An Exile, A Tome, and An Oath

[Deus di Eclave]

Closed to Deus di Eclave... a.k.a. Solo Quest

A Note on Dialogue:
Red means Drow
Blue means Elven
Black means Common
<<>> means Fascath can only be heard by Driz
Italics signify internal dialogue

Standing in front of the High Mother of the Underdark, Drizaghar Maena’triel bowed his head in fear. For his infraction, the penalty could be exile, death, or much worse. “Drizaghar Maena’triel, I find you guilty of practicing necromancy. You are punished with exile; to be seen again in the Underdark is to sign your own death warrant. Be gone by the sixth hour or I will have you executed.” The High Mother’s word was law and the guards on either side of her strode confidently toward Drizaghar. They roughly escorted him out of the audience chambers and tossed him unceremoniously on the streets before returning to the High Mother.

“Bastards,” Drizaghar spat at them as they walked away. After dusting himself off, he looked up and down the street. Not many merchants or clerics strayed this close to the High Mother’s palace so his embarrassment had gone unnoticed. However, he knew that all of the matron mothers would know the High Mother’s decree within the hour. That was just how fast news traveled in the Underdark. Time to collect my things, he thought sullenly. What little I have. Drizaghar turned and walked down the long road back to his family’s House.

Even the slaves in his House gave him nasty looks when he arrived so Drizaghar knew that the High Mother’s declaration had been made known. Silently, the drow youth slipped into his room and began packing a satchel with his things. On the top of the pack, just before he closed the flap, he laid his most prized possession: the Tome of Necromancy.

Passed down through generations of House Maena’triel, the Tome of Necromancy was one of the family’s dark secrets. It had only been a few years ago that Drizaghar had stumbled upon it. And that’s when all the trouble began, he lamented. Apparently, his ancestor had been the great Aunqualyn Maena’triel the Necromancer and the Tome was his personal journal of abilities, items, and musings. Much of the writing was too erudite for Drizaghar to comprehend, but he had been able to find several passages which were much more accessible. That was how he had found the Ring of Necrosis and discovered his own gift for necromancy.

Discovered my own curse, really, he reasoned. For when his family discovered he was dabbling in the dark arts, they had sworn to see him dead. Subsequently, here he was ready to head up to the Overworld. Drizaghar made it to the edge of his family’s mansion when he remembered a passage in the book: “Bond between the serpent and thee / Both with power locked away / Part not with this first of three / But learn what is has to say.” It spoke of another family artifact, the serpent staff. Drizaghar crept back into the manse and made his way to the vaults. It’s not like they’re going to use it, he told himself. Using his piwafwi to blend into the texture and color of the wall, he worked his way slowly past the occasional slave or guard. Once inside, he quickly located the staff and tucked it in his pack. Now for my exit.

Within an hour he was walking away from the cavernous city and into one of the unused tunnels that riddled the Underdark. Three different tunnels lead eventually to the Overworld, each in a different direction. Drizaghar simply picked the closest one and began his ascent.

“Fascath,” he called into the still evening air. His familiar, an ethereal shadow drow, appeared by his side.

<<Yes?>> Fascath answered. His feet made the motion of walking as he drifted alongside his master, but they never truly touched the ground. Created from Drizaghar’s own lifeforce, the two beings were inextricably connected. If Drizaghar were to fall in battle, Fascath would cease to exist as well. Since he began studying necromancy, Drizaghar hadn’t had anyone to talk to. Creating Fascath had been as much an act of necessity as it had been a desire to have a companion. Other drow couldn’t see Fascath unless he wanted them to and such an act required a massive exertion of energy on the ethereal drow’s part. So Fascath was happy to converse invisibly with his master and Drizaghar didn’t let the fact that he talked to thin air bother him. He could see and hear his familiar and that’s really all that mattered.

“This is the start of our journey, Fascath,” the necromancer said. “The first drow in many years to venture into the Overworld.” As Drizaghar reflected on the recent events in his life, Fascath dissipated his form and floated ahead to investigate the tunnel. Drow scouts from the city cleared the main tunnels, but there was no telling what would be lurking in these old, dusty ones.

As the two travelers put more and more distance between the city and themselves, Drizaghar began to worry about what awaited him in the Overworld. No manuscripts detailing the land were allowed in the Underdark and returning drow were few and far between. He simply had no idea what to expect and this fear of the unknown plagued him. Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice that they had arrived at the portal to the Overworld.

“Turn back now, foolish drow,” he read from over the portal. “Despair follows those who step through this portal.” A shudder ran down the dark elf’s spine, but he had little choice. To remain in the Underdark was to invite death. He’d take the uncertainty of the Overworld before execution. Steeling his nerves, the drow walked through the stone archway and into the world that awaited him.

[Deus di Eclave]

Wind whipped Drizaghar’s piwafwi, threatening to tear it loose. He had stepped through the portal and found himself in a strange new landscape. Instead of a cavern roof over his head, the world continued above him in an endless sea of blue. Jagged rocks littered the sloped sides of the massive hill he was on; sheer drop-offs threatened from every side. The landscape looked uninhabitable and dangerous; Drizaghar wasn’t sure he liked the Overworld. His choice was final though for the portal was one-way. There was no sign of a stone archway anywhere. It was as cold here as some of the lower caves in the Underdark, but the way the air moved made it seemed even colder. I need to get out of this, he told himself. So he started down the slope.

As he walked, he was careful to keep his eyes on his feet. One step out of place and he was liable to end up with a twisted ankle. An injury this soon in his quest would not bode well for his future. His attention was so focused that he didn’t hear the footsteps falling behind him. A goblin knife arched for his back and had begun its descent by the time he heard the threat behind him. Half turning, Drizaghar’s piwafwi caught the attack. The blade was turned aside, luckily doing no damage to the drow. The dark elf raised his staff and brought it down on the creature’s head. It was crude, but effective. The small monster was dazed by the force of the blow, giving Drizaghar an opening. He summoned a fireball to burn in his hand and launched it at the goblin. It struck the creature’s abdomen and erupted in flickering flames that soon died. Angered by both attacks, the goblin thrust his knife toward the dark elf. Drizaghar sidestepped the clumsy attack and grabbed his attackers arm.

Instantly, he unleashed his power of necrosis which was augmented by the ring he wore. The goblin struggled furiously as his lifeforce was drained, but his strength was no match for the drow’s. As his life’s energy ebbed, he fell to his knees; his final scream died on his lips as the last of him was drawn away by the necromancer’s power. Drizaghar picked up the dagger, but seeing that it was shoddily forged, he tossed it aside.

Bolstered by the new energy coursing through him, the dark elf began his descent once more. This time, however, he kept his piwafwi securely around him in order to blend into his surroundings. No sense in inviting trouble, he thought.

In places, the slope leveled out to a very gentle descent. In other places though, Drizaghar was forced to drop down to a lower section of rock and work his way down from there. The wind died down as he got lower and that meant the temperature rose a bit. Soon, the dark elf no longer shivered from the cold.

After awhile, Drizaghar noticed that it wasn’t as light out as it had been. In the Underdark, day and night were marked by a great stalagmite which marked off the hours with a ring of light. Here, it seemed there was no such system. The sky darkened until he could barely see in front of him. There was no sense in risking travel over such treacherous ground in these conditions, so Drizaghar found a cave to protect him for the night. Settling in and holding out his hands, he summoned fire to warm up.

Summoned fire was a peculiar thing to the necromancer. It burned in his hand and he felt the heat of it, but it didn’t harm him or his clothing. Once he let go of it, however, it lost those properties. If he tossed a fireball in the air and caught it again, the flames would singe him. Once he was warm enough, he wrapped his piwafwi close and settled down to sleep.

- - - - - - - - - -

The bright light striking his face woke the necromancer and he immediately took stock of his surroundings. He could see his destination; an area where the slope was almost level and tall flora grew in abundance. Armed with the knowledge that it couldn’t be too far off, Drizaghar began his descent once again.

<<There is a camp nearby,>> Fascath warned him, materializing in the air in front of the drow. <<Beings similar to you camp there, but with fairer skin. I cannot understand their tongue.>> The shadow familiar floated alongside its master as Drizaghar wound his way over some large boulders.

“How far away?” he asked Fascath.

<<I would judge to distance to be about a mile,>> came the reply. <<They camp just beyond the green.>> Fascath dissipated once again, leaving Drizaghar to make his way down the slope once more. I wonder what they can be? the dark elf pondered.

[Deus di Eclave]

Drizaghar Maena’triel silently approached the camp where the strange beings dwelled. Fascath had been right; they looked very much like drow. All were dressed in similar garb that reminded Drizaghar of the scouts in the Underdark. Light elves, he decided to call them. What are they doing here? He watched as they went about various tasks, using axes to split logs, fletching arrows, and building a cooking fire. The dark elf eventually worked his way close enough to hear what they were saying.

It was as Fascath had told him, they did not speak drow. However, Drizaghar recognized some of the words from books he had read. “High Elven,” he whispered excitedly. One of the books had been a Holy Book of the Spider Queen and the text was written in both Drow and High Elven. From this text, Drizaghar had taught himself the other language so that he could read the few other books written in its tongue. Never before had he heard the words spoken though, and it took him a few minutes to sort it all out.

“Galadin,” one of the light elves shouted to another, “How much more Trakym wood do we need?” Drizaghar saw the elf named Galadin consult a small book of some kind before shouting back.

“Three cords!” The first elf seemed dismayed by this news and disappeared from sight. Drizaghar inched forward, drawing his piwafwi close around him. Was this what the Overworld was? Land of the light elves? It made sense; dark elves live in the Underdark while light elves live in the Overworld. Harmony, he thought.

<<This language is not so different from our own,>> Fascath noted, appearing just behind his master. <<I believe that I will be able to understand it if the need arises.>> Drizaghar nodded that he had heard, but kept his eyes focused on the camp in front of him. He wanted to learn all he could about these light elves and their world.

- - - - - - - - - -

The sky darkened again and Drizaghar decided that it was time to leave the woods. Woods, he rolled the word around in his mind. The light elves had talked of trees and hills and plains; Drizaghar had learned much about the Overworld from those camped in the clearing. From their idle banter, he had discovered that he had descended from the Dagger Peaks and was currently hiking south across the Dwarf Hills. Mountains and hills. The Overworld was made up of many different geographies, Drizaghar now realized. To this point, he had experienced mainly those which offered little comfort to a traveler. As he walked, he envisioned the plains that the elves had spoken of. Flat; as far as the eyes could see. He couldn’t wait to see them.

He traveled by moonlight, making his ways through the Dwarf Hills was easier than descending from the Dagger Peaks had been. Fascath floated alongside him, sometimes commenting on an odd landmark or animal. Both drow enjoyed the night and the protection it provided them, but they were eager to learn more about their surroundings. Eager to understand the laws of this new world.

[Deus di Eclave]

A few days travel had taken Drizaghar to the edge of a new type of terrain. The hills continued to the southeast, but before him stretched an expanse of… nothing. Nothing grew on the blackened ground and no animals could be seen. The flat terrain stretched out for as far as the drow could see; could this be the plains?

The temperature had also risen drastically as the two travelers made their way south. Fascath was unbothered by the change, but the increased heat made Drizaghar uncomfortable. Deciding to scout out the barren expanse, he carefully made his was down the hill.

Heat blasted him when he set foot on the black earth. It was as if the very ground he walked on was on fire. Sweat beaded his brow instantly and Drizaghar felt nausea welling up inside him. Turning and fleeing back to the safety of the hills, he wondered what sorcery had been placed on this land. He explained the sensation to Fascath and the ethereal familiar offered his advice.

<<This is a place where many have died,>> the shadow drow told Drizaghar. <<Your powers could very well be tested here on the dead that lie within the earth. Think not about the heat; search for a skeleton.>> Drizaghar thought about his familiar’s advice; he needed to hone his skills, that was true. But the overwhelming heat of the wasteland played tricks on his mind. He wasn’t sure if he could focus enough to wield his skills. There’s only one way to find out, he reminded himself.

Steeling himself against the coming onslaught, he stepped onto the blackened ground once again. Instantly he began sweating and the feelings of discomfort returned. “Fascath!” he called. “Point me to the dead.” His familiar floated ahead of him, guiding his master to a small black rock not too far away. The skeletal remains of a small mammal lay strewn across the earth. Drawing on his necromancer powers, Drizaghar extended his hand over the bones. At first, nothing happened. Sweat pored from the dark elf; a combination of the heat and the exertion. However, soon the bones began to rattle. They were drawn across the blackened earth by some unseen force and soon they lay next to one another. A rough semblance of the creature’s form could be seen, but the bones moved no further.

The drow’s arm shook as he put more force into his ability. No matter how hard he tried though, the bones remained still. Collapsing to his knees in fatigue, the dark elf withdrew his necromancy from the creature’s remains. “Fascath… I…” but he never had a chance to finish before falling into the blackness of oblivion.

- - - - - - - - - -

Drizaghar awoke with a start, his heart bounding in his chest. <<Lie back down,>> came his familiar’s voice. <<You forced me into the physical realm when you fainted. I carried you back here and quickly shed that form. Rest for awhile, regain your strength.>> The necromancer slowed his breathing and tried to calm his nerves. Never before had he tried so hard to use his powers. And with no result.

“That path is not the way we will travel,” he told his familiar. “We head west, to whatever lies in that direction.” The drow hoped it was more woods, for the food that he had brought from the Underdark was running dangerously low. When he was by the elven camp, he had spied several small mammals that seemed easy enough to catch. He would have to hunt for his food.

His body was sore from the exertion of trying to raise the skeleton, meaning he wouldn’t be able to travel far. Drizaghar pulled the Tome of Necromancy from his pack and began reading, searching for what he had done wrong.

[Deus di Eclave]

Low buildings dotted the landscape of the Overworld as Drizaghar and Fascath made their way west. It had been three days since the dark elf necromancer had attempted to wield his powers in the wasteland. He felt sufficiently rested and was eager to travel further today then they had on previous days. Wheat grew in abundance here, corralled by fences made of wood. There was no path to follow and so the two drow wandered between the fences, all the while heading in a generally western direction.

There were other plants growing in the fences as well and Drizaghar had helped himself to them. A few tasted bitter or bland, but many of them had tastes that reminded the dark elf of foods in the Underdark. Our two worlds aren’t so different, he had concluded. He had filled his pack with these foods, but still needed meat of some kind before too long.

Up ahead, a fence stretched across their path, forcing Drizaghar to head either north or south for a good distance. However, he stopped to investigate for there was no plant life besides a low-growing grass within the fence. <<A creature approaches,>> Fascath warned as his master approached the fence. On the other side, a beautiful chestnut mare sidled over to the dark elf, her ears darting about in an agitated manner. Drizaghar was astonished at such beauty; creatures in the Underdark were notoriously grotesque in their appearance. Hardly anything was depicted with such grace or nobility. Are all the creatures in the Overworld this astonishing? he wondered. Tentatively reaching out a hand, the drow moved toward the beast. Snorting softly, it allowed him to touch its nose before turning and trotting away.

“What other creatures await us?” he said to Fascath. If they were all this docile, maybe the Overworld wasn’t a place to be feared.

“Hey you!” came a sharp voice in a tongue that the drow didn’t recognize. “Get away from my farm!” From the low building, a man emerged. He certainly wasn’t a drow, for his skin was fair. However, neither was he a light elf because his features were not soft and delicate. Despite his inability to classify the man’s race, he understood his intent. The muscled man walked toward the two dark elves, murder in his eyes. “Filthy dark elf!” he shouted. “Get away from my horses!” Although the language was uncertain, the meaning was clear. Drizaghar backed away from the fence and turned to the south. “That’s right,” the man continued, “get on out of here.” He remained at the fence while the necromancer walked away. “Filthy drow,” he muttered before turning back to the building.

- - - - - - - - - -

Hours later, the sky had begun to darken once again. Drizaghar had gotten use to the cycle of dark and light, choosing to sleep when he couldn’t see well enough to travel. Fascath always kept watch for his ethereal form needed no rest. The dark elf scanned the horizon, looking for a sheltered campsite. A patch of woods caught his attention and he adjusted his course toward it. As he neared, a creature emerged from amongst the trees. It resembled the dogs Drizaghar was used to seeing in the lower sections of the city, but it was much fiercer. It bared its teeth at the approaching travelers, a clear warning against coming any further.

Drizaghar readied his staff to strike the hound in necessary. They closed in on one another, the beast circling and looking for its time to strike. It lunged and the drow swung his staff. The creature dodged the attack effortlessly and pressed in toward the dark elf. Drizaghar could feel its hot breath and he swung the staff again to ward it off. But the beast dodged yet again and turned on the offensive. Sharp teeth sunk into flesh as the creature bit down on Drizaghar’s arm. The necromancer screamed with the pain and summoned a fireball into his other hand. As he struck out at the thing, he called on the power of necrosis as well, hoping to weaken it enough to drive it away. As the blend of fiery death struck the hound, something happened. Instead of erupting into flames, the fireball was seemingly absorbed into the creature’s flesh. Simultaneously, Drizaghar felt a spike in his necrosis powers. The combination hit instantly killed a large section of the beast’s flesh; rotten skin and dead muscle lay open to the eye. Howling in pain, the thing ran off, limping when the muscles in its shoulder no longer supported its full weight.

Drizaghar stared down at his hand, wondering from where such power had come. The fire had enhanced his powers of necromancy, improving them from necrosis to instant decay. Unsure whether or not he would be able to reproduce such a feat, Drizaghar began readying a campsite for the night.

My powers must be improving, he told himself. I should consult the Tome tomorrow. But for now, Drizaghar settled into an uneasy sleep, plagued by the recent occurrences.

[Deus di Eclave]

Drizghar stood before an architectural wonder. Miles ago, the drow had found signs in Elven stating that he was nearing Eluriand, capital city of Raiaera. Now he gazed upon it in wonder for it was unlike anything he had ever seen. Pictures of trees, flowers, and birds adorned the wall before him; it was as if the city were a living thing. It reminded him nothing of the cities of the Underdark and he was eager to enter.

After conversing with a guard in broken Elven, the gates swung wide to admit the dark elf. A second guard was assigned to watch the drow, but Drizaghar hardly noticed. The inside of the city was even more breathtaking. Shops and stalls lined the cobbled streets and light elves bustled to and from the stands, busy gathering supplies and food. Here and there the drow saw other races, but the marketgoers were predominantly light elves. At the center of the city, Drizaghar could see another set of walls surrounding a sparkling fortress. The sun, already having begun its descent to the horizon, caught the towers of the palace and made them light up. The dark elf turned around several times, trying to drink it in all at once.

He wandered down the street, weaving his way through the crowds with ease. Closer to the center of the city, he saw blacksmiths, tailors, and enchanters all working in their establishments. After a short while, he arrived at the second set of walls and read the inscription on the building: “Turlin School of Bardic Tradition.” Intrigued, he stepped through the threshold to see what lay inside.

A long hallway greeted him, with many doors on each side. To his left there was an entrance that led to a beautiful green courtyard and the drow headed this way. A fountain bubbled pleasantly in the center of the yard and benches lined the walls, offering a place with a little privacy among the plants there. The courtyard was vacant, save for a lone dark elf in the opposite corner from where Drizaghar had entered. The drow made his way over to the studious mage and greeted him in his native tongue, “Lloth guard you.”

The other dark elf looked up from his book and peered quizzically at Drizaghar. “Who or what is Lloth?” he asked.

Drizaghar was taken aback, for a drow not to know the name of the Goddess? It was heresy, a foolish thing to flaunt. “Surely you jest,” he said to the other.

The dark elf stood and offered his hand, “I am called Solorvir, a student at this school of bardic magic. From where do you hail?”

Staring at the proffered hand, Drizaghar wondered why this dark elf had a death wish. To be so bold as to not give his House name? The matron mothers would skin one such as this. “The Underdark,” he gave as an answer to Solorvir’s inquiry.

“Now it is you who tries to fool me,” the elf replied. “Well met, brother.” Drizaghar shook his head, confused by this drow’s actions. But before he could voice his concerns, Solorvir was offering a tour of the Turlin School. Drizaghar nodded his acceptance and the two began walking. “ The music of Turlin is slow and soft, tinged with melancholy. However, in the midst of its lamentation lies a note of hope, a reverberation of the conviction that not all is lost,” the drow told his charge. “We here have trained in the music arts for many years and most are just beginning to delve into the advanced forms of music available. Some masters do exist, but none quite as powerful as Atanamir Eluriand was.” As they exited the school, the drow continued, “They say the siege during the War of the Tap left its mark on the world; that things would never be the same. However, we strive to disprove that by bringing life to those who despair.”

“What was that word,” Drizaghar questioned. For in the drowspeak of the Underdark, the word for ‘world’ was har’oloth and the student had used tresk'ri. “What does ‘tresk’ri’ mean?”

The student stared at Drizaghar, “World,” he answered. “As in the whole of Althanas? Where are you from?”

Althanas, Drizaghar pondered what this meant. Another name for the Overworld perhaps? Although they both spoke drow, it was clear that this dark elf was not of the Underdark. That meant somewhere in this Althanas, there was a place that the drow could call home. “I came from the Dagger Peaks,” he answered. “Where is your home?”

“Alerar,” came the reply. “The Dagger Peaks? They are nearly inhospitable! No wonder you seem new to all of this information. Have you journeyed across Raiaera before?” When Drizaghar shook his head, the bard continued. “To the west of the city lies Alerar, the land of the dark elves. To the north lies the Dagger Peaks. The ocean is in the west, as well as the Black Desert and the Dwarf Hills. Finally, the Red Forest lies to the south. Can you speak Common?”

The two drow rounded a corner and began making their way toward the east edge of the city. Drizaghar didn’t know what the last word spoken by the bard had been, but he was pretty sure he didn’t speak the language he had inquired about. “I speak only Drow and some Elven,” he told the other. “What else would I need?”

“Raiaera is a land of the elves, but Common is a secondary language spoken. This is so that humans and elves can communicate, for trade and the like.” The student reached into his pack and procured a book for the other drow. “Here, this book will help you translate from Drow to Common. I have no more use for it.”

Drizaghar thumbed threw the pages briefly before securing it in his own pack, right on top of the Tome of Necromancy. While he was putting the translator away, the bard spotted the spine of the Tome and asked, “Studying the horrors of necromancy?” An icy chill crept down Drizaghar’s spine. The matron mothers had used the same tone when talking about the dark arts. This drow shared the Underdark’s distrust of the ancient practice of necromancy. Fascath appeared beside the drow and offered his opinion.

<<Leave now,>> he said. <<He is a drow, he will not hesitate to betray you.>> Drizaghar knew that his familiar spoke the truth, but could not think of an easy way out of the situation.

“Necromancy is a branch of magic, just like your bardic traditions,” he finally countered. The student tensed and narrowed his eyes at Drizaghar.

“Guard!” he shouted in Common, knowing that the necromancer couldn’t understand him. “This drow is a student of necromancy. Apprehend him at once.”

The elven guard nodded and slowly walked toward Drizaghar. However, the drow understood what was transpiring and he acted on instinct. As the guard placed a hand on his shoulder, the dark elf grabbed his wrist and unleashed the power of necrosis. The guard shouted and tore his arm free, reaching to his waist for his sword. Drizaghar’s wooden staff had no chance of standing up to the guard’s dehlar blade, so the dark elf summoned a fireball to his hand. Before the elf could draw his weapon, the fireball smashed between his eyes. Flames licked his face and the guard screamed in pain. A crowd was gathering around the spectacle, blocking any chance for escape.

“Over here!” came the voice of another guard. “More necromancers!” Drizaghar saw the elf pointing toward the center of the city and the crowd quickly moved away from the threat. The guard who had been attacked quickly ran to alert the others and the new elf walked over to the drow. <<It’s me,>> the guard whispered. <<Let’s be rid of this place.>> Drizaghar nodded and the two quickly exited the city.

Once they were safely outside the walls, Fascath returned to his shadow form and dissipated to restore his energy. The drow necromancer was left alone with his own thoughts as he stepped of the main path and started across the plains to the southwest. Always trust a drow to betray you.

[Deus di Eclave]

As the Red Forest loomed in the distance, Drizaghar saw a cloud of dust being kicked up in the wind. Not wanting to get caught by a patrol of elven guards, he quickly ducked off to the side of the road and hid behind a rock. However, it was not a contingent of soldiers traveling the road to Eluriand, it was a caravan of humans. Stepping out from his hiding place, Driz greeted them in Common, “Greetings travelers.” The wagon stopped, the horses that had been drawing it standing at rest as the humans clambered down off the sides and walked over to the drow.

“Hello there,” one of the females replied. “What brings you on this road? Not many travel this path.” Drizaghar quickly flipped through the translation book, finding the key words as fast as he could. After a few awkward moments of silence, he responded.

“To Red Forest,” he told them. “Speak Elven?” One of the caravanners stepped forward, a light elf dressed in the attire of a hunter.

“Aye,” he said. “Your Common is terrible. I hope you speak Elven better.”

“I learned to speak Common today; you cannot expect me to master the language so soon,” Drizaghar retorted.

“Ah, forgive me then,” the hunter replied. “You have come from Eluriand?” The drow nodded and the elf continued, “How fares the Shining City?”

“I found it… pleasant,” the necromancer lied. Much as most races distrusted drow, it seemed nearly everyone was against necromancers. With the two combined… well, Drizaghar didn’t need to explain how his stay in the city had been.

The caravanner motioned toward the forest behind them, “You say you are destined for the Red Forest? You’ll need better protection than that staff.” He motioned to one of the members of his group and the human returned to the wagon to fetch something. “Take this with you.”

The human returned to the group carrying a small crossbow and a small roll of bolts. Drizaghar inspected the weapon; it was solid craftsmanship. “Thank you,” he replied in Common for the benefit of them all. The elf nodded and the caravan continued its trek to the Raiaeran capital. The sun was already on the horizon, so Drizaghar decided to set up camp where he stood.

After gathering wood and lighting a small fire, the drow necromancer retrieved the Tome of Necromancy from his pack. If the forest really was that dangerous, he’d need to hone his skills. Leafing through the book, he found a section written in Common. With some effort, he translated: “A great necromancer once told me ‘Necromancy isn’t merely mastery of the dead; necromancers defy life itself.’ This puzzled me for a time, but I have come to believe the veracity of it. Learn this well, for it will be a great boon to you.” Wondering about what such a passage could mean, the dark elf shut the book. Necromancy isn’t merely mastery of the dead, he repeated. So far, he powers all told him otherwise. Necrosis, instant decay, and possibly raising the dead; these all displayed a mastery of the dead. Did this passage hint that this view of necromancy was one-sided? Necromancers defy life itself. Was there a hidden aspect to his power that lay untapped? These thoughts were the last thing on his mind as he fell asleep.

[Deus di Eclave]

By noon the next day, Drizaghar the drow had entered the Red Forest. Immediately, he felt at peace; more than he had since he set foot in Althanas many days before. The forest offered solitude and protection; it was not a place to be feared, but revered. The ambient noises all around him made him feel safe. If someone crept through the forest toward him, the silence of the animals would provide ample warning. However, he knew not to rely entirely on the woodland creatures to be his eyes and ears. A false sense of security could lead to a sure enough death.

This was a part of Althanas that he felt home in. The mountains, the desert, the city; in all of these places he had felt like a guest in another’s realm. Not here though; here, he felt like the master of his domain. A spider rested on a branch about fifty paces away and Drizaghar decided it was time for some target practice. Summoning a fireball to his hand, he let fly at the spider. The flaming projectile missed the creature by a considerable margin and erupted against a nearby tree. The flames flickered and died quickly, their heat not enough to catch the sturdy bark on fire.

Drawing his arm back, he summoned another fireball and launched it toward the unsuspecting spider. This time, he struck the branch the thing was on, causing it to tumble off. Silk soon halted its downward motion and it began pulling itself back to its resting spot. Quickly, Drizaghar readied yet another fireball and threw it at the creature. This time his aim was true and the ball exploded on the spider’s back. Its carapace hissed as the flames heated it up. Soon, the spider was on the ground writhing as fire consumed it. The dark elf smiled to himself and scanned the trees for another target.

Hours went by as the necromancer honed his fire-wielding abilities by attacking various creatures of the woods. He had attempted, at times, to use the crossbow given to him, but the bolts always flew wide. So time and time again, he resorted to using the fiery projectiles to hit his targets. Slowly, the drow made his way deeper into the forest, hardly paying attention to where he was. After a time, he stumbled on a clearing and sat down on a stump to rest. “Fascath,” he called.

The shadowy drow walked out of the trees and into the clearing to rest before his master. <<Yes?>> he responded once he was situated.

“Fascath,” the necromancer began, “Althanas reminds me of the Underdark; both inhabited by narrow-minded fools. My own people shun me because of my power; it shouldn’t surprise me that these Overworlders would do the same.” He idly twisted the ring on his finger and sighed. “Maybe I can live among them without telling of my true abilities…” His voice trailed off as he contemplated this scenario.

<<Master,>> the familiar interrupted. <<A strange power lies to the south of here. Darkness rolls in waves from it, I can feel the forest’s anger.>>

“I’m intrigued,” Drizaghar said. “Take me there.”

[Deus di Eclave]

As the two drow got closer to the source of power, Fascath began growing more and more solid. “Why are you wasting power in manifesting yourself?” Drizaghar asked his familiar.

<<It is not my doing,>> Fascath replied.

I wonder what power this is that is causes Fascath to take on a physical form? the necromancer thought. It was then that Drizaghar noticed the dead plants. The trees had turned a deathly grey color and the underbrush had withered away. No leaves grew in this section of the forest and no animals came near it. The drow thought to himself, Should I turn back? But the draw was too strong. He had to know what was causing this. Signs posted in Elven warned, “Trespassing in the Spire without the express permission of the High Bard Council is strictly prohibited.”

However, the pair pressed on and soon arrived at the foot of a tall obsidian tower. Seemingly carved from the earth itself, the tower captured all of the light in the area. The result was that the immediate vicinity of decay was also cast in a ghostly pall, enhancing the feely of dread already pervading the dark elf.

<<Death seeps into everything here,>> Fascath told his master. Realization struck Drizaghar and he realized he could draw on this power to perform his skills.

“Fascath,” he announced, “Find me a skeleton.” It didn’t take long for the now-solid familiar to walk over near the tower and point down to a wolf’s skulls laying on the ground.

<<The rest of its remains lay buried,>> the familiar explained.

Drizaghar approached the skeleton and stretched his hand out over it. Drawing on his necromancy powers, the drow focused his entire being on reanimating the creature. The earth shook as bones pulled themselves to the surface and soon the skeleton lay in a rough depiction of a wolf. Sweat beaded his brow already and the dark elf knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up this level of exertion for long. Tapping into the aura of death around him, he used it to feed the necromancy’s power. Bones began to float upward through the air to form the skeleton of the wolf. Drizaghar began gasping for breath as the necromancy took full control of him. Wind beat against the dark elf, drawn by the amount of power accumulating in the bones. The sky darkened as light too was absorbed to feed the surge of power. The skeletal being howled as it became fully reanimated, testing its limbs by bounding across the earth to rest beside its new master.

Drizaghar collapsed to the earth, his chest heaving from the storm of power he had just unleashed. “Fascath,” he gasped. “I did it!” Before he fell unconscious, the necromancer allowed a brief smile to cross his face.

[Deus di Eclave]

Drizaghar Maena’triel sat with his back to a dead tree and studied the Tome of Necromancy passed down to him from his ancestor Aunqualyn. After raising the wolf, he had realized that it took a portion of his lifeforce to keep the thing reanimated. By reading the Tome, he had discovered that the large the undead, the more of his lifeforce it would take. Raising a dragon, the Tome disclosed, had nearly killed Aunqualyn.

“Fascath, I think I may have finally figured out what this passage means,” the necromancer told his familiar. Earlier, he had read that necromancers defy life itself and this statement had puzzled him greatly. However, he now believed that he had the answer.

<<So what does the Tome mean when it says that?>> the still-solid familiar asked.

“I believe that I can use my powers to reverse death,” Drizaghar said solemnly. “But not just to reanimate those already dead. I mean completely reverse death and thereby hold the power of life in my hand. Kal'daka!” he called to the wolf skeleton. Hearing its name, the wolf bounded over, eager to serve its master. “Stand guard over this area,” he told it. “Let no one get close to the Spire.” The undead wolf took off to the edge of the decayed zone and began pacing around its perimeter.

The aura of death surrounding the Spire had crept into Drizaghar’s consciousness, removing his inhibitions and causing him to turn slightly mad. Visions of power swept through his mind, making him drunk with what would be.

I could become immortal, the drow realized. If my power grows strong enough, I can defy the rules of life itself and gain immortality! The prospect of living forever with such a power greatly pleased the drow. “There is no place for me in this world, nor in the Underdark. I am an exile through and through. The elves, both dark and light, reject me and so I reject them!” His voice rose in fervor as he continued, “This day, I declare vengeance! I will find a way back into the Underdark and when my power has increased, I will make them bow before me. They will rue the day that they cast me out!”

Reaching down and cupping a dead leaf in his hand, Drizaghar concentrated on reversing the decay which plagued the earth around the Spire. Instantly, the color returned to it and spread down the small sapling, breathing life back into it. He laughed and raised his hands to the sky, “I will follow you, Aunqualyn. I will study your Tome and learn your ways; I will become the next great Necromancer!”

Spoils: These are just the things he found, feel free to deny them :)
Crossbow with Iron Bolts- Driz cannot use this weapon well, but he will train with it to become more proficient by the time he next levels up.
Drow to Common translator- this book will help Driz learn Common.
Maybe some gold and some exp too ;)

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
An Exile, A Tomb and an Oath

Most of the comments that I gave you in 'Broken Heart, Brokenthorn' apply here. Also, it's very hard to type out a judgment when you have a baby in your arms. TT_TT

STORY

Continuity ~ 7/10.
Setting ~ 6/10. There were moments here that were just fabulous, but for the most part you skimp on the sensory descriptions. Work on bringing the scene to life.
Pacing ~ 6/10.
CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10. The different languages were good, but maybe try and sprinking in some of the actual words. There are plenty of Elven/English dictionaries on the web, and a very good Drow translator. You used a couple of Drow words when the discussion of the word "World", add in more.
Action ~ 6/10.
Persona ~ 7/10. It's interesting to see this character. You get a sense of drive and ambition, but he's also very child-like. At times it was hard to really recognize him as a Drow, but you played him consistently.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 5/10. Throw in simile and metaphor to help bring the scenes to life. If you can help your writing flow better, it'll help out here.
Mechanics ~ 8/10.
Clarity ~ 8/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 5/10.

TOTAL ~ 65/100.

Rewards

Deus di Eclave gains 644 EXP and 130 GP

You also gain a yew crossbow with 10 iron bolts, and a drow-common translator. This book is valued at 2 GP should you ever wish to sell it.

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!