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.
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.
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