Hi everyone,
This chapter marks the beginning of the second Act of this story. For the Underdark, I've used elements from Dungeons and Dragons, or from R.A. Salvatore's saga of books about the dark elf Drizzt Do'Urden.
Musical recommendation: Beyond the Veil by Lindsey Stirling.
I wish you all a good reading!
The air was heavy, and the light non-existent. Down here, rocky galleries followed chasms. No sound, not even an echo: only the occasional gurgle of underground rivers.
Nymuë could hardly breathe. Oxygen circulated with difficulty in the World Below, and the slightest gasp compressed her chest. Her vision - although adapted to dark environments - was obscured. Every corner could hide a threat, and every turn heralded a potential fall into the abyss.
Their journey into the heart of the Underdak had got off to a very bad start. The ladder's ropes were worn and damp, and more than once the dark elf had imagined herself falling. The descent had felt like an eternity, but they had finally landed in what looked like an old fort. Long abandoned, the building had once served as an underground base for the Selûnite faithfuls. They had found no plans, no resources: just the bones of forgotten individuals. A battle had taken place here, leaving only a few patched journals as witnesses.
Nymuë had opened one at random. The ink had formed vast watercolours over several pages, but one of them was still comprehensible:
[There was another earthquake last week. We sent a group to find out which roads were practicable. Sendor was among them. This place is a real labyrinth, but we can't use a compass or a map. The seismic tremors shaking our camp leave a cryptic trail behind them; Sendor thinks they are arcane phenomena. Perhaps this is what makes the flora so unpredictable?
When it's not the landslides, it's floods that overwhelm us. The river fill up quickly, and the air is so humid that our fires never last long. Even the nearby lake had overflowed its banks. We'll have to rebuild our boats if we want to get back to Moonrise.]
[It's been two days since Sendor's party left. Mistress Abigail thinks we won't see them again. I'd go and look for them myself, but I can't see anything in this darkness. Walking around with torches is suicide. If there aren't many drows or illithids at this altitude, other things are crawling in the shadows.]
[Mistress Abigail had finally agreed to my request. With the rest of the garrison, we're leaving to Moonrise. From there, we'll be able to call for reinforcements; there are rumours of Shar's disciples in the area... Captain Wurled lectured me before we departed. "Don't forget,boy," he told me. "We have the advantage of numbers, but all the creatures hiding there know their environment. They are adapted to it, and will never attack you head-on. So don't make the mistake of underestimating what's lurking in the dark."
He's exaggerating, as usual. Our priests have made this journey hundreds of times without any problems. I may even have the pleasant surprise of finding Sendor when I get to the Towers.
Everything will be fine.]
The attack on the bastion must have followed this last entry, for the author of the diary didn't take his property with him. Captain Wurled's warnings - even a century later - weren't to be taken lightly, as the adventurers quickly found out. No sooner had they exited the fortress than a gigantic creature emerged from the ground. A bulette, Shadowheart had informed them: a beast moving from galleries dug beneath the earth. The monster was covered in bony plates that their weapons couldn't weaken. Its short, but powerful legs supported its large carcass, completed by a gaping mouth. It had leapt out to meet them, colliding with the shield of light that the priestess barely managed to summon. Lae'zel had charged it, while Nymuë had shackled it. Thanks to a distraction on Astarion's part, the companions managed to knock it onto its back, before finishing it off.
Since then, they have been moving forwards as quickly as possible. The slightest noise or flash of light could be fatal in the Underdark. Their objective was the waterway mentioned in the Selûnite's notebook. The few texts about the World Below referred to a trade route called Darklake, which descended into the lower levels, making it both and ideal and rapid passage. By mutual agreement, they decided to follow the rivers. But as they went further away from the fort, regular bones dotted their path: "People from the surface," Astarion guessed. "After a very, very long fall…"
"I suppose the stories about the Underdark are justified," Shadowheart declared. "The environment is constantly trying to kill you. It's no wonder the denizens seek to do the same."
She froze as she realised her blunder: "I meant... I didn't want to…"
"There's no harm," Nymuë reassured her. "I wasn't expecting a pleasant discovery, anyway."
It was true that the young woman felt a deep sense of unease. She had often imagined this kingdom that her parents had left. The atrocities it must have contained to justify such a departure. In view of what she was observing, her assumptions had been quite mild.
Her childlike mind had often pictured this place, without being able to identify what feeling it evoked. She had been told that the Underdark was a cruel and terrifying land. That the drows, her people, revelled in bloodshed. They were natural born killers, sacrificing the flesh of the weak in the name of their Spider Queen. It was hardly surprising that her poor parents had wanted to give her a better future.
And yet, Nymuë disagreed. Part of her despised this 'noble sacrifice'. True, her family had taken her out of the World Below, but only to leave her alone. For what life, exactly, should she be grateful? Slave to the whims of an odious woman, the whipping girl of a public she disdained. Faerun was as much full of cruelty and terror as anywhere else.
In the middle of the night, she had imagined what it would be like to become the monster they portrayed. Slaughtering the innocent, plotting against her own kind to gain the favours of an evil goddess. Deprived of the sun and the surface. Then, she became afraid; afraid of the ease with which she contemplated – no, envied - this version of herself. On the continent, she didn't belong. But down here, her monstrosity would have been common. It wouldn't have mattered.
As she naively visualised this other roalm, she told herself that it couldn't be any worse than The Shining Star. That her parents - by their selfish choice - were responsible for her misfortune. Because all this loneliness, those humiliations couldn't be the result of bad luck or chance, could it ? Nobody could suffer, simply for... nothing. Confronting the real World Below today showed her that injustice didn't necessarily have a cause, or pain a reason. She hated this truth.
"I'm afraid I don't belong here either," Nymuë whispered.
The young woman noticed that her companions had stopped, covering their faces with their cloaks. They were looking apprehensively at the multitude of mushrooms below. The thallophytes were huge, fluorescent... and emitted spores that were almost invisible to the naked eye. The dark elf heard her comrades let out a discreet coughing fit, as she breathed without difficulty. The particles glided gently over her skin.
"Genetic inheritance," Shadowheart smiled.
"But… How? I never... "
She paused; the nearest mushroom had suddenly lit up. Fearing a reaction, Nymuë stepped back, but the fungus returned to its normal hue. A slightly more powerful cough from Lae'zel caused a second one to glow, but it too gradually faded. The dark elf studied their little group: she was wondering... Grabbing a stone, she threw it into the middle of the chanterelles. With each bounce, a new mushroom lit up, leaving a line of light in its wake. "The sound," Nymuë understood. "They're reacting to the noises around them." But what was the point of such a flora? To repel light-sensitive predators?
The image of a spider's web took root in her mind. "We're on a hunting ground," she thought with fright. Shrill cries confirmed her reasoning; all around them, whistling sounds came closer.
"Run!" Shadowheart cried.
The companions rushed through the mushrooms, getting as far away as possible from the creatures chasing them. Each step they took kindled a chanterelle, like a chain reaction. Nymuë threw herself to the ground as a purple tentacle shot towards her. The appendage gesticulated above her head, beating the air in search of its prey. It was connected to a fungus that was more shrivelled than its neighbours. The thallophyte was covered in mould and seemed to be waiting for something. When a distant flash of light revealed the position of the three fugitives, it stretched out its sinuous arms towards the source of the noise.
The monster was blind, the young woman realised, but capable of capturing the emanations of other mushrooms. To cross its territory, you had to be as discreet as a shadow... Or scramble its signals.
"Nymuë!" Shadowheart's voice screamed far ahead.
The musician moved slowly, gripping the handle of her violin. The Screamer – for that would be its name - wanted light? She was going to give it some.
Her bow produced a strident sound, which echoed throughout the caverns. Her music surrounded them, everywhere and nowhere all at once. The mushrooms lit up simultaneously, like a wave. For an instant, this small part of the Underdark glowed brightly.
The Screamer waved its tentacles, unable to determine the origin of this sudden radiance, and furiously swept away the nearest chanterelles. Nymuë receded, continuing to play. In the light of the fungi, she easily spotted her companions: they had managed to slip out of the phosphorescent field. She avoided a blind attack from the Screamer, her fingers and feet dancing in unison. Pas chassé, demi-pointe, entrechat, glissé to the left, then pirouette: "One, two, three," she counted, "One, two, three..." Hands pulled her back as she left the chanterelle garden. Turning round, the dark elf recognised Astarion's half-smile: "It's really a shame you've left the circus..." he said.
"Believe me, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made."
"Keep playing," Lae'zel roared. "I'm going to smash this mushroom!"
"Be glad we got away with it," Shadowheart sighed. "It would be foolish to waste our strength when we are so close to our goal. Observe..."
Below, a few huts stood in front of the black surface of a gigantic lake. The place looked like and old fishing village, abandoned and decrepit. As they approached, the companions saw the corpse of a dark elf surrounded by grey-skinned dwarves."Duergars," Astarion spat disdainfully. "Deep dwarves."
"They killed each other," Lae'zel observed.
"Look at their amulet. This symbol..."
Nymuë crouched down, studying the strange medallion hanging around the drow's neck. The priestess was right, they had seen this emblem before: it was painted all over the walls of the goblin camp. A skull resting on an inverted triangle; a bloody handprint covered its empty eye sockets.
"The mark of the Absolute," the gith warrior hissed.
"If True Souls are here, we're in the right place. Are they coming from across the lake?"
"Probably," the rogue remarked. "There are boats moored further away. And the skin of these fanatics is covered in soot..."
Faced with their puzzled looks, he elaborated: "That means they're near a heat source. Probably volcanic, given the rocks. Take a look..."
Holding out his finger majestically, the high elf pointed to a faint light at the other end of the river. In this total darkness, it had the effect of a lighthouse in the middle of the night. The orange flicker came out of the dark ores and flowed straight into the lake. "Lava," the musician realised.
"I guess we know where we're going next," she concluded.
"Are you sure?" Shadowheart retorted. "It might not be a good idea to sail in these waters..."
Anxiously, she approached what looked like a huge rock on the shore. It was, in fact, a gaping maw, the fragmented remains of an even larger carcass. Each of its teeth was the size of the adventurers, and it towered higher than the surrounding dwellings. The monster's corpse had been swept away by the water flow, but even dead it was still frightening. If this thing lived in the lake, what else could be hiding there?
"Can't see anything," Lae'zel informed them, scanning the liquid expanse with her eyes. "This pool could just as easily be filled with ink."
"We have no other choice," Nymuë replied.
The young woman headed towards the boats. Made entirely of wood and bone, the raft consisted of two decks linked by fishing nets. It didn't seem complicated to manoeuvre: a simple lever moved it forward. Nymuë climbed aboard, with Shadowheart on her right, and Lae'zel and Astarion at the bow. The dark elf took one last look at the dark caverns of the World Below.
In the course of a few hours, this place had almost killed them twice. Yet, there was a certain beauty in this realm left to its own devices. Looking away, the musician activated the boat's controls. It glided across the cold surface of the lake... in the direction of the volcanic heart.
The temperature rose considerably as the lava cascades approached. Beneath the rocks blackened by the molten liquid, the adventurers spotted a small opening. Gradually, the caverns of the Underdark disappeared, giving way to an immense underground gallery. Stone walls surrounded them, and alcoves had been built to allow the lava to drain away without damaging the architecture.
A statue - the top of which easily reached the ceiling - stood near the iron doors. It depicted a woman with folded arms, a dagger in each hand. Her eyes were covered by a mask, and her whole body was strewn with golden threads. Shadowheart cried out:"Lady Shar! Mistress of the Night. I knew your call wasn't a coincidence!"
The companions looked apprehensively at the Goddess of Loss, now convinced that they had reached their destination. This place must be the secret fortress built by Ketheric Thorm, halfway to Moonrise Towers.
Nymuë turned her attention back to the door in front of them, which opened with a thud. "We are expected," she thought. They moored at a quay where two duergars were standing guard.
"What do we got here?" snarled the first, a bald-headed woman. "Dead hoon walking, seems like."
Nymuë had no idea what a 'hoon' was, but it didn't sound like a compliment. "Got any reason I shouldn't sever your head and toss it to the rothé?"
"Think twice. We are True Souls, and you will treat us with respect," Astarion clamed.
The dark elf rolled her eyes at her companion, when she felt the stranger's mind brushed against hers. The parasite at the back of her head remained surprisingly silent: this woman wasn't infected.
"I'll be," she hissed. "You ain't shitting. Felt the tingle. In that case, let's talk business. Your twat-soul friend Nere caused a rockfall. Trapped tighter than a eunuch in a brothel."
"Coupla gnome slaves stuck with him too," her comrade added. "Little bastards."
"Who is Nere?" Shadowheart asked cautiously. "The Absolute has ordered us to reach Moonrise Towers. She didn't mention another True Soul along the way."
"Ah! It's a pity that pig's under the rubble," the duergar laughed. "I wish he'd heard that!"
"Of course you want to go to Moonrise!" continued the other. "That's what all these cult-freaks want anyway. Nere's from there too. Supposedly, he's a representative of your damned goddess, and he wants to clean the place up to make a headquarters. And now, the idiot is half dead."
Their tadpole shuddered, as Astarion worked his way into his companions' head: "That's not our problem," he said. "In fact, we have one less opponent."
"True," Shadowheart added. "I'm sorry about the gnomes, but this isn't our fight."
"Our enemy is already buried," Lae'zel concluded.
Nymuë nodded silently, her gaze still fixed on the duergar. She spoke again: "If Nere has failed, the Absolute will judge him and send someone worthier. Our mission is paramount; how do we get to Moonrise?"
"You want the information?" the dwarf yelped. "Make a donation."
She brandished her dagger just as Nymuë unfurled her chains. Her opponent's weapon was propelled across the room."I don't think so. In fact, I think you're going to give me the whole thing for free."
The two guards stepped back: "Unclog your hole, just shitting around," the stranger said. "Your fanatical pal hired us to help him run this place. And now that he's trapped, his debt is unpaid. Be sure to pass this on to your goddess. No duergar works for free."
"The passage to Moonrise is on the other side of the docks," her comrade pointed out. "But you'll hardly survive up there. The place is cursed, and most of the twat-souls use a device - a kind of lantern - to get through the area."
"Didn't your goddess provide you with one?" asked the first duergar suspiciously.
"We were supposed to get it here," Nymuë lied.
The dwarf studied them carefully: "Yes, well, tough luck, the only one here belongs to Nere. As if he needed it, deep down in Grymforge. You can always dig and hope to find it on his corpse."
"Or else you face the curse," her mate sneered. " Some are said to have survived. But not many."
The two soldiers walked away, laughing loudly. The dark elf raised her eyebrows: "That changes our plans somehow..."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark!" Astarion scoffed.
"It's not the darkness that scares me, but the curse. We thought the path to Moonrise was clear from this bastion. But if even the cultists avoid using it without protection…"
"We've managed to fool True Souls before," Shadowheart reflected. "Perhaps we can also deceive this Nere. Convince him that the Absolute sends us."
"And then what, we're going to help the duergars shovel? I'm warning you, I'm not digging with that manicure."
"If Nere refuses to cooperate, we could always save him from death to grant it to him immediatly," Lae'zel suggested.
"Oh no. I see what you're doing. You," the rogue said, pointing at Shadowheart, "you want to explore the fortress dedicated to your dark goddess. You," this time showing the gith, "you just want a chance to slaughter some cultists. And you," he finished, turning to Nymuë, "are looking for an excuse to save those foolish little gnomes."
The three women stared at him wordlessly. Lae'zel frowned, her hand on the hilt of her sword, and Shadowheart's eyes flashed. Nymuë merely smiled.
With a groan, Astarion shuffled after his companions. When they reached the heart of Grymforge, he was still complaining.
END NOTES :
I've done something simple for the Underdark, because the explored area of the game remains very close to the surface. To put it simply, the World Below has several levels, and the deeper you go, the greater the threats.
I'd have loved to take you to Menzoberranzan, but it didn't feel justified from a narrative point of view. However, if you think that Nymuë is getting off lightly, think again. Perhaps we'll learn more in the next chapter...
Thank you for reading, and see you soon!