Diablo 3 Blog Guide

Enjoy this full 6 part video of the whole Blizzard World Invitational opening ceremony.

Part 1:


Parts 2 through 6.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUPIFQ0ahwE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdJDKVZ3VBA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0c9FAVfZUI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZnaChLDGtw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPQ0Fa-hgKs

After seeing the remains of Tristram for myself, I felt the need to search out further information on what it was about the corridors and dungeons underneath its old cathedral that held such mystique.



Originally built as a Horadric monastery sometime around 912 (see my entries pertaining to ancient mystical traditions for more information on the secretive Horadric order), the building was later converted to a Zakarum cathedral. Legend has it that the original monastery was built over the vault where the mythical Diablo was imprisoned, and that his supposed release led to the horrors we all now associate with the name Tristram.



In order to shed light on the many mysteries of the old cathedral, I sought out an old adventurer who had braved its ancient passageways, which were said to lead to the Hells themselves.

Tristram Cathedral Concept Art


"We'd all heard about the weird goings-on in Tristram, but we were drawn by the prospect of getting our hands on some of that loot we heard they were bringing up by the cartload." He paused thoughtfully for a moment and scratched the stub where his left arm had once been. "It ever strike you as strange that wherever monsters are stirring up trouble, that's where you'll find the most treasure? Why can't there ever be a big haul in a safe place?" Obviously he was attempting to ease his tension by making light of the whole event.



"It ever strike you as strange that wherever monsters are stirring up trouble, that's where you'll find the most treasure? Why can't there ever be a big haul in a safe place?""



"When we got to Tristram, we took our time before we got down to the business of actually going into the cathedral. Town had a nice inn, if I recollect. Truth is, there was something evil coming out of that old church: you could feel it. Now, me and my mates, we didn't want to admit we were scared, so after we ran out of excuses to avoid it, we made our way inside. And let me tell you, I never smelled death like I did in that place. Once inside, we were set upon by the undead," and he paused to see if I would laugh in disbelief at this.


When I didn't, he continued, "That's right, undead. I've faced the undead several times, but you never get used to it. You think you're prepared, but there's just something that sticks in your gut, this horrible feeling. Your hands get slick with sweat, and your sword is hard to grasp correctly...you really doubt your sanity in being down there, facing something like that. And the stench is unimaginable. But we were pulling ourselves through – I had started to come out the other side, where you start to ease into that unsettled feeling and use it to drive yourself forward."


It was at this point that his mood noticeably darkened. I found myself easing a bit closer so as not to miss a single detail.

""I admit it: I ran, left my fellows to die. I couldn't face that thing; it was all just too horrible."



"Then it started to go wrong. We began encountering these, these dark...things...imps or demons...or fallen, I think they're called. There were so many of them, all horns and flashes of red, attacking us from all sides. I don't think you could ever really be prepared for something like that. We got disoriented, which was easy to do. It was so dark....

Caldeum was once the proudest city in all of Kehjistan, the trade capital of the entire world. Caldeum was never seen as the heart of the empire, even though it rivaled Viz-jun, and later Kurast, in size, and those who called Caldeum their home liked it that way. Even when the Mage Clan Wars erupted, the battles were never tolerated to affect trade in Caldeum, for while politics and magic may be important, trifling with trade is a serious matter. Let Kurast see itself as the center of the world, they would say. We'll keep our free exchange of goods, currency, and ideas, thank you very much.




But the pride I once held in this great city has become tarnished and dull. In looking back on it all, now, I would have to say that this rot infecting our city started when a good number of Kurast's nobles fled their homes and took up residence in Caldeum. I have heard all the horrific and unbelievable rumors as to why they fled their great city, but the reasons did not concern us. It was their attitude that held our concern. As relief at being safe from whatever drove them here faded, their mood changed to entitlement and then, ultimately, to arrogance. They had no trouble demanding their "rightful" place on the trade consortium council governing our city, and they were prepared to use their wealth to hire the mercenaries needed to see their ambitions through.



I was initially dubious when the emperor of Kehjistan emerged to confront this quickly deteriorating situation. But the charm, leadership, and intelligence that he brought to bear as he quickly resolved the conflict between our council and the Kurast nobles were nothing less than masterful. When the people fully supported him in his role as our emperor, I saw this achievement as nothing short of a miracle. Though we had always been part of the empire of Kehjistan, and therefore under his rule, we had always behaved as if we were a free entity, beholden to no one but ourselves. It truly seemed at the time that catastrophe had been averted, but now it has become all too apparent that it was merely hidden beneath a thin veneer of civility.

Caldeum Concept Art


This veneer began to shred when Emperor Hakan became ill. His influence started to wane, and the mood in Caldeum changed with his health. As he got worse, so did our once fair city.

When he died and his ineffectual child heir took the throne, Caldeum began to circle the abyss. Our list of ills seems never-ending: the state of our downtrodden and the slums they are forced to live in, our incompetent leadership, the reemergence of the intolerant Zakarum, and their quarrels with our mage class...I could go on for pages.

We have all heard the tales associated with Tristram. The very mention of its name brings to mind images of undead monstrosities, demonic possession, monarchy driven to lunacy, and, of course, the greatest legend of all: the Lord of Terror unleashed. Although many now claim that a peculiar mold upon the bread or perhaps a fouling of the water drove the populace mad with visions, I have seen too much in my varied travels to dismiss such stories out of hand. It is within this context, then, that I have to say my journey to what is now called "New Tristram" was somewhat of a disappointment.




New Tristram has been in existence for several years, though the exact date of its founding is unclear. Originally simply a collection of merchants looking to profit on adventurers and travelers drawn by legends of riches within the old cathedral, it slowly set down roots and became an established town. As soon as the cathedral was looted bare, however, the adventurers and travelers stopped coming, and New Tristram found itself in decline. The town is now comprised mostly of depressing shacks; the inn is the only building that looks even the least bit habitable.




Before I took my leave of this dreary place, I was cornered by an eccentric old man who seemed to have an endless supply of anecdotes and folksy wisdom to impart. He went on about there still being much of value deep within the cathedral in the form of tomes of ancient origin and wisdom. I will have to take his word for it, for I must admit that while I did explore the burnt remains of the "old" Tristram, I lacked the intestinal fortitude to do much more than take a few hesitating steps within that infamous cathedral of legend.

New Tristram Concept Image

I knew the cultists had found me when I saw the bloody, curved knife stabbed violently into my door this morning. I have spent months trying to ease the fevered imaginings that have tormented me since that encounter a scant few months past, but to no avail. And now they know who I am.



There is an absolute and oppressive darkness to be found only in the deep wilderness at night. Thus, when I saw the distant light of fire while making my way through the thick Tristram forest, I welcomed the company of fellow travelers. As I approached, however, something even darker than the unlit forest crept over me. So horrendous was this feeling that I thought to turn away until the sound of chanting reached my ears and drew me onward. I thank whatever gods blessed me with the presence of mind to stop short of entering that unholy place whence the sound originated. Instead, I sought out a well-hidden vantage point from which I could look upon the frigid clearing that seemed violently torn from the depths of the forest.

That was when I first saw them, the dark cultists, arrayed in a circle. Their torches lit the macabre proceedings in a pallid light that danced over their garish rune-covered robes. I had heard tales of these hooded cultists and their depraved rituals, and I must admit to some curiosity upon seeing them. As their chanting droned on, I thought to make my escape lest they see me, but my attention was riveted by a pale, vacant-eyed supplicant being led forward. I do not know if he was of limited mental capacity, lost in religious mania, or simply drugged, but he was definitely not sound of mind as he knelt in the center of the thrumming circle.

The chanting stilled as the leader, face shadowed by a heavily gilded hood, stepped forward and began to intone a ritual in some indecipherable tongue. A large, thickly muscled and leather-masked cultist draped a black, eyeless hood over the victim's head before pulling a foot-long spike from his sash. My mind searched for any possible use for this cursed nail when I noticed the immense stygian hammer grasped in his other hand. With one swift motion, he raised it above his head and drove the spike into the supplicant's back with fierce intensity. I almost screamed... but the victim made no sound.

As another spike was readied, I knew I could watch no more. I trembled with the thought of those nails being driven into me should I be caught. I averted my gaze as I heard the revolting squish of another spike sunk into willing flesh. My eyes fell on the robe of the lead cultist. The intricate runes woven into his robe undulated and swirled in sickening movement. As I watched, horrified, I could feel my sanity crumbling away. I began to back away from the wicked tableau, forcing myself to move slowly while my mind screamed for me to flee with abandon. When I could contain myself no longer, I broke into a full run, not caring what sound I made. I ran until I collapsed. And then, as soon as I was able, I staggered to my feet and ran some more.

Not long ago, I wrote of my disappointment that New Tristram lacked the palpable dread its reputation led one to expect. I wish that I had not tempted fate with my quick words. Disappointment is much preferable to stark terror, and terror was what I stumbled into that night.

Since returning home, I have been feverishly researching those demon-enthralled cultists in an effort to ease my mind, to assure myself that I had not actually seen what I had, but every whispered, frightened tale only deepens the chill that has seized me. I do not know which of my actions alerted them, but my worst fears have been realized. I have been marked.

This is the last known writing of Abd al-Hazir. Known for his compilation of weird and wonderful facts about our unique world, he has unfortunately been missing since late last year.

As beautiful as a walk through the Tristram wilderness is, with its lush fields and picturesque rivers, the air seems to take on an otherworldly foreboding as one approaches the fishing village of Wortham. My search to catalog the weird, the fabulous, and the all-too-often-dangerous inhabitants of our world had led me there. I hoped to find a guide who could bring me safely into the Festering Wood and back, for I had come to see for myself the strange creatures that are the "gnarled walkers".



What then, you may ask, is a gnarled walker? Is it simply an ensorcelled walking tree – a wood wraith – or is it something more? Does it truly live? These are the questions I sought to answer as I strode into the village of Wortham that bright day, which had somehow turned dark and dreary while my attention was elsewhere. But the few people I encountered in Wortham were a taciturn lot, unwilling to answer my inquiries.

As I inspected my way around the moribund town, it was impossible to ignore the fact that the bridge I hoped to take to the Festering Wood had been destroyed, burned beyond repair. My questions about this circumstance went unanswered. I likewise found it odd that there seemed to be only elderly people in the village, with the exception of one beautiful young woman whose father was quite insistent I keep my distance from her. Though he was rude on this point, I found him to be a rather sociable sort once convinced I was not interested in his daughter. He introduced himself as Pablo DeSoto, and as luck would have it, he was very knowledgeable about several topics in regards to magic and the object of my search.

According to Master DeSoto, the Festering Wood derives its name from the fact that everything in it seethes and roils with evil intent: even the ground itself has been known to rise up and devour a person. When pushed further in regards to the gnarled walkers specifically, he pontificated at length as to their true nature. He maintained they are vile mystical creatures from another realm who can only sustain their existence in our world by sapping life energy from men or animals. These heinous beings have shifted their appearance to that of trees, thereby luring their prey close so as to consume it whole and enrich their reserves of dark power. These beastly things move ponderously, and some are known to exude a foul stench that poisons their victims. Master DeSoto is certain the origin of the walkers, and of the Festering Wood itself, can be traced to the foul doings of necromancers, who he claims are responsible for much of the evil that has befallen our world. He expounded in full to me his theory that the "whole Diablo incident", as he called it, was tied up in their dark arts as well.


Regardless as to whether that is the truth of the matter or not, I felt fortunate that I was unable to find a guide to bring me into the Festering Wood. Upon hearing of what transpires there, I have decided it is far better suited to the adventuring temperament than my own.

The khazra (colloquially known as "goatmen") were long thought to be natural inhabitants of our world, akin to the lacuni "panther-men" tribes of the desert and mountain regions, but I have recently discovered evidence revealing that nothing could be further from the truth. The history of the khazra is much more complex and disturbing than has been previously imagined.



According to ancient carvings that I have succeeded in translating, the khazra were originally human, part of the umbaru race found in the thick Torajan jungles in the Teganze region of the eastern continent. At some point in the distant past, the five clans that would come to be known as the khazra migrated to higher elevations and began developing along different lines than the clansmen they left behind. They lived in relative peace and began the transition from a hunter-gatherer society to a farming one. This state of affairs changed dramatically when they encountered the Vizjerei about two thousand years ago (if my translations prove to be correct).


This was the height of the Mage Clan Wars, and even the mighty Vizjerei mage clan was showing signs of stress brought about by the prolonged struggle. A faction of the Vizjerei resolved to construct an army using demon-possessed victims, and the peaceful umbaru clans seemed to fit the Vizjerei's needs. It is unknown how the clans first came into contact with the Vizjerei, but within the span of a decade or so, some of the future khazra clans had turned from their peaceful existence to all-out warfare with the Vizjerei. This was surely the result of seeing their brothers being painfully transformed into savage goat-like creatures by the Vizjerei.