A/N: Hello readers, all two of you now! Now we finally get to some action. When my beta/husband/the DM read my first draft, he felt that the latter half of the chapter was rushed and confusing. I did a complete overhaul but he hasn't had time to reread it. Let me know if it reads well or if it still feels lacking and needs more rework.

Also, I typically put the year at the beginning of each chapter. Would it help to also add a specific date or location to give you, the reader, a better judgment of the passing of time? Just some thoughts I had.

Chapter Four

The Escape

1485 DR / Day 2

Kazimir fought the urge to shudder as he brought the small clay bowl to his lips. He drank, letting the chilled mushroom broth coat the dull ache in his throat. His stomach grumbled, begging for a more filling meal. The wizard knew that there would be none. In truth, he was lucky to be fed at all.

But oh, he hated mushrooms.

He'd not been a fan before. Now, Kazimir despised them. It appears that was all there was to offer in the Underdark, however. Mushroom broth. Sporebread. Molded cheese. How he longed for the vibrant food of the surface. A hearty bowl of traveler's stew served alongside a bitter black ale, perhaps—with pear and roseapple cobbler crumble for afters! The tiefling's mouth began to water. That had been his favorite, sensible meal to order at the Yawning Portal in Waterdeep.

The bustling tavern and city seemed so far away now. Would he ever see the light of the surface again? Or would a sacrificial altar in the bowels of the dark elf city be his end…

The wizard stared at his murky reflection within the meager bowl of broth. How had he gone from a caravan bound for Silverymoon to being enslaved in the Underdark? As much as he had teased Zelyra about her memory loss, the wizard was in the same boat. He could not remember.

Across the cell, the myconid sprout watched the horned-one stare sadly at his meal. It had been curious about the newcomers, softers of the dream world, but gave them space out of fear just as they had done to it. The sprout felt brave enough now though to appease its inquisitiveness. It had observed the horned-one speak to the other softer until the quaggoth returned. The horned-one had since sat by himself, running his long fingers along the stone floor to form some sort of pattern. The sprout thought the softer looked rather lonely. An emotion it could relate to.

When Kazimir next looked up from his bowl, a grey mushroom with a light spotted cap stood before him. The wizard blinked, looked down at his bowl in confusion, and then up again. The mushroom was still there. Sensing the horned-one's confusion, the myconid sprout released a puff of rapport spores which enveloped the softer's body in a swirling cloud of yellowish fog. Kazimir panicked, fearing poison. The bowl of tasteless broth spilled into his lap as he fought to cover his mouth with his elbow, coughing loudly.

"H-hello, softer of the dreamlands!" An excited childish voice filled his mind. "It's okay! They won't harm. Now we can speak."

Kazimir was beside himself! A walking, telepathic mushroom?! What had the drow laced the dinner with? "What are you doing?" the wizard frantically responded, inching further back towards the cavern wall.

"M-my name is Stool," the mushroom answered.

"Stool?"

The creature bounced up and down on its stubby…legs. If one could call them that.

"T-that's my name. What's yours?"

"Kazimir," the wizard answered, calming some. Intrigue replaced any fear he had felt. "This is how you communicate?"

Again, the creature bounced. Kazimir could only assume that meant yes.

"How did you get here, Stool?"

"Oh," the sprout started, his cap drooping slightly. "The dark one took me from the Grove. T-that was my home."

Kazimir followed the mushroom's little foot as it wiggled in the direction of the sullen male drow curled up in the back of the cave.

"Why would the drow capture you?" Kazimir asked the sprout confusedly, though not truly expecting an answer. He was not sure what the dark elves would want with such a slave. They did not put it to work, from what he observed. For the past two days, the creature had remained in the cell while the others went about their chores.

"I don't know," Stool answered sadly. "I-I want to go home. I'm scared."

Kazimir could not stop the rush of sympathy that ran through him. Stool sounded like no more than a child of a few winters—though he had no idea how to truly gauge such an alien creature's age. The wizard leaned forward and patted the spot next to him. "There's no reason to be afraid," he said, hoping his voice sounded somewhat soothing. "Sit with me. I'll protect you from the drow."

The wizard cast a glare in the direction of the sulking drow elf for emphasis.

"O-oh, thank you, horned softer!"

The fungal creature promptly plopped down beside him. Kazimir shook his head, yet again wondering what the drow had slipped him. He then said, "Tell me about this Grove, your home, and your people. I want to know all about it." Because truly he did. As a learned scholar, Kazimir liked to collect information about all things, no matter how bizarre or fanciful. And thus, the wizard listened open-mindedly as Stool began to tell him all about the wonders of Neverlight Grove, the haven of the peace-loving myconids.

Huddled in his corner, Sarith did not miss the scowl that the dark-skinned tiefling shot his way. The drow felt the all too familiar waves of frustration rising within him. The myconid sprout was implicating him, he was certain of it, but Sarith couldn't remember Neverlight Grove—couldn't remember what had led to his fall from grace.

Murder, they claimed. Murder of a fellow guardsman. It was a set-up, a lie!

Obediently he had served his people, doing whatever was asked of him for, among the drow, there was no choice. This was the fate he was resigned to. A torturous cycle nearly two centuries-long now of kill or be killed, to always watch for the knife that would surely come against your back, and to trust no one. There was nothing else. The delusions of the infamous exile Drizzt Do'Urden and equally fantastical ideas of Sarith's own foolish younger brother were just that—delusion and fantasy.

The world above held no love for the drow elves.

And the drow elves knew not love.

Sarith drew his knees to his chest as the voices came again. His clay bowl of mushroom broth remained untouched by his feet. A feminine voice, soft and lovely, whispered the possibilities of joy beyond his comprehension. And then there was the lullaby that no one else seemed to hear. The drow furiously dug his fingers against his temples, desperately praying to any god who would listen to make the whispers and music go away.

—

Jorlan's gambit cycled through Fraeya's thoughts through the night and well into the next morning. Even as the drow filled barrels at the top of the waterfall in the afternoon, she had yet to decide if the promise of escape was a trap plotted by Asha, or if Jorlan was telling the truth. But Asha seemed to have little to do with it. The male claimed to want to deliver an unforgiving embarrassment to Ilvara, revenge sought for her infidelity against him.

The disgraced warrior had quickly and quietly explained his plan using Drow Sign. While the commander and her new lover engaged in their evening respite, Jorlan would intercept the guards just before shift change and ensure that the slave pen was unlocked. There would be a five-minute window at best before the next set of guards would come. If the prisoners wanted their confiscated items back, they would have to find a way to break into the elite barracks. Alternatively, could settle for the armory, located in the chamber above the guard post near the slave pens. Or they could make a mad dash into the wilds of the Underdark still bound in their slave collars and without armor or weapons, which was not advisable. Either way, what came next was up to them.

All that Jorlan asked in return was for Fraeya and her fellow prisoners to leave as much chaos in their wake as possible. "If you make as good of a dramatic exit as your entrance, I'll be pleased." His fingers had danced excitedly as they shaped the words.

"How do I know that you will not double-cross me?"

"You don't."

It seemed too fortuitous of an opportunity to pass up, even if it did turn out to be a trap.

But Fraeya wondered how much, if any, she should share with the others. Not one to inherently trust and ever fearful of a loudmouth, the drow ultimately chose to keep the plan a secret. If Jorlan came through, the others would have to think on their feet. And if she made it out but they did not—well, that was the sad way of the world.

This was her one chance to escape what awaited her in Menzoberranzan. She would not waste it. If Fraeya played her cards right, that night she could walk away free.

The drow waded further into the rushing, frigid stream with her barrel, letting the chill laser her focus. Where she stood, the water came to about mid-calf. Closer to the edge of the falls, the orc prisoner filled his barrel. Derendil, the strange bipedal quaggoth, waded around with his between them. The three quietly went about their task, not speaking to one another. Further up the shoreline, none other than Mistress Ilvara herself supervised their work. One lesser warrior flanked her.

The Commander of Velkynvelve stood, back tall and straight, with her arms crossed across her ample chest. The vile tentacle-rod with its writhing snake-like heads was clutched in her right hand. Her fingers lightly danced upon its dark handle, toying with it, and making the prisoners watch their backs. Derendil and the orc had both been at the outpost long enough to know that occasionally the Mistress grew bored—and her idea of ridding herself of that boredom typically came at the expense of others.

Fraeya peered down at her reflection. Her lashes, now two days old, were puffy and inflamed upon her lower jaw, neck, and spine. They likely would remain. Forever a testament of Ilvara's wrath. Fraeya was not overly vain, but she hated the idea of thinking about Ilvara every time she saw them. But then the drow smiled wickedly, wondering if Ilvara would be so confident if she knew what one of her soldiers planned against her. The drow briefly entertained the idea of using that to her advantage but just as quickly dismissed it. Selling Jorlan out would only get him sacrificed or imprisoned. Then she would be right back where she started.

The drow began to turn back to shore, her barrel now full. But as she took a step, Fraeya felt something beneath her bare toes. Something sharp. At first, she thought it was a rock. But as she peered into the dark water and just the slightest bit of blood began to pool around her, the drow's keen eye caught the metallic sheen of a knife buried within the silt.

Fraeya could not believe her fortune. Her lockpicks had been confiscated with the rest of her belongings. But she could use the knife in place of them. Not only to free herself from her shackles but also to open the locked chests in the elite barracks. It would be difficult, but not impossible. The Bregan D'aerthe had taught her well. Fraeya was nothing if not resourceful, just as Asha had said.

But how to get the knife without anyone noticing?

Again, the answer came freely. It was as if Vhaeraun, the drow god of thieves himself smiled down upon her. The burly form of Derendil passed in front of her, shielding her from Ilvara's view for a time. The drow bent, plucked the knife from the water, and had it stuffed up her chest bindings in seconds. Ilvara none the wiser.

Or so she thought.

None could have known that the Commander of Velkynvelve was not nearly as calm as she outwardly appeared. Ilvara was quite nervous. For as she had prayed before the Spider Queen's idol late the night before, one of the braziers within the darkened chamber had come to life, and a message from Lolth herself had come to her. The Demon Queen of Spiders had whispered her usual seductive words of power and chaos but also shared something else with her faithful servant—someone plotted against her. Lolth would not name the individual for She did not answer what was already known. The only clue the dark goddess had given was that the key lay with one of Ilvara's prisoners.

This was a test of Lolth. If Ilvara failed, she risked losing the Spider Queen's favor. And that would not bode well for the high priestess.

Ilvara thought she put the pieces together easily enough. Her first suspect naturally was her junior apprentice as it was not uncommon for females to seek to supplant one another. But the involvement of a prisoner led Ilvara to suspect someone else—one of her warriors, perhaps. Any one of them could have been bribed. What the plot ultimately could be, however, was still a mystery.

The paranoid priestess decided that the time had come to set an example. Her tentacle-rod abruptly cracked against the stone, startling all three prisoners.

"One of you has information!" Ilvara shouted in Undercommon, her shrill voice bouncing off the unforgiving stone around them. She cared not if not all of them understood her. "It has come to my attention that someone in this outpost is unfaithful to me. I want to know who."

The young warrior flanking Ilvara shifted uncomfortably.

Derendil and the orc turned to the commander in confusion. Fraeya smoothed her features, willing the picture of innocence. All three were silent.

"Answer me!" the priestess roared.

"I know nothing of this false soldier," Derendil replied honestly.

Ilvara ran her sharp gaze over the orc and Fraeya. Her attention lingered on the latter. "The Spider Queen demands truth. She has already pierced your hearts and your minds. Should I discover that one of you is working with this traitor—"

Ilvara let the threat stand for what it was.

Fraeya turned her head to hide her panicked expression. At first, she had thought Ilvara had noticed her pick up the knife but this, this was far worse. Jorlan's entire plan could be compromised. The drow's heart raced as her mind sluggishly tried to think of a clever lie, a distraction, anything to draw Ilvara's attention in another direction.

And then the orc muttered in Common, "Damn your Spider Queen."

The orc had thought he said it quietly enough. He did not understand all of Ilvara's biting words, but he knew that term well enough. But the high priestess heard the blasphemous words and her wrath, promised to be terrible. It all fit into her plan anyhow. Ilvara clicked her tongue, her crimson eyes wide and shining with sudden excitement. "You dare to speak against Lolth?"

The orc stood near the edge of the falls—the falls which dropped to a rocky pool one hundred feet below. Ilvara's smile was filled with malice as she plucked a twisted wand from her belt and aimed a ray of sickening green energy at the orc's chest. The blast knocked him a full ten feet back. The orc scrambled to put space between himself and the crazed drow, but as he took a step back, he felt nothing but air. His eyes grew wide, realizing his mistake. Fraeya and Derendil watched in stunned silence as the orc tumbled over the edge of the falls and disappeared.

A moment later, they heard a sickening crunch against rock.

"The Dark Mother will gladly meet you in death. Tonight, my spiders shall feast!" Ilvara tucked the wand back in its place, satisfied that word of the orc's untimely death would spread amongst the prisoners and quell any further rebellion. She turned her attention back to the two witnesses who remained. "Let that serve as an example of what befalls those who speak against Lolth or dare to challenge her faithful."

Fraeya and Derendil shared a bewildered look before obediently returning to the shoreline with their barrels. More than ever, Fraeya realized the importance of escape. And a quick escape at that.

—

As the day before, the prisoners slowly trickled back into the cell after chore duty. The orc's absence was noticed, but not openly commented upon. Derendil quietly relayed the horrid tale to Zelyra in Elvish, but Fraeya kept her mouth shut about the incident.

Though she had not been the one to deliver the killing blow, Fraeya believed the orc's blood still stained her hands. True, he had spoken out of turn and angered Ilvara. But the drow had no doubt that Ilvara would have used him or someone else as an example regardless. The frantic expression on the orc's face just before he fell over the falls flashed before her eyes. Fraeya furiously told herself that she was one of the drow elves. They did not feel guilt, remorse. That was simply not their way, but…

Dinner that night was brought by a different guard, this one older and not interested in talking. After eating their fill of the same tasteless mushroom broth, some of the prisoners lay down upon the cold stone floor for their night's rest while others mingled and quietly talked amongst themselves. There was not much else to do in the slave pen, no other source of entertainment other than each other's company.

Fraeya remained restless and barely touched her food. Her eyes were ever drawn to the gate. When would Jorlan come? Would he even come? The hours drew on, passing at a crawl, until finally in the dead of night when most had fallen asleep, quiet footsteps approached the cell. Fraeya perked and strained her ears to listen. A low conversation, too quiet to catch anything other than muffled whispers, followed.

At the back of the cell, Sarith too opened a single, curious eye.

A moment later, two sets of footsteps could be heard walking away from the gate. Then there was a soft click as the lock to the slave pen opened.

"Five minutes," Jorlan's voice came from the shadows outside the cell. "That's all the time you will have. Use it wisely."

And then he was gone.

"Very clever of you to bribe the guard," a coy voice whispered in Undercommon. "You spoke with that one last night in your secret drow cant. Buppido saw. He watched. Buppido had wondered, what meddlesome game the she-drow was playing?"

Fraeya involuntarily shuddered, peering over at the hunched creature who curiously stared her down with his soulless milky white eyes—a derro. They were a tortured Underdark race; thought to have been brought into existence by the mad experiments of the illithid on a clan of lost dwarves. But the creature before her resembled nothing of a dwarf. Thin as a rail with nearly translucent skin stretched over bone, a shock of white hair, and eyes that lacked both an iris and pupil. Derro were known to be mentally unstable and entirely unpredictable in their actions. Of all the prisoners in the cell, he would be the one Fraeya feared might expose them.

"I didn't bribe him," she bit back after a moment. "But that's neither here nor there."

Fraeya jumped to her feet, knowing the time to move was upon them. There was no time to argue with a crazed derro. She instead ran to the closest person, the tiefling—Kazimir if she recalled his name correctly—and rudely kicked him awake.

Kazimir found himself violently pulled from yet another nightmare wherein he wandered down the same maze of tunnels filled with living shadows. The tiefling blinked. Once, twice, until he focused his vision on Fraeya as she loomed anxiously above him.

"What—"

"Wake up, moron," the drow said briskly. "We're escaping."

And then she was gone, moving to the next person—Zelyra—and repeated the action, though without the added insult.

Kazimir scowled as he sluggishly climbed to his feet, wondering what he had done to the drow to deserve being called a moron. "I am quite intelligent, thank you," he muttered to himself.

The sleepy cell came alive as the prisoners woke and became aware that something important was happening. Fraeya urgently shushed them. Their escape hinged on not drawing attention to themselves. Five minutes and counting, she reminded herself. That's all they had.

But it quickly became apparent that the language barrier between the group would be an issue. Zelyra, Eldeth, and Kazimir did not know Undercommon, and of their subterranean counterparts, only Jimjar and the drow understood Common. Elvish was a shared language between Zelyra, Derendil, and the drow, but none of the others. There was a mass of sudden chatter. Angry whispers and cursing, some frantic arm-waving as they argued over their course of action.

Kazimir hastily looked around the cell. As his gaze landed upon Stool, an idea came to him. "Stool!" he hissed. "Do the thing—" The tiefling made a mock gesture of an explosion with his hands.

Miraculously, the myconid sprout understood the wizard's meaning, vague as it might have been. Stool quickly released a yellow cloud of rapport spores. To those who had not experienced a myconid's form of communication, the sensation of hearing the others' voices within their head was quite alien. But it cut the chatter completely as the group could now all communicate silently and without a shared language.

"The gate has been left unlocked for us. The next set of guards will not come for a few more minutes. If you wish to leave this place, the time is now," Fraeya briskly announced. She pointed to the gate. "We just need someone strong enough to lift that."

No one argued with her. Between the combined strength of Balasar and Derendil, the heavy iron gate was lifted with ease. One by one, the prisoners rushed under while the dragonborn and quaggoth held it aloft. Shuushar carried Stool, having no desire to fight when the time eventually came. Balasar slipped out, then Derendil, and together, the pair lowered it back down as quietly as they could. The gate made a dull clang as it returned to the stone floor, but nothing that would have garnered too much attention.

"We split up," Fraeya's voice continued to echo in their minds as the group found themselves free of the slave pen but with no further direction. "Half raid the armory above the guard tower, half continue to the elite barracks. Anything of consequence that might've been taken from you is being held in the latter. That is where I will be going." For emphasis, she pulled the small knife from its hidden place in her chest bindings. "I can pick the locks. For now, stealth will be our friend. Take out any who stand in your way quickly and quietly. We want to hold off setting the alarms for as long as possible." Fraeya was not sure what would happen after. They would figure that out when the time came.

The drow did not wait to see who followed her. She took off, sprinting eastward towards the spider-silk bridge that led to the guard tower. Unfortunately, they would have to go through it and then cross the second, longer bridge, to get to the elite barracks. And Fraeya fully expected neither tower would be empty. They would be forced to fight their way through both.

Zelyra looked to Kazimir and whispered aloud in Common, "Your book of power will be in the elite barracks. Come on."

"It's called a spellbook!" the wizard corrected as loudly as he dared, but followed on the druid's heels, nonetheless.

Within moments, Fraeya burst into the guard tower. One elite warrior and two lesser males occupied the lower chamber. The elite warrior sat on a chair; his feet propped up before him as he stared dully out of a window at the cavern at large—the opposite direction of the slave pens. The other two males sat at a table in the center of the room, entertaining themselves with a game of dice. The elite warrior clumsily fell out of his chair as the drow prisoner rushed through. He did not even have the chance to pull himself back to his feet before she nimbly slipped through the opposite door, making for the second bridge.

And then the other prisoners were there. Kazimir and Zelyra came through first. Now freed from the anti-magic ward of the slave pens and having little else to lose, they attacked. The wizard fumbled with his incantation without his spellbook to guide him, but desperation spurred him on. His dark fingers deftly traced a pattern in the air. The two drow at the table promptly dropped their heads to the table, asleep. Simultaneously, a long shard of conjured ice appeared in Zelyra's hand. Balasar and Eldeth entered the chamber just as the ice shard struck the elite's chest and exploded outward into a thousand jagged crystals. The spellcaster pair then continued onward after Fraeya.

"I'll handle this one," Eldeth told Balasar excitedly, cracking her knuckles. "I've been itching fer a fight! Just get me weapons, champion!" The dragonborn nodded and left the bewildered elite warrior for his fellow fighter to deal with.

With a war cry, Eldeth charged. The drow had barely recovered from the impact of Zelyra's ice shard when the stout shield dwarf collided with him, throwing all her weight against him. The slight drow, even with all his training, did not stand a chance against the raging ball of pure muscle that was Eldeth. Down the drow went, and Eldeth gladly followed. As his head smashed against the stone, Eldeth threw a succession of quick timed punches to his temple, calling upon the memories of every dwarven bar fight she had ever witnessed to effectively knock the drow out cold before he could recover.

A minute later, the guard lay unconscious beneath her.

By now, Sarith was already halfway up the ladder leading to the armory. The twitchy derro, Buppido, followed him. Prince Derendil hovered nervously in the doorway, unsure what to do. He was too large to fit through the small trap door leading to the second level. Jimjar meanwhile appeared over Eldeth's shoulder and began to dig around the unconscious guard's pockets. The deep gnome grinned at their good fortune when he found the one thing he never would have anticipated. A lockpick.

Eldeth expectantly held out her wrists.

"Why do you assume I know how to use this?" Jimjar asked her incredulously in Common, rolling the lockpick within his fingers. The dwarf raised a singular auburn eyebrow. "Fine. I'll pick your bonds, muscles. But you owe me a silver."

Eldeth rolled her eyes at the deep gnome's usual bartering and waited patiently as he went to work on her shackles.

As Zelyra and Kazimir found themselves on the second rope bridge, the druid looked to her wizard counterpart and said, "New discoveries, remember? Watch this." Her bones began to loudly pop and crack as her half-elven body reformed, shrinking and folding inward on itself to become a giant wolf spider.

"That is disgusting," Kazimir murmured but truly, the wizard was impressed.

Fraeya was already halfway across the bridge. Zelyra, now crawling along the underside in her spider form, caught up to her with ease. For a moment, Fraeya mistook the shapeshifted druid as one of Ilvara's pets but when it merely followed her instead of attacking, the drow kept running. Her legs pumped; her heart raced. She cleared the bridge and continued down a narrow passageway, passed the second hanging tower with Lolth's shrine and Ilvara's quarters, and made for the third.

The elite barracks were just within grasp.

The single, sleeping elite guard within the chamber was wholly unprepared when the female drow prisoner and a giant spider surged through the door. Balasar and Kazimir flanked them. The dragonborn frantically looked around the room for a weapon, any weapon.

The drow elite jumped to his feet, drawing his sword, but hesitated as his crimson eyes landed on the spider. Fraeya smiled to herself. She had no idea why the spider was there or where it had come from, but it was the best thing she could have hoped for. No drow elf would willingly attack a spider for fear of Lolth's retribution.

Still, the giant wolf spider charged, and the elite warrior had no choice but to defend himself. Sadly, the spider's bite could not pierce the elite's thick studded leather armor and Zelyra soon found herself reverted to her half-elf form, crumpled on the ground with a wicked blade fast approaching her. At that moment, something in Zelyra snapped. Perhaps this dark elf had not been part of the surface raid that was responsible for Laucian's capture, but rage filled her all the same. She hated the dark elves; hated them for the mere fact that they were a reminder of what was once again stolen from her—her family.

The memory of finding the lifeless bodies of fellow druids in a blood-soaked grove struck with vengeance. Kellindil had been cut down from behind. Idril's throat had been slit. Húrin…his head had been ruthlessly cleaved from his shoulders. And Laucian had been taken. Only one had managed to escape death or capture. The ranger, Varan, alone returned to warn the village.

He had found Zelyra first.

And she remembered too, his wounds. His handsome face, further mutilated—

Her teeth and fingernails magically grew to sharp points, a corrosive partial transformation. The drow's blade came down to strike her but then Balasar was there, blocking the attack with a spear he had found propped against the wall. Zelyra used the momentum to grasp either side of the drow elite's face with her hands.

The dark elves had shown her people no mercy. Zelyra would show them none.

Later, she would feel shame for her loss of control. But for now, primal savagery consumed her.

Fraeya ran for the three chests pushed into the corner of the room. She dropped to her knees before the first and grasped the lock, ready to put her skills to the test. But she paused, knife barely in the keyhole, upon hearing the guard's sudden horrid screams. The rogue turned to find Zelyra snarling and raking her nails down the drow's face, leaving trails of burning acid in their wake.

"Remind me never, ever to make that one angry," Kazimir muttered to no one in particular as he watched the druid peel back flesh with her bare hands—nails—with whatever foreign nature magic she had placed upon herself.

Balasar meanwhile used the distraction to disarm the elite warrior of his weapon, and then effectively turned it against the drow to silence him. The guard dropped to his knees and collapsed lifeless on the floor. The dragonborn was not proud of the kill, but it was not his first. The fights in the Forge had been to the death. He had done what was necessary to survive, as he was now.

A high, shrill horn sounded from somewhere outside of the chamber.

The notion of stealth was damned now.

After several moments of wriggling the knife around, Fraeya finally heard the soft click she had been waiting for. As she threw open the lid of the chest, the rogue was delighted to see the bag containing her lockpick set was within it. Beyond that the news was grim. The first chest only contained bags and items, not armor or weapons. She would have to open the other two as well. Fraeya growled, damning Ilvara for making her waste more time.

"One of you can attempt to use this to free yourselves," the rogue offered sarcastically, tossing the knife haphazardly over her shoulder. "Hurry. Reinforcements will be coming soon."

Kazimir picked up the small knife and looked first to Zelyra, then Balasar. The druid's fingernails and teeth had returned to normal, but the tiefling's trepidation remained.

"Hurry!" Fraeya's voice came again, shriller this time.

Kazimir rushed to Balasar but having no lockpicking experience whatsoever, fumbled with the blade. Seeing his trouble, Zelyra stood over his shoulder. "No, not that way. Turn it just so—" she offered. The wizard glanced over his shoulder at her with even more suspicion. "What? Perhaps I have some demons in my closet."

"You've got far more than demons," Kazimir responded with a whistle.

"You're one to talk!" Zelyra retorted, gesturing to his curling, ram-like horns.

Kazimir sneered, "Devil—not demon."

"As if there is a difference. A fiend is a fiend," Balasar pointed out.

"I can't help the way I was born," the tiefling snipped. "Just help me with this damn lock." Zelyra complied and said nothing further, realizing that perhaps they had touched upon a sensitive subject.

With the half-elf's sleight of hand, soon all three were free from their shackles and slave collars. Balasar appreciatively rubbed his wrists as he crossed the room to check Fraeya's progress. Fortunately, the rogue had made quick work of her own bonds and the other chests. All their clothing, armor, and equipment were present and accounted for, but any coin that they had on their persons before their capture was gone. In addition to their belongings, other items of note were a dwarven shield and battle-axe, a set of enlarged fancy elvish robes of purple, crimson, and gold with a sun motif embroidered on the breast, as well as a single neck purse.

The others would have left the latter item. But Fraeya knew it for what it was. The neck purse held a drow family insignia. Carefully, she looked inside.

House Kzekarit.

Fraeya was vaguely familiar with the name. House Kzekarit had been a lower house in Menzoberranzan subjected to a failed raid by a rival house when she was still quite young. Those who had survived the attack had been absorbed into other, more prominent houses looking to add to their ranks—such was the way in the City of Spiders.

The neck purse was not hers, so the drow reasoned it must belong to Sarith. It was surprising that he had managed to hold on to it. Typically, evidence of fallen houses was erased from all but memory. If Sarith had been carrying it on his person when he was captured, it had to be valuable to him indeed. Fraeya snatched it up and shoved it in her bag, determined to use it as leverage against the dour male if need be.

As Fraeya and Balasar began shrugging on their armor and outfitting their weapons, Zelyra reached into one of the chests and pulled out her stolen headdress. For a moment she stared sadly at the holly leaf and golden feather adornments flanking either side. They were a reminder of who she was and where she came from. And they were a promise of where she would return once her task was complete. After the thick leather band was rightfully placed back upon her brow, the druid followed suit and donned her armor, wooden shield and buckled her scimitar, Flameruin, to her belt.

Kazimir stood guard near the door after slipping into his soiled crimson robes, not having physical armor. He was beyond pleased to be reunited with his blue crystalline staff and leather-bound spellbook. But then a strange noise from outside caught his attention. Over the shrill alarm came another, louder, more terrifying sound. A horrible droning buzz followed by the same inhuman shriek he and Zelyra had heard the day before.

"What is that?" the wizard asked nervously, pointing the sound out to the others.

Fraeya paused, mid-buckle, and listened closely. Her heart began to race.

"We've got to go—now!"

"But what is it?"

"Demons," was the drow's only reply. "We're under attack!"

Balasar grabbed Eldeth's shield and battle-axe while Zelyra draped what she could only assume were Prince Derendil's robes over her shoulders. The four then made to exit the elite barracks for their final escape.

They opened the door to a living nightmare.

Fraeya stared up at the ensuing aerial battle in horror. There were six demons in total. Four chasme pursued a pair of vrock. They swooped and buzzed haphazardly in a blackened blur by the hanging towers and past the rope bridges in an all-out frenzy, savagely attacking each other. The air was filled with the shouts of panicked drow, the buzz of the chasme, and the dreadful shrieks of the vrock. It was the drow's familiarity of the sound alone that identified the type of demons to her. Otherwise, the cavern was too dark, and the demons moved too quickly. Fraeya knew that the surface dwellers likely had no idea what danger lay before them.

"Cover your ears!" the rogue instinctively warned the other three.

Balasar, Kazimir, and Zelyra quickly did as she said.

Between the flying demons and the drow, the group was surrounded.

"There's nowhere to go but down!" Zelyra cried, gesturing to the webs.

Balasar shook his head. "Not here—if we clear the webs, it's a one hundred foot drop down to stone!"

"The pool!" Kazimir suggested, also yelling over the noise. "We burn away the webs and drop to the water below. Can you conjure fire?" he asked Zelyra, praying the answer was yes.

In response, a hypnotic curl of flame appeared in the druid's hand where it would remain until she extinguished it.

Fraeya was already running, her mind on one thing and one thing only—freedom. She felt something pierce her form-fitting leathers but ignored it. With her weapons returned to her, the rogue drew her shortbow and began pulling arrow after arrow from the dark quiver at her hip, firing rapidly at any drow or quaggoth servant who dared to block their path. Kazimir and Zelyra followed behind, hurling bolts and small balls of fire respectively. And any who remained in the wake of the other three's onslaught was viciously cut down by a two-handed swipe of Balasar's duergar forged longsword—a 'gift' from his previous slave owner.

The party of four cleared the passageway and neared the waterfall just as Eldeth, Jimjar, Derendil, Sarith, and Buppido exited the guard tower. All but Derendil were equipped with drow armor and weapons—unfitting though it might have been for some. Shuushar was on their heels, also unarmored and weaponless, still holding Stool. All the while, the merging groups dodged poisoned arrows and bolts unleashed by the drow warriors around them.

"Jump to the webs! And then drop to the pool below!" Balasar cried out to the other group, first in Common and then repeated the instruction in Undercommon. He then grinned, baring his draconic teeth, as he held up Eldeth's reclaimed shield and battle-axe. The shield dwarf cheered zealously at the sight of them.

Buppido nodded to those around him. "Yes—yes. Then the quaggoth can cut us free. It will not be restrained by the webs."

The cursed elf-prince bristled. "My name is Prince Derendil. I respectfully ask that you address me as such," he warned with a low growl.

The milky-eyed derro gnashed his teeth in response.

Sarith tucked his short swords back into his sword belt and promptly left the bickering pair behind, dropping silently off the side of the bridge. With a shrug, Eldeth followed suit. She had not understood the Undercommon interaction of the derro and quaggoth anyhow.

Fraeya looked back over her shoulder just in time to see Asha Vandree storm out of the second hanging tower. Asha's expression narrowed into the most chilling of glares. But before the junior priestess could reach for her wand, the rogue blew her a kiss and jumped.

One by one, the prisoners made their respective leaps of faith. They tumbled and then bounced, landing softly upon the flexible spider webbing below. But as they tried to move, they found themselves restrained, unable to lift even a hand or foot or reach for their weapons. Only Derendil, whose quaggoth fur was coated in a natural oil that counteracted the stickiness of the spider webs remained free. [1] The prince rushed for Zelyra, not realizing she and Kazimir could free themselves.

Fire curled around the druid's right hand. With a calming breath, Zelyra willed it outward, to spread and burn away the webs around her hand. Kazimir did the same. But they had gotten no further than freeing their own hands when there was a sudden burst of golden light from far below them. The shrieks of a vrock, sternly issued commands, and the sound of fighting followed. Then a female voice rose, catching the prisoners' attention for it sounded…strangely familiar.

"If we're here—who is protecting the Maze Engine?!"

Those who understood the Common words curiously peered through the veil of webbing, to the dark waters of the pool and rocky shoreline below, expecting to see Ilvara and her warriors. But on the cavern floor, five cloaked figures had surrounded a vrock—a kind of fiend that Kazimir could only describe as an eight-foot-tall, horrific demonic chicken with large black feathery wings. The grey-clad group fought against the demon as one with such practiced movements, such eloquence, that the prisoners momentarily stopped struggling with their restraints to watch.

A drow wielding two gleaming short swords agilely dodged arrows released from the longbow of a half-elven archer as they whizzed just past his head. A half-orc draped in a cloak of bright crimson rushed the winged demon from the front, brandishing her longsword and emblazoned shield as a quaggoth, oddly outfitted in piecemeal leathers, confidently flanked the rear with a blade of pure sunlight. The fifth stood apart from the others, their form obscured by a grey cloak spun of shimmering spider-silk. All that could be seen beneath their shadowy hood was a wide smile as they raised a staff of living wood with a pulsing green gem encased in its crescent head towards the spiderwebs above them.

A raging storm of fire erupted.

The entirety of the dark cavern housing Velkynvelve was suddenly aglow as a torrent of vibrant orange and red and yellow flames swept through the thick netting, incinerating anything and everything in its path.

As the unforgiving flames raced towards him, Kazimir intuitively called out, "Fierna! Shield me!"

But the firestorm still came, leaving nothing untouched—except for the eleven prisoners. They suddenly found themselves weightless, unexpectedly free from their restraints and tumbling through the air towards the chilly pool of water below. A sudden updraft of strong winds followed the firestorm's vicious wake, slowing the prisoners' descent but also fanning the flames to spread beyond the webs, to the hanging chambers and spider-silk bridges above them.

Still, the prisoners fell. Balasar whooped and hollered excitedly. Kazimir spun in panicked wild circles, emitting a loud shriek that had many of the others laughing. Fraeya, tilted her head back to stare upwards as she dropped, watching the drow outpost burn away with a gleam in her silvery eyes. And Zelyra had only one conscious thought as she plunged into the icy depths—Laucian had somehow managed to find her.

As the escaped prisoners broke the surface of the water one by one, their gaze was drawn to the rocky shoreline. But to their surprise, only the maimed demon, the vrock, remained. The five warriors were gone.

High Priestess Ilvara of House Mizzrym was the last to join the fray, only half-dressed for battle with her bewildered lover, Shoor, dutifully flanking her. The priestess furiously threw open the door to the second hanging tower only to stop short.

The spider-silk bridge leading from the chamber was gone. Velkynvelve was on fire. All of it. Flames licked at what few other bridges remained, tore through the thick web camouflage, and the giant spiders—her precious spiders—shrieked with agony as they burned away to ash. Ilvara's scream of rage could be heard echoing through every tunnel, chasing upon the heels of the fleeing prisoners who not only had thoroughly destroyed her command post but also cost her Lolth's favor for she had failed her test.

The gamble had gone better than anyone involved ever could have hoped for.

Jorlan would sleep well with his decisions that night.

[1] Only Derendil, whose quaggoth fur was coated in a natural oil that counteracted the stickiness of the spider webs remained free.

I swear I remember reading somewhere that quaggoths not only were immune to poison, but something about their fur kept them from being restrained by spiderwebs. I looked for that source material while writing this, but now I can't seem to find it. Perhaps it was from an earlier edition of D . Either way for the purpose of this story, we're going with it.

Last revision: 11/05/21