These are the collected records of Tirthonima, a scrive privy to the inner working of the Elven Council (also known as the Forgotten, or White, council) detailing the history of the Drow, the Underdark and how the Elves temporarily defeated the Guardian during the second age.

Part 1: The Settlement of the Underdark
Tirthonima
Taming The Underdark
The blighting of the Fallen Elves
The Great Prayer
The Aspects of Lolthiriel revealed
The birth of the Drow
The Darkening of the Elves
The Rift in the Council
Encrypting the Diaries
Part 2: The Guardian Approaches
The First Assault
Facing the Challenge
The First Battle
The First White Pillar
Daemonfey allies
Part 3: The War against The Guardian
The Answers begin
The Fall of City of Souls
The Attacks on the Ancestors and Archons at Do’Bluth
The Slaying of the Ancestors
The Ancestors Intervene
The Siege of Telantiwar
Banlaethor Aryvandaar steps forward
Summoning the Guardian
The Great Sacrifice of the Ancestors
The Ritual to imprison the foe
Ka'ruil Na-sar Aryvandaar
The Cleansing Ritual
Treachery to Secure the future

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 1: The Settlement of the Underdark

Tirthonima

Dear Reader,

This is my diary, a journal of events taking place around me, in the Council and the world at large.

It is also, in all likelihood, my death sentence. If it is found by those currently running the asylum, then it will be enough to ensure that I and my family are arrested, removed and put to death, without trial or appeal. Yet, even with that risk, I must write down these events to record the level of madness that has struck at our empire, and to preserve the knowledge that is even now being destroyed in a futile attempt to hide a black menace that is consuming our very way of life.

Melodramatic? Oh yes. Also, undeniably true, alas. My diaries to date will of course have been of interest to many of the noble houses of the Empire - containing as they do an insight into the deliberations of the Council, and to a certain extent, the minds of the thirteen council members themselves. But never before have they contained information that I would deem vital to our Empire and our people, to our Ancestors and our society at large.

I suppose I should introduce myself at this point - I am Tirthonima, scribe, advisor and concubine to Lord Lualyrr, the head of House, and Clan, Kerithrion. For several hundred years now I have dedicated my life and service to my lord, seeking to advance the fortunes and position of our House, and of our glorious empire. Our relationship has grown ever closer, and I count myself lucky to be so honoured as to spend time with my Lord, and to know that I am cared for, respected and listened to. This rare gift places me in a position of great trust and responsibility, and this has weighed heavily upon me - my writings here reveal information that could cause my Lord great harm. I have taken oaths to my master and House, oaths sworn in blood and upon the altar to Lolth. Oaths that define my being, my thoughts - and oaths to an ancestor with scant patience for traitors. Yet, balanced against that are the oaths to my people and our way of life. Of the justification that my oaths to my House are not just to those alive now - but to those to come, our descendants and heirs. For days I have wrestled with these thoughts. Am I justifying a course of action with a weak excuse? Am I holding back from taking this last step through fear and personal threat? Will it actually make any difference?

Today though, I take that step, and commit to a course of action. Today I begin to tell the tale of he who styles himself as the "Guardian", who has set himself against us all, and will brook no resistance or dissension. He, who seeks to control or utterly destroy the Drow Empire, his first step it appears to the utter destruction of our entire world.

I have no idea what will happen in our future… of where or when this document will be found. So, in the absence of knowing what situation will present itself, I record this information to inform you of where we have been - of the life and activities that we find ourselves currently engaged upon, to give you some context to what you read. If you are already aware of such things, then I beg your forgiveness for stating the obvious.

Taming The Underdark

Our empire currently spans a huge area - perhaps nearly one third of all the Underdark yet explored. The Underdark stretches from under the northern wastes, far to the north of us now, where the bitter cold of the ice kingdom penetrates far underground, bringing a chill and cold touch to the people that live there, to the far east, deep under the forests and mountains of the Teutonic tribes, a land of dark savagery, west to the endless ocean, far from the shores of the mystical lands of the Fey, and south, past deep water and deeper mountains, far under the burning lands and into the very fires itself where the rock grows so warm it flows and oozes. Many other inhabitants live down here with us, but none are so powerful as to challenge us. Our armies maintain the peace and security within our lands, and act as powerful deterrent to those outside - the lizards, the oozes, the worms and a thousand other fel creatures.

The Underdark itself is a maze - a warren of caverns, caves, passages and gorges, twisting below the surface of the world for thousands of miles. Located far below the surface, our ceilings are the very roots of the mountains, deep rock of great strength and stability. There is a layer of caves far above us, and just below the surface, referred to by many as the "neardark". These caves have scant sunlight, but are much closer to the surface than we dare go - there are too many open ways, too many passages and tunnels, and too little material to build and defend our great cities with.

A myriad of difficult and dangerous paths lead from the neardark, down, down, twisting ever deeper into the stygian depths. Eventually, you will happen upon our lands - though for those seeking to harm us, our patrols will deal with them swiftly and without mercy.

Caverns in the Underdark vary enormously of course - but the great caves, where we have built our cities are truly sights to impress, the darkness stretching on for miles, swallowing up all light, and twisting and distorting sound in a way you will never find elsewhere. Here we carve our cities, some from the very walls themselves. Our mighty quarries bring forth stone to build walls and ramparts for defence, homes and temples for our people, and arenas and markets for our enjoyment. There are few great caves, and thus few cities - but there are smaller caves beyond counting. Towns and outposts are scattered throughout the Underdark, some with easy access to a city, some without. Some have built up near a transport circle, providing respite to travellers or heralds, while others are built near mines or farms, gathering the resources our people need. Mines of course provide stone and metal, the ore needed for our forges to transform into the hardest steel and the keenest blades, for the rarer veins of silver and mithril to be worked into wondrous items of power and arcane lore. Gems of different kind, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires - wrought into jewellery of unsurpassed beauty and craft for our matriarchs, or traded with the civilizations far above us. Our farms harvest the mushrooms, fungi and other plants that thrive and grow with great zealousness in the dark and damp conditions found in much of the Underdark, producing palatable foods for the masses, while some grow their crops to feed to animals and livestock, which in turn are slaughtered to provide fine victuals for our nobles and highborn. Still others grow more crops, from which seeds and stem, root and leaf provide valuable materials for cloth, rope, dyes and a thousand other uses. Apothecaries search the caves for rare delights, producing powerful draughts of both aid and harm, even those with the skill of wood turning and carving can find raw materials from the mightiest of growths.

The Underdark is a harsh place, that breeds harsh people - but it is not barren. With skill and care, and no little effort, the riches of the Underdark have made us a prosperous people, able to grow and wield great power. In times past, when we fled from our… cousins… on the surface, we fought together and we worked together, lest we all fall together. The early years of our occupation were tough, and as a people we nearly fell. Our way of life was ill suited to the depths we now call home, and we had much to learn. Our first steps were faltering - we had much pride, and also much hurt. A vast amount of effort was poured into creating Telantiwar, our capital city, a place of respite from the war above, of mourning for what we had lost, an icon of revitalisation and defiance for our people. By the time that House Karrash-Morr petitioned for the right to claim part of the first city, four years of construction had seen our first city rise from the stones in a series of fortified houses, barracks, plazas, marketplaces and temples. Home to many thousands of us, it took two fingers to walk from end to end. Indeed, so vast it was, that come the time of festivals, when looked at from afar, it seemed as if the cavern itself was transformed into a precious gem, with tens of thousands of sparks of light, gleaming in the darkness, shining from windows high and low, illuminating the streets and walls, the altars and the pits, nearly filling the cavern with the light of our power.

A decade after we had descended into the depths, our people had spread out, exploring and mapping the Underdark, carving out new homes in far away caverns and caves. Houses began to claim ownership of areas, fortifying and patrolling their territory, taming the wild beasts, driving off foes, and establishing the land for our people. Our dominion grew and grew, and while there was still room and resources aplenty, our people flourished and spread wide. With chance to pause and recover our strength, our Paladins grew in number and power, and began to strike against those living on the surface, seeking to relieve them of their chattels and lore. Our loremasters strove mightily to build our power anew, creating the Codex, the Magi Staves, the Crowns of Control and many other relics that have been passed down through the generations.

The blighting of the Fallen Elves

A quarter century passed in a frenzy of settlement and growth. Houses allied together to claim vast tracts of land and many caverns, Houses fought for rights to trade routes and access to the great circles, for mines and strategic locations. The nobles began to meet and consult one another, seeking to limit the conflict between our peoples, the deaths of so many still a stain upon their minds. It is with the blood of thousands still fresh to taste, at least for people as long lived as we are, that they established the council. The leaders of the great Houses and Clans would meet at our first city, to discuss matters of power and position, to control our people and direct our efforts. Of course, with power comes plotting, and soon alliances and efforts formed groups of Houses with similar outlooks, dividing the council into many smaller factions. None the less, the council provided order and stability.

It was at this time of growth and conquest that our people began to sicken and die in ever increasing numbers. Young and old, fit and well, it seemed to make no difference… all began to wither and die like a diseased plant, slowly becoming less hearty and hale with each passing day. At first it was feared that some new malady had run riot through an area, or even that some plot by one of the great houses had poisoned the water or food supplies. As word spread and messengers came in from the far reaches of the Underdark, it became apparent that this was a problem that affected us all.

Serafia Altath, noble of House Altath of the Clan Faerondarl stood before the council on the sixteenth day of the sixth month, twenty-five years after our descent into the Underdark, and gave a speech that was to change our course. She spoke at length, using all of her charms and intellect, speaking to the other council members and representatives. The danger to our people was highlighted, the research and cures tried examined. She recounted our history, our trials and tribulations, and exalted our achievements, naming each of the great houses for the efforts they had made to bring about our current empire. She strode around the chamber, the passion in her voice leeching into each and every one of us, becoming more animated and domineering with every minute passed. Even the most cynical and withdrawn of the houses were affected, and as she spoke at length, we felt ourselves gradually drawn along with her, her vision for the future and her concerns for the present.

By the end of that session Serafia Altath was elevated to the position of Valsharess - the most high born and noble of us all. All in the council were now bound to her word, and her House gained great standing. For the first time since our descent from the surface, all of our people were gathered as one, bound together under a single ruler, though within each of the our lands, the words of our ruling Clan still had the force of Law.

In the years that followed academics and scholars were gathered from all of the Houses, formed into schools and began to research the ailments that beset us. Many died as the researchers continued their studies, without apparent success. It mattered not the social standing it seemed - from the peasants in the caves to the most high born of us all - indeed, the death of Skiasca Aryvandaar twelve years after the Valsharess rose to power highlighted to the Empire at large that no one was immune to this malady, and that even the most ancient of us could fall, never to rise again. Tallia, one of her daughters, took her seat upon the council, representing her House in the name and memory of her mother.

Our empire refocused our efforts, wandering ever wider, improving our knowledge and still seeking a way to prevent the sickening death that spread it's tendrils amongst us. All to no avail it seemed…

A hand of years passed… then another… and another. No cure was to be found. A sadness and a malaise had set about us - an air of decay and despondency. We watched as members of our race sickened and died, slowly and painfully. Our numbers lessened - but not just from death. It became noticed that the number of births decreased, as parents decided not to have children, afraid that they would watch their young die before them, as powerless as the rest.

This became too much for some, and after heated debate and discussion, Clan Mistrivven stunned the council with their revelation. They were to leave the Underdark, abandoning our new territory and wandering far to the north to forge a new home, hoping to outdistance our brethren above and begin again. The news rocked the Empire to it's core and the news spread like wildfire, travelling the length and breadth of the Underdark faster than we would have thought possible. The exodus took much of the year to arrange, and tens of thousands journeyed to Duanrahel to witness the departure of the Mistrivens. The council, at least in public, gave their blessings to Utuk'ku and her clan, and spoke words of friendship and alliance. Scrolls of binding were prepared and signed in front of the great host, bound in blood and word of power. And then…. they were gone. The council met again, and the empty chair was ever present in our minds.

Great debate was raised, but eventually the council of thirteen became a council of twelve. The empty chair was covered in a grey cloth, embroidered with the symbols of the Clan and the House, awaiting the return of the Clan. Amongst the discussion it became clear that Tallia Aryvandaar had no taste for the politics of high court, and she petitioned the Valsharess for permission to create a new school of Incantation, that she might honour the memory of her mother and concentrate her research upon the will and faith of the Ancestors. This was granted, and Kalaera Aryvandaar succeeded her as representative on the council.

Efforts continued, and the years rolled past. Our society continued to sicken as much as we did. The will to explore, expand, experience and conquer was driven from us - one faltering step at a time. We became insular and withdrawn, constantly looking inwards rather than out. Not a few of our people descended into madness and had to be dealt with by their Houses, for fear of starting a general descent into anarchy.

Fifteen years after the Mistriven Clan departed two events shook our empire. Firstly, Triss Kerethrion fell ill, descending into a stupor that none could raise him from. Another of the most visible members of our empire, the fifth of our Paladins lay silent and near death upon a slab, and not a single one of us has the skill or guile to wake him. His skin lay ashen, his lips a pale blue, his chest fell only slightly with each tiny breath. It was as if only a tiny ember of his life remained within the shell of his body. At the same time, a powerful demagogue appeared in the city of Veldrinshaar. He preached a heady message of wrath and fire, of punishment and retribution. He told the masses that salvation was within reach, that all we had to do was wholeheartedly embrace the will of Lolthiriel, to turn our backs on all the other Ancestors. To embrace Lolthiriel so completely that there was no other worship… and that there was none who worshiped not at all. His fiery speeches drew large crowds, and his sermons promised salvation - but none knew him. Always he appeared cloaked and hooded, rising to a platform or balcony, giving his impassioned speech with great vigour, before leaving and disappearing into the darkness. Word spread and soon a cult emerged, following his demands, worshiping Lolthiriel with a fury that swept others along with them and striking out at the followers of other ancestors. Perhaps it was a good thing that Mistriven had already departed our empire - for if they were still here, I'm sure we would have descended into civil war at this juncture.

The council were initially dismissive of this preacher, but as the number of his followers grew and grew, he became first a source of note, then a source of concern. He became more inspiring, not less, but still they had no idea of his identity. By the time it became a requirement to know his identity, many of the council realised that it would become difficult. Sending armed guards to detain and identify him could very well trigger a riot, and once he had blended into the crowd, identifying him would be all but impossible.

We never did find out who he was. Not for certain anyway, though we cannot find any other suspects that fit his profile. But towards the end of that year, Juandell Gereshin, seventh Paladin, was found dead in his quarters. No suspect was ever identified, no cause for his death ever found. And never again was the preacher seen or heard from. Triss remained in his deep sleep, unwakeable by any means.

The deaths continued, our society declined, our hopes and dreams faded. The years rolled by. But the ideas raised by the preacher rebounded, growing with every wave, fermenting belief and desire, a longing for the end. Pilgrims made treks to come and pray for succour, for hope, for life. It was like the wind that comes before a storm - a relentless wave of desire that could not be turned away or dismissed.

The years turned into decades, with no hope in sight. Thirty years had passed, and our empire was crumbling like a piece of wood infested with rot. Soon we would have the strength to stand no more.

I remember the day well, late in the year, with but a few weeks until the new year began, when we set in motion the great Prayer. Lord Lualyrr and I were late to chambers, nearly missing the opening prayers and thanks - we had been delayed by House business of a most unpleasant sort. Lualyrr settled into his seat, and I took my place at the table behind him, my parchment and quills ready. Looking around the room I could see the other scribes similarly ready to record their mistresses' and master's words, and the proclamations of the council. The lamps flickered and danced, casting their shadows upon the intricate carvings of the council chambers, the reliefs carved into the stone by the long hours of effort on the part of master craftsmen.

The Great Prayer

The meeting went as normal, at least to begin with. A review of the empire, it's armies, our populace. A briefing on the research, and once more their lack of progress on the disease that blighted us. We reached the Jurax, the point where council members could raise points of interest from their Clan or House, or those seeking audience with the council would be permitted to address us. Council member J'Imasro arose from his seat and stood upon the Star, turning towards us, but with his head downcast. Silence fell upon the chamber, and we watched as he slowly composed himself.

"Sisters and Brothers… long have we laboured to cure the ills that strike down our people. All to no avail. The sickness ravages us all, and none may escape it's clutches. We sicken and weaken, day by day, with no escape. Our mightiest and noble warriors, defenders of our faith lie just as helpless as the most humble peasant. We have suffered for four score years now, and have seen our once mighty Empire become like a withered moss, brittle and without strength, hollow and empty."

He took a deep breath, and looked around the chambers, fixing each member of the council with his glance for a few moments before moving on.

"We have learned. We have experimented. We have prayed. We have hoped, and we have FAILED."

His voice rose, gaining in power and volume, yet never managing to become a shout. It seemed as if he was possessed, but with a fiery conviction and passion that could not be extinguished or ignored. He started to pace the chamber, walking in a circle, passing in front of each of the council members in turn with a slow, measured stride.

"Eleven days from now, eighty years to the day since the elevation to Valsharess of Serafia Altath, I will lead my Clan on a great mission. We travel to this great city, where our people will join in a prayer, the likes of which we have never seen. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, no matter the faith, and we call upon our Ancestors with one united voice. We call to those we revere, those who watch over us, those whom we are but children to, and we beseech them for an end to this plague."

He returned to the Star, and turned to face us, spreading his arms wide, palms outstretched towards us.

"We come in peace, with no ill will towards you. We come with room in our hearts for those of you who will join us. We come, and we hope you do too - for the sake of our people and our eternal patterns."

Slowly he lowered his arms, and then his head, standing in silence. For perhaps thirty heartbeats, the chamber was silent, as each council member digested his words and thought upon his intent. Eilistraee was the first to rise from her seat. Resplendent in her white robes, the trappings of the Paladins worn with pride and honour, she turned her head and looked around us, trying to read the faces of her fellow councillors before committing to action.

"You speak of faith and prayer, of turning to the ancestors, without limit and restriction. Of devoting yourself to the ancestors without reservation and with every fibre of your being. The Paladins will guard you as you travel, and join you in your prayers. It shall be done."

Vhaerun Riklaurin arose next, committing the forces under his control to aid the Clan also, and promising to bring his people to the Prayer. Moreso, he guaranteed their safety, committing his troops to maintain security for the pilgrims, regardless of the House or Clan they belonged to.

Ma’Azbiir Keltormiir stood, and with a scowl stomped to the Star, turning to face us.

"What madness is this? To cripple our Empire so? Who will work the fields while your entire Clan is at prayer? Who will draw the water? Who will dig to feed the forges, or carry out the trade that you need to survive? WHO? You are right, J'Imasro, it has been eighty years since this blight descended upon us. A century since we came to this place. And we seem no closer to an answer now than we were then! Perhaps the Ancestors have already spoken, but in our pride we were not ready to listen to them. Perhaps we should leave this place - abandon our works here, and travel elsewhere, seeking out a new life, and a fresh start. Clan Keltormiir will not take place in this madness."

Selvetarm stood next, and we braced ourselves for a fiery sermon. For some time now, he and his Clan had been at odds with the rest of the council, wanting us to seek alternate homes. However, he was about to surprise us all.

"I see the good in this, and support it fully. My clan will not only attend with full support, we shall also use our troops to protect those from other lands that wish to travel. Furthermore, we shall open our storehouses and reserves, and use the food we have saved against future need to support those who will take part in this venture".

The others rose, one by one, delivering their thoughts and committing their clans to this great sermon. In the end it was decidedly in favour of the Prayer. Only Ma’Azbiir Keltormiir and his clan stood opposed, and his mood was grim.

Serafia arose to address us, and the council fell quiet. She thanked J’Imasro Evenstar for his words, and his plans, and announced that her dreams had been much troubled recently, but that she had often dreamt of a single white shining star, looking down upon a land. Seeing this as a sign, she decreed that we would gather our people, as Evenstar had suggested. All Clans and Houses were welcome, and none would be forbidden from coming. Ma’Azbiir Keltormiir sat back with a scowl, clearly recognising an order when given, but liking it no better. Soon after session dissolved and we went forth to spread the word about the gathering of our peoples.

Over the next ten days, the circles hummed and throbbed with power, as group after group transported in from the far reaches of the empire. The population of Telantiwar doubled, and doubled again. People slept on chairs, on benches, on the streets and the roofs. Soon there was barely an inch of space to be had in the city, and it was the greatest gathering of people that we have ever seen. At midnight on the tenth day, the High Incantor of the Empire led forth a column of priests, a gathering of every Incantor of power, no matter what form or aspect of the ancestors they followed. They left the city, taking the great silver road, and passed out through the gates, before splitting into two and heading around the perimeter of the walls. As they went they inscribed the walls with runes and holy signs, blessing the city and all those within, calling upon the ancestors to witness their efforts. As the hours wore on, the priests completed their efforts, entering the city again by the four great gates, and then splitting up, again and again, as they wandered down each road, then street, then alleyway. Everywhere they walked, they reached out to touch those knelt in prayer, facing towards the great temple at the centre of the city. Every supplicant was daubed with a sign, and touched, no matter how briefly, by a chosen one. It took hours, but eventually every single person in the city was prepared. The prayers began, the High Incantor reading from the Book of Prayers, her words carried by magical means across the entire city, echoing from every spire and reaching every dwelling. In a city crammed with hundreds of thousands of souls, there was but one voice, carrying the message of the Ancestors. The Prayers continued, stretching on, repeating, renewing the faith of the people, invigorating them with renewed purpose and shared adversity. Slowly groups of the common folk took up the prayers, repeating them, joining in with their supplication to the ancestors.

By even time the city resonated with power. The voices of a several hundred thousand beings, chanting in harmony, calling forth the power of their faith and channelling it to the ancestors. The air was charged, and people stared wild-eyed, the hairs on their arms and necks standing on end, concentrating on the words of prayer. The cries of newborns went unheard, the chanting rising to a crescendo of noise that made the very city tremble. The priests formed up around the High Incantor, touching her and letting the power flow through them, their patterns flowing and mingling with the prayers and supplications of the masses, channelling power ever tighter into a single focussed point of pure faith.

The air grew heavy and sullen, thick and close. Almost like a heavy blanket, draped over the city, the sounds of prayer becoming muted and fading into almost nothing. The people redoubled their efforts, muscles cording on their necks, their chests rising and falling as they strived to call out their prayers, but the sounds grew ever quieter until there was just the faintest whisper.

A wind arose, gentle at first, but growing with every passing moment. It blew from all directions around the city, rippling clothes and banners, driving flames from the torches and braziers, making the flickering lights lean in towards the centre of the city. Within a few moments the wind had risen to become a torrent, a powerful zephyr that snapped and whipped at cloth, sending hair streaming and carrying away what little sound remained. Fear and uncertainty rippled across the features of the people, mingled with adulation and expectation.

The ancestors were listening.

The ancestors had heard their cry for help.

The ancestors were coming.

There was a flash. A burst of light so bright that it filled the entire world with blazing whiteness. A light so pure that it could not be denied, could not be contained, could not be blocked. Closing your eyes was no defence, it pierced your eyelids, it penetrated your hands, it illuminated your very essence.

A noise. A rumble so deep that your very spine shook. A noise so powerful that everyone, man, woman, child, beast - was driven to their knees, clutching at their head in pain and distress.

The air grew still for a moment, then the previous rush of air was as nothing as the explosion of power drew back the gathered mass, driving the air like the very storm of creation, back where it came. Like a ripple, there was still and calm at the centre, with the power radiating out, encompassing the city, making the very buildings shake to their foundations.

The wave of power knocked the people to their backs, sending them sprawling in a wave as ears of corn flattened in a storm. Then the power was gone, the noise abated, the wind but a memory. The light, slowly fading, retaining it's purity, but losing power and fury until the people could blink and look towards the gathered priests and the altar.

A sound rippled through the city, a pale and empty echo of the explosion that had come before, but still vast nonetheless. The gasp of two hundred thousand people as they stared to the altar, and saw the High Incantor spinning, suspended in the beam of light, her arms and legs spread wide, with tendrils of power escaping from her fingers and toes, her limbs driven straight by the transfer of power, her back arched and head thrown back in ecstasy.

As the crowd watched, the spinning figure slowed, her twisting form descended, until it hovered a yard above the stone slab in the centre of the altar. The head slowly raised, and when her eyes opened, they were as two tiny stars, pinpricks of burning fury and incandescent rage. The aspect of Lolthiriel spoke to us then, and we were filled with emotion. The nobility of our race bought tears to our eyes, filling us anew with purpose and resolve. The sacrifice our Queen had made for us drove us to weep, the tears rolling down our cheeks in an unstoppable torrent. The sorrow of the war with our brothers and sisters, the sundering of our people, making our chests tight and our hearts cry out in pain. Slowly the eyes closed and the words faded, the light becoming more diffuse and waning.

The first faint tinges of colour began to appear, the white light slowly changing and revealing a rich golden hue, shot through with oranges and red, a warmth that bought cheer to our hearts. We basked in the radiance of truth and knowledge, we felt enriched by wisdom and saw the paths of destiny and duty stretch out before us. A deep breath of crisp and clean air filled our longs, lending us energy and our backs straightened as we accepted the task that was to come, no matter what the future may hold for us. Hairs stood on end as we accepted our destiny, to be tried and tried again, to walk the path set out for us, filled with the power of the righteous.

The golden glow began to fade, and the orange and red colour leeched into each other, slowly darkening and becoming deeper and more suffuse. Purple and black crept in, spreading tendrils of fear and loathing out from the altar, insidiously winding their way amongst the faithful. Seemingly at random the wisps struck out at people, sucking forth the life from them and leaving a desiccated corpse to fall to the ground in their place. Screams of pain and anguish echoed throughout the city as the weak of faith were tempted, tried and punished in one fell motion. The faithful recited their prayers, lips flecked with spittle and their words hoarse as they renewed their vows to the ancestors, committing their patterns and life to the avatars worming their way through the crowd.

The light continued to recede, growing darker with every passing moment. The torches flickered and dimmed, struggling to light even the smallest of areas, as if starved of air. Shadows formed all around us, and dark shapes seemed to dance at the corner of our eyes. More of the gathered people fell, those weak of faith or showing doubts. Froth covered their lips and their skin took on a fearful hue, and when they fell dreadful wounds could be seen, dripping with green ichors and yellow pus, oozing from the swift and sure strike of some hidden blow. People looked around in wonder and fear, but no wielder of these dark blades was to be seen, no one stood with dripping knives, and fear stalked the crowd who tried to huddle near the flames and seek refuge in the dim and fitful lights.

A mighty crack rent the air, and the ground shook. Buildings trembled and reverberated, stones were dislodged from the cavern roof, and fell from the walls, and from the temple itself. Where the stones fell they shattered, rocks landing in the clear areas where the people had moved towards the lights. The stones bounced and clattered, landing in geometric precision and patterns, pointing towards the altar with unerring accuracy. Simple shapes, nothing more than random piles of rocks in formation, yet those who looked upon them saw their beauty and simplicity, and rushed forward to gather them up, passing them from outstretched hand to hand, carrying their burdens into the centre, where they were piled together. It was as if they had been shaped by a craftsmen of unsurpassed skill, so neatly did they fit together, forming a shape upon the stone slab of a mighty eight sided temple, a miniature view of a building that would dwarf the most mighty structure in the city. It looked majestic and powerful, and radiated dominion, and those looking upon the layout of the stones felt their hands twitch and their bodies tremble with a desire to begin shaping stones themselves.

Screams erupted from the outside of the city, and with a great wave the people furthest from the altar began to push inwards, striving to get closer.. closer… but it was not a desire to get closer to the altar at all, it was a need to get away from the walls. Patches of pustulent ooze drove their way through the stonework, dripping down the walls and leaving hissing trails of destruction, steaming and gouging at the rock with their secretions. The fetid pools of corruption slowly grew, linking and spreading their decaying filth, driving in towards the centre of the city, herding thousands of people before them. Where the crowd was too dense, people were touched by the noxious filth, high pitched screams of utter agony bursting forth from them before they fell backwards into the sludge, bubbling and dissolving, the flesh dripping from their bodies, parasites and larvae bursting forth from the meat to consume them utterly, then in turn being consumed by the insipid liquid. People fought to climb over each other, thinking only of themselves and their burning desire to save their own flesh from the touch of this deathly threat.

The liquid ceased to advance, then drew back, receding towards the walls before, solidifying, extruding, growing in height as it drew back from the terrified crowd. The surface hardened and became faceted, taking on texture and form. Creatures emerged from the mass, the liquid forming legs, arms, torso, head…. sword, shield, spear. With awkward and halting movements, the forms began to advance again upon the crowd, swinging weapons towards the waiting throng. They formed ranks and units, solidifying into cohorts and then legions, shields to the front, supported by spears to the rear. Step, step, step. The streets echoed with the oddly muted sound of the strange creatures, their odd flesh making a noise like wet leather rubbing across stone. They stopped just outside sword range, as if responding to some silent order, a hundred thousand constructs, poised to act but waiting on some silent command. A question formed in our heads, in every one of us there. What to do? The question was key, it was more important than life itself, it was the purpose, the focus, the very centre of our being. It was the only thing that mattered, and each and every one of us looked deep within us to search for an answer.

The Aspects of Lolthiriel revealed

The High Incantor took a deep shuddering breath. Her chest rose and rose as she gathered all her energy for one mighty effort.

"Slaaaaaaaaaaay!"

Her voice echoed out from the centre of the city, carried to every person there. It brooked no argument, it carried no alternative. It awoke something dark and primeval amongst us, something primitive and violent, something that lurked deep in our beings. The people burst into action, drawing knives and daggers, leaping onto the enemy with teeth drawn back and no concern for pain, death or loss. It was as if we had become a pack of rabid wolves, throwing ourselves into the combat, those towards the centre of the city fighting to reach the enemy, clambering over those in front, desperate to reach our foes and sink our blades into their flesh, to beat at them with our fists, even to ravage them with our teeth. It was an orgy of bloodletting, keyed into action by the simple word given by a single person. It drove us, as a people to attack our foe, who recoiled from the ferocity, unable to defend themselves from the stunning display of brutal faith. Slowly they gave ground, retreating step by step, being driven back by the horde of wild eyed worshippers, their armour and weapons mattering not at all. The crowd washed up to them, over them, people climbing over the fallen, their knives rising and falling until waterfalls of bloody liquid ran freely, the stone underfoot slick and treacherous, the enemy reeling from the primal rage of our people.

With a tremendous hissing noise, all light fled the cavern - every flame was extinguished, every magical lamp doused, every glowing spore withered and disintegrated. Absolute, utter, complete darkness filled the cavern.

A glowing figure arose from the stone slab of the altar, rising majestically to hover a score of yards above it's surface. It evolved and warped before us, becoming the form of a beautiful elf. Those who had known Lolthiriel in life choked and stared at the recreation of her, so perfect was it's form. A second figure arose, appearing identical at first but then changing, subtly shifting and becoming different. Another, then another, then another. Seven images appeared around the altar, one for each of the trials that had tested us.

A nebulous and glowing ball of light arose then, shifting from green to blue and back. It rose from the altar like all the rest, growing and shrinking like a beating heart, drawing in the blood and emotion from the city, slowly stretching and forming, adapting it's shape and form. The shape formed, so like our queen, and yet so distinct. A new form, a being of possibility and potential. A promise of the future.

A thought blasted our heads, a voice of power beyond our comprehension or wit, carrying forth a message.

"So you have chosen, so it shall be".

The lights faded, disappearing into the ether, becoming ethereal and finally disappearing into the inky blackness of the cavern. There was a great sob, and cry throughout the people, as the magic faded and receded and they regained their wits. The prayer was complete, and the Ancestors had spoken. Now it was for the people to uphold the bargain.

The events of that day are still spoken of with reverence - the day that the will of the Ancestors was made clear to us, the day that we made a choice as to how we would honour and exalt the aspects of Lolthiriel. The council announced a special open session, to be held in the great temple, gathered around the stone slab that had seen such revelations - it was of no doubt that we had reached a critical juncture in our destiny, and it was felt that any that would speak of matters would be given opportunity to do so.

I will not go into intricate detail of the deliberations of the council - for they were mostly harmonious, with discussions only on how we would carry out tasks, not if. For the most part, the wave of fervour that swept over our people carried us along with a feeling of slightly bemused inevitability. We had all seen what took place, and the will of the Ancestors, nor indeed the will of the people, was to be ignored at this point.

By the end of the week, it was agreed that the area around the Temple would be cleared - swept clean to provide the space and due respect to the massive structure we had planned. The Temple would remain at the core, representing our faith and love for Lolthiriel, but seven mighty additions would be made, one for each of the trials or aspects we had seen during the great Prayer. Each would be built in turn, by one of the great Clans, pooling the resources of their Houses to build a shrine of faith worthy of our people and our beliefs. Each would take a decade or so to complete, so massive were the stonework and building tasks. We knew that we would still suffer, and that some of us would die - but we also knew that the eyes of our forebears was upon us, and that this was but a trial to prove our worth. We would pay the price, willingly, to seek out our true path.

Clan Kerithrion was given the honour of constructing the first great building, where altars to Araunshnee would be constructed, amid great libraries and places of learning. Chambers would be built where Priestesses would imbibe heady draughts and search for visions of the future, portents and signs.

Clan Keltormiir built the second structure, a place of worship for Lareth. The centre of the temple consisted of a cunning maze of narrow corridors, mirrors and movable walls, designed to trap the unwary.

The third temple was built by Clan Orishaar, and dedicated to Zinzerena. The smallest of the temples from the outside, it delved at great labour into the very bedrock of the cavern, extending deep beneath the surface and creating a structure with many levels of knowledge, with numerous secret chambers.

Clan Aleval built the fourth temple, an open and flowing structure that was as beautiful as anything constructed on the surface, before the great sundering. Dedicated to Megwandiir, it's fine arches and domed ceilings, ornate carvings and intricate mosaics made it the slowest building to be completed.

Clan Faerondarl constructed the temple to Moandiir, a place of decadence and decay. Temptations abounded within it's walls, testing the faith of those that would visit sorely, and building a strength of will that made the priestesses uncompromising in their duties.

Clan Riklaurin was chosen to build the temple to Zanassu, and the structure that emerged was as strong and resilient as the temple to Megwandiir was beautiful. Training squares, barracks and armouries rang out to the sounds of warrior priests learning their trade, ready to carry forth the word of the Ancestors with steel blades and resolve.

The final temple was built by Eilistraee and the Order of Paladins. Representing all of the Clans and Houses, their members drawn from across our society, they constructed a temple of worship that spared no expense or restraint. The best weavers in our lands worked on the vestments and banners, our finest smiths created goblets and chalices, the stone masons laboured mightily to create the most intricate and ornate work imaginable.

The final building was completed in the last days of the year 174 of the second founding, or 2985 by the reckoning of the firstborn. It's completion heralded a weeklong festival, with visitors from all over the empire coming to take part in the dedications and ceremonies. Our faith had been sorely tested over those seven decades - we had continued to sicken, and many had died - but we knew that there was salvation at hand. We had seen, and we had faith.

The ceremonies drew to a close, and there was an air of expectation. We wondered what the sign would be, how the Ancestors would reveal themselves to us this time.

We waited.

Nothing.

There was no rush of power. No signs, no portents.

We gathered in prayer. The city fell silent will the High Incantor gave a mighty sermon. Animals were slaughtered and offered as sacrifice.

Captured slaves were offered on the altars next, as we beseeched the Ancestors.

Nothing.

A group of priestesses clambered onto the altar, and pulling open their cassocks, took forth knives and thrust them into their bodies, their organs sliding out onto the altar, blood cascading though the channels and flowing from the mouths of the carvings into the troughs and crucibles below.

And still there was nothing.

The birth of the Drow

We did not understand. Had we offended the Ancestors some way? Had we failed them? Had we not carried out our duties, our sacred obligations, to their satisfaction?

The Council withdrew and entered session, and we discussed the matter - but it quickly became obvious that none of the Councillors, nor any of their Clans knew what to do. We were at a loss.

Several hours into the discussion there was a frantic hammering on the doors, causing the guards to draw weapons and immediately rush to barricade it, preparing to deal with whatever foe sought to attack. The doors were opened, revealing a wild eyed under-priest, frothing at the mouth and frantically clawing at the guards who restrained him, struggling in his madness to enter the chamber. Despite being held by three strong and fine warriors, his mad efforts drove him forwards, and they struggled to slow his advance. The Captain of the guard raised his sword, and began to thrust, aiming to disembowel the intruder who disrupted the Council.

"A sign, I have seen a SIGN! We are not forsaken!"

The thrust was caught at the last moment, the captain diverting the blade to the side, slicing through the robes and barely nicking the skin. The priest seemed unaware of his near fatal encounter - his bulbous eyes jerking from one council member to another, darting between us with more than a hint of madness in them.

"You must come quickly honoured councillors! The Ancestors have sent us their will!"

Eilistraee strode over to him, gently pushing the Captain out of her way, and grasped the priest, holding his head between her hands, with thumbs on his temples and her fingers stretching around his skull. Slowly she leaned forward, until her forehead was close to his, their eyes staring into each other with only inches between them. We heard soft and quiet words, as she reached out with her will to calm the priest, to bring him back from the edge of the abyss.

Within minutes the guard had formed up around the council, and we were striding forth into the temple to Araunshnee, where the priest led us up to a balcony, overlooking the main prayer chamber. He called out to some acolytes, who quickly led in a beast, slaughtering it with blades of milky quartz and guiding the blood into the channels and conduits. We waited, impatiently, not understanding what we were supposed to see.

"There! Watch the blood… see how it curls, and follows the channels. It is the sign! It's a message! It tells us what to do!"

We watched, fascinated, as the priest's words finally made sense. The channels and troughs, when viewed from above, spelt out a formula, visible only when the deep claret liquid flowed through it's form.

The masons and carvers, the architects and builders - all without knowing it - had constructed the very answer we sought.

Our people were saved!

Scholars worked quickly, transcribing the runes and formulas revealed from the eight temples, and assembling the ritual it revealed. They studied the form and substance, and determined that it was a detailed ritual of change, calling forth the aspects of faith to augment and bond with the pattern of the subjects, forever changing it from what it was, to something new.

A team of our most learned scholars, mages and incantors were gathered, and the ritual prepared. A handful of volunteers from the Paladin order spent a day in prayer, preparing to throw themselves into the unknown and trusting in the will of the Ancestors.

Thousands of people gathered around the circle, watching the ritual progress. The council observed from a distance, surrounded by guards and protected by powerful magicks. We were as surprised as the people when the dense grey smoke filled the circle, blotting out all view of the insides. We were just as curious, as we heard the choking voice of the ritualist, as she struggled to complete the complex formula and instructions. We were all relieved when the smoke began to dissipate, and revealed the dim and murky shapes of the ritual team and the Paladin volunteers within.

And we were all just as shocked, when we saw their ebon black skin, and their alabaster white hair.

The time of the Elves was over. Now it was the time of the Drow.

The Darkening of the Elves

Once again, the council gathered to discuss this new development. Discussions were heated and prolonged - were we to abandon all that we were to become something new? Was our heritage more important to us than our survival? What lay ahead of us?

In the end, the council though divided, sided upon carrying out the ritual again - and again and again, until all of our people were transformed. Some objected - notably those council members who had a higher proportion of first born still within their Houses and Clan. Selvetarm and Eilistraee in particular were vocal about their opposition to the scheme, refusing to commit their people wholesale to the change. Those of their people that chose to undergo the transformation would be welcome to do so - but they would not mandate it for their people. Debate raged for hours, trying to balance the rights of the Houses against the good of the Empire. Voices were raised, tempers became frayed and the council was divided upon what to do. We knew how important this decision was, and that once made, there was no turning back. For eight days we argued, back and forth, until finally a consensus was reached. The ritual was to be made available to everyone in the Empire - no one was to be excluded, no matter their position or caste. Lualyrr, Kiransalee, J'Lmasro, Neeloc Raye, Schandalun and Vhaerun would enforce the ritual upon their people by decree, and those opposing them would be punished as an internal House matter. Serafia, Ma'Azbiir, Liriel and Kalaera would encourage all of their House and Clan to undertake the ritual, and would enforce the decision on their own House, while Eilistraee and Selvetarm would make the ritual available, but would neither recommend for or against it, leaving the decision up to their people.

Long our scholars laboured to complete the rituals, honing the skills and method over countless rituals. More and more of our people cycled through the circles, emerging transformed after the magical energies had washed over and through them. None of them showed such immediate change as the first group of volunteers, the transmogrification occurring much more slowly, and gradually. Instead of taking mere minutes, it was months, even years for the skin to darken and the hair to bleach. People grew gradually darker as time progressed, but we realised soon that this was a good thing. Though we were still dealing with the sickness of the body, it prevented us having to deal with the sickness of the mind that such a massive change would have bought upon us - our people had time to adapt, to alter gradually, in their own way, to grow used to what we, they, all of us were becoming.

It took years to complete the rituals on all those who chose to undertake the change. Years to take people into the circles, a handful at a time, altering them as we had been shown, adapting them to life in the Underdark. Some still refused to undergo the change, but gradually they became fewer and fewer.

By the time two hundred years had passed since the founding of Telantiwar, in the year 3010 in the old reckoning, it was done. Overall, our records show that more than ninety five out of every hundred had been changed, taking on the gift of the Ancestors and opting to live as it had been decreed. Of the remainder, most were the very old, the remnants of the first born, or those who chose to follow other Ancestors and felt their path lay elsewhere. For them, the sickness continued, and as before, we were helpless to stop it.

As a people, we were saved, given the gift of life by the Ancestors, spared from the slow wasting that would otherwise have seen us wither and die, passing into legend and fairytale.

With renewed interest, our Empire once more began to grow, expanding and exploring the Underdark, founding new cities, encountering new peoples and creatures - and forming alliance, trade pacts or enslaving them as was fit. It was a time of prosperity and growth, and decades passed with the council steering our society through the occasional troubles and strife with a steady but firm hand.

The Rift in the Council

Two hundred years after the change was complete, our first Valsharess, Serafia Altath, died. It was reported to us by her House guard, that she had been poisoned - though not deliberately. Spoilt food, contaminated by a virulent fungus had sickened her and her companion at a late night supper, and by morning they both lay dead.

Sharafia, daughter of Serafia took over as Ilharess of House Altath and Clan Faerondarl. She entered the council chamber on the seventeenth day of the new year, to claim her seat.

Expecting to be confirmed as the new Valsharess, Sharafia was surprised and enraged when the council opened the matter for discussion. Prince Vhaerun of the Clan Riklaurin led the group that opposed her.

"You are the daughter of our Valsharess, bearing her blood, and of noble birth. That you have the right to lead your House is beyond contestation, and is your birth right. To that, there is no opposition. That you have the right to lead your Clan is a matter for the Houses of Clan Faerondarl, and is not for us to interfere with - if they have not sought to oppose your title, then again there is no opposition. But to become the Valsharess, the most noble amongst us, leader of our people - you must have the respect and backing of all of the Houses and all of the Clans. You are your mother's daughter, but the respect and honour she gained and earned, does not fall to you. You must earn your place as the leader of our people, not inherit it. And until you prove your worth, I will not follow you."

Ma'Azbiir, Neeloc Raye and Lualyrr stood with him, showing their support. Eilistraee and Liriel stood behind Sharafia, but the rest of the council remained in their seats - unsure or undecided on who to back. Sharafia's efforts to become the Valsharess failed, and though she gained a seat on the council, her prestige was much reduced.

After much deliberation, political jostling and dealing, Talantha Belthiir of Clan Taurenean became the next Valsharess.

Our empire grew and matured, the Houses regaining much strength, and rivalries that had lain dormant whilst we suffered so mightily under the plague began to resurface. As our people grew and new cities such as Guallidurth and Trentarus were founded, more of the caves that were most suited for inhabitation and development were claimed. Resources began to be contested, and the council were often called upon to arbitrate such disputes. A delicate balance of alliances and deals between the Houses were all that kept the peace. We knew that infighting would only weaken us against the many threats that still remained at large in the Underdark, yet none seemed to have the strength - or trust - to take that first step to resolving our issue.

Or so we thought.

It was in the year Thirty-Five Hundred that Talantha revealed the depths of her scheming and plotting. Having secured the backing of three of the great Clans, in exchange for future considerations, and with the blessings of the Paladins, she moved swiftly and decisively against the others - in a carefully orchestrated campaign. Remarkably bloodless, she managed to carefully manoeuvre her forces in the field as well as she manoeuvred the council members in the chamber. Scarcely five months after she began her purge and consolidation, it was complete. The Paladins were elevated to a new status, no longer enforcers of the Ancestors will, but now a personal army of the Valsharess - or the "Empress" as she seemed to prefer. Whether she harkened back to the days of the Elves or simply liked the sound of the word we do not know, but after a bloody execution as an object lesson, we were careful to use the name she preferred. The Houses remained strong and discrete, but were bound to the Empress by new Oaths, and tithed of their military strength to support her armies. Her Paladins could travel wherever they wished, speak to whomever they chose, and were able to investigate, try and punish anyone - regardless of rank. Rumours began to abound that her informants were everywhere, that a careless word would soon get back to the wrong ears, and that soon after you could expect an Inquisitor to appear, ready to discuss your "heresy". It was a dark time for some, a time of obedience on fear of death, of intense cruelty and suppression, of resentment and loathing. Yet, it bound us together much more tightly. While we had referred to "our Empire" before, it was in reality more the space that our various Houses claimed, each one a city-state, controlling the land and area around it, with much anarchy between. Now our lands truly were an Empire - a single set of laws from one end of the lands to the other, with a cohesive military force, raised from all of the Houses, owing allegiance to none other than the Throne of Telantiwar. The flow of trade improved as routes were secured and patrolled, including trade with allies and enemies that we were not yet ready to deal with. Advances in magecraft and the understanding of Incantation, the application of the powers of Channelling, knowledge of our world - all progressed under a unified banner.

Please forgive me if I begin to skip over events now. Though they are important to our Empire, part of our glorious history and help define us as a people, they are less germane than those events already presented. I have recorded them elsewhere for posterity, but the issues that affect us now should not change them. I also have no doubt that this information will exist and survive in other places, and I would not waste my time recording the numerous changes in Council structure over the years while there are other more important matters to discuss.

This brings our abridged tale of history almost to the present day, and almost to the point where I must change the method of my tale. I shall begin again in a few pages, having taken the most complete precautions that I can to ensure that the knowledge is retained.

Encrypting the Dairies

I have doubts as to the effectiveness of my measures, so I shall employ a number of different schemes to record my thoughts and observations. For those that discuss events only in the most general of terms, I shall use a simple letter substitution to encode my notes, something that even a novice scholar can decode and translate. These discuss the events that took place and make no specific references to names, and I hope that by this general discussion, they shall be exempt from the magical purge that is planned. For other documents, I shall use a more complex cypher that requires more wit and time to read, and this will hopefully preserve the information that has more exact details. For the final set of notes, containing the specific information that I consider most important and crucial to our people, I have devised a method that I must trust to save the information I deem most critical for future generations - I hope to do so in this manner… each page of my diary shall be written out, and then copied to five different pages. The first page shall be comprised of the first, sixth, eleventh and so on, letters from the diary. The second page shall have the second, seventh and twelfth character, and so on. In this way, my diary shall be split into five, each one a mass of gibberish, without meaning or form, unless it is recombined with the others.

Each of these pages shall be transcoded by a separate member of my staff, working in secret, and with no knowledge of the others. Each thus becomes further obscure, having no information discernible, even with the correct method of decoding.

Finally, a sixth scribe shall convert each of these five pages back into a master document, never knowing what it is she is copying, what it means, or how it is encoded. The final document will consist of what appears to be random characters, telling no tale and containing no knowledge. And in this effort, I hope to avoid the Ritual of Forgetting, that will otherwise destroy everything that I hold dear, all the knowledge and wisdom that we have gained from our struggles, and the details of how our Empire nearly fell and the madness that we undertake now as a people to prevent that happening again.

Part 2: The Guardian Approaches

The First Assault

It was in the year Nine Hundred and Forty Nine of the Drow Empire, or Three Thousand Seven Hundred and Fifty Nine by the old Elven calendar that he struck. At first we were unaware of a co-ordinated attack, seeing only the edges of the plan and what he chose to show us.

Word reached the council and the Empress that a trade legation from Nakkiga was overdue at the Home of Lady Death. Military scouts were sent out to determine the fate of the caravan, which was due to take a score of days for the journey, but were in excess of that by nearly three days now. Word soon came back that they had been found, all murdered and with the goods missing, only a few leagues short of their destination. Examination of the bodies and the scene of the attack painted a picture designed to inflame and antagonise. Most of the caravan were found curled in positions of pain and distress, and it was quickly determined that they had been struck with poisoned blades, that poison being a fast acting soporific that specifically struck the target mute - preventing cries for help or alarm. Delivered by a hail of crossbow bolts, the caravan would have been quickly taken down and rendered helpless. Those guards inside the caravans, securing safe boxes and the like were killed hand to hand, butchered without mercy. Scraps of torn clothing, caught in the assault were found, and in a few cases there were identifying marks - those of House Karrash-Morr. Sharafia, as head of Clan Faerondarl was immediately on the defensive, claiming that her Clan and House Karrash-Morr had nothing to do with the assaults, and no desire to provoke conflict with either Nakiga or Lady Death. Investigators were sent to confirm the findings and see if more information could be gleaned from the situation.

Barely a week later, news of an another caravan assault were delivered - this time en-route from Zaphress to The Grand Bizarre. This time no poison was used, the attack being far from either city, but much damage was caused to the caravan with torches or other fires set - destroying much of the goods there. Again, some scraps of clothing were found, this time of House Keltomiir. We turned to face Ma'Azbiir, questioning this fact, but of course faced his bland and slightly bored expression that he normally presented to hide his thoughts and wishes. Investigators were once more sent to examine the debris and determine what events had taken place.

Over the next few months more and more reports came in to the council - attacks by one House on another, civilian and cargo losses, ambushes of small scouting parties, destruction of property. The size of the attacks increases, the ferocity and ruthlessness a constant, and suspicion and distrust rose amongst us as we all found ourselves the target of attacks on our people and chattels.

Houses added more guards to their outposts and began to provide stronger escorts for their caravans, and for a while this seemed to work. Attacks were not defeated - they just didn't happen. A month passed without an attack being reported anywhere in the Empire, and we were just preparing to breathe a sigh of relief when the news arrived. A major shipment of foodstuffs from Maerimyn, heading to the Bizarre was taken. Destruction was total - the caravan was smashed to pieces on the rocks, the cargo scattered for miles as if some great flood had washed it away, elements of the broken wagons and trade goods were scorched and burnt in places. The bodies recovered had been torn to pieces with vicious blows from creatures of great strength but little skill.

Facing the Challenge

Of equal distress was the accompanying force of guards. Every one of them was found impaled on a stalagmite, the rock thrusting through their guts, leaving them to flail helplessly as their life flowed from them, staining the rocks crimson below them. Crude shapes were carved into their bodies by some creature with sharp talons, forming a series of runes, repeated in clusters around the cavern. It took us some time to identify the runes used, but it seems they are a dialect of Gorathi, used for summoning great powers and opening portals. No identifying marks were left on the bodies this time - no scraps of material or uniform, no House badges or sashes. No clue was left as to the nature of the attackers.

Once again the Council was thrown into disarray. Accusations of treachery and conspiracy were bandied around, and the air was thick with distrust. Only the years of experience we had in dealing with each other on a daily basis, the close understandings that had formed over that time, prevented us from coming to blows as news was delivered.

Over the next three months, further attacks took place. Always far between cities, always deep in the darkest, most twisted and dangerous sections of the route. In every case the bodies of the fallen were desecrated again, always with the same set of runes. Always the goods were destroyed and left scattered - obviously not bandits or thieves, but someone who could afford to let a caravan full of precious goods be destroyed purely on a whim.

Again, it was only the centuries of trust and relationships that saved us from descending into anarchy. Though the pressure from the various members and leaders of the houses was incessant, the council were able to keep control of their Houses long enough to use their personal relations with each other to ascertain that we really were not descending into civil war.

It was late in the tenth month when Daetil of Clan Taurenean came to us with a plan. She and her scribes had been busy at work, it seemed, and she invited us to attend her in the War Academy. Still distrustful, we all realised that we had to work together - as difficult as that was. So it was that late morning the Council, their collection of scribes and servants, a heavy guard and several priestesses left the chambers and wound their ways through the streets towards the military quarter, heading for the war academy. Word spread quickly and the streets were clear to pass, but none the less thronged with people wondering what events had happened that the Council would be abroad. We travelled quickly, not wanting to be detained or in the streets for any longer than we had to.

Once at the War Academy, we were lead to one of the sparring pits and a sight that none of us expected. The floor of the room was covered in sand, inches deep, and neatly brushed and raked to make a smooth surface. Sprouting from the walls and hammered into the ceiling a complicated scaffold of wood and rope created a veritable maze over the entire room. Its purpose became clear a moment later when we saw a young scholar, clearly the worse for his position, being winched out into the middle of the room and lowered by pulley, carefully arranging a model of a caravan into the sand.

We were shown to a raised viewing area on the southern side of the room, and with the advantage of some elevation we could see that the sand was not flat as we had originally thought - it had grooves and depressions in it all over, filled with tiny models and little flags. Realisation hit those of us skilled in cartography sooner than our Mistresses and Masters, but a few quiet whispers in the ear soon made it clear the purpose of the room. It was perhaps the largest and most detailed map of the Underdark ever compiled.

Daetil explained it's purpose to us, illuminating different areas of the room with a bullseye lantern that cast a baleful red glow ahead of it. She detailed the positions of our cities, our military forces, where caravans had been hit, troops attacked, or ambushes detected. She showed us the charts compiled showing the distances between each area, the time taken to move forces from one place to another.

"Councillors. I crave your attention for just a little while longer. What I have to detail now is fantasy and speculation. There is no basis in the evidence that we have seen for what I show to you now, yet all of my researchers' efforts bring me back to the same conclusions, over and over again."

The lamp was shone towards the Great Rift, the dark and treacherous chasm that lead to the stygian abyss and deeper darkness below us.

"Imagine if you will, an opponent, cunning and thoughtful. It has gathered itself an army in the blackness below, and covets our empire. It has been planning for many years, and has a strategy.

The lamp shone up towards Nakkiga…

"The first attack was here, on the caravan… located in this major trade route."

She spoke on, quickly and concisely, filling in details. Troops from here, taking this long to march, striking, returning. Results from this strike being processed by a central node. The next strike being authorised, troops marching, striking, returning. Over and over. As she spoke, a scribe highlighted areas on a large scroll, showing how the story fitted in with the reported facts. Time and time again the delays between attacks coincided with the time taken for a report to return to the rift, and for orders to be given by our imaginary opponent.

It took nearly two hours to work through all the attacks to date, but we could not fault her conclusions or suppositions. Too closely the model she proposed fitted with the data from the attacks. We still knew nothing of our opponent, but we had certainly come to believe that there was one. Daetil had convinced us of this.

We returned to the Council chambers in silence, each deep in our own thoughts on what we had seen and what it meant for our Empire. Quickly we retook our seats - all except for Lualyrr. He strode to the speaker's Star and waited for silence.

"Brothers and Sisters - what we have seen should convince us that there is indeed a threat to our empire. A foe lies before us, and we have scant knowledge of them or their plans. Were it not for the efforts by Council member Daetil, we would have not even that much. Clear to me it is that war lies before us - a war that we are unprepared for."

He spoke clearly and confidently, his arms clasped in front of him, standing erect and with his head held high. His powerful voice carried to every person in the room, and his quiet dignified manner demanded our attention.

"I would propose that if war is offered, that war is accepted, and quickly. In this we may steal the upper hand from our foe, and drive the winds of fate and fortune into our sails a little while, and not into its. Daetil has done our people great service by her efforts, and her vision and skill with the creation of this… simulacrum of the Underdark will prove most useful in the coming conflict. I would further propose that we name Daetil as our War Commander, in recognition of her efforts, turning over to her the command of our armies, granting her control of the fighting forces and logistics, so that she may investigate this threat, bring murder to their hearts and cast them back into the pit from which they have crawled."

Daetil seemed to be as shocked by this as everyone else, but I caught a glance from her to my master. A subtle raising of eyebrows, nods and tiny smiles made it clear that our Clans support for her would be well rewarded in the future. Looking around at the other Council members, I could see the weight with which my master's words were taken. We still remembered the role taken in the Sundering war by him, and his skills in both strategy and tactics, and it was obvious that the others were prepared to put some store in his recommendation.

After hours of discussion it was agreed. Empress Briza Talantha of Clan Nimesin would retain command of our Empire, ruling as she had these past twenty-three years. Command of the assembled legions of Drow would fall to Daetil, who would answer to the Council and Valsharess only. Only the Paladins would lie outside of her control, still commanded by Eilistraee.

So it was as the year drew to an end, that we began to prepare our forces to fight this unknown foe, trusting into the skill and sight of Daetil of Clan Taurenean to preserve us. To the vast majority of our people, we did nothing - other than announce that we were still investigating these attacks of "banditry" that were assaulting us. But more and more of our military forces were slowly gathered and then marched off into the darkness to lie in wait as our trap was set.

The First Battle

Our chance came early the next year - word reached us of an attack near Rivenrock, another caravan destroyed and ruined, just like the rest. Messages flew in and out of the war academy, borne on the heels of our fastest runners, transported by our skilled mages and replicated by the cartographers in the great war room. We could only imagine the effect they had on the distant soldiers, activated by the messages and marching off to take their positions. Then it was a waiting game.

The waiting was hard - on all of us, but especially on Daetil and Lualyrr. Not long after the preparations started, Lord Lualyrr was named as an aide to Daetil, perhaps as recognition of his pivotal role in her gaining the position. I look upon this as a most provident gift, as it allowed us a most privileged look into the prosecution of the war effort and preparations. My master and Daetil were waiting in the War Academy, standing on the platform and looking down on the great map, waiting for news to return from the front. Work still went on around us, refining the map and adding yet more detail - platoons on patrol here, supplies in hand there, springs of good water found along route marches, known obstacles. Even with the scale of the map, 60 paces to a side, it was crowded with information. To a newcomer it must have seemed daunting, yet to us it was familiar, built up over months of study and work. We felt like giants looking down upon a surreal arena.

They stood together, barely a handspan apart, with their arms clasped together in nearly identical poses - whether by happenstance or design I do not know. Lualyrr was dressed in his traditional flowing robes of deep midnight black, trimmed in silver with an exquisitely embroidered plant circling from hem to neckline, curling around his figure. Other than his chain of office, a symbol of status as a Council member, the only other jewellery he wore was a slender silver ring studded with 5 tiny gems, set into delicate filigree. Daetil had adopted a more martial style of dress. A sturdy pair of leather britches and a jerkin of dark but supple suede covered her like a second skin. Worn over the jerkin was a suit of chainmaile, wrought of the most tiny and carefully cast rings I have ever seen. It flowed like a liquid, and covered her vitals and upper arms, leaving the rest of her limbs free to move. A practical soldier's belt was knotted around her slender waist, but no scabbard or belt weighed her down.

With her matching chain of office, along with a delicate crown of gold and mithril and a few rings of quality, she looked every inch the warrior maiden, and they looked most formidable, projecting an air of calm and patience. Only my… intimate knowledge of my master let me penetrate the aura, and I could see how much the waiting and uncertainty chaffed upon him. Lualyrr's grey eyes met Daetil's oddly luminescent white eyes, her only outward sign of the gift of far sight often found in her line. They shared a moment, each taking the measure of each other, before moving off to speak with subordinates and busy themselves with the thousand small tasks that still needed to be taken care of.

The hours ticked by, crawling along, and they stood there watching, studying the map, soaking in the details. The scholars, soldiers and servants kept as clear of them as they could, daring not to interfere with their musings. Fiddual, Daetil's assistant, and I stood close by, but kept our silence, respectfully waiting to assist our leaders with whatever they might need.

Tick. Tock. Tick, Tock. The minutes turned into hours, and the tension mounted in the room as we awaited news.

Finally a messenger arrived, bursting through the doors at speed and racing to stand below the platform, sliding to a halt in a spray of sand and dropping to one knee. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he gasped for breath raggedly, while striving not to. His limbs trembled and it was obvious that he had run himself near to collapse. The dust of travel clung to his clothes, and sweat poured down his temples. Daetil looked over at him, and we saw her mouth open to speak, ready to demand a report from him - but she paused for a moment. Glancing to the side she motioned forth her aide towards the messenger.

"A chair and a gourd of water for him. We'll get more of an answer when he has the air in his lungs to deliver it!"

She paced slowly to the end of the raised platform, inspected some part of the map, then slowly turned on her heel to return, keeping up a slow, measured pace. It was a consummate show of patience and will. By the time she had returned, the scout was seated and watered, his chest still rising and falling noticeably, but under control, and his wind had returned. Daetil looked over the barrier and nodded at him.

"As you predicted Commander, the enemy struck at the caravan and returned via the tunnels towards the rift. We waited in positions, and struck when they had entered the ambush zone."

A wave from Daetil sent the scout grasping for a lamp, and he shone it onto tunnels as he spoke, highlighting the areas he was describing.

"They came mostly along these two tunnels, marching in column about four abreast, and easily fifty long. The forces were creatures of primal matter - elements of fire and flame, elementals of earth, great crashing gusts of water mixing with sylphs of air. They were marching in good order, obviously controlled and disciplined and working to a higher purpose. When we launched the attack, we obviously had the element of surprise and many of them fell to our first volley - but they recovered quickly and formed a defensive line. We closed and met them with steel, and only our greater numbers and position allowed us to escape with no great loss to our forces. The creatures were tough, easily the match for two or three of our finest warriors, and capable of taking blows that would have cleaved a warrior in half with little regard. They fought in a disciplined line, but they were not skilled tactically, and could be lured into traps and miss-steps and then defeated."

The scout took a deep breath and raised the gourd again to wet his lips before resuming his report.

"They continued to push forwards, but our line held, and our scouts in the high ledges continued to assault them with bolts and thrown weapons, able to strike deep into their position. We fought them for perhaps a half hour before we managed to overrun them, driving a phalanx of troops deep into their formation and defeating them. Of the creatures of earth, fire and water - none escaped. The sylphs of air became immaterial and blew through our lines, and we lacked enough magical weaponry to deal with them before they penetrated and fled towards the rift. They lost at least four in five parts of their force, but there were survivors, and they carried back to their base, wherever that is, details of our force and tactics."

Daetil steepled her hands under her chin and stood silent. Heartbeats passed… turning into minutes. The scout fidgeted uncomfortably, obviously wondering if he had said something wrong or missed out part of his report. After perhaps three minutes of intense concentration, Daetil looked up and began to fire out commands with a rapidity that was all the more overwhelming after the previous quiet. I watched as Daetil and Lualyrr shifted forces around like chess players, moving logistics and supply elements to strategic locations, working to establish central nodes of reserve troops. An hour later, the Council attended the war room to receive a briefing, and news of the assault. By nightfall, word of the attack was being spread to the cities, and for the first time the general population became aware of the situation we faced - but they learnt of our victory along with news of our foe.

The next few months passed by in a blur. Days without sleep, a constant pressure as we responded to attacks, launched attacks of our own, probed for information. Slowly the situation became clear to us - our foe had risen from the Great Rift, from the unexplored depths far below our Empire. They had fortified the area around the rift, with at least the equivalent of three Legions of troops. They also had a mobile force, wandering the Underdark, striking at outposts and isolated encampments with utter ruthlessness. So far no major settlement had been taken, but that had required pinning a majority of our military forces to these key locations. We had enough troops, if we could gather them all at once to force an assault on the rift, and displace the attackers back into the deep dark. But to do so would require uncovering several cities and scores of towns and outposts utterly. If the mobile force could take advantage of this, we would win the battle at the rift, but return home to find our Empire in ruins.

Daetil and Lualyrr worked incessantly, fighting for every scrap of information, moving troops around to counter sightings and retake outposts devastated by the opposition. We launched attacks, pushing the pace of battle, constantly scouting the rift and looking for weakness or openings. Losses on both sides mounted, but they hurt us far more than our opponent. We lost sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. The products of decades of training and experience, gone in a frenzy of combat and battle. Our opponents were a mixture of creatures. Added to the base elemental creatures we had seen in our first attack, there also seemed to be archons and avatars of dark powers mixed into their forces. The elementals were the primary force though, while the ancestral creatures seemed to take care of command functions and special missions - anything that required an application of thought and logic, or planning. The elementals were stupid, to be charitable but were adequate troops for pitched battles. Tough and remorseless, they made up for their lack of intelligence and bidability with tenacity and strength.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the great game played out. Daetil and Lualyrr split their time in the war room, always one of them being present, spending eighteen to twenty hours at a time working on the war effort. They moved our forces with skill and precision, playing a game that made chess seem like a thing of simple rules.

The First White Pillar

By the eleventh month of the year Nine Hundred and Fifty Two, the game appeared to be coming to a close. Our forces had ambushed, lured, feinted, and followed a plan of such cunning that we were sure our enemy had no idea of our motives until it was too late. Too late to realise that their mobile force had been isolated and trapped, sections of the Underdark rigged in a series of rituals to cut off their force with massive landslides. We caught it and destroyed it utterly, crushing it under our feet and leaving it amid the dust. Our force turned tail and headed to the rift, along with elements from all the other cities and outposts, assembling a great host. Our plan was to drive headlong into the forces at the rift, exchanging subtlety for brute force and direct action - there was no fancy manoeuvre to be utilised here.

Here again, fate decided to favour us, and not our foe. It was near the end of the month, and near the end of the year. Only a week remained until the anniversary of the Great Prayer, an event that we celebrated with a simple feast of remembrance. Daetil decided that we could spare the troops - at least some of them - to return home to celebrate the feast. A vanguard would continue to head towards the rift and secure the forward positions. I remember being there when Lualyrr and Daetil discussed this:

"Are you sure we can spare both the time and the troops for this, Daetil? I know that remembering our past is important, but we must also look to our future."

"I know, Lualyrr. We have pushed and worked so hard for this, sacrificed so many lives to get to this point. But…. I have a feeling. I don't know why, it's not anything I can point to. I just feel it's important for our troops to remember what they are fighting for - and for our people to see what their sons and daughters have achieved. Letting our troops have a few days of liberty will refresh their spirits, and it will remind all those facing rationing in the cities that there is a reason for their hardship."

I could see that Lualyrr was not completely convinced, yet there was no way he would argue with Daetil's choice without further evidence.

We are all glad that he did not.

Our enemy was obviously waiting for the feast as well - they must have known about it, for the timing was too exact to be happenstance. Midway through the feast, the cry went up from those still on guard on the walls and towers. Strange white obelisks appeared, just in sight of the cities. After a short pause, eldritch runes appeared on them, carved in inky blackness - and then creatures materialised as if from a circle of transportation. A wave of elementals spawned first, forming a solid cordon across the trade ways and routes from the city. Then, a smaller force of the ancestral creatures, each moving to positions behind the elemental phalanxes, ready to take advantage of situations as they arose.

Of course the alarm was sounded and all the city was sent into preparations. The wall was manned, siege machines were loaded, cauldrons of oil were made ready. The forces facing the city were matched by the defenders, but with the advantage of their fixed positions and defensive works, the cities would hold, at least until their food or water gave out.

This was repeated all across the Empire. Every major city was threatened - enough troops being mustered outside the walls to present a serious threat and to prevent working of the caverns nearby or easy transport, yet not enough to actually carry the wall. Each city had one of these pillars outside it, with different runes on each one. Our scholars went to work, trying to find information on the Gorathi symbols marked down.

All except one city. Tol Galen received the same treatment as the rest - at least to begin with. But then, from the white pillar streamed a host of Daemons - vile purple clad creatures carrying cruelly curved blades dripping with venom, massive hulking brutes with equally outsized two-handed weapons, slight forms wreathed in coruscating fire. They gathered in ever larger numbers until there were at least two thousand of them, forming up into assault companies, beaten and whipped into lines by larger and more powerful Daemon lords. Only the chance report by a returning patrol, who had the good sense to hide and hide well let us know of this. We had only their report and story of the battle. Tol Galen fought, and fought well - many of the enemy were slain, but against such a mighty foe, eventually the outcome was certain. The city fell after a three month siege - and we were unable to do anything about it. As we had hoped to outflank our enemy, so they had in turn outflanked us. Were it not for the troops that had returned home to the feast, we would have been hard pressed to hold any of the cities now besieged with certainty. Without those additional companies, we would not have been able to perform the reconnaissance in force and gathering of supplies that we did, and our people might have starved. As it was, all we could do was settle in to a bitter siege.

Daetil and Lualyrr were crushed, fearing that it was their plan that had bought our Empire to the brink. That their miscalculation would be the ruin of us all. It was small consolation that their dispersal of the troops had prevented each city from being completely cut off and overrun. The vanguard dispatched to the Rift arrived and found that the legions of elementals there still remained - in place, as they were. The situation looked hopeless now. Every city under our control was garrisoned with a legion of our troops and a share of our War Host - but each was blockaded in turn by an equal force of the enemy. Our vanguard, our only mobile force in the field, was still at large, but would not tip the battle decisively at any one point - and was still outnumbered by the enemy guarding the rift. And now, this force of Daemons was tipping the balance, at one key point. It provided the extra power, the superior force, in one place that would let the enemy carry our city walls and defences.

We spent hours pouring over the map, looking for an answer. Days checking records of troops, scout reports, lists of military units. We could not find an answer to our needs.

The few scouts that we managed to hide in the inky blackness reported that the enemy over ran the walls in the early parts of the year Nine Hundred and Fifty Three after the founding of Telantiwar. The population was rounded up, disarmed and marched into camps, kept prisoner in their own city. Some few were put to work gathering food and water, others doing basic work such as repairing damaged clothes and tending to the wounded. None were killed, at least none that we saw. After a few weeks, sections of the people were gathered before stands, where they were spoken to at length by some of the Daemons. Over and over, day after day, they were fed propaganda by the enemy, indoctrinated into their way of thinking, told of the one true way. After a month when the walls were repaired and the damaged sections of the defences were replaced, the army moved inside the walls, solidifying their grasp on the city. Daemons poured back into the white pillar, and then they were gone.

A week later a frantic message arrived from the commander at the city of De'Chenza, far to the north. A host of Daemons were spewing from a white pillar, augmenting the siege force there, and she requested immediate assistance. With a sick feelings in our stomachs, we watched this play unfold before our eyes again… and we were just as powerless to prevent it. Another quarter year later, another of our settlements lay in enemy hands, our people safe physically, but captured by the enemy and being treated like cattle and slowly twisted to their way of thinking.

Daetil and Lualyrr, and the Council as a whole searched for answers. We had no major allies to call upon - the Elves far above us were estranged, and there was no force that we could utilise to help defend us against this menace… or so we thought.

The months passed, and every plan we tried, every ruse and stratagem was as naught. As we moved towards the end of the year, another city fell. And our enemy moved on, once more to another. As soon as the city was repaired and refortified, as soon as the population was sufficiently cowed and controlled - the Daemons pulled out, leaving only the siege force to garrison the city against us.

Ched Nasad was the next to face the assault of the Daemons. Clan Aryvandaar was to fare no better than anyone else, and three months later their city fell. The mood at the council meeting was grim the day the news came in - it did not take much imagination to see that the process would begin again soon, and there was little that we could do about it. But the mood was about to become grimmer still.

Eilistraee approached the Star and stood with her head bowed, her long locks cascading down over her shoulders, unbound and free to wander. The other councillors waited restlessly, watching as she gathered her thoughts. Finally she looked up.

"Sisters and Brothers. Long I have wrestled with my conscience about this course of action. Long had I feared that this marches us ever further down a dark road, that we are already too far along."

Several of the Council sat back, folding their arms in defiance and setting their faces in a frown. Eilistraee's opposition to the rituals of change performed on our people were well known, and we thought that we were about to revisit the discussion…. again…. to no good end. She looked around though, quickly, and then raised a hand in a gesture of peace.

"No. No, that is not why I speak. You know my feelings, and I know yours… and this is not the time to bring up that argument again. Yet in some ways, it is much the same argument, writ large."

She took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.

"Sisters and Brothers. Though we disagree strongly on some things, you ARE my sisters and brothers. I love you all dearly, and though we must all look to our paths and follow our hearts, I would not see ill befall you. Yet the news I bring… the offer of aid and succour, may yet come with a heavy price. I would not save our Empire, only to destroy it too."

Glances were exchanged between us, and it seemed to me that none knew of what she spoke.

"There is a force. A powerful force, that could aid us in our trials. A force strong enough that it could well turn the flow of battle and save us all. But, it is a force that consists of creatures not natural, and I fear that we would be using one evil against another - and evil has a way of twisting good intentions."

She looked around, examining the expressions on each of the council members in turn, before continuing.

Daemonfey Allies

"The creatures are known as the Daemonfey, and they have been bred and trained for quite some time now, by the House Kenafin. There exists a camp far to the east of the Underdark, where several legions of the creatures are garrisoned in a secret facility, awaiting deployment."

All eyes turned to Kiransalee at this news, but it was as much a shock to her as it was to us. Though we all had experience of hiding our emotions and playing the political game, no one could hide that much of a shock.

"What is this madness? No one from my clan has a secret army - let along a secret army of evil creatures! What is this madness, that you cast before us?" Kiransalee stood, her arms shaking with rage and a long pointed finger aimed at Eilistraee, the tip trembling with pent up fury.

Eilistraee turned to face her, and there was not a hint, not an iota of shame or remorse in her demeanour.

"Sarya Kenafin, first of a line of twisted and contrived creatures leads her house, and has been breeding and training more creatures these past centuries. We have been aware of this and have been…. monitoring the situation. We judge the time ripe now to reveal their existence and make use of this force for OUR purpose, and not theirs."

"What purpose? What purpose did they have? Sarya? I will have her before my House, kneeling in a pool of her own blood as my priestesses send her to the Dark Mother!"

"Really, Kiransalee. What purpose do you think she would have for training up legions of secret shock troopers…" Eilistraee gave Kiransalee a very old fashioned look, such as an adult might give a stupid child.

As I glanced around the chamber I could see a riot of emotion and thought. The Council members were stunned, and trying to assimilate this information and all it's ramifications. There was a secret army. Kiransalee knew nothing of it - so it was obvious that Sarya Kenefin had been preparing to make a move on her Clan head to usurp her position. Hmm. Most here would not have a problem with that - it was an accepted way to do business in the Empire, and as long as conduct was "civilised", life would continue. Well, for most it would…

Kiransalee had obviously had no idea about the plans of one of her Houses, and her skin had gone deathly pale, recognising how much danger she and her Royal Household were in.

What was occupying our minds was that Eilistraee had known about this force for some time. Was obviously in cahoots with Sarya to some degree, and offering at least tacit support to her prior to this. That she had influence of some sort over a secret army of unknown strength. That this, combined with the might of the Paladins, would give her disproportionate power compared to the rest of the council. That she had waited until tens of thousands of our people were in enemy hands before revealing even their existence.

Council was adjourned shortly afterwards - we all needed to think about this, and Council members returned to their chambers and the hallways of the capitol were filled with messengers going about their business with great haste.

Over the next acrimonious week, Eilistraee revealed the type and power of the force held far to the east. Sarya was summoned and made to explain herself before the council. A unit of the Black Hand guarded her and "encouraged" her to renew her oath of obedience and allegiance to Clan and Empire.

Daetil, Lualyrr, and a veritable horde of guards, officers, trainers and administrators prepared for an expedition - heading deep into unknown territory, far to the east to meet with this army and work out what manner of creatures these Daemonfey were, and how we might use them in our war.

It took us two weeks to complete our assessment, and to work out how to use the thousands of Daemonically mutated creatures we had found training in the tunnels to the south east of Tol Galen - located near the source of the river Xarex.

It was the river that was to be key to our first great reversal. The river flowed all the way to the cavern that Tol Galen nestled in - flowing to the far end before wending it's way to the west, heading towards Lolth's Altar. The city was connected to the river by a mighty canal system though - used to aid with the transportation of goods.

And Daemons, so it transpired, did not need to breathe. Daetil and Lualyrr worked on their plan, and inside a month it was in place. The Daemonfey marched off, ten abreast, straight into the river and disappearing into the black water, leaving only ripples and a few bubbles behind. The enemy would never see them coming…

Tol Galen was a rout - the forces pouring from the canals took the defenders by surprise, and the city fell within two days. We freed our people, and began to question them, looking for information.

Part 3: The War against The Guardian

The Answers begin

It seemed that the enemy, who styled himself the "Guardian", was after nothing less than completing the mission of the first born, by awaking the Great Dragon. He wanted to hatch the egg, destroying our world and killing everyone upon it. Their speeches and indoctrination had been enforcing this view on the people, aiming to gain their support in this cataclysmic end. It helped us identify more information. The Guardian must have been one of the Elder ones, the First Born of the Elves. They were the only ones that felt a need to hatch the Egg, to see out this grand purpose. That still left thousands of suspects though.

More and more people were questioned. Slowly, more information came to light. Fragments of speeches and sermons, given to many. Reported in parts, but consistent. The Guardian had explored the Underdark thousands of years ago, descending from the surface and learning much of our lands. But they had descended further, deep into the darkness below, charting out great swathes of land even further down. And there they had been "touched" by the Dragon, and given their mission. They were to carry out their mission, their purpose. And along the way they were to reunite all of the first born under their banner, reminding them of their purpose, and to correct the "great mistake". They were to remove the Ancestors, the creatures warped and taken from the "true path" that were preventing the birth of the Great Dragon.

If our people hated our foe before hand, it was as nothing to their feelings now. Our Ancestors, our beloved forebears and the ones who watched over us - indeed the ones who had died and worked to provide us with the rituals and information that we might live - were targeted for annihilation. This genocidal Guardian would stop at nothing to combine all the worlds people under their control and then destroy us all to carry out some ancient task.

In the year that followed the liberation of Tol Galen, our new forces moved around the Underdark, bolstering our forces, relieving sieges and recapturing settlements. The tide had turned, not by a great margin, but by enough. We had cleared away roving forces, and recaptured a number of small towns, evacuating the inhabitants to safe cities. Now we could work on those cities currently in enemy hands.

The better part of two years it took - two years of bitter fighting, sieges and wars of attrition. Still the enemy garrisoned some of our empire. The Daemonfey and a few companies of our troops were our only field mobile force, and they could be in only one place at a time. They gave us enough power to strike a weighted blow, but only one. The road was long and slow to travel, but we slogged away. For a long lived race such as us, we were used to thinking in the long term, and there was still memory of the long disease which had struck us ill only nine centuries before. It was not until the year Nine Hundred and Fifty Six that we had regained all of the settlements we had lost, and liberated the tens of thousands of our people from enemy hands.

During that time our army had been tempered and reforged, becoming harder than diamond and stronger than mithril, a solid core of veteran warriors with skill and force of will to carry out our wishes.

Ched Nased was the last settlement to be freed, and when the enemy was driven from our city, and for the first time in nearly a decade we had all of our people back, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from us. Though the enemy still besieged us, maintaining troops all over the Empire, every Drow breathed freely, and could walk their cities as they pleased. We began planning our assaults, working out where we could gather troops, and where to strike first, to begin to counter this threat. Our long term efforts were just beginning to bear fruit as well. The next generation of children were coming to an age where they could be trained as warriors. Houses had given up their reserves of supplies, and a great drive had provided blades and armour for anyone that could wield them. It was as if a slumbering giant had taken a while to rouse, but was now fully awake and preparing. Every aspect of our Empire was preparing to fight the foe, with every resource available to us.

Months passed, and we gathered more and more strength, our scouts probing and spying on the enemy. By the most brutal testing imaginable only the most skilled and proficient troops had survived this long, and they put those skills to good use. It was their dedication and skill, that provided the information that once more sent our hopes dashing into jagged rocks, and made us fear for the future.

The Fall of City of Souls

The White Pillar appeared far to the south west of the City of Souls. Were it not for scouts working the caverns, it would not have been seen at all - not until it was too late. The host of Daemons poured forth from the pillar, as before, marshalled by their leaders with whips and curses. But then, a second pillar appeared, with it's markings the same. And from it poured a great host of undeath. Skeletons and Zombies, Wights and Ghouls, Wraiths and Spectres. Finally, a contingent of mummies and a squad of mighty skeletal knights appeared, marching to positions. The scouts broke contact and ran to the cities, ran so hard that only a third part of them made it back to the walls. They carried the information back, with enough time, so that we might prepare.

We moved our forces down to the City of Souls, doubling the size of the defending force. Along with the troops came supplies and logistics, packing the city full until it seemed there was no room left. We would stop the enemy here with our full might.

We failed.

The fighting was protracted and bitter. The siege took on a new level of intensity, the enemy staging attacks with waves of troops, sometimes lasting days on end. The undead and demons, ancestrals and elements, needing no rest, needing no food… our troops were driven to collapse, and then jerked to their feet and made to fight until they could barely swing their weapons.

They fought well, and fought hard. But their efforts were not sufficient - not against the vast host that was arrayed against them.

The City of Souls lasted for thirteen months, but it fell.

Daetil and Lualyrr had overseen the defences, but had given strict instructions. When the outer defences fell, our people began their plan, evacuating the city. Our ritualists had prepared an item, a mighty series of runestones capable of warping the paths of magic that linked circles together. They activated the stones, creating a temporary circle inside the city, and allowing a massive exodus to begin. The civilians were dispersed to other cities, the military forces went to Spiderhaunt.

We recovered most of our forces and people, but the city was lost. Our scouting efforts were redoubled elsewhere.

Over the next two years, attacks were made on Spiderhaunt, Zaphress, The Bizarre and Dyar'Turic. All fell after a siege comprised of all four of our enemies. Lacking the advance notice we had at the City of Souls, none were as well prepared, and none lasted as long. They fought, and fought bravely - but bravery is not enough to turn the tides of war except at the most fortunate of nexi. We fell back, adding to the defences of the other cities with breakneck speed. Our training cadres worked harder and harder, pushing out troops and warriors with all haste. Veldrinshaar was next to fall, and then the mighty fortress of Maerimyn. Long that siege lasted - yet in time, the walls were compromised, the enemy entered the city, and once more we were forced from our homes. It was about this time that we first began to receive reports of a force of creatures at the rear of the attacking army - looking like a command group or headquarters. Attempts to find more information were not successful.

Trentarus fell the year after that, Tol Galen barely eight months later - despite all the new fortifications we had built. With every city that fell, we recovered most of the troops - not wanting to leave ANY of our people behind, and we bolstered all the other cities with a share of the recovered forces… yet with every city that fell, the enemy was freed up of an army that had previously lain siege. The curves went up in tandem, but always the enemy seemed ahead of us. Only the fact that we had the advantage of earthworks, walls and planned defences let us keep the enemy at bay as long as we did.

Jexxerek, Hetchen and De'Chenza fell in the next two years, as the enemy swept up the eastern flank of the Underdark. Nakiga was ignored for some reason - but cut off and left to wither on the vine. Fully half of our cities lay in enemy hands by the end of the nine hundredth and sixty-sixth year, with the rest packed to bursting with refugees and troops. It was in this year that things took a turn for the worse, something we had not thought possible.

The Attacks on the Ancestors and Archons at Do’Bluth

The attack on Do’Bluth at the start of the new year was not unexpected. In fact it was fairly obvious that the enemy was sweeping round in an arc, herding all of our military and civilian population into an ever small number of cities. We guessed that in the end we would be encircled, our entire race gathered in Telantiwar, gathered ready for a final battle and then… well. I'm not sure we would stand to be captured as a race, but such things are easy to speak of when it is an abstract discussion, quite another matter when the enemy stares you in the face.

But still, the attack on Do’Bluth, when it came, was expected. What was not expected was that the enemy was gathered around the city, not far out of range of the most skilled archers - and then they waited. Teams of Daemons, those we had tentatively identified as belonging to the clan or hierarchy that were experts in magic, began to draw runes on the rocks and earth, huge runes, easily ten paces to a side. Metal was heated in portable forges, bought forth by straining earth elementals. Groups of fire elementals gathered at the bases, heating them until the air shimmered around them, before the metal was poured into the carvings, great gouts of steam rising up quickly as the metal met wet ground.

The carvings of the runes took nearly eleven days, but at the end of that time, the Daemons gathered again, conducting some form of rite or ritual around them. A host of undead troops, the expendable and stupid masses, screened them, preventing a quick sally to disrupt them - though we had orders against this kind of foolhardy endeavour. The rites continued for hours without apparent effect, until suddenly a figure appeared at the nexus of the runes. Those of faith on the walls recognised the figure as an Archon of Guanadaur, an Ancestor followed by few of our people, mostly those from the first age, who remembered the ways of the surface. The Archon was surrounded by the undead, kept in place, while another rite was begun.

The Archon seemed confused at first, casting about aimlessly, as if it did not know how it had been summoned or why. It approached the troops, but shied away when it was obvious they would engage it in combat. The rite continued, and this time was much shorter. After perhaps only a thousand heartbeats, a black cloud seemed to form over the Archon, coalescing out of the air. At this the Archon became agitated, and quickly then to angered. It started to lash out at the troops, it's great blade glowing with ancestral power, cleaving away troops with each mighty swing of it's blade. Yet more of the mindless undead pressed in from the rear ranks, hemming it in, preventing it from escaping. The black smoke of the cloud seemed to grow thicker and somehow more Malevolent, as if great evil was at work. The Archon grew ever more furious, engaging the enemy with abandon and casting bolts of power at anything it could reach. The ever growing pile of corpses around it gave testament to it's power and the indisputable fact that it was a direct messenger from the Ancestors - no mortal creature could wield that much power so quickly.

The smoke grew thicker still - and then the Archon seemed to shudder, as if a great spasm had struck at its very core. The bolts of power ceased, the sword dropped to the ground, it's muted clatter just audible from the walls. The Archon slumped to it's knees, as if weary or fatigued. This must have been a sign, as quickly the host fell upon it, swords and maces rising like threshing blades, quickly rending it to pieces, where before their mundane weapons had done nothing but irritate it. A great scream penetrated the air, sending an ill feeling through the guards on the walls - but that was as nothing compared to the effect that the last blows were to have. As the figure finally fell beneath the assault, a scream erupted from the mouths of guards and warriors all up and down the wall. One in six of our troops, those who followed the Ancestors in some way or another, fell to the ground, clutching their heads as they howled in pain. The effect lasted only a few moments, but shook our forces to their cores. Even those who did not follow the Ancestors devoutly understood that something grim had occurred.

Those of faith, whether for battle or mercy, no matter which Ancestor or Aspect they worshipped, all felt the same psychic pain, the same ripping at their pattern, as part of their power had been siphoned off. The Archon had been killed, and somehow, part of the Ancestor along with it.

Our attention was drawn to the scene of the rite. A group of skeletons had grabbed the body under the direction of one of the wraiths or wights, and were slowly carrying it towards the main city gate. Unarmed. Commands were sent to hold fire, and they approached ever closer, carrying the corpse awkwardly between them. They dropped it about 30 paces from the gate, turned on their heels and then marched back to their lines, where they waited. The Daemons began to perform another rite, and the rest of the enemy army just stood in line. Waiting.

It was decided to send a scout out to examine the body, and when he returned he had troubling news. The body - what was left of it - appeared to be like any other. It bled, it appeared to be an elf. It was…. normal. At first we didn't grasp the significance of this. We'd seen people die before, after all. But, slowly it sunk in. The Archon, when slain, should have returned to the plane of the Ancestors. But it hadn't. It's apparently mortal form was here, still in the Underdark. Bleeding, like one of us.

The scout went back out and dragged the body closer to the gate. Fearful that it was toxic or contained a poison, the commander of the defences refused to let it enter the city. Priests and scholars crouched around it, examining it carefully, with furtive glances towards the waiting enemy. For an hour they examined the body, testing it, casting their magics upon it, trying to determine what had happened. We learnt much, but it was mostly information that we did not want to know, or rather feared if it was so. Whatever the black cloud had done, had struck at the very being of the Archon. It had stripped it's essence from it, somehow afflicting it with mortality. It was still an Archon - still a symbol of faith and the direct manifestation of the will of the Ancestor Guanadaur. But now it was mortal. And when it was slain, it did not return to the side of it's patron. It went… elsewhere. Somewhere dark and unknown. And along with it, went a portion of it's patron's power.

The Slaying of the Ancestors

Our enemy had learnt how to kill our Ancestors, slowly chipping away at their power, striking them even on their home plane.

A report was sent back to us here at the capital, with all the information that had been learnt and observed. News came in later, that the rites were continuing. Other Archons had been summoned, messengers of other faiths. Their fates were all the same. And with every death, the effect rippled through the city. Those of faith felt their patterns being plucked, pulled at and disrupted. Part of their power was sucked from them, being replaced with a burst of pain that drove them to the ground, rendering them incapable of any rational act. If that happened during an attack, it was obvious that we would be sorely pressed. But more, the deaths struck at our morale. We had no way to stop these rites. Leaving the security of our walls would expose us to attack. We might disrupt a rite, but only at a prohibitive cost in troops, leaving the city open to assault. Without this cost, the memories and hopes of our people, the bedrock of our faith, was eroded and whittled away, and part of our culture and dreams died. The war had been turning against us, but we had retained hope - hope in our training cadre, our new weapons, our faith and desires. Now, those hopes were dashed, and a great malaise set upon us.

For three days the rites continued, until a score of Archons had been summoned and slain. The pattern remained the same for each, and every body was carried to the walls and deposited, as if to prove what the enemy could do to us.

When the attack came, the city defenders held as best they could, but their morale was shattered and their hopes crushed. The defence of the city lasted only three weeks before they had to withdraw, a broken and defeated gaggle of wild-eyed troops and listless civilians. Word quickly spread through the remaining cities, and there was nothing we could do to prevent it.

Hallow's End, Rilauven, Dyon G'ennivalz. City after city fell to the enemy. Onwards they marched, their pattern remaining the same. Our people became increasingly desperate, packed into cities like rats in a crate. It became clear that we could not face our foe on the field of battle and win - but must fight this war elsewhere. Daetil and Lualyrr began to work on a plan to strike at the head of this snake. Training and indoctrination began, working on a core of the Imperial Guard, pulling in a choice unit of veteran troops from the other legions to supplement them. The Black Hand sent troops to train with them, to lead them, to teach them every cunning trick they knew. When the next attack was under way, they would be transported in behind the enemy, approach by stealth, and launch an attack on the enemy headquarters. Carrying our most potent wards and magics, our highest blessings, and with the best troops, they may be able to carry through the attack to the enemy. But, without the support of more troops, they would quickly be cut off, encircled, and lost. This was a mission of the utmost importance to the Empire, but it would be the last mission these people ever undertook. They knew this, and they accepted it with quiet dignity. Their training intensified, the finest blade singers teaching them new tricks, sharing arcane knowledge, and drilling them mercilessly.

When the attack began at Sshamath, it was time. The unit gathered in the temple, ready to be given absolution and a last blessing before they set out to strike at our foe. Two hundred of our finest warriors, the very cream of our military strength, prepared to sell their lives for the good of the people. The priestesses moved amongst them, speaking quiet words of support, granting their personal blessings as they moved around the cadre. No fiery sermons were issued, no harsh words of vengeance or fury. We all knew they would march to their ends, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for us.

The Ancestors Intervene

So it was with surprise when the leader of the strike team, Commander Tas'keli stood up from his prayers, took off his weapons and laid them on the ground, and with a lilting voice at odds with his large and muscular frame said "I will not go and do this thing. It must not happen."

Confusion rippled through the room, his troops looking at each other in confusion, the priestesses standing with mouths open, stopped mid-chant. Slowly, every person in the room became aware of a mounting energy. Hair stood on end, slowly rising from the scalp, and the neck tingled as if a breeze blew from an unknown source.

His two sub-commanders rose, also dropped their weapons and stood by his side. "She is right, you must not strike him down," said one, "He has many followers, much knowledge. Many who revere him," said the other. We noticed that there was a glow to their eyes, a radiance from deep within.

More and more of the troopers stood, dropping their weapons and joining ranks. Each of them spoke with a new voice, some male, some female, some… just different. They told us that this must not happen, that the enemy must not die. For if he did, then he would ascend to the plane of the Ancestors, unstoppable by us. And once there, feeding on the power of the prayers from the thousands who worshipped him deep in the darkness below us, he would have the power to strike at the other Ancestors directly. To carry out his threat to kill them all, one by one, using his great knowledge.

We must find another way.

The troops collapsed, drained and wearied by the possession of the Ancestors. Each of them spoke of their ordeal, and it was clear that they had been touched by aspects of all faiths. The entire Pantheon was united in it's wishes - it was made clear to us in no uncertain terms.

We looked for another way.

We were still looking three months later, when Sshamath fell. When the enemy turned, and began their journey to Telantiwar. When we were the last bastion, the last enclave, the last vestige of power and remnant of our Empire. Every one of our people was crammed into the city, but the mood was far different to that of the Great Prayer. Where there was hope, now there was hopelessness. Where there was anticipation, now there was dread. Our walls bristled with troops, our entire remaining military forces crammed into this city. But we also knew how big the enemy army was, and how many thousands of creatures were soon to face us. We waited, in the darkness, making what preparations we could. Food and water were guarded and rationed, raiding parties made last attempts to gather supplies. Forges worked night and day to repair, replace and upgrade equipment. Storehouses were emptied and supply caches drained. This would be our final hour - there was nothing left in reserve, because there could be nothing to hold out to. If we did not succeed here, then we would fall and be forgotten by history.

The Siege of Telantiwar

It was the very start of the year Nine Hundred and Seventy when the enemy appeared around our city. Appeared like cockroaches, pouring out of the tunnels, moving towards us like a great swarm, slowly spreading around the city, encircling the walls and blocking us in. Legion after legion marched in, units mixed together in places, discrete in others. It took the better part of a day for them to arrive and take formation, so vast were their numbers. Eventually though, they were all here. By our count there were perhaps fifteen thousand trained military standing to the walls, and perhaps another twenty thousand civilians in hastily trained militia, ready to be used where needed. Arrayed against us was over a hundred thousand enemy. Elementals of all kinds, Daemons from the four clans. Ancestral beings of light, dark and grey. Unliving of all types and powers. And there, at the back, emerging with a small honour guard, was the enemy. Over the day they set up their camp, a number of pavilions erected and much activity took place there. Soon enough, from the rear, the forges were bought forward, and the runesmiths began their craft.

It went on for days. Archons, Avatars, Scions of Faith. The summonings pulled them here, the rites were performed, they became mortal, and they died. The backlash of power washed over the city, striking down our folk. For the first time we, the Council felt the pain of our people directly, understood the depths of the torment. But we also witnessed it's effects first hand as well. Our observers got to see the enemy in full array, and we saw that the effects were indiscriminate. The power of the death affected the enemy's Ancestral troops too, sending them reeling in pain and agony. It became clear to us why the enemy did not attack during this time. With many of the Daemons engaged in the rites, and the Ancestrals affected as much as we, nearly half of the Guardian's army was affected or involved. His elementals and undead were ready - but if they attacked we would be on nearly even terms - and with the advantage of the defences would extract a grievous price from them. We took some solace in that, hollow as it was. While the enemy was killing our Ancestors and sapping our will - they were not killing us. It still left a bitter taste in our mouth though.

It was on the third day of the rites that a messenger was announced at the chambers. Most of the council was there already, only Daetil and Lualyrr being with the troops, along with various aides, myself included. We received word that we were required to attend the chambers, at once, on a matter of utmost urgency. With conditions being as they were, we immediately set off for the chambers, curious to know what could be so important, and hoping against all experience that it was good news for a change.

When we arrived, there was a scholar standing on the Star, waiting impatiently. He looked somehow slovenly, and slightly unkempt, despite being as far I could determine, quite clean. Maybe it was the traces of ink stains on his fingers… but anyway, he waited while Daetil and Lualyrr took their seats, at which point Empress Briza nodded to him to begin.

Banlaethor Aryvandaar steps forward

Apologies, dear reader. Here I must take my most careful precautions, to preserve this knowledge.

”Empress, Noble Councillors, I greet you. I am Banlaethor Aryvandaar, scholar of the third order, attendant to the college of arcane knowledge and…"

His voice trailed off as the Empress took in a deep breath and her fingers began to tap on the armrest of her seat. His swallow was evident, and a small bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. When he resumed speaking his voice cracked somewhat, but he dispensed with further recitation of his formal titles and position.

"Empress. I know the identity of the enemy. I was studying the rite the Daemons were carrying out, using a spyglass from a position at the top of the third temple. As I was watching, and dictating my observations, a chance opening in the movement of the legions allowed me clear view into the headquarters tent to the rear. And, for a moment only, I saw the enemy general, sitting on his throne."

He stopped speaking, his tongue wetting his lips which had become unaccountably dry. Glancing around, I could see that all of the Council were leaning in, fascinated to know.

"Although I saw him for only a moment, before the troops shifted again, I am certain, absolutely certain, of his identity. He is Ka'ruil Na-Sar Aryvandaar - my grandfather."

A ripple coursed around the chambers, and we were all stunned. Silence… not a word, not a movement, not even the sounds of breathing, for a few moments, then bedlam.

The Empress called for quiet, then rapped her knuckles on the armrest of the throne, both going unheeded as the other Councillors surged to their feet and started asking, then shouting questions at the hapless scholar. The Empress signalled to a guard, and a moment later a loud horn blast echoed through the chamber, cutting through the shouted questions and other noise like a sharp knife.

"Better. Now, be quiet, let the man speak. I will recognise each of you in turn to ask your questions. First - Kalaera. Speak, or ask your questions."

I wrote furiously, trying to keep up with the barrage of questions, attempting to record all of the pertinent information as Banlaethor was interrogated.

”Ka'ruil was an old elf, from the first founding. Even amongst those of the first born, he was old. The tales told in his clan histories was that he was born before the appearance of time upon our world, along with the other great elves such as Corelleon, Lothiriel, Inluki… Son of Annael Aryvandaar, he who discovered the existence of the Underdark, he was a noted explorer in his own right.

Like many of the other first born, he was a practitioner of magic, being adept at changing the world to his will and manipulating the elements. He had travelled widely across the land, visiting many clans and delving deep into his study of the Void. He had worked with Lyandr, on researching a cure to the disease that blighted us, before organising a great expedition to the depths, far under the surface of the world to search for more information. Decades he spent delving the mysteries, before returning. It was he that bought us much of the information about the Underdark, before the great sundering.

The histories of the clan also tell of a great ritual he attempted in the year Thirteen Hundred and Eight - a ritual that went horribly wrong. Working at a great sinkhole of power, a raging torrent linked to the deeper powers of the world, he gathered his followers and scholars around him and began an ancient litany - that undertaken by Lothiriel herself many years ago. Barely a hundred heartbeats into the ritual, a massive tremor shook the land, driving a cleft straight through the middle of the gathering that were shaping the power of this ritual. The energies dissipated as people were thrown about the land, and massive flares of power erupted into the air. For a moment, it seemed as if a ghostly claw, scaly and large enough to grasp a house appeared, reaching for Ka'ruil, before it faded into mist and was gone. As the power vanished it became apparent that none were lost - but it was seen as a sign or portent that the ritual should not go ahead.

Over the next two hundred and fifty or so years, Ka'ruil had argued at length against the study of incantation, seeing it as lesser magic and a twisting of true power. Eventually so it seemed, he decided that he would no longer stay with us while we used this power, and led an expedition of like-minded folk away to begin a new life, away from the corruption of Incantation. It seemed that he had descended far into the darkness, and has been busy, since then.”

We turned to Kalaera, looking for more information, and confirmation on what we had heard about Ka'ruil. She flustered for a moment, obviously shocked that a member of her Clan, indeed her Royal House, was the one threatening our entire way of life.

The Empress stood then, decreeing that all records of House Aryvandaar were to be opened, and available for investigation. She nodded at Eilistraee, who gave a small bow of her head in acknowledgement of that unspoken command, and turned to her scribe to begin whispering orders.

Why our enemy had taken so long to return to us, we still did not know. What exactly his plan was - we were still unsure. But now we had a name, and a face to our enemy. An idea of his potential power, his history, and possibly some idea of his motivations.

Banlaethor was taken from the chamber to a waiting room, and provided with sustenance and a place to recover from the questioning, while the Council discussed the information. For hours we wrestled with the information, occasionally stopping to recover from the pulses of pain as another Archon was slain.

Members of his clan were bought in to corroborate evidence and give more information on the history we had learnt of. Slowly a better picture appeared, confirming and adding detail to the brief review we had been given.

We knew our enemy, and what he wanted. To slay the Ancestors, to return us all to the ways of Spellcasting, then to gather up our people and hatch the egg.

We knew his name and clan, had relatives and entries from his diaries, notes from lessons he had taught, details of experiments.

We knew that we could not kill him, for if he ascended to the Ancestral plane, he would take his war there, prosecuting his attack with no limitations.

So - what were we to do? We discussed plans and theories late that night, and on early into the next morning. We felt the pressure of time, slipping away from us as more and more blasts of pain and death washed over the city.

In the end, it was that nervous and uncertain scholar that provided the answer we chose.

Banlaethor asked to approach the Council, and was shown in by the guards. He was about to speak, when another blast of power washed over us, stripping yet more power from those who followed the path of the Ancestors, striking them down. It only served to put the meeting in the proper context…

"Empress, Honoured Councillors", he nodded to us respectfully, but he also seemed much less nervous now, much less afraid. "I come to you with a proposal, a way that we might yet seek an answer. I have long studied the arcane lore and ways of transportation, the mysteries of the circles that exist throughout this world. I believe that it would be possible to summon our enemy to us - to pluck him through the Void, using the power of the circles. We could grab him, now we know who he is, and bring him here, against his will, and his armies would be powerless to prevent it. Once he was at our mercy in a circle, we could slay him and be done with it, and the war would be over! With their controller gone, the makeup of his army should doom him, as they will soon turn to fighting amongst themselves!"

I would have expected him to look pleased with this announcement, to be at least a little triumphant with his plan. But he did not, not at all. I whispered my observation into the lord's ear, and he glanced at me and nodded in agreement.

Kalaera had looked up, somewhat sadly, while we briefly spoke, and had shaken her head at him. "I'm afraid not, young Banlaethor. What we say now is secret, and must not be spoken of widely. We cannot slay our enemy - if he dies, worshipped as he is by his followers, then he will ascend to the Planes of the Ancestors, and continue his war upon them there." She looked at the scholar with pity, as his shoulders slumped, but others also looked, and with concern - for we also saw a sigh of relief. Clearly there was something he was holding back.

Lualyrr spoke up, "Tell us more of how this might have been done. Perhaps there is some other way…"

With a gulp, Banlaethor outlined his plan, detailing the magical formula that would summon a being to another place, how to defeat magical anchors and wards, how to attune it to a specific person. It soon became clear that a link, a material likeness in some way to the target was required.

"So. This link. Blood - the blood of a son, or daughter. Or…. grandson. Would that be sufficient? asked Lualyrr.

Banlaethor nodded, mutely.

"And. I take it from your expression, and your demeanour - that a certain quantity is required, and that this is a rather large, and fatal amount to be donated?"

Again he nodded. Understanding dawned on the other members of the Council, and they looked at the scholar with new-found respect.

"And if we found a way to deal with him. A way to render him powerless, but without death. A way in which we would still need to perform this ritual. Would you still offer your services?"

Another gulp. A deep breath. He raised his head and looked at Lualyrr, square in the eye. "Yes, Honoured Councillor."

"Oh no. In this, it is I who am Honoured." He stood and walked over to the scholar, who stood trembling slightly. A hand was lain gently on his shoulder, another touched him gently under the chin, raising his head, making him stand tall. "This is a sacrifice indeed. A brave act, and a selfless one. An act that could save an Empire and it's legacy. If you are willing to carry out this task, this sacrifice, then it is we who are honoured by your gift to us all." He released him and returned to his seat, glancing around at the other leaders of the great Clans. They nodded at him with approval, and again at Banleathor, letting their approval and respect for him show clearly.

He was taken back to his waiting chamber, and placed under guard. It was made clear to the Captain that nothing must happen to him - no accident, no contact, nothing that could endanger the plan.

We sent for the masters of our crafts, our most skilled sages, spellcasters, incantors, Daemonologists, chanellers, smiths… in fact any that knew of lore or skills that could prove useful.

They packed into the chamber, more and more of them, until it was quite full. Fully four score of our most learned and skilled masters, came to listen to the Council and it's proposal.

The Empress explained…

Summoning the Guardian

"We have a way, the details of which you do not need to concern yourself with, to summon the General of the army that tasks us currently. We can summon him so that he appears in the great circle of magic, here in the city. When he is summoned, we must not slay him - again, you do not need to know why. But, we must incapacitate him, cut him off from the world, and from his source of power. Cut him off from his troops, as if he were dead. He must be isolated from everything and anything. We must be able to hold him in this state - for as long as is needed, until we can determine what must be done with him. This will require great lore and skill - but this is your task. You have until evening prayers to discuss and decide upon a plan, whence we will return to approve it."

The Empress stood, and dismissed the session, then swept out of the room, the Councillors following, leaving behind eighty very startled and worried loremasters.

When we returned, several hours later, it was to a scene of bedlam. Clearly runners had been sent out for supplies and materials. Hanging from the walls and the backs of thrones were sheets of parchment, covered in runes and complex formula. Scattered across the floor were models of various kinds, and more sheets of drawings and complex scripts. There were only perhaps half of the people remaining that had been summoned, so some sort of winnowing or selection process had clearly taken place.

Clusters of the loremasters were at work in various places, discussing matters in arcane languages, gesticulating wildly, scribbling down page after page of magical runes and assembling ever more complex models from small parts. At first they did not notice our return, so engrossed were they with the work. But gradually, they fell silent, ceasing their discussions, and looking up at the Empress and her Council.

We retook our positions, having to tread carefully indeed to avoid stepping on the work scattered around the room. After we were all seated, the Empress cocked her head and spoke to the assembled mass.

"So. Do we have an answer to our troubles?"

The scholars looked at each other for a moment, before one of them stepped forwards, carefully standing astride a collection of bound pieces of stone, wood and metal. A swarthy man with hair of burnished silver, flecked with black, and bushy eyebrows framing sunken eyes of deep violet. Wearing a sleeveless jerkin, his massive physique was obvious.

"Empress. We have indeed. We have discussed much, and have a plan that will work. If I may explain to you?"

He waited for her to nod, before moving to one side and grasping at one of the models on the floor, carefully lifting it up to show us, with a delicacy that defied his build. "We will construct a prison, a magical tomb to encase this enemy. It will consist of wards attuned to his being and knowledge, designed to shield and defend us against his power, and to cut off that power from it's source." He pointed to parts of the model as he spoke, and also to sheets of parchment held up by people from the various groups around the room. "At it's simplest, the prison consists of four obsidian columns, carved with runes of power and magically strengthened and augmented with our most powerful supportive wards. We will use our knowledge of stones and gems to augment the structure of these pillars, rendering them immune to almost any damage. From this base we will construct four wards of great power."

He set the model aside, and selected a sheet of paper, showing four squares, linked with lines of power, the page being covered in the most obscure and complex notes I had seen for many years.

A podgy finger traced the first line. "The inner ward will be a ward of unlife. It will deny him the barrier to death, or undeath. If we must prevent his death for some reason, then this barrier will stop his pattern carrying over to the planes beyond ours. With it in place he cannot leave here, and continue his war elsewhere."

The finger moved to the second line. "The second ward will be a ward of spellcraft. It will drain those inside it of power, constantly siphoning off their energies and using it to keep the wards active. It acts as a barrier to the powers of magic, preventing the flow of magical power across the barrier in either direction. Once inside with the ward raised, he could not be summoned outside, nor cast any magics at all."

The third line was traced next. "The third ward is one of faith. Tempered by the Priests and Priestesses it cuts off the enemy from the power of the Ancestors, and also their sight and will. While it holds, the powers of Faith cannot exist inside, and it will go unnoticed and untouched.

The final series of lines was highlighted. "The fourth ward is one of elemental power. This ward will seal the prison away from the base magics of creation, using their power to shield the whole construction from the ravages of the sixteen great weaves."

He handed over the parchment to another sturdy looking fellow, then turned back to the Empress. "What you have asked us for, is complex and difficult. We can make it, but it will take us a month, perhaps more, to complete. I am sorry, My Empress, but I do not think we can do it in less, no matter how hard we try. It must be done right, and the first time, else we will have to begin again. We can not afford a single mistake." He stood in silence, awaiting a response.

The Empress looked over to Daetil, and raised an eyebrow.

"A month he needs. Can you grant him this?"

"Yes Empress. One way or another… we will give him this time, no matter what it costs us".

The session was closed and the crowd of loremasters were sent to begin their work. A decree was soon circulated around the city. Any request they made for materials or aid was to be granted immediately, with no argument or dissention. Any resistance was punishable by death. Later that night, when the Council gathered again, we spoke at length about our plans for the coming month. One statement in particular stands in my mind - when the Empress was asked about leaving the lore masters alone to solve the problem.

"If you want something doing, then don't let people know it's impossible, but let them know their lives depend on getting it done. It's amazing what a motivational agent that can be…"

True words, it seems.

The Great Sacrifice of the Ancestors

Daetil and Lualyrr went to address the troops, trying to spread what news they could reveal, bolstering their flagging morale. It shamed me, us, all of us, I think - but once more we found ourselves hoping inside that the summoning and diminishment of our Ancestors might continue just a little longer, so that we might have time to prepare. All we needed was a little time.

For two more days the slayings went on, as Avatar after Avatar was summoned and ritually altered, then slain, torn to pieces by the waiting mob. Our Priestesses and Priests were under constant assault, finding the death screams of the Ancestors particularly harrowing, and several of them had to be drugged or restrained, so maddened did they become. They also realised that the rituals were quickening, taking less and less time to complete. Faced with the apparent death of those they revered so much, people's faith was wavering, and their prayers were becoming less devout. Every passing day weakened the Pantheon, and every show of weakness shook the people's faith. The longer this went on, the faster the circle would tighten, like a noose around our throats.

We broke the cycle with a sally from the city. The war commander realised that she had to do something, else the slayings would accelerate out of control, and we would be robbed of not only a weapon to use against our foe, but also the heart and soul of our people. Daetil commanded a fast platoon of scouts to be ready by the west gate, when the rituals next began.

As the Daemons gathered, we sallied, the scouts marching at double time out to meet them. The enemy began to move in response, large blocks of creatures advancing to meet them. As the scouts entered extreme bow range, they unleashed a volley of bolts at the Daemons - few were hits at that distance, but those hit screamed with unholy pain as the poisons went to work, frothing and lashing about themselves. The scouts turned on their heels and sprinted for the gates, strongly pursued by the enemy. They made it back to the gates handily, and a barrage of bolts from the wall mounted defences stopped the enemy cold. The ritual was disrupted, at least for now.

Four times the pattern was repeated, and each time the pursuers got closer and closer as our troops tired and their stamina was tested. The fifth time, the last squad was run into the ground, and slain without mercy, just outside of the gates. The sixth time, it cost us half of the platoon. I hurried down to the gates, to meet up with Daetil and Lualyrr, and see what was going to happen next. When I arrived, the gate area was crowded with troops, listening to their war commander. The scouts stood nearby, obviously saddened and mourning the loss of their comrades, but standing proud for the losses they had managed to inflict - both in terms of troops slain and time lost. As I listened, I heard the Commander issuing orders to blocks of troops, who marched away from the gate plaza, and hid themselves in the buildings around the edge of the cobbled square. More troops fed into the square, and were dispatched to hiding places, secreting themselves in every doorway, behind every window, sheltering behind every wall. Soon the square was deserted apart from a few squads of warriors armed with sword and shield. Not being of a military persuasion, I missed the difference between them and the other troops - at least until Lord Lualyrr pointed it out. All of them were clad in heavy armour - very heavy armour. Looking closely, I could see a faint ripple and swirl in the air around them, a sure sign of enchantment.

I was disturbed from my survey by a shout from a lookout on the wall, keeping watch on the enemy with his spyglass.

"Commander! Ritual preparations, third quadrant, standard formation. Estimate three hundred heartbeats until start."

Daetil turned to the scouts and walked along their lines, exchanging a few words with each of them, clasping arms, patting shoulders. I could see them all practicing their breathing exercises, taking in long slow breaths and holding with their chests inflated, then letting the breath out in a series of short pants… some way of holding in the essence of air, or so I was told. They began to sway from side to side, stretching muscles, working their leg joints - it almost looked like a dance, where it not for the wickedly cruel blades.

At the next cry from the lookout, they sauntered over to the gate, and took up positions against the portcullis, standing ready. Daetil had moved inside the gatehouse, presumably to speak with those guards tasked with opening the mighty barrier.

Another shout, a rattle of chains and a creaking of wood, and the mighty bastion opened, and the scouts loped out at a ground devouring pace, breathing deeply, their arms swinging in huge arcs by their side, straight towards the enemy formations. Already I could see the enemy moving to intercept.

"Clear the square, except for the Anvil. Everyone out, now!" called Daetil. She took a last look around, then strode off quickly, heading towards the centre of the city, with her scribes and runners, following closely behind. Lord Lualyrr and I moved swiftly, keeping up only with effort. We went perhaps a hundred yards, before turning into a small temple and climbing to the top of the bell tower.

From our vantage point, we could see the scouts, having struck were fleeing back to the walls with all haste. In close pursuit the enemy followed, on their heels like a pack of baying hounds. I could see Daetil leaning against the parapet, her knuckles white with tension, leaning so far forward I had fears that she might fall. A scout fell, caught by the questing blades of the force of elemental and ancestral creatures. Then another, a third. The scouts were running for all they were worth, knowing that only death awaited them - but they had sprinted for their lives all day, and their energy was not without limit.

I heard a soft moan as three of the scouts went down almost together, and looked at our War Commander. So intent was she on the chase, that I do not think she was even aware of having made a sound. The scouts ran, the enemy followed, the distance closed. One by one, the scouts were caught and taken down, until only a handful remained, the front runners. Even they were struggling, the distance between them and the foe dropping with every passing second. With a last burst of effort they made it to the gate. But… so did the enemy. Before the gates were shut, the first line of elementals crashed into it, forcing it fully open with the impact from their bodies. Another gasp, this time from my own mouth, and I looked with fear at the situation. More and more of the enemy forced their way into the tunnel under the gatehouse, being pelted with rocks and other missiles - but not enough. They broke through into the square, an angry boiling mob of fire and wind and water and earth, like an elemental tsunami. The only thing standing in their way was the unit of troops in armour, who had deployed into a shield wall, legs set wide and dipped towards the foe. The advancing enemy washed against them, and I expected to see them thrown hither and thither, smashed away by their power - but it was not to be. They stood, like a rock, and I suddenly had an inkling of what Daetil was up to. The elementals smashed into that shield wall and stopped dead - in many cases quite literally. It must have been like one of us running into a cavern wall at full speed. The incessant pressure from those behind prevented the front rank from slowing to defend themselves, or even to attack with skill. They were pushed forwards onto the waiting blades, and were run through with no mercy. Looking up, another breath caught in my mouth - the enemy was moving. Like a massive swarm of insects, the area outside the city seethed with bodies as they moved in columns to the gate. All efforts at the ritual area seem to have ceased and Daemons were running around collecting equipment and forming up.

"Wait….. wait…… wait……and, now, I think." As soon as Daetil's mouth had formed the beginning of the "now", her aide was waving a bright red flag over the parapet. Almost instantly a horn was blown, the deep note echoing through the buildings and stonework. With a deep throaty roar, the hundreds of troops that had lain hidden, unresponsive to the assault, burst from their concealment and drove headlong into the enemy. Their fury was a sight to behold, as they avenged the loss of their lightly armed brethren and the insults to our Empire. A hammer to match the Anvil, they swept into the square and caught the enemy in their flanks and rear, smashing through the attack, destroying it utterly in short order. A second horn blast, and the troops cleared the gateway, making room for broad shouldered wardens to push the mighty gates back shut, dropping the bars and locks into place, before retiring back to the gate houses. The enemy was still in movement, the whole army having started their assault, thinking that we had let the gate be carried by sentimentality. It took hours for them to return to positions, hours that earned us a much needed respite.

And so it was for weeks. Stratagems and ruses, feints and bluffs. Suicidal charges, diversions and insane risks, taken by those with no choice but to play the cards Fate had given us. By the end of that time, Daetil and Lualyrr, both of them slender to begin with, were gaunt and emaciated, having pushed themselves as hard as the troops in the defence of the city.

The Ritual to imprison the foe

And then, the work was done. A great ritual was prepared, and Banleathor was bought from his place of isolation, surrounded by guards. It looked as though he had shed tears not long ago, but held his head high and walked with dignity as he strode into the circle.

The seal was raised, the chants begun. The seer told of the darkness, and gesturing to Banleathor, told of the coming of the light, to banish the darkness. He lifted the model of the prison, first shown to us those weeks ago, and told of the box, created to trap the darkness. He moved a burning taper around the circle, lighting the candles held by those gifting power, until a sea of flames flickered around him. They began their movements, like a carefully constructed waltz, herding a figure clad in black ever closer to the box. Slowly he was trapped, forced into a smaller and smaller area, pushed back to the very mouth of the model. With a shriek, the figure in black pulled out a serrated blade from under his robe, and thrust it into the chest of Banleathor, sending the steel through his heart, cutting out his chakra and holding it aloft. Blood fountained up from the body, spurting around the circle, and we could see many of those involved shying away. The air rippled with power, the forces of those outside our world reacting to the spilling of innocent blood in the place of dreams, and we saw the gritted teeth as the seer struggled to control the energies. With a shimmer the air distorted, and suddenly standing next to the figure in black was our foe - standing with mouth agape, obviously surprised. In his hand was a quill, dripping with ink, and in the other was a sheet of parchment.

With a flourish the figure cast off his dark cloak, and threw it over the head of the Guardian, temporarily blinding him. He dropped to one knee, the other leg braced on the ground, and with an explosive effort punched with all of his might, his mailed fist descending slightly and striking the Guardian in his groin. The dull thud was like a butcher's cleaver as it sunk into the flesh of a beast, and I saw people flinch from the corner of my eye.

The black figure rose, and rocked back a few steps, then ran forwards, rising into the air with a jump and flying like a spear towards the foe, carrying him backwards with the force of the impact. Back, back, over the threshold and into the waiting prison. The chanting rose to fever pitch and the seer scattered incense into the air, waving sigil-covered wands in complex motions. In moments, it was done, and the stones hummed with power, the runes lighting up in white. The seer channelled the last of the power into the stones, and dropped the seal.

We had summoned the Guardian, and captured him in our prison. Now we waited to see what would happen to his army.

Within minutes, runners had arrived at the circle from all quarters of the city. The enemy - was gone. Not left, not leaving - just gone. Disappeared through the white pillars just as fast as they had arrived. Minutes later more messengers arrived. The pillars had sunk into the ground, leaving no trace behind. The entire enemy force - just gone. It felt almost cruel. We didn't even know if we had won, or if the enemy would be back.

It took us the best part of the next three years to re-colonise our Empire, expanding slowly at first, reclaiming city after empty city, spreading our military out to protect our folk, restocking and laying in supplies in case they returned. The people were busy during that time - reclaiming land lost during the attacks, driving back the Troglodytes and other creatures of the caves, rebuilding roads and walls, replanting fields of fungi, clearing brackish wells.

We were not idle either. We interrogated the Guardian and learnt much of his story.

Ka'ruil Na-sar Aryvandaar

Born Ka'ruil Na-sar Aryvandaar, he was nearly four thousand years old, and it appeared, quite mad. Not mad in a drooling and unable to dress himself way, but mad as in driven by a spark of insane passion that excluded all other ideas. He was amiable enough, talking with us through the wards, and did not appear to hide or dissemble information. He seemed to accept his capture as only the most minor of setbacks, and a transient inconvenience. After a year of interrogation, we had all that we could learn from him, and our worst fears were realised. If we slew him, it was almost certain he would ascend, becoming much as the other Ancestors were, with great power. But, with the ritual knowledge he had learned from his extensive journeying, he would begin to alter and reshape the world with that power, affecting the flow and balance of things, and wreak untold havoc. If we could not slay him, then we must keep him - in this prison - forever.

We learnt of his early life from talking with him. Of the time spent researching the great aging effect that had troubled the Elves, way before the sundering. We learnt of his time working with Lyandr before he became impatient and demanding, secretive and withdrawn. We learnt of his journey deep underground, first with his father Annael, and later with himself as the leader of the expedition, questing and searching for lore and information on how to combat the problem. We listened to his tales as he described finding the Deepdark and the many odd, exotic and dangerous creatures there, of finding new civilisations and creatures, travellers from other worlds and planes.

We listened with wonder of his tales of finding a source of massive power, far below what we could even dream of, below the Deepdark. Of finding an Avatar of the Great Dragon, of being filled with Purpose and reminded of the role that the old ones were meant to play. The stories woven of the Elves, Fey, Ologs and Dwarves, guardians of the Egg. Of the fall and loss of purpose, of a being yet to be. Of a deep and pressing need to serve, and to carry out this most ancient demand.

This had been in the year Thirteen Hundred and Three by the old calendar, but when Ka'ruil had returned to the surface, he found that the people were changing and not in a way that would support his plan. With every generation the desire to fulfil their purpose grew weaker, and with every passing year more turned to the worship of the Ancestors rather than the wielding of enchantments, and they grew ever more distracted by their own lives and affairs rather than that of the Great Dragon.

After two hundred years of trying to change the system from within, Ka'ruil despaired, and gathering a number of the people who supported his view of the world, lead them deep underground, questing to find again that great source of power with which to carry out what he saw as his duty.

Turning their backs on the following of dead Elves, they renounced the powers of Incantation, embraced the powers of magic and quested deep into the darkness below. Word eventually reached him of the powers of Dark Incantation, the twisting of faith to the purposes of Satuun, and he vowed not to attack until his preparations were complete.

We had come to his attention when we first fled to the Underdark, and he had gradually learnt of the Sundering and the great rift that had arisen between the elder races. With the death of so many of the first born, his resolve had hardened, and he increased his efforts. Subjugating the varied races and beings, he amassed power, creating an empire far below us, dedicated to his task. Entire peoples were bought under his control, such as the Korath, great rituals summoned forth pure power from the elemental planes to serve him as his army. Creatures of dark power were summoned and bound to his will, and even when many of his compatriots fell to the ravages of time, he used the knowledge he had gained to bind them beyond death and raise them as his unliving lords.

For centuries he had watched us, and waited for the time to be ripe. Apparently we were at the brink of some revolution, some turning point in our history, some great event that would bind us together and turn us into a greater threat - so he had sent forth his spies and infiltrators, and for decades had been working to turn House against House and to gather information for the coming war.

He never knew how he had failed, and we were careful not to tell him, lest in some way the information would prove useful to him. Though he had cost the lives of thousands of our people, and caused decades of torment for us, I could see that the Council and many of the elders felt for him and understood his pain, and pitied him - though that did not lessen their resolve to keep him restrained.

As one of the first born, and apparently having undergone the gazing ritual, he would be effectively immortal. As long as no external force affected him, he would remain there - forever. How we wished that the other elder-gazed had not left us, so that they might look after their wayward brother! We searched for them, but they were not to be found, anywhere within our lands, and we suspected that they had left to explore the world together.

The Cleansing Ritual, perhaps the greatest error of them all.

Debate raged amongst the council as to what to do with him, and events were crystallised in the winter of the year Nine Hundred and Sixty Seven. [It is assumed this is meant to be 977] A great alarm was raised, and the city was thrown into turmoil, when the prisoner was found to be sickening, looking for all the world as if he was at the threshold of death. His food had been tainted with a slow acting poison, apparently from one of his agents working amongst us. They sought to kill their master to free him from the prison, testing our skill and magical lore against their own. We could not take that risk. We improved our procedures, checking the guards carefully and testing all food and water bought to him. Again, the next year, we had a scare - this time one of our citizens, having lost nigh on her entire family, sought to strike at the cause of her woes. Again, the plan was thwarted, but barely.

This galvanised us into action. A debate raged in the council, that lasted for nearly a week. It would shape our Empire nearly as much as the war itself, and it raised issues that divided us deeply.

One faction was lead by Eilistraee, with Sharafia, Selvetarm, Ma'Azbiir, Liriel and Kalaera in support. The other was lead by Daetil, with Lualyrr, Kiransalee and Neeloc Raye in agreement. Malvia appeared to not favour either faction, and more and more ended up as an arbitrator, while the Empress reserved her position entirely, for some reason.

Eilistraee was of the opinion that our prisoner, and the knowledge he represented was too dangerous, and that we must take whatever steps needed to safeguard that information. She proposed that we execute a purge, a vast sweep of our Empire, seeking out all records and writings that made any reference to him, and that they be destroyed. While this was carried out, the prison would be moved to a far distant place, and buried far below us in a citadel. With a source of water present and some minimal preparations to the area to assure food growth, it would serve as a long term location for his prison to lie undisturbed. At the same time, a ritual to rival the Great Prayer would be organised, a ritual with representatives of all the Great Clans. A ritual with the sole purpose to wipe clear of our minds, all the knowledge that we had of our enemy. When this was complete, it would be as if we had never known of him. No one would remember, no one would investigate him, no one would even know where he was buried. No one would rescue him, for none would know of him, and he would be safely locked away - his knowledge with him, where he could do no damage.

Daetil and her allies felt that this was madness. Not only would we lose the information we had gained at such great cost, at such a bitter price to everyone in our Empire, but if he managed to escape somehow we would not know it, and would be ill-prepared to respond. She argued vehemently that we had escaped from our fate by the narrowest of margins this time, and we might not be so lucky next time. And, almost as important, was the question of affecting every person in our Empire, affecting every mind, wiping out memories and thoughts. People would remember that they had lost brothers and sisters, sons and daughters - but they would not know why. It was…. a dark and depressing thought, and a time of great strife.

Kiransalee supported us, I think mostly because she could not stand to be with Eilistraee - the revelation of the Daemonfey and her alliance with Sarya had caused a great enmity between them, and they barely spoke now. Neeloc Raye seemed less worried about the fate of the prisoner and more about the intrusion on the people's will and thoughts, and what untold effects it might have on them.

The debate was acrimonious and long, and we spent day after day arguing. In the end it was apparent that neither side would compromise it's beliefs or wishes. Seven of the council wished to proceed, four spoke against. Though we were outnumbered, it was not quite by enough to push the measure through.

As we approached the dawning of the new year, the debate ground to a halt. Both sides entrenched, digging their heels in, and refusing to move from their position. Absolute stalemate. Malvia strove to remain neutral, and the Empress refused to be drawn.

We broke session for the last time of the year, and went to our Houses to begin the celebrations for the turning of the new year. After the festivities and the holiday, we returned to session, where we found Sarya waiting for us, sitting on one of the chairs, her hands in her lap, composed. A dreadful feeling overcame me, as I watched Daetil and Lualyrr pause and then question her sharply.

"Under what right do you take a seat on this council, Sarya Kenefin?"

"Oh, hello there, Lualyrr. Well, I claim this seat as head of my House and Clan." I heard a gasp from behind me, but my attention was riveted upon Sarya. "You see, there's been a most unfortunate incident. A horrible accident over the festival. Most unfortunate. Poor, dear Kiransalee. She'll be missed so terribly." The sarcasm was barely disguised in her voice, and I doubt there was a single tear shed over this.

At this moment Eilistraee strode into the chamber, not even breaking stride when she saw Sarya seated. No surprise at all - she obviously knew what had gone on. The situation stank, but there was nothing we could do about it. And, looking at the smug grin on Eilistraee 's face, it was obvious where this was going.

She raised the debate again, as the first point of order. Sarya shifted to support her position, adding the weight of her House and Clan to Eilistraee's faction. It was now eight to three. The writing was clear. Malvia added his weight to their camp within minutes, shrugging and accepting the winds of fate. The Empress never did express her wishes, just acceding to the majority wish of the Council.

Over the next two years the Paladins were deployed to scour the Empire, seeking out knowledge, books, writings, scrawled notes, even pictures and paintings. They were destroyed utterly, priceless treasures burnt and destroyed, consumed by flames and lost for all time. Resistance was not tolerated, and the Paladins quickly morphed from a force that was respected and much admired to one feared and reviled. They were fanatical in their search, leaving no stone unturned, no library alone. They invaded all the inner sanctums of the Houses and Clans, regardless of position.

Treachery to Secure the Future

I write this last note now, on the eve of the ritual. I will keep the scribes working overnight to transcribe it, recording my thoughts and memories, so that some may hopefully find it in the future and learn from it. I have betrayed my Empress and the Paladins, but, I care not - for they have betrayed us all with this madness. By tomorrow not a single soul will remember the coming of the Guardian, and we will have tucked him away in a box, buried in the closet, hoping never to see him again. We trust in blind luck and faith to preserve us, after coming so close to utter defeat. We leave our children untutored and unaware of the danger they may face in the years ahead.

I cannot condone this.

I will not condone this.

I MUST act.

And so, I betray my oaths to my Lord, to support and carry out his wishes, to help him observe the commands of the Council. I betray my soul, for what I deem to be the greater good. But I have made my peace with that. I hope that time will justify my actions, but I stand by what I do now, and take solace in the fact that I have done what I believe is truly in the interest of not only our Empire, but also my House, Clan, our people and Ancestors.

The future must beware of the likes of the Guardian. But also we must beware of the excesses shown in the suppression of knowledge and people. We nearly lost our Empire because of it, and I hope we will not do so again.

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