Quest Those Who Walk Below

Szesh's flame had harmed, or at least stunned, the beast long enough to allow a killing blow. As his eyes adjusted back to their unnatural dark-sight, he accepted the drow queen's curt acknowledgement, though felt a small pang at admonishment about noise. As if they had been given a choice.

Szesh initially wrinkled his nose at the idea of eating the grotesque creature. He was far from picky, but everything down here was so unnatural to him. Nevertheless, as he saw he others carve their meals from it, and as he breathed in more and more of the charred aroma of the creature, the idea seemed less repulsive.

He tore a hunk of disturbingly soft meat from an area where the exoskeleton had been carved away, tearing a piece off with large teeth. It fell apart in his mouth too easily... but was not completely unpleasant.

Szesh initially tensed at their newcomer's arrival, tightening his grip on his axe. Once it was clear that the queen had accepted their presence, though, he relaxed a touch. He did not liking being so in the dark, both literally and culturally, but he reminded himself that despite their previous missions, he was here as a hired blade. He wasn't here to think.

The warmth of the springs was welcome. Within minutes, a fine dew had muted the shine of his scales. Though he shuddered to think what would live underwater down here, he did wish to remove the worm's blood and viscera from his body.

The petite drow nodded at Zathria's comment, continuing through the narrow, not terribly tall passage, seemingly carved by the hot spring outflow. It opened into hollows of various size and shape connected by relatively constricted apertures, sometimes requiring stepping up and through. Amid one of the hollows, ‘Vernutar’ abruptly sidled away from the main path, which here veered upward toward the direction of the main gates. There was a faint splishing of her boots as she began following the current outflow streambed itself instead, ducking slightly below an outcropping, her hand reappearing and beckoning them to follow.

This new streambed path dipped first sharply downward and somewhat away, before steadily curving back cityward. The water was still quite hot here; the stuffy, humid path smelled sweet with dissolved minerals and also faintly sulfurous. After an initial pinched section barely large enough for the taller folks to squeeze through, the erosion cavern accompanying the stream mercifully broadened for a while. Once they had passed far out of earshot of the tunnel they had forked off from, she turned, speaking crisply in a low, barely audible voice as she started unpacking her satchel, pulling on and pinning an oversized ragged hooded cloak, and taking out a couple slender torches and an oilskin.

"Down a gentle rapid just ahead, this stream runs into a cavernous cavefisher nest directly below the heart of the city - the 'sewer' your mercenary astutely predicted, though the pests keep the cavern surprisingly tidy, and the fouled waters run largely downstream and away from our destination. The middens of the upper city all empty here, and I have had occasion enough to learn which chutes are which in the pursuit of my occupation. The pests are well fed and lazy from their advantaged situation; I find that the mere threat of fire suffices to keep them at bay. Have you perchance brought torches for your retainers? I have brought two, and a flask of cheap bluecap oil to mask the torch-smoke to smell like lower city cook-fires. All must stay close together in the nest; the pests may grow bold enough to attack if anyone wanders alone without a torch. When we reach the paths upward, I suggest the larger folk stay below with the torches while the slenderer ascend to our various errands. O Valsharess: I must dare to ask your destination within Zar'Ahal, that I may guide you up the correct chute."

Zathria paused at the hot springs with the rest of the group, scrubbing free some of the gore from her own skin before taking up position to keep watch as they prepared to progress. Not only on the outside but on the rest of the group as well.

They were a strange amalgamation of different backgrounds and paths that led here, and for most, it was their first time into Zar'ahal most likely. They might be a little obvious if spotted, but then, the point wasn't to be leaving tons of witnesses behind.

"Cave fishers," Zathria repeated, knowing the creatures and knowing how dangerous they could be. It may not have been the deadliest thing down here, but a misstep or bad decision could quickly lead to a violent end ripped apart by pincers.

"Why have you spent so much time in these sewer paths?" she asked. It all seemed a bit convenient, her appearing, and that set Zathria on edge.

‘Vernutar’ inclined her head politely to Zathria.

“A fair enquiry, O A’ni. My occupation sometimes required the acquisition of books from the hands of proud ownership. The middens provided a discreet way to infiltrate a household’s library without having to defeat all that house’s defenses. I prided myself on leaving no trail, of bodies or otherwise. Out the middens, a quick cleaning cantrip, with only a corridor or two and maybe a door to navigate.”

A dim, silvery illusion of just such an escapade formed as she described it, a small cloaked figure skulking a corridor, kneeling at a door before it opened mere seconds later, a few seconds at a bookshelf, then back down the corridor, the door relocking itself behind her. She waved the scene away with a lizardskin-gloved hand just at the point the silvery figure levitated back down the middens.

J'rell's brow knitted at the mention of Vel'duith's occupation.

"You were a thief, then." His voice didn't hold any accusation, merely the need for honest clarity, still frowning thoughtfully. He saw little shame in stealing from the tyrants of Zar'Ahal.

He watched the illusion flicker past with cold wariness. When it dissipated, he declared:

"Let us enter."

With Vel'duith leading the way, the party traversed through the nearest chute, the dark city gates turning a distant memory. Working into the intestines of Zar'Ahal, J'rell was struck by the maze-like quality of their sewers. It felt almost designed to confuse the wayward, and instead of water running in the middle of the chute, it ran on either side, trapping its traversers on a lonely bridge of stone, with off-shoots of bridges and connections made from spidersilk above the fouled waters.

The rotten egg stench of sulphur overpowered his nose, rising with the miasma of the curiously strong currents in the waters. They travelled at a steep incline, before it flattened. Then, it slowly declined. The waters stopped dripping from the ceiling and other chutes, at first, before slipping down the walls and through cracks in the stone.

This part of the sewers was older. Less well-maintained. Sticky web-like filaments slathered the floors. Cracks tore at the crumbling walls. One had to hold the wall for support and walk carefully sideways, as the descent turned so sharp to nearly make one slide down. Into the abyss of a more cavernous tunnel, where the sound of distant dripping attested to other sources plummeting into this cave.

J'rell's foot slipped and he nearly tumbled down, hand whipping out to catch himself. He caught a sticky substance, pulling out like grey hairs of a crone from the wall. It creaked and stretched -- but it held. He had to work to release his hand, cutting it free with the tip of a javelin, and even as he ran his fingers over his palm, a layer of stickiness remained. He grimaced as the grimy kiss of the sewer walls refused to leave his hand.

Slowly, carefully, they worked their way down, a silent orchestra of climbers tip-toing into the nest.

When their feet met a flat surface, a grander, cavernous tunnel extended before them. Several holes in the ceiling, sloping chutes like the one they had emerged from and weeping dripstones yielded water to its snaking river of filth. And like an added layer to its discarded bones and middens, where the stagnant waters didn't flow, white strands stretched over these heaps like stripped and primitively re-woven drow hair, glinting silver and white.

But these filaments did not belong to drow, as a clacking shape in the distance would make disturbingly clear. Something looking like a horrid crossbreed between a lobster, a scorpion and a spider chittered, moving across one field of white filaments, tiny black eyes running over the bulbous sacks tucked below, eggs dressed in flimsy duvets.

They had arrived at the nest. Below the twisted heart of Zar'Ahal.

Szesh nodded at Vyx'aria's assurance, though he still felt a squirming repulsion from the waters. Nevertheless, the warm waters were soothing as he washed the gore and stench from his scales. One benefit of wearing little to no clothing was that he could wash quite easily. The sturdy loincloth hadn't sustained too much damage and dried quickly enough.

Once he dried, and the cool of the caverns returned, he realized how terribly sore he was. That feeling would only get worse, but hopefully their journey would be over before it fully manifested.

Szesh grumbled as he once again bent his knees, tucked his long neck, scrunched up his wings and moved cramped and awkwardly though the narrow passages. The stink of the sewers did not bother him so much as his growing claustrophobia. The air here was thick and stale, and he was too aware that above them was not merely a few feet of dirt and cobblestone, but fathoms of bedrock and crushing soil. Draconians were meant for the sky, not the catacombs.

He comforted himself by imagining what riches the drow had secreted away down here. It did not make the fibrous strands any more pleasant as they dragged against him. Try as he might, he could not avoid his claws tugging at the webs. His wings seemed to stick to the filaments from every angle, and he repeatedly brushed the gossamer material from his face as it clung to his horns.

Szesh heard the creature, and cast his dark eyes upwards. He wished for just a moment that Vyx'aria had not granted him the ability to see such a vile creature. He bared his teeth, and lifted the handle of his axe. Since the last fight it had been but a simple wooden pole, but with a quick flick, the wide blade and ornamental dragon head cracked into existence, frozen from the very air's moisture.

This chamber was bigger, and his target was above them, for now. A good place for jets or fire or cold.

Dante’s scowl deepened as the short Drow spoke.

“Outflow sounds like a bad translation for sewer if you ask me…” he muttered, but he didn’t argue when the company started moving. They backtracked and as they did, Dante snagged another morsel off the worm before they made their way into the darker… and danker depths of the Underrealm.

Heat radiated up from the flowing waters and it carried with it a faint stench of sulfur. The tunnel to it’s credit was nicer than any sewer he’d been forced into in his “storied” career, but even the nicest sewer is still a fucking sewer, mate. Then people started cleaning themselves in the water.

Absolutely not.

Dante didn’t say anything but his frown would have adopted a squeamish quirk to his lips saying everything without uttering a word. They continued forward, somehow he ended up right behind The Commander, which honestly was preferred over the Draconian and the “human,” as the path narrowed.

Dante slipped a dagger from it’s sheath and held it in a reverse grip as they moved through the tight serpentine winding tunnel. He was just about to question the little drow’s navigational skills when he heard them speak up.

After a couple of incredibly suspect moments the rag tag band of soon to be besties spilled out into an open cavern. Their guide started arming themselves. Dante looked around, his eyes flicking from one member to the next seeing if he needed to do the same. He reached for his cloak, remembered it had been burned then cut away, ran his raised hand through his hair and tried to play it off like he’d intended to scratch his head that whole time.

That’s when Vernutar mentioned they’d be moving into the sewers. Dante was starting to hate the Underrealm. How in the hell had they just followed a gross smelling hot river for what felt like an eternity, and were just now arriving at the SEWERS? God’s be damned he should have asked for more money. He made a mental note to add in a sewer charge for his future endeavors. He’d be a draconian midwife before he went into another shit filled tunnel for free.

“Eye on the prize…” he muttered to himself as he tugged at his boots. The last thing he needed was to step into a steaming plie and lose his footwear. The glint of silver light caught his eye and he saw the parlor trick their guide pulled. He needed to learn some magic, he bet it was damn useful in just about every circumstance.

J’rell spoke and Dante snickered.

Guy calls it like he sees it, I’ll give him that, The Sellsword mused.

Sticky webs clung to the damp walls. Dante was on edge. Why did there have to be spiders underground? Wasn’t it bad enough that there were spiders above ground? The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and chills skittered down his spine. He gripped the butt of his crossbow, unclipping it from his belt and readying a bolt. He wasn’t messing around with spiders. As they stepped into a cavern that smelled of death and regret Dante said a silent prayer to several gods he didn’t believe in.

Dante heard a rustling from above, he swallowed, seeing the others register the sound and then turn their gaze upward. He looked up and— OH MY SWEET HEAVENS ON HIGH THAT IS THE BIGGEST— Dante’s mouth was bone dry. He didn’t wait for the order, he lifted his crossbow and fired. The bolt flew through the air and struck true. The spider recoiled as the bolt buried itself into one of the beady black eyes. It let out a blood curdling scream that might have made Dante wet himself, he wasn’t sure, he was too scared to check and then lunged for the party.

Of course when momma calls, babies wake up and answer. All around them the rustling clatter of smaller spiders bursting from cocoons would be heard. As the mother landed with a resounding slam that shook the cavern her children moved with one mind, a single desire, to feed.

J'rell Vyx'aria Zathria At'Arel Szesh Vel'duith Voiryn

An assassin Zathria thought to herself, nodding in understanding. Because more than thief, that was what Zathria had heard. Or at least, that was what she would assume. It was certainly an explanation, but not one that filled Zathria with an overwhelming confidence that this woman wasn't potentially out for their heads. If she betrayed them, Zathria would make sure that she died even if it killed Zathria. Such was her place.

"I see. A discrete operative," she said as she watched the illusion and how quickly it faded away into nothingness again.

They entered next into the sewer flows itself. Zathria remembered hearing that some of the Drow made trips down here to befriend, recruit, and train - depending on how you looked at it - the creatures that made their nest down here, breeding them for war. Zathria had never been one for beast handling, but she had seen the carnage that one of these creatures could cause with their hardened, armor-like carapace and massive claws. She'd seen a soldier ripped cleanly in half by those pincers before. They were not to be trifled with.

The slip sent J'rell into one of the webs and Zathria snapped to attention immediately, sword out as she started cutting away at the filaments as well, knowing that if he wasn't free, his chances of living were slim and if he died, their chances down here were much worse.

"Fire!" she hissed back to the others. She didn't know if dragon-man could do his fire quietly, but she sent her own free hand up in a torrent of flame to push one of the creatures back as it let out a shrill screech of pain and fear.

For her own part, Vel’duith had looked aghast to discover the mercenary had panicked and shot a spider. She whirled, red eyes wide and blazing with vexation from under her hat brim as her soft voice hissed back.

“Wae’la ja’luk! We were uninvited, unexpected guests tramping just past her very parlor - of course she sent someone to answer the door. Remember that you walk among drow, and we walk freely among spider-folk. Control your fear, you are no child! Know that should you panic like that again among the mindless cavefishers ahead, why, hundreds would immediately sling their hunting strands from every shadow, no matter Valsharess’s power and authority. It would not be a pleasant end! Those lumbering crustacean pests consider only size and numbers when considering what prey to attack, and they fear fire above all. They may huddle the walls and ceiling together by the dozens, but they do not pack-hunt. If I have survived dozens of excursions within their lair with merely a torch-fire to dissuade them, at my diminutive size, understand that they would not attack you bearing the same simple ward... unless you first provoke them.”

She jutted her torch toward Dante for him to take, summoning a flame into the palm of her other hand with a whispered cantrip invocation before turning back to answer Vyx’aria.

“I see, O Valsharess. I pray you have some information as to which house dares to hold or harbor this mage from you? I do not mean to question you, Valsharess, but my own, surely childish, fear is that your mission shall not go long unmarked if all these folk are brought up the middens - assuming the wide-wingèd dragon-kin and broad-shouldered warrior can even fit through the narrow chutes, and that skittish sell-sword manages not to swoon at some roach-nest halfway up the rope - and that we might swiftly find ourselves overwhelmed and trapped on account of some further lapse of discretion.”

J'rell cut himself loose from webs embracing his legs. Said broad shoulders rolled back, eyes never leaving the now placid cave fisher.

"Perhaps we may benefit from making camp. I feel my powers drained from our journey here. Stealth requires its own strength. We have made it thus far -- it may be our last chance to be away from drow eyes."

Szesh Vyx'aria Zathria At'Arel Vel'duith Voiryn Dante Storta

Fear has a funny way of distorting everything. Dante was still squeezing the trigger on his crossbow over and over. His breathing was shallow and rapid, his eyes were so wide, that if they widened further they’d most likely fall out of his head.

“STOP!”

His head whipped toward The Queen, “Eh?”

Surely that couldn’t be right. Stop? Had she lost her— Oh, apparently she could talk to the big spider? Huh, so some stereotypes were true. His gaze flicked to Zathria, she looked like she was ready to slice and dice the many leggers too. Huh, was it a special thing? Like was that a boon of royalty? Meh, if that’s what it took to be a royal, just stick Dante on a spit and roast him, because that would be his worst nightmare. A shiver of unwanted memory fluttered across his mind and he squashed it under his heel… since, ya know, he couldn’t squash the spiders.

Dante couldn’t figure out what happened between The Queen and The Momma spider. He knew— no he could feel— something had transpired between them because of the sword Vyx’aria carried, but aside from the apparent, he had no idea what had been shared. So when her highness said they could proceed, Dante wasn’t entirely convinced. He passed by, but refused to leave a spider at his back, which culminated in his walking backward until he couldn’t see them anymore.

They stopped in a cavern and the “Human” wanted to rest… Dante wasn’t really sure why they needed a break from what he’d seen; the only thing J’rell had done was get eaten. Was being eaten really that tiring? Before Dante could object to the idea, Vyx’aria decided to reveal more about their quest.

“Deeper? Nah, we should check the last known location first, why wander around the dark waiting for Scales over there to hear a pretty little song if we can go right to where it was last seen? Then if it’s not there, well, deeper we go.”

Zathria At'Arel Vyx'aria Vel'duith Voiryn J'rell Szesh

'Vernutar' accepted the queen's admonishment with a bob of her head and a flourish of empty palms.

A snowy eyebrow arched in mild surprise at hearing the mercenary advocate for her middens route. Tipping her hat toward the sell-sword, she offered a slight apology:

"You are bolder than you first let on, and shrewder too; I perhaps should have suspected better of you, considering your illustrious company."

Turning back toward Vyx'aria, she offered:

"Valsharess: my own errand lies within the chamber-rooms of House Suulet'jabar. As you know, they maintain the most formidable mage-tower in the city. I have no plan ready to breach said mage-tower, however, as my own target would have no reason to reside therein. A missing wizard, or clues to find a dragon egg, however? Few would be likelier to know more than old Nimruil himself. He only rarely left his tower before, but last month's rumors had it that he had been seen outside Zar'Ahal's gates on multiple occasions. I might wager that your usurper's wars against the Duergar and Svirfnebli have seen his suppliers too often return empty-handed."

Zathria watched as the conflict was ended by Vyx'aria wielding the weapon pulsing with magic. The same weapon that she had told Zathria of winning over a horde of other, lesser surfacers.

As they proceeded onward, Zathria felt herself stiffen at the mention of the egg. Perhaps mostly born out of distrust for this trickster. Who might she sell that information to? Who might she tell to thwart them? For the moment they were "allies" but that could turn on a moment's notice.

They peeled off from the sewer route and into a side room that - while it didn't smell much better - was cleaner than the main route. Seemed to be some sort of maintenance access route that led up toward perhaps the streets of Zar'ahal or perhaps somewhere else.

She picked a seat slightly closer than the corner she would have normally chosen, making at least some attempt to mingle with the group rather than sit in her corner to brood.

"I think we should go down deeper into the Underrealm. Outsiders wandering the streets of Zar'ahal will draw attention and I am more wary of our people turned against us than I am of the monsters that lay below," she said. The Drow were the most dangerous thing in the Underrealms. At least that was her view, and she would rather face a dragon again than the entire might of Zar'ahal turned against them.

Szesh's entire body had tensed, ready for battle, and was only moments away from slashing a sub-zero arc into the cavern's ceiling when the Queen called for them to stop. His dark eyes darted back and forth between Vyx'aria, the spider, and the rest of the party. As she was the leader of this little expedition, he held fast, but if that massive arachnid so much as twitched in his direction he would dice it. The worm had caused him enough trouble, he wasn't keen on taking more blows.

Szesh recognized the blade Vyx used as one granted to her by Grangomelle, the same eccentric wizard who had bequeathed him the frigid axe he held. He did not know what it did, but it apparently did not wound the spider... at least not seriously. They were, beyond all logic, allowed to pass.

None of that mattered, however, the instant Vyx'aria revealed their purpose.

A dragon egg.

The icy blade and hilt of Szesh's weapon vanished with a quiet tinkling of snow upon the cavern floor as he replaced the bare handle at his hip. He felt a great many things at this new knowledge, and more things still when told there was a mysterious song that only he would be able to hear.

He moved towards Vyx'aria slowly, and with purpose. In this cavern he was able to stand normally, and while his steps were soft, his stygian gaze bore into the Queen. "Why do you seek a child of gods?" It was the most words he had spoken since beginning this quest. His accent was heavy, hissing and reptilian, but his meaning was clear enough. "Dragonsong is... rare," an understatement. It was mythical, if not completely fabricated. Yet something in him remembered a song.

That was impossible, of course. He had never heard a dragon's song. If he had, it would have been the most crowning achievement of his life. Draconians revered dragons as mirrors of the gods, if not deities themselves. How, then, did his body seem to recall a haunting melody that he could not even hear?

Dante's words were sufficient to bring Szesh out of this reverie. As painful as it was to admit, he had a point. There was no way to know if Szesh would hear this alleged dragonsong. On the other hand...

"Difficult to hide in the city," he admitted.

Storta’s sour expression soured further as the little Drow paid him a back handed compliment. Through sheer willpower and grit alone, he bit his tongue. She’d sort of sided with him and that made it two… bloody hell The Commander was getting ready to speak.

Dante scowled at Zathria, “You would say go deeper…”

He was working on another quip when the Draconian stepped forward. Dante wasn’t familiar enough with ole Scales to know what he intended to do, but he didn’t like the purpose behind his gait. Storta found his hands resting on the hilt of his broadsword, his eyes locked on the lizard. If his intent was to harm or attack the Queen, Dante would move to intervene, he’d be damned if he was going to lose his employer before he’d managed to get his hands on any treasure.

Scales seemed to consider Vyx’aria. The question he’d posed hung between them. Then he sided with the go deeper squad, “Oh c’mon, hard to hide? Really?”

Dante pouted. He could feel it, they were going deeper…

He looked to J’rell, he wondered if the “human” would have an opinion, but doubted it, so Dante decided to take a seat and set to tending his weapons. This rest wouldn’t last long and if he was going into the bowels of the world, he’d do so with a honed blade.

Vyx'aria Zathria At'Arel J'rell Szesh Vel'duith Voiryn