More of The Grey Warriors

Art and Music that has inspired The Grey Warriors. "They went from prisoners of the drow elves to fugitives on the run. While fleeing through the unforgiving dark, a weary band of strangers comes face to face with a horror that has been unleashed from the infinite layers of the Abyss. And that is only the beginning. The Underdark will soon need a guiding light." Loosely follows the Dungeons and Dragons campaign module, Out of the Abyss.

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Thirteen

The Puppetmaster

1485 D.R. / Day 64

The interior of the big top was impossibly large. Space stretched beyond reason, the ceiling rose into darkness while floating lanterns drifted overhead like captive stars. Their jewel-toned light shifted restlessly across the curved walls, casting warped shadows that made the canvas seem to ripple and breathe. The atmosphere was dim and close. Incense clung thickly to the air, mingling with something sweet and cloying beneath it, almost floral… almost rotten.

Seats rose in gentle arcs around a central ring. The Grey Warriors were guided into place by gentle hands and murmured encouragements, scattered just enough to make regrouping difficult without making the separation appear deliberate. Every touch was polite. Every gesture accommodating. Every smile fixed behind painted porcelain.

Nine sat near the aisle, spine rigid, with Zelyra beside her. Both scanned the tent for exits, but the openings seemed to shift whenever their eyes found them, blurring into folds of dark fabric and shadow. Fraeya and Fargas found seats by them, but Sarith, Prince Derendil, Kazimir, and Mr. Ape were ushered into the row beneath them, closer to the stage.

As her guests settled, Madam Mavra walked to the center of the ring. She was radiant in her dark corset and sweeping skirts. Her cane twirled lazily between gloved fingers as she surveyed the audience like a queen before her court.

“Welcome, my darlings,” she crooned. “Tonight, you will witness a show unlike any other. Wonders from the deepest corners of the world. Marvels of sight, sound, and spirit.”

The audience erupted into cheers, feverish and eager. Bodies leaned forward in anticipation. Hands clapped. Feet stomped. The sound rolled through the tent, too loud and too hungry, as though the crowd had been waiting not merely for entertainment, but for permission.

“Very well. We will begin by setting the mood.”

Mavra gestured to the stage, and a black-scaled dragonborn stepped forward. A porcelain mask concealed his face—one half painted in sorrow, the other in joy. Cradled in his claws was a violin. As he reached the center of the ring, his bow met the strings.

The first note unfurled like a breath drawn too slowly.

Mavra’s smile sharpened.

“Here to guide you through our wonders—Shu’Lok the Sooth, and his Song of Many-Fingers.”

The dragonborn’s melody began low and haunting, winding its way through the air and into the bones. Two deep gnome drummers emerged from either side of the ring. Their hands struck their instruments in slow, perfect synchronization, each beat threading itself beneath Shu’Lok’s mournful song. The sound was not merely heard. It was felt. It slid beneath the skin, coiled around thought and memory like a lover’s whisper, promising warmth. Belonging. Bliss.

Kazimir’s breath hitched.

Warmth spread through the wizard’s chest, through his limbs. A sensation so pleasant that he didn’t question it—didn’t want to question it. The tune deepened. Somewhere, distantly, he recognized the sensation. Magic. Another enchantment. But Gods, wasn’t it beautiful?

The sharp edges of his thoughts began to soften. Warnings dulled. Urgency blurred. The need to leave—the things he had seen, the cautions he himself had spoken—grew strangely unimportant. Distant.

Leaving seemed pointless.

Why rush?

He could stay.

Just a little longer.

Beside him, Prince Derendil blinked slowly, his massive form settling as serenity washed across his features. Sarith, too, exhaled in something almost like relief. The drow’s shoulders loosened, tension bleeding from his body as his crimson eyes softened and drifted toward the ring.

Fraeya felt the pull too—the insidious invitation to let go.

Her jaw clenched. Her teeth bared.

No.

Not again.

She forced the sensation down with sheer will, fingers digging into her palms until the sting anchored her. A quick glance showed Zelyra doing the same, lips pressed thin with concentration. Nine’s hand was clenched white-knuckled at her side, stubbornness and suspicion holding her fast. Fargas shivered once, hard, but he too remained aware.

But the others—

“They’re under,” Nine said to Zelyra, her voice low.

Kazimir’s expression had gone completely slack. Sarith’s mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile. Again. And Derendil—Derendil, who had been the first of them to fall victim to the carnival’s charms, sat with his clawed hands folded primly in his lap, green eyes shining as he watched Shu’Lok play.

Zelyra reached down and gripped his arm.

“Derendil,” she said urgently. “Look at me.”

The quaggoth prince blinked lazily, then chuckled. “Oh, milady,” he said dreamily. “What an exquisite musical performance. I feel simply wonderful.”

“That’s what you said last time,” the druid replied, voice tight.

Fraeya leaned forward and shook Sarith’s shoulder. The drow barely reacted, murmuring something unintelligible before his gaze slid back toward the ring, entranced all over again.

Fargas snapped his fingers in front of Kazimir’s face.

“Hey—buddy. A derro just swiped your spellbook.”

Kazimir barely turned. “Hmm? What book?”

Fargas grimaced. “He’s gone.” And then when Mr. Ape started wildly salivating, the halfling added, “Lovely, the chimp too…”

“This is worse than before,” Zelyra whispered.

Her eyes dropped to the stage.

Mavra was watching.

Not the performance.

Them.

“You dispelled the charm once,” Fargas said softly. “Think you can do it again?”

Zelyra hesitated. She didn’t have the reserves to dispel the magic again…

But there was the other way…

“No,” Nine muttered, leaning forward without taking her eyes off the aisles. “Not yet. Too many eyes. Too many of them.”

The ranger nodded toward a server gliding past, offering blue-hued ale and strange platters of fungus, murmuring sweet nothings to revelers as they sipped slowly and languidly from their cups. Across the tent, countless guests now wore the same glassy-eyed look as Kazimir, Sarith, and Derendil, their focus entirely consumed by the music.

And the employees—

They were everywhere.

Moving through the aisles. Weaving between rows. Gliding past benches with impossible ease, their porcelain masks ensuring their cheerful expressions never wavered. Watching. Listening. Ensuring there would be no disruption.

Too many enemies.

Not enough exits.

“Gods,” Fargas cursed.

. . .

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Twelve

A Faire of Deception

1485 D.R. / Day 64

Kazimir Oussnddare cursed under his breath as he slipped through the carnival grounds under the guise of his potion of invisibility. He had not anticipated being quite so… aggressively pursued by the troupe of tieflings in the pleasure tent. In retrospect, he could admit—privately, and to no one else—that panic had overtaken him. Pure, unfiltered, profoundly undignified panic. And maybe a little bit of shame too. He had downed his potion and fled, leaving Mr. Ape bewildered and alone amid the riot of bodies, perfume, laughter, and silk.

The wizard eventually slowed, drawing in a steadying breath.

He should forget the tent. Now was the time for his intelligent, curious mind to lock in.

The carnival reeked of something foul beneath its perfume and pageantry—something far more dangerous than its garish displays of indulgence and spectacle. The laughter was too sharp. The music too sweet. The smiles too fixed. Even the lights seemed to burn with a feverish insistence, coaxing the eye, inviting the body to linger while the mind slowly forgot why it had ever wanted to leave.

He needed answers. And if Kazimir had learned anything in a life spent navigating deception, it was this: the most dangerous truths were buried where only the foolish or the desperate dared to look. Today, he was apparently both.

A tent full of scantily clad tieflings had not been on his itinerary.

But neither had breaking into the carnival mistress’s private quarters.

Until now.

Kazimir drew his purple cloak tighter out of habit, though no one could see him, and angled his path toward the employee tents set behind the high-top. Around him, masked workers drifted through the crowd with painted grins and hollow eyes, urging guests toward games, food, wine, and wonders. Their voices rose and fell in practiced cheer, bright enough to conceal the wrongness beneath. Now and then, one of them tilted its head too far. Smiled too long. Stared at nothing.

The wizard kept moving.

To his relief, Mr. Ape managed to follow at a distance, presumably drawn to the magic of the Bag of Tricks. The creature lumbered along with all the subtlety of a bumbling oaf. But in the chaos of the carnival, even that proved surprisingly easy to overlook.

Kazimir’s potion would last an hour. One hour to search. One hour to find answers. One hour before he became very visible in a place where visibility could quickly become fatal.

He intended to make every moment count.

Near the employee tents, Kazimir brought Mr. Ape to a halt beside the entrance. The summoned creature posted up awkwardly near the tent flap, scratching absently at the thick fur atop his head. The wizard sighed. Mr. Ape was… Endearing, yes. Loyal, certainly. Sharp? Not remotely.

He reached out and gave the creature’s arm a firm, guiding pat.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “Try to blend in, buddy.”

The ape snorted, tilting its head.

“I know,” Kaz added quietly. “You can’t see me. I’m still here.”

A long blink. The creature’s confusion was palpable, but after a moment, it gave a grunt of understanding—well, as much understanding as a conjured ape bound by arcane means could possibly manage.

Kazimir did not linger. He slipped through the first curtain. The manic cheer of the carnival dulled behind him, muffled by canvas and distance until it became little more than a distorted thrum. In its place settled a strange, breathless stillness. There were no rich silks, no warm lanterns, no gilded invitation to indulge. Mismatched cots lined the edges, some barely more than straw pallets thrown over packed earth. Crates of props and costumes sat stacked in careless piles. Racks of threadbare garments leaned at odd angles, their bright colors gone dingy beneath dust and sweat.

And the masks.

Kazimir’s gaze lingered on them despite himself.

They lay scattered across tables and crates like discarded faces. Some were cracked. Some were smeared. Some looked as though they had been worn for far too long by people who had forgotten how to take them off.

Near the bunks, a pile of simple travel bags caught his attention. Kazimir crouched and rifled through them quickly, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. Meager belongings. Three days’ worth of fungus rations. A few spare sets of worn, filthy clothing. Coil after coil of rope. No journals. No coin. No letters. Nothing to suggest who these people had been before the carnival…

Then a low, rumbling breath made him freeze.

Kazimir’s muscles went taut.

For a heartbeat, he did not move. Did not breathe.

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted toward the rear of the tent.

A quaggoth lay sprawled on a bedroll half-hidden behind a hanging partition. It rolled lazily onto its side and let out a deep, guttural sigh.

One moment passed. Then another.

The beast did not stir again.

Very slowly, Kazimir straightened. His heart beat a little too loudly in his ears, but he forced himself to move with care rather than haste. Whatever secrets the employee quarters held, they were not worth waking a quaggoth over. Not when Mavra’s own tent waited somewhere beyond.

He slipped back through the curtain as silently as he had entered, leaving the sleeping guard, the scattered masks, and the sad little piles of forgotten things behind. The carnival’s noise rushed back over him at once—laughter, music, applause, the clink of goblets and the low murmur of delighted voices. The change was dizzying.

Kazimir drew another steadying breath. Then he turned toward the richer tents at the rear of the grounds. They stood apart from the rest, larger by far and draped in heavy silks that shimmered beneath the colored lights. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking them. This was not where the ordinary performers slept. It was not a place for hired hands, masked workers, or exhausted guards.

Mavra.

Kazimir was sure of it.

. . .

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Eleven

Madame Mavra’s Carnival of Curiosities

1485 D.R. / Day 64 Unknown location on The Darklake

The island rose from the black waters of the Darklake like a fever dream—too vivid, too colorful to be real. Light bloomed where none should theoretically exist. Floating lanterns drifted lazily through the air, some glowing pale gold, others tinged with blue, green, and soft pinks. Sound also carried faintly over the water. The lilt of flutes, the rhythmic thrum of drums, a wheezing accordion, and beneath it all, the indistinct murmur of voices. Laughter, perhaps. Or something carefully shaped to sound like it.

A long, narrow bridge linked the island to shore. It looked old—older than most would dare to trust—and yet it was still stubbornly intact. Beyond the bridge, shapes moved. Silhouettes passed between tents and wagons. Towering spires of striped fabric rose beside crooked wooden booths. Banners fluttered lazily in a light breeze that should not have existed so deep beneath the world.

The companions stood in silence for many minutes, wondering if the island was real or a mirage. Their harrowing escape from the Oozing Temple had scarcely faded from their thoughts: the stench of oozes, the sizzle of corrupted flesh, the certainty that death had been only a step behind them. (As it always seemed to be these days). More importantly, the name Juiblex. Now this—color, music, warmth—offered to them so suddenly? It felt almost cruel.

Nothing bright or beautiful in the Underdark came without a cost.

Light was bait. Wonder was a hook.

And yet.

Fraeya tilted her head. “What’s a carnival?”

“A place of grand entertainment, my dear Fraeya,” Fargas answered. “Music, food, games! Everything a soul could want after trudging through half a continent of rock and filth.”

“So… like a tavern?” the drow said flatly.

“Not even close,” the halfling snorted. “A tavern feeds your belly. A carnival feeds your imagination. This—” he gestured toward the lights— “is spectacle! Excess! Mystery!”

“We do not understand this place,” Sovereign Basidia told the adventurers through its rapport spores. “It is not for us.” As if to reiterate their point, the myconid recoiled from the strange lights like a root shying from fire.

“I agree with Basidia,” Nine said. “Things like this don’t belong down here.”

“But that’s what makes it so interesting,” Fargas insisted while wringing water out of his sleeves. “You lot can brood all you want! But I intend to see what’s what.”

The ranger shook her head. “I don’t know, Fargas…”

Mirroring her anxiety, Basidia shifted again. “The faerzress here is strong,” it warned the companions. “Stronger than before. Be wary.”

And they were—for the most part. Every gut instinct told the Grey Warriors that this was wrong, a delusion woven from magic and madness. But the disillusionment of their constant flight, the endless chase of drow hunters, demons, and nightmares, also wore their caution thin. For once, the Underdark looked like it might offer something else. A pause. A light in the dark.

“I still say we check it out,” Fargas pressed. “If it’s safe, we look around. If not, we turn back. Simple.”

Zelyra felt the fracture in her companions as keenly as a fault line beneath her feet. Nine and Sarith stood rigid, distrust radiating from them. Curiosity flickered behind Fraeya’s guarded expression. Fargas was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Derendil gazed toward the island with open fascination. And Kazimir—

Kazimir looked as though he were standing between two worlds. The scholar in him called for restraint, cataloging risks and probabilities. But beneath that, something else stirred. Something almost childlike.

“Fine,” Zelyra said at last. “Fargas, Kazimir, and I can scout ahead.”

The wizard blinked, then smirked. “An excellent decision. I would be honored to join the scout team again!”

Fraeya shot him a wild look. “You’re just going to walk into a random… party? Am I getting this right? In the middle of the Underdark?”

Kazimir gestured to the grand scene before them.

“I think it would be a disservice to the academic community if I didn’t,” he claimed.

“Uh-huh,” Fraeya muttered. “Do you still have the other sending stone?”

Kazimir nodded.

“Good. You and Sarith stay in contact. If things go wrong, we’ll know.”

Fargas clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Now let’s go see what delights await!”

But Kazimir was not finished. “Wait!” he cried, already reaching into his Bag of Tricks. With a practiced flourish, the wizard tossed a small fuzzy object onto the stone. A muted pop echoed—and suddenly a large ape stood before them, blinking in mild confusion before letting out a low, rumbling grunt of greeting. [1]

Zelyra stared. “Okay. Mr. Ape, I presume? May I ask why?”

Kazimir’s answering grin was all mischief. “Backup. And besides—if we’re going to a carnival, it’s only polite to bring an attraction.”

Nine slapped a hand to her forehead.

“Now that’s the spirit,” Fargas laughed. . . .

To read more, click the link!

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Concept art for Chapter Thirteen of The Grey Warriors Part II: A Light in the Dark. You can read the chapter here!

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Ten

The Fountain of Mad Memory

1485 D.R. / Day 63 The Oozing Temple, The Northdark

The Grey Warriors stood at the top of the narrow, spiraling staircase. There was no light here beyond their own. They'd crossed forbidden glyphs, treaded tainted water, survived a room full of dissolving puddings and oozes, and solved a puzzle upon which one wrong step might have meant death. And that had brought them here.

To her.

A lone figure waited in the archway ahead, as though she'd always been part of the ruin. A drow woman, leaning casually against a set of massive double doors. Arms crossed. One foot hooked over the other. The curl of her lips spoke of calculated calm.

Fraeya froze. Not from surprise—but from recognition.

Karilla.

The last time they’d seen each other, Fraeya had been bleeding on obsidian stone, wrists bound, surrounded by jeering House Vandree schemers. Karilla had been standing just behind them—too quiet, too still, too pleased—right next to Fraeya’s sisters. Some friendships ended loudly. Others sharpened themselves wordlessly into weapons.

Now here she was again. Same smirk. Same eyes like deep, dark wine gone sour.

The others felt the shift immediately—bodies tensing, weapons angling forward. The name Juiblex still throbbed in their minds like a grim caveat, but the danger now stood embodied in front of them: a ghost from Fraeya’s past. And the Oozing Temple seemed to listen, as though hungry to feast on the tension brewing between them.

Fraeya’s fingers hovered near the grip of her battered rapier.

“Do not trust her,” she muttered to the others.

Karilla’s smirk widened.

“Well,” the drow purred, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward with feline grace, “is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Fraeya ignored the bait.

“What are you doing here?” the rogue asked instead.

Karilla toyed idly with the hilt of the dagger at her hip. “Same as you, I imagine. Searching for something worth taking.” Her gaze drifted lazily over the Grey Warriors behind Fraeya—her eyes lingering on Kazimir’s staff, Zelyra’s shield, Prince Derendil’s glowing sword. “I must admit… strange company you keep these days.”

Fraeya let out a quiet breath. “What’s the family up to these days?” she tried instead.

“Slavery. Same as always,” Karilla replied breezily. “What about you?”

“Funny,” the rogue shot back, “I just escaped it.”

“Ah, yes. The great escape.” The other drow’s voice was spun silk and spite. “Word of that has spread far. Ilvara Mizzrym still curses your name. I imagine it felt good—spitting on the life you left behind.”

The silence between them was thick and brittle.

Kazimir raised an eyebrow. “Okaaaay… I take it you know each other?”

Neither drow turned to acknowledge him.

Instead, Fraeya moved forward, producing her lockpicks with smooth precision. Karilla mirrored her immediately, crouching at the opposite door. Zelyra, Nine, Fargas, and Derendil exchanged baffled looks as the two drow women worked in eerie unison, their movements too synchronized to be a coincidence. Sarith, standing slightly apart, watched with practiced neutrality.

Fraeya’s tools clicked softly against the first lock.

Karilla sighed dramatically. “Not even going to ask for help?”

“I don’t need it,” the rogue muttered.

But Karilla was already drawing her own slender picks from within her sleeve. “Oh, please. You always struggled with locks.”

Fraeya’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t look up. “How did it feel—selling me out?”

Karilla didn’t hesitate. “Ravishing,” she said smoothly, as if savoring the word. The second lock gave a crisp click beneath her fingers, and she glanced sidelong at Fraeya, eyes alight with mocking amusement. “I made it to the next step. You didn’t.”

The Grey Warriors shifted uncomfortably, their confusion only deepening.

“Do they know we’re still here?” Fargas muttered.

Kazimir glanced toward Sarith. “Well? Care to intervene?”

The warrior’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No. This is between them.”

What he left unsaid hung heavily in the air: matters between drow females were not his to interfere with. Yet his hand hovered near his blades—wary, protective.

The final mechanism to the double doors gave way with a low, echoing creak.

Fraeya rose smoothly. “There.”

Karilla leaned back with a satisfied hum. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The air that rushed past as the doors opened was thick with an acrid stench. The chamber beyond stretched wide, its walls lined with grotesque sculptures that looked half-melted. At the room’s center stood a grand fountain, its basin brimming with brackish, stagnant water. The ruins of a statue lay at the fountain’s base. But nothing remained but a pair of clawed feet that still clung to the pedestal.

But there was something else. A scent that had not been there before. Sulfur.

Sarith’s breath hitched. “Something isn’t right,” he said, drawing his crossbow. . . .

Read more here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/191859081#workskin

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Nine

The Faceless Lord

1485 D.R. / Day 64 The Northdark

The next morning came without sunrise, as mornings always did in the Underdark. It was marked not by light but by the weary stirrings of the Grey Warriors as they roused from uneasy rest. They wore the fatigue of their journey plainly in their faces and in the set of their shoulders. Yet there was an unspoken unity in the way the seven adventurers moved together, as if each small task, repeated daily, anchored them against the endless dark. The myconids mirrored them, clustering close to Sovereign Basidia as they shared faint pulses of reassurance among themselves.

It was in this moment of quiet that Fargas chose to loudly clear his throat. He glanced at his companions, slicking back his dark hair with one hand before speaking.

“So, uh… there’s something you all should know.”

Derendil shot the halfling a tired look as he fastened the quaggoth-sized cloak that Gnaddne Tinmender had given him in Gracklstugh. “That is a promising way to start one’s morning,” the cursed elf prince said dryly.

“What is it?” Fraeya asked.

“During our watch,” the halfling began, “we felt a tremor. Just a small one.”

The drow’s frown deepened. “A tremor?”

“Yes,” Zelyra added softly. “But it was brief. We didn’t think it worth waking anyone.”

“You probably should have,” Nine cut in sharply.

Fargas shrugged, palms up. “It hardly lasted a breath. And as our dear druid said, it didn’t seem urgent at the time.”

“Urgent or not, we should be wary,” the ranger replied. Her golden eyes cut toward the cluster of exhausted myconids. “We’ve lost too many already.”

“Well,” Kazimir said suddenly, breaking the tension with exaggerated cheer as he rummaged through his satchel, “clearly what we need is reinforcements.”

Fargas blinked. “From where? Unless you’ve been hiding a garrison in that bag—”

Before Fargas could finish, the wizard flourished a small, fuzzy gray ball from a tan pouch. With a dramatic flick, he tossed the puff onto the cavern floor. Magic rippled, and in a sudden crack of transmutation energy, the shape swelled, solidified, and rose on four massive paws. A great brown bear now stood before the Grey Warriors, fur bristling, claws scraping stone. A few of the myconids shuffled back uneasily.

Kazimir, however, beamed as though reunited with an old friend. “Mr. Bear! Buddy!” His voice cracked with boyish delight. “Haven’t seen you since Gracklstugh!”

The bear lumbered forward and booped the wizard’s chest with its snout.

“What have I said about taking on strays?” Fraeya groaned.

“Mr. Bear is no stray,” Kazimir replied, affronted. “He’s an esteemed ally! An honorary member of the Grey Warriors. Just like Peanut!”

At the mention of his name, the tiny fey mouse poked its head out from Zelyra’s golden braid and squeaked sleepily. The druid laughed under her breath.

“We’re marching through narrow tunnels, not frolicking in the High Forest,” Nine said flatly.

“Exactly why we need Mr. Bear,” Kazimir countered.

The bear huffed in agreement before settling beside his wizard master.

“Excellent,” Sarith drawled from the shadows. “At least if supplies run thin, we’ll have meat.”

Mr. Bear growled.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” Kazimir shrieked. “Mr. Bear is not food!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” the drow threw over his shoulder as he slinked off into the dark. . . . Continue reading here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/191858731

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Chapter Eight

On the Run

1485 D.R. / Day 58 The Northdark

The adventurers and Sovereign Basidia’s people ran until their lungs burned and their legs felt like lead. Each step took them further from Neverlight Grove, further from Zuggtmoy’s influence… They were thankful but still very much fearful. For there was nothing else for miles and miles. Only cold and oppressive darkness. They did not stop again until the tunnel split in two. It was, quite literally, a fork in the road.

“Which way?” Fargas asked.

“The right path leads to Blingdenstone,” Kazimir said after consulting their map. “The left tunnel will take us back toward Gracklstugh.”

Nine glanced at the left-hand path. “We can’t go back to Gracklstugh.”

“We’re not,” Fraeya said. “But we can lead any pursuers astray — thrall or drow.”

It was a reminder that Zuggtmoy’s servants weren’t the only ones chasing them.

The rogue had an idea. She quickly conferred with her companions, Sovereign Basidia and Rasharoo. A few of the myconids volunteered to head down the path towards Gracklstugh, leaving clear, deliberate tracks. A false trail. The remaining group waited anxiously, huddled together, their nerves taut as bowstrings. 

Sarith stood apart, staring back the way they’d come.

Fraeya stepped close. “You alright?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m here.”

She reached out, hesitated briefly, then rested her hand on his arm. “Good enough.”

When Rasharoo and the other myconids returned, their nods indicated their success.

Zelyra then knelt by the entrance to the tunnel leading toward Blingdenstone to enact the second part of Fraeya’s plan. The druid extended her hand. Soft golden-green magic flowed from her fingertips, caressing the stone floor and coaxing small fungal growths to emerge. The growths twisted together, swelling rapidly until thick tangles of moss, towering stalks of zurkhwood, and sprawling tendrils of nightshade and bulbfruit sealed the path behind them.

The march toward Blingdenstone continued. They trudged through tunnel after tunnel. Exhaustion set in like a slow poison, sapping their strength and numbing their minds. But fear gnawed at their heels, pressing them forward. Only when their bodies refused to continue did they allow themselves to stop. By now, their breaths were shallow, their steps sluggish. Even Derendil’s towering form struggled to keep up with their swift pace.

“We need to rest,” Nine advised from the rear of their caravan.

The others agreed. Nearly eight hours had passed since their desperate flight from Neverlight Grove. And so, when they eventually came upon a wide cavern—large enough to accommodate a makeshift camp of thirty frightened myconids and seven weary adventurers—Sarith called for the group to halt.

“Here.” The warrior’s voice was hoarse, tired. “We rest here.”

As the myconids settled in clusters to rest, the adventurers gathered around Sovereign Basidia and Rasharoo. Stool’s tiny form rested between the larger myconids. The sprout lay completely motionless, cap bruised and cracked.

“How’s Stool?” Fraeya asked.

“Weak but alive,” Basidia answered. “Thanks to your friends’ quick thinking.”

Zelyra shook her head, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Kaz got Stool out,” she argued, nodding toward the wizard. “I just… patched him up.”

Basidia disagreed. “That may be. But it was your healing that gave them a second chance. A life they would not have had otherwise.”

Zelyra didn’t answer immediately. The druid thought again of that frantic moment—of seeing Stool, skewered to the cavern floor and dying, and the prayer that had sprung unbidden to her lips. She had called out to the Wildmother. Or perhaps someone else…

Her thoughts shifted to Sarith. To the Garden of Welcome. To the shimmering white shield that had protected the drow warrior from Yestabrod—and Zuggtmoy’s death sentence by proxy. Stool wasn’t the only one who received a second chance that day.

“Has anyone seen Rumpadump?” Kazimir asked suddenly.

The cavern fell painfully silent as each adventurer turned slowly to look at the others, realization dawning across their faces. For a moment, no one answered. No one could. 

“They were with us when we left,” Rasharoo projected softly. “I…I do not know when we lost them.”

Derendil hung his head. “He was right beside Stool when the myconids first ran. He was right there…”

“We left him,” Fargas murmured. “Gods above and below, we left him.”

The group lapsed into silence, each of them lost in their own regret.

Sarith stared off into the dark. His crimson eyes were distant, almost lost. “I know loss,” he admitted slowly, drawing their attention. “But losing someone who depended on you... that never fades.” The others stared at him with dumbfounded expressions. It was rare for the drow to show such vulnerability.

After a long pause, Zelyra rose unsteadily. “We should rest,” she said. “I’ll try something new tonight, something more than just shadows to hide our presence.”

The druid stepped away from their circle and mustered the last reserves of her strength to cast another spell. Her voice shook slightly as she concentrated on memories of Taras Aldar. Home. Wards. Safety. Slowly, rocks shifted into place around them, appearing to tumble and crash silently to form an illusion of a rockslide that sealed the cavern in all directions. The magic shimmered briefly, then held firm. It was a smaller, more humble reflection of the Mirage Arcane wards that protected the druidic village at the heart of Neverwinter Wood. For now, it would have to suffice. [1]

Zelyra rejoined the others, eyes heavy, chest tight with so many different emotions. More than ever, she missed home. Prince Derendil, standing nearby with Dawnbringer at his side, touched her shoulder.

“Come,” he said gently. “I will take the first watch with you.”

She nodded.

The prince and the druid spoke little, content to share quiet companionship as the hours crept by uneventfully. When it came time to change watch, they quietly roused Sarith and Fraeya. The drow elves took their positions at the edge of the druid’s illusion—watching, waiting. Fraeya turned the sending stone nervously in her hand, her heart a tangled mess of nerves and confusion.

At last, she glanced at Sarith and held up the stone.

“You look better,” the rogue began.

The warrior snorted, a ghost of dark amusement flickering through his usually guarded face. “Considering I was dead this morning, that’s not saying much.”

Fraeya smirked, but it faded quickly.

She hesitated, then—

“Did you… did you hear me?”

Sarith stiffened slightly, fingers twitching, crimson eyes flickering toward her silver ones. He did not answer immediately. Silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Then his thoughts touched hers through the stone, soft, hesitant.

“I did.”

Fraeya exhaled slowly. It was neither rejection nor acceptance. She nodded once and turned her focus back to the darkness. But Sarith surprised her by speaking again.

“I remember dying,” he murmured. “And that’s the strange part. I should not.”

“Did you see anything?” Fraeya asked.

He was quiet again, wrestling with shadows the rogue couldn’t see. Eventually, a single word came through the stone, pained and vulnerable: “Yes.”

Fraeya did not press. Neither spoke again. But the silence held them close.

When Nine and Kazimir took over for the third watch, Fargas joined them. The halfling deliberately seated himself between the ranger and the wizard. “Now listen,” he hissed, handing each a sending stone. “I know it’s been a rough day—hells, it’s been a rough couple tendays—but if I hear even a peep of an argument from either of you, you’ll have worse to deal with than spore servants.”

Nine scowled but gave a curt nod. “Message received, Rumblefoot.”

Kazimir’s lips twitched. “Understood.”

“Good.” Fargas settled himself. “Now, eyes open and mouths shut, all right?”

The three companions sat in silence until Kazimir suddenly spoke to Nine through his stone. “We should have done more.”

The ranger heard but didn’t turn. “We did everything we could.”

“Did we?” the wizard asked. “Another place destroyed... Stool nearly died. Sarith did die. And then Rumpadump— Gods, we don’t even know where he is.”

“We can’t save everyone, Kazimir. We can only do our best.”

“I just fear our best isn’t enough.”

“I can feel your stares, you know? Remember what I told you about arguing?” Fargas hissed at the pair, assuming the worst.

“We’re not arguing,” Nine said aloud.

“We’re… reflecting,” Kazimir agreed.

The halfling paused, voice softening slightly. “Aye. Fair enough.”

. . . To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/170955205

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Seven

Exodus

1485 D.R. / Day 57 Neverlight Grove

The final syllables of the restoration ritual lingered. Sloopidoop’s webbed hands hovered over Sarith’s still form, shimmering with a faint glow that matched the blue light thrumming beneath the ground. The six companions remained in a tight ring around the fallen drow warrior, hands touching his shoulders, arms, and armor, each a thread in the fragile web anchoring him to the material plane. Silence followed. It stretched, thick and unbearable, each second dragging out like an eternity.

Then—

Sarith’s chest heaved upward like a man pulled from drowning. His eyes shot open wide—wild, dilated, frantic—muscles tense as if he might strike or bolt. He flailed instinctively, but something caught his wrist.

“Sarith?!”

“He’s breathing!”

Zelyra let out a choked gasp of relief, half a laugh, half a sob. Beside her, Fraeya exhaled sharply, blinking fast and wiping her cheek. The two women threw an arm around each other in a tight, brief side-hug.

“You absolute bastard!”

Sarith blinked rapidly, his vision sharpening. The grove swam into view—blurry faces and familiar voices. A strange dampness clung to his skin. He shivered, not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. His body ached, his head throbbed, but he was alive. His eyes locked onto Fraeya’s, and the rogue pressed something into his hands before he could fully register what had happened. Cold metal, worn smooth by time. He looked down. It was two small emblems. He knew them.

“You are innocent.”

Sarith swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat as he stared at them. “How—?”

“You escaped that day,” Fraeya continued, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. “Imbros Mizzrym did not.”

His breath hitched. He had assumed— 

No. He hadn’t allowed himself to assume.

Sarith had let the memory of that doomed mission rot in his mind, convinced that he had failed. He lost more than just a fellow guard that day. He lost his station, his dignity, everything. He had lived with the weight of that sin for what felt like a lifetime. And now, Fraeya had undone it with the simple truth laid bare in his hands.

You escaped that day.

He did not.

His lips parted, but before he could voice the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind, Fraeya’s relief turned to fury. “What were you thinking!?” she burst, rounding on Sarith so fast he recoiled on instinct. “Running into the fight like that?! You were already on the brink of—of whatever the Abyss was happening to you, and then you go sliding down the ravine to distract Yestabrod like a damned martyr?!”

Sarith blinked, then let out a tired, long-suffering sigh. He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face as the rogue continued her tirade.

“You could’ve died! You almost did die! Gods, you are so reckless, I—”

“I did die,” the drow warrior corrected dryly.

“Apparently, you need someone to remind you that you are not expendable!”

“I had it under control.”

“You liar!”

Sarith groaned, but there was no real venom behind it.

“I was already infected,” he insisted. “It seemed efficient.”

A vein in Fraeya’s forehead bulged as she pulled her lips back in a snarl. The drow looked like she was two seconds away from sending Sarith straight back to his grave.

Kazimir chuckled lowly before stepping forward, extending a hand to the drow warrior.

“Okay, okay. Let him breathe, Fraeya.”

Sarith eyed the outstretched hand for a long moment before clasping Kazimir’s forearm, allowing the wizard to help pull him to his feet. His limbs still felt strange, like they weren’t entirely his own. He felt different. Not weak. Not broken. Just... different. . . . To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/168784804

[lumendelmari]

Characters of the Grey Warriors: ‘A Light in the Dark’ Part II of a completed 'Out of the Abyss’ campaign story Kazimir Oussnddare - tiefling wizard Fargas Rumblefoot - halfling rogue Fraeya - drow rogue Sarith Kzekarit - drow warrior Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Nine - half elf ranger and  Prince Derendil - quaggoth barbarian/fighter

The Grey Warriors have finally left the duergar occupied city of Gracklstugh and set course for Neverlight Grove, but every which way the group turns, they find further turmoil in the Underdark. The horror and destruction that began in the kuo-toa village of Sloobludop is rapidly spreading far, far beyond it.

Stonespeaker Hgraam’s grim warning remains fixed in their heads:

“The rock itself cries with pain and horror, and a madness creeps from the blackest depths. Pay heed to the signs around you. A cave with two faces. Rock devoured, and the land overgrown. The pebble believes itself flesh. The earth rejects its wards, and the tunnels shake with fury. By these portents, you shall know of evil’s presence and of evil’s face. This is what the stones tell me.”

More than ever, the lands below need a light in the dark. to read click on the following link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/157353130

[lumendelmari]

Characters of the Grey Warriors: 'A Light in the Dark' Part II of a completed 'Out of the Abyss' campaign story Nine - half elf ranger Fargas Rumblefoot - halfling rogue Kazimir Oussnddare - tiefling wizard Prince Derendil - quaggoth barbarian/fighter Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Fraeya - drow rogue and Sarith Kzekarit - drow warrior

The Grey Warriors have finally left the duergar occupied city of Gracklstugh and set course for Neverlight Grove, but every which way the group turns, they find further turmoil in the Underdark. The horror and destruction that began in the kuo-toa village of Sloobludop is rapidly spreading far, far beyond it.

Stonespeaker Hgraam’s grim warning remains fixed in their heads:

“The rock itself cries with pain and horror, and a madness creeps from the blackest depths. Pay heed to the signs around you. A cave with two faces. Rock devoured, and the land overgrown. The pebble believes itself flesh. The earth rejects its wards, and the tunnels shake with fury. By these portents, you shall know of evil’s presence and of evil’s face. This is what the stones tell me.”

More than ever, the lands below need a light in the dark. to read click on the following link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/157353130

[lumendelmari]

Characters from Zelyra Erenaeth: Origins Zelyra Erenaeth - half elf druid Arlathan Addar - moon elf druid Varan Fenhirel - half elf ranger Krom - half giant bard-barian and Hyath - Arlathan's animal companion

What led Zelyra Erenaeth to be captured by drow and imprisoned deep within the Underdark? Well, that is an unrelated tale that begins on the surface. The Archdruids of Neverwinter Wood send two druids-in-training, a half-elven ranger, and a half-giant barbarian to investigate claims of a malevolent nature spirit’s work against a small village on the northeastern edge of the forest. It was supposed to be a training exercise, nothing more. But what the party uncovers is something far, far more sinister. COMPLETE.

Based on the horror one-shot ‘The Cult of the Gol’Goroth’ from Nerzugal's Dungeon Master Toolkit.

To read visit this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46514380/chapters/117124972#main

[lumendelmari]

Zuggtmoy, Demon Queen of Fungi. (07.27.2021) Painted miniature for a completed Out of the Abyss campaign.

[lumendelmari]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/166007863#workskin

Chapter Six

Restoration

1485 D.R. / Day 56 Neverlight Grove

The garden was wailing. It was accompanied by a sound not unlike laughter—a wet, pulsing, hysterical gurgle that echoed from the grove’s dark recesses—and ended with the dead clawing their way free of the rot. Fungal growths bloomed like wounds across the earth. From the soft loam of the graves, half-buried corpses of drow, duergar, and deep gnomes spasmed upright. Their hollow eyes glowed with a sickly sheen, their armor rusted and fused with mold.

At the heart of it all was Yestabrod.

Its form was revolting: a bloated parody of a myconid layered in glistening membranes and lumpy masses of fungal flesh. Its hands were fused with chitinous claws, its legs were lost beneath a mound of slime-slicked stalks, and its torso writhed with embedded faces—some grinning, others locked in eternal screams. Purple spores leaked from its vents like poisoned perfume. Zelyra gagged. It was rot, meat, and sulfur rolled into one terrible scent.

“You are too late,” Yestabrod crooned, its voice slithering into each of their minds. “The Lady’s embrace is inevitable. But do not despair. You, too, shall become beautiful. Join the wedding! Join the joy!”

“Sorry, ugly,” Nine snapped coldly as she readied her bow. “I never liked weddings anyway.”

The ranger found a perch atop a thick, twisted mushroom stalk and fired again. Both shafts streaked through the mist. The first lodged deep into the mottled flesh of one of the myconids flanking Yestabrod. The creature staggered as thick, red-colored distress spores burst from the wound. Her second arrow found the forehead of a drow spore servant lunging towards Kazimir, dropping it instantly. The wizard shot her a rare, grateful smile.

“One down,” the ranger muttered as it fell. “Way too many left to go.”

Below her, Fraeya’s breath caught for only a second before her rapier flashed out with lethal elegance, carving swiftly into the animated remains of Xinaya. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. A sudden, gut-wrenching resolve straightened her shoulders. “Not even you deserved this kind of fate.” A twist. A dagger up under the chin. Fraeya turned her head as the face of the young acolyte—once familiar and gone—slumped backward. The body dropped, and the rogue stepped over it, jaw clenched.

As Fraeya retreated to a safe distance, Fargas darted low to the ground, weaving between rot-slicked roots and shambling corpses. With a leap and a grunt, the halfling planted his dagger in the thigh of another spore servant, what should have been a pulsing vein. But the drow male, whose glazed, hollow eyes seemed to beg for release, merely twisted. It did not fall.

“D’you mind dying before you bleed spores on my boots?” Fargas groaned.

The halfling disengaged and tumbled away before the drow could retaliate with his rusted blade.

Across the cavern, Kazimir lifted his ashwood staff. With a shout, the wizard unleashed a roaring ball of fire that instantly consumed a cluster of shambling spore servants. Their blackened husks crumpled to the ground, shriveled beyond recognition. The intense heat surged onward, colliding with Yestabrod’s swollen form. The flames licked hungrily, burning away patches of mold and rot. For the first time, the disfigured myconid released a cry of agony.

Working in tandem with Kazimir, Zelyra took a deep breath and raised her hand. A column of pale, silvery-purple light descended from the cavern’s ceiling, bathing Yestabrod in the radiant glow of the druid’s moonfire. The abomination shrieked, writhing violently as the smell of scorched fungus grew more prominent.

This continued for some time, the Grey Warriors felling several raised corpses while taking many hits in return. The companions appeared to have the upper hand.

Then Yestabrod turned the tables.

It let out a guttural chortle, its body convulsing before suddenly snapping forward, grasping a nearby spore servant with its writhing tendrils.

And then it ate him.

With a sickening squelch, the aberration consumed it. The duergar corpse dissolved into Yestabrod’s pulsating mass, its lifeforce spent, and the wounds that had begun to blacken and rot from Zelyra’s moonfire and Kazimir’s fireball knitted themselves shut before their eyes. Any damage they had dealt to it—Fraeya’s rapier, Fargas’s daggers, Nine’s arrows, even Derendil’s attacks with Dawnbringer—was gone. Absorbed.

“Hey! That’s cheating,” Fargas cried.

“Now, do you see?” Yestabrod said. “There is no end to this cycle. You may fight and burn me, but my Lady provides.”

Kazimir cursed under his breath. “That is a problem.”

“What happens when it runs out of corpses to eat?” Derendil challenged.

“In case you didn’t notice,” the wizard snapped, “there are a lot of corpses here!”

“Then I suggest you get rid of them,” the prince replied evenly.

“I’m hearing: cast more fireballs,” Kazimir muttered. “And you know what would be handy right now? A necklace of fireballs. Could’ve leveled this whole plateau, but nooooo! Fraeya had to waste it on a red dragon.” Read More: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/166007863#workskin

[lumendelmari]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/163892473#workskin

Chapter Five

The Eastern Plateau

1485 D.R. / Day 55 Neverlight Grove

The eerie glow of Neverlight Grove pulsed faintly in the cavern’s unnatural twilight, casting shifting shadows as Zelyra, Nine, and Fraeya returned to camp. The stillness felt heavier now, thick with the weight of unresolved questions and Sarith’s disappearance. Whatever had taken hold of him—whether fear, madness, or something worse—it was leading them somewhere. So far, all signs pointed to the eastern plateau.

The three women quickened their pace, moving through the quiet gloom until camp came into view. Kazimir lay with his back against his pack, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. Fargas was sprawled out nearby, snoring softly, his small form barely visible beneath his blankets. Prince Derendil was curled to one side, his expression softened by sleep.

Nine didn’t waste time. The ranger strode forward and nudged Fargas in the ribs with the toe of her boot. “Wake up,” she said.

Fargas groaned dramatically, rolling onto his back with a lazy stretch. “Why? I was having a lovely dream about a feast in Neverwinter,” he grumbled. “Mead, roast pheasant, a very enthusiastic barmaid—”

Nine kicked him again. “Not interested, pal.”

Kazimir sat up and rubbed his face, stirred by their voices. “I assume this is not a social call?” His silver eyes flicked between the three women. “What happened?”

“Sarith came back,” Fraeya answered.

That got the tiefling’s full attention. “And? Where is he now?”

“Gone again,” Zelyra said. “Vanished before we could do anything.”

Kazimir sighed. “Wonderful. I assume he didn’t leave behind any helpful clues?”

Nine snorted. “Unless you count cryptic mumblings and paranoia? No.”

Fargas blinked up at the ranger with tired hazel eyes. He swiftly lowered his Goggles of Night over them so that he could see properly. “You ever consider letting me sleep through one crisis? Just one?” he asked.

“Not an option,” the ranger replied, nudging Prince Derendil next.

The massive quaggoth stirred, his green eyes flickering open as he instinctively reached for Dawnbringer at his side. “Do we fight?” he asked, his deep voice still thick with sleep.

“Not yet,” Zelyra said. “But we do need a plan.”

Kazimir, Fargas, and Derendil quickly shook away their sleep. As the six companions gathered around the faintly glowing embers of their fire, Fraeya explained what had happened—how Sarith had returned in a fit of panic, how he’d spoken about voices and joy, and how he had fled the moment the rogue mentioned telling Zelyra. 

Kazimir rubbed his temples. “You’re sure he wasn’t just having a waking nightmare? Maybe he ate a poisoned mushroom.”

Fraeya hesitated. “No. I mean—no to the mushroom, possibly yes to the nightmare—” she exhaled sharply, irritated with her inability to collect herself. “He kept talking about Her joy. Something in his head. Not wanting to hurt us. It wasn’t just fear, Kazimir. He was struggling against something.”

Prince Derendil’s fur bristled. “Then he is in danger.”

“Or we are,” Fargas muttered.

“But we have no idea what he’s planning?” Kazimir said. “Or what he’s running from?”

“Basically,” Nine said.

Prince Derendil let out a low growl. “We cannot let him wander alone. He is our ally.”

“Is he?” the ranger scoffed.

Zelyra raised a hand before the disagreement could escalate. “That’s not the point. Whatever’s happening to him must tie into everything else. The spores, Phylo’s ‘Great Seeder,’ and that ‘Celebration’ they keep whispering about. We need to figure out what’s really going on in the Grove before it’s too late.”

“All paths seem to lead to the eastern plateau,” Kazimir mused. Read More: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/163892473#workskin

[lumendelmari]

Chapter Four

Neverlight Grove

1485 D.R. / Day 55 The Northdark

The air was thick with a damp, earthy musk as the companions stepped into Neverlight Grove, a sprawling cavern illuminated by bioluminescent fungi that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Zelyra squinted against the strange light, her druidic senses picking up an unsettling harmony in the way the spores floated in the air. They weren’t malevolent, but they were alive in a way that made her instinctively tighten her grip on Eldeth’s shield.

But Stool wiggled excitedly, releasing a puff of spores to speak. “Welcome to Neverlight Grove! Should we go see the sovereigns? They will be happy to meet you!”

Kazimir’s silver eyes narrowing as he surveyed the grove. “Are they as 'happy' as the rest of those... creatures?” He gestured with a sweeping motion to figures shambling around the edges of their path.

At first glance, the creatures appeared to be deep gnomes, drow, quaggoths, and even a few hulking orcs, but the truth was far more unsettling. Their movements were stiff, almost mechanical, and their bodies were covered in fungi—mushrooms sprouting from their limbs, toadstools clustered around their necks, mold spreading across their faces. Their lifeless eyes were sunken and empty. They appeared to be a form of undead.

“It’s okay. The spore servants are helpers,” Stool said innocently. “They do chores, like carrying things or keeping the grove clean. They don’t mind.” But the myconid sprout’s cheery answer didn’t seem to comfort anyone, least of all Derendil, whose claws flexed uneasily.

The prince’s green eyes locked onto the quaggoth spore servants. “No,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “No, these are not helpers. They are hollow shells.”

“Derendil, are you alright?” Zelyra asked.

“I am not,” he answered. “These abominations are a perversion of life—twisted and wrong.”

The druid sighed uncomfortably. “I have to agree with you.”

Kazimir stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s hope the sovereigns can explain this,” he said dryly. “I’d rather not speculate on the... process that makes them this way.”

Stool released another cloud of spores, drawing everyone’s attention back to them. “This way! I’ll take you to the mound.”

Sarith, keeping his distance as usual, motioned silently for the group to move. The drow warrior’s face betrayed no emotion, but his hand lingered near the hilt of his shortsword. Fraeya caught the movement, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Stay sharp,” she muttered as she followed Stool down the glowing path. --

Read More: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/161382901#workskin