AndrewDM

An Introduction to Apocrypha

2017-12-23T14:43:56-05:00

An Introduction to Apocrypha

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title: "An Introduction to Apocrypha"

updated: "2017-12-23 Sat 14:21"

categories: AP

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Apocrypha is a world of mystery and forgotten history, built from first principles and the realization that even simple truths have consequences.

My goal with building the world of Apocrypha is to create a generic fantasy world which is both suitable for books and for use with TRPGs, and is designed somewhere on the coherency spectrum between the Forgotten Realms and Discworld.

Though it is being designed to function with the 5th edition of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dungeons_%26_Dragons">Dungeons & Dragons</a> in mind, I am also haphazardly designing a TRPG of my own which may be abandoned along the way, but draws inspiration from Apocrypha as well as breathing life back into it. Over the last 2 months, I've found that working on one usually generates ideas that are applicable to the other, and overall energy for both projects benefits from this dynamic.

The Gournal of Geographic Affairs: The Sun-Touched Mountain

2017-12-23T14:43:56-05:00

The Gournal of Geographic Affairs: The Sun-Touched Mountain

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title: "The Gournal of Geographic Affairs: The Sun-Touched Mountain"

updated: "2017-12-23 Sat 14:21"

categories: AP, WP

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Welcome Readers, to the second Special Edition of our illustrious catalog of facts and figures.

Last year, after our exploration of the Lowerdark's Cragmag Caverns proved such a fantastic success, we set our sights higher: to answer a [nagging] reader's question. Lola, age 8, from the Valanacian city of Florora, has been sending us letters. Over two hundred letters to be precise. Each has asked the same question,

"Deer GGE, what is the talest mowntun [sic] in the world?"

And while we don't usually reward improper spelling, her insistence, and the fact that no expert in the world seemed to know a precise answer, convinced us to settle it once and for all. Who knew that simple question one year ago would spark a fantastic journey of discovery and collaboration that may have ramifications beyond what we dreamed possible. Returning laden with treasures only one month ago, the GEE (& co.) Expedition has brought us the greatest treasure of all: an answer.

Dear Lola,

The greatest mountain in the world stands atop the far-northern range of snowy mountains known as the Sunpeaks.

Since the entire northern ridge is filled with enormous mountains dwarfing (or maybe even gnoming) all other mountains found elsewhere, it was rather difficult for our sages here at the Imperial Center for Geographical Excellence to locate the general area of the range in which the peak might exist, much less its correlative parallel, and the sheer size of the range combined with its namesake ever-present blinding sunlight made clairvoyance and scrying spells of little use above 50,000 ft.

Yes, you read that right. 50,000. That's almost three times the height of Mount Pang and twice that of the Skyknife, but in the Sunpeaks, that's barely passing for average.

But fear not dear readers. The Geournal for Geographical Excellence is here to quench your thirst for knowledge. For comparing the several dozen peaks which form the Upper Cluster, we had to go to extreme lengths (and heights). Simply put, we had to go there.

With our collaborative sponsors, The Community Climber, Aerial Affairs, Snowpeak Tea, and a grant from the Ministry of Maps, we raised 1.3 million Imperial silver swans (a little more than the monthly taxpayer cost to support an entire legion of cavalry), to finance a voyage into the unknown, staking both our reserves and our reputation on the Expedition.

We spared no cost, hiring only the best of the best. Trackers, weatherworkers, guards, and guides, we set out into the Plateau of the Sun to find our answer.

Six months we searched the pockets of mountains that exceeded our 50,000 mark, listening to local legends, sending up balloons, and using a combination of our savvy and our ability to take small arcane gateways to cross from peak to peak. And those were fruitful months, even though we had yet to locate our quarry, days spent mapping and drawing, nights spent gazing into the clearest sky anywhere in the world (and then mapping and drawing it too)!

We had found mountains. Tall ones. But had we found the tallest?

We wouldn't know for almost three more months. The answer, it seemed, was always no. We would crest a peak, only to find another rising above us on the horizon. We had to to maintain a constant litany of darksight spells to see (without going blind) and frost spells to avoid melting (while in the sun) and fire spells to avoid freezing (while in the shade).

We had to conjure air to breathe.

And it was in these inhospitable conditions that we found them. Not mountains, those would come later, but our guides and our salvation.

We were somewhere precisely north of the 47th parallel, when one of our forward seers called for a halt. He had found a body. We assumed the worst, and began to prepare a frost-bag for storing it to take back with us when we came down the mountain (as we'd had to do with most of our veritable zoo of animals by this point).

Imagine our surprise when the body rose to greet us with a smile.

He was a bald human man, and no more than a few years into his young adulthood, and was absolutely blind, and fairly near naked. He led us to his small mountain abode, filled with others like him. They called themselves monks, but when I asked them about their order, they had none!

Though I would have offered the poor unregistered fellows use of my official quill and Imperial ink (had it not been alternatively frozen and then boiled) to register with an approved order, they assured me that they had no interest in the ways of the 'folk from down below'. Upon our request (and a few oddities accepted in exchange, namely a small bowl made of True Timber and a pair of hollow diamonds) the unregistered 'monks' agreed to aid us towards our goal (though I gathered the distinct impression that they very much acquiesced primarily in order to rid themselves of us).

Two weeks after meeting with the 'monks' we had found it.

The Sun-Touched Mountain.

So, Lola, I'm sure you're lost interest by now, being the petulant and insistent child that you are, but deep within the Sunpeaks, beyond the ken of the civilized peoples, stands the tallest mountain in the world.

We didn't climb it; we didn't dare. And our humble guides requested that we saved ourselves the trouble. For we had found it. High above the world, on a ridge of mountains the locals call 'The Edge' stands the impossibly massive peak.

Shrouded from below by almost constant cloud-cover and the jutting cliffs of that massive ridge, we only dared observe it from afar. The expanse between the ridge and the cluster we found ourselves on was measured in miles.

Our best calculations put the height of the Sun-Touched Mountain at a staggering 179,400 ft. And at it's peak, a brilliant day's Sun.

I'll never forget the sight.

Thank you Lola. Now please stop writing us.

ChangeLog

2017-12-23T14:43:56-05:00

ChangeLog

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

updated the categories for the apocrypha items

src/apocrypha/AnIntroductionToApocrypha.org   | 12 ++++++++++++
src/apocrypha/TheGournalGeographicAffairs.org | 12 ++++++++++++
2 files changed, 24 insertions(+)

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

removed some janky psionics

src/dnd/psionic-schools.org | 220 -------------------
src/dnd/psionist.org        | 570 -------------------------------------------------
2 files changed, 790 deletions(-)

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

Added the start of the apocrypha.

src/apocrypha/AnIntroductionToApocrypha.org   |  17 +++++
src/apocrypha/TheGournalGeographicAffairs.org | 125 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
src/apocrypha/index.yaml                      |   1 +
3 files changed, 143 insertions(+)

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

Updated the About with an Epigraph

src/about.md | 58 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++-------
1 file changed, 51 insertions(+), 7 deletions(-)

2017-01-24 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

remove unfinished sources

src/dnd/psionist-class.md               | 1504 -------------------------------
src/dnd/{psionist2.org => psionist.org} |    0
src/dnd/spell-gauntlet.org              |  683 --------------
3 files changed, 2187 deletions(-)

2017-01-14 Andrew Murrell <merl@neo.andrewdm.me>

updated Psionist Title page

bin/pre-generate                         | 2 ++
src/dnd/{Psionist2.org => psionist2.org} | 4 ++++
2 files changed, 6 insertions(+)

2017-01-14 Andrew Murrell <merl@neo.andrewdm.me>

Added an updated Psionist class with more complete domains, but no mind powers yet.

src/dnd/Psionist2.org | 566 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1 file changed, 566 insertions(+)

2017-01-04 Luke Shumaker <lukeshu@lukeshu.com>

Change the title of "Psionist" -> "Psionist Class [5e]"

src/dnd/Psionist.md | 2 +-
1 file changed, 1 insertion(+), 1 deletion(-)

31 August 2016

Decided that the 1/5th of 'Magic is Magic' that was 'finished' was actually trash.

Worked on "Harvey's Adventure" for a pair of paragraphs.

30 August 2016

Updated Tastavi with my introduction and 'Andrew Stamp of Approval'™ rewrite.

Decided that there are not enough hours in a day.

Epigraph

2017-12-23T14:15:28-05:00

Epigraph

Every great adventure begins with a departure.

The young hero, the country lass,
the bored noble, each is called to
leave home and step into the wider
world beyond.

These untested newcomers are
confronted by the winds and wilds,
by highwaymen and heathens, and by the
deeper dangers of their own making.

They may fall.
They most certainly will fail.
And yet they fight,
taking strides ever forward,
ever farther from the places they called home.

But should they rise,
and so defeat their enemies
as they do their insecurities,
they shall rise as heroes.

And as the bard weaves their tales of fortune and of fate—
of voyages, departures, and returns—
we listen to their stories,
and are likewise taken far, far, from home.

Come with me then,
upon a great adventure,
a great departure,
and a new beginning.

—Andrew Murrell (/u/ImFromNASA on reddit).

Welcome wanderers!

This site is a resource for all you wanderers, seeking your place among immortal wonders, your eyes filled deep with dreams and souls set on seeking larger purpose. May you here find a window into worlds and a invitation into imagination.

My name is Andrew Murrell (/u/ImFromNASA on Reddit), currently most well known for YARV, Dynamic Initiative (Drew's Rules), and the Patron prestige class on /r/UnearthedArcana and its discord, the DoMT.

I make D&D 5e homebrew, write short stories, build worlds, and also haphazardly design heartbreaker TRPGs.

I know more than any sane person should about the Forgotten Realms.

Tastavi D'Maelnor of Llolethane

2016-08-30T23:56:00+00:00

Tastavi D'Maelnor of Llolethane

When I DM, I try to allow players to have as many options for character creation as I can. Usually, this manifests in pretty interesting, but stable, characters. And other times… you get Tastavi.

Tastavi D'Maelnor of Lolathane-Mael'na'rath is not what I'd call a stable character: a CN half-(drow)-elf half-(black)-dragon ftr/rog/war hybrid sworn to an evil demigod who wants to swallow your dreams (and possibly the sun and all life) and fleeing one hell of a custody dispute.

But I fell in love with the idea. I had to write it up. It started out as a three paragraph synopsis, but quickly devolved into the micro-epic below. He was only played for three sessions before dying to the most viscious and demanding opponent of all: sports season. Enjoy!

1. Ik'lithslaelith
2. The Drowess
3. The Tunnel
4. High Priestess Destiny
5. Soup for Dinner
6. Hunger and Possibilities
7. [CENSORED]
8. Visions
9. Visitations
10. Voices
11. jal'Bror-noloth
12. The Hold
13. The Pits
14. The Return
15. Tastavi
16. Trials
17. Transformations
18. Training
19. The Leader
20. The Contest
21. The Cell
22. Motherly Love
23. The Will of Lolth
24. Doom
25. Destruction
26. Dreams
27. The Surface
28. Credits

1 Ik'lithslaelith

A dark form slithered though the deep, black against black in the sunless place. The form pulled its girth across the smooth stone of its cavern, uncoiling itself and scraping eons of accumulated filth from its obsidian hide. Too long had it slumbered here, content with its wealth and glories of days long past. A yellow eye appeared inside the chamber, burning with a delicate and powerful inner light.

The dragon Ik'lithslaelith was awake. And he was hungry.

2 The Drowess

She walked nude across the parapet. Her onyx skin still glistened from her bath and her long white hair hung loose about her shoulders. She eyed the servants gathered along the tower's edge, daring them to look.

Most simply bowed humbly before her, inches from oblivion, knowing full well the punishment. She reached the stair and snatched a loose-fitting robe from the extended hand of her favorite butler. His empty and scarred eye sockets heaved involuntarily at her proximity. It has been too long since she'd had a real excuse to user her power. Too long.

3 The Tunnel

This was not here when last I was. mused the dragon.

He peered at the worked stone. Beneath his lair, along one of his favorite underground flying paths, a circular tunnel disappeared into the cliff face. Below him, the chasm loomed, threatening to consume any that strayed too far from the path's narrow ledge–and could not fly–to be burned to fiery cinders upon a lake of boiling stone below.

He had always found the cavern poetic: no matter how hard the little climbers tried to rise, this was not their place. Their place was among the ashes.

The newly hewn tunnel was far too small for him to squeeze into of course. But one does not reach advanced age as a dragon without learning a few tricks along the way.

And one does not keep it by being over-curious either he thought to himself.

But I suppose it cannot be helped.

Ik'lithslaelith breathed a deep echoing sigh, closed his eyes, and began to shrink.

4 High Priestess Destiny

The family estate was vast, and by all accounts, grand. Nestled in a isolated corner of the massive complex of linked caves that comprised the southern drow 'city' of Mael'na'rath, the layered structure resembled a spiked claw rising from on oozing wound.

Grand, but hideous.

Grotesquely complicated, but functional.

In a word: Chaotic.

From the single gate at the base of the claw to the tips of the fingers, every staircase was a spiral. Most with an open center so that the priestesses and noble family could levitate from floor to floor, but commoners or household slaves would have to climb the steep steps to get anywhere, and so guards could fire upon intruders the entire way up. Intruders who, would first need to bypass the acid pools which surrounded the fortress.

High Priestess Ul'Ilindith D'Maelnor of the Second House of Llolethane-Mael'na'rath decended through the main stair upon a cloud of authority. Any walking the stairs prostrated themselves before her, and any family members floating up quickly stepped aside and bowed as she passed. Her name meant "destiny" and she knew it. She reached the floor she wanted and halted her descent. It was almost time. She was expecting someone.

5 Soup for Dinner

From the darkness, expectant eyes scanned the palace walls. The acidic no-man's land glowed an eerie green from the pools which dotted the cavern floor. But the eyes were not concerned with the defenses. Instead they clutched at one distant parapet and waited. Minutes passed, but there was no activity from the palace. The eyes closed. Impatiently, a dark form slid from its hiding place in the mouth of the abandoned tunnel to nowhere, and approached the nearest pool of acid. The bubbling glow cast flickering splotches of light over its distinctly feminine form, and she bent over the pool, moving one hand in intricate spellcasting and clutching something hanging from around her neck with the other. She felt at ease with it near her, a rare feeling for a drow, but she had been experiencing all kinds of rare feelings recently. Her divination spell failed, as they were oft to do since she had fallen in love. Terrified of her own feelings, she knelt in fervent prayer to the Spider Queen.

Behind her from the tunnel, another dark figure crept close, unnoticed, a silent hand of death in the land of silent death.

Perhaps her prayers were answered, or perhaps the Queen of Spiders simply thought it amusing, but with a gasp and a rush of power, the beautiful drow woman felt the impending danger. She spun around, calling upon years of training and the will of her goddess to meet the threat. A whip appeared in her hands almost instantly, its twin heads, each a living snake, hissed and spat. Smiling coolly, she struck out against her assailant, the snake heads reaching, mouths wide to bite deep into its flesh. A loud crack and hiss echoed through the chamber, but when she pulled back the whip for another strike, both heads lay limp and dead in her hands. A scaled form, black as onyx, stood before her wearing only a billowing cloak and a practiced look of grim amusement. The fangs had only barely scratched the surface of his scales, and though sticky splotches of thick acidic pus covered the point of impact, he seemed entirely unconcerned.

He responded in kind, spitting a line of black acid into her eyes and face. She reeled backwards, clutching at her dissolving eyes, and fell backwards into the bubbling pool.

The form approached the shallow pool.

"Looks like I'm having soup for dinner" mused Ik'lithslaelith.

6 Hunger and Possibilities

She couldn't believe it! A dragon! And a powerful one from the looks of it. High Priestess Ul'Ilindith smiled coolly from her invisible floating vantage point, and watched him feast. Though the 'opportunities' she had been pursuing with the High Priestess of House Undros were most definitely ended, perhaps even greater power than simply controlling a minor house was in her reach. She nearly shook with excitement at the thought of an ancient black dragon raining death upon her enemies. But as always, she was to be careful in this. A dragon, even a male dragon, was dangerous and difficult to control. She mused for a moment on the dangers, she could see them clearly before her even, the fate in store if she made a wrong move, or if he still hungered. But the possibilities…

And perhaps, she mused, he hungered for drow in a way that could benefit them both…

7 [CENSORED]

8 Visions

She saw a city burning.

She saw people screaming in pain and rolling upon the ground, trying to wipe away the tar that ate at their fingers, at their faces.

She saw clerics casting frantic spells, only to have them fail in their time of greatest need, abandoned by their goddess, and likewise be consumed.

She saw her son.

Standing in the midst of it, unharmed, and smiling, wiping blood from his blades. When the fires died, his yellow eyes were all that remained in the darkness.

The vision departed and the brazier bore once again the droopy-eyed oozing visage of a Handmaiden of Lolth. The priestess bowed and the messenger disappeared into the flames of the Demonweb Pits.

She looked down upon her pregnant belly. He would become her weapon. It was the will of Lolth.

9 Visitations

Ik'lithslaelith

The name woke him from his renewed slumber. He lay upon his newly-heaped hordes of gold and pools of melted bones. The echo of the name roared in his mind like a tempest. Like a wildfire. Like the roar of ten thousand dragons.

The ancient Ik'lithslaelith, the proud Ik'lithslaelith, the noble Ik'lithslaelith, the silent hand of death in the merciless Underdark, Winnower of Worlds, and many more names long forgotten, cowered in fear before his goddess.

10 Voices

An ancient laughter hissed in the Abyss.

The night is filled with voicess, so it seemss.

She mused.

Time stretched out naked, and the darkness prophesied:

Two minds.

Two goddesses

of mixed intent

and muddled vows.

Scheming over one

neither shall have.

The Nightmare smiled.

For even gods must sleep.

And neither see the

choices made when

nightmares reign.

Or hear the calls

of the forgotten

or the bound.

Dendar smiled at the ironic cost of freedom.

11 jal'Bror-noloth

The pregnancy was a wicked affair. Any news of it among the common folk was quickly discredited, and to speak of it openly, even among the family, was dangerous. Lady Ul'Ilindith spent her days under the care of her most trusted subordinates in the priestesshood: the ones with no ambition to speak of, whom she ruled with fear. She craved meat, and so she feasted upon the flesh of exotic animals, taken from both deep within the Underdark and from far above it, scoured from the surface. Every day, the burden in her belly grew more intense, the child growing much larger than any drow child. Every night the pain in her abdomen became almost unbearable. But she bore it. She bore it to term by force of will and the whispers of Lolth, promising her power beyond her wildest imaginings.

Her time arrived quickly and with little warning. Appropriating a hidden chamber deep beneath the complex–aptly, one often used for summoning creatures from lower planes, and shielded against unwanted magical intrusion–Ul'Ilindith labored for six days and nights. Every second, the unborn child tore at her. She used up every spell of healing from every priestess within the complex and more besides, calling upon the aid of magical items and elixirs to keep the child from tearing her apart. And the pain only heightened her determination.

When the child was finally born, it was amid a spray of blood. The child poured forth wrapped in stinking muck, an acidic darkness that mirrored the hearts of its parents. His parents. Even with all of her powers of healing, it was weeks before Ul'Ilindith recovered. She named the boy jal'Bror-noloth, the Sudden All-Encompassing Darkness, and kept him hidden from the world.

12 The Hold

A sudden rush of fresh air and the sounds of grinding stone attracted a small huddled group of kobolds to the cavern entrance. Large eyes, well-adjusted to the darkness, peered towards the unblocked hatchway and waited. From the other side of the hole in the cavern ceiling red and purple faerie fire cast an eerie glow into the chamber. Usually, if someone had rolled away the blocking stone and ventured into the cavern, the kobolds would know if it, but these were dark elves, in their domain, and fully prepared for stealth. All the kobolds saw was a vague hint of motion and the sudden glint of steel at their throats.

They prostrated themselves before their cruel masters and whimpered despite their better sense. Or rather all but one of them whimpered. A young female, untested, but strong, remained unbowed. This was her first encounter with the dark elves, and through either willpower or through ignorance she stood and stared into the eyes of the drow soldier that held her captive, brandishing a knife and scowling at the ambush.

The soldier's face became a mask of rage. She was ibluth, a worthless slave, a worthless kobold. He had certainly killed avenging lesser slights. He moved quickly and knocked away her blade, pressing his own in the space between her legs, preparing to cut her from stem to stern, but a commanding voice held him at bay. From behind, a weathered face, drained, but dangerous and beautiful, approached the soldier and the kobold maiden. She carried a small bundle in her arms, breastfeeding.

She stared down at the scaled creature, regarding her cooly. Then she carefully lifted the baby from her breast. He began to cry.

"You. Raise this iblith."

She roughly handed the child to the now-wide-eyed kobold and stalked away, the rest of her guard following her.

The boulder ground back into place and the cavern returned to darkness… but not silence.

The sound of a baby's cry echoed through the halls.

13 The Pits

The smack of sweaty flesh upon hard rock, and the crack of breaking bones, and shattered maws, and the echoing bloodthirsty cheer brought kobolds from all parts of the hold to witness the spectacle in the pits. A pair of fighters were sprawled upon the ground, clubbing and beating on each other with their claws or hands or whatever tools were available. It was over quickly, the opening salvo of the contest. The winner was cheered, the loser tossed aside to make way for the next fight. This was the way of kobolds: fast brutal victory or slow agonizing defeat.

A large kobold, round, his puffy skin bulging from around his scales like fishnet tights, sat atop a large boulder overlooking the pit. He called out for the next pair to enter the pit. Cheers erupted at the first volunteer, a tall specimen, muscular, and well-endowed. His reddish scales flickered brutally in the dim torchlight. He stood proudly waving a spear to the adoring crowd, so he did not note his challenger until the cheers turned to anxious whispers. A small boy stood squarely in the center of the ring, head downcast. Few could say the moment that he had arrived, but none could deny his presence now, nor what it signified. The challenge had been issued. The boy's scales contrasted greatly with the proud fighter that stood before him. Where the champion's scales gleamed in the torchlight, the boy's seemed to swallow it completely. Black. As the darkest night or deepest cave.

From the crowd, an adopted mother gasped as she saw her son standing in the ring and not at her side. It was no secret that she had been commissioned to raise the boy by the drow themselves, and the sudden silence in the stands all but confirmed it. None knew for sure which would win out, their customs: the right of challenge in the pits, or their fear of the drow should anything happen to the boy.

Their internal war was ended by the sudden motion of the challenger. He lifted his spear and lunged at the champion. The strike was short, but the damage was done, the fight had already begun. The champion returned the strike, only to have his spear deftly deflected as it came down. The young half-dragon took this opportunity to charge at the kobold before him, getting within the range of the spear and clawing at the hands holding the weapon. Long thick lines of blood appeared on the champion's forearms and he released the weapon in order to block the continued onslaught and return the favor. He led with a left hook that connected right under the boy's eye and sent him sprawling backwards, and quickly followed it with a kick to the boy's side, right beneath the shoulder-blade. The youth hit the ground and dove into a roll to come back to his feat. He had no more completed it, when another powerful kick knocked him back again, this time against the cavern wall. More punches followed and the boy fell back again and again against the wall and the floor, for support. His eyes were swollen, his hands and knees bloody, his body aching from the thrashing, but he did not signal his surrender. Instead he peered into the champion's eyes with determination and smiled, a bloody broken thing amid a silent crowd. The champion shook his head, but stalked in one more time to finish it.

He never got a chance.

The only sound that could be heard for miles was his scream. Not a person gathered breathed, nor heart beat for several moments, as their champion writhed pitifully upon the ground clutching the wreck that was once his face. Acid melted down into his skull and soon he could no longer draw the breath to scream and just shivered upon the ground.

Jal'Bror'Noloth wiped the spittle from his mouth and looked up to regard the assembled, but from his vantage point, could see but one, the puffy chieftain upon the rock, as all bowed down to worship the dragon-blessed.

14 The Return

The hatchway was open and once again, the proud kobold mother stood before dark elves. Though this time, she did not stand alone. Her adopted son, nearly her height, stood, hands balled into fists, at her side. He glanced protectively from his mother and the kobolds cowering on the ground to the strange dark-skinned woman standing before him, who began to speak. She spoke slowly, as if to a very young child, and with an unfamiliar and decadent accent.

"You appear to have raised him well. Does he speak Undercommon?"

"Aks him yerself." his mother spat back.

The drow priestess held out a hand to halt one of her guards who had stepped out of the darkness brandishing a knife. He stopped with a quizzical look, and slipping his dagger back into his piwafwi cloak, disappeared again.

"Do you know your name, little one?"

The boy looked to her suspiciously, but answered proudly "The others call me Nightshade."

She smiled coolly.

"A fitting name I'm sure, but a child's name, a disguise at best." She stalked closer to the boy, peering deeply into his eyes, and reached out with a hand to trace the pattern of his scales.

His mother attempted to interpose herself, to shield her child from the foreign touch, but instead found herself frozen in place mid-step. Wide-eyed she tried to cry out, but found no words. The paralyzing poison of the trio of small darts protruding from her back, neck, and leg had done its task.

"I see it in your eyes little Nightshade. This place has made you a killer, as I knew it would, but you shall become so much more. Follow me, and rise to conquer nations! And you shall earn your true name! Jal'Bror'Noloth!"

Jal stood dumbfounded at the revelation. He looked to the ground. Silence fell upon the empty chamber and all eyes upon the young half-dragon. He closed his eyes. Though he could almost feel a thousand heartbeats all around him, the one in his chest was the faintest. Here among the kobolds, he was revered, some kind of god to the dragon-loving fanatics. Could the same be true of wherever this woman would take him?

No, he decided, his place was in the caverns. And he didn't like this stranger and her band. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"I already have a mother." he stated flatly. "I have no need for another one, nor your names for me."

Ul'Ilindith smiled, unperturbed by his response. She leaned down to his ear and whispered "You do indeed already have a mother. But soon, you'll have a goddess."

A hundred drow warriors appeared from the shadows, blades spinning. Kobold blood splattered the ceilings, the floors, it splattered the pair standing undisturbed in the midst of it. Jal found he could not move his body, he could not open his mouth again to send acid into the faces of the attackers.

It was over quickly. The cowering kobolds were all dead, cut into morbid ribbons that covered the walls and floors. As were all the kobolds that stayed in the darkness and thought themselves safe from the spectacle. Any that saw the return of the drow or the fate of their beloved dragon-blessed were left to feed whatever monsters that would inevitably take up residence in the food-rich cavern. The Underdark is not a place of wastefulness.

Jal watched as the only other survivor, his adopted mother, was put into chains and levitated up through the drow hatchway. Still groggy from the poison, he barely noticed when his own fetters were locked into place. Ul'Ilindith leaned over his shoulder and whispered once again,

"You shall know your destiny my little iblith. And you shall know the futility of defying me."

15 Tastavi

The aging Master of Arms, Elderboy Tastadraa D'Maelnor, looked over the boy's head to his sister Ul'Ilindith.

"This? This is the one you bring to me?"

The boy appeared unremarkable in every way. Average height, build, skin tone, hair style, musculature, almost a mockery of normalcy.

"He is."

"I take it then, he is some prodigy with a blade?"

"I doubt he's ever touched one."

Tastadraa sighed and slicked back his receding hairline. Despite his position in the family, one can never take a demand from a High Priestess lightly. He nodded his head,

"I will train him…"

"Very good."

Ul'Ilindith turned to leave.

"…assuming he passes the trials of course."

Ul'Ilindith stopped. Slowly turning around, venom oozing from her gaze, she asked

"Trials?"

"Just a formality I assure you, since he does not appear to be of… noble birth. I shall train him if he proves himself superior to my most recent student."

Ul'Ilindith smiled. She looked across the room to the gangly youth attempting to lift a glave twice his size and nearly chopping himself in twain as the weapon fell to the ground with a clatter–her sister's son would prove no challenge.

"All right. He shall fight then."

But to her surprise the weapon master called out, "Tastavi! Come hither."

From behind a weapons rack, a lithe youth looked up and walked over. His gait was one of practiced grace and noble refinement.

"This is my son Tastavi, he came of age just yesterday to start training with the group. Tastavi, you will be fighting this one to determine if he is fit to train against you."

Tastavi glanced at the new boy and smirked.

16 Trials

Both fighters panted for breath. They dripped with sweat. From opposite sides of the perfect circle drawn upon the floor, they stared into each other's eyes, waiting. Tastavi licked blood from his battered lip.

He had expected to finish the match quickly. He held his sword delicately but firmly, gently gliding it into thrusts and parries, as opposed to this stranger who held his sword like a club, and used it like one. But he quickly discovered that what the newcomer lacked in technique he made up for with ferocity. He looked so small and unspectacular, but possessed the raw strength of someone much larger, and the split-second reflexes of a master. The force and savage speed of his swings was jolting. Tastavi was able to stay ahead of each of them, but barely.

Tastavi had then moved to the center of the ring, expending as little effort as he could, dodging as much as deflecting, to tire out his opponent. Eventually the frustrated and slowing newcomer simply started swinging out as a distraction and using his body to push Tastavi towards the edge of the ring. Several times only his training in gymnastics had kept him from being bowled over out of the ring, and the last rush had been the closest yet.

Tastavi had to adjust, and began to counter the charges with precise blade thrusts, forcing his aggressor back, but took a few flying elbows to the face while perfecting it.

Now mutual respect and more than a little exhaustion had the pair circling. Almost an hour had passed, with neither side backing down. His father, the Weapon's Master, stood by the wayside trying to look disinterested to Ul'Ilindith, while nonetheless remaining intent on every second of the fighting. The other students held no such reservation and watched the display with open wonder.

As the two dragged themselves around they ring they knew that whatever happened here, it would be the last clash between the two. Tastavi hefted his blade and focused on his breathing and his feet, on his years of training with his father, and on his enemy: nearly collapsed on the ground, hands clenched upon the hilt of his broadsword, knuckles as white as the hair upon his head.

And suddenly upon him.

Tastavi stepped to the side, barely avoiding the downwards strike and stabbed out, piercing flesh and striking against bone. The newcomer fell past him landing with a dull thud against the floor, jutting out halfway from the ring and retching in pain. His blood bubbled from the wound on his side. Tastavi heard a strange sizzling sound and looked to his blade, the blood was slowly eating away the metal!

The crowd cheered, but Master Tastadraa silenced them with a harsh reprimand and they reluctantly began to disperse. Tastavi nearly collapsed, but held his feat and his honor. Then nearly collapsed again as Ul'Ilindith surprised him by personally moving forward to tend to the boy. Tastavi found himself dumbfounded before Ul'Ilindith, who reached down and touched the boy, instantly healing him and vaporizing the bubbling blood before it burned into the ground.

The conversation between his aunt and father echoed far away.

"I shall teach him."

"But, didn't he lose your little challenge?"

"I shall teach him."

The tip of his blade fell to the ground with a loud clatter as the acid ate cleanly through the steel.

17 Transformations

He awoke to a Sending message in his mind.

Jal, it is time to train with Master Tastadraa.

Yes Mother. he replied.

Jal lay upon a thin bisected cot, the center of which was cut away so that he could lay on his back without the ridge on his spine cutting at the fabric.

He looked to the three other belongings his mother allowed him: a pair of clothes for training at blades and bows, a small key, and a thin mask of white velvet.

He reached for the key, but changed his mind at the last second and went for the mask instead.

He carefully set it place upon his face and grimaced beneath it as its magic began subtly changing him. He shrank, his thick arms and legs shriveling into the spindly appendages of the drow. The ridges on his spine disappearing into his back. His hair remained roughly the same, resulting in an almost comical effect if anyone were watching. However, if anyone were watching, they would almost certainly be dead by now. His room was one of the best guarded places in the complex.

He left his chamber fully drow–there was no illusion, his entire body was changed–and made for the training complex.

18 Training

Tastadraa leaned against a trident and watched Jal and Tastavi spar. He marveled at the progress they made in such short time. Given years, these two would surely become the best fighters in House D'Maelnor, if not the best fighters in Llolethane-Mael'na'rath. But which would predominate?

Tastavi represented perfection in discipline and form. He learned every technique: line, parry, block, feint, it didn't matter, after a few repetitions he would master them, and he followed orders to the very punctuation.

Jal on the other hand, represented pure natural talent and improvisation. He could find his way in any situation with no preparation whatsoever. He always tested his opponents, challenging their careful techniques and reactions, throwing them into unpredictable patterns and unfamiliar lines. He was dangerous and cared nothing for orders.

Only time would tell.

19 The Leader

Flames billowed into the sky.

The sky.

Bright and blue, horrid and happy.

Ul'Ilindith shuddered.

"Why do you show me this?"

A caped rogue peered from the crystal ball to the priestess.

"We all serve the Queen according to her will."

He motioned for her to continue watching the silent scene unfold below in the glassy sphere. The sky came into view once again and then shifted to a quiet village in the middle of a great yellow plain.

From the south a sweeping army of darkness crept upon the unsuspecting village, at its head an imposing warrior. Arrayed in thick armor, not much could be seen of his face, or much beyond the massive broadsword he carried upon his back. With an unheard bellow he hefted the sword with two hands and led the the charging army to battle.

A charge that faded from her view as the scene changed subtly. Suddenly the army was on the road, traveling by the new moon. Then they were at the gates of a great city, then inside it, slaying indiscriminately. Then there was a throne, obsidian and bearing the mark of the Spider Queen, and an ancient drow upon it, casting traitors into the flames.

Ul'Ilindith struggled with the vision.

"We shall take to the surface? An army?"

"Not we, but see the mark upon the leader?"

"D'Maelnor!"

"Yes, he carries your crest. And another, of the first house."

Ul'Ilindith smiled. "Then it's true, the union shall take place?"

"Yes, but keep in mind" said the rogue, "there is but one leader prophesied… not two."

20 The Contest

Tastavi held his bow carefully and exhaling suddenly, sent a perfect shot into the deep-rothe's eye.

"Twenty-three" Jal sighed dramatically, his face emotionless.

"If you hadn't wasted your shot on the bull you would be tied with me. Next time." Tastavi patted Jal on the shoulder mockingly.

"I've got one shot left." Jal pulled the arrow from his dimensional bag.

"Even if you somehow managed to kill two of them with that, you'd only match me." Tastavi gave him a superior look and started packing his things.

Jal stared out across the cavern floor at the grazing rothe. Slowly a half-smile spread across his face.

"I've got one shot left." he reiterated.

Tastavi stopped and just watched. He knew that look well enough after all. It usually preceded something worth watching.

Jal lifted his bow, nocked the arrow and held out his hand encasing a rothe in purple flames.

Tastavi gave him a disapproving look, "Now that's cheating!"

"No, that's not the target, watch." Jal replied.

At first the rothe seemed not to notice, and Jal lifted three fingers.

Two fingers.

One.

The rothe looked up and seeing the illusory flames encasing it, began to panic. It let out a mooish-roar and bolted for the water.

It would have made it too, except for the very agitated bull rothe standing directly in its path with an arrow protruding from its hindquarters. The bull had almost come to accept the nagging itch in its backside, but being bowled over by a frantic, and apparently burning, female on her way to the water was not a good way to arrive at acceptance.

He reared up and charged, looking to gore anything in its path. A couple of plump females stood nearby and he charged at them blindly. They looked up in time to see the horns, and bolted to the side.

Jal fired.

His arrow whisked past the enraged bull, peeling flesh from his face and changing his course to plow, horns-first into the escaping females, skewering both of them before himself, crumpling to the ground.

"Ok, well that's just Twenty-three then. We're tied." Tastavi managed to stammer. But Jal turned to him and smiled.

"Look again."

Tastavi traced the arrow's flight from where it had been deflected… into the water. The startled rothe, no longer in faerie fire, floated on her side, bleeding dark blood into the water from an arrow between the ribs and into the heart.

21 The Cell

Jal opened his eyes and realized that for the first time in several years, his mother had not called him to training. His room was dark, but there was no mistaking the time. She should have called by now.

He donned his mask and hesitantly took up the tiny golden key.

If she called, he would answer, but it was not often he had the time he needed, and he decided that he would not waste it.

He dressed quickly and left his chamber, racing through the levels of the palace to the great stair. He usually descended the stairs on foot, but who knew how long he had to spare. He activated his house insignia and levitated down the center.

Near the bottom, he jumped to the side and followed a narrow corridor to the cell block. He counted his steps and arrived at the correct door. He slid in his key and opened the lock.

Inside the room was a small cell, only a few inches taller than he and only a few feet wider. It was empty.

"No." He said.

He had to have made a mistake. Where was she? He looked around, but found no signs of escape, nor of capture.

"No!" He exited the room and looked both ways down the narrow hallway.

He tried the adjacent doors, but could not open them.

"NO!" he screamed, the sound echoing in the long metallic corridor. A second passed, then thirty. His head ached and his gut clenched and burned. A sending arrived from his mother.

Jal, come to the throne room immediately.

Jal's rage flared inside him. The truth he suspected burned his lungs and throat. He tried to be calm, to tread carefully, but couldn't help but scream back Where is she?! What have you done with her?!

No response was forthcoming.

He screamed. An echoing anguish mixed among the cell-block moans. He ran, dashing through the archway to the stair. He took no heed of those around him as he raced fate to the throne room at the top of the complex.

He arrived at the doors out of breath, and furious. Guards attempted to bar his way to announce him, but Jal rushed deftly past them and stormed into the throne room without announcement.

22 Motherly Love

Ul'Ilindith reclined upon the throne. A drooling zombie stood guard beside it, once a powerful priestess, she was now cursed to forever stand as a reminder of what may happen to those who lose the favor of the Spider Queen.

Guards lined the walls armed with hand crossbows. Tastadraa and his son stood before the dais, waiting for the final addition to their ranks.

It burst into the throne room.

"Where is she?! What have you done with her?!" Jal screamed.

Ul'Ilindith remained seated and unaffected.

Jal screamed again, "WHERE IS SHE?!" The volume and the timbre contrasted dramatically with the unimpressive image of the drow youth. An aura of fear radiated from him, slowly affecting the nearest guards who stiffened and stood frozen beside the open door, mouths agape.

"My my, Mother, what am impudent little pup I've raised." Ul'Ilindith lamented to the zombie beside her. It responded to the attention by lolling its head slightly towards the sound.

Jal looked to the pair standing before the throne with suspicion.

"Where is my mother." he stated.

"Jal, Jal, do calm down. I have liked your 'mother' from the moment I saw her. I believe that we share a certain… bond. But display an attitude again in my presence, and I promise, she'll soon resemble my mother more than yours." Ul'Ilindith casually gestured to the guard zombie.

Jal deflated. The fire in his throat cut off any further words, and tears threatened to well behind his eyes. But his anger wisely turned to caution. He looked around the room and took in the situation, then wandered to his spot beside the other two males.

Ul'Ilindith was not sure about what she'd seen foretold, and thought about the rogue's warning. She had worried about the course set before her, but Jal's continuing insubordination left no room for doubt.

She put aside her contemplation and said with a plastered smile,

"A special opportunity has come to my attention. The first house has shown to me a great vision of the future. A great warrior, a son of D'Maelnor, shall join with the first house and lead an army of darkness across the surface world."

Master Tastadraa's mouth fell agape, Tastavi focused on calming his excitement, Jal just strained against his rage, though there was dull curiosity there too. Tastavi was the only "son of D'Maelnor" he knew who could possibly wear the description of 'great warrior.'

Ul'Ilindith just watched their reactions to be sure. Yes, the choice was obvious, but perhaps it should still be best left in Lolth's hands.

"Brother, you're a bit too old to be our warrior. Step away from the dais. I will address the boys."

Tastadraa bowed and stepped back into a line of guards at the side.

Jal felt isolated upon the dais. He looked to Tastavi uncertainly, but Tastavi looked at his aunt with expectancy, ambition gleaming in his eyes.

Ul'Ilindith addressed the room. "Before me stand two great sons of D'Maelnor:"

A dull question thumped in the back of Jal's mind. What?

"Tastavi, son of Tastadraa D'Maelnor."

Two great sons? Tastadraa isn't up here, just Tastavi and…

"and Jal'Bror'Noloth, my firstborn son,"

Jal almost fell from the dais. No, she had been his 'Matron Mother', but he'd never believed that…

"whom I carried and delivered."

Jal's rage flared, but his voice was nowhere to be found it in. He stood stone-faced and looked to the ground.

Tastavi looked to his newfound cousin with surprise, and sudden jealousy. All this time, and Jal had never told him? There he stood, embarrassed to have his secret revealed. Were they ever friends, or only rivals?

"Both of you have surpassed my expectations with regard to fighting prowess. But… There is but one great warrior." Ul'Ilindith stated clearly.

She let the statement sink in.

Tastavi turned.

Jal broke from his focused denial and turned to look at his friend. He shook his head, slowly in disbelief.

Tastavi reached his hands slowly to the hilts of his swords.

Jal made no move to match him. He looked to Ul'Ilindith. She smiled wickedly. He looked to Tastadraa. He looked lost, a mixture of caring father, and greedy coward.

He threw off his sword belt. It fell with a clatter to the ground.

"Tastavi can go. He can be your warrior."

Tastavi looked quickly back and forth between Jal and Ul'Ilindith.

Ul'Ilindith's smile became a sneer.

A muffled screaming came from somewhere behind the throne and an aging kobold, bound and gagged, naked and bleeding, was brought before it. The zombie drooled at her and strained at its magical restraints.

"No. You shall fight, my little iblith." She held out her hand before her with an open palm. In it lay a small scrap of white velvet. Slowly fire rose from her fingers and ignited it.

Immediately Jal was wracked with pain as if his face was being torn off. He screamed, a primal roar, a dragon's roar. Guards around the room stiffened. Tastavi's eyes grew wide.

Ul'Ilindith turned her hand over into a fist and crushed the ashes.

The polymorph spell of the mask was ended. Jal knelt on the ground. He breathed heavily and shivered. His clothes were tatters. He held the thin mask in his hands–his clawed hands. He looked up, his white hair falling over his yellow eyes.

Tastavi looked upon him with a mixture of disgust, betrayal, and fear.

Jal shook his head, dropped the mask, and held his hands up defensively, waving away the accusation in Tastavi's eyes.

"Kill him." Ul'Ilindith commanded Tastavi.

Tastavi drew his swords.

23 The Will of Lolth

Though years had passed since their first fight, Jal found the whole scene familiar. Tastavi would stalk forward blades drawn and execute a perfect series of textbook thrusts and faints. He'd win. He usually did, but this time he wouldn't stop. This was no practice spar; this was life and death.

Jal snatched up his weapon belt, pulling his blades from it–a rapier and a dagger–kicked it into Tastavi's face, and retreated. But Tastavi responded by slashing down in a brutal 'X' with his scimitars, cutting the tossed belt and bag into four even pieces. Jal tried to reason with him, but couldn't get out more than a word against the determination in Tastavi's eyes, and speed of his routine.

Tastavi came on in full. Emotions flooded his mind, betrayal was nothing new or exotic to a drow, but this was something more than that. Jal was a half-breed, a disgrace. He would put an end to this traitor, this ibluth masquerading as a D'Maelnor. Only a true D'Maelnor could lead an army of drow to bring justice to the surface world. Not this abomination. Tastavi thought back to every fight against the traitor, to the times he had beaten him. His training had always won out in the end. He couldn't help but think of the good times as well. But he violently rejected them. Lies, they were all lies.

Tastavi lunged forward, his whole body extending, uncoiling like a viper. Jal managed a half-hearted parry, sending Tastavi's thrust out wide, but lost space, as Tastavi dropped his blade below, tapped the tip of Jal's rapier harmlessly upwards with the strong of his blade and re-engaged. Jal managed to parry the first few blows of every line, but barely held on as the sequences progressed. He was never as good as Tastavi at feeling the parries and teaching his arms to remember them. Jal relied on the space afforded by his greater height, backing away, disengaging, dodging, and doing anything to break Tastavi's muscle memory. Several times he tried to flee, but whenever he came close to the guards, their crossbows forced him back into the fight against his friend.

Jal looked into Tastavi's eyes, but saw nothing but pain there. Deep welling emotion. Not regret, but pure righteous hatred. The look festered like a wound on his conscience. He felt the bile welling in his throat, preparing to send forth a blast of acid to burn away that look. But he choked it back and continued to parry.

There had to be another way.

Jal felt strong. Free from the polymorph, he was able to stand to his full height, the chamber, the columns, even the other drow all seemed so much smaller now. The passing thought gave him an idea. But he had to act quickly.

Jal flexed his thick legs, turned, back to the enemy, and rushed headlong into a pair of guards. He felt the wind of Tastavi's blade barely miss impaling him. The guards paled at the sight of a large black half-dragon barreling at them, and dodged behind a pillar, firing crossbow bolts at him as they fell. But they were poorly aimed and glanced off of his hard black scales. He followed them around the pillar, screaming. Then silence filled the chamber.

Tastavi soon followed, breathing heavily from his furious assault, but found nothing around the pillar but the pair of guards unconscious on the ground. He darted around the other side of the pillar to find nothing there either. He looked around behind him in frustration and caught a glance at another guard from the other side of the room staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. He turned to the pillar and found deep scratches on the intricately carved relief. His eyes followed them up, to find Jal climbing, tearing chunks of the porous stone free with his claws to use as handholds.

Ul'Ilindith held out a hand to keep the archers at bay, amused by the tactic.

Tastavi put away his swords and carefully followed him up.

The chamber's ceiling was crisscrossed with the webs of thousands of spiders. Moths and flies, bats and even larger specimens struggled in freshly wrapped cocoons or lay very still. Drow-made archways that provided places for the webs to attach jut from odd angles. Crisscrossing struts connected them in intricate patterns. Jal leaped from the top of the pillar to one of these, sending its occupants scurrying away.

He moved from strut to strut, displacing as few spiders as possible–it was bad luck after all–running where he could, climbing where he could not, and constantly dodging the think and sticky strands. He reached the end of one strut and turned to see Tastavi racing after him, swords drawn, hacking at whatever strands got too close. Jal looked around and dove into the thickest part of the webbing, directly over the throne.

In the confined space it would be much more difficult to dodge, and impossible to run, but Jal took comfort in knowing that if he could find the right spot, it would also be impossible to lunge. His greater range combined with the sticky walls could then keep any advance at bay. He found a large strut, disconnected from the one he was on, probably two feet think, and curving from the ceiling like a hook. Tastavi was nearly on him. This would have to do.

He took a deep breath, coiled like a spring and jumped. He tossed his rapier into the air, spun around, back parallel to the ground, and threw his dagger out behind him. He continued his rotation and found the strut at the same time the rapier bounced against it. The blade followed the curve upwards and then fell off to the side. Jal reached out with his legs and caught it with his foot.

Tastavi turned the corner quickly, moving to follow him, but had stop to knock aside the dagger inches from his face. He glared across the gap.

Jal pulled himself up with a deep groan and the heavy rumbling breaths of a dragon. More than forty feet below him from the throne chamber, Ul'Ilindith smiled wickedly.

Jal watched as Tastavi's furious glare turned into a look of panic.

Several web strands twinged near Jal's head and a slight clicking sound came from somewhere disturbingly close by.

"It's a spider isn't it?"

Tastavi's silence was telling.

"It's right behind me isn't it?…"

"…"

"Right."

Jal dropped to the strut just in time for the spider's jowls to snap shut where he stood. He turned and sliced out with his rapier, tearing away a thick strand of webbing. He wrapped it around his leg, then jerked left and right, barely dodged the spider's next two rapid attempts to capture him. He kicked out against it, not to hurt it, but to use it as a springboard. He jumped back across the gap, sword leading his way.

Tastavi saw the move coming and instead of falling back, he leaped from the ledge as well in order to push Jal back into the line of attack from the giant spider. They collided in midair and struggled over a tiny ledge before both losing their footing and plummeting towards the ground.

A sickening crunch echoed in the chamber.

Tastavi groaned upon the ground. Jal hung from the thick strand of webbing just above him. They had fallen towards the center of the room, nearby the spot where the fight had begun, before the throne.

Tastavi opened his blurry eyes to find Jal standing over him, or rather, hanging over him, rapier at his throat.

"Very good, Jal. Now end it!" Ul'Ilindith cheered.

Tastadraa looked at her with disbelief.

Jal lifted his rapier, pressing it deep, drawing blood. Tastavi pulled away, but winced at his multiple broken bones, some of which protruded grotesquely and spouted little fountains of blood. He closed his eyes, ready to accept his defeat if that was the will of the Spider Queen.

But instead, Jal shifted his weight to swing himself towards the throne, brought his sword around, cutting the line holding him aloft, and flipped over towards the dais. He landed with a roll, dodging the lazy lunge of the zombie guarding the throne and sprang forward with the grace of a cat and the speed of a scorpion.

A deep thunk and sudden rushing of air shattered the sudden silence. Jal's rapier dug deeply into Ul'Ilindith's chest and blood spurted from the wound. A second later, two dozen crossbow bolts hit Jal in the chest and paralysis seeped into his muscles from each tiny pinprick.

Ul'Ilindith's voice came through ragged slurping breaths, a spell of some kind, and Jal found himself sprawling backwards, teeth chattering and sword shattered into shrapnel in his hands. He landed roughly upon the dais steps a few feet from the broken Tastavi who looked at him aghast.

Ul'Ilindith's eyes changed to a deep black, and raven flames engulfed her. She chanted with otherworldly power. Her wound closed. She began to levitate and ripped off her stained clothes with revulsion.

"Once again you disappoint me my son. Watch what is borne of your failings!"

Ul'Ilindith turned ruefully towards the bound kobold and sent forth waves of necrotic energy that quickly tore her apart. Jal tried to scream, but his mouth refused to open and his voice left him silent in his agony.

Ul'Ilindith was not finished though.

"I'll show you the cost of your weakness! Watch as I cut it out."

Instead of turning her wrath on Jal, she turned on Tastavi, pointing a rueful finger and chanting. Soon lightning arced between her fingers, gathering for discharge.

"Noo!!" Tastadraa screamed, breaking ranks and standing between his son and his sister. He held aloft a glowing shield emblazoned with the lightning symbol of the surface god Talos, and in his other hand a broadsword wreathed in black flames.

"I shall not allow this!" He called to her.

"This is not yours to decide, Elderboy." she spat back.

Ul'Ilindith let fly her spell, and lightning shot from her finger to the waiting Tastadraa. Electricity sparked and crackled as the shield focused and contained it. What little hair remained on Tastadraa's balding head stood straight but his look of determination and concentration disrupted whatever mirth could be garnered from the sight. He brought around his sword and rapped it against the crackling shield and then with a wave of his arm, released the energy at the ground beside him. Lightning arced into the stone and it exploded with a deafening blast.

Tastadraa stalked slowly forward towards Ul'Ilindith.

"I'm sorry, Sister, but this is not how the D'Maelnor line shall end–with an abomination."

Guards swarmed from beside the throne and drew swords–drow that Tastadraa had taught. But he had not taught them everything. Two moved forward to engage him. Their heads fell to the floor and corpses turned to ash beneath his wicked blade.

The rest of the guards looked to the powerful siblings and decided to refrain from allowing their duty decide their deaths.

Ul'Ilindith sneered. She began to chant again, her eyes rolling up into her head. The air grew dense inside the throne room, thick and stifling, beads of sweat began to form and run down Ul'Ilindith's naked body.

Tastadraa stalked forward with the shield of Talos held high.

Beside the throne, the twisted and battered form of Jal's adopted mother began to twitch.

She finished her incantation, but waited to unleash the spell to gloat, "Lets see your blasphemous surface god save you from this one."

Her hand jerked spasmodically and green bile erupted from the air around it in a stream and blasted Tastadraa to the ground. Contagion spread across his body wherever the stuff touched and ate away his skin. At the same time the kobold skeleton began to slowly shift into place, ligaments forming, muscle growing upon the shifting bones.

But Tastadraa was not finished, he pushed with his rotting limbs and triggered the levitation on his amulet. He rose, blade poised to end the conflict with a single vorpal strike. Then his body fell limp and he hung awkwardly in the air, his head crushed from behind by the maw of a giant spider.

Tastavi cried out in anguish.

Paralyzed by more than just the drow poison, Jal watched the scene progress in horror. Tastadraa was nothing more than a decaying pile of flesh, Tastavi lay broken by his fall, his adopted mother under the throes of some insidious magic.

Only Ul'Ilindith seemed unharmed, floating above them all cherishing the moment.

The ground began to shake.

"Fool, don't you see? A traitor and his son are revealed and Lolth has shown me favor! The dead rise. Even Toril trembles! This is the will of Lolth!"

She continued, addressing the guards, "Now. Do as I commanded."

A crossbow bolt zipped past Jal's frozen face. The whole world seemed to stop. But the bolt was not indented for him. Beside him, Tastavi's scream became a gurgle as the crossbow bolt in his throat quickly drained him of both the air and the blood needed to circulate it.

Jal retched involuntarily, and could taste the poison on his lips.

The shaking intensified in the chamber. A column came down in dozens of jagged pieces. Guards ran about, dodging falling debris and spiders.

Tastavi breathed his last, slumping against the broken stone.

Ul'Ilindith, levitating, but stationary in the air was pelted with rock fragments and quickly began her descent.

Jal's anger flared within him, but fear helped him keep his head and push away the worst effects of the poison. What was going on?

Ul'Ilindith reached the ground and began to hurry towards Jal, still paralyzed upon the dais steps, but a curious laugh stopped her.

"Hahaha, 'da will a Lolth you say?" The scratchy voice became clearer by the second. Ul'Ilindith turned to the living kobold slowly standing up where her corpse should have rested. Her scales grew back in patches, and she peered at the Matron Mother with one regenerated eye.

"No my dear, this…" she gestured to the chaos around her.

"…is the will of Tiamat."

The ceiling collapsed.

24 Doom

Often a dragon's roar precedes its breath, but Ik'lithslaelith was too cautious and too clever for that. When he roared over the shattered second house of Llolethane-Mael'na'rath, it was a roar of victory. He watched the wreckage from the shadows for a time, but his instructions had been clear: leave nothing behind–and then leave. He disappeared into the forgotten tunnel and was gone.

25 Destruction

The palace fell.

A lone drowess rose from the ashes at the edge of the desolation. The acid dripped from her hands, from her hair, and fell sizzling to the ground leaving her unharmed. Lady Lolth had long ago given her a defense against such poison, when she carried it in her womb.

Ul'Ilindith stood alone in the rubble and followed the only other pair of footprints leaving the shattered homestead: her son's.

Jal limped through the wreckage, dragging Tastavi's body behind him. It had to be around here somewhere. He hefted a door-sized piece of slate from a shimmering object sticking out from underneath it. A drained and blistered hand held fast to a broken sword, but what attracted Jal's eye was a thin piece of white velvet. Jal took the mask and dropped the slate back into place, reverently.

He turned to the body and rasped, "It doesn't look like either of us will be leading any armies today. Please forgive me." He placed the velvet mask on Tastavi's face and began the attunement ritual. He left the cavern once again fully drow, wearing the face of his friend, and carrying his inheritance, a silver shield of a strange surface god, upon his back.

26 Dreams

Three Years Later…

Jal lay on his back on a roof overlooking a bustling marketplace and stared dreamily at the cavern ceiling. It had been years since his flight from the shattered D'Maelnor estate, and he had managed to find some semblance of normalcy in Llolethane, the central cavern of the drow city of Llolethane-Mael'na'rath. He rested his head on his shield, now mostly painted black to blend in with the shadows, and wondered what life would be like without a thousand tons of rock above your head. He wondered what it would be like to fly.

Below him he heard the telltale laughter of the fat merchant leader he had followed to this inn. He picked up his bow and his shield and stalked to the edge of the roof above a window. He carefully dipped the inner edge of the shield below the overhang and watched the party descending the staircase in the cool golden reflection. Then he pulled it back up, turned with his back to the alleyway, and counted dramatically, with a familiar half-smile.

Three.

Two.

One.

Then he flipped from the roof, dropping below the lip and firing an arrow through the window. He landed on the cavern floor with a roll and disappeared into the shadows–just another renegade drow in a city of renegades. He did not stay to confirm his success or failure, but fled to where he could most easily disappear: the bustling marketplace.

He strolled easily through the crowded streets. Though his appearance was quite a bit more handsome than that he had grown up with, he could still blend in with a crowd if he so desired. But then again, where was the fun in that? He was dressed in fine silks and jewels, not rags. And with a small lump beneath his throat, unquestionably covering a house insignia, he was obviously a noble and was given a wide birth by the lesser folk. He casually examined the merchandise of a few carts, but exuded little outward care for the whole venture, particularly when several guards burst from the inn and sent rogues into back alleys to seek an assassin.

He eventually made his way into this same inn, and dodging guards carting some new lordling's inherited possessions from an upper room, was addressed cordially by a concierge, "Ah, welcome back Sir! It appears that you are in luck, a room has just opened up for you."

Jal smiled to himself and turned to dismiss the man with a "Thank You."

He never finished that thought.

The man was dead.

He stood, smiling pleasantly in demure house leathers with half of his face melted off to the bone, dripping tar-like blood upon his fine padded vest. A spider crawled out from where his ear should have been and snickered at him.

Jal backed away slowly aghast, but everyone else went stoically about their business, unperturbed. The room grew dark and Jal turned to the window. A thick spiderweb had covered it with a hand-sized spider hurriedly wrapping a struggling shape. A tiny dragon's wing jut from the bundle.

Jal ran.

He sprinted from the inn and disregarding caution, fled through the black alleys and twisted honeycomb and spiderweb streets. It was like the passages were built to be confounding, and yet somehow mercilessly efficient. In a matter of moments he was back amid the ruins of the old city, broken homes and discarded people. Screams from behind him followed, the sounds of the guards seeking an assassin. But much worse, the sounds of shattering stone and a deafening roar echoed through the cavern. Jal scurried through the final alleyway and dove into his hideout in an abandoned sewer tunnel. He dropped his rich clothes in the muck and crawled away on hands and knees.

He remembered the frantic cries of his mother being torn apart and then her defiant laugh as the walls fell. Her last words echoed through his mind, "the will of Tiamat!" Another vicious roar sent ripples through the water and shivers through the very stone. He heard the clicking of spiders in the distance, drawing nearer. Closing in.

He was being hunted. Franticly he drew the shield from his back and over his head and grasped a small dagger in his hand. He was once again a child, in loose-fitting kobold rags and with weapons he could barely use. He huddled terrified in a dark corner. He closed his eyes and begged whatever gods could hear him to escape.

A faint hiss cut through the clamor. Not a god, but a tiny snake, the size of a little worm, crawled from the loose stones and looked up at Jal, flicking its tongue inquisitively. The hiss grew louder, drowning out the skittering of the approaching swarm and rumble of the searching dragon. The serpent grew, coiling and stretching, always watching. Jal found that he was no longer afraid, but curious. The serpent grew to immense proportions filling the tiny sewer tunnel, which became a great cavern, yet it still barely contained the powerful creature.

Dendar, the Night Serpent, the Eater of the World, loomed over the boy. She laughed with the might of thunder and the promise of disaster. Jal found he could not move.

"Jal'Bror'Noloth, your dreamss are deliciouss."

Her huge tongue flicked in and out of her mouth, creating wind eddies that buffeted Jal against the stone. Greasy spittle and half-devoured bones–remnants of nightmares long forgotten–dripped from her cavernous maw. Jal could not speak, not even think, as the stench of nightmare overwhelmed him.

"Your nightmare though… tastess unique. Because it is true. And closer than you think. Evil godss have planss for you it seemss." The serpent hissed.

Jal shuddered.

Dendar laughed–a terrible rasping hiss.

"And yet… perhapss their planss are merely dreamss. Join me, little drow-gon and while the godss fret for your fate, we shall feassst!"

Suddenly the world returned and Jal awoke from his reverie. What a dream! What a nightmare! The details faded, chewed away from his mind, but the image of the serpent and her strange offer lingered.

The quiet dripping of sewer water and occasional scurrying of rodent or insect were the only sounds to be heard besides the dull pounding of his heart.

He sat in the muck for hours.

They were never far behind. Staying in one place for too long was dangerous, but something held Jal in place. Could he actually escape it all?

Soon a distant splash alerted him to company. Heavy footsteps, confident and strong, echoed through the tunnel. Throngs of rodents scurried away from the sound, fleeing in terror they trampled on one another. A light breeze blew through the stinking place from the opposite end of the tunnel and the insects stopped their chattering, frozen and reverent. Jal couldn't think. They'd found him. They'd both found him. It was too late.

A lightning bolt streaked through the tunnel past him and a barbaric roar answered it.

The wind began to howl through the tunnel like a cyclone and the sounds of crumbling rock assailed him from both sides.

Jal grimaced and hesitated. But as the twin forms came into view, he shouted into the clamor, "ENOUGH! Dendar! We are bound, now free me from this place!"

Wissse Choissce…

Instantly a portal opened before him like a tear in reality and brilliant light beamed through. Jal rushed into it and was transported many miles away in an instant. A startled yell and the renewed sounds of battle followed him through, but then there was nothing but silence, the gentle breeze, and the burning light of the midday sun.

27 The Surface

The blinding light of the Shaar's Summer Sun left Jal helpless.

He lay upon the ground thinking it maybe better he have died quickly in the tunnels or upon his own blade. But such musings held no real power, and with the setting of the Sun, and the rising of the lesser evils of the moon and of the stars, he wept freely. For though he was bound–and nightmares would indeed become routine while in service to their master–for the first time in his life, he was free.

28 Credits

[Thank you for Reading! I'm Andrew Murrell, an aspiring D&D author and dedicated DM. Check out my blog at http://AndrewDM.me/ [WIP] for updates or if you'd like to see more stuff like this!]

Waterdeep Bazaar: Marketplace Generator

2015-12-14T00:00:00+00:00

365 Tomorrows: A Simple Lament

2013-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

AndrewDM

An Introduction to Apocrypha

The Gournal of Geographic Affairs: The Sun-Touched Mountain

ChangeLog

ChangeLog

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

2017-12-23 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

2017-01-24 AndrewMurrell <ImFromNASA@gmail.com>

2017-01-14 Andrew Murrell <merl@neo.andrewdm.me>

2017-01-14 Andrew Murrell <merl@neo.andrewdm.me>

2017-01-04 Luke Shumaker <lukeshu@lukeshu.com>

31 August 2016

30 August 2016

Epigraph

Tastavi D'Maelnor of Llolethane

Tastavi D'Maelnor of Llolethane

Table of Contents

1 Ik'lithslaelith

2 The Drowess

3 The Tunnel

4 High Priestess Destiny

5 Soup for Dinner

6 Hunger and Possibilities

7 [CENSORED]

8 Visions

9 Visitations

10 Voices

11 jal'Bror-noloth

12 The Hold

13 The Pits

14 The Return

15 Tastavi

16 Trials

17 Transformations

18 Training

19 The Leader

20 The Contest

21 The Cell

22 Motherly Love

23 The Will of Lolth

24 Doom

25 Destruction

26 Dreams

27 The Surface

28 Credits

Waterdeep Bazaar: Marketplace Generator

365 Tomorrows: A Simple Lament