The Embrace of Love and Death

Something was off in camp tonight. Ever since they had entered the Underdark, Lae'zel had made it a habit to keep track of each and every of her allies, such was her task as deputy in this strange yet familiar place. One of the few things in her life that had not changed. Hshar'lak. The word burned in her mind and soul like red-hot steel, and she sought a distraction from the pain it brought by patrolling the cavern their leader had chosen for their war camp. He had chosen well. Limited entrances, fresh water, edible mushrooms, and a decent amount of the magical radiation called “faezress”, which, according to their guide and leader Imrae, would protect them from divination magic. It seemed to put the vampire Astarion at ease, which meant that he was less of nuisance than when agitated. Despite his whinging about being parted from the sun, he still feared his master and found comfort in the thought that he would not find him here by magical means. Right this moment, he was playing with a dagger by his tent, tossing the blade “for fun”. He sent her an annoyed glance when he noticed her presence, to which she continued her round. Nearby, Shadowheart was watering her herbs, trying to keep them alive in this place without sunlight, but at least the plants were quiet about it. The same could be said of the half-elf, as Lae'zel had expected incessant gloating by her about the failed attempt to purify themselves at the crèche, but she had abandoned her efforts after two comments. Wyll and Gale were sitting together with Karlach, who was roasting little morsels of food in her burning hot hands, as their leader had forbidden making campfires as they had held it on the surface, much to half the band's dismay. The tiefling offered Lae'zel a mushroom that Imrae had confirmed as edible, yet the other two had gagged at, but a githyanki was not as picky as these istik. Chewing it down, she nodded in approval. The mushroom's subtle taste and chewy consistency reminded her of the roasted stalks of infinity vine back on K'liir.

The druid Halsin was whittling, the canine Scratch was resting by his feet, and the k'chaki Volo was writing into a book, same as the corpse Withers. Normal behaviour for all of them. When she reached the spot Imrae had chosen as his workspace, a rock serving as their map table and his desk, she noticed what was off. Each other evening, he had been humming while studying his manuscripts after his trance, but tonight, the only sound coming from him the soft tap of his finger on parchment as he was staring out into the vastness visible from the small opening in their hideout, where the soft glow of the sussur tree in the distance illuminated the larger cavern. Were the averse effects of the plant still bothering the mage? No. They were too far away, and none of the other magic users in camp had complained. Was he in pain after the battle with his kin who had lived there in company of monsters called hook horrors? She could not recall a moment in which he had been struck. Her and Shadowheart had drawn their foes into close combat as usual, splitting the herd for an easy victory, while Imrae and Astarion had backed them up with arrows and crossbow bolts. They had played it safe, for the sussur tree interrupted magic, even the soothing kind cast by the Sharran. No, Imrae was simply deep in contemplation, she told herself. He was strong. He was stone while she was steel. A good combination. A fine alliance. An alliance she desperately needed. Shoving down that degrading thought, Lae'zel returned to her tent to sharpen her blades. They would explore more tomorrow to find their way to the exit towards Moonrise Towers that Imrae knew about, held by Clan Bitterroot. Grey dwarves. They would be no match for Lae'zel of Crèche K'liir. The only reason her name would be unknown in the Underdark would be the lack of survivors of their battle.

She was useful, well-trained in combat in the close spaces of tunnels. She was useful. She still had purpose. Even though her eyes betrayed her in this darkness. Even though tunnels were familiar, these were once again alien. Even though her mere presence invited pursuers. She stopped her thoughts and her sharpening before she could ruin the blade. Perhaps this was her cue to get some rest. Settling on the furs by her tent, she stared at the cavern ceiling. Without the weather on the surface of Faerûn bothering their operation, she could rest however she wanted. The view reminded her of K'liir, too. She quickly closed her eyes. Sleep did not find her. Not even after it had become deadly quiet in camp. When she felt movement beside her and the qua-nith psionic detector being placed into her hand, she opened her eyes to see the white glint of Imrae's in the darkness, the dim light in the cavern catching in them. “Speak. What is this?” Lae'zel asked, sending him a stare of disappointment. “There is something I need to do. I will be back before you know it.” Lae'zel sensed sorrow, but no lie in his words. “Alone? Chk. Your rules were clear. Nobody goes alone.” “I- Yes. I did say that.” Imrae's gaze fell to the side, and he took a deep breath before he dared to look at her again, his mien more open than before. “Very well. Will you guard me, Lae'zel?”

Magic won't suddenly solve big problems in Faerun, because most of the magic is gone. The gods had to restrict it. Because so many horrifying things happened (the apocolypses - YES MULTIPLE - aforementioned.)

For all that powerful artifacts still exist, the average person in the Sword Coast thinks of them as mythical.

Wizards are not common. Not really. Someone who can cast a cantrip is probably as common as people in America with a bachelor's degree. That is, common in certain groups, rare in others. Less common than it seems, overall.

But a wizard? Someone like Gale, even the weakened version with the orb and the tadpole we meet in Act 1, is like meeting a billionaire. They exist, sure, you've heard of them. But you've probably never met one in person. No one you know has probably ever met them in person.

There is more desperation in Faerun than magic.

Every five to ten years a major city is destroyed, or almost destroyed. Beings of unimaginable power threaten and the gods are real but can't be bothered to get it together and stop this nightmare.

When I think of what it is like to really live in Faerun, I imagine there are far more warlocks than we think there are.

Wyll is not as unusual as he should be, because good people who want to help aren't going to see many better options than making bargains with powerful beings hoping to gain the power to keep their loved ones safe for one more world-ending event.

The Elves are slowly dying out. Like a sports team, their numbers keep being retired, and the rules set by Corellon mean they can't make new ones. Cazador alone took a big chunk of the running with his taste for Elves. Once turned undead, their soul is anaethema, unable to be reborn or return to Arvandor.

Plagues ravage the land as often as invasions.

From the descriptions we get, the average person cannot afford magical healing. And there really is no non-magical healing system available. In a world with healing potions, people die from infected splinters.

Life is HARD. Most people are scraping by. Violence is rampant because the whole world, essentially, is in a resource war. Over magic.