The Grey Warriors
Out of the Abyss: Rage of Demons
Summary: From prisoners of the drow elves in Velkynvelve to reluctant informants of duergar factions in Gracklestugh. The Liberators of Blingdenstone. This is the tale of the Grey Warriors, unsung heroes of the Underdark and beyond. Follow their misadventures as they strive to fight the good fight in a place utterly plagued by madness. Loosely follows the campaign, Out of the Abyss.
A Note from the Author… Even if you are not familiar with Dungeons & Dragons, I humbly ask that you give this story a chance. Updates will be sporadic. I am posting with the hope of feedback from people both familiar and unfamiliar with the game, locations, monsters, etc. as I test out various writing styles and ideas. Ongoing revisions will be made to chapters based on feedback.
This is the narrative retelling of an Out of the Abyss campaign that ran from November 2018 to August 2021. I owe a huge thanks to my husband, who diligently dungeon mastered our *118(!)* sessions and brought to life countless NPCs that you, the reader, will encounter throughout the story. I also can't forget the four very dear friends who played the parts of Balasar, Eleven/Ophelia, Fraeya, and Kazimir. I hope readers come to love these characters as much as I do.
Lastly, I am not affiliated with Wizards of the Coast. Nor am I being commissioned/paid to write this. (Too bad, that would be fun!) This is written purely out of love for the story my friends and I created. Many of the locations, monsters, and characters you will encounter are property of Wizards. But as with any good story, this tale will not always follow 5e rules, the Out of the Abyss module, or even Forgotten Realms lore. We borrowed a few things from Matthew Mercer's world of Exandria and other source guides from DMsguild as well. I try to give credit when credit is due!
Chapter One
Velkynvelve
1485 DR / Day 1
The rattling of chains and the clink of mail echoed down an otherwise silent and lightless tunnel. Four prisoners, bound in manacles connected to iron belts by a short length of chain, walked single file alongside an escort of eight cloaked figures. The escorts, all male warriors, knew their path well despite the numerous twists and turns. The drow-run outpost of Velkynvelve lay less than a day's march before them. The poor souls they transported were just the latest 'shipment' set to be delivered to their commander, Mistress Ilvara of House Mizzrym.
The four were an odd mix, each considered exotic in their own right.
At the head of the line was a female dark elf—an unusual choice for a slave—but the males knew better than to question the Mistress's motives. The female bore no symbol of a particular house. Outcasts were quite rare…but not entirely unheard of. She had the look of a typical drow. Dusky grey skin, a lithe, slender body, and long locks of brilliant white. But her eyes, glimmering like stars of the surface world above, made each of the warriors pause. For silver eyes were not common amongst the drow elves.
Behind the silver-eyed drow was a young female of mixed human and wood elf siring—a true bastardization in the eyes of the dark elves. No doubt an intended sacrifice for Lolth. The half-elf's unruly golden hair was haphazardly woven into a long braid that stretched halfway down her back. A thick leather circlet set upon her brow. Her oval face was flushed and youthful with a smattering of light freckles dusting her cheekbones. And her eyes, green as a leaf, were dulled with fatigue. The half-elf's only comfort was that her animal companion had been fortuitously overlooked by the guards. Every so often, a pocket in her shabby reddish-brown leathers shifted. A small grey field mouse was concealed within.
Next was a half-devil whose dark skin nearly rivaled that of the drow. Large ram-like horns protruded from his forehand and curled back around his ears. The tiefling was swathed in flowing crimson robes that might once have been considered finery, but now were soiled with soot, mud, and refuse. Shoulder length, salt-and-pepper hair could fool one to think he was past his prime. But his eyes, a solid grey, told another story. The laugh lines beneath them spoke of a youthful spark. At present, however, the tiefling's gaze was drawn in deep displeasure. Despite the poison coursing through his veins, he was very much aware of the seven-foot-tall bronze dragonborn bringing up the rear of their caravan.
The dragonborn was powerfully built. He was no stranger to battle, judging by the vertical scar that marred his left eye. But having not a lick of darkvision, he blindly fumbled his way along, ducking and squeezing through the narrow passageways. His makeshift scale mail, forged from bone and shells, clinked and clacked as they walked, giving away any notion of stealth the group hoped to have. Each time the dragonborn tripped over a stalagmite or bumped into a hanging stalactite, the tiefling cursed quietly in Infernal.
The drow could have—probably should have—confiscated the prisoners' armor as they did their weapons, but they knew the dangers of the Underdark all too well. The slaves wouldn't be worth much if they wound up dead before they even made it to Velkynvelve. One false step and the Mistress's wrath would be terrible. Thus, every possible precaution was taken. Drow were known for their expertise with poison and these warriors were no different. Spider venom kept the prisoners sluggish and confused but capable of making the long journey.
They could have been marching for days, or even tendays. Time was…ambiguous. They walked and walked down mazes of tunnels, deep into the bowels of the earth. Rest was taken for but a few short hours. Then they were on their feet again, marching on. Their lips were chapped from lack of water, their stomachs empty and churning with nausea. Sleep constantly tugged at their eyelids, but the nightmares kept them awake.
The paranoia never left them.
And the poison, of course, did not help matters.
But at last, so close to their destination, the half-elf felt the toxic fog finally lifting from her mind. She struggled to make sense of the situation; to remember where she was, who she was. But her memory was filled with too many gaps. The venom had done its job. All she could remember was a name.
Laucian.
Not her own. But it struck a chord…
Her tired gaze drifted to one of the guards. She'd never met one of 'The Ones Who Went Below' before. But she had heard of them—those who had fallen under the sway of the Spider Queen, Lolth. Ever cursed to dwell deep below the earth where the sun could not touch. So very alien they were to their light-loving, surface-dwelling counterparts.
The half-elf could not fathom how anyone could stand such a dark place. A constant presence of dread weighed upon her. Each tunnel they wound down seemed smaller than the last. It was as if the earth itself was closing in around them. There was no wind, no ambience. The silence made her thoughts exceptionally loud. And ever she looked, shadows danced in the corner of her eye.
It was enough to make anyone feel as if they were going mad.
Unlike those whom they escorted, the drow warriors were swift and silent as shadow, wholly unaffected by the troubling atmosphere. They were made for the dark. They did not fear it. Each carried a crossbow as well as a sword or a spear. They were smaller than the half-elf would have suspected, standing at only five feet tall at best. Their skin tones ranged from shades of dusky mauve to deep charcoal. But one thing was the same amongst them. Their eyes all resembled the color of split blood.
It was fitting, given their dark reputation.
Her attention shifted from the guard to the female shuffling along in front of her. Peculiar, the half-elf could not help but think, that the drow would enslave one of their own. Granted, she knew little of drow culture and could not have known that such acts of perfidy were commonplace.
As if she felt her stare, the drow prisoner suddenly turned her head. In the inky gloom of the cavern, the half elf's darkvision could just barely make out the unsettling way that the dark elf's eyes reflected silver—not crimson.
"Vel'klar xun dos talinth nind ph'plynnin udossa?"
The half-elf pressed her lips in a thin line and cast a wary glance at the guard.
This was not the first time that the female drow had spoken out of turn. Three times the warriors had warned her to stop talking. Three times she had defied them. Though the half-elf did not fully understand the words they spoke—Undercommon was a language she was unfamiliar with—she caught the gist. Be silent, keep walking, or there will be consequences. The drow would do well to listen. For the prisoners were in no position to contest their captors.
"Forgive me. I have not encountered many surface dwellers," the drow tried in Elvish this time, having taken notice of the blonde's arched ears. The accent was strange, but the half-elf understood well enough. "I asked, where do you think they are taking us?"
You'd know better than I, the half-elf thought.
But again, she dared not answer aloud.
As the silvery-eyed drow opened her mouth to speak again, the blunt of a blade stuck the back of her head. She stumbled, taking the half-elf and the tiefling down with her. Only the dragonborn managed to maintain his footing. Things quickly spiraled out of control. The tiefling began cursing, loudly this time, in Infernal. The female drow spat at the feet of one of the warriors. The guards shouted angrily in Undercommon. There was a flurry of movement amongst them.
The half-elf felt a sharp prick upon her arm.
And the poison overtook her once more.
It was hours before her awareness return.
The first sign that the caravan was approaching their destination was a change in demeanor from the guard. The endless maze of tunnels opened to an enormous cavern fifty feet wide and twice the size in height. The party now found themselves exposed to ambush, but the drow seemed at ease. Too at ease. More than once, the half-elf noticed the drow stare up into the thick spider webs above. She followed their gaze. Straining her darkvision to its very limits, she could have sworn there was the slightest hint of movement within them.
And no sooner did the thought cross her mind, three giant spiders dropped from the webs above. Two additional male warriors, gracefully scaling ropes of translucent silk, accompanied them. The two touched down upon the stone floor with barely a sound. The bronze dragonborn began to pull wildly at his chains. The tiefling urgently hushed him. Fortunately, the converging parties paid the outburst little mind.
The half-elf marveled as the dark elves began to converse with one another. Rather than speaking aloud, they used hand signals. Watching them triggered something lurking just below the fog of her memory. A shrouded forest. A bloodied ranger. His hands rapidly traced out three simple words in Druidic Sign.
"Attack. Father. Captured."
But if she tried to push beyond that initial flash…nothing.
The males' silent chatter came to an abrupt halt as a female drow descended from the webs above. Rather than sliding down a rope of silk, she glided on air, defying gravity itself. Her features were smallish and pointed, her eyes glowing crimson. The dark robes—if one would call the scraps of fabric that she wore that—were revealing and bejeweled with spider iconography.
The change in the male warriors' demeanor was immediate. Their backs straightened. They lowered their gaze to the cavern floor, where it would remain until properly addressed. But one, the apparent leader, stepped forward. As he lowered his hood, his features were fully revealed to the prisoners for the first time. What once was a handsome face was now melted and scarred, and his sword hand was misshapen and missing two fingers.
But rather than being unnerved by the drow's disfigurement, the half-elf found that it too triggered something within her fuddled memory. The scars didn't repel her. She was very curious as to what could have caused them. Scars told a story after all. They spoke of survival, of sacrifice.
At least that's what she'd told someone once.
"The Mistress awaits," the robed female announced brusquely. She barely acknowledged the scarred leader. Her gaze, instead, was locked squarely on the chained drow prisoner. A twisted smile, shaped of ill intent, appeared on her dark lips. "Oh, have the tides turned. Surely you knew it was only a matter of time before you wound up here."
For the first time, the chained drow was struck silent. Her eyes grew wide and glassy with recognition. She had not known that Asha Vandree was the one responsible for her capture. But she did not doubt it now. Ever looking to raise her station, to gain the favor of House Mizzrym, and Lolth by extension, the junior priestess would stop at nothing. Even if that meant betraying someone she claimed to love.
Asha continued to smirk knowingly. "Your judgement lies in Menzoberranzan. Let that sink in as you waste away in the slave pens." She then turned to the scarred leader, and said sweetly, "It would be ill-advised to keep the Mistress waiting for something she deeply desires, Jorlan. You, of all people, should know that."
Asha did not wait for Jorlan's response. She already knew the reaction her bated words would bring. The junior priestess silently levitated back up into the spider webs, leaving the males to find their way up to the fortress concealed within them.
Defiance swept over Jorlan's features. He cared not for the reasons Ilvara had taken interest in the prisoners that he was to bring her—only that she did take interest. Already his mind was racing, plotting. The elite warrior took a deep breath, careful to hide his traitorous thoughts, as he turned back to the lesser males.
"You heard the priestess. Get these prisoners to the lift," he barked.
"A strange group, this is," one of the younger guards, Nadal, commented quietly as they walked. "I wonder what the Mistress wants them for."
"It is not our place to ask questions. You would do well to remember that." Jorlan replied. "But if I had to guess…Ilvara always seeks Lolth's favor. A surface dweller would be a rare and prized sacrifice. And now she has three."
"Four," another male, Malagar, corrected. "You forget the dwarf scout."
"Four sacrifices to Lolth. What a prize indeed," Jorlan muttered darkly.
At the back of the line, the dragonborn grit his teeth. He was quite versed in Undercommon and knew precisely what his fate would be.
The guards fell silent as they shortly would reach their destination—a lift operated by two savage servants of the drow on the barracks platform. Jorlan gave the signal and through the spider webs one hundred feet above, a large wooden basket began to descend. When it reached the bottom, the elite pushed all four prisoners into it.
"Do not try to escape. Two quaggoths await you at the top. You would not get far before their claws and teeth shred you to ribbons." Though the threat was aimed at the chained drow, Jorlan spoke in broken Common so that the others might hear as well.
The female narrowed her silver eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And that was the truth. Having been bred and enslaved by her people for centuries, she knew well the ferocity of a quaggoth. They were not an enlightened race by any means. Savage and territorial, they attacked their foes with mindless rage. But if trained from a young age, the beasts could be groomed into formidable and lethal servants. It was not uncommon for a wealthy drow house to have hundreds under their command.
No, they would not get far indeed.
Unlike the tunnels they had walked down for days, a small waterfall pouring into the cavern created constant background noise, negating the cave's tendency to amplify and carry sound. The ride up to the top of the platform was only a few minutes long. But it was precious time spent out of the earshot of their enemy. The four prisoners made use of it for what it is. Despite their differences, at this moment, they were united.
"What do they plan to do with us?" the half-elf whispered.
"Sacrifices for Lolth. The three of us, anyway," the dragonborn answered, gesturing between them and the tiefling. He then pointed to the drow, "She is to be shipped back to the City of Spiders."
"Is there any hope of escape?" the tiefling inquired.
The drow frowned, "No."
The half-devil sighed irritably. "Well, if I am on my death march at least someone should know my name—it's Kazimir."
"Balasar," the dragonborn echoed in the introduction.
"You may call me…Fraeya," the drow answered carefully.
The three then looked to the half-elf who had a perplexed look on her face.
"I—I can't remember my name."
Fraeya clicked her tongue, "Pity."
They were less than a minute from the top now.
Kazimir turned to Fraeya. "These are your people. What should we expect?"
"No mercy," she responded coldly.
"I gathered that," the tiefling replied with an annoyed huff. "Do you at least know where we are?"
"Velkynvelve, an outpost ran by a mad bitch named Ilvara."
"Tell us how you really feel…" Kazimir muttered under his breath. "You're a blunt one, aren't you?"
Fraeya glared up at the tiefling that stood nearly a head and a half taller than her. "Don't look her in the eye and you might survive just a little bit longer."
Balasar swallowed uncomfortably.
Meanwhile, the half-elf pulled the small grey mouse from her pocket and set him upon the edge of the lift. "Be quiet, and stay out of sight," she whispered.
Two hulking creatures awaited them at the top of the lift—just as Jorlan had promised. The bear-like humanoids were covered in long, shaggy whitish-grey fur and wore no clothing. They hunched, walking on all fours like a beast. Their eyes were black and beady, claws long and sharp, their chests broad and wrought of rippling muscle.
The four prisoners disembarked without incident and waited patiently as the lift was lowered, then raised twice more by the quaggoths to bring up Jorlan and the other warriors. Once the group was reassembled, six of the males split off to resume their posts, leaving just Jorlan and three others. Jorlan led the group, two flanked the prisoners, while the third fell into step behind them.
As the prisoners were led along, they were treated to a better view of the drow outpost. Velkynvelve consisted of a series of small caves in the cavern walls, wooden platforms, and four hanging towers—hollowed-out stalactites connected by walkways, stairs, and rope bridges. The bridges were made of spider silk and swayed side to side as the party traversed from platform to platform. The drow crossed with ease, but Kazimir, Balasar, and the half-elf found themselves mindful of their footing as they warily eyed the spider-filled webs below. They passed more male warriors and numerous quaggoth servants. But none paid the prisoners any regard. Their expressions were bored, resigned even as if their jobs at the outpost were routine and held little excitement.
Jorlan led them to the uppermost levels of the largest hanging tower—the priestess's tower—where Mistress Ilvara awaited them. The interior of the circular chamber was dimly illuminated by lanterns of phosphorescent fungi. Dark purple silken rugs with a pale web pattern woven with silvery thread covered the floor. At the center of the web, was a large zurkhwood pedestal with a 10-foot-tall spider at its head. The spider was incredibly lifelike but Fraeya, Kazimir, and the half elf's darkvision revealed it for what it truly was—just a sculpture. But in the dim light of the chamber, Balasar thought himself face to face with an actual giant spider. The dragonborn startled, and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. He truly, truly hated spiders.
Two figures stood before the Spider Queen's idol. One, the prisoners recognized to be the junior priestess, Asha. The other was an elite warrior. Younger, taller, and beefier than Jorlan with an arrogant air about him to boot. As soon as the disfigured drow stepped into the room, the other elite's eyes were instantly drawn to him. He straightened, puffed out his chest, and fixed Jorlan with a false grin.
"You've returned. I see the puddings didn't finish you off," the elite hissed.
The seemingly routine raid that not only defaced him but also cost him his favor with Ilvara—allowing the proud Shoor Vandree to take his place—flashed before Jorlan's eyes. But he refused to show how the words affected him. How they gnawed at him, tore at his heart, and fueled the flames of his virulent resentment for the commander of Velkynvelve. Instead, he said not a word and locked eyes with Asha. The junior priestess gave him just the slightest hint of a nod. They were not allies. But they shared an aversion for Asha's distant cousin and the commander alike.
"I expected you yesterday, Jorlan. What delayed you?" a crisp, cool voice asked from behind the statue.
Jorlan dipped his head, to veil his swelling anger at the mere sound of her voice.
"The prisoners stepped out of line," he answered carefully, keeping his gaze lowered as was custom for males in the presence of a female. "We were forced to administer more poison to subdue them. It slowed our pace."
A drow female stepped out into the dim light. Her dark head was shaved clean save for a high white ponytail bound with black leather. Her robes, like Asha's, left little to the imagination. The strips of sheer fabric were adorned with spider webs wrought of gossamer thread. Her posture was straight and sure. Her steps, as decisive as a dancer. And in her hand, was a rod with three wicked tentacles spawning from it. She embodied the lethal night. Perhaps more so than any of the drow the prisoners had encountered thus far.
"There are only four of them," Ilvara chided, toying thoughtfully with the rod in her hand. "Should have been quite easy for a decorated male such as yourself to subdue without the aid of poison." The priestess gave Jorlan no time to respond—not that he dared to—and fixed her crimson irises upon the prisoners brought before her. "You four! I am Mistress Ilvara, commander of Velkynvelve," she barked in swift introduction. "Whoever you were—wherever you came from before—no longer matters. You are mine. Accept your fate, learn to obey, and you may survive."
The prisoners wisely remained silent.
Ilvara made a wordless gesture and Shoor quickly moved to collect a wooden chest from the corner. Meanwhile, the high priestess stared down her new slaves with a cruel, open-mouth smile. The starkness of her teeth seemed to glitter in the dark.
"Strip them," she commanded.
Ilvara's vicious laughter echoed in the half elf's ears as one of the lesser males came to stand before her. She fought to hide her grimace as he peeled the filth-ridden leathers from her body. Her tunic and leggings came next. Soon, she stood shivering before the room of assembled drow in nothing but soiled undergarments and cold iron.
All the while, the smile never left Ilvara's face.
She took pleasure in their humiliation.
None of the prisoners had been allowed the luxury of a chamber pot during the march to Velkynvelve. The half-elf had lost the battle with her bladder days ago. But if the warrior was offended by the smell of her refuse, he, fortunately, did not show it.
Another blip of a memory came to the half-elf then. She wished she could say that this was the first time she'd been exposed to such inhumane conditions—but it wasn't. She recalled the dirty back alleys of Mirabar, of Neverwinter.
As she was lost in those thoughts, the male abruptly ripped the circlet from her head. Strands of blonde hair came with it. The half-elf could only watch as the soft leather band with flanking medallions trimmed with sprigs of holly and golden-brown feathers was thoughtlessly tossed in the wooden chest alongside the other prisoners' belongings.
Something in her chest…cracked.
The circlet was her headdress. A gift of her people.
It came back to her then. Zelyra Erenaeth. That was her name. She was a druid of the Circle of Swords. Drow had raided the surface and attacked one of their scouting parties on the edge of the forest they called home. Varan had been the one to relay the message that Laucian had been taken, not killed. She'd panicked and—
"Kneel!" Mistress Ilvara's voice rang out, breaking her from the onslaught of reverie.
Before Zelyra had the chance to do so on her own, the warrior dug a hand into her shoulder and forced her roughly to the knees. She bit her lip to hold back the cry of pain. It was what the drow wanted. And though she was rightly terrified, Zelyra refused to give them the pleasure of seeing her further break before them.
"I will not bow to you," an incensed voice spat in Elvish, mirroring the words Zelyra wished she was brave enough to say.
The chains connecting the prisoners began to rattle. Zelyra dared to lift her gaze from the floor. Beside her, Fraeya wildly fought against the hold of Jorlan.
Faster than those under her command could react, Mistress Ilvara leapt from her position in front of the Spider Queen's idol with her wicked-looking rod in hand.
"Kneel," the priestess repeated.
Fraeya launched a well-aimed wad of spit at the commander's face.
Ilvara screamed in outrage. With a crack, all three rubbery tentacles of her rod struck Fraeya across the face. The sheer bite of the blow forced the defiant female to her knees. Blood freely poured from the flayed skin which therein split upon the rugs below. None of the prisoners moved to help her, mindful of the bloody whip in the commander's hand. Kazimir and Balasar reluctantly turned their faces. Zelyra gagged as the overwhelming metallic scent assaulted her senses. A side effect of her ability to shapeshift—the heightened sense of smell granted by many of her forms never truly left her.
But Ilvara was not finished.
Two more strikes swiftly came. One, sliced across Fraeya's exposed back as she hunched on the ground. The other was aimed at Jorlan.
"Twice now you have shown me your ineffectiveness, you inept male!" Ilvara angrily screeched. "Fail me a third and you will find yourself joining in her fate. Now! Deliver them to the slave pens at once. She is to go without a meal tonight and no medical attention is to be given to her wounds. If she dies of infection before receiving her judgment, so be it," was the commander's callous, final word as she swept around the statue and disappeared. Asha and Shoor silently filed after her.
Jorlan barely heard the threat nor felt the sting of the tentacles' bite. For a sudden idea had come to the elite as he watched the drow prisoner kneel and clutch her bloody face. Asha Vandree's sympathy was nothing more than a ploy to manipulate him, that he knew. But this female…humiliation such as she had suffered could be a powerful force, a driver of revenge. He could use that to his advantage.
In fact, he could—and would—use them all.
And how the mighty High Priestess of House Mizzrym would fall…
Last revision: 3/01/22