lumendelmari

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Two

Signs of Madness

1485 D.R. / Day 45 

The Northdark

The second day of travel began with the same muted dread that the companions had long grown used to. Sarith and Fraeya continued to scout ahead while Kazimir and Fargas followed at a measured pace. The tiefling wizard’s silver eyes eagerly traced the lines and symbols etched upon the aged map of the Northdark while Fargas walked with an almost casual swagger, idly spinning a spare dagger in hand. Behind them, Stool and Rumpadump toddled alongside Prince Derendil, the quaggoth’s massive strides forcing the sprouts to scramble to keep pace. Zelyra brought up the rear with Nine this time, keeping watch of their smallest companions.

Around mid-day, the air grew noticeably cooler, carrying with it the faint scent of minerals and something earthy and decayed. The rocky ground beneath their feet gave way to jagged crystalline formations that jutted from the cavern floor and walls like jagged teeth, shimmering with an unsettling purple light.

“We should be nearing an old fortress soon,” Kazimir announced, his voice echoing softly through the cavern. He tapped a point on the map with his finger.

“Fortress?” Fargas echoed. “You think anyone still lives there?”

“If they do,” Fraeya chimed in from the front of the group, “I doubt they’ll be friendly.”

“Anything that survives out here is likely to be hostile—or desperate,” Sarith agreed.

A chill ran through the group as they moved deeper into the cavern. The faerzress veins around them bathed the space in an eerie purple glow. Kazimir knelt beside one of the crystalline structures, brushing his fingers over its smooth, cold surface. He studied it with the curiosity of a scholar.

“Fascinating. Are these naturally formed, or something more?” the wizard murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Nine’s dour voice came from the rear. “My guess is something more,” she said. “‘More’ usually means trouble.”

Up ahead, Fraeya paused, her keen eyes catching on the dark shape that loomed just beyond the subsequent rise. The ruins of a fortress—or perhaps what had once been one—rose from the cavern floor, its stone walls cracked and crumbling, partially swallowed by faerzress. Kazimir had been right.

“We’re not alone,” Sarith suddenly murmured beside her.

Fraeya followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. Standing amidst the ruins was a massive figure, its silhouette outlined by the pulsing purple light. Nearly seven and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a stout frame, the creature moved with a precision that belied its size. It was inspecting the crystalline substance on the stone walls, its movements methodical and deliberate.

“Orc-ish,” Sarith whispered. “Probably an orog.”

The two drow elves exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to proceed with caution.

Fraeya raised her hand, signaling for the others to hang back, and began to move forward, Sarith close at her side. As they approached, the figure continued its inspection, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

When they were within earshot of the stranger, Fraeya called out to them in Undercommon, her voice carrying a mixture of confidence and wariness.

“You there, stranger! State your purpose!”

The figure paused, straightening slowly. As it turned, the drow saw it was indeed an orog, but there was an air of intelligence in its gaze, a depth not often found among such creatures. Its eyes, bright and curious, met Fraeya’s without an ounce of fear or hostility.

“Greetings!” the creature replied. “I am Blurg, a researcher and member of the Society of Brilliance.” He politely inclined his head. “I did not expect company here.”

Fraeya’s eyes flicked to Sarith, then back to Blurg. “The Society of Brilliance,” she repeated, recognition dawning. “We’ve met one of your fellows before. A kuo-toa.”

Blurg’s expression brightened. “Ah, Sloopidoop! A fine mind and a loyal friend.”

Fraeya relaxed, if only slightly, and called the rest of the party forward. . TO READ MORE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/159030967#workskin

[lumendelmari]

The Grey Warriors have finally left the duergar occupied city of Gracklstugh and set course for Neverlight Grove, but every which way the group turns, they find further turmoil in the Underdark. The horror and destruction that began in the kuo-toa village of Sloobludop is rapidly spreading far, far beyond it.

Stonespeaker Hgraam’s grim warning remains fixed in their heads:

“The rock itself cries with pain and horror, and a madness creeps from the blackest depths. Pay heed to the signs around you. A cave with two faces. Rock devoured, and the land overgrown. The pebble believes itself flesh. The earth rejects its wards, and the tunnels shake with fury. By these portents, you shall know of evil’s presence and of evil’s face. This is what the stones tell me.”

More than ever, the lands below need a light in the dark. .

The Grey Warriors

Out of the Abyss: Rage of Demons

Part Two 

A Light In The Dark

. . .

Chapter One

Bad Dreams

1485 D.R. / Day 44 

Gracklstugh, The Underdark

The City of Blades was quieter than usual. Fires had been quenched, bodies laid to rest, and the fractured city began to rebuild under the heavy-handed vigilance of its surviving leaders—the likes of Captain Errde Blackskull, Deepking Horgar Steelshadow V, and Amber Thrazgad. But for all the duergar’s attempts to restore order, shadows lingered, both literal and figurative, in the cavernous streets and tunnels.

High above the city, on a jagged outcropping of stone that jutted from the cavern wall, a hooded figure stood, motionless as a statue. The folds of their cloak rippled faintly in a faint, sulfurous breeze. Their face was obscured, hidden deep within the shadows of their cowl, but the faintest gleam of jewel-like eyes, sharp and calculating, caught the dim glow of the city below. Beside them crouched a nightmarish creature. The hulking, grey-skinned aberration resembled a spiky humanoid toad, a death slaad in its true form. Its eyes were unblinking as they hungrily watched the figures moving far below.

The Grey Warriors, a ragtag band of surface-dwellers and misfits, were leaving the city. From this vantage, the figure watched as they passed through the gates, escorted by duergar Stoneguard. The party’s progress was deliberate but steady, each step carrying them farther from Gracklstugh and deeper into the wilderness of the Underdark.

“They’re moving as you said they would,” the death slaad rasped. “Shall I follow?”

The figure raised a gloved hand—a long, slender hand with unnaturally graceful fingers. It was enough to silence the slaad instantly. “Patience, my pet. They are pawns on the board, and pawns must move at their own pace. Too much interference risks breaking the game.”

“You’ve played it before,” the hunched creature presumed.

“Free will is a most delightful illusion, is it not? It has brought them this far.” The figure’s voice lowered, almost purred. “And it will carry them further. To the Grove, to the Court, to the depths where the others claw and screech like starving beasts…”

The slaad nodded, though its grotesque face betrayed no comprehension of the deeper plan. It did not matter. It was a tool, a loyal piece in a puzzle far greater than itself.

The Grey Warriors were little more than shadows moving toward a distant cavern mouth. The smallest of them—the myconid sprouts, Stool and Rumpadump—scurried close to Prince Derendil’s towering frame. Fraeya and Sarith were at the front, their eyes scanning for dangers that had yet to come. Zelyra’s golden hair gleamed in the faint glow of Kazimir’s staff as the tiefling examined their map. And Nine lingered near the rear, always watching, with Fargas at her side.

They had met before—many times, in fact—though the Grey Warriors had yet to realize it. No, they were still blissfully ignorant to the threads of fate being woven around them, threads that this individual had been silently manipulating since first meeting their echoes. And there were so many delightful meetings yet to come! The figure’s grin widened. There was no doubt, for their story was playing out exactly as written…

His rivals were like stars in a vast, chaotic constellation. Each burned brightly, recklessly consuming all in their path. But stars, even the brightest, could be snuffed out.

“Each step they take, every battle they fight, brings them closer to unraveling this chaotic tapestry,” the figure continued. “They think they fight to restore balance, to stem the tide of madness, but they are blind to the greater design. My design.”

“You would trust them with such a task?” the slaad dared to ask. “They’ve already failed you once. They are weak, fractured, constantly at odds with each other…”

The figure laughed, the sound rich and mocking.

“That is precisely why they will succeed in the end. Their weakness makes them malleable. And so, even their failures may serve me.” They paused, finally turning their head to regard the slaad in full. “These fragile mortals, they hold the knife. Not by their will, of course, but by mine. They will clear the board of every other piece that stands in my way.”

The slaad’s grin widened, its claws flexing in anticipation. “And then?”

“And then,” the figure said, their voice low and filled with dark promise, “only I shall remain. Chaos devours itself, my dear pet. All that is required is the proper catalyst.”

The slaad sneered, but it said no more, its instincts sharp enough to know when to stay silent.

“They don’t know it yet,” the figure murmured. “But the Grey Warriors will be the architects of my victory. When their task is done, when they stand broken and spent at the end of all things, they will see. The Underdark does not give. It only takes.”

The slaad laughed, a wet and guttural sound, as it rose to its full height.

“And will you tell them then, master? Will you let them know they were nothing but pawns?”

The figure’s smile, faint and hidden, could be felt rather than seen. “Perhaps. But it hardly matters. Whether they understand or not, their purpose will be fulfilled.”

Below, the Grey Warriors disappeared into the twisting tunnels of the Northdark.

“Such fragile lights, stumbling through the dark. They’ve survived Gracklstugh, yes… but survival is no triumph. No, not when the game has only just begun.” The hooded figure turned to the slaad with a flick of his hand. “Come. There is much yet to prepare.”

The death slaad followed in silence, its heavy footsteps echoing faintly as the two disappeared into the depths of the Underdark. Above them, the rock walls seemed to shudder faintly as though recoiling from the weight of the plans set into motion. And far ahead, oblivious to the eyes watching them, the Grey Warriors pressed onward into the darkness, unaware of the strings tied to their every step since day one.

. . .

TO READ MORE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/157353130

[lumendelmari]

Epilogue

Fire and Ore

1485 DR / Day 44

The Darklake District, Gracklstugh 

Kazimir finished his meticulous check of supplies. The Stonespeaker Crystal, his spell components, rations, and the map of the Northdark were all accounted for and safely packed away. He glanced over at Zelyra, who sat nearby, her fingers idly tracing the patterns on Eldeth’s shield as she scanned the common room of Ghloroborn’s Lair one last time. After a moment, the wizard joined his druid companion in quiet observation.

The soft amber light of the lanterns cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, and the familiar scent of iron and thick smoke that lingered throughout Gracklstugh permeated the air. It was early morning, but the city above the cavernous tavern was already alive with the clamor of hammers on anvils, the deep guttural tones of duergar speech, and the rhythmic march of the Stoneguard.

The companions had no love for Gracklstugh. It had given them what they needed—sanctuary, purpose, and perhaps even a reason for camaraderie. Now, it was time to move on.

“Feels strange… doesn’t it?” Zelyra muttered. “Leaving this behind.”

Fraeya idly pushed a piece of dark bread around her plate, her silver eyes distant. “I’ll be honest,” she said, breaking the silence. “I won’t miss the air here—it smells like a forge that hasn’t seen a proper cleaning in centuries.”

Kazimir offered a crooked smile. “Probably because it hasn’t. But still, I think… I think I’ll miss it.”

They were gathered around their usual table, finishing their breakfast. Silence stretched among the group as many memories surfaced—from battles fought in the depths of the Whorlstone Tunnels to alliances forged with duergar, stone giants, and infernal war machines. There were parts of Gracklstugh that the companions would carry with them long after they had gone…

“We have made a difference in ways both seen and unseen,” Prince Derendil said. “But now we must look to the road ahead.”

“I’m sure Lizva won’t be sad to see us go,” the wizard quipped.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Nine said, her amber eyes flicking accusingly to Fargas. “She and Vanum received a fair amount of gold for all our trouble…”

The halfling shrugged. “I tip well when I like a place,” was all he had to say.

With that, they shouldered their packs and made their way to the gates of Gracklstugh. The city’s oppressive air closed around them as they walked through streets scarred by battle, past duergar rebuilding what had been shattered. There were no cheers, no fanfare—just the quiet acknowledgment of what they had done and what had been lost.

Captain Errde Blackskull was waiting for them when they arrived, flanked by an escort of Stoneguard. The duergar commander looked as formidable as the day they met her. . . . To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/156392497#workskin

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Forty-One

The Long Road Ahead

1485 DR / Day 42

Ghohlbrorn’s Lair, Gracklstugh

A strange calm washed over the companions as they returned to the tavern that had hosted them for the past tenday. The sound of their booted feet was muffled by the rush of conversation and the clinking of tankards. Lizva was behind the bar, shouting orders to the kitchen staff, while young Vanum scurried between tables, balancing trays of food and drink with the frantic energy only youth could sustain. The air was thick with the aroma of sizzling meats and the tang of duergar ale. Boisterous chatter filled the room, the patrons seeming to take solace in a small oasis of normalcy.

As the group settled into their usual corner, Prince Derendil gave a gracious bow, one clawed hand on his chest. “Allow me to secure the libations for the evening,” he offered.

While the others heartily voiced their orders, Nine declined.

“I don’t drink,” the ranger said, leaning back in her chair and watching the room with her usual wariness.

Derendil raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“Very well, I shall return shortly,” he replied.

Zelyra caught Fraeya’s slight smirk and shook her head, hiding her grin. Derendil’s attempts to retain his elven etiquette in a quaggoth’s body never failed to endear—and amuse—them all.

As the prince lumbered off to put in their order, Fargas kicked back in his chair and stretched his short legs out.  “So,” the halfling began, rubbing his hands together, “Now that we’re not busy dealing with dragons and duergar politics and nobody is trying to kill us—yet. What’s next for you lot? Once you stop running from that lovely drow priestess and her spider squad, of course.”

“Pass,” Nine said.

“Oh, come on!” Fargas winked. “There must be something rattling around in that thick skull of yours. Unless you just like tagging along with a bunch of misfits for the company.”

Nine rolled her eyes while the rest of the table fell quiet, considering the original question. Fargas’s casual grin belied a deeper curiosity; his hazel eyes swept over the group, each of whom he knew harbored many secrets. . . . To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/156331270#workskin

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Forty

Honoring the Fallen

1485 DR / Day 41

Darklake District, Gracklstugh 

The narrow streets of the Darklake District were quiet, save for the distant echo of hammers striking stone as Gracklstugh slowly pulled itself back together. Zelyra, Kazimir, and Prince Derendil moved through rubble-strewn paths, their footsteps slow and heavy. They were too exhausted to hold polite conversation. The cavernous atmosphere of the Underdark pressed in around them, a familiar, suffocating weight of miles of stone overhead. But as the trio entered the outskirts of the Blade Bazaar on their way to Ghloroborn’s Lair, Derendil came to a sudden halt.

“What is it, Prince?” Kazimir asked warily.

“Over there,” Derendil said, pointing to a cluster of debris. “Perhaps my eyes deceive me, but wasn’t that Gnaddne Tinmender’s place?”

“Who?” the wizard replied, trying to place the name.

Zelyra gestured to the enchanted cloak draped across his shoulders.

“Oh—Oh! Gnaddne!” Kazimir exclaimed, his voice quickly shifting from recognition to dismay. For the wreckage was indeed the remains of the deep gnome seamstress’s shop. The roof had caved in entirely, leaving only scorched remnants of support beams protruding like broken bones. Glass shards glittered among the rubble, traces of shattered windows, and an overturned sign lay cracked at their feet, its painted letters barely legible: Tinmender’s Wares. 

Two familiar figures were hard at work, sifting through the scorching debris—Manitou, the eccentric forest gnome with a penchant for surface-world teas and coffees, was darting about, his wild hair sticking out in every direction. Beside him, Brondiac, his bald and beardless hill dwarf partner, moved with the steady precision of a craftsman, lifting stones and setting them aside with quiet determination.

“We should help,” Zelyra said, moving forward even as she spoke.

Kazimir and Derendil quickly followed. . . . To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/154446946#workskin

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Dreamwalker

1485 DR / Day 41

Laduguer’s Furrow, Gracklstugh 

The sad pattern continued as Zelyra, Kazimir, and Prince Derendil made their way westward to Cairngorm Caverns. Destruction, death, silence, fear… The once bustling city of Gracklstugh was rank with it. What should have been a ten-minute walk quickly tripled due to the damage the red dragon, Themberchaud, had wrought.

And yet, there was one bright spot amidst the fallout—

Gracklstugh was already starting to rebuild.

The petty war that had broken out between clans was forgotten. Duergar, who had been at each other’s throats, needlessly spilling blood mere hours before, now rallied together and stoically worked side by side to put out fires, clear the streets, and search for trapped victims. The trio did what they could to help along the way, which slowed them even further.

As they navigated the wreckage of the southern housing district, Zelyra’s sharp eyes fell upon a figure lying near a collapsed building. The druid gasped and rushed forward. Derendil and Kazimir hurried after her. The body that Zelyra had found was none other than Grinta Ironhead.

Not only had Grinta been one of the co-conspirators of Blackskull’s coup—she was Laird Thangus Ironhead’s only daughter. [1] The once proud and fierce weaponsmith now looked so small and fragile, her armor cracked and scorched. Further search revealed Grinta’s honor guard trapped among debris. The elderly priest who presided over their Heroes’ Feast was also there. He lay flat on his back, his dark eyes trained upwards, lifeless and unseeing.

They had never asked the priest’s name, let alone thanked him for the powerful adjuration magic that had undoubtedly saved their lives in the throne room…

And now they never could.

“How did it come to this?” Kazimir muttered.

“Pride was allowed to override reason,” Prince Derendil replied, his head downturned. “No side would have come out of the coup without substantial loss. But they knew that, I think. Blackskull, Amber, Grinta, and the other lairds who sided with them… Themberchaud knew it, too. That’s why he chose to attack when he did. It was his best and only chance. This was a battle that neither side could have won.”

“They didn’t deserve this,” Zelyra said as she dropped to her knees beside the priest and reached out with trembling fingers to close his unseeing eyes in respect. “None of them did,” the druid muttered. She then brought her hands to her mouth in a gasp. “Poor Blackskull! She must—”

Zelyra left the conclusion of ‘guilt’ unsaid.

But both of her companions knew what she meant.

“Yeah,” Kazimir breathed.

The wizard reached into the pocket of his robes for the small, polished stone that connected him to Captain Errde Blackskull. He hesitated, his thumb rubbing its smooth surface before relaying the news and location of the bodies. Blackskull’s response was swift and clipped, but the tiefling could tell it significantly weighed on her.

“I will send a recovery team immediately.”

There was a slight pause, and then—

“Thank you for letting me know, Kazimir,” the duergar said softly. “Stay safe. We’ve lost too many already.”

Not for the first time, the tiefling wizard warred with himself internally. Surely, they could have done something more. Or perhaps they should have done the opposite and turned their backs on Blackskull, washing their hands of the duergar city altogether when they had the chance. But a nagging voice in Kazimir’s subconscious that sounded suspiciously like Fraeya argued that Gracklstugh would have been worse off had they done that. If they had not exposed Shal, if they had not broken the succubus’s hold and returned Deepking Horgar to his right mind—

Themberchaud’s attack would have devastated the City of Blades.

And that effect would not have been limited to Gracklstugh. Had the duergar city fallen to the dragon, it would have had untold consequences on the entire trade infrastructure of the Underdark.

“Any news of Amber Thrazgad’s whereabouts?” the wizard finally asked.

“None,” the captain replied curtly.

The link between the sending stones fell silent.

Kazimir sighed. It was strange, given that their interaction with the head of Clan Thrazgad had been limited to just a few short meetings, but the tiefling felt as though a rock had settled in the pit of his stomach. Had the fiery armorsmith met the same fate as Grinta Ironhead?

The wizard took another deep breath and then released it. Around them, the duergar continued their grim work, cleaning the streets and tending to the wounded. There was resilience to them, some stubborn determination to keep going despite all odds. Kazimir had come to respect it during their time in the city. They might not see eye to eye on specific policies—the slave trade, for one—but these were a people who had built their lives in the harshest of environments, who had carved out a place for themselves in the unforgiving Underdark. They would survive this, somehow.

. . . Read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/152830810

[lumendelmari]

The Cult of the Gol’Goroth

Chapter Ten

Midwinter

Three months later…

Hammer 1485 DR (Midwinter)

Taras Aldar, Neverwinter Wood

The druid village of Taras Aldar celebrated the holiday of Midwinter as any other respectable place would—with feasting, music, dancing, and drinking. Midwinter was the first festival day on Faerûn’s calendar. While nobility typically saw it as a day to commemorate or renew alliances, the common folk marked it as the midpoint of the cold season, with some hard times still ahead, but many of the worst days now past. There were very few days when the sentries who guarded the outposts of Neverwinter Wood were called into the village proper. The Midwinter feast was one of them. Of course, a handful remained in the Wood. However, shifts were rotated so that everyone could participate in the festivities.

That is how Varan Fenhirel found himself trapped in a very incongruous scenario.

It was not often that the elves of Taras Aldar became as loud and rowdy as they were at present. The village typically had an air of peace and tranquility as its inhabitants were hard at work doing their part to keep Taras Aldar running. But that all changed when Ansron’s drink started to flow. The Master of Lore had earned a reputation for his potent homemade honey wine. It was only brought out on festival days. Thus, the denizens of Taras Aldar readily partook.

At present, a female moon elf stood before the impatient ranger. Two young wolves flanked her. They rested calmly, but the ranger noted that their eyes were ever alert for danger despite the safe setting. She had the light blue skin of a moon-elf. Her fiery red hair was worn loose to tumble down nearly to her waist, and her eyes were a startling emerald green. Her oval face was young and youthful and currently bore a blinding smile. Like all the other villagers, the moon elf had dressed for the occasion and wore a flowing, navy dress trimmed with embroidered patterns of silver. And in her hand was a tankard full of Ansron’s famous honey wine, which she presently thrust in Varan’s direction.

“Come on, nobody turns down Ansron’s drink!” the moon elf sang with a slight slur. “Not even you!”

“How many cups have you had now, Arlathan?” Varan asked tiredly.

The moon elf, Arlathan, shrugged. “I’ve lost count.”

Varan resisted the urge to slap his hand on his forehead. “If I accept the drink, will you tell me where Zelyra is?”

“Why do you think I’d know?”

“You are her best friend.”

Arlathan smiled. “I don’t know! You could contend me for that title. Unless…that is…you were to finally fight for a more permanent role in her life.”

The dark-haired ranger was visibly startled by the bold insinuation, and Arlathan snickered, knowing she’d hit a nerve.

Varan all but ripped the tankard from the moon elf’s outstretched hand and drained half of it before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Arlathan had no idea how close she was to the truth at that moment.

“Zelyra? Where is she?” he repeated testily.

“Last I saw her, she was dancing with her father,” Arlathan replied while gesturing lazily toward the roaring fires where many elves had partnered up and were dancing to music played by Ansron and some of his assistants.

In addition to lore, the elven master appreciated all arts and had spent countless decades studying them. Ansron currently played a pair of bagpipes while the others in his band had pan flutes and drums. Unsurprisingly, the half-giant barbarian, Krom, had joined the festivities as well and happily strummed away on his oversized lute. Well-known tunes wafted from their instruments, allowing the dancers to sing along. It was a picture of merriment if any there ever were. [1]

“Thank you,” the ranger said, intending to take his leave.

But Arlathan stopped the ranger with a hand on the arm. Her face turned serious at that moment, and Varan knew that for all that she had been drinking, whatever was about to leave her lips was the sober truth.

“Varan, for once in your life, just live a little. You spend your days worrying about the village, fighting the evil of the Wood, and acting as if the whole world rests on your shoulders alone. Open up and enjoy yourself. Do something crazy. Like—like, go dance with Zelyra! You, of all people, have earned that,” Arlathan said. “We all see it. Hells, Krom and I had to endure an entire tenday of watching you two needlessly pine for one another! You fight hard for the survival of our Circle, and we are grateful for it. But for the love of the gods, you deserve a little joy in your life… And Zelyra does, too!”

The words struck the ranger, and though he did not outwardly show it, he was glad for Arlathan’s council. She might be a mild drunkard—the druid’s behavior this night was not unusual—but her wisdom came out when it most counted.

. . . Click the link to continue... :)

[lumendelmari]

The Cult of the Gol’Goroth

Chapter Nine

Many Partings

Part Two

16 Elient (The Fading) 1484 DR / Day 8 

Central Neverwinter Wood

The noise of the arcane explosion roused Varan, Krom, and Arlathan from their sleep. They were on their feet in an instant, weapons drawn and their eyes scanning the darkness for threats. It took only a few minutes for them to locate the source of the disturbance—the swirling portal within the blackened tree and Zelyra’s crumpled form lying motionless on the forest floor a few yards from it.

“Zelyra!” Varan shouted, rushing to her side with speed that belied his usual composure. The ranger dropped to his knees beside her, his heart pounding as he checked for signs of life.

Arlathan knelt beside him, her hands glowing with the soft light of a healing spell. “Hold on, Zelyra,” she murmured. But as the light faded, Zelyra remained still, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and uneven.

“It’s not working,” Arlathan said. “Why isn’t it working?”

Krom stood a few paces away, his massive form silhouetted against the glowing portal. His grip tightened on the hilt of his warhammer as he cast a suspicious look at the swirling energy. “What in the Nine Hells is that thing?” he asked.

Varan ignored the half-giant’s question. He leaned down, pressing his ear to the druid’s chest, listening for her heartbeat. It was there, faint but steady, a small reassurance that she was still alive. “She’s breathing at least,” the ranger said. “But if magic can’t wake her…”

“Then all we can do is wait,” Arlathan said.

“I hate waiting,” Krom grumbled.

“Don’t we all,” Varan muttered.

And so, they waited, tense and anxious, as the minutes ticked by. The portal continued to hum ominously in the background. Every now and then, Varan would glance up at it, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and unease.

. . .

To read more, click the link above :D

[lumendelmari]

 The Cult of the Gol’Goroth

Chapter Eight

Many Partings

Part One

15 Elient (The Fading) 1484 DR / Day 7 

The Lair of the Gol’Goroth, northeastern Neverwinter Wood

The companions slowly made their way back to Goldleaf, their steps heavy with the weight of their recent battle, lack of sleep, and the grim news they carried. Erstod, the once-corrupt wizard, walked with them, a mixture of guilt and resolve etched on his face. But as the group approached town, it became clear that their return would not be met with open arms. The streets were eerily silent, and the villagers were still shuttered up in their homes, too afraid to venture outside. The once vibrant settlement was like a ghost town, its people paralyzed by fear.

“How do we want to go about this?” Varan asked as they entered the village proper.

“Perhaps we should speak to Hal first,” Zelyra suggested.

“And what? Try to catch him in a lie?” Arlathan asked.

“We already have damning evidence against him,” Krom pointed out.

Erstod nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, you might, but it never hurts to cover all your bases. Perhaps there is still more we can take away from this mess,” the wizard said, agreeing with Zelyra.

The half-elf shot the old man a grateful smile. “I want to know why,” she added, her green eyes blazing. “How could anyone betray the trust of their people like this? What did the Gol’Goroth promise that was worth more than innocent lives?!”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to corner the weasel in his own home…maybe force a confession out of him…” Krom trailed off, becoming more open to the idea.

“And ensure that he doesn’t try to flee,” Varan concluded fiercely.

“Hal Neelow is a charlatan through and through. I know it, and I know you know it too,” Erstod told the ranger. He then raised his voice to address the group at large. “It would be most unwise to underestimate this man. He will try to gain the upper hand, no matter how you confront him. Perhaps it would be best to first try to do it quietly, and if that does not work—make your voices heard.”

“I think we can manage that,” Arlathan said with a feral grin.

After some direction from their new ally, the companions approached the mayor’s modest home, a structure that seemed out of place given his duplicitous dealings. They knocked on the door, and after an extended pause, it creaked open. Hal Neelow stood before them, wearing a set of striped pajamas and a ridiculous nightcap with a fuzzy ball on the end. The mayor’s eyes widened in bewilderment when he saw Erstod standing with the group, but swiftly masked his shock with a wide, disingenuous smile.

“Erstod!” Hal exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise! I didn’t expect to see you here with our valiant heroes.”

The wizard made no effort to return the greeting.

“You have all returned in one piece. So, I assume that all is well?” the mayor continued, unfazed by their silence.

“Not all of us have returned,” Arlathan said icily.

Hal’s gaze flitted among them confusedly.

“But…there were only four of you…”

“Five,” the moon elf corrected bitterly.

“Are…are you certain?”

“The Gol’Goroth is no more, but Hayth gave his life in the process,” Arlathan barked.

“Hayth?” the man muttered before his eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh—oh! Your pet!”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Arlathan’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I mean…your…animal companion?” Hal backpaddled nervously. “I’m so sorry for your loss. But at least now, the vicious monster is dead, and the town can rest easy. The people have nothing more to fear,” he offered, not really meaning the words.

The moon elf folded her arms across her chest and huffed in reply. . . .

Check out the links above for more.

[lumendelmari]

Above: Art Credit: /u/elella on Reddit

Below: a quick Midjourney render I made. Not perfect but pretty creepy.

The Gol'Goroth's stat block, borrowed from 'Nerzugal's Dungeon Master Toolkit'.

This character is from “Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins,” the prequel to “The Grey Warriors,” a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

[lumendelmari]

Zelyra Erenaeth, half-elf druid.

This character is from "Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins," the prequel to "The Grey Warriors," a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

Read the story here:

[lumendelmari]

The human wizard, Erstod. Keymaster of the Cult of the Gol'Goroth.

This character is from "Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins," the prequel to "The Grey Warriors," a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

[lumendelmari]

Varan Fenhirel, half-elven ranger of the Circle of Swords in Neverwinter Wood. Also featuring his hawk animal companion, Ambrosia. These characters are from "Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins," the prequel to "The Grey Warriors," a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

[lumendelmari]

Krom, the half-giant zealot barbarian who originally hailed from the Northlands, but now assists the Circle of Swords in Neverwinter Wood. This character is from "Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins," the prequel to "The Grey Warriors," a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

[lumendelmari]

Arlathan Addar, moon elf druid of the Circle of Swords. Also featuring her wolf companion, Hayth, and her enchanted flask of mead. These characters are from "Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins," the prequel to "The Grey Warriors," a retelling of a completed Out of the Abyss (Dungeons and Dragons) campaign.

You can read both stories here:

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Aftermath

1485 DR / Day 41 

The Hold of the Deepking, Gracklstugh

The hatch slammed shut with a resounding—bang—and with it, the weight of all that occurred in the past few hours fell heavily on the Grey Warriors’ shoulders. The mutated dragon egg had been destroyed, Shal was revealed to be a succubus who served the mysterious ‘Dark Prince,’ and the red dragon, Themberchaud, had razed the city before ambushing the Hold of the Deepking. They’d lost two of their companions in the ensuing battle…

The surviving party members escaped the collapsing royal chamber alongside Deepking Horgar, Captain Blackskull, and Broot via a secret passageway beneath the throne. They found themselves in total darkness, unable to make out even the slightest detail of their hand when held just inches from their face. Fortunately, their other senses made up for what they could not see. A blend of earthy odors hung in the air. The atmosphere was chilled and stale, but it also felt heavy. Somehow, the stone-shattering din of the collapsing room above them was absent. The only sound that reached their ears was the scrape of their boots against the stone and the occasional rat scurrying by.

Kazimir was seconds away from summoning his dancing lights when Deepking Horgar struck a flint against an oil-filled channel affixed to the wall. The duergar alone had the sense to shield his eyes as a long line of blinding flame raced down the chute, filling the space with heat and bright light. Sarith hissed, and black spots danced in Prince Derendil’s vision. Captain Blackskull and Broot also turned their heads and shied from the flames. But Fraeya appeared only as affected as the surface dwellers among them and blinked hard—once, twice—before settling. Horgar thought that was odd for a drow but left it alone. [1]

“Follow me,” the duergar said as he descended the staircase. His impressive, black fur cloak swept the dusty floor behind him.

. . .

Read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/129783106

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Grey Warriors

1485 DR / Day 41 

The Hold of the Deepking, Gracklstugh

“You will not be leaving the palace,” Deepking Horgar Steelshadow V announced as his hand closed around Brimtongue, the enchanted warhammer that had been in his possession for decades. He muttered its command word under his breath, and the faint runes began to burn red hot. Kazimir immediately recognized them as Infernal.

“That’s not good,” the tiefling muttered.

“But that’s even worse,” Fargas said as the iron door to the throne room swung open. The eight Stoneguard waiting outside marched in to join their counterpart. They held loaded crossbows in their hands, which they promptly pointed at the cornered adventurers.

“We knew what we were getting ourselves into,” Balasar said gruffly as his eyes darted around the room, seeking a secondary exit. There were none that he could see.

“But did we?” Kazimir yelped.

“The egg must be destroyed,” the dragonborn answered.

“And the people of Gracklstugh need capable leadership,” Fraeya added sharply.

Zelyra rested a comforting hand on the tiefling’s shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” she said.

Kazimir sighed in defeat. He knew they were right—but why did doing the right thing consistently land them in ‘chance of certain death’ scenarios?

The wizard quickly relayed the spiraling situation to Captain Blackskull via sending stone. Shal was an obvious threat, and the Deepking was not in his right mind. It was enough for Blackskull to surge forward with her coup. But the captain blatantly recommended that the companions not engage the Deepking until she was present. But more than fifty Darkhafts, the Deepking’s secret police, stood between Errde and the throne room. It would take time for the captain and her honor guard to work their way in and for the word to spread amongst the Stoneguard to break their cover. For now, the adventurers were on their own.

“Bind their hands!” Horgar commanded.

The guards began to quickly advance.

But the companions had no intention of going willingly.

. . .

Read more here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35100307/chapters/123922831

or

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13962836/37/The-Grey-Warriors