be the agent of death for so many noble warriors.  Nor would a vessel be invincible.  The Horadrim Captain, Tal Rasha, exemplified this fact.
         “Are we in covenant, then?” asked Fallere, breaking Victor's thoughts. 
         “We are.  We leave in an hour.”
         “So soon?  Dost thy not need nourishment of both mind and body?”
         “I am plenty rested and my body is plenty nourished,” said Victor.  Though, yours seems not, thought Victor, noticing Fallere's skinny body frame.  He peered into Fallere's eyes in an attempt to look past the physical and into the spiritual.  Analyzing his soul, he saw a nervous man, but not a liar.  Fallere firmly believed in what he preached.  He also saw fear.  The scrawny man did a good job at masking this, however. Victor was trained in reading people and knew, deep down: Fallere was scared.  And why not?  Fallere had ventured deep within the chasms of evil and survived many execrable endeavors.
         Victor needed to see if previous rumors held truth when warriors journeyed into the dark with The Invincible Fallere.  If true, then, he needed to know the real reason behind them.  Victor was a true warrior of God.  He served in the Horadrim and had sworn his allegiance to the side of good and the vanquishing of evil from Sanctuary.  Diablo was number one on his list.
*******************
         Fallere and Victor crept their way along dark corridors.  Small torches lined the walls, vaguely lighting the way.  They had already encountered many creatures and Fallere bravely hid behind the mighty Victor.  He had only seen one other person who neared Victor's swordsmanship and that was poor Rowen, who nevertheless paled in comparison.
         The two were nearing the depths of Diablo's demonic domain and the heat assaulted their faces.  Fallere was sweating profusely in his small robe - he wore it to liken himself to a monk in order to show how he was God's vessel.  Victor's cheeks were flushed but he showed no signs of dehydration or fatigue, even underneath his massive armor.  Victor suddenly stopped.
         “What?” Fallere tried to speak softly but failed.  His voice reverberated off of the stony walls.
         “Sh!” said Victor, quieting Fallere and holding his hand up to Fallere's chest to keep him from moving.  It was then that Victor saw the demon, one of the hidden kinds that could camouflage themselves to their surroundings.
         The demon revealed itself a few feet behind Fallere who turned, and opened his mouth to scream (which was his only defense).  Victor covered his massive left hand over Fallere's mouth to avoid giving their position away more and swung Fallere opposite to Victor, changing their positions.  The momentum of the swing worked like a mechanized swivel and offered maximum damage as Victor thrust his sword deep into the belly of the demon.  The width of Victor's longsword almost matched the width of the demon's waist, and only a few strands of sinew kept the upper and lower halves of the demon's body together.
         Fallere looked shocked at the gruesomeness before him.  After witnessing the intestines of the demon splatter onto the floor, Fallere vomited.  The stream spewing forth from his agape mouth landed hard against a protruding stone.  On impact, the weight of his regurgitation forced down on the stone, bringing it parallel with the rest of the ground.  Victor and Fallere shot each other quick glances as they heard a click.
         Seemingly from nowhere, an arrow shot straight at Victor's head, at a speed that made wearing a helmet useless.  The shock of unleashing yet another trap was almost as much as the shock of witnessing Victor's reaction.  He sidestepped - so fast for a man his size - could be seen only as a blur, and snapped his arm up.
         Fallere finally lowered his hands from his eyes to see Victor clutching firmly onto the arrow with his right hand.  He squeezed his fingers together and under the pressure of his powerful grip the arrow splintered into many tiny pieces.
         “Lord,” said Fallere and went blank.  His face twisted in utmost confusion.  Fallere continued, “my invincible aura.  Surely, it has attached itself to thee!  God hast seen fit to offer thou my protection from the darkness!  Truly, I am his vessel!”
         Victor said nothing.  Hard eyes bore into Fallere's soul.  He scanned the corridor, looking for any more demonic creatures.  Victor saw none.  Something wasn't right, though.  Deep within his stomach, he could feel something chewing away.  It was as if the purity of his soul was being gnawed upon.  Suddenly, it hit Victor.  God was not behind Fallere's invulnerability.  There was only other being that could perpetrate this deed:  Diablo. 
         Victor felt something he hadn't felt in a long time, even after slaying the most dastardly of creatures throughout Sanctuary.  Victor felt fear.  The other heroes before him must have felt this overwhelming despair before their inevitable deaths.  Only the aura of a demon as high as Diablo could project this.  He know Diablo wouldn't show himself.  Not now.  Not here.  There was a reason behind Diablo keeping Fallere alive.  Quite possibly the main reason was to have it so Fallere would be the downfall of any hero who came close enough to Diablo's hellish lair.  One thing Victor knew for sure was that he was going to find out.  Victor's heart sunk as he realized what he must do.  He would have to bait Fallere to draw out the Father of Lies.  He wasn't proud of this.  Fallere's only fault was believing he was God's vessel.  Fallere didn't know he was being used as the exact opposite of his proclamations and within his ignorance lie the purity of his innocence.
         “We must leave,” said Victor.          
         “Where?”
         “Back to town.  Good can do no more this day.”
************************
         The previous months in which heroes came and heroes fell, seemed years in the past.  Victor with Fallere close behind spent the next few months journeying underground and battling evil.  At most a week would pass before the two voyaged back, whether for rest or to heal wounds received during the intense combat.  Many enemies met their demise at the end of Victor’s sword.  Fallere only helped in further endangering Victor by accidentally springing random traps.  Some of Victor’s wounds were not inflicted by the followers of evil, but instead by Fallere’s incompetence.  Thankfully, none were fatal.
         With each trap sprung Victor prevailed, for the most part unscathed, using his uncanny agility to dodge projectiles of death moments before impact, producing only slight, glancing wounds.  Most often, however, the projectile would bounce off Victor’s awe inspiring armor.  In rare occasions, Victor prevented the trap to be sprung in the first place.  In one instance, Fallere’s curiosity overwhelmed him and he was about to open a shimmering chest that gave the appearance of boundless wealth hidden within.  Victor knew this too good to be true and harshly clutched Fallere’s shoulder, receiving a loud whelp from Fallere.  Unbeknownst to Fallere, had he opened the chest, the small room they were in would have been engulfed in flame, immolating all occupants.
         Yes, many beasts and higher powers succumbed to Victor.  His fearless prowess and unmatched swordsmanship made him the champion of Tristram.  Vipers, large centipede like creatures wielding razor-sharp swords; horned demons, massive humanoids with rhino-like heads; overlords, fat demons with random horns protruding from their leathery skin and other such terrors, fell to Victor’s blade.  Higher Balrogs, larger cousins of gargoyles, shook with fear after witnessing Victor’s heroism.  The alluring powers of Succubi had no effect on Victor and they were powerless against the charm of Sin Eater; the name Fallere brandished Victor’s sword.
No more lesser heroes sojourned to Tristram to make their attempts at ridding the world of evil and of the higher demon Diablo.  Even wise Cain and stubborn Griswold believed Victor would save Tristram and maybe, just maybe, the town could return to the glory it once was.  These hopes doubled after Victor slew the Lich King, Tristram’s self-declared King of old; devilishly reanimated after his madness led to his death.
They were close, now.  With each enemy killed and every step descended into the bowels of Sanctuary the feeling of superlative despair increased.  Victor knew they were getting closer to Diablo.  He knew his theory of Diablo’s plan to use Fallere as an unknowing tool of destruction was true.  He knew Diablo must not be happy with each failed ‘accidental’ attempt at Victor’s life.  With this thought, a tiny smile edged its way on the corner of Victor’s mouth.  It was the first he’d had in months.

*********************
         A gentle knock roused Victor from his slumber.  Since his and Fallere’s first victory, Griswold had given him a key to an empty hut southwest of Fallere’s.  Strange, he thought.  Cain was usually the only one awake before Victor, and Cain gave the common courtesy not to bother him.
         He arose from bed and took a few long strides to make it to the door.  Victor almost lost his balance from the sheer force of surprise that overcame him.  It was Fallere.
         “Good morrow,” said Fallere.  He seemed, happy.  More so than his usual content self.  Fallere gazed upon Victor.  Scars covered his shirtless torso.  Victor had accumulated many more within the past few months within the unhallowed corridors below the monastery.
         “Good morning, Fallere, how may I assist you?”  Victor noticed Fallere worrying his fingers.  Maybe he was too anxious to sleep.  Normally, Victor had to break Fallere’s door down before he could get him to wake up.
         “Tis a beautiful day.  God would not have us waste it in a lethargic stupor.  Tis the day we slay the vile beast Diablo and with him, the rest of his unholy cohorts.”  Victor knew Fallere was correct, but he didn’t expect him to jump out of bed so early to go back into Hell.  They had already journeyed a few times to an opening just north of Tristram that led down into the fiery pits of Diablo’s domain.  The demons that dwelled there were almost twice the size of Victor and had skin that oozed molten lava.  Some of them had skin that was cooled to the point of almost impenetrable rock.  Luckily, for Victor, it wasn’t completely impenetrable.  Victor used their stupidity to run them around in circles until they couldn’t follow his movements anymore.  For all intents and purposes invisible to them, he knocked them on their arses and used Sin Eater (which was harder than molten rock) to decapitate the beasts.
         Now, most of Diablo’s minions had been slain.  Maybe a few dark knights (which Victor, a holy knight, despised the most) or other creatures remained, but both Fallere and Victor knew, they would meet Diablo this day.
         Victor wasted no time in getting dressed and adorning himself with his glamorous armor.  Fallere wasted no time in boasting to Victor how safe they would be thanks to Fallere's holy identity.
         The previous day, Victor had made the proper preparations with Griswold, having him make last minute repairs to his armor.  Sin Eater had never needed repairing, making Griswold wonder what the blade had been forged with.  Griswold had repaired countless weapons, and even the best forged items needed a little care after the harsh exercises their wielders put them through.
         Victor had also visited Cain.  They both prayed for the safety of Victor and Fallere and Victor silently prayed for forgiveness, still ashamed of the path he had led his soul down in using Fallere as bait.  Most importantly, they prayed for the trapping of Diablo within the soul-stone he'd escaped from.
         Victor prayed again, now, as he and Fallere walked towards the entrance torn open northwest of town.
         “Do not ye worry, good Victor,” said Fallere as they climbed down a securely fastened rope, down into the pit.  “I feel God's holiness upon me and I shall reflect its holy light unto thee.”  Fallere may have felt God's holy light,but Victor felt  a dark and foreboding despair.  This had become a tracking beacon for Victor.  Any moment where Fallere spewed his nonsense of feeling God's grace, Victor could feel a festering hatred and agony, and knew Diablo was spying on his inadvertent vassal.  Victor only hoped the 'holy light' wouldn't be another of the many traps Fallere had unleashed towards him.
         Victor repelled down the rope with practiced ease.  He was surprised at how clumsy Fallere could be but with each climb down into Diablo's domain, he managed without incident.  Victor had cleared most of the monsters out of this area and they were not assaulted by reinforcements when they landed.  Both men looked at each other and shrugged; Diablo was probably saving his remaining monsters for a final stand before destruction.  Whose destruction, remained to be seen.
         Sweat streamed from the men's faces.  They had to follow a river of lava that burrowed deeper and deeper into Sanctuary.  Fallere had adorned himself in a brown robe, now blotched sporadically with sweat stains.
         Victor fared no better in the sweltering heat.  His massive platemail armor escalated the temperature within; still, he ventured on.  To Victor's surprise, Fallere made no complaints about the aggravating heat.
         Razor sharp stalagmites hung from the ceiling above.  If any were to fall and score a direct hit, it would have meant instant death for the poor fool standing below.  The terrain they had to maneuver wasn't much better.  Flows of lava creeping towards Sanctuary's surface resulted in the tunnels and giant crevasses that made it easy for any number of monsters to get the jump on unsuspecting heroes.  For the two men on their own missions from God, it made for a longer journey to the center of Sanctuary and Diablo's lair.
         “Didst thou hear that rumbling?” asked Fallere.  Victor stopped moving.  He could hear it.
         “Sounds like...laughing,” noticed Victor.  A booming laughter coming from the depths of Hell.  “Diablo,” whispered Victor. 
         Just then a dark knight leaped from seemingly nowhere and swung an impressive sword at Fallere, aiming to splay Fallere in half.  Victor swung Sin Eater around and parried the blow, then rolled his wrist which resulted in his sword winning the wrestling match.  He quickly thrust Sin Eater forward and through the Dark Knight's armor, piercing his chest and ending its unholy afterlife.
         “Keep moving!” screamed Victor.  The trap had been sprung, and this time not by Fallere.  Monsters swarmed like bees, from every direction.  Fallere trailed Victor, but only by a few feet.  They ducked and dodged various projectiles and limboed underneath swinging swords and axes - Victor pounced on every opportunity to fell the beasts with well placed swings and thrusts - until finally the ghoulish gauntlet ended.
         Both men panted and heaved for air, scarce in the overwhelming heat.  Victor removed his helmet and let his matted hair fall free, relishing in the slight decrease in temperature.  Fallere leaned forward, bracing himself on his knees.  He convulsed violently, panicking at the lack of oxygen the warm environment produced.  Gathering his composure, he pointed with his left hand, further down towards the tunnel's end to an enormous figure resting comfortably in a magnanimous throne.  “Anon,” he said.  Victor, a bit confused at the expression, didn't press it.
         With speed incomparable, the demon rushed from the throne and towards the two men.  Before Fallere could scream the beast was upon him, clutching his neck and shoving him hard into the tunnel wall, leaving an imprint of the puny man's body; the force of the blow knocking Fallere unconscious.
         “Diablo!” bellowed Victor, with a voice just as booming as the arch demon's; very much contrary to his original pitch.  Diablo turned, still grasping Fallere, and grinned a grin that could fell saints.
         “Hello, Victor, looking for this?”  asked Diablo, holding what looked to be a small cylindrical diamond. 
         The soul-stone, thought Victor. “How do you know my name?” he asked, bracing himself for a sudden ambush.
         “I've been watching you for a while now, and you've passed all my tests.  You even survived him,” it said, pointing its red demon hand in the direction of Fallere's immobile body.
         Victor wasted no time listening to Diablo's idle talk.  He rushed the giant demon in an attempt to catch it off guard.  Diablo batted Sin Eater to the side and shoved Victor to the ground as if he were a child. 
         “Hah!,” bellowed Diablo.  “How strong are you without your sword?”
         Victor responded by charging Diablo, throwing vicious hooks that struck savagely against Diablo's cheeks.  Victor fell back in astonishment as the only mark produced from his heavy gauntlets, was Diablo's devilish smirk.
         It was now Diablo's turn to administer punishment.  With ferocious speed, Diablo ran at Victor, using his body as a weapon.  The force behind his blazing speed knocked Victor off his feet and onto his back; the weight of his platemail adding to the brutality of the fall.  Diablo was on Victor now, kicking relentlessly.  His armor dented with each barbarous blow.  Victor was unarmed and near fatal unconsciousness.  Death beckoned.  For the first time in his courageous life, Victor was wholeheartedly afraid and wanted only for the pain to stop.  Seconds before he submitted to death's command, a familiar voice distracted him from the agony.
         “I shall smite thee!” yelled Fallere, jumping onto Diablo's back.  The archdemon showed absolute surprise as the miniscule man pounced onto his back.  More importantly, Diablo was distracted enough to drop his precious stone.  The badly wounded Victor took careful note of this.
         “Get off!” roared Diablo, tossing Fallere head over heels to the ground.  The crazy man had offered him much assistance in the past, but it was time to end their one-sided covenant.
         With renewed vigor, Victor gathered every ounce of energy he possessed and crawled his way to the soul-stone.  With every inch gained, Victor's speed increased until eventually his battered fingers clutched the treasured stone.  Upon touching it, Diablo quickly diverted his full attention to the prostrate hero.
         Before Diablo could reach Victor, Victor muttered five words: “Redeo ex unde vos venit.”
         “Noo---” was all Diablo could snarl before being consumed in a blinding light, emanating from the soul-stone.  Victor and Fallere shielded their eyes until the holy illumination rescinded.
         “Thy will be done,” said Fallere, bowing his head in prayer.
         “Not yet,” commented Victor, slowly maneuvering his aching body into a sitting position.
         “What art thou doing?”  Victor did not answer the confused, pious man.  Holding the soul-stone in both hands high above his head, he rammed it down hard and into his chest - an attempt to keep the trapped demon within a truly holy vessel.
         Moments passed until without warning, Victor's body convulsed and he attempted to cry out in warning to Fallere, for something was not right.  But Victor ultimately knew his ailment.  His body was no longer his.  Victor's mind was still awake, but he was trapped within the prison of his own body.  You shouldn't have used him as bait to get me.  You tainted your soul.  Thank you for being my vessel, came a deep voice within vast emptiness that was Victor's subconscious.
         Victor's possessed body rose from his position.  Fallere noted the man moved as if sustaining no beating. 
         “Art thou able-bodied?” asked Fallere.  Victor did not respond; he only looked blankly back at the dirt-covered man.  Diablo's vessel lost interest in Fallere and walked past him.
         Fallere hurriedly hopped to his feet and followed, shouting “Pray thee, halt!”
         The man he thought of as Victor did not pause, only kept walking towards the entrance to Sanctuary - towards his entombed brothers.