The Cult of the Gol'Goroth
Epilogue
Chapter Eleven
The Ambush
Two months later…
Ches (The Claw of Sunsets) 1485 DR
Taras Aldar, Neverwinter Wood
The chill of winter passed, and the early spring brought a sense of renewal to the forest. The trees of Taras Aldar were beginning to bud with fresh leaves, and the air was filled with the scent of blooming wildflowers. But despite the beauty of the season, there was tension in the village. Zelyra's discovery of the mysterious portal in the autumn had left the druids on edge throughout the long Masters of the Wood spent countless hours investigating the portal's origins, probing its energies, but the gateway remained an enigma. It resisted their every attempt to understand it, revealing only glimpses of a chaotic realm beyond, where light and shadow mingled in ways that defied the natural order. Even partnering with the wizard, Erstod, told them little.
"Some things reveal their designs with time," Ansron eventually concluded. "And that can make them more dangerous. We must be watchful."
"The Weave has been wild and unpredictable since the Spellplague," Erstod agreed. "It is hard to say what the young druid has found…"
The Circle of Swords knew that something dark and dangerous stirred in Neverwinter Wood, but the true nature of that threat continued to elude them. And so, life in Taras Aldar continued. Then, as the snow melted and the forest awoke, news of another portal reached the village. This one, sighted on the far edge of the Wood, was near Mount Hotenow and the reclaimed dwarven city of Gauntlgrym. A scouting party was swiftly organized to investigate it.
Laucian, one of the most respected elders of the village, was chosen to lead the expedition. Four sentries would go with him—Varan, the skilled and stoic ranger; Kellindil, an elven scout with unmatched precision; Idril, a calm and composed healer; and Húrin, a fierce fighter with a reputation for strength and loyalty. Together, they set out on a journey that would take them several days to complete.
. . .
The sun had barely risen over the canopy of Neverwinter Wood when Laucian's scouting party set out. The chill of winter lingered in the early morning air, but the promise of spring whispered through the ancient, gnarled trees. Buds lightly dotted the branches overhead, and the smell of fresh, wet earth mingled with pine. For months, the Circle had tried to unravel the mystery of the portal Zelyra had encountered, but their efforts had yielded no answers. Now, with reports of another anomaly near Gauntlgrym, they had no choice but to investigate.
Laucian was at the head of the group, his steely eyes scanning the path ahead. Behind him walked Varan, Kellindil, Idril, and Húrin—all seasoned sentries of the Circle of Swords. They traveled silently, their steps sure and steady as they navigated familiar forest trails. Varan kept his gaze on Laucian's back, though his thoughts occasionally drifted back to the half-elf he had left behind in Taras Aldar. Zelyra had grown strong under Laucian's guidance; the ranger had witnessed that firsthand in Goldleaf. But she still carried far too much innocence. Varan's grip tightened on his bow. He would protect her—and her father—with his life, if need be.
The group traveled most of the day, the forest growing denser as they neared the mountains. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they set up camp in a secluded glade with thick underbrush. A small fire was lit, and the group gathered around it, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames as they ate supper.
"This whole thing feels off," Húrin muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The elven fighter's face was set in a frown, his eyes narrowed as he stared into the dark forest beyond the campfire. "First that portal near Taras Aldar, and now this?"
Laucian nodded thoughtfully. "There's a connection, I'm sure of it. But without more information, we're stumbling in the dark." He glanced at the others, his gaze lingering on Varan. "Keep your wits about you tonight. We're not alone out here."
The night was quiet; the forest bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the trees. The fire crackled softly in the center of the camp, casting long shadows that danced on the ground. But despite the tranquility, there was an undercurrent of unease that none of them could shake. Laucian suddenly stood, scanning the shadows with a watchful eye. Something was wrong. He could feel it, a disturbance in the natural order of things.
Varan felt it also. "We should press on," the ranger said, his voice low as he tended to the fire. His blue eyes flicked nervously toward the surrounding trees, catching the same ominous silence.
"Not yet," Laucian replied, his tone measured but firm. "We need rest. And besides, something stirs out there. I fear we're being watched. Douse the fire, Varan."
The ranger tensed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword, and then did as he was told. Truthfully, he would have preferred not to have lit a fire at all… but the others had insisted on a small one on such a cold evening. Kellindil, the elven scout, stood near the tree line, his keen eyes skimming the dark and Húrin did the same near the doused fire. They were all on alert.
But all was quiet.
For now.
Varan took the first watch. The others settled into their bedrolls, trusting the ranger's constant vigilance to keep them safe. The hours passed, but there was still no sign of danger. Eventually, Húrin took over, and Varan allowed himself to rest, though his sleep was light and uneasy. But the fighter's vigil also passed without incident.
It was Kellindil's watch, in the deepest part of the night, that everything went wrong.
The attack came without warning. Shadows moved among the trees, silent and swift. Kellindil barely had time to cry out before a wicked blade pierced his back, the force of the blow driving him to his knees. He let out a strangled cry, collapsing to the ground as the camp was ambushed by figures cloaked in darkness. A secondary, vicious blow followed, and the elven scout spoke no more…
The rest of the group was jolted awake by the attack. Varan was on his feet instantly, one blade flashing as he instinctively parried a strike aimed at his heart. By the light of the moon, the ranger saw his attacker's snarling face—a lithe elven male, short in stature, clad in dark armor that seemed to absorb the moonlight. And the others looked just like him. Skin the color of midnight, stark white hair, and their eyes, narrow and almond-shaped, gleamed like burning embers in the darkness. They were unlike anyone Varan had ever seen.
Laucian, however, recognized their kind immediately. "Drow!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as the group scrambled to defend themselves. "We've been ambushed! Defensive positions!"
The elder druid had faced drow during his travels in the Underdark with Morista Malkin and knew the danger they posed well. He cursed himself for letting his guard down. Gauntlgrym might have been reclaimed by the dwarves, but Morista had warned that the drow still fought to maintain their claim of the very underbelly of the city. These dark elves could have easily slipped through cracks in the dwarves' defenses, searching for sacrifices to please their wicked goddess. Laucian's heart sank further as he realized that he and the sentries were vastly outnumbered, for this was a team of elite warriors.
Laucian called fire to his hand and quickly relit their campfire to bonfire strength, hoping the light would pose a disadvantage to the dark elves. But it was not enough. The drow continued to press their attack.
Varan fired an arrow, the shaft embedding itself in a drow's chest, but it barely phased the warrior, who was stockier than most of his kin. The ranger then switched to his scimitars. Another drow lunged at him. But the ranger twisted away, one blade slashing out to catch the dark elf across the thigh. The drow hissed in pain but pressed his original attack, his crimson eyes gleaming with utter hatred.
"Hold the line!" Laucian commanded. He stood at the center of the fray; staff held high as he called forth a surge of energy. Roots and vines erupted from the ground, ensnaring the drow and slowing their advance. Then, in Druidic, he added, "Let none pass! We can't let them find the village!"
Idril moved to his side, her hands glowing with healing magic. "Laucian, they're too many!" she cried, her eyes wide with fear as she cast a healing spell on Húrin, who was bleeding from a deep gash in his side. "We can't hold them off forever!"
Húrin roared, his massive sword cleaving through a drow warrior, the blade leaving a trail of blood in its wake. "We'll hold them as long as we need to!" he bellowed, his voice a deep, defiant boom.
But the drow were already closing in, their dark blades flashing in the moonlight. They moved like shadows, their attacks precise and deadly. Varan's heart pounded as he fought, his arrows flying in rapid succession and his scimitars flashing, but he knew it wasn't enough. The drow were too well-coordinated and in their element of night.
And then he saw her.
A tall, imposing figure stalked into the glade, her presence commanding immediate attention. She was beautiful in a cruel, alien way. Her dark head was shaved clean save for a high white ponytail bound with black leather. Her robes left little to the imagination. The strips of fabric were adorned with spider designs wrought of diaphanous thread. Her posture was straight and sure, and her steps were as decisive as a dancer. She held a scourge in one hand, a snake-headed whip adorned with symbols of Lolth, the Spider Queen.
Laucian saw her, too, and immediately marked her as the leader of the ambush.
"By the Wildmother…" the elder muttered, recognizing the gravity of their situation.
The presence of a high priestess meant that this was no ordinary attack. It was a raid against the 'damned' living in the light-filled lands above. This was a test for the elite warriors to prove themselves worthy of Lolth's favor.
And they were the unfortunate victims.
The high priestess raised her hand, and with a sharp gesture, the ground beneath the scouting party's feet turned into a mess of thick, sticky webbing and dark tendrils that snaked up from the earth, reaching for their legs. The webbing even ensnared a few of her warriors, but the priestess did not care. Males were expendable, and her eyes were on a higher prize.
Idril cried out as one of the tendrils wrapped around her ankle, pulling her off balance into the webs. Húrin swung his sword in a wide arc, severing the tendril and freeing her, but more slithered toward them. Laucian countered by raising his staff. A surge of energy flowed through him, and with a word of command, the tendrils and webbing withered and shrank back into the earth, leaving the party momentarily unscathed. But the respite was brief. The high priestess snarled, her eyes narrowing in anger as she locked gazes with Laucian.
"Impressive," she murmured in a version of broken Elvish that the elder recognized as Drow. "You dispelled a high priestess' magic. You are stronger than I expected… clearly the leader. You and your kin are an offering worthy of Lolth's favor."
The elder druid's jaw clenched. "I will not let you harm my people."
The priestess' smile widened. "Ah. And you know our tongue. Interesting."
She raised her hand again, unleashing a ray of sickening green energy that crackled through the air, aimed directly at Laucian. But the druid stood firm as the spell struck him, the poison having no effect. The priestess shrieked with rage. They continued to face off, their wills clashing in a battle of nature vs. the dark divine.
Laucian could feel Lolth's malevolence pressing against him, trying to worm her way through his defenses, but he held firm, drawing on his connection to the Wildmother to strengthen his resolve. He unleashed a torrent of vines and roots from the earth, which shot toward the drow priestess with incredible speed, wrapping around her snake-headed whip and limbs, pulling her to the ground.
The drow struggled, her crimson eyes flashing with fury as she attempted to free herself. "You fight with nature's toys while I wield the power of a goddess!" she cried, infusing magic into her voice. The vines withered away, crumbling to dust.
Despite her resistance, Laucian knew he could overpower the priestess if he wished. He could draw upon his deeper reserves of magic, summon an inferno of nature's wrath, and obliterate her and her forces. But at what cost to land or life? The battle raged around him. Varan, Idril, and Húrin fought valiantly against the elite warriors, but they were outnumbered and not used to underhanded, drow battle tactics. If he focused all his efforts on defeating just the priestess, the others would be left defenseless, and the elite warriors would cut them down, one by one, without mercy.
A decision had to be made.
"Varan!" the elder shouted in Druidic, his voice cutting through the din. "Go! Warn the village!"
The ranger was engaged in a fierce duel with a drow warrior, their blades clashing in a blur of steel, but he spared a glance over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Laucian's. "I won't leave you!" he shouted back.
"That's an order, Varan!" Laucian's voice was sharp, his expression fierce. "Go, now!"
The ranger hesitated, his instincts warring with the command. But the look in Laucian's eyes left no room for argument. With a curse, he disengaged and sprinted into the dark trees. Laucian was right. Someone had to warn the village, and he might be the only one who could do it. Varan ran for a few heart-pounding moments, his feet barely touching the ground as he raced through the forest.
But the thought of leaving them—leaving Zelyra's father—nagged at him.
He couldn't abandon Laucian, not like this.
And so, ignoring the command he had just been given, Varan circled back, bow in hand, as he slipped through the underbrush. He reached the edge of the clearing just in time to see the dark elves close in around Laucian, Idril, and Húrin. From the shadows of the surrounding trees, the ranger used his Boots of Spider Climbing to scale into position within the towering branches of an ancient oak, an ideal vantage point just outside the clearing. The high priestess swiftly advanced toward the others, the heads of her scourge hissing in anticipation of blood. Varan could see the satisfaction in her eyes—she thought she had the upper hand.
The ranger swiftly nocked an arrow and sighted a kill shot directly between her eyes.
But before Varan could let loose, Laucian shouted, "Enough!"
Sensing a shift, the drow paused their onslaught while the priestess raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "You surrender?" she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. "How quaint."
Laucian's storm cloud eyes met hers. "I do. On the condition that you spare my companions. Take me as your prisoner, but let them go free."
Varan, hidden among the trees, froze in disbelief. He could see the resolve in Laucian's posture. The elder druid was making his last stand, but Varan's mind screamed in protest. He couldn't let this happen—he wouldn't. His fingers trembled, ready to release the arrow, end the priestess' life in an instant. But Laucian's calm voice echoed in his mind. Not yet. Trust me.
The priestess chuckled lowly, her crimson eyes gleaming with eagerness. "You are in no position to make demands, druid. But... your surrender pleases me." She made a show of considering his offer before nodding once. "Very well. I accept."
Laucian let out a slow breath. "Stand down," he told Húrin and Idril, his voice steady. "We're beaten." The others hesitated, their faces etched with pain and exhaustion, but they obeyed, lowering their weapons.
Varan too, held still, though his bow remained drawn with an arrow ready. If they could remove themselves from the encounter without further bloodshed, he would see it done. And so, the ranger watched from the canopy, heart in his throat, as the high priestess stepped toward Laucian, her eyes bright with madness.
"I've dealt with your shapeshifting kind before. Trust that these irons will not allow you to slip your binds by means of another form…"
Laucian nodded. "I expected as such."
"And you know much of the drow…" the priestess murmured, her voice turning thoughtful. But she did not voice her suspicion aloud. Not yet. "Bind him!" But as the elite warriors moved forward and bound the elder druid's wrists in magical restraints, the priestess' gaze turned sharp and cruel once more. "Kill the others," she said, her voice casual, as though she were discussing the weather.
Laucian's heart dropped, and before he could react, the elite warriors moved with swift, deadly efficiency. Idril's throat was slit, her healing magic forever silenced, and Húrin, who had fought with unmatched strength, met a brutal end as a drow warrior unceremoniously cleaved his head from his shoulders.
"You asked me to free them," the priestess taunted as she idly toyed with her scourge. "And I did."
The elder's eyes burned with fury, his voice a low, deadly growl. "You'll pay for this."
Varan's breath caught as he watched the slaughter unfold before him, his blood running cold. He wanted to do something—anything—but his body felt frozen, rooted to the spot by horror and helplessness. He had an arrow ready, but what good would it do? Reinforcements were hours away. Laucian was shackled, his magic limited, and Varan was not arrogant enough to think he could take down these drow elves alone.
The battle was over.
Kellindil lay on the ground, cut down during his watch. Idril's lifeless form was crumpled nearby, her throat slit. Húrin's headless corpse lay in a pool of blood, his once-mighty form reduced to a gruesome sight. And Laucian—battered and bleeding from battle but still very much alive—was held by magical restraints. There was nothing that any one of them could do.
And the priestess knew it.
Ilvara Mizzrym, High Priestess of the fourth house of Menzoberranzan, was a figure of both beauty and terror. Her long white ponytail cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silver, contrasting sharply with her ebony skin. She wore revealing robes that shimmered with unnatural darkness, and in her hand, she held a barbed whip adorned with the symbol of Lolth, the Spider Queen. Her voice, when she spoke, was like silk hiding a blade.
"This is a fortuitous raid indeed," Ilvara cackled to her warriors in Drow. "For the tales of Laucian Erenaeth are known far and wide in the Underdark. I had hoped to capture slaves to man our outpost, but this has been far more intriguing… Lolth's favor shall surely fall upon me!"
"He is not to be imprisoned in Velkynvelve like the other traitor?" one of the elite warriors dared to ask, his gaze wisely trained on the forest floor.
"No. His price is far beyond that of the Kzekarit filth," Ilvara said with a vicious smile. "This one is to be taken to Menzoberranzan without delay. The Council of Spiders will be allowed to decide his fate—though, I already suspect their answer." She turned to one of her decorated warriors, a favorite of hers, her lover… "I trust that you are up to the task, Jorlan."
The male, Jorlan, swallowed and nodded. "Yes, mistress."
"Do not fail me," Ilvara threatened.
Varan could not understand the exchange between the drow, but what he assumed based on their hostile body language was enough. He wanted to rush forward, fight, save Laucian, and avenge his fallen comrades. But it was too late. The drow were too many, too strong. He would only share the same fate as the others if he revealed himself now.
And then Laucian spoke.
Throughout the exchange of the drow, the elder druid's attuned senses had pierced through the dark, suspecting a certain ranger's stubborn return. And so, in Druidic, he said, "This is my final order. No one is to come after me. Taras Aldar alone cannot combat the forces of the Underdark—nor can Gauntlgrym. Leave me to my fate and pray that I return unharmed."
Varan's heart plummeted to his stomach.
"Go, warn them. And… protect her at all costs."
Laucian did not have to elaborate on who she was.
Varan already knew.
"There is no one I would sooner entrust—"
The elder's final words were cut off by an enraged priestess.
"What poison are you speaking, surface filth!" Ilvara cried.
"A prayer for my life," the elder feigned.
"Speak no more," the priestess commanded. "Or you will be sacrificed to the Spider Queen here and now rather than later."
"How is there a difference?" Laucian said flatly.
Ilvara grit her teeth.
"Take him away at once!" she commanded her warriors.
Varan watched, utterly helpless, as they dragged Laucian away, the elder's head bowed in defeat, his shoulders slumped. The high priestess's mad laughter echoed through the clearing, a sound that would haunt the ranger for the rest of his days. And then they were gone, disappearing into the night, leaving only the broken, bloodied bodies of those who had fought so bravely.
The ranger broke from his stupor and forced himself to move. He stumbled forward, his heart aching with every step as he crossed the blood-soaked ground. The bodies of his fellow sentries lay scattered around him, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. It drudged up a dark and dangerous memory of a night he had lost his mother…
He had failed them.
Just like her.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice choked with grief. "I'm so, so sorry."
But there was no answer, only the silence of the dead and the drows' distant laughter fading into the darkness.
Varan's hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself to turn away, to run. The pain of abandoning Laucian, of leaving the bodies behind, tore at him with every step, but he knew what he had to do. He had to warn the village, tell them what had happened, and save others from the same fate. And so, the ranger ran faster than he ever had, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself to the limit.
All the while, one thought circled in his mind, growing louder with every step—
How would he ever tell Zelyra that her father had been captured by drow?
. . .
Varan ran through the night. His breath was ragged, coming in harsh gasps as he pushed himself harder, faster, with whispers of druidic magic surging through his legs to lengthen his stride. The tangled branches and underbrush of Neverwinter Wood whipped at him, but the pain of his injuries was dulled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His mind raced with the events of the night—the ambush, the drow, the slaughter of his comrades, Laucian's capture… It all swirled in his head like a storm, threatening to overwhelm him, but he willed himself to focus on the path ahead. He had to reach Taras Aldar. He had to warn them. But no matter how quickly he ran, the ranger could not outpace the crushing weight of Laucian's final order echoing in his wild thoughts.
This is my final order. No one is to come after me. Taras Aldar alone cannot combat the forces of the Underdark—nor can Gauntlgrym. Leave me to my fate and pray that I return unharmed.
The words dug deep into his chest, leaving him hollow. Varan had never questioned Laucian before, but now... leaving him behind felt like a betrayal, like a wound that would never heal.
Go, warn them. And… protect her at all costs.
Laucian didn't have to say her name—Zelyra. The moment the elder had uttered those words, Varan knew. There had been no hesitation, no doubt in Laucian's eyes when he had placed that sacred confidence in him.
There is no one I would sooner entrust.
It wasn't just an order. It was a burden, a responsibility that now sat on the ranger's shoulders like a leaden weight.
The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind moved through them. Eventually, the forest woke with the first hints of dawn, and a sentry outpost loomed into view, its simple wooden structure nestled between ancient trees. Another ranger, Eryndor, was on watch, his sharp elven eyes scanning the forest until he saw the half-elf stumbling into view below.
"Varan!" Eryndor's voice was laced with alarm. "What—"
"There's no time," Varan gasped, clutching at a nearby tree to steady himself. His body ached, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. "Drow elves. They attacked our camp in the night. Laucian's been taken. The others are dead."
The color drained from Eryndor's face. "Dead? Taken? By the gods… what do we—"
"I'm reporting to the Masters. Get word to the other outposts. We need to be ready if the drow return."
Before Eryndor could even fathom a response, Varan was moving again, pushing past the outpost and deeper into the forest. His legs were screaming in protest, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not yet.
A half-hour more and then, the familiar illusion wards of the village loomed ahead, their protective magic shimmering faintly in the pre-dawn light. Usually, the sight brought the ranger comfort. It was a reminder of the village's security. But today, all he felt was dread. He stumbled along the mile-long path, the magic parting just enough to allow him passage, and then found himself back in the heart of his home. Taras Aldar unfolded before him—ancient trees towering over the village, their trunks intertwined with the structures of wood and woven leaves that made up the homes of the druids. Soft, magical lights glowed from within the trees, illuminating the paths, but the village now felt suffocatingly small to Varan. He had never known it to feel this way before.
The ranger's heart raced as he rushed to the council chamber. The Masters of the Wood would almost certainly be there, preparing for the day. He could barely feel his legs as he sprinted up the spiral staircase, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. When he finally reached the top, Varan threw open the doors and burst inside, his appearance startling the four elders who were already gathered inside.
"Drow!" the ranger gasped.
The masters blinked in bewilderment.
Naitha, the Master of Medicine, stood silently at the edge of the room, her small gnome frame nearly swallowed by her elaborate headpiece of horns, bird skulls, and branches. Her beady black eyes, however, missed nothing, taking in Varan's unkempt state with sharp concern. Next to her, Artana, the Master of Swords, crossed her arms, her pale, blue-tinged skin in stark contrast to the dark, wavy hair that cascaded down her back. Her dual scimitars gleamed faintly at her sides, and the soft moss that adorned her leather armor glowed in the dim light.
Bael, the Master of the Hunt, loomed over the table, his bark-like skin blending almost seamlessly with the ancient wood. His antlered headpiece gave him an otherworldly appearance, like he had stepped out of the forest itself. He barely moved as he studied a map spread across the table, though his piercing, dark gaze flicked to Varan with silent intensity.
At the center of the room, Ansron, the Master of Lore, stood with quiet authority. His rich green robes flowed around him, and the circlet of crystal upon his auburn hair caught the light as he turned to face Varan, his expression calm but deeply troubled.
"Varan?" Ansron's voice was soft, but it carried the weight of station.
The ranger staggered into the room, panting, his leather armor slick with sweat and blood. His legs nearly gave out beneath him as he leaned against the doorframe, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.
"Dark elves," he managed, his voice hoarse.
The loremaster raised a bemused auburn brow. "So you said. But I'm afraid you'll have to give us more than that, ranger."
Varan took a few more steadying breaths, then launched into a complete account of what had transpired that night. When he finished, a heavy silence fell over the room. Naitha's sharp eyes flickered with alarm, and Artana straightened, her hand instinctively moving to one of her scimitars. Bael's bark-like brow furrowed, his hands tightening on the edge of the table. But Ansron's expression remained calm, though a deep sorrow flickered in his eyes. "Taken," he repeated softly.
Varan nodded, swallowing hard. "His final order… No one is to go after him. He said Taras Aldar could not stand against the dangers of the Underdark. The others are… dead," he choked.
For a moment, the loremaster said nothing. Then he stepped forward, his voice low and curious. "And yet, you returned."
Varan's throat tightened. "I did. Laucian commanded me to leave, to warn you, and… to look after Zelyra in his stead."
The room fell silent again.
Ansron's gaze remained on Varan for a long moment before he dipped his head. "Very well. Then you may be the one to tell her."
Varan nodded, though the thought of that nearly crushed him. He quickly excused himself, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable as the door closed behind him. As soon as the ranger was gone, the room erupted with vocal protest while Naitha's hands moved swiftly in the fluid motions of Druidic sign, her expression tight with urgency.
"Laucian is one of us. We cannot let the drow take him to Lolth's altar!"
Artana's pale blue skin flushed slightly as she nodded in agreement, her starry gaze turning to Ansron. "Naitha is right. We cannot abandon him. Laucian may know the risks, yes, but that doesn't mean we can't—"
"Zelyra is meant to go after him," Ansron said firmly, his voice calm but unyielding.
"Meant?" the swordmaster repeated. "You speak as though you already know the outcome."
The loremaster nodded. "I do… to some degree."
Naitha froze, her hands briefly stilling in the air. And then, "You foresaw this?" she signed, her beady eyes wide with disbelief.
"I did," Ansron said quietly. "I just did not know the when. Like Laucian before her, tragedy was destined to pull Zelyra away from her home to the depths of the deep dark. Why do you think I gave her the maps to Gauntlgrym when they left for Goldleaf?"
Artana's eyes narrowed, the realization dawning on her. "You knew," she whispered, "even then?"
The loremaster's gaze was steady as he dipped his head. "The threads of fate have been weaving toward this moment for some time. Varan will tell her what has happened, and she will flee the village. And though it pains me, we must let her. Zelyra entering the Underdark will be like the falling of small stones that start an avalanche in the mountains… I have always said she is destined for great things. Terrible, but great." [1]
"But you know as well as I do," Bael interjected, his deep voice like the rustling of leaves, "that visions can have many outcomes. How many strings hold sway over the puppet? We can change this. We can act."
Ansron's expression softened, though his resolve remained. "It is no longer our place to interfere with the fate of the outside world. We can only aid when we are able. The threads must weave themselves."
"But Ansron," Artana's voice cracked slightly, her eyes filling with a rare vulnerability. "Laucian is your son. The drow do not show mercy."
"And Zelyra is my granddaughter in all but blood," Ansron replied, quiet but fierce. "There is no one I would sooner entrust, aside from myself, to have the motivation to him." His gaze hardened as he looked at each of them in turn. "She must be the one to go. And we must prepare for what has been unleashed…"
. . .
Varan stumbled out of the council chamber and down the spiraled stairs. He had agreed to be the one to tell her. Zelyra. Laucian's daughter. It felt right; after all, the ranger had known her since they were children, had fought beside her, and had shared moments that neither could easily forget. But that didn't make the task any easier.
How could he face her with this news? How could he look into her eyes and tell her that her father, her mentor, had been taken? That the drow had come for them, and he had left Laucian behind? Granted, he had been ordered to do so, but Varan still felt the great weight of responsibility on his shoulders…
I failed him. I failed them all.
And then, before the ranger could steel himself further, she found him.
"Varan!"
The sound of his name, so familiar, so unexpected, brought Varan to a sudden halt. He turned, and there she was. Zelyra emerged from the trees, her golden braid and leather circlet adorned with twin arrangements of holly and Ambrosia's feathers catching the morning light. Her deep green eyes brightened at the sight of him, her lips parting in a soft, surprised smile. He cursed inwardly, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. Zelyra was the one person he couldn't lie to, whose gaze pierced his every defense. The ranger quickened his pace, jogging in her direction.
"I was starting to think you'd forgotten all about us," she teased lightly. It had been three months since they'd had more than a few stolen moments alone—not since that Midwinter night when everything between them had shifted, when feelings they'd both been suppressing had finally boiled over the surface.
But there was no time for anything like that now.
As he drew closer, the druid's smile faltered. She noticed the limp in the ranger's step, dried blood in his hair, and a fresh cut that overlapped his childhood scar. Her heart lurched, and dread swept over her.
"Varan…?"
The ranger tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His breath came shallow, his chest tightening as the weight of it all came crashing down on him.
Zelyra's concern only deepened as she watched him struggle, her own anxiety rising. The druid reached out instinctively, her hand gently touching the wound on his face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice filled with concern as she began tracing the somatic gestures of a healing spell. A warm glow enveloped the spot where she cradled his face, the cut beginning to seal before her eyes.
"Leave it," the ranger said sharply, brushing her hand away.
The wounds he had suffered, they were a reminder…
"Varan, you're hurt." Her voice was soft but urgent now. "Let me help."
He shook his head, stepping back as if her touch might shatter the thin control he had left. "Zelyra… it's not that. I—" His voice cracked, and his eyes filled with a pain so deep it made her stomach twist in knots.
"What are you doing here?" the druid repeated, her voice lowering. "You're supposed to be scouting the perimeter for a new portal. Where are the others? My father?" she pressed, her gaze darting behind him as if expecting the rest of the scouting party to appear any moment.
Varan opened his mouth to answer, but once again, the words caught in his throat.
And so, he brought his hands up between them and signed, "Attack. Father. Captured."
Zelyra gasped, her green eyes growing wide. She tried to be patient and allow him time to find the words. But the silence stretched unbearably long. Finally, the druid could take it no longer. "Tell me," she demanded, her voice more forceful than intended.
Varan swallowed heavily.
"Zelyra…" There was no use delaying it or skirting her questions. It was best to be forthright, honest. "We never made it to the portal. We were ambushed. Not by any giant spider, troll, or meenlock—drow," the ranger explained. "Dark elves."
"Drow?" The word felt foreign and unfamiliar on the druid's tongue, though she knew of them from her father's stories. "But… how? What were they doing here?"
Varan shook his head, his expression drawn. "I don't know. They came in the dead of night, out of nowhere. They were skilled, deadly. Your father ordered me to return to the village to warn the others, but…" The ranger's gaze shifted away, unable to meet hers. "I… I couldn't just leave them. I went back, but when I got there… Laucian surrendered. They took him prisoner."
Zelyra's knees began to shake, her mind reeling with the shock of what she was hearing. Laucian, her mentor, her surrogate father, captured by the drow? The very idea was unimaginable. "Captured…" she echoed, her voice barely more than a breath.
Varan nodded slowly. "He did it to save the others, but their leader, a priestess of some sort, went back on her word. She had them slaughtered. Kellindil was cut down behind in the initial ambush. But Idril and Húrin… They slit Idril's throat, and Húrin, he—"
"He what?" the druid demanded.
"They beheaded him," the ranger admitted.
Zelyra gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Gods! Why?!"
"I don't know," Varan said. "These drow, they were like nothing I have ever seen. There was no mercy, no reason. They were just… evil incarnate." [2]
Varan saw the utter devastation in Zelyra's eyes and felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. He couldn't bear to see her like this, but there was nothing he could do to take away her pain. So, he did the only thing he could think of—the ranger pulled her into an embrace, pressing his lips to the side of her head against the sprigs of holly and feathered medallions he had gifted her.
"I tried, Zelyra. I circled back," he whispered into her hair, his grief and guilt loosening his tongue. "But it was too late. If your father had not ordered me to leave when he did, I would have shared in their fate. He—Laucian saved my life."
The druid nodded but said nothing as tears prickled in her eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Z," he said, holding her tight against his chest. He wanted to protect her from this, to shield her from the harsh reality, but he knew that was impossible. He could only offer this small comfort, even if it wasn't enough.
The gesture would have normally sent heat coursing through Zelyra's body, but instead, she felt… nothing. She was numb, her mind struggling to process what she had just heard. Her entire world felt as though it was crumbling beneath her feet. Laucian, taken by the drow? What would they do to him? Where would they take him? What if they couldn't get him back? Laucian was the only family she had left! She had already lost her parents as a child, and her brother had turned his back on her years ago.
All that was left was Laucian.
She couldn't lose him, too. She wouldn't.
"We must go to the Masters at once!" Zelyra said, her voice rising with desperation. "We can organize a rescue party—"
But Varan shook his head, his expression grim. "They already know. We can't spare the warriors. They will not risk leaving the village undefended, especially now. No one is going after him."
The druid stared at him, eyes wide with horror. "What?" she breathed.
Varan's gaze was steady, but his words were like a knife to her heart. "It's a direct order, Zelyra. The village comes first."
"Then we send an urgent message to Gauntlgrym. Morista will help!"
"The dwarves… are not to be involved either. They only reclaimed Gauntlgrym recently and have their own hardships to bear." Varan suspected that was the reason Laucian had mentioned not alerting dwarven city in his final order, though he did not know for certain. "Remember what Morista said when she proposed you and Arlathan go to Goldleaf in Gauntlgrym's stead? Their resources are stretched thin."
"So, you're suggesting we just leave my father to his fate? We won't even try to save him? Varan! This is madness!"
The ranger's expression was conflicted, torn between his duty and feelings.
"It is what was commanded," he eventually said.
"Well, you cannot command my heart," Zelyra cried, backing away. "If no one will go after Laucian, then I will."
Varan's face turned to stone, and he stepped toward her, hand outstretched as if to calm her. But Zelyra's fear and desperation were too great. She continued to back away until her back hit a tree, trapping herself between the rough bark and the ranger's looming presence.
"Don't be a fool. Don't be like your brother. This is beyond you."
The words hit the druid like a physical blow, and she recoiled, her fists clenching at her sides. She was not like Zelphar. She would never turn her back on the ones who had taken her in—but neither could she sit back and do nothing while the only family she had left was taken from her.
"I am not Zelphar!" she hissed, her brother's name like venom on her tongue. "I would never abandon my family!"
"Zelyra, please," Varan urged. He took a deep breath and said, "I can't lose you too…"
"Then come with me!" Zelyra shot back, her green eyes blazing now with fierce determination. "We can go ourselves. We can find him!"
"I can't. And neither can you."
"Krom and Arlathan—"
"Not even them. This isn't like Goldleaf. This isn't a tenday long mission. It is the Underdark, Zelyra! Once you go down, there is no easy way back. You, of all people, should know that. You have idolized your father's stories for a decade!"
The fire between them flared. Their argument was spiraling, and Varan knew it. He had to stop her, had to make her see reason.
"Your people need you. Here, now. Don't choose the one over the many."
But Zelyra was beyond reason. "I can't abandon him!"
"If you go after the drow, you'll only get yourself killed!" he growled.
"I don't care," Zelyra hissed. "What do I have left if he is gone?"
This time, it was Varan who recoiled.
"Nothing!" she finished hysterically.
"Nothing?" he repeated quietly.
But Zelyra hardly heard him nor registered the sting in his voice. Her heart was in utter turmoil, her mind racing as she tried to find a way to escape, to go after her father. Varan wouldn't let her, would never allow her to risk herself like that.
Then, a whisper of an idea tickled her thoughts.
It was terrible and desperate. It would almost certainly ruin everything between them. But as the thought took shape, the druid felt she had no other choice. Before she knew it, her heart decided ahead of her brain. Or perhaps it was vice versa… Either way, this was an act of duress. Pinkish-purple energy sparked at her fingertips as she traced a series of sigils in the air. Varan's brows drew together, then rose as understanding hit home. Terrible emotion rippled across his face. He didn't even attempt to hide it from her. Betrayal. He knew what she was trying to do.
"Zelyra, no—" the ranger begged, but it was too late.
The druid's gaze locked onto his, her green eyes flashing with wild, untamed fury. In her panic and rage, she reached deep within herself, to a well of trickster magic she had never used against Varan—or anyone else—before. The command came out in a rush, her voice tinged with regret even as she said it.
"You will let me go."
Despite all odds and resistance, the charm flowed from her, settling into Varan's mind like a thick fog. As his gaze went glassy and the iron grip upon her shoulder fell slack, Zelyra felt the instant pain of regret. He would never trust her again. She had just forfeited any chance of a future with the person she had admired for nearly half her life. But a voice whispered in her mind that she had to do this. Pain. Sacrifice. Her budding relationship with the ranger was nothing compared to her loyalty to her father nor the debt that she owed him—her life, her station, everything. [3]
"You will let me go," Zelyra repeated through clenched teeth, her voice trembling with emotion. "You will not follow me. And you will tell no one where I have gone."
The ranger nodded, his expression vacant as the charm compelled him to obey her.
For a heartbeat, the druid held her breath. She had done it—forced Varan to comply, to stay out of her way. But the triumph of that was short-lived. Her head caught up with her heart... "Gods," Zelyra whispered, horrified by what she had done. She could feel her control over him, the unnatural compliance in his posture, the absence of resistance. "No, no, no—Varan, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
But it was too late. She couldn't undo the spell now.
Her breath hitched, panic and shame twisting inside her. She couldn't stay here—not now, not after what she'd done. "I'm so sorry, Varan," the druid repeated, tears stinging as she cradled his scarred cheek for a moment. "But I must go to Gauntlgrym. Morista will help. I know she will." Without another word, she turned and bolted, sprinting down the narrow path leading out of the village.
Varan's voice, distant and faint, reached her through the fog. "Zelyra, wait!"
But she didn't stop. She couldn't.
She ran from the village, from Varan, from the guilt that already threatened to consume her. The druid shifted into one of her fastest beast forms, the panther, and fled. She didn't look back, knowing that Varan would not stop her, not until the spell wore off. By then, she would be long gone, deep within the dark, unpredictable expanse of Neverwinter Wood, on a mission to save her father, no matter the cost. No one would stop her from finding Laucian—not Varan, not the Masters, not even the drow.
She would bring him back.
Or die trying.
. . .
In another part of the Wood, Krom took up watch in the sentry talans. And as the half-giant looked out at the forest that was so dark and yet lovely, at least to him, a new whisper of a song echoed in his thoughts. He did not pull out his lute. Instead, his hands plucked at imaginary strings as he quietly sang the words that burned in his heart…
By the stars, following the heart
Her dreams were set ablaze beneath the moon
What life unites divinity divided
A wordless pain in pale blue seas and skies
In life, in death
I will walk beside you
In life, through death
Wherever you go
Our love is on fire
Laying my life next to yours
Into darkness we will wander but never alone
I will fight for you
When the goddess claims your soul
I know death is not final
Unyielding grief like an open wound
The end of life was not the end for them
The one true love - like an endless fire
Embraced by death in misery forever more
Travel beyond, realm of the unknown
Into the nether where hope yields no power at all
Staying alive, enter illusions of light
We'll be sharing one breath, through darkness and death
I know death is not final [4]
[1] "But that is not the only part they have to play. They were brought to Fangorn, and their coming was like the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains. Even as we talk here, I hear the first rumblings. Saruman had best not be caught away from home when the dam bursts!" - The Two Towersby J.R.R Tolkien (Harper Collins 1991, 2007) pp. 646-649
I borrowed and revised part of this quote to fit Zelyra's quest.
Secondary note—Ansron is referring to the maps that he gave Zelyra in Chapter One: The Task and the warning he gave Laucian in Chapter Ten: Midwinter. I've been foreshadowing this for a long time, y'all!
[2] Not all drow are evil—this is a point I have repeatedly stressed in The Grey Warriors with characters like Fraeya and Rava, even Sarith, to some extent. Future chapters will make that even more apparent. But traditional drow society in the Forgotten Realms…it's really messed up! Surface raids are a common practice in Menzoberranzan. It's a rite of passage for young drow even. These are the kind of drow that Varan and the scouting party encountered. So, from his perspective—they really are evil incarnate.
[3] Sometimes, we hurt the ones we love the most. I warred with myself over this phrasing for a while. I don't want to make it seem like Zelyra's feelings for Varan are frivolous—because they aren't. She loves him, too. But their relationship/betrothal/promise to each other (it's a little ambiguous) is still very new. And when you compare that to Laucian, whom she literally owes her entire life to? Well, I don't think it's much of a contest.
This is the last time we will see Varan, Laucian, and the rest of Taras Aldar for a while. But spoiler, they do reappear! Zelyra has much guilt to harbor and a lot of thinking to do in the meantime… She really f'd up. Maybe it wasn't the wisest of decisions (i.e., betrayals) that led to Zelyra's stint in the Underdark, but it is something to learn from and the experience that she will ultimately gain… well, that is yet to be told ;)
[4] Lyrics borrowed from Nanna's Fate by Brothers of Metal.
When I began outlining this story, I joked with Arlathan's player that Krom would be a bardbarian who sang songs from my favorite Viking power metal band. I used that a lot at the beginning… but I leaned less into his bard ties toward later chapters to stick to the seriousness of the storyline. But a couple weeks ago, that band—Brothers of Metal—released a new single for their upcoming album, and to be frank, I was inspired. I expanded 'Many Partings' to the point of needing to split it, updated Midwinter, and then wrote this epilogue in a week—so, I guess it was a good thing!
Now that Origins is finally finished, I can return to The Grey Warriors. :D
Updates should be bi-weekly-ish. I used the buffer of finishing this story to draft several GW chapters. I'm super excited to delve back into the main storyline, and I hope ya'll are too!
