Chapter Fifteen

Doubt and Deceit

1485 DR / Day 18

The Northdark, seven days southwest of Sloobludop

Balasar crouched against the dark stone. Eldeth was ever at the dragonborn's side, low-lit torch in hand, while Prince Derendil squatted down to her left. It made for an amusing picture, two hunched seven-foot-tall creatures and a dwarf in the middle. Their unusual trio had the grim task of examining the bodies of the fallen raiders. But before they did, Balasar wished to settle a minor curiosity that had nagged at him since his duel with the captain. The dragonborn did not know what the broken sword might reveal. He stared at the piece in his hand and saw just a hint of his reflection through the corrosion and grime, to no avail. It was just a shard.

"It's rusted," Eldeth observed. "That's odd."

The dragonborn nodded. "I thought so too."

"Most of their weapons were," said Derendil.

"That's foolishness," the shield dwarf muttered. "Balasar shattered the blade with a single blow. Who would dare to bring such a poorly crafted weapon on a raid?"

"What if the rust appeared recently?" the prince suggested. "Could it have been caused by a creature they encountered or a trap?"

Eldeth pondered that. "Aye, ye might be on to something—"

But whatever words the shield dwarf had thought to say fell silent as the tell-tale sign of rock crunching beneath light-booted feet signaled another's approach. As one, the trio looked up from the shards to recognize the approaching dark figure as Sarith.

"What do ye want?" Eldeth spat before she could think twice.

Balasar and Derendil appeared equally wary as both saw fit to rise to their full height, truly dwarfing the dwarf between them—no pun intended.

Sarith could have silenced his steps and slipped by unnoticed had he wished. But the warrior knew he was already treading water. No more surprises. The group had not trusted him before, and they certainly did not now. And so, the drow found himself falling back upon old habits. He'd never been one for pretty words. To stay silent was easier. But Sarith knew well how to appease when the situation called for it, even if said appeasement was to a filthy dwarf and not one so imposing as a matron mother.

He'd suffer to their whims. For now.

"I came to retrieve my spent bolts," the drow said at last. And that was the truth. It seemed unwise to leave them when supplies were already a short commodity.

"Well, waste not," Eldeth grumbled under her breath.

The dwarf did not take her eyes off Sarith as he wandered over to the body of the first man he'd felled. He completed the gruesome task of cutting the bolt from the man's chest and then made a small loop, collecting stray bolts that had missed their initial targets and ricocheted off rock. Not once did Eldeth avert her gaze. Even as Derendil and Balasar went back to discussing the shattered scimitar, her concern remained first and foremost, the wayward drow.

It may have been hypocritical of her to regard Sarith with such distrust, for Eldeth was not without blood on her hands either. She'd split a man's spine with her axe not but an hour ago. But the fell deed was quick and done in defense of another, she knew, not out of reckless hate or lust of blood. What the adventurers had stumbled upon in the tunnels was not clean execution. It was overkill. And what the dwarf found most alarming was that Sarith never once denied that he had done it.

"His throat was slit," Fargas observed grimly as they approached.

Nine knelt beside the corpse. "He would have bled out anyway," she said. The ranger gestured to a series of vicious slashing wounds on the chest—the work of a thin but sharp blade.

Recalling that specific detail, Eldeth's gaze shot to the twin blades, which hung from the drow's sword belt. A shortsword or dagger both fit the description of a 'thin but sharp blade.' Sarith was equipped with both. So, the dwarf knew then that she was not unfairly jumping to conclusions or placing blame based on the reputation of the drow alone—it all fit! But how did it start? Had Sarith attacked the man in a fit of mad rage, or was it self-defense that spiraled out of control?

And she did not voice it aloud, but there was another question that plagued Eldeth as well. What had become of Buppido? For the derro had not returned with Sarith. Had the party forsaken him to his doom? Had Buppido been cornered and alone when a silent blade sunk into his back? Perhaps, that was what drove Eldeth to fear.

If Sarith could so easily kill a man, what if one of them were next?

…

Fraeya joined Sarith as he moved about the camp, searching for bolts. It was no more than a ploy to observe him, for she'd only spent a few arrows. The rogue had relied more on her dancing blade this battle than the string of her bow. When there was no more for her to 'pretend' to hunt for, Fraeya dropped all pretense and openly shadowed the warrior's steps. If Sarith was bothered by her hovering, he didn't outwardly show it. Instead, he ignored her and everyone else as he went about his task.

Meanwhile, Balasar and Derendil crouched again by the broken sword.

"Do you think an ooze might have caused the corrosion?" Balasar suggested.

"It's hard to say," the prince said as he scratched at his furry chin. "I'm not entirely familiar with them. We did not have any in my kingdom that I'm aware of."

Eldeth absently slapped her forehead. "That was what I was going to tell ye before! Have ye forgotten the grey ooze hidden in the pool beneath Velkynvelve?" she said. "They can eat through metal just as easy as flesh, and from my experience in Gauntlgrym, they are known to attack in groups. But to cause that much corrosion…"

"Those men would have faced many," Balasar completed the dwarf's thought.

"Or it was a long battle," the prince added.

"And I can tell ye that none of us should be wanting any part of that," said Eldeth. Her twin braids swished as she shook her head back and forth for emphasis. "We were lucky to have faced just the one. There are other types, larger and far more dangerous, that can split—"

"It's just an ooze. They're slow. Why didn't the men just turn and run away?" Fraeya interrupted.

Eldeth rolled her eyes and said, "Because they're men."

The dwarf was content to leave it at that, but the rogue did not understand.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's a universal attribute. For example, male dwarves are stubborn and fool-hearted and don't know when to quit. Their human counterparts are much the same," Eldeth lamented. "Are drow males not like that?"

"Drow males know their place," Fraeya replied. "They do as they're told."

Several paces away, Sarith cursed her under his breath. He was fortunate to have said it quietly enough that Fraeya did not hear the choice word he used. Only Eldeth did. And while she'd never heard the term elg'caress before, the dwarf could take a few guesses as to its meaning… [1]

"Not all, apparently," Eldeth deadpanned.

Fraeya turned to Sarith. "Is there something you wish to add?"

The warrior sneered at her. There were several things he'd like to say, but he settled for, "I would not be so ignorant to brush aside the danger of an ooze."

"Why?" This time it was Prince Derendil who asked the question.

"Do you remember the elite guard in Velkynvelve with the melted face and missing fingers?" Sarith prompted.

"Let me guess, the fool tried to wrangle an ooze?" said Fraeya.

"Jorlan is no fool," the warrior replied with a shake of his head. "It was an ambush."

"How do ye know that's what happened?" Eldeth asked.

"Because I was there," said Sarith. "A black pudding dropped down on him from the ceiling. He would have died from the resulting injuries if not for the Mistress's healing magic."

No sooner did the words leave his lips that he wished to force them back in, for the admission stopped the others in their tracks. Mistress. Not Ilvara—the Mistress. It was a slip of the tongue. A foolish one. Only those who served Ilvara referred to the priestess as such. The drow had just unwittingly ousted himself.

"I think that's the longest string of words I've heard from you," Fraeya said.

"You were a guard of Velkynvelve?" Prince Derendil asked suspiciously.

"Ilvara healed someone?" Balasar exclaimed.

This time it was Eldeth who cursed and did not do so quietly. Several angry Dwarven expletives dropped from her lips before she said, "For weeks, we've been united on one front and one front only, our hatred for Ilvara. Now, ye tell us ye worked for the bitch? If ye think we're going to trust ye now, ye've got another thing coming! Bet ye'd turn us in at yer first convenience to regain her favor. Or is yer plan to pick us off in service to her one by one? Have ye not had enough taste of blood?"

Eldeth had half a mind to ram the traitor with her shield, but a surprisingly placating gesture from Fraeya stopped her.

The rogue's head cocked to the side. "She has a point—I think…"

In her anger, the dwarf had interchanged more than a few Dwarven and Common words, and her brough thickened, so much so that the others had trouble discerning her meaning. [2]

Fraeya then asked, "What could you possibly gain from telling us that aside from our suspicion?"

The truth was, he hadn't meant to. But Sarith couldn't take it back now.

"I hold no loyalty to Ilvara," the warrior admitted. "I was imprisoned right alongside you."

"And why is that?" the rogue pressed, though she knew the answer. "Because you killed someone?"

Sarith took an unconscious step back, and his eyes darted like a cornered, feral animal looking for an escape. He'd been misled in his desperation. Never for a single moment should he have thought that Fraeya might aid him. But such was the way of the drow. Use a connection for what it was worth and then discard it. No lasting alliances.

But what other choice did he have than to stay and rejoin them? Punishment for a crime that he did not remember committing awaited him in Menzoberranzan. He could not go there. And given the rumors that Sarith had heard before his imprisonment about hordes of demons rampaging the city streets and breaking down the gates of noble Houses as they were summoned at the whim of Matron Mother Baenre…

If those rumors were true, it would be foolish for anyone, drow or otherwise, to go anywhere near the City of Spiders. But neither could Sarith return to the outpost nor the high priestess he'd formerly served. Ilvara would turn on him just as quick as he did her a favor. So, where? To whom else could he turn?

There was no one, for only two other names, both as unlikely as the other, came to mind. Rava had long ago tired of both the matriarchal society and living under the shadow of the great Duskryn warriors. Sarith had not seen or heard from his elder brother in decades. And Jorlan, well, he was the one who fabricated the damning accusations of murder in the first place—likely no more than another desperate attempt to regain the favor of his former lover. Whatever semblance of loyalty the brothers-in-arms had once shared was now broken beyond repair.

How could he possibly have fallen so low? For his last resort to be none other than a renegade drow female, a deranged quaggoth, and an unsettling number of iblith that included an irritating wizard—oh, how he deeply despised wizards. In the back of his head, a voice, self-loathing and angry, asked if it was worth it. He'd spent days tracking the blithering idiots down. To what end?

Self-preservation. Reassurance. Accountability.

Because you are afraid to be alone.

For there was a second voice in his head that was nagging and insistent, discordant and frightening, probing and ever hungry.

Go to the Gift. Embrace it. And you shall know my unbridled Joy.

Sarith had thought he was better off alone. But not long after separating from the group, the maddening whispers in his head returned with a vengeance. And in his solitude, with no other distractions, those whispers were all that he could dwell on.

Always the same, the confusing promises of joy. It somehow stemmed back to that gods-forsaken grove. Ever since then, he'd heard Her. Those whispers, the haunting melody, had shattered him, his mind, confidence, and dignity. It made him question his every step. What had he done? Jorlan accused him of murdering a fellow guard. Not just any guard, but a prized warrior of House Mizzrym. So no, Sarith had no chance of regaining Ilvara's favor and former station. But try as he might, he could not remember committing the deed. He could not remember! If he thought of his time in the grove—

"He's in a daze again," said Balasar.

"Hello? What's wrong with ye, drow?" Eldeth called out.

"Should we call for Zelyra?" Prince Derendil asked.

"No, she and Nine are still tending to Fargas. Best not disturb them," the dwarf replied.

"What of the wizard? Could he have a restoration spell?"

"Not likely. Kazimir and Stool are off collecting water orb, anyway."

Sarith heard none of the conversations around him; so loud now were the whispers in his mind. Sometimes, they were not even distinguishable words at all but instead an awful, horrible buzzing! Like a thousand tiny insects hatching in his head—

"Sarith! Snap out of it!" Fraeya hissed, now standing inches from his face.

The whispers in his head fell strangely silent. He met her gaze. Silvery. So strange. An omen. Or perhaps, a marking…to those who did not follow the ways of Lady Lolth. He'd suspected for some time, but the rogue's actions of late only served to confirm it.

It was information that he might later use as leverage, if nothing else.

"Sarith!" Fraeya repeated.

The drow absently shook his head to clear his spiraling thoughts, only to realize he had been staring off for several minutes. Far too long. He could not remember what he'd been doing before. Sarith glanced around him, searching for some clue or, at the very least, an excuse to confirm his sanity.

Bolts. That was it. He had been collecting spent ammunition and scouting their camp unbeknownst to the others. The raiders had ambushed them far too easily. And Sarith himself had trailed them unnoticed for some time before revealing himself to Fraeya. They would need to establish a perimeter and set outer defenses. It was evident to the warrior that they would not be moving anytime soon unless they were to leave the halfling behind, which Sarith very much doubted the others would agree to.

But when he turned back to them, the iblithen were staring at him oddly, which confused and infuriated the drow further. He was fine. There was nothing wrong with him. He didn't want or need their concern nor their wretched pitying glances. And so, in typical Sarith fashion, he spun on his heel and stalked off.

…

The idea of adding defenses to their camp was not an ill one—not that Sarith ever communicated it to the rest of the group; he let them figure it out on their own—for more than one rest cycle passed before the party could pack up and move on. Fargas's grievous injury needed time to heal. In the meantime, the companions doubled up on watches, taking them in groups of two or three, never alone, and Fraeya, with the help of Nine, fashioned a few makeshift spring traps to place along their perimeter. The rogue was pleased to have finally found a good use for the gobs of ball bearings she'd carried in her pack for ages. [3]

The bodies of the fallen men were eventually laid to rest under piles of rock as far away from camp as Derendil and Balasar dared to venture alone. Nothing of note was scavenged from them. Aside from a few wrapped portions of stale bread and dried fruits, the only items found on their persons were a needle and spool of thread and a rotten tooth.

Otherwise, time passed slowly for the adventurers. For what could one do to truly entertain themselves while confined to one area of a lightless cavern? They felt Jimjar's absence more than ever then. Kazimir drew in his journal, Zelyra meditated, and Derendil buried his nose in a book that the wizard loaned him. Nine fletched a handful of arrows, and the others took care to sharpen and clean their weapons. Fargas slept a lot. And while the rest occasionally shared silly and meaningless conversation—such as, what do you suppose that stalactite resembles? Sarith kept to himself and spoke not at all.

Giant fire beetles were the only creatures to stumble upon their makeshift encampment during those dull cycles. An onslaught of Firebolts met the pests well before reaching the perimeter, and Fraeya was quick to protest that the wizard stole her glory. None of the traps that she and Nine had set up were activated. Her complaints were met with a 'what do you want me to do about it' shrug from Kazimir.

Zelyra and Eldeth investigated the smoking bodies of the fire beetles and found that in death, their glowing glands could still shed bright light. The glands were promptly harvested and turned over to Balasar and Derendil, who buried them beneath rocks, for the last thing the adventurers needed was a light source to draw a more significant predator to them. Nothing else of note happened during that time.

When they woke on the morning of what would be their third rest cycle spent in the camp, the adventurers found Fargas already up and moving. His chest ached with every breath he drew, but the halfling was willing to suffer through it. No more delays. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that they were within a day of the tomb.

"Are you sure that you're ready?" Zelyra cautioned.

Fargas nodded. "Glimmer says it's time to go!"

To prove his point, the halfling drew the enchanted sword from its scabbard, and Zelyra was forced to bring a hand to her eyes to shield them from the blinding pale blue light that emanated from it. Glimmer had never shone so brightly.

"So, the sword speaks to you now?" the druid asked with a slight smile.

"Of course not! A talking sword? What are the chances of that?" the halfling replied as he sheathed the glowing sword.

When the light was tucked away and the comfortable cloak of endless night fell upon them once more, Zelyra startled as the strange thought crossed her mind, for never had the druid thought she might consider an absence of light to be a good thing. But after nearly two tendays sequestered in the unforgiving dark…

As the others made quick work of clearing their camp of any evidence of their stay, Fraeya disabled her traps and packed them away for another time. Then, they were marching on. Their walking order was much the same as before—Fargas and Nine in front with the map, Balasar and Eldeth after them, Prince Derendil, Stool, and Kazimir in the middle, and Zelyra with the drow at the rear. The druid was quick to summon Peanut to her shoulder and quietly told the tiny fey mouse in Druidic to be on guard. While Zelyra was now inclined to give Fraeya the benefit of the doubt, she was not as quick to do the same for Sarith.

Their progress was slow. Despite Fargas's bravado, he found himself winded after just an hour of walking. And so, the party stopped for short rests every few hours instead of pressing on until they were dead on their feet. It took many hours to cross the large cavern, but they did reach an end. After that, the adventurers were resigned to slinking through crisscrossing tunnels. But it was not long before Fargas and Nine halted the party at a four-way in confusion, for their map did not show a four-way, only three crossing tunnels.

"Perhaps the map is out of date," the halfling mused.

"The paths here change at the whim of the creatures that create them," Sarith said from the back of the line. "But I don't recall a fourth tunnel being here before either."

Everyone looked to the drow with mirroring expressions of surprise. It was the first time that Sarith had spoken in a great while. But furthermore, those who had escaped Velkynvelve realized that he was speaking of the Great Worms. Jimjar had warned them about the 'tunnel-eaters' once. An overwhelming sense of dread settled over them then. How fresh could this fourth passage be?

"You've been this way before?" Eldeth asked.

The warrior pointed to the second tunnel on the left and said, "That way leads to Gracklestugh."

Nine consulted the map and then confirmed, "He's right."

Sarith rubbed his temples and muttered something under his breath.

"That's something to keep in mind for later," said Balasar. "But which way at present?"

"When in doubt, follow your nose," Kazimir quipped. [4]

The ranger rolled her eyes. "That's a stupid way to make decisions."

Meanwhile, Fargas was paying not a bit of attention to them. The halfling's eyes were closed, his hand on the Glimmer's hilt as he focused.

"Which way?" he thought. "Which way?"

Something intrinsic within him told him to draw the sword from its scabbard at that moment. As the halfling held the Glimmer up before him, the sword's light shone brighter in the shadow of the fourth tunnel.

That's when a voice came to him.

"Hello? Is someone there… please? I've been trapped in this ill-fated dark for far too long."

Fargas looked to Glimmer in confusion. "Was that you?" he muttered to the sword.

"Please, set me free. I beg you! I am the burning harbinger of dawn, not the cursed night."

"A talking sword?!" the halfling exclaimed with a laugh. Fargas turned back to Zelyra in amazement and said, "I was wrong! I don't understand it, but the sword can now talk!"

The druid was hunched over with her hands pressed against her eyes.

Before Fargas could voice his concern, a sudden mental vision assaulted him. It wormed its way into his mind's eye, the recesses of his thoughts, with naught an effort. Unbeknownst to him, Fargas's companions both felt the same mental assault and heard the pleading voice in their heads. And yet, they understood that this influence was not Glimmer but something else, something older and yet, in a way, connected.

Beyond a bend in the darkened tunnel was a great waterfall that fed into a series of smaller ones. Amidst the cascading water and misting streams stood a blackened cliff face that looked down upon a shallow lake. At the center of that lake was an island, or the equate of one. Truly, it was a mass amount of broken stone, a structure flipped on its side. But there was a door! A great bronze door with the impression of a floating figure, a woman—no, an elf—upon it.

As the vision faded from his thoughts, Fargas began to vibrate with excitement.

Deep in his heart, he knew. This was the lost tomb of Brysis of Khaem found at long last! The halfling explorer, who had dedicated years of research to its discovery only to endure ridicule, laughter, and scorn from friends and peers alike, felt an immeasurable surge of confidence. He could not bear to waste another second. Fargas took off down the dark tunnel at a full sprint with Glimmer's pale blue light illuminating the way.

"Wait! There could be traps!" his ranger companion called out in warning.

But it was too late. Fargas was already gone.

—

[1] I'm finally utilizing the Drow dictionary! Better late than never?

Elg'caress. Hag, harpy, bitch (directed towards a female.)

Iblith. Excrement, offal, carrion. It is often used when referring to humans and other non-drow races but can also be an insult. I think I got the plural form (iblithen) right, but please correct me if I'm wrong!

[2] So. This is a thing. Dwarven accents and the intermingling of multiple languages. I've been writing Eldeth's accent mildly for many reasons. First and foremost, I don't want it to be distracting. I trust that your imagination can fill in the gaps. I have (slowly) been reading Archmage, which is the precursor to the Out of the Abyss campaign. I could rant for an entire page about how horrendous it is to read the dwarven dialogue (and there are SO many dwarves in it), but I digress…

I'm not multilingual in a fluent capacity but I have known people who are. It is so easy when one gets worked up to refer to their first language or have slip ups when the tongue works ahead of the brain (or vice versa) to mix. I wanted to show that with these fictional characters who have it even worse than us! Common binds them but in most of their cases, it's likely not the same language they would use with their family and friends.

[3] Am I the only one who laughs over the 1000 ball bearings that come in the burglar's pack? How many of us actually find a use for them? We never thought to set up traps around our camps in gameplay, but I thought this would be the perfect situation for it narratively.

[4] This is a silly note more than anything. Kazimir's player was known to time Lord of the Rings quotes perfectly to his character in the game. In one such instance, we were in the middle of combat, and Kazimir's player had positioned him on a cliff with a river of acid running beneath it. Everyone else's characters were running because it was a fight we would not win. So, on his turn, Kazimir's player bellowed, "FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES" before having Kazimir jump off the cliff…only to roll a natural one and fall into the acid. We consequently had to take a ten-minute break from the session to curb our laughter. So, expect more references in the future.

—

I reworked the first chapter of The Grey Warriors over the weekend after one of the players of this campaign asked if I would let him read the story I was writing. So, naturally, I panicked because a) it's daunting to write someone else's character—what if he hates what I've done to Kazimir? and b) I haven't looked back at the early chapters in months. Yikes! So, this chapter was delayed a bit because of that.

The Lost Tomb at last! I'm sharing his excitement because I've been itching to get to this point for so long. I realize that it's only a page and a half of what is a 255-page module, but this is Fargas's lifelong dream. I want to make it memorable! Unfortunately, DM/husband and I will be out of town for the last half of June. While I'd like to say I will write while on vacation, I hold no such promises. So, my goal (!) is to have the tomb chapter/s completed and posted before then. So, wish me luck these next couple of weeks!

I also want to give a shout out to DM/husband, who read at least six different versions of this chapter while I fought to establish our beloved dark-and-broody drow's 'voice' and inner monologue. At the end of the day, the NPCs are his labored love and creation. Since this is the first time that I've spent a significant amount of time in Sarith's headspace, I wanted to get it right.

And final note. Song inspiration for this chapter is "It's a Dream" by Glen Gabriel from the Purgatory Road soundtrack (I can't express to you all enough how much I love Glen Gabriel's music) This song, very much speaks to Sarith and what he is feeling at present. I've used tumble (link on my profile page) in the past to share inspirational artwork and music for this story, but it was only because I didn't know of another platform to use. If anyone has any better ideas, I'm fully open to them!

- Mari.