Out of the Abyss, Session 1.2

When we last left our heroes, they were still captives of the drow, but through some astounding luck had managed to steal back some of their gear and were in the midst of planning an escape attempt.

The Cast

Zern- a duergar cleric of Asmodeus, on a crusade to prove his Lord is the true god of the duergar; he was the first to be captured (24 days ago) and knows almost everything about the camp.
Nosey- a half-elf paladin of Ao, whom she discovered while living as a hermit; she has an obsession with shiny objects, has found a pet spider, and has no respect for other faiths (for some reason).
Kian- a mild-mannered green dragon-born barbarian; he has been concerned for the fate of his pet mouse ever since his capture.
Frec- a halfling monk and man of few words; no one is yet sure what Frec is capable of, but he is generally friendly and surprisingly competent.
Angel- a drow, possibly cleric of Vhaeraun; no one knows why he was captured but he seems surprisingly charismatic.

Gonna Be a Fight Tonght!

The shrine to Lolth was dark and filled with the saccharine perfume of a hundred scented candles.

But it did little to cover up the wicked stench that permeated this place. The stench of evil… of death. Far too much innocent blood had been spilled across the Spider Queen’s altar—that much was certain!

“Last chance,” Mistress Ilvara’s sultry contralto hissed in the darkness. “Repent, and you may yet be spared.”

On the floor before her was a slender half-elven woman. She had sun-kissed skin, now covered in an array of bleeding whiplashes, and long red hair that had become a pooling mess on the floor. Her dirty prisoners’ robes had been discarded, and she was now shivering, stark naked, in the cold air. A crowd had long since gathered around the pair: some worshippers, some guards who had flocked to the commotion. No one wanted to miss a show like this! The onlookers watched with fascination, eyes flickering from Nosey’s wounds, to Ilvara’s Tentacle Rod, and back again.

Jorlan, one of the elite guardsmen, was standing at the head of the throng. His imposing stature—considerable, for a ‘mere male’—enough to bar any who might interfere. A pair of captives—one drow, one dragonborn—hovered just behind his living wall, eyeing their cage-mate with baited breaths. These two had been witness to the gruesome show since the beginning—ever since Ilvara’s shriek of rage had echoed across camp. Kian watched nervously, biting at his clawed fingers. It was hard to tell with a dragonborn, but it looked as though a line of worry creased his brow. Under his breath, the man murmured a quiet prayer to the ‘Lord of Endurance’, whatever obscure deity that may be. What was going through the brute’s mind was anyone’s guess. But he certainly looked less than menacing at the moment…

Meanwhile, the elf at Kian’s side surveyed the scene with a stony face and a stiff countenance. Angel did… sympathize with this ‘Nosey’s plight (much though it pained him to admit it). He’d nearly challenged Ilvara himself, after all. He would have challenged her, had Kian not stopped him! In another life, he could well have been the one being whipped in Ilvara’s arena… The thought stirred something in the young drow’s soul—something uncomfortable and foreign. Pity? Surely not. That sort of nonsense was for these soft-hearted surface-folk—the ones fortunate enough to have walked in the Night Above. It had no place here in the Underdark…

And thus, in their respective silences, Angel and Kian had watched—watched as their fellow prisoner was whipped until her back was bloodied. They were hardly the only captives in the audience now. As the dramatics had continued, more guards had appeared with other slaves in tow. Sarith, Derendil, and Buppido had been here already; likewise Ront and Stool had followed their work-mates. Frec, Zern, and the Svirfneblin twins had arrived later, and had settled somewhere by the door. Like their companions, the other captives had settled into an uneasy silence, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves.

That had been several lashes ago. 

And the hits just kept coming.

Nosey, however, had not weakened. In fact, the half-elf seemed to grow stronger with each cracking of Ilvara’s Rod. Every time she was  struck down, she got right back up again—steadfast and defiant! No number of blows made any difference. Her will could not be broken. And Nosey seemed to realize that, for she spoke in a quiet voice words that made Ilvara’s hair curl: “You cannot break me,” the paladin hissed as she stood once more on her unsteady legs. “No heretic can defeat me!” she cried, “And I will not be ashamed!”

Then the girl pushed to her feet, her enormous bosom bouncing in time. Whistles and cat-calls erupted from the male-dominated audience as the stark-naked half-elf whirled back to face her captor. Pathetic. Angel could think of several insulting comments to scream at the classless masses. And normally, he would be screaming! At the movement, however… The drow boy felt his skin flush a deeper black. Sheepishly, he averted his gaze—though whether out of respect for Nosey or… something else entirely… he wasn’t completely certain. At the moment, he couldn’t get the words past the tightening in his chest. Privately, Angel envied the dragonborn beside him, who looked as unshaken as did Nosey herself. It was infuriating!

But whatever strange spell had overtaken Angel, it was swiftly broken as Ilvara let out another shriek. Nosey, apparently unaware of her ‘admirers’ had balled her hands into fists and launched herself at her tormentor. And, by the sounds of it, Loth’s High Priestess was not at all pleased.

…

“Amused, are you?” Ilvara’s voice boomed over the crowd as they whistled and laughed.

Nosey wasn’t really sure what had amused everyone so much—nor why it seemed to bother the ‘priestess’. “Think she’s pretty? This filthy Darthiir!” Ilvara screamed again, brandishing her Tentacle Rod at the surrounding spectators. Most of the cheering men fell back immediately in fear, as if they knew something about that whip that Nosey didn’t. However, one Hunter at Ilvara’s side didn’t seem to get the memo. He gave a particularly loud whistle, and Ilvara flared with rage. She suddenly produced a rusty knife from within her robes, and rounded on the man. “To the Demonweb Pits with you!” she shrieked, and slashed open the drow’s throat with a single stroke of her blade. Blood exploded like a fountain from the wound, and the offender’s cat call died in a pathetic sputter. As he fell, twitching at Ilvara’s feet, the so-called cleric threw her head back in a burst of cruel laughter. “Fool,” she hissed, “Thus is the fate of those who dare show favour to these iblithen!” 

Across the way, Nosey could have sworn she saw Jorlan flinch. If that was the case, however, Ilvara didn’t seem to notice. The woman spent a moment enjoying the sight of her most recent victim, writhing and gagging in his death throes. Then, when he’d stopped moving, she kicked his corpse back into the crowd and whirled to face her opponent. Still fingering her bloodied knife, the ‘priestess’ leapt forward and grabbed Nosey by her long, flowing hair. “Now, tell me,” Ilvara hissed, as her captive punched ineffectively at her armour, “Which of these prisoners do you love most, hmm? Which one’s your dearest friend? They may yet have a chance to save you…”

At first Nosey didn’t answer. She continued to flail and punch and kick her way free. Unfortunately, it seemed Ilvara was tougher than she looked. Damn. But perhaps the paladin should have expected that. Big brother had warned her about the so-called ‘clerics’ of Lolth. The Demon Lord expected her daughters to be able to break a grown man’s sternum! And Nosey, meanwhile, had been worked and starved in this camp for some two weeks now. Despite her pride… she knew there was no way she could escape. And that left only one option: the truth. “I don’t have any friends…” the half-elf muttered at last, hiding her face behind her ginger fringe. “Not here, not anywhere. I’ve never… had a friend in my life…”

Hearing this, the ‘priestess’ growled in frustration. She gave the naked paladin a rough toss that sent her sailing across the arena. She landed roughly at Jorlan’s feet, and watched as her fellow prisoners scurried about behind the guard’s back: Angel and Kian by the looks of it. The pair both stirred, Nosey noted, at the sight of her. She might even say they looked momentarily conflicted about her predicament. But of course, neither man moved in her defence—not with Ilvara and Jorlan watching. Privately, Nosey wondered if they would even save her in more favourable circumstances…

Then Ilvara spoke again, addressing the crowd. With a flourish, she threw her hands in the air and demanded a combatant. There would be a fight tonight: that was to be sure! And if no slave volunteered, then she would pick an opponent herself from their midst. At first, no one moved; no one breathed. Ilvara’s eyes glossed over all of the assembled slaves, growing narrower and narrower as each one avoided her gaze. No one was going to volunteer, that much was certain—though whether out of fear of losing, or out of compassion for Nosey… no one could say. Not even Nosey herself; somehow, she doubted it was the latter… An uncomfortable hush settled over the onlookers, in any case. In the back row, the voice of a deep gnome rang out: “5 gold on the half-elf! Any takers? Anyone?”

Ilvara’s right eye twitched at the sound, reflecting her growing annoyance. Then the ‘priestess’ herself broke the silence. “Fine.” she spat, “Cowards, the lot of you! …Or weak-hearted fools!” Frustrated, she put away her Tentacle Rod, and strode back across the arena again. When she reached the other side, Ilvara kicked a nearby male in the shins, making him double over in pain. She then shoved the man roughly towards the altar, and fashioned him into a sort of chair for herself. Settled upon her living throne, the noblewoman turned back to her audience, eyes narrow and gleeful.

“Sarith!” she screamed, and the drow captive immediately froze where he stood. Ilvara gave herself a single moment to relish in the man’s obvious fear; then she nodded to her nearby elite warrior, who grabbed Sarith and threw him into the ring. “Redeem yourself!” Ilvara shouted. Then she hurled her dagger to the ground, where it stuck in the floor like the magic Sword in the Stone. In the dim light of the faerie fire, two pairs of eyes reflected in the rusty surface—green on one side, red on the other. For a brief second in time, both appeared blank, dumbfounded. But only for a second: then the warmer pair flashed with realization. 

The fight was on!

…

Out in the audience, the remaining refugees watched in horror.

Behind the cover of Jorlan, Angel felt his heart give an uncomfortable throb at the sight of Ilvara’s rusty blade. He knew precisely what was going on here. Ilvara didn’t intend both slaves to survive this squabble: this was a fight to the death. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to have dawned on the damned half-elf! At least, not yet. Nosey was just sitting there on the ground, looking very much like a fish out of water. And she would probably continue to do so right up until Sarith drove Ilvara’s dagger between those perfect breasts of hers! (Not that he’d noticed…) Dammit. At the thought of the girl’s impending demise, the tightness in Angel’s chest returned with a vengeance. That half-elf had shown… promise. He’d hate to see her slaughtered so meaninglessly here, before Lolth’s grinning fucking face. He’d hate to give the Spider Cunt such satisfaction! At least… that was the reason Angel was clinging to…

Making the matter more complicated, the drow had a spell in his arsenal that could turn the tide of this battle. It was a touch spell but, at the moment, that stupefied half-elf might just be in reach… Of course, if he was caught, it would mean Ilvara’s wrath—as well as revealing the truth his magical powers. No one would mistake him for a cleric anymore—not if they saw him casting Mage Armour! And he barely knew Nosey! True, she might make a valuable ally in their upcoming escape, but…

 He had no idea why he was considering risking his skin for her!

(Certainly it had nothing to do with her startling beauty…)

Before he could make his decision, however, Angel was startled by a sharp jab to the ribs. Looking up, he met the beady gaze of Kian, who sombrely shook his head at the shorter man. Privately, Angel understood: it wasn’t worth it. The other prisoners couldn’t intervene in this fight, much though they might want to. It was the same discussion they’d had outside the shrine, when Angel had nearly tackled Ilvara. If they wanted a chance at escape, they had to act like good little slaves… for now.

Besides, regardless of who came out of this fight victor… there was another opportunity here—one that might just be worth the risk of life and limb.

His comrade now calmer, Kian took a quick survey of the surrounding guards. Fortunately, they were completely distracted by the goings-on of the arena. With a subtle nod of his head, he indicated the fallen corpse of Ilvara’s earlier victim—the one who had been carelessly discarded, still in possession of all his gear. At first, the startled drow regarded the taller man with confusion. Then realization slowly dawned, and he nodded his head in solemn understanding. They couldn’t save Nosey, but they might be able to help the rest of the team (or at least gain some advantage for themselves). If they could sneak over there without getting caught, they could loot the Hunter’s body. It was a risky move, and terribly grim… but it could be their only opportunity to gain weapons and other crucial supplies.

Stealth. Stealth was the name of the game here. And, as a proud Nightshadow, there was no way Angel could back down from such a challenge. Thus, drow and dragonborn took one more glance at the cheering guards around them. Then, content that no one was watching, both men expertly ducked beneath the crowd. Somewhere at their rear, the screaming intensified, and the two were certain the fight had begun. But they couldn’t worry about Nosey now. If she was half the fighter she claimed to be, then the paladin should be just fine with or without them. And, towards the far wall, there was a bleeding corpse that lay, forgotten…

…

Meanwhile, inside the ring, Sarith had figured out what was going on as well.

While Nosey continued to blink in confusion, he made a lunge for the knife—and the crowd roared in appreciation. Some cheered for bloodshed; others urged their disgraced kinsman onward. A few warriors still rooted for Nosey, though Ilvara’s gruesome display seemed to have reduced their cat calls. The half-elf didn’t seem to hear them, however. In fact, the half-elf wasn’t processing any of this! She was still sprawled on the ground at Jorlan’s feet, blinking in confusion at Ilvara’s blade.

Then, suddenly, a new voice erupted over the din of the audience: deep and booming. “Move, ya damn elf!” the voice shouted. “It’s kill or be killed!”

Then, all at once, Nosey snapped to action.

Hearing Zern’s cry, she suddenly regarded the rusty knife as if it was a lifeline. The paladin dove for it at once, but realized with disease that Sarith already had a split second head start. At first it seemed Nosey was doomed—after all, Sarith was an elf, and elves were noted for their dexterous nature. Fortunately, Nosey had trained for this—and all her years of snooping made her terribly fast! Pure-blood and half-blood collided in the centre of the makeshift arena, tanned skin punching at black as they squabbled over their only weapon. But fortunately for Nosey, while Sarith’s thick limbs spoke of years of physical fighting… they seemed strangely without strength. With little difficulty, the paladin wrenched the knife away from her opponent and stood poised to attack.

But Sarith wasn’t about to let a little drawback stop him. With practiced precision, he spun and delivered a swift kick to the half-elf’s torso. Nosey was forced to fall back for a moment, panting as the breath was knocked out of her. She quickly recovered, however, and glanced up at her counterpart, trying to decide the best means of attack. It was clear that Sarith was a seasoned fighter, so this wouldn’t be easy. But…

There seemed to be something seriously wrong with the proud drow Hunter…

No sooner had the thought crossed Nosey’s mind, than she raised her head to a confusing sight. Sarith had borne a face of fierce determination when he had struck her. That had been just a heartbeat ago. The drow’s appearance now, however, was like night and day.

Sarith was doubled over, a few feet away. He was breathing heavily, even from so little exertion. In fact, the man looked utterly exhausted. There was a strange, unfocused quality to his eyes, and a pained expression upon his face. His hands were trembling, and they clutched at his chest as if in terrible pain.

Nosey didn’t know what to make of the strange turn of events. But she was not going to waste the opportunity either! Kill or be killed—that was what Zern had said. There was no room for mercy in Velhynvelve… Monopolizing on her opponent’s distress, Nosey swiftly closed the gap between them. Sarith made no resistance as the paladin grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, and forced him upright. For a split second, red eyes met green. They locked for a single breath, in silent understanding. Then the green pair looked away.

She didn’t know much about elven anatomy, having met few purebloods before: her adoptive family. Needless to say, the question—‘how best might I murder you?’—had never come up. But Nosey didn’t need a complicated biology lesson. Not for what she was about to do. She just prayed that, despite their legendary coldness, the drow still hid a vulnerable heart within their blackened breasts.

She wouldn’t want this man to suffer…

With every bit of strength she could muster, Nosey drove her knife home. The blade slid between Sarith’s thin ribs as easy as butter. The warrior gave a wet-sounding cough as the hilt graced his chest; a spurt of warm liquid accompanied, and cascaded down Nosey’s arm. Her aim had clearly struck true. All the same, the paladin refused to look at her opponent. She didn’t want to see the light leave Sarith’s eyes. Didn’t want to see the red foam surely dancing upon his lips. Instead, she withdrew her blade and tossed the limp elf roughly to the ground. The spurt—blood of course—became an explosive fountain, coating the naked half-elf in a disturbingly sticky shower. It continued to pool upon the polished floor, splashing Ilvara’s feet. The man in its midst, however, did not get up again.

Nosey doubted he ever would.

On all sides, the crowd erupted with cheers and guffaws. The drow were apparently unconcerned whose blood was spilled—even one of their own. It left Nosey with a sick taste of bile in her mouth, but this time she would say nothing. She was done with her criticisms today. There was clearly no saving these people. They were savages. Ilvara in particular seemed to relish in the grisly killing, and laughed manically from atop her seat. The drow man beneath her, meanwhile, only shivered as he eyed the dead man upon the floor, as if hoping he might not be next.

There was one good thing about the drow’s sickening brutality, however: it meant they were highly inattentive. While the group throbbed in ecstasy over the dramatic slaying, they seemed to have forgotten about Nosey entirely. In fact, they seemed to have forgotten about the fight entirely. Though stunned, Nosey still had the presence of mind to take advantage of the situation. With a  numb hand, she slipped Ilvara’s rusty knife into her long, tangled tresses. After all: what was there to lose? That man’s life was wasted now if she did not succeed in her escape. And her hair was already the colour of fire… who would notice a bit more red amidst the flames?

Eventually the Ilvara and her guards came down from their high. With a dismissive wave, the priestess ordered her subordinates to throw Sarith’s corpse to the giant spiders and mop up the stains upon the floor. Fortunately the prisoners were not forced to watch the feeding, and were soon shepherded back to their cage. As they marched, Nosey dully noted that Kian and Angel were particularly giddy about something—and she could only hope it wasn’t the recent murder. Given the day’s proceedings, there was nothing that would surprise her anymore…

 …

“You did that man a mercy, you know. He was dying anyway, and in a manner considerably more horrible.”

The tenor voice rang clear as a bell in Nosey’s ear, but the paladin feigned sudden deafness. She really didn’t want Angel’s sympathies. She didn’t want to hear from anyone at the moment… a drow least of all. And perhaps Angel realized this, for he said nothing more as he continued his examination. In fact, if anything, he was more careful. Long-fingered hands sifted nimbly through the paladin’s hair, scarcely making contact with the skin below. Still, each time she felt Angel’s breath against her neck, Nosey shivered. She couldn’t help it. But she bit down the urge to yell—to retaliate, to tell her cage-mate to leave her the hell alone!

It was of the utmost importance, after all: they had to be sure she wasn’t infected.  And this particular drow hadn’t technically done anything to earn her wrath… at least not yet

When they’d returned to their pen, the prisoners’ first order of business had been to re-activate their telepathic network (now including Angel) and immediately compare notes. Kian and Angel revealed (much to Nosey’s relief) that their mirth after the fight hadn’t been due to some depraved bloodlust—though they had faked it for the guards. Instead, they gleefully revealed they had looted the Hunter Ilvara had murdered—and had apparently stolen some useful gear. Kian had somehow nicked a hand crossbow and 20 bolts, and Angel had managed to braid a rapier into his long silvery hair. Nosey didn’t question their smuggling tactics beyond that. She didn’t want to know. She was too numb inside.

Following suit, Zern and Frec had revealed they had found the location of the team’s own gear—in the guard tower, as it turned out. They had likewise warned the party that it was all to be shipped out to Menzoberranzan tonight. If they wanted more of it back, they’d have to act fast! Based on Zern’s description, Angel had determined the glyph on the duergar’s crate was the High Drow glyph for ‘heretic’. With some dismay, he reflected that the crate was likely designated for himself and Sarith. If only he’d been there as well, the elf had lamented. There was one nigh-irreplaceable item he’d have liked to steal back…  

With a laugh and some considerable relish, Zern had then tossed his hidden half-mask at the drow’s face, to the tune of a rousing: “You don’t say, Mr Heretic?” This was, of course, the very item Angel had been brooding over. It was apparently his holy symbol—of some deity named Vhaeraun, whom Nosey surprisingly didn’t recognize. Angel had looked like he could have kissed Zern for rescuing it.

Briefly, Kian and Angel had reported their various findings after that. They had thoroughly investigated the waterfall on shift, and recommended it as a possible means of escape. This had been followed by a general murmur of agreement among the prisoners, though the select hold-outs had been obvious. Derendil, Bupoido, and Ront had all looked particularly displeased at the idea of simply leaping into a pool and running like cowards. If they had more particular complaints, however, the trio kept them to themselves… at least for the moment. After all, escape was still a tricky notion. Regardless of which route the refugees took, there was still the issue of getting out of the cage... and past the quaggoth guards.

The topic then had turned to Nosey’s fight, and the half-elf had found herself suddenly uninterested in listening. The others had all been quick to share their sides of the story, however, and managed to roughly piece it all together. Angel commended the paladin on her blasphemy of Lolth—and to Ilvara’s face, no less! Buppido and Derendil then conveyed her supposed bravery whilst the priestess stripped and flogged her. No one could say how Sarith would have felt… though the dead man had been there from the beginning as well. Everyone had seen the fight itself, naturally. Nosey felt no need at all to listen to that bit. She was already trying so hard to forget the day’s proceedings… But then she overheard someone asking the one question that piqued the paladin’s interest: why had Sarith fallen so easily?

To Nosey’s surprise, it was Angel who answered. He’d gotten a decent look at Sarith’s symptoms whilst the drow fought in the arena, and had found them disconcertingly familiar. He called Sarith’s illness ‘Zygmatory’s Plague’, and claimed the man had been infected with demonic spores that sometimes drifted into the Underdark from the Abyss below. These would have wracked the drow’s body and slowly infiltrated his brain. When the disease finally proved fatal, it produced a beast called a ‘Spore Servant’—a sort of infectious, fungal zombie that existed only to infect others. It was a particularly disconcerting diagnosis, for the spores would normally burst prematurely out of the victim’s head if they were informed of their condition. Or… if they were killed before the disease had run its course…

And thus they had gotten here.

Nosey had insisted she’d seen neither spores nor exploding heads when she had killed Sarith—and that was apparently worrisome to the denizens of the Underdark. According to Angel, any infestation would still be benign, and the spores were rendered inert within a few hours if they did not manage to invade a humanoid host. Therefore, it was of prime importance that Nosey be looked over. The team needed to ensure she hadn’t been infected without their notice. And, as the most equipped to identify the spores, Angel had been left with the task of combing through Nosey’s hair in search of them. It was a tedious process, and at the moment Nosey wanted none of it. She understood the urgency, however, and so gave her consent to the painstaking examination. Her paladin training wouldn’t allow her to surrender to petty impulses like fear or revulsion.

Of course… Nosey wasn’t sure if she felt either of those towards Angel in the first place. She barely knew the man, and she hated to make assumptions based on race—even an evil race! After all, the half-elf thought to herself: one of her beloved brothers was a drow… But she was still thankful, after several tense minutes, when Angel pronounced her “clear”. He stopped sifting through her long flaming locks, and looked apologetic—he even offered to help with the tedious task of re-braiding. This, however, Nosey adamantly refused. It may have been petty of her, but there was something about this particular drow that unnerved her, and she wanted him out of her business as soon as possible. Thus, with a shrug, Angel bowed out and swiftly joined Kian in relaying their camp survey. It was an important discussion, but Nosey just couldn’t bring herself to pay much attention. She couldn’t explain it.

Eventually, she was approached by the pair of deep gnome twins—Topy and Turvy—who likewise offered to help re-braid her hair. This time, the half-elf accepted the aid, and found herself surprisingly comforted by the contact of tiny hands. It was… nice. Nice in a way Nosey couldn’t quite remember feeling before. It was unlike the affection than the paladin had felt toward her brothers back home—or even the young apprentices. Even with all her linguistic expertise, the paladin loath to describe the sensation. But it was warm—warm in a way that touched her very soul. Perhaps the half-elf hadn’t realised just how lonely she had become in Velynvelve…

Ilvara’s words from earlier that day rang loudly in the paladin’s head suddenly:

“Which of these prisoners do you love most? Which is your dearest friend?”

Nosey hadn’t been lying earlier when she had told the ‘cleric’ she’d never had a friend. With the exception of her brothers, she had scarcely been close to anyone—had scarcely met anyone! But, right this moment, the half-elf decided that needed to change. In the future, she didn’t want to be saved by virtue of being lonely, as she had today. From here on, she would attempt to befriend her fellow prisoners—for better or for worse!

And she would start with these two.

Nosey would make absolutely sure that Topsy and Turvy escaped this camp. She would make certain they made it home, safe and sound! It would be her first step towards redemption… towards becoming…

Becoming… what? 

...

There was a lot of embellishment here, but in terms of gameplay, this fight actually happened and gave a a good chance for some character development/world building. The fight actually started because Angel had almost screamed at Ilvara IC, and had been stopped by Kian's player. Nosey's player had then made a snide comment at the table, and hadn't bothered to emphasize whether she was speaking IC or OOC. So naturally our DM decided to pounce on her. We were all super nervous OOC, of course. Having played LG paladins for most of her career, Angel's player was severely conflicted about helping Nosey out--wanting to OOC, unsure of a reason to do so IC with her CN alignment. Fortunately, the DM gave Sarith next to no HP and disadvantage due to his fatigued condition. So it didn't take too much for Nosey's player to take him down, once she realized the DM was serious. It made for a nice bit of foreshadowing, however, considering what transpired between those players/characters latter in the AP. 

Figuring out Sarith was mechanically just a luck of Angel's player rolling a natural 20 on the die, giving her a 32 on the Medicine check as the corpse was hauled away. But it was ultimately rather poetic. At the time it seemed strange to us that Nosey wasn't infected with spores when she'd killed Sarith, but we'd see why later. The smuggling efforts made by Angel and Kian were likewise the result of some very high rolls. The dice gods were apparently in my favour, because repeat natural 20's (34 Slight of Hand) are what enabled me to hide the rapier. Frec had made a similarly nice check, but considering his player dropped the campaign soon after, I didn't feel the need to give him any credit here. All in all, the party's luck continued, and I certainly won't complain about that!

Out of the Abyss, Session 1.1

The Story So Far...

When last we left our--er, 'heroes'?--they had finally assembled at last and were plotting their escape from the drow camp, Velkynelve. 

The Cast

Zern- a duergar cleric of Asmodeus, on a crusade to prove his Lord is the true god of the duergar; he was the first to be captured (24 days ago) and knows almost everything about the camp.

Nosey- a half-elf paladin of Ao, whom she discovered while living as a hermit; she has an obsession with shiny objects, has found a pet spider, and has no respect for other faiths (for some reason).

Kian- a mild-mannered green dragon-born barbarian; he has been concerned for the fate of his pet mouse ever since his capture.

Frec- a halfling monk and man of few words; no one is yet sure what Frec is capable of, but he is generally friendly and surprisingly competent.

Angel- a drow, possibly cleric of Vhaeraun; no one knows why he was captured but he seems surprisingly charismatic.

NPC Cast

Buppido- a derro who claims to be the incarnation of the god of murder

Derendil- a Quaggoth man who insists he is really a drow nobleman and this body is but an illusion.

Eldeth- a competent young dwarven woman, obsessed with escape.

Ront- an orc man who seems prone to violence.

Sarith- another drow man, more sullen than Angel; no one knows why he was captured, but he seems rather sickly.

Topsy and Turvy- a pair of deep gnome children; they have won Nosey’s affections somehow.

Stool- a myconid sprout that allows the party to talk telepathically for a certain amount of time via its spores.

Just a Poor Wayfaring Stranger

The lights of Velkynvelve were still shining in the darkness when Ilvara’s dramatic voice cut the silence of the sleepy camp. 

For the group of curious prisoners, it had been the highlight of their morning. The day had begun with the alarms and the Dancing Lights flashing all about the compound. Those had been followed by a series of modest explosions, and screams of a few of the drow guards who had gone to investigate. Velkyvelve had scarcely seen so much excitement since Zern, with his radiant magic, had been captured (according to Zern, it was a particularly glorious battle, though of course no one else had been there to comment).  Now, all twelve of the camp prisoners were stacked towards one end of the cage, eavesdropping on the goings-on below—even Sarith! By the sounds of it, a new hostage had been captured, though the group did not yet know his identity. From the sounds of the explosions, however, they could only assume it was another caster.

“You are now a captive of House Mizzrym,” Ilvara hissed to her new hostage, the same as she had all those who had come before. “Accept your fate. Learn to obey, and you may sur—” The cleric didn’t get much farther, however, before a tenor voice broke out, laughing over the rest of her monologue.

 “Mizzrym?!” the voice choked, sniggering madly. “The filthy family of tradesmen calling themselves ‘noble’? God, you’re pathetic!” 

The comment was shouted in High Drow, intelligible to the gaggle of prisoners only through the filter of Derendil’s mind. What followed was the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, and the giggling was momentarily cut off by a wet-sounding gurgle.

“What do you suppose is going on down there?” Nosey asked, inching uncomfortably close to Zern’s perch.

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s another drow,” the dwarf grunted without making eye contact. He neglected to mention what he had earlier perceived as signs from Asmodeus. Nosey, no doubt, would belittle his faith in the Lord of Devils—and besides, Zern was starting to doubt himself anyway. Why on earth would Asmodeus send him a drow? Maybe he had just been suffering from lack of sleep this morning… There had been so many new captives already. It’s not like one more could possibly make the difference in their escape…

“Well, if he can bad-mouth Ilvara, he’s all right in my book,” the half-elf commented, breaking Zern’s brooding. Then, without another word, she wandered back to her place in preparation for the incoming guards. Following suit, the rest of the crowd broke up once the shrieking below had stopped. By the time shuffling feet echoed up the breezeway, they were all the picture of model prisoners. As predicted, a pair of guards appeared a moment later. And there was indeed a sniggering drow held fast between them… however…

Ha! As if the drow would capture one of their own! And a nobleman, no less!

Suddenly, Zern’s private joke from the night before was coming back to haunt him. If Derendil was really a drow noble in disguise, he’d eat his own beard! But this one…

The man screamed high breeding in his every damned feature: skin black as obsidian, a long mane of snow-white hair, eyes red as blood glaring from beneath his fringe. He was annoyingly pretty, as noblemen were—and that bit was annoyingly obvious, in his present attire. Ilvara had apparently taken great care with this one, and had stripped the poor bloke down to his skivvies. (Zern wasn’t going to think about the implications there!) But, if the stranger was bothered by his near-nudity, it sure as hells didn’t show on his smirking face. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be perturbed when he was hurled head over heels into the slave pen.

“Heretic!” one of the guards spat with distaste. Then he slammed shut the door to the cage and vanished with his partner, swiftly as they had come.  

For a moment, everything was silent as the occupants of the cage all held their breath. The newcomer lay on the floor for a moment, coughing with the force of impact. Then he pulled himself into a sitting position, and tossed the hair from his eyes with unnecessary flourish. “Damn,” the drow murmured, wiping a spot of blood away from his split lip, “Bitch hits harder than I’d thought…” Then he got his first look around the room, and blinked in surprise at the sheer number of eyes regarding him. “Oh, are you lot also prisoners of that Mizzrym cunt?” he inquired, glancing at the dozen other refugees. No one replied, but the charismatic caster didn’t really seem to be expecting an answer. Smirking, he flashed his crimson eyes about the cage, and coyly whispered: “Wanna escape?”

The tension in the room burst like a bubble after that, and the refugees wasted no time interrogating their new member. The drow boy introduced himself as ‘Angel’—though somehow Zern doubted that was the elf’s real name. (Much as he doubted the paladin was called ‘Nosey’!) When pressed, he confessed that he was a runaway from House Melarn and a blasphemer of Lolth, though he gave no further details on his capture. Then again, it seemed that no one cared—not when the notion of escape was mentioned! Nosey wasted no time in introducing herself, and was swiftly followed by a bouncing Derendil; Sarith, interestingly enough, didn’t comment on the new arrival—but he did appear to be eavesdropping for the first time since his own capture. To Zern’s surprise, Angel seemed more interested in the crazy quaggoth than the half-elf. Strange, he’d always heard the drow despised surface elves above all else…. However, the boy did decline Nosey’s offer to heal his split lip—a bit too earnestly in Zern’s opinion. There was a story behind this enigmatic drow, the duergar was certain of it. Then again, he was no stranger than the other colourful characters Zern had met in this camp. And, moreover, his mention of escape had somehow done something miraculous: it had gotten all of the refugees talking!

While Zern watched silently, the rest of the group caught Angel up to speed about camp composition.

Velkynvelve was well-guarded by everyone’s estimation: at least 6 quaggoths lined the immediate cage area, and there were over a dozen guards in total. Ilvara herself was not to be taken lightly as a threat, and neither was her trio of elite subordinates. More unnerving yet were the giant spiders, which circled in the webs below. Still, even with the cycling guard, the refugees estimated there were a few possible means of escape open to them. The most promising of these was a waterfall, which descended even below the webs. It was likely too dangerous a drop to attempt; but, on the off-chance the landing was clear, the team agreed to investigate it on work detail. Meanwhile, all thirteen prisoners conspired to grab whatever they could on shift today. After all: it was now or never. With over a dozen prisoners, two of them drow, their captors weren't likely to keep waiting long...

Workin' 9 to 5... 

Unfortunately, the team didn't have much time to discuss their plans. Not half an hour since Angel had been thrown in their pen, the same pair of muscley guards reappeared. Shaking the cage, they announced it was time to get to work, and summarily began dividing up prisoners. During work detail, the captives were broken up into three teams, and each sent to separate locations. Most of these involved senseless labour, which the group accepted with a grumble.

But Zern, having been at the camp nearly a month with good behaviour, was entrusted with a task of some importance. Today, the duergar was surprised to find himself dragged to a new part of the camp: the tall guardhouse near the south exit. He was accompanied by Frec and the deep gnome twins, and led by a particularly large pair of guards. The tower itself was rather unremarkable: the interior was drab, made entirely of unprotected stone; a little desk sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by chairs and coated with the evidence of recent gambling. On the far walls stood shelves full of books and ledgers—as one would expect of a dry, mercantile House like Mizzrym. Certainly, a man could see the entire camp from here, but it otherwise seemed a damn boring place to keep watch.

What was interesting, however, was what the drow were hiding behind the tower.

As the team passed through the guardhouse, they found themselves presented with an intriguing sight: at the building’s rear, there was a lift that led beneath the spiderwebs. Standing just before the lift, was a little zyrchwood cart, which looked like it was meant to be driven by giant spiders. That wasn’t the most intriguing part, however. No, what was intriguing was the pile of boxes set before the cart, as if waiting to be loaded. The slaves were naturally put to work hauling the crates, and Zern took the opportunity to investigate. The boxes were fairly plain, but each was marked a different blood-red pictograph—undoubtedly to categorize their contents. Damn. Pictographs meant that must be High Drow. Zern could piece together bits of the common drow tongue (thanks to his knowledge of Undercommon), but couldn’t hope to read secretive higher language even if he tried. Hells! He was willing to bet these lumbering guards couldn’t read it either! But that was telling in and of itself: if Ilvara went to the trouble of labelling these crates in her high, noble jargon, then they must contain something valuable. And, one were mounting an escape…

Chewing on his lip, the dwarf considered his options. He might not be able to read drow pictographs, but he was willing to bet that Melarni brat could. There was no doubt the kid was a bloody nobleman—and Zern was guessing not the lesser, uneducated kind. Not with that bravado! But alas, they hadn’t had the chance to link Angel up to their telepathic network before work detail had started. And somehow the cleric doubted he could relay the information through Kian, Ront, or Stool (the trio the drow had left with). But there were some people he could still conspire with telepathically…

Reaching out across their spore connection, Zern mentally poked Frec and the twins. He informed them of his suspicions, and asked if they could help him determine the contents of the boxes as they loaded. Surprisingly Topsy was the first to speak up, and indicated she had experience in these matters. Shaking the crates lightly, the rogue-like gnome soon replied that the cargo contained a wide variety of things. Most were very organized—all potions, all scrolls, all weapons. But some of the crates (primarily those most heavily-labelled) were more haphazard. Single boxes carried many miss-matched items—clothing, weapons, armour, trinkets. It was all very suspicious, and Zern found himself suddenly filled with a sinking feeling. He could guess the reasons for this disorderly contents: these crates likely contained the refugees’ own gear, sorted by prisoner! 

Sharing this with the others, the quartet came up with a risky plan. If they really were loading their own gear to be shipped off, then they had no choice: They had to break open these crates!

The issue, of course, was the guards. Zern had been at the camp long enough to know that the drow weren't to be messed with. They were generally better armed and much tougher than the individual, powerless prisoners. They hadn't hesitated to beat misbehaved slaves in the past. Hells, some they'd even tossed living and helpless to the spiders below. But the chance at getting back some of the team's equipment was simply too good for the duergar to pass up. That settled it. He was going in! Uncertain whose gear might be whose, Zern picked the box nearest to him: one emblazoned with an elaborate-looking spider glyph.  Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he slipped a hand beneath the lid.

 Unfortunately, the duergar’s weeks of torture and torment chose that moment to catch up with him.

The box was nailed shut far more tightly than Zern had expected. With a little effort, the cleric did manage to pry it open… but not without consequences. The strain bid an unwelcome moan to slip past the Zern’s lips, cutting the silence like a knife. For a tense moment, all the prisoners froze, anticipating their friend’s clumsy boldness might get them all whipped (or worse)! 

However, it appeared that Asmodeus shined upon the slaves tonight! 

By a turn of luck, Lady Ilvara had chosen that precise moment to step out of her quarters, skimpy robes all aflutter. The guards ogled their cleric, practically drooling on themselves, and seemed lost to the world otherwise. If they heard any of the commotion at their rear, they likely attributed it to the normal creaking of the zyrchwood. Stupid oafs didn’t even turn around to investigate. Zern, still petrified with fear, couldn’t believe his good fortune! But he sure as Hells wasn’t going to waste this opportunity! Monopolizing on the drow men’s incompetence, all if the refugees dove into the opened crate and grabbed whatever they could.

As Topsy had said, the contents of the crate were quite haphazard. Contained within was a set of elaborate clothing, as well as a wide selection of weapons and glittering objects. The twins, each too small to hide much, filled their rags with as much gold as they could carry and summarily got back to work. Zern and Frec, meanwhile, each grabbed a hand crossbow and a couple of bolts. Neither of them really knew how to use the weapon, but at the moment they didn’t care. Anything was better than their bare fists! Before closing the box, however, Zern felt himself strangely drawn to one more item. It was a sparkling half-mask with a prominent crystal inlaid at its crest. The thing was magical—of that the duergar was certain. Likely it was a holy symbol of some kind. Mask’s, perhaps. And Zern had a sneaking suspicion he knew to whom it belonged… Taking one more glance over his shoulder, the cleric grabbed the mask as well. Then he hastily closed the box before the guards could become any the wiser.

Thereafter, the sneaky team fell back into the rhythm of their work. But if the quartet thought the rest of their shift was going to be uneventful, they had another thing coming. For, not 10 minutes after they had resumed their hauling, a wild commotion suddenly broke out in front of the shrine…

…

Kian had done a great many things in his life,

But cleaning was not one of them!

On the other side of camp, the dragonborn struggled to coordinate his massive arms as he swished a broom back and forth. It wasn’t going very well—and not just because the drow-designed device was several sizes too small for Kian’s massive hands. The bigger problem was that the barbarian had no idea what he was doing. He had seen brooms, of course—seen the townsfolk use them to clean their storefronts and such. But never before had Kian operated one. Cleaning wasn’t exactly a high priority for a humble street rat, after all!

And that was a serious problem. Because today Kian’s group had been set with the task of cleaning up around camp. To make matters worse, extra guards had been detailed to watch the prisoners today, and none of them seemed too happy about it. At the moment, this humble barbarian found himself surrounded by two whip-wielding warriors and a contingency of quaggoths. None of them looked terribly happy…

Argh, it wasn’t fair! Kian had been set up for a fall today—and not just because of the broom thing, or even the extra guards. He had been stuck on shift with the likes of Ront and Stool. Now Stool was a perfectly fine fellow—he was cheery and let them all badmouth the drow without getting smacked. And Kian liked both of those things. But when it came to daily labour, the myconid was useless. He had no hands, after all. And if it was hard to operate a broom with giant hands, then it must be even harder with no hands. Kian might not have been the brightest torch at the bonfire, but even he could put those pieces together! 

Ront was another problem. The orc had very good hands, but what he lacked was a correspondingly good attitude. He was sullen and argumentative and seemed to like defying the guards on purpose. Kian thought it was some kind of tough-guy complex: maybe he liked getting whipped to prove he could endure. That seemed pretty silly to the dragonborn, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t seen it before. The problem was: Kian did not want to get whipped—he did not want it at all! But, if their work didn’t get done…

However, just as Kian was beginning to worry, he felt an invisible force clamp onto his broom handle. Startled, the dragonborn almost let go! But a sudden voice in his ear whispered at him not to worry. Then, the unseen hand wrapped around Kian’s claws, and gently guided them in a sweeping motion. Hey! That worked pretty good! Perking his head up, Kian looked around, searching for the speaker. The voice was a tenor—clearly not belonging to the hulking Ront or the juvenile Stool. Then again, there was one more prisoner on their work detail today… As he glanced to the side, Kian’s big brown eyes met a pair of glittering crimson.

Angel was a really strange prisoner, and Kian hadn’t decided what to think of him yet. He was a drow captured by drow, and the barbarian thought that was mighty suspicious. Then again, he didn’t know very much about the race in the first place—and this one seemed nice enough. Angel was helping them escape, after all. And his magic had been helpful thus far. Maybe it was OK to trust him, then. Kian wasn’t sure. He’d have to ask Nosey about it later. She was more learned about things like this.

Angel was the reason they had so many guards in the first place. Apparently he was some kind of ‘high-security prisoner’ for reasons that Kian didn’t fully understand. It had something to do with getting sacrificed to the church when they got to Menzoberranzan. But Kian couldn’t figure why the drow would to go to all this trouble to protect someone they were just going to kill in the end. It didn’t make sense. Then again, it was the reason Nosey and Sarith were getting followed by extra guards too—so there must be some logic at work! Kian didn’t know. It was all very confusing.

But Angel seemed nice enough. And he made an efficient cleaning partner! Not only could he cast Mage Hand, but he was really good at making the guards want to look away from him. Something about all the dramatic rolling around on the floor he was doing, in his skimpy drow undies. Kian didn’t get it. It was all really weird—but convenient! At least this gave the pair a chance to snoop around camp a little as they worked.

As near as they could tell, there were several possible exits from the camp. The first of these was a north-facing gate, which always seemed to be guarded by a pair of armed drow. There were never more than two at a time, and the watch cycled out frequently. But the door was easily visible from a guard-station to the south, where their friends had disappeared earlier. Anyone trying to rush the front gate would probably have the whole camp on their tail before long.  Beyond the guard tower was the refugee’s second means of escape: a south-facing gate and a lift that lead below the webs. That sure would be a convenient option! If they could somehow get to the lift and operate it, then would have a straight shot down, and out of drow clutches. Then again, it was also the most heavy-guarded route available. The party’s third choice was to jump into the spider webs below—but Kian liked that option least of all! He’d seen what those giant spiders had done to poor Shushar, and he did not want to be next!

That just left the waterfall…

The feature in question cascaded down the centre of camp, not far from the prisoners’ own cage. It fed into a distant lake, where all of Velkynvelve threw their waste. In fact, the team’s chance to see the falls came later, when they were given the demeaning task of emptying their cage’s chamber pots. At this point in the work day, the guards had all but given up on Angel. They scratched their heads, looking uncomfortable whenever he sauntered by. Kian still didn’t get it, but if it made it easier for them to investigate the falls, then he wasn’t complaining! Besides, the guard had instead taken to following Ront around—and Kian liked that almost more! Mean old orc deserved it anyway. 

When they were sure of the guards’ distraction, Kian and Angel took the opportunity to creep closer to the waterfall. Grabbing a small stone, Angel wasted no time in flinging it over the cliff edge; then the drow closed his eyes, counting to himself as the pebble fell. It poked the water with a ‘slpoosh’ a few seconds later, and the drow boy smirked with satisfaction. “70 feet…” he muttered under his breath, apparently pleased. “Plenty deep…” Not missing a beat, he then moved his arms wildly and summoned a shadowy hand upon the air. It flew at once into the falls, and Kian watched it poke just beneath his darkvision. For a few tense seconds, Kian watched with apprehension, as Angel leaned over the guardrail—apparently watching his pet shadow. Then, the spell suddenly broke, and Angel’s grin only intensified. “Perfect,” he whispered, now looking at Kian more directly. “Clear drop, no rocks or anything. The pond’s over 30ft deep—more than enough to catch us. It won’t be glamourous, jumping into a cesspool, but it should be safe.”

Kian opened his mouth to reply—he had a thousand questions he wanted to ask. How was Angel so sure? What was that hand thing? And… where had a nobleman learned such survival tactics? There was clearly something the elf wasn’t telling him…

Before he could speak, however, the guards returned at last, looking exasperated. They threatened the duo with their whips, and ordered them back to work. As the prisoners resumed their duties, the reason for the guards’ distress soon became apparent. The realization came when Kian and Angel had taken up their rags and broom again, hard at work cleaning the entrance to the camp shrine. The two were carefully watching the guard rotation, and hadn’t noticed a pair of clicking heels approaching… Not until it was far too late.

“My my, what good little prisoners,” a sultry female voiced hissed. Wincing, Kian hardly needed to look up to identify the speaker. He had heard that voice in his nightmares ever since he’d first arrived a Velkynvelve… 

There stood Mistress Ilvara, all dressed in her silken, see-through robes, hovering between the two captives. “There might be hope for you yet,” she cooed, running a long-fingered hand across Angel’s naked arse. The drow boy shivered at once, and froze instantly in his work. “A shame to waste so much ‘talent’,” the cleric continued, her hand wandering farther; the slave at her feet grew tenser with each word, each touch. “I have a private shrine in my quarters. Perhaps clerical ‘council’ could yet redeem you in the eyes of the Goddess. And the Queen is so fond of spiders. Perhaps if we put our eight limbs together… Well, I’m sure we could work out something.” The flash in her eyes told she had many ideas about what Angel could do with his limbs… and Kian started to suspect this ‘spider’ she wanted to form might just have two backs…. The priestess lingered a moment longer, as if relishing the sight of her trembling prisoner. Then, with one last fondle, she vanished into the shrine beyond.

Angel remained on the ground for a single moment, shaking. Then, with a cry of rage, he leapt to his feet and made a dash for the shrine door. “No!” Kian shrieked. Jumping to his own feet, the barbarian hurled himself at the rampaging drow and bodily tackled him back to the ground. “You’ll get into trouble! She’s baiting you!”

“Don’t you understand what she was implying?!” Angel shouted back, trying and failing to squirm out of the dragonborn’s clutches.

“Don’t you understand that she can kill you with a single spell?!” Kian retorted. The pair struggled on the ground for what felt like an eternity, but in the end it proved utterly futile. Angel had no chance at escaping the barbarian, and eventually gave up, breathing heavily. After several tense seconds, he appeared to regain his senses, and murmured his thanks at Kian. Much though he despised Ilvara, he conceded, direct confrontation was probably an unwise decision. Particularly when they had just discovered a convenient route of possible escape…

No sooner had the words passed the drow’s lips, however, than a wail of rage echoed form within the nearby shrine. Prisoners and guards alike all froze in their respective positions and looked in terror towards the doors. That… was Ilvara’s voice. And, from the sounds of it, she wasn’t happy…

…

Drow were weird.

That was what Nosey had decided today while on shift.

The half-elf had been taken to the shrine of Lolth, along with Sarith, Derendil, and Buppido. They were escorted by a trio of guards, though they had mostly hung around outside. And no wonder! The interior was packed full of clerics, and worshippers, and tons of off-duty Hunters. Ilvara probably thought sneaking around here would be tricky for the four-man team. Hmm, well, if that was how she felt then she didn’t know Nosey!

The team had been ordered to clean the sanctuary—though it had been spotless when they arrived! Nosey supposed it was supposed to be demeaning: labour without purpose. Still, at least that made the job easy. And it also gave this eager half-elf the chance to engage in one of her favourite activities: exploring!

The whole place was dark and bore a strong spider theme—some of which might have been alive for all Nosey knew! Well, perhaps that was to be expected. After all, the paladin thought to herself, big brother had warned her about the drow and their creepy love of spiders… At the thought of her distant family, Nosey felt a single prang of loneliness, but she quickly suppressed it. She’d see them again. There was no doubt in her mind about that. And, meanwhile, there was more snooping to do! At this time of day, the shrine’s worshippers were sparse.  Individuals sat spaced far apart, as if pointedly avoiding each other. From all corners came murmurs of prayer, most in Low Drowic. Curious, Nosey took advantage of one poor patron, and sneaked close to him.

The drow in question was fancily dressed (at least compared to the lowly guards around him) and wielded a very shiny rapier, still in its scabbard. The right side of his face was a sea of scars, as if he’d been through hell itself; and one massive cut across the drow’s neck looked like it should have slit his throat. Nosey had seen this man before, of course—his countenance was unmistakable. He was one of Ilvara's elite guardsmen, though the paladin couldn't recall his name. He was also, unfortunately, one of the few chanting in High Drowic. Intrigued, Nosy hovered around a moment longer, hoping to pick up a word or two…  She’d heard that the noble tongue was based on old Eladrin—and her mother had taken the care to teach Nosey proper Elvish. Unfortunately, she could only make out a single word she recognized: ‘Shil’, ‘shadow’. Darn. That wasn’t helpful. Well, whatever the guard was praying about, he sure was doing it earnestly!

And that meant he was also terribly distracted...

Seeing her chance, Nosey snuck a delicate hand into the guard's unattended pocket and withdrew a small trinket. It sparkled in the low candlelight as she held it in hand, mystified. Nosey loved shiny objects. It was one of the traits she had picked up from her draconic adoptive mother. And this trinket was very very shiny indeed… It was a glass eye—human, incidentally—complete with a spot of blood left from its previous owner. Nosey should have been concerned about why this huntsman would have such a thing. Half human herself, she should at least have been disturbed. But this particular dragon-kin had been trapped in a dreary drow outpost for far too long. She’d take any shiny she could get, dammit! It was her precious… But she did have a job to do. And so, Nosey wound her new treasure into her long braided hair for safekeeping, then continued on her way. 

Under the guise of cleaning, Nosey wandered about the rest of the shrine and eavesdropped on the other shrine patrons. Most of them were guards or Hunters—a few of whom Nosey vaguely recognized. They were praying almost universally in Low Drow, but it was similar enough to Undercommon that the paladin could roughly piece the words together.

“If I might be tested on this day,” murmured one man,

Then I shall prove my might to Thee!”

“…For he is weak and unworthy,” hissed another,

“I will steal his seat of power in Thy name!”

“…All the elves of the surface shall fall before me…”

“…And he will know that you are Goddess!”

“…Thus my faith shall never falter…”

“Hail the Queen of Spiders!”

“Disgusting,” Nosey hissed to herself—in Abyssal, so as not to be overheard. As a follower of the overgod, the paladin scoffed at the idea that these barbarians could throw themselves before a Tana’ri—a former demon lord! And such a hateful one at that. Lolth may have regained a divine portfolio, but she was little better than the denizens of the Nine Hells beneath their feet. She had been a goddess once, at the beginning of times—the Weaver of Fate, patroness of the dark elves. But she had cast away everything that Ao had given her in a bid for power. In accordance with her crimes, she had been stripped of her divinity and cast into the Abyss. It was sickening to think that anyone would still follow her! Spitting at the feet of an elaborate spider statue, Nosey murmured with distaste exactly what she thought of Lolth and her filthy followers:

 “False god…”

Unfortunately for Nosey, that was the precise moment Ilvara Mizzrym had walked through the doors of the shrine. And apparently she’d taken the time to cast Comprehend Languages…

~*~

This actually marked our first bit of actual gameplay. Since Angel's player had rolled the shortest play in Velkynvelve, session started with his capture and Ilvara's little speech. I think it was meant to be dramatic exposition, but Angel's big mouth did a decent job of mucking that up. Perhaps because it was our first session together, but no one actually seemed to know what to make of each other's characters. Zern was unsure about duergar relations with other races, Angel was uncertain how to react to a half-elf, and no one really reacted properly to the arrival of a half-naked drow. In the sessions that followed, however, we got our sea legs and adapted to each other, so I ret-conned our reactions a bit here to reflect our later IC play.

Session continued after this, but I'm fluffing it a bit to better introduce a few of the main cast. From a mechanical standpoint though: Zern's crew tried nicking things on their work day, but Zern's player rolled a natural 1. Good thing the guards did as well, or he would have been toast! Angel and Kian, meanwhile, were lucky enough to get multiple natural 20's looking for escape routes and investigating the waterfall, giving them 37 on the Perception and Investigation checks. If not for those well-timed rolls, we might have been tempted to use another means of escape, and I hear that has ended rather poorly for some parties. I don't actually remember what Ilvara said to Angel, as all hell broke loose at the table after that. I do know it was designed to piss him off IC, however. Since we later learned that Ilvara was quite a skank, so molesting the sorcerer boy seemed an appropriate solution.

For added difficulty, our DM is using in-universe language info, instead of the book mechanics. So Zern speaks Duergar, which is not mutually intelligible with surface Dwarvish. Likewise Drow is divided into High and Low dialects, neither of which is mutually intelligible with Elvish. It seemed to really annoy Nosey's player, who had prepared her character with a lot of clever languages, but the DM threw her a bone since Low Drow is apparently partially intelligible with Undercommon.

Out of the Abyss, Setting the Stage

The Cast:

Lady Orthokent Moxt-Ir "Nosey", a half-elf Hermit and Paladin of Ao (Oath of the Dragon)

Kian, a green dragon-born Urchin and Barbarian (Bear totem)

Frec, a halfling Monk and Folk Hero

Zern, a former duergar Acolyte and Cleric of Asmodeus (Darkness domain)

Angellon "Angel" Melarn, a drow Dread Necromancer (Litch transformation) and former Noble

And so it begins...

The glittering lights of Velkynvelve were actually an attractive sight,

at least in the wee hours of mid-morning.

A series of massive stalactites hung from a distant ceiling, each flickering with some colourful internal glow. They were hollow, of course, the stalactites. That was how the Hunters of Camp Velkenvelve managed to hide so expertly—and why they were able to afford the luxury of a few colourful decorations. Honestly, man could never understand the drow and their fondness for beautiful things. Complete darkness would have been considerably more practical—particularly since not all of the captives of this outpost were blessed with darkvision! But no, here they were: a glittering spectre on the horizon of the morning. To the caverns below, this hidden outpost looked like nothing more than some low-hanging spider webs. From above, it was illuminated just enough to make the eyes of looming spiders dance in the shadows.

Argh.

Fucking drow!

A pair of unwavering white eyes were staring out at the camp, observing its sleeping—sorry, trancing—inhabitants. Hmph, stupid elves and their Reverie! The eyes belonged to a fairly tall dwarven man (over 4 whole feet!) who was sitting, curled up on the floor of a hanging cage. His clothing was but tattered rags at this point, stained with blood and mud and Asmodeus-knows what else! Around his glowing white eyes was a face like hardened stone, flat and emotionless as he watched the stirring of the outpost around him. A single, calloused grey hand reached out to scratch his chin as a room in the distance flickered with life. It met a series of thin, porcupine-like spikes—red and grey in colour—that had grown just a bit too long… a bit too sharp…

Dammit. By Asmodeus’ non-existent beard! He had been in this place entirely too long!

The dwarf in question was a duergar man named Zern, Zern Musgardt. Until recently, he had been a proud citizen of the grey dwarf stronghold, Gracklstugh. It was a fine city, nearly ancient as the Underdark itself (well… the inhabited part anyway). Zern had lived there his entire life, a noble son of the duergar’s most prominent brewing family. He had enjoyed a simple life: a happy childhood, a standard tour with the army, a cushy career as a cleric of Laduguer, god of crafts. Yes, everything had been absolutely peachy in Zern’s life!

And now… here he was instead. Gracklstugh was but a distant memory, somewhere down on the ground below. Zern hadn’t even seen the ground in nearly a month, he’d been cooped up in this cage so long! Humble cleric, simple brewer, mighty warrior… prisoner of the drow. Oh, how Zern’s peachy life had turned so swiftly sour!

It sure wasn’t easy, being Chosen.

The year was 1491 on the wounded world of Toril. After over a century of torment, the tumulus years known as the Spellplague had finally come to a close. Mystra had been reborn; the Weave had been repaired; the sister world of Abir had been banished once more into its own dimension (though some remnants of its time on Toril still remained). Arcane magic was once more beginning to reign supreme—a feature that drow society was apparently thankful for, if their increase in activity was any indication.

These changes were all thanks to an event called ‘The Sundering’ and some damned overgod called ‘Ao’. Apparently the old chap was punching the heart of the world or some crap and splitting it apart again, until the proper order was reinstated. And apparently this also had to do with some magic stones called the ‘Tablets of Fate’, which were being re-written for the first time in centuries.

Whatever. Gods, tablets, cosmic whosey-whatsits. Zern really couldn’t care less. As a practitioner of divine magic, he hadn’t been affected by the shattering of the Weave in the slightest. So blue fire had reigned from heaven! So whole races, nations, occupations had been wiped from the map! So what if half the world’s magical technology had been lost, and arcane magicians had made a funny habit of blowing themselves up in fits of wild magic? That hadn’t been any of the duergar’s business…

But the Sundering, on the other hand. Why, that had changed Zern’s life indeed! And it was the reason he was hanging in this damned magic-proof cage right now!

Ever since the Sundering had begun, Zern had started having visions. A strange eye… a nine-pointed star… His dreams had become filled not with the god of crafts, but with a strange red-coloured man with massive horns and a terrifying smile. And the duergar’s dreams were not the only place he started witnessing these strange manifestations. They haunted his thoughts. They snuck into his prayers. He started seeing them in the patterns of sacrificial blood he splattered across his shield! And then, one day... he had realized what it all meant!

Somewhere at Zern’s side, a fellow prisoner moaned in their sleep, and the cleric was momentarily snapped out of his recollections. Whoever it was whined a few times more, murmured some kind of earnest plea in Undercommon, then went quietly back to sleep. Whatever. Zern didn’t care. He didn’t have time to be concerned about the daily lives of his fellow prisoners, not if he wanted to escape. Sighing, the duergar rose to his feet, and his symbol of Asmodeus caught the lights of the camp upon its polished surface.

This was the eye he had seen in his dreams—the eye of Asmodeus! And it was Lord Asmodeus who was the true god of the duergar! Ladugeuer was dead... In fact, Laduguer had been slain during the Spellplague, poor fellow. And, around the same time, Asmodeus had stolen the divinity of a lesser deity and become a god himself. Of course, few knew of this. Few besides Zern. For over a century, unsuspecting duergar clerics had really been worshipping Asmodeus in the guise of their fallen Lord! It was a brilliant plan—one truly worthy of the Lord of all law and all evil. Hells, Zern had found himself both perturbed… and oddly aroused when he’d learned the truth. But, when he’d sought to inform his colleagues of this news! ...well… needless to say the dwarf had ended up a captive somehow. His fellow clerics had promptly laughed in his face, called him a heretic, and chased him out of town. Well, fine! He’d been all right with that! He was a proud son of Musgardt, and if his colleagues wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d go out and prove it to them! He’d make his own way and grow his dark powers! And then he would return one day, to prove the truth of their faith to his misguided brethren—!

Or at least that was Zern's goal until he ran into the drow.

Swiftly overwhelmed by sleeping poison and rapiers to his face, the duergar had found himself in quite a pickle. Stripped of his gear, he was taken captive, chained, and placed in a hanging cage through which his magic could not penetrate. His drow captors wasted no time telling the duergar he would be put to work in their camp, Velkynvelve. Then, eventually he would be sold into slavery in the drow capital of Menzoberranzan. Eventually. But the drow needed more captives first. And that… well, that was how Zern got here. That was how he had fallen from a mighty warrior of Gracklstugh, to a captive, watching his captors by night.

Well… whatever. He’d just outsmart the damn drow too, then!

And, thus far Zern’s plan had been working like a charm. For a long time, he had laboured on his own: overworked, barely kept fed, and forbidden from praying to his god. He had taken careful note of his captors, who included a cruel cleric of Lolth, and two elite henchmen, who flanked her like bookends. There was also a snarling clerical apprentice and a handful of other guards. But Zern didn’t care about them. They weren’t important. The damned elves kept insisting they would capture more prisoners, that Zern’s number was soon to be up! …But, for what seemed like an eternity, no one came. Zern, meanwhile, started to concoct a plan. He began to play the good boy: he did his work without fail, he kept to himself on off-hours—he even patted the occasional distressed guard on the head. Cheer up, he told them. Prisoners would come soon! Everything would be fine! Zern became the model captive. By day, he was quiet and compliant; by night, he acted sad and morose, until the drow were convinced the duergar had lost all hope. He’d gone insane, clearly! Like those derro… that was obviously what was going on. And no wonder! No sane dwarf could ever claim to be a cleric of Asmodeus! Why, that was probably yet another manifestation of the man’s madness!

But of course, this had all been part of the plan.

Feigning desperation and insanity, Zern managed to hide the authenticity of his faith for weeks. And, eventually, he convinced a witless guard to return his holy symbol. (Continentally the same bloke he'd been cheering up all this time...) It was a major step forward in the cleric’s escape plan! And it was also the reason he was now watching the camp by nightfall, plotting… scheming… He also managed to steal a single crossbow bolt, coated in drow sleeping poison. He wasn’t sure what he would do with that yet, but he was certain it would come in handy. After all, anything that could put a drow to sleep… well… needless to say, the dwarf was glad to have that sort of power on his side!

But Zern was not to be alone forever. He was soon joined by a cast of colourful characters, each of whom interested the cleric only mildly. By about his second week of capture, Zern’s cage was beginning to get crowded, with seven other prisoners, each of whom had arrived at their own good time. Zern couldn’t remember what order they had all appeared, but he rather liked to keep the crowd memorized in alphabetical order. First, there was Buppido, a filthy derro! By listening to the man mumble in his sleep, the cleric had learned the loony fancied himself avatar of the god of murder. Ha! Of course he hadn’t told any of the others this. He’d been hoping for an amusing assassination, actually… but thus far Buppido had been behaving, playing the part of a gentleman. Hmph. Alas.

After Buppido came Derendil, a quaggoth man who was convinced he is really a high-ranking drow nobleman—polymorphed by a curse, of course! This one amused Zern as well. Ha! Even if polymorphing curses did exist among the ambitious elves, Derendil’s story was unlikely. As if the drow would capture one of their own! And a nobleman no less! Why, Zern would eat his foot if such a claim proved true! Next came Eldeth, a shield dwarf scout who got a little too close to her quarry. Zern didn’t care about Eldeth in the slightest. In fact, he was rather hoping her big mouth would get her thrown to the spiders soon… it would really make his day. The next two were Ront and Suushar, an angry orc and a stupidly pacifistic kuo-tua respectively. Zern disliked both of them immensely. And last was Topsy and Turvy, a pair of deep gnome twins who seemed quite troublesome. Fortunately, the duo kept mostly to themselves, chattering to each other in what Zern could only assume was their native tongue. The duergar eyed their sticky fingers suspiciously… but so long as the gnomes gave Zern no trouble, he didn’t intend to get into the young rogues’ way.

Though not the most talkative of fellows, Zern had enjoyed more than enough time to meet all of his fellow prisoners, and get to know the general story of their capture. It was important, after all. That was the only way he could determine their skills, and plan his own escape! It was information he would soon need, because weeks after his capture, Zern would get a few more ‘friends’. And, unlike the others, this lot might just change his luck for the better...

Day 12

...after Zern's capture, the camp had been strangely abuzz with commotion. The Hunters hadn’t even been dispatched that day and yet—and yet a new captive had been taken! What, had she wandered right into camp or something? Had she climbed all the way up here just to give Ilvara a fond ‘hello’? Zern didn’t know—and neither did he care. But it was the most interesting thing that had happened all week! And thus the duergar pressed his nose to the cage bars, along with all the others, and watched the fight take hold beneath them. The stranger, whoever they were, must have been an able fighter, for she held her own against the drow guards for some time. She was clad in heavy armour that had been polished to a ridiculous sheen, and her bright ginger hair flickered like fire amongst the monochromatic sea of drow. Unfortunately, the fight was short-lived, as had been all the others. The new prisoner was swiftly downed with several shots of sleeping poison, and was hauled off, out of sight of the cage. Undoubtedly, she was getting stripped of her gear and receiving the same dry speech all the prisoners had heard upon arrival. “You are captives of House Mizzrym of Menzoberranzan… you will get sold into slavery… learn obedience and you might survive…” Blah, blah, blah. At this point, Zern had heard Ilvara’s speech about the futility of their fates at least a dozen times—he practically had it memorized!

As expected, the guards arrived within the hour, and hurled the new prisoner into the cage at Zern’s feet. The woman, strangely enough, was from the Surface—the first since that stupid orc had arrived. Even more bizarrely, she appeared to be elven. Well! No wonder the drow were so happy. Zern was no expert on drow society, but he knew enough to suspect that a surface elf must fetch a pretty price in the Menzoberranzan market place. They were, after all, one of Lolth’s favourite sacrifices! And this one...  Zern was no expert on the slave markets, but he imagined she would fetch a pretty copper. She had hair the colour of fire, which was gathered neatly at the back of her head. If unwound, the duergar imagined it must be as long as the girl was tall. She boasted a pair of abnormally green eyes, and her frame was light, but obviously strong. And... well... (bitch had enormous bazoongas!) she had some, er, womanly curves worth noting as well. A nice healthy girl to say the least (recent poisoning aside): young, attractive.... Pretty slaves raked in the gold, and pretty sacrifices even more so. The drow were strange like that.

But, if Zern had any pity for this elven creature, it was short-lived.
When the woman finally revived a few hours later, she was abuzz with questions: Who were they? Where was this? Why was it dark? What was absolutely everyone’s life story? Gods! It was annoying as hell! She was so talkative, it made Zern want to rip his damned ears off! Of course, everyone answered the emphatic warrior woman. And how could they not? She was so bloody insistent, and it wasn’t like they had much else to do. Zern, meanwhile, simply kept to himself and silently took mental notes. He'd never been good with those 'charismatic' types...

Eventually, Zern would learn the woman's name was Nosey, and she she was actually only half-elven. Her mother, apparently, was a human of unknown origins, as was her High Elf father. It all made Zern very uncomfortable—after all, of his race’s own half-human offspring were monstrosities: the derro! And if Nosey was trying to convince anyone she was sane, she was doing a piss poor job of it. The girl fancied herself a paladin of Ao, for starters. This confused Zern, as he had heard the overgod did not take worshippers... And there were yet more signs that Nosey was insane. No, she was more than insane! Girl really was derro-worthy! She was a half-crazed hermit, she claimed to have been raised by a dragon, and she seemed to have absolutely no understanding of the world—as if she’d spent her whole life locked up in a classroom or something! Ay, the half-elf was an enigma—and a zealous enigma at that! Not wanting to bother with her, Zern gave the ‘paladin’ a wide berth, and planned to throw her to the spiders at the first opportunity. Nosey, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind her awkwardness, or the way it made everyone avoid her after a fashion. She even made a new friend in the Underdark! It was a fist-sized spider, whom she managed to coax into living in her pocket. But Zern hadn’t cared about that too much. OK, so she was good with spiders. It mattered not. He had more important things to worry about—like finding a way out of here. And thus, the duergar’s pale eyes continued to watch the camp, waiting for something else to happen… 

Day 17

...after Zern’s capture, two more prisoners at last arrived. The first of these was a massive green dragonborn, whose scales sparkled like gemstones in the camp’s strange illumination. He was tossed into the cage one morning by at least half a dozen guards (apparently what it took to carry the massive fellow), and was stuck full of more bolt-holes than a used pincushion. “Oi, ‘cleric’!” one of the guards shouted as the massive man landed with a ‘plop’. “This one’s broken! You’d better fix it with your devil magic!” The other guards laughed at the drow’s jeer, each chiming in their own little joke: “Show us your powers, mister Chosen!”, “Summon the Lord of the Ninth! He’ll help you, right?”, “Mistress will be angry if you let her new slave die!” Zern simply sat stony-faced, refusing to rise to any of the taunts. Then, with a laugh, the smirking guards disappeared into the camp beyond, leaving the refugees shaken and a massive dragonborn sprawled across the floor.

“Arseholes…” Zern mumbled to himself once he was sure the guards were out of earshot. One of the quaggoths in an adjacent cage growled, as if it had heard his comment. But there was nothing those damned beasts could do. They were captives almost surely as the slave stock! Thus, with a sigh, Zern lumbered across the floor, his chains clinking all the way. He settled himself down beside the newcomer as a half-dozen eyes watched him from the shadows. “Dammit,” the duergar mumbled to himself as he prodded at bleeding bolt-holes. “I’ve never seen one of these things before… And I’m no good at healing without magic! At least not on other races!” But, just as the cleric was setting himself to the task of patching up the bleeding and hoping for the best, a quiet voice piped up from his rear.

“I know about dragons,” it muttered in Undercomon—the same language Zern had been using, incidentally. The duergar glanced over his shoulder with a grumble—and blinked in surprise when he saw the face of the speaker. Without another word, Nosey glided across the floor and settled herself beside the duergar. She knelt over the dragonborn, taking quick stock of his wounds; then she pressed an ear to his massive chest and let out a soft sigh of relief. “Oh good,” the half-elf murmured, “He’s still breathing. But they’ve overdosed him on poison, the idiots!” Zern opened his mouth to say that was rather unfortunate if it was the case: after all, this cage was magic-proof. And thus, they could hardly cast the spells necessary to Remove Poison. The fat green oaf might just have to fend for himself… But before he could say any of this, Nosey had already taken up a regal position upon the floor. Her bright green eyes were softly closed, her hands folded in quiet prayer; she was muttering to herself in some language Zern didn’t understand and it intrigued the duergar. He’d just said they couldn’t cast magic in here. Even if the woman really did have divine powers (which he doubted), she shouldn’t be able to do anything…

But, no sooner had Zern thought this than Nosey snapped out of her trance. She laid both her hands on the dragonborn’s naked chest and they immediately flared with a blinding white light. Throwing his hands to his face, the duergar cried out in pain as the brilliance consumed him. The next moment, he heard the unconscious man gasp heartily for breath and give a stupendous cough as he began to revive. By the time the spots cleared in Zern’s vision, the massive green creature was already siting up and blinking in confusion at the refugees around him. “Asmodeus’ teeth…” Zern swore in hushed Infernal, “It really is a paladin!”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Nosey responded at once—surprisingly in the same language. Upon hearing this, Zern was even more taken-aback and nearly tripped over his chains in surprise. Hmm, perhaps there was something to this crazy half-elf after all… Thereafter, Nosey wasted no time in introducing herself to the new prisoner and showing him around the cage. The dragonborn, in kind, declared his name was Kian, and explained he was a barbarian warrior who had been living on the outskirts of his society. Apparently there had been a bit of a downpour today and, well, the entrance to the Underdark had looked so warm and cosy… The next thing he’d known, a dozen drow Hunters had descended upon him. Unfortunately, Kian lamented, he could remember little else… about his capture… about his identity. He could recall only his first name, that of his missing pet mouse, and the name of his heavenly lord—the Mighty Kord, apparently. Zern wasn’t entirely sure who that was, but he’d never really bothered learning the lesser Surface deities.

To the duergar, Kian seemed to be a level-headed fellow. He was certainly friendly—as friendly as one could find a filthy light-dweller, in any case. There was one oddity about the man, however, that seemed inconsistent with his otherwise imposing image. And that was the mouse, of course. Since he was thrown into the cell, it was all the barbarian could talk about. The creature was apparently dear to Kian, and had not been seen since his capture. No one knew anything, of course, but the guards all shared a good laugh at the mention of the thing... 

It did not bode well, for poor Kian.

But day 17 was not yet done with its surprises. Later in the day, when the prisoners were well into their demeaning work detail, a second wave of Hunters triumphantly made their way into the camp. This group bore with them a thoroughly bound and gagged Halfling, who looked scarcely more conscious than had Kian. Thankfully, he seemed to have far fewer bullet holes. The captives watched as the contingency marched towards Ilvara’s quarters, their prize in tow. Nosey, for a moment, looked like she might bolt after them, and was stopped only by the combined efforts of Zern and Kian. There was nothing they could do for the bloke. If Ilvara thought him worth selling, she’d heal his wounds herself. And if not, well… the duo dragged he half-elf forcibly away from the edge of the spider pits. It was probably best not to think about what would happen to that Halfling if Ilvara didn’t find him useful.

Fortunately, when the refugees returned to their cell that night, they discovered that their worry had been for naught. The Halfling from earlier was seated there against the far wall, chained and looking groggy. He was sporting a few nasty injuries, but there could be no doubt that the man was mercifully alive. The new arrival introduced himself as Frec, a humble monk from a small surface village. Frec, Zern would learn, was a man of few words. He was a tricky fellow, however, and had been lucky enough to snag a 5ft piece of silk rope during his processing in Ilvara’s chambers. It was perhaps enough to strangle an unsuspecting drow guard. Who knows? But it was certainly leagues more useful than the single gold piece Kian had managed to smuggle. And thus Zern made a mental note to keep this ‘Frec’ on his good side; like Nosey and Kian, he might be useful in planning an escape…

Day 18 and 19

Once the new faces started filtering in, they hadn’t stopped. Not long after Frec and Kian, another pair of prisoners joined the growing group. The first of these, to Zern's surprise, was one of Velkynvelve’s own Hunters—a fellow drow! The man’s name was Sarith, a warrior who had visited the camp infrequently in the past. He was thrown into the cage with extreme prejudice one night and had woken several of the other captives from their (un)pleasant dreams. Surprisingly, Ilvara had scarcely bothered to strip this particular prisoner—he was allowed to keep his own resplendent clothing, at least. Though that could have been because the cleric was loath to touch the man. Sarith was a mess when he first arrived in the pen. He looked very sickly with a nasty rash at his hairline, and a dazed look to his eyes. Zern had initially tried to examine the man, but had found himself rather rudely shoved aside. Well, to each his own, then. The stupid drow could rot and die for all Zern cared. The first night, the duergar swore he heard the man crying… but he wrote it off as a product of his imagination. Or fever. Likely both. Thereafter, Sarith only became worse—both physically and socially. But he didn't seem keen to talk, and neither was anyone too keen to meet him. And that was simply that. Whatever the undoubtedly dramatic story behind his capture, the group was unlikely to learn it.

The second new prisoner Zern liked considerably more. His name was Stool, and he was a young myconid—only a few days old when he arrived at the camp. Zern made fast friends with Stool—even more so than the others. He learned that the little fellow had been out with his father’s hunting party when the drow had apparently fallen in on the camp. He wished earnestly to get home to the Neverlight Grove, and Zern found himself moved with a strange sympathy at the creature’s plight. He promised thre little sprout that he would get them out of here—and that Grove of his would be the first priority once they did so! This brought Stool a great amount of joy, and he began taking to the duergar like a little lost duckling. Thereafter, Zern’s spiky red hair was rarely ever seen without a myconid atop it. And the myconid, meanwhile, had proven another convenience to the group at large: he had spread his telepathic spores among the refugees so that they might converse without attracting the guards. Moreover, it really saved the trouble of tedious translation between Common and Undercommon. It would have been the perfect way to conspire to escape... but alas, Zern found himself lacking the necessary charisma. He could plot with the best of them! But, when it came to leading the masses… And Nosey, while certainly amicable enough to get everyone talking, did not have his head for planning. It was a bit of an impasse, and the frustrated cleric was not quite sure what they were going to do…

The drow, meanwhile, were starting to grow impatient. In fact, as day 20 dawned, Zern began to wonder if his captors had planned on keeping prisoners this long in the first place. Something was clearly amiss... But the drow kept to their routine. They worked their prey to the bone—occasionally tortured them for fun—and kept repeating the same message: You will be taken to Menzoberranzan and sold into slavery... Become obedient and you might survive. Any day now, the new slavers would be arriving to drag them to the City. Any day now…

But despite the promises of their captors, days continued to pass for the refugees. No drow elite warriors arrived for them, and the staff of Velkynvelve grew ever more frustrated. They began to throw a few of the prisoners to the spiders, while their fellows watched in horror. The first of these was Suushar, not that anyone cared. He had been dragged away, kicking and screaming, the night that marked their 23rd in camp. Undoubtedly Ilvara had him squirreled away somewhere, planning to make a big show of his murder. Well, so be it. Zern was hardly sympathetic. The man was a damned pacifist in a society that didn’t allow for peaceful thinking. So if he was to die by drow spiders… there were worse possible ends.

And thus, it had come to this: Day 24

Nearly a month after his capture, Zern was still sitting in his hanging cage, looking out on the flickering lights of Velkynvelve. His white eyes were glowing in the darkness, and he was reflecting on the days gone by, as if retrospect might give him some new perspective. It wasn’t. Indeed, the duergar was little closer to an escape plan than he had been twenty-four days ago—and not for lack of trying! Dammit! Zern just couldn’t understand where he was going wrong! He was an evil genius, after all. He should have no trouble escaping from the clutches of a few weak-minded elves. Particularly now, when he had the potential aid of these powerful (though admittedly annoying) allies! If only he could figure out a way to get the captives to band together… But, it was almost as if… something—someone—was still missing. Zern couldn’t explain it. But he knew it was true. He knew it deep in his soul—in the same place that had told him Asmodeus was Lord, and Zern was His Chosen! Somehow, he knew that there was still one more teammate remaining to join this motley crew…

Then, as if on cue, something did happen!

Early in the morning of day 24, while Zern was still watching the camp flicker to life, a distant alarm suddenly sounded. It was unlike the various signals Zern had heard about camp in the past, and the blaring noise intrigued the dwarf. Perhaps this was the sign he had been waiting for! Perhaps this was the day he would at last be free of Velkynvelve! Pressing himself to the cage bars, the cleric listened intently to the sounds of fighting below camp. A Dancing Lights flared up between the webs as a drow guard screamed bloody murder. Bloodshed, Zern thought to himself, Red as devil’s skin. Red as a Ruby Staff. Shortly thereafter, the sounds of clinking crossbow bolts lit up the otherwise silent morning. Bursts of magic exploded on all sides, as if in response: One, two, in quick succession; then three, four, five... six and seven… Nine shots went off in total, by Zern’s counting. Nine explosive spells before the whole of Velkynvelve was shaken into wakefulness. Nine like the nine-pointed star; Nine like the Nine Hells. Bells went off all over camp after that, shaking awake the rest of the slumbering captives. Everyone snuck closer to the bars as they stirred, intrigued at whatever was going on below. But Zern had to time to worry about his fellow prisoners. He was counting—counting signs out of the hells themselves!

Thirteen guards were dispatched in total. Thirteen, like the thirteen Tieflings who had formed Asmodeus’ original pact. And, in their wake, Ilvara herself ran screaming in her nightdress, Tentacle Rod flaring at her side. “Capture him, you fools! Capture him now!”

Nine. Thirteen. One. And all of it dyed a scarlet red with drow blood. This was the sign Zern had been waiting for! This was the last member of their clandestine team! Zern, the banished Chosen of Asmodeus. Nosey, paladin of Ao, who had already proven herself a match for Ilvara’s wards. Kian, the mighty barbarian of Kord, who had taken more shots than most men could hope to survive. Frec, the curious monk. Their skills were many and far-reaching, but they needed one more member for their team to be complete. And thus, though he didn’t know it yet, Zern Musgardt was finally about to have his date with destiny. After twenty-four days in drow captivity, he and his unlikely ‘friends’ were about to make their escape… All of the signs were there. All of the signs of Asmodeus, Lord of Devils, who was about to send his servant one more helper.

And, ironically, it would come in the form of a self-proclaimed Angel.

~*~

I started this project some time ago as a way to compare sessions with another friend who is DMing the same campaign on the other side of the country. Once my party got wind of it, however, they asked me to flesh it out into a full narrative. Thus, I have revised many of the early sessions in an attempt to do so. We'll see where it goes! I've certainly never done anything like this before, but it might be a fun challenge. The game is Out of the Abyss, and the narrative 'chapters' do cover actual gameplay, even if it will be rather embellished. I should probably say, on that note, that I'm not the DM this time around. Rather, I'm a player--one who's having to figure out the plot, the other PCs, and the NPCs as I go. So that may play on the perspective and require more revisions as everyone's secrets come to light. I've also recently been informed by the DM that he's so pleased with his party's roleplaying and various sidequests, that we will be extending the game past the AP. 

This particular chunk really only covered an introduction that was hastily read to us by the DM after we rolled to determine how long we were captives in camp. Zern's player maximized his dice at 30. Meanwhile, Angel's player rolled a measly 6--a whole 24 days later! And, therefore, the DM was at a bit of a loss. Rather than roleplaying out so many days before he even had the party assembled, he instead elected to summarize and skip ahead to Angel's arrival. So I took the liberty of fleshing out the others' introductions a bit.

Another note might be that our entire party decided to play outside of our comfort zones for this AP. Everyone is playing races, alignments, and classes with which they were utterly unfamiliar. Kian's player has played many alignments, but has never tried barbarian until now. Nosey's player has only played below good alignment and is usually a dragonborn martial DPS. This time, she will be trying out a NG paladin, and playing her first elf (sort of...). Likewise, Zern's player has never played below neutral alignment, and has generally favoured high CHA tieflings. He will be playing a LE cleric, and his first dwarf.  Angel's player is our most experienced, and was given special challenge by the DM. She generally plays a LG paladin of half-elven decent, and volunteers for the unpopular control role. This time she's been asked to play drow, DPS magic, necromancer, and CN alignment. We're not sure how long any of us can keep it up, but we're going to try (to completely sabotage each other)!

I should probably also note that we're running with a bit of home-brew in this campaign. Angel's player will be playing a balanced-looking 5e mod of the old Dread Necromancer class, expertly created by Falco1029 of the Giant in the Playground forums. Nosey’s player is also using a bit of home-brew and playing an Oath called Oath of the Dragon, and Zern is playing a Domain of Darkness, which seems to draw a bit from the Light and War domains.