A/N: Hello, and well met!
Before we begin, just a few things. 'The Grey Warriors' is the retelling of an Out of the Abyss campaign that ran from November 2018 to August 2021. However, even if you are unfamiliar with the game or the module, I think it will be easy enough the follow along. Parts of this tale delve into sensitive topics and later chapters may be more suited for a mature audience. For now, however, I am leaving the rating as T.
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, Nine, Fraeya, and Kazimir. I hope that readers will grow to love their 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 ideas from Matthew Mercer's world of Exandria and source guides from DMsguild as well. I will give credit when credit is due!
The Grey Warriors
Out of the Abyss: Rage of Demons
Chapter One
Velkynvelve
1485 DR / Day 1
The Northdark
The rattling of chain 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 chain, walked single file alongside eight cloaked figures. Their escort, all drow warriors, knew their path well despite the numerous twists and turns. Velkynvelve, an outpost of the infamous city of Menzoberranzan, lay less than a day's march before them. These poor souls that the drow 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 way.
A dark elf female led the short procession. One of their own, and a female to boot, was an extremely unusual captive but the lesser males knew better than to question the Mistress's motives. Her chosen hairstyle and dark clothing did not identify her with any known drow House. Shebali, or renegades, were uncommon but not unheard of. She otherwise had much the look of a typical drow with dark skin, a diminutive but slender body, and long locks of brilliant white. The one exception was her eyes. They glimmered like the stars of the surface world above and gave the warriors pause, for that was an unmistakable omen amongst the drow elves.
Behind the silver-eyed drow was a young woman of mixed human and wood elf siring. She had an oval face that was flush and youthful with a light dusting of freckles across her nose. A thick leather circlet sat upon her braided golden hair. Her eyes, usually deep verdant green, were now dull with fatigue. The half-elf's one comfort was that the guards had overlooked her animal companion, a tiny grey field mouse hidden under the nape of her braid.
Next was a male whose dark skin and shoulder-length white hair might cause one to mistake him for a dark elf until they saw his horns. Those horns, which protruded from his brow to curl back down and around his arched ears, were distinctive only to those of infernal bloodline. Laugh lines beneath his pupilless eyes spoke to a mischievous and witty nature, but at present, the tiefling was seething. His flowing crimson robes were soiled beyond repair with soot, mud, and refuse. The guards had stolen his staff and spellbook! Finally, and most irritating of all, was his regard for the seven-foot-tall creature at the rear of their caravan.
The bronze-scaled dragonborn was powerfully built and no stranger to battle if one were to judge by the vertical scar that marred his left eye. He wore makeshift scale mail, forged most unusually from bone and shells that incessantly clinked and clacked as they walked. And having not a lick of darkvision, the dragonborn was further out of his element. Each time he blindly tripped over a stalagmite or bumped into a hanging stalactite, the tiefling cursed irritably in Infernal.
The guards could have, probably should have, confiscated their captive's armor as they did any weaponry and spellcasting focuses. But the drow knew the dangers of the Underdark all too well. One false step and the Mistress's wrath would be terrible, for there was a lucrative bounty on the heads of those they escorted. That bounty would not be worth much if any one of them died before reaching Velkynvelve. Thus, the warriors took every precaution possible. Drow elves were known for their use of poison, and these warriors were no different. Spider venom kept their prisoners sluggish and confused but still capable of making such an arduous journey.
They could have been marching for days, perhaps even tendays. Time was ambiguous. On and on, they traipsed through a maze of tunnels, deep into the bowels of the earth. Rest was taken for but a few short hours. Then the drow and their captives were marching on again. The prisoners' 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. Their fear was incessant. And the poison, of course, did not help matters.
But at last, the half-elf felt the toxic fog finally lifting from her mind. She struggled to make sense of the situation and remember where she was and 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 the guard immediately to her left. 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 to live in 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 stone 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.
The drow warriors were swift and silent as shadows, unlike all but one whom they escorted, and wholly unaffected by the troubling atmosphere. The drow elves were made for the dark. They did not fear it. And yet, they were so much smaller than the half-elf would have ever guessed, standing only five feet tall. Each carried a crossbow paired with either a sword and shield or a spear. Their skin tones ranged from shades of dusky mauve to deep charcoal, and one thing was the same amongst them. Their eyes all resembled the color of split blood.
It was fitting, given their dark reputation.
Only one in their escort was so heavily shrouded under a hood and cowl that their features were indistinguishable to those around them. This individual was the point guard, serving both as captain and scout. Yet, their behavior was strangely…lacking. The timing of their reactions sometimes came half a second later to those around them, and their gait seemed labored. And yet, the half-elf was confident that they were drow as well. Perhaps they were injured?
Her attention shifted then to the female shuffling along in front of her. 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 barely make out the unsettling way that this drow'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 glanced warily at their guards. This was not the first time the drow prisoner had spoken out of turn. Three times now, the warriors had warned her to stop talking. Three times now, 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 silver-eyed drow would do well to listen. For they were in no position to contest their captors.
"Forgive me. I have not encountered many darthiir or tu'rilthiir," the drow tried in Elvish, noticing the blonde's arched ears. The accent was strange, and a few words were unfamiliar to her, but the half-elf thought she understood well enough. Then, the drow clarified, "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.
Before either could react, the hooded individual leading them shouted something and struck the back of the silver-eyed drow's head with the blunt of his blade. She stumbled, taking the half-elf and the tiefling down with her. Only the dragonborn maintained his footing. From there, the situation quickly spiraled out of control. Again, the tiefling began cursing in Infernal. The female drow spit at the feet of one of the warriors. There was a flurry of movement amongst the guards, and then the half-elf felt a sharp prick upon her arm. The poison overtook her once more.
…
Hours passed before the prisoners' awareness returned. Around that same time, the oppressive tunnels fed into a grand chamber that was fifty feet wide and twice the size in length. And yet, much of the true magnificence was concealed above them. A great nest of giant spiders called this cavern home. In some places, the ceiling might reach over two hundred feet and sometimes three hundred in others. But layer upon layer of spider's shiny gossamer thread masked much of that from the view below.
They would be exposed to ambush here, but the drow warriors were at ease. Too at ease. They knew this spider den well, the half-elf surmised. The guards looked up to the webs above as if waiting for something more than once. Eventually, the half-elf gave in to her curiosity and followed the warriors' gaze. Straining her darkvision to its very limits, she discerned a hint of movement within the webs.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind did three giant spiders drop from the webs above. Two additional male warriors, gracefully scaling ropes of translucent silk, accompanied them. They touched down upon the stone floor with barely a sound. The bronze dragonborn began to pull wildly at his chains at the sight of the spiders. The tiefling turned to 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. Instead of speaking aloud, they communicated via hand signals. Watching them triggered something that lurked just below the fog of her memory. A shrouded forest. A bloodied ranger. His hands rapidly traced out three words in Druidic Sign.
"Attack. Father. Captured."
But there was nothing beyond that initial flash.
The males' silent chatter came to an abrupt halt as a female drow descended from the webs above. She glided on air, defying gravity, rather than utilizing silk rope. Her features were smallish and pointed, her eyes glowing crimson. And her dark robes, if one might call the scraps of fabric that she wore that, were revealing and bejeweled with spider iconography. The change in the warriors' demeanor was both decisive and immediate. Their backs straightened. They lowered their gazes to the cavern floor. Only one, the captain of their escort, dared to step forward. He lowered his dark hood, revealing his features for the first time.
What once might have been a handsome face was melted and scarred, and his sword hand was deformed and missing two fingers. The half-elf gasped. Rather than being unnerved by the disfigurement, she found that it triggered something within her fuddled memory. The scars did not repel her. On the contrary, she was curious as to what might 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.
"Mistress Ilvara awaits you," the robed female announced brusquely, but she was not looking to the scarred captain. Instead, her gaze fell on the drow prisoner. A twisted smile, shaped by ill intent, appeared on her dark lips.
"My, have the tides turned. Surely you knew it was only a matter of time before you wound up here, iblith."
The insult—iblith, or excrement in Drow, the lowest of the low—flew straight over her head. Instead, the chained drow could only stare, in shaken silence, at none other than Asha Vandree. She had not before considered that Asha might be responsible for her capture, but there was no doubt 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'd once claimed as an ally.
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."
The priestess did not wait for Jorlan's response, for she already knew what reaction her bated words would bring. Instead, Asha silently levitated back up into the spider webs and left the males to find their own way up to the fortress concealed within them.
Defiance swept over Jorlan's features. He cared not for the reasons Ilvara had taken an 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, said as they walked. "I wonder what the Mistress wants them for."
"Never question the priestesses! Do well to remember that," snapped Jorlan. And yet, he was curious as well. "I'm sure the Mistress has many reasons. First, there is the bounty. But a surface dweller is also a rare and prized sacrifice for the Spider Queen. The Mistress now has three."
"Four," another male, Malagar, corrected. "You forget the dwarf scout."
"Four sacrifices to Lady Lolth. What a prize indeed," Jorlan muttered darkly.
At the back of the line, the dragonborn grit his teeth. He was well versed in Undercommon and knew 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 a large wooden basket descended through the spider webs one hundred feet above. The elite pushed all four prisoners into it when it reached the bottom.
"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 he aimed the threat 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 the drow 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 its 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 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 was. 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 will be shipped back to the City of Spiders."
"Is there any hope of escape?" the tiefling inquired.
The drow shook her head and said, "No."
The half-devil sighed irritably. "Well, if I am on my death march, 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 appeared perplexed.
"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 well over a head taller than her and said, "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 tiny grey mouse from her braid and set him on 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 extended and sharp, and their chests were broad and wrought with 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 reassembled, six of the males split off to resume their posts. Only Jorlan and three others remained. Jorlan led the group. Two warriors 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 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. Instead, their expressions were bored, resigned, 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. Lanterns of phosphorescent fungi dimly illuminated the interior of the circular chamber, and dark purple silken rugs with a pale web pattern woven with silvery thread covered the floor. At the center 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 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. His eyes were drawn to Jorlan the moment that the disfigured elite stepped into the room.
"You've returned. I see the puddings didn't finish you off," the proud warrior hissed.
And just like that, the seemingly routine raid that defaced him and cost his favor with Ilvara—allowing 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 hesitantly looked to Asha. The junior priestess gave just the slightest hint of a nod. They were not allies, but they shared an aversion for Asha's distant cousin and the commander.
"I expected you yesterday, Jorlan. What delayed you?"
Jorlan dipped his head if only to veil his swelling anger at the mere sound of her voice. It came from behind the statue, seemingly sourceless and mysterious, for his former lover enjoyed theatrics if nothing else.
"The prisoners stepped out of line," Jorlan said, careful to keep his gaze lowered as was the custom for males in the presence of a higher-ranking 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 fabric were adorned with spider webs designed of diaphanous thread. Her posture was straight and sure, with 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. As Jorlan before her, the priestess's Common was heavily accented but passable. Ilvara continued, "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 white 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 leather armor 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 it 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 to those thoughts, the circlet was ripped abruptly from her head. A pained cry escaped her as strands of blonde hair came with it. The guard thoughtlessly tossed the soft leather band with flanking medallions trimmed with sprigs of holly and golden-brown feathers 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 memory.
Before Zelyra could do so, the warrior dug a hand into her shoulder and forced her to the floor. She bit her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Once was enough. 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 angry voice said.
The chains connecting the prisoners then 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.
"Harl'il'cik," the priestess repeated, this time in Drow.
Fraeya launched a well-aimed wad of spit at Ilvara's face.
The high priestess screamed in outrage, and with a crack, all three rubbery tentacles of her rod struck Fraeya. The blow forced the defiant female to her knees. Blood poured from her flayed skin and spilled to the rugs below. None of the prisoners moved to help, painfully aware now 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. It was a side effect of her ability to shapeshift. The heightened sense of smell granted by many of her forms never truly left her.
"Now look at what you've done! My rugs are ruined," the priestess lamented.
Jorlan could not hold back his snort of disbelief. And it was to his undoing, for Ilvara was not finished. Two more strikes swiftly came. One sliced across Fraeya's exposed back as she hunched on the ground. The other aimed for Jorlan.
"Twice now, you have shown your ineffectiveness, you inept male! Fail me a third, and you will join in her fate. Now! Deliver them to the slave pens at once. She is to go without a meal tonight. No medical attention is to be given to her wounds. If she dies of infection before receiving her judgment, so be it," said the commander before she swept around the statue and disappeared.
Asha and Shoor obediently filed after her.
Jorlan barely heard the threat nor felt the sting of the tentacles' bite, for a sudden idea came 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 the prisoner—humiliation such as she had suffered could be a powerful force, a driver of revenge.
He could use that to his advantage.
In fact, why not use them all?
And how the mighty High Priestess of House Mizzrym would fall…