More of The Grey Warriors

Chapter Ten

The Fountain of Mad Memory

1485 D.R. / Day 63 The Oozing Temple, The Northdark

The Grey Warriors stood at the top of the narrow, spiraling staircase. There was no light here beyond their own. They'd crossed forbidden glyphs, treaded tainted water, survived a room full of dissolving puddings and oozes, and solved a puzzle upon which one wrong step might have meant death. And that had brought them here.

To her.

A lone figure waited in the archway ahead, as though she'd always been part of the ruin. A drow woman, leaning casually against a set of massive double doors. Arms crossed. One foot hooked over the other. The curl of her lips spoke of calculated calm.

Fraeya froze. Not from surprise—but from recognition.

Karilla.

The last time they’d seen each other, Fraeya had been bleeding on obsidian stone, wrists bound, surrounded by jeering House Vandree schemers. Karilla had been standing just behind them—too quiet, too still, too pleased—right next to Fraeya’s sisters. Some friendships ended loudly. Others sharpened themselves wordlessly into weapons.

Now here she was again. Same smirk. Same eyes like deep, dark wine gone sour.

The others felt the shift immediately—bodies tensing, weapons angling forward. The name Juiblex still throbbed in their minds like a grim caveat, but the danger now stood embodied in front of them: a ghost from Fraeya’s past. And the Oozing Temple seemed to listen, as though hungry to feast on the tension brewing between them.

Fraeya’s fingers hovered near the grip of her battered rapier.

“Do not trust her,” she muttered to the others.

Karilla’s smirk widened.

“Well,” the drow purred, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward with feline grace, “is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Fraeya ignored the bait.

“What are you doing here?” the rogue asked instead.

Karilla toyed idly with the hilt of the dagger at her hip. “Same as you, I imagine. Searching for something worth taking.” Her gaze drifted lazily over the Grey Warriors behind Fraeya—her eyes lingering on Kazimir’s staff, Zelyra’s shield, Prince Derendil’s glowing sword. “I must admit… strange company you keep these days.”

Fraeya let out a quiet breath. “What’s the family up to these days?” she tried instead.

“Slavery. Same as always,” Karilla replied breezily. “What about you?”

“Funny,” the rogue shot back, “I just escaped it.”

“Ah, yes. The great escape.” The other drow’s voice was spun silk and spite. “Word of that has spread far. Ilvara Mizzrym still curses your name. I imagine it felt good—spitting on the life you left behind.”

The silence between them was thick and brittle.

Kazimir raised an eyebrow. “Okaaaay… I take it you know each other?”

Neither drow turned to acknowledge him.

Instead, Fraeya moved forward, producing her lockpicks with smooth precision. Karilla mirrored her immediately, crouching at the opposite door. Zelyra, Nine, Fargas, and Derendil exchanged baffled looks as the two drow women worked in eerie unison, their movements too synchronized to be a coincidence. Sarith, standing slightly apart, watched with practiced neutrality.

Fraeya’s tools clicked softly against the first lock.

Karilla sighed dramatically. “Not even going to ask for help?”

“I don’t need it,” the rogue muttered.

But Karilla was already drawing her own slender picks from within her sleeve. “Oh, please. You always struggled with locks.”

Fraeya’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t look up. “How did it feel—selling me out?”

Karilla didn’t hesitate. “Ravishing,” she said smoothly, as if savoring the word. The second lock gave a crisp click beneath her fingers, and she glanced sidelong at Fraeya, eyes alight with mocking amusement. “I made it to the next step. You didn’t.”

The Grey Warriors shifted uncomfortably, their confusion only deepening.

“Do they know we’re still here?” Fargas muttered.

Kazimir glanced toward Sarith. “Well? Care to intervene?”

The warrior’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No. This is between them.”

What he left unsaid hung heavily in the air: matters between drow females were not his to interfere with. Yet his hand hovered near his blades—wary, protective.

The final mechanism to the double doors gave way with a low, echoing creak.

Fraeya rose smoothly. “There.”

Karilla leaned back with a satisfied hum. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The air that rushed past as the doors opened was thick with an acrid stench. The chamber beyond stretched wide, its walls lined with grotesque sculptures that looked half-melted. At the room’s center stood a grand fountain, its basin brimming with brackish, stagnant water. The ruins of a statue lay at the fountain’s base. But nothing remained but a pair of clawed feet that still clung to the pedestal.

But there was something else. A scent that had not been there before. Sulfur.

Sarith’s breath hitched. “Something isn’t right,” he said, drawing his crossbow. . . .

Chapter Nine

The Faceless Lord

1485 D.R. / Day 64 The Northdark

The next morning came without sunrise, as mornings always did in the Underdark. It was marked not by light but by the weary stirrings of the Grey Warriors as they roused from uneasy rest. They wore the fatigue of their journey plainly in their faces and in the set of their shoulders. Yet there was an unspoken unity in the way the seven adventurers moved together, as if each small task, repeated daily, anchored them against the endless dark. The myconids mirrored them, clustering close to Sovereign Basidia as they shared faint pulses of reassurance among themselves.

It was in this moment of quiet that Fargas chose to loudly clear his throat. He glanced at his companions, slicking back his dark hair with one hand before speaking.

“So, uh… there’s something you all should know.”

Derendil shot the halfling a tired look as he fastened the quaggoth-sized cloak that Gnaddne Tinmender had given him in Gracklstugh. “That is a promising way to start one’s morning,” the cursed elf prince said dryly.

“What is it?” Fraeya asked.

“During our watch,” the halfling began, “we felt a tremor. Just a small one.”

The drow’s frown deepened. “A tremor?”

“Yes,” Zelyra added softly. “But it was brief. We didn’t think it worth waking anyone.”

“You probably should have,” Nine cut in sharply.

Fargas shrugged, palms up. “It hardly lasted a breath. And as our dear druid said, it didn’t seem urgent at the time.”

“Urgent or not, we should be wary,” the ranger replied. Her golden eyes cut toward the cluster of exhausted myconids. “We’ve lost too many already.”

“Well,” Kazimir said suddenly, breaking the tension with exaggerated cheer as he rummaged through his satchel, “clearly what we need is reinforcements.”

Fargas blinked. “From where? Unless you’ve been hiding a garrison in that bag—”

Before Fargas could finish, the wizard flourished a small, fuzzy gray ball from a tan pouch. With a dramatic flick, he tossed the puff onto the cavern floor. Magic rippled, and in a sudden crack of transmutation energy, the shape swelled, solidified, and rose on four massive paws. A great brown bear now stood before the Grey Warriors, fur bristling, claws scraping stone. A few of the myconids shuffled back uneasily.

Kazimir, however, beamed as though reunited with an old friend. “Mr. Bear! Buddy!” His voice cracked with boyish delight. “Haven’t seen you since Gracklstugh!”

The bear lumbered forward and booped the wizard’s chest with its snout.

“What have I said about taking on strays?” Fraeya groaned.

“Mr. Bear is no stray,” Kazimir replied, affronted. “He’s an esteemed ally! An honorary member of the Grey Warriors. Just like Peanut!”

At the mention of his name, the tiny fey mouse poked its head out from Zelyra’s golden braid and squeaked sleepily. The druid laughed under her breath.

“We’re marching through narrow tunnels, not frolicking in the High Forest,” Nine said flatly.

“Exactly why we need Mr. Bear,” Kazimir countered.

The bear huffed in agreement before settling beside his wizard master.

“Excellent,” Sarith drawled from the shadows. “At least if supplies run thin, we’ll have meat.”

Mr. Bear growled.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” Kazimir shrieked. “Mr. Bear is not food!”

Chapter Eight

On the Run

1485 D.R. / Day 58 The Northdark

The adventurers and Sovereign Basidia’s people ran until their lungs burned and their legs felt like lead. Each step took them further from Neverlight Grove, further from Zuggtmoy’s influence… They were thankful but still very much fearful. For there was nothing else for miles and miles. Only cold and oppressive darkness. They did not stop again until the tunnel split in two. It was, quite literally, a fork in the road.

“Which way?” Fargas asked.

“The right path leads to Blingdenstone,” Kazimir said after consulting their map. “The left tunnel will take us back toward Gracklstugh.”

Nine glanced at the left-hand path. “We can’t go back to Gracklstugh.”

“We’re not,” Fraeya said. “But we can lead any pursuers astray — thrall or drow.”

It was a reminder that Zuggtmoy’s servants weren’t the only ones chasing them.

The rogue had an idea. She quickly conferred with her companions, Sovereign Basidia and Rasharoo. A few of the myconids volunteered to head down the path towards Gracklstugh, leaving clear, deliberate tracks. A false trail. The remaining group waited anxiously, huddled together, their nerves taut as bowstrings. 

Sarith stood apart, staring back the way they’d come.

Fraeya stepped close. “You alright?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m here.”

She reached out, hesitated briefly, then rested her hand on his arm. “Good enough.”

When Rasharoo and the other myconids returned, their nods indicated their success.

Zelyra then knelt by the entrance to the tunnel leading toward Blingdenstone to enact the second part of Fraeya’s plan. The druid extended her hand. Soft golden-green magic flowed from her fingertips, caressing the stone floor and coaxing small fungal growths to emerge. The growths twisted together, swelling rapidly until thick tangles of moss, towering stalks of zurkhwood, and sprawling tendrils of nightshade and bulbfruit sealed the path behind them.

The march toward Blingdenstone continued. They trudged through tunnel after tunnel. Exhaustion set in like a slow poison, sapping their strength and numbing their minds. But fear gnawed at their heels, pressing them forward. Only when their bodies refused to continue did they allow themselves to stop. By now, their breaths were shallow, their steps sluggish. Even Derendil’s towering form struggled to keep up with their swift pace.

“We need to rest,” Nine advised from the rear of their caravan.

The others agreed. Nearly eight hours had passed since their desperate flight from Neverlight Grove. And so, when they eventually came upon a wide cavern—large enough to accommodate a makeshift camp of thirty frightened myconids and seven weary adventurers—Sarith called for the group to halt.

“Here.” The warrior’s voice was hoarse, tired. “We rest here.”

As the myconids settled in clusters to rest, the adventurers gathered around Sovereign Basidia and Rasharoo. Stool’s tiny form rested between the larger myconids. The sprout lay completely motionless, cap bruised and cracked.

“How’s Stool?” Fraeya asked.

“Weak but alive,” Basidia answered. “Thanks to your friends’ quick thinking.”

Zelyra shook her head, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Kaz got Stool out,” she argued, nodding toward the wizard. “I just… patched him up.”

Basidia disagreed. “That may be. But it was your healing that gave them a second chance. A life they would not have had otherwise.”

Zelyra didn’t answer immediately. The druid thought again of that frantic moment—of seeing Stool, skewered to the cavern floor and dying, and the prayer that had sprung unbidden to her lips. She had called out to the Wildmother. Or perhaps someone else…

Her thoughts shifted to Sarith. To the Garden of Welcome. To the shimmering white shield that had protected the drow warrior from Yestabrod—and Zuggtmoy’s death sentence by proxy. Stool wasn’t the only one who received a second chance that day.

“Has anyone seen Rumpadump?” Kazimir asked suddenly.

The cavern fell painfully silent as each adventurer turned slowly to look at the others, realization dawning across their faces. For a moment, no one answered. No one could. 

“They were with us when we left,” Rasharoo projected softly. “I…I do not know when we lost them.”

Derendil hung his head. “He was right beside Stool when the myconids first ran. He was right there…”

“We left him,” Fargas murmured. “Gods above and below, we left him.”

The group lapsed into silence, each of them lost in their own regret.

Sarith stared off into the dark. His crimson eyes were distant, almost lost. “I know loss,” he admitted slowly, drawing their attention. “But losing someone who depended on you... that never fades.” The others stared at him with dumbfounded expressions. It was rare for the drow to show such vulnerability.

After a long pause, Zelyra rose unsteadily. “We should rest,” she said. “I’ll try something new tonight, something more than just shadows to hide our presence.”

The druid stepped away from their circle and mustered the last reserves of her strength to cast another spell. Her voice shook slightly as she concentrated on memories of Taras Aldar. Home. Wards. Safety. Slowly, rocks shifted into place around them, appearing to tumble and crash silently to form an illusion of a rockslide that sealed the cavern in all directions. The magic shimmered briefly, then held firm. It was a smaller, more humble reflection of the Mirage Arcane wards that protected the druidic village at the heart of Neverwinter Wood. For now, it would have to suffice. [1]

Zelyra rejoined the others, eyes heavy, chest tight with so many different emotions. More than ever, she missed home. Prince Derendil, standing nearby with Dawnbringer at his side, touched her shoulder.

“Come,” he said gently. “I will take the first watch with you.”

She nodded.

The prince and the druid spoke little, content to share quiet companionship as the hours crept by uneventfully. When it came time to change watch, they quietly roused Sarith and Fraeya. The drow elves took their positions at the edge of the druid’s illusion—watching, waiting. Fraeya turned the sending stone nervously in her hand, her heart a tangled mess of nerves and confusion.

At last, she glanced at Sarith and held up the stone.

“You look better,” the rogue began.

The warrior snorted, a ghost of dark amusement flickering through his usually guarded face. “Considering I was dead this morning, that’s not saying much.”

Fraeya smirked, but it faded quickly.

She hesitated, then—

“Did you… did you hear me?”

Sarith stiffened slightly, fingers twitching, crimson eyes flickering toward her silver ones. He did not answer immediately. Silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Then his thoughts touched hers through the stone, soft, hesitant.

“I did.”

Fraeya exhaled slowly. It was neither rejection nor acceptance. She nodded once and turned her focus back to the darkness. But Sarith surprised her by speaking again.

“I remember dying,” he murmured. “And that’s the strange part. I should not.”

“Did you see anything?” Fraeya asked.

He was quiet again, wrestling with shadows the rogue couldn’t see. Eventually, a single word came through the stone, pained and vulnerable: “Yes.”

Fraeya did not press. Neither spoke again. But the silence held them close.

When Nine and Kazimir took over for the third watch, Fargas joined them. The halfling deliberately seated himself between the ranger and the wizard. “Now listen,” he hissed, handing each a sending stone. “I know it’s been a rough day—hells, it’s been a rough couple tendays—but if I hear even a peep of an argument from either of you, you’ll have worse to deal with than spore servants.”

Nine scowled but gave a curt nod. “Message received, Rumblefoot.”

Kazimir’s lips twitched. “Understood.”

“Good.” Fargas settled himself. “Now, eyes open and mouths shut, all right?”

The three companions sat in silence until Kazimir suddenly spoke to Nine through his stone. “We should have done more.”

The ranger heard but didn’t turn. “We did everything we could.”

“Did we?” the wizard asked. “Another place destroyed... Stool nearly died. Sarith did die. And then Rumpadump— Gods, we don’t even know where he is.”

“We can’t save everyone, Kazimir. We can only do our best.”

“I just fear our best isn’t enough.”

“I can feel your stares, you know? Remember what I told you about arguing?” Fargas hissed at the pair, assuming the worst.

“We’re not arguing,” Nine said aloud.

“We’re… reflecting,” Kazimir agreed.

The halfling paused, voice softening slightly. “Aye. Fair enough.”

Chapter Seven

Exodus

1485 D.R. / Day 57 Neverlight Grove

The final syllables of the restoration ritual lingered. Sloopidoop’s webbed hands hovered over Sarith’s still form, shimmering with a faint glow that matched the blue light thrumming beneath the ground. The six companions remained in a tight ring around the fallen drow warrior, hands touching his shoulders, arms, and armor, each a thread in the fragile web anchoring him to the material plane. Silence followed. It stretched, thick and unbearable, each second dragging out like an eternity.

Then—

Sarith’s chest heaved upward like a man pulled from drowning. His eyes shot open wide—wild, dilated, frantic—muscles tense as if he might strike or bolt. He flailed instinctively, but something caught his wrist.

“Sarith?!”

“He’s breathing!”

Zelyra let out a choked gasp of relief, half a laugh, half a sob. Beside her, Fraeya exhaled sharply, blinking fast and wiping her cheek. The two women threw an arm around each other in a tight, brief side-hug.

“You absolute bastard!”

Sarith blinked rapidly, his vision sharpening. The grove swam into view—blurry faces and familiar voices. A strange dampness clung to his skin. He shivered, not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. His body ached, his head throbbed, but he was alive. His eyes locked onto Fraeya’s, and the rogue pressed something into his hands before he could fully register what had happened. Cold metal, worn smooth by time. He looked down. It was two small emblems. He knew them.

“You are innocent.”

Sarith swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat as he stared at them. “How—?”

“You escaped that day,” Fraeya continued, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. “Imbros Mizzrym did not.”

His breath hitched. He had assumed— 

No. He hadn’t allowed himself to assume.

Sarith had let the memory of that doomed mission rot in his mind, convinced that he had failed. He lost more than just a fellow guard that day. He lost his station, his dignity, everything. He had lived with the weight of that sin for what felt like a lifetime. And now, Fraeya had undone it with the simple truth laid bare in his hands.

You escaped that day.

He did not.

His lips parted, but before he could voice the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind, Fraeya’s relief turned to fury. “What were you thinking!?” she burst, rounding on Sarith so fast he recoiled on instinct. “Running into the fight like that?! You were already on the brink of—of whatever the Abyss was happening to you, and then you go sliding down the ravine to distract Yestabrod like a damned martyr?!”

Sarith blinked, then let out a tired, long-suffering sigh. He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face as the rogue continued her tirade.

“You could’ve died! You almost did die! Gods, you are so reckless, I—”

“I did die,” the drow warrior corrected dryly.

“Apparently, you need someone to remind you that you are not expendable!”

“I had it under control.”

“You liar!”

Sarith groaned, but there was no real venom behind it.

“I was already infected,” he insisted. “It seemed efficient.”

A vein in Fraeya’s forehead bulged as she pulled her lips back in a snarl. The drow looked like she was two seconds away from sending Sarith straight back to his grave.

Kazimir chuckled lowly before stepping forward, extending a hand to the drow warrior.

“Okay, okay. Let him breathe, Fraeya.”

Characters of the Grey Warriors: ‘A Light in the Dark’ Part II of a completed 'Out of the Abyss’ campaign story Kazimir Oussnddare - tiefling wizard Fargas Rumblefoot - halfling rogue Fraeya - drow rogue Sarith Kzekarit - drow warrior Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Nine - half elf ranger and  Prince Derendil - quaggoth barbarian/fighter

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.”

Characters of the Grey Warriors: 'A Light in the Dark' Part II of a completed 'Out of the Abyss' campaign story Nine - half elf ranger Fargas Rumblefoot - halfling rogue Kazimir Oussnddare - tiefling wizard Prince Derendil - quaggoth barbarian/fighter Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Fraeya - drow rogue and Sarith Kzekarit - drow warrior

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. to read click on the following link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/157353130

Characters from Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Arlathan Addar - moon elf druid Varan Fenhirel - half elf ranger Krom - half giant bard-barian and Hyath - Arlathan's animal companion

What led Zelyra Erenaeth to be captured by drow and imprisoned deep within the Underdark? Well, that is an unrelated tale that begins on the surface. The Archdruids of Neverwinter Wood send two druids-in-training, a half-elven ranger, and a half-giant barbarian to investigate claims of a malevolent nature spirit’s work against a small village on the northeastern edge of the forest. It was supposed to be a training exercise, nothing more. But what the party uncovers is something far, far more sinister. COMPLETE.

Based on the horror one-shot ‘The Cult of the Gol’Goroth’ from Nerzugal's Dungeon Master Toolkit.

Chapter Six

Restoration

1485 D.R. / Day 56 Neverlight Grove

The garden was wailing. It was accompanied by a sound not unlike laughter—a wet, pulsing, hysterical gurgle that echoed from the grove’s dark recesses—and ended with the dead clawing their way free of the rot. Fungal growths bloomed like wounds across the earth. From the soft loam of the graves, half-buried corpses of drow, duergar, and deep gnomes spasmed upright. Their hollow eyes glowed with a sickly sheen, their armor rusted and fused with mold.

At the heart of it all was Yestabrod.

Its form was revolting: a bloated parody of a myconid layered in glistening membranes and lumpy masses of fungal flesh. Its hands were fused with chitinous claws, its legs were lost beneath a mound of slime-slicked stalks, and its torso writhed with embedded faces—some grinning, others locked in eternal screams. Purple spores leaked from its vents like poisoned perfume. Zelyra gagged. It was rot, meat, and sulfur rolled into one terrible scent.

“You are too late,” Yestabrod crooned, its voice slithering into each of their minds. “The Lady’s embrace is inevitable. But do not despair. You, too, shall become beautiful. Join the wedding! Join the joy!”

“Sorry, ugly,” Nine snapped coldly as she readied her bow. “I never liked weddings anyway.”

The ranger found a perch atop a thick, twisted mushroom stalk and fired again. Both shafts streaked through the mist. The first lodged deep into the mottled flesh of one of the myconids flanking Yestabrod. The creature staggered as thick, red-colored distress spores burst from the wound. Her second arrow found the forehead of a drow spore servant lunging towards Kazimir, dropping it instantly. The wizard shot her a rare, grateful smile.

“One down,” the ranger muttered as it fell. “Way too many left to go.”

Below her, Fraeya’s breath caught for only a second before her rapier flashed out with lethal elegance, carving swiftly into the animated remains of Xinaya. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. A sudden, gut-wrenching resolve straightened her shoulders. “Not even you deserved this kind of fate.” A twist. A dagger up under the chin. Fraeya turned her head as the face of the young acolyte—once familiar and gone—slumped backward. The body dropped, and the rogue stepped over it, jaw clenched.

As Fraeya retreated to a safe distance, Fargas darted low to the ground, weaving between rot-slicked roots and shambling corpses. With a leap and a grunt, the halfling planted his dagger in the thigh of another spore servant, what should have been a pulsing vein. But the drow male, whose glazed, hollow eyes seemed to beg for release, merely twisted. It did not fall.

“D’you mind dying before you bleed spores on my boots?” Fargas groaned.

The halfling disengaged and tumbled away before the drow could retaliate with his rusted blade.

Across the cavern, Kazimir lifted his ashwood staff. With a shout, the wizard unleashed a roaring ball of fire that instantly consumed a cluster of shambling spore servants. Their blackened husks crumpled to the ground, shriveled beyond recognition. The intense heat surged onward, colliding with Yestabrod’s swollen form. The flames licked hungrily, burning away patches of mold and rot. For the first time, the disfigured myconid released a cry of agony.

Working in tandem with Kazimir, Zelyra took a deep breath and raised her hand. A column of pale, silvery-purple light descended from the cavern’s ceiling, bathing Yestabrod in the radiant glow of the druid’s moonfire. The abomination shrieked, writhing violently as the smell of scorched fungus grew more prominent.

This continued for some time, the Grey Warriors felling several raised corpses while taking many hits in return. The companions appeared to have the upper hand.

Then Yestabrod turned the tables.

It let out a guttural chortle, its body convulsing before suddenly snapping forward, grasping a nearby spore servant with its writhing tendrils.

And then it ate him.

With a sickening squelch, the aberration consumed it. The duergar corpse dissolved into Yestabrod’s pulsating mass, its lifeforce spent, and the wounds that had begun to blacken and rot from Zelyra’s moonfire and Kazimir’s fireball knitted themselves shut before their eyes. Any damage they had dealt to it—Fraeya’s rapier, Fargas’s daggers, Nine’s arrows, even Derendil’s attacks with Dawnbringer—was gone. Absorbed.

“Hey! That’s cheating,” Fargas cried.

“Now, do you see?” Yestabrod said. “There is no end to this cycle. You may fight and burn me, but my Lady provides.”

Kazimir cursed under his breath. “That is a problem.”

“What happens when it runs out of corpses to eat?” Derendil challenged.

“In case you didn’t notice,” the wizard snapped, “there are a lot of corpses here!”

“Then I suggest you get rid of them,” the prince replied evenly.

Chapter Five

The Eastern Plateau

1485 D.R. / Day 55 Neverlight Grove

The eerie glow of Neverlight Grove pulsed faintly in the cavern’s unnatural twilight, casting shifting shadows as Zelyra, Nine, and Fraeya returned to camp. The stillness felt heavier now, thick with the weight of unresolved questions and Sarith’s disappearance. Whatever had taken hold of him—whether fear, madness, or something worse—it was leading them somewhere. So far, all signs pointed to the eastern plateau.

The three women quickened their pace, moving through the quiet gloom until camp came into view. Kazimir lay with his back against his pack, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. Fargas was sprawled out nearby, snoring softly, his small form barely visible beneath his blankets. Prince Derendil was curled to one side, his expression softened by sleep.

Nine didn’t waste time. The ranger strode forward and nudged Fargas in the ribs with the toe of her boot. “Wake up,” she said.

Fargas groaned dramatically, rolling onto his back with a lazy stretch. “Why? I was having a lovely dream about a feast in Neverwinter,” he grumbled. “Mead, roast pheasant, a very enthusiastic barmaid—”

Nine kicked him again. “Not interested, pal.”

Kazimir sat up and rubbed his face, stirred by their voices. “I assume this is not a social call?” His silver eyes flicked between the three women. “What happened?”

“Sarith came back,” Fraeya answered.

That got the tiefling’s full attention. “And? Where is he now?”

“Gone again,” Zelyra said. “Vanished before we could do anything.”

Kazimir sighed. “Wonderful. I assume he didn’t leave behind any helpful clues?”

Nine snorted. “Unless you count cryptic mumblings and paranoia? No.”

Fargas blinked up at the ranger with tired hazel eyes. He swiftly lowered his Goggles of Night over them so that he could see properly. “You ever consider letting me sleep through one crisis? Just one?” he asked.

“Not an option,” the ranger replied, nudging Prince Derendil next.

The massive quaggoth stirred, his green eyes flickering open as he instinctively reached for Dawnbringer at his side. “Do we fight?” he asked, his deep voice still thick with sleep.

“Not yet,” Zelyra said. “But we do need a plan.”

Kazimir, Fargas, and Derendil quickly shook away their sleep. As the six companions gathered around the faintly glowing embers of their fire, Fraeya explained what had happened—how Sarith had returned in a fit of panic, how he’d spoken about voices and joy, and how he had fled the moment the rogue mentioned telling Zelyra. 

Kazimir rubbed his temples. “You’re sure he wasn’t just having a waking nightmare? Maybe he ate a poisoned mushroom.”

Fraeya hesitated. “No. I mean—no to the mushroom, possibly yes to the nightmare—” she exhaled sharply, irritated with her inability to collect herself. “He kept talking about Her joy. Something in his head. Not wanting to hurt us. It wasn’t just fear, Kazimir. He was struggling against something.”

Prince Derendil’s fur bristled. “Then he is in danger.”

“Or we are,” Fargas muttered.

“But we have no idea what he’s planning?” Kazimir said. “Or what he’s running from?”

“Basically,” Nine said.

Prince Derendil let out a low growl. “We cannot let him wander alone. He is our ally.”

“Is he?” the ranger scoffed.

Zelyra raised a hand before the disagreement could escalate. “That’s not the point. Whatever’s happening to him must tie into everything else. The spores, Phylo’s ‘Great Seeder,’ and that ‘Celebration’ they keep whispering about. We need to figure out what’s really going on in the Grove before it’s too late.”

Neverlight Grove

1485 D.R. / Day 55 The Northdark

The air was thick with a damp, earthy musk as the companions stepped into Neverlight Grove, a sprawling cavern illuminated by bioluminescent fungi that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Zelyra squinted against the strange light, her druidic senses picking up an unsettling harmony in the way the spores floated in the air. They weren’t malevolent, but they were alive in a way that made her instinctively tighten her grip on Eldeth’s shield.

But Stool wiggled excitedly, releasing a puff of spores to speak. “Welcome to Neverlight Grove! Should we go see the sovereigns? They will be happy to meet you!”

Kazimir’s silver eyes narrowing as he surveyed the grove. “Are they as 'happy' as the rest of those... creatures?” He gestured with a sweeping motion to figures shambling around the edges of their path.

At first glance, the creatures appeared to be deep gnomes, drow, quaggoths, and even a few hulking orcs, but the truth was far more unsettling. Their movements were stiff, almost mechanical, and their bodies were covered in fungi—mushrooms sprouting from their limbs, toadstools clustered around their necks, mold spreading across their faces. Their lifeless eyes were sunken and empty. They appeared to be a form of undead.

“It’s okay. The spore servants are helpers,” Stool said innocently. “They do chores, like carrying things or keeping the grove clean. They don’t mind.” But the myconid sprout’s cheery answer didn’t seem to comfort anyone, least of all Derendil, whose claws flexed uneasily.

The prince’s green eyes locked onto the quaggoth spore servants. “No,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “No, these are not helpers. They are hollow shells.”

“Derendil, are you alright?” Zelyra asked.

“I am not,” he answered. “These abominations are a perversion of life—twisted and wrong.”

The druid sighed uncomfortably. “I have to agree with you.”

Kazimir stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s hope the sovereigns can explain this,” he said dryly. “I’d rather not speculate on the... process that makes them this way.”

Stool released another cloud of spores, drawing everyone’s attention back to them. “This way! I’ll take you to the mound.”

Sarith, keeping his distance as usual, motioned silently for the group to move. The drow warrior’s face betrayed no emotion, but his hand lingered near the hilt of his shortsword. Fraeya caught the movement, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Stay sharp,” she muttered as she followed Stool down the glowing path. --

Chapter Three

A Warning Sign

1485 D.R. / Day 46 The Northdark

The camp was quiet the following morning, save for the distant drip of water echoing from the cavern walls and the soft rustle of belongings being packed. A faint glow still lingered in the air from Zelyra’s protective sphere of moonlight and shadow, though the spell itself had faded with the end of their rest. The atmosphere was subdued—understandably so, after the chaos of the previous day.

Zelyra knelt by her Bag of Holding, her fingers absently brushing over its leather strap as she glanced toward Fraeya. The drow rogue was seated a short distance away, inspecting her shortbow. Her posture was relaxed, but the druid had traveled with Fraeya long enough to recognize the subtle tension in her movements—the tightness in her shoulders, the way her silver eyes flicked toward Sarith every so often.

Both Zelyra and Fraeya knew something was wrong, and ignoring it felt like walking blindly into danger. The druid took a steadying breath and approached, her steps light on the uneven ground. “Fraeya,” she began, stopping just short of the rogue’s line of sight. “Can I have a word?”

Fraeya didn’t look up immediately. “If this is about me snapping at Sarith yesterday, I think I’ve had enough lectures from you,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral.

Zelyra shook her head. “It’s not about that. Not directly, anyway. It’s about something that happened two nights ago,” she admitted.

At that, Fraeya stilled, her fingers pausing mid-motion. “What are you talking about?”

The druid glanced around the camp, ensuring the others were preoccupied. Kazimir was murmuring quietly to Fargas and Derendil over the map of the Northdark, and Nine was with Stool and Rumpadump. Sarith stood apart from the group, his back to them as he adjusted the straps on his gear.

Lowering her voice, Zelyra said, “Two nights ago, during watch, Nine and I overheard Sarith having a nightmare. He was pleading with something to leave him alone.”

“He has nightmares often. We all do,” the rogue replied neutrally. “It’s nothing new.”

“No. This was different,” the druid pressed. “After he calmed down, I cast a ritual my people normally use to detect poisons and disease. I couldn’t sense any physical ailment or toxin, but I felt... something else. It was dark and clinging to him.”

“You’re treading dangerous ground, Zelyra. Sarith doesn’t take kindly to prying eyes. And neither do I.”

Zelyra raised her hands, palms out.

“I’m not trying to pry. I’m a healer. When I see someone suffering, I can’t just ignore it.”

“You don’t understand what it means to be drow,” the rogue replied quietly. “We’re raised to keep our weaknesses hidden. To show vulnerability is to invite death. If Sarith thought you were pitying him—”

“I don’t pity him,” Zelyra interjected firmly.

Fraeya slowly lifted her gaze to meet Zelyra’s. The rogue’s expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Concern? No, more like calculation, as if she were deciding how much to reveal. For a moment, the drow said nothing. Then, with a quiet sigh, she finally set her shortbow aside.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she muttered. “But Sarith is... complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Again, the drow hesitated. “He wouldn’t want me to share this with you. He’s... private. And as I said, we have reasons for keeping things to ourselves.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle warning. “Especially from surfacers.”

Zelyra’s heart sank. She had expected some resistance, but the continued cold barrier of drow secrecy after all they had been through felt impenetrable. Still, the half-elf pressed on, her healer’s instinct outweighing her caution.

“I’m not asking out of idle curiosity, Fraeya. I’m worried about him. We’re all in this together down here, and if something’s affecting him—if something’s wrong—it could endanger all of us. I know you’ve been keeping a close eye on him, and I’m not asking you to betray his trust. But if you know something that could help, I need to know.”

Fraeya regarded her in silence, her expression hard but thoughtful. The tension between them stretched like a taut string, and Zelyra wondered if she’d overstepped. But finally, Fraeya spoke, her voice low and reluctant.

“You really are worried, aren’t you?”

Zelyra nodded. “I am.”

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.”

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.

. . .

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.

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.”

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.