(contact)
Explorer
50—Descent into the depths of the earth.
The party follows Shamath Ilmyrn’s directions to the crypts of Dodrian, just Southeast of Daggerdale. A series of tombs cut from the living rock, the crypts also contain an entrance into the Underdark, just above the drow city of Szith Morcane. From Szith Morcane, a great underground passage will lead the characters essentially back the way they came, until they arrive at the drow city of Maermydra, directly beneath Mistledale.
Taking this seemingly convoluted route serves two purposes. First, it is actually the most expedient, as the Underdark entrances elsewhere in the Dalelands do not give easy access onto the great passage leading to Maermydra, and second, Szith Morcane is a crucial military target. Firmly under the control of Irae T’ssarion and her followers, Szith Morcane is the most likely staging point for an invasion of the surface. Therefore it must be scouted at the least, and preferably sacked.
The entrance to the crypt of Dodrian is a pair of plain stone doors, carved into the surface of a bluff-face. Two free-standing mausoleums flank the entrance, and after scouting around the openings, Taran signals that there are enemies about, and points to one of the mausoleums.
Taran throws open the door, and to no one’s surprise is immediately set upon by a trio of vampiric drow. There is a brief but furious melee, and one of the creatures almost escapes before its gaseous form is dispelled.
The party searches the once and current corpses, and discovers that they wear military garb, including the house-mark of Irae T’ssarion’s personal guard. Maps and other patrol equipment indicate that they are advance scouts, spending their days here, and their nights gathering information in the Dalelands.
Taran and Thelbar work out as best they can what this group’s reporting schedule must be, and conclude that it will be some time before these scouts are missed. If the party is lucky, Irae T’ssarion will be long gone before they are missed.
The party destroys the corpses of the vampiric scouts, and sets up a base of operations inside the unoccupied mausoleum. That settled, Thelbar memorizes the area for future teleportation, and in an instant, returns the group to Mistledale, announcing that the party requires one further magic item if an entire drow city is to be properly sacked—a portable hole.
Once back in Mistledale, Thelbar and Kyreel set to work creating the wondrous item, but Taran does not join them. He has a heavy heart, and is more unsettled than he has been since he fled from the white dragons in the Great Delve. He walks alone in the forests until the sun sets, and finally manages to gather his resolve. He enters to the temple to Chauntea, and not bothering to announce himself, barges into Jhanira’s quarters. Her temple-maidens tell him that she is not available, and their icy demeanor raises the small hairs along the back of Taran’s neck.
Suspicious, he leaves the temple, and begins to move silently along the trail leading to the small grove where it is Jhanira’s custom to meditate. Along the way, he scans the ground for tracks, and after a few moments, his face contorts into a grim mask, and he turns back for home.
There, he finds Juron and Glim sitting on the front porch steps, playing a cryptic orcish drinking game with a pile of silver pieces and a masterwork dagger. “Hey, Taran!” Juron says, “Thel said that you . . .”
“Shut up, you,” Taran says. He points to Glim. “And you. Shut up. Now, which one of you bastards sold me out?”
There is a long moment of silence as Taran stares at the two men.
“Well?” Taran says. “You’d better start talking, before I do something you’ll regret.”
“But you said shut up,” Glim protests. “We was shutting up.”
“We don’t know who told Jhanira about you and the drow lady, Taran, honest!” Juron says.
“Yeah, we sure didn’t do it,” Glim says.
“How do you know that Jhanira knows, then? I didn’t say she knows.”
Juron and Glim look at one another. “Aw, Taran, it wasn’t us!” Glim says. “You know we’d never!”
“Even though she is a fine woman,” Juron adds. “And deserves a faithful man.”
“What did you just say?” Taran whispers.
“Well, Taran, it ain’t right is all. It ain’t right how you treat her.”
“How I treat her?”
“You know, jumpin’ into the sack with any thing warm and drowish that comes along.”
“You’re the traitor, you gap-toothed otyugh!”
“Uh, Taran. Don’t you get all crazy, now—remember what Thelbar said!”
Taran grabs Juron by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. “I’m going to tell you once,” he whispers into the frightened warrior’s face. “Next time I catch you talking to Nathe, you go missing. Get it?” And with that Taran drops Juron, flings the door open, and stomps into the house.
“That went well,” Glim said. “He’s in a good mood.”
-----
Taran finds Kyreel and Thelbar sitting in the parlor, sharing a bottle of wine, maps of the region spread out before them.
Thelbar looks up, “Have you heard the news, brother? Cormyr and Sembia have gone to war. They claim to be fighting over ancient ethnic territorial disputes, but there are rumors of a rogue dwarven hero-cult in the middle of things.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Taran says as he heads up the stairs.
The party follows Shamath Ilmyrn’s directions to the crypts of Dodrian, just Southeast of Daggerdale. A series of tombs cut from the living rock, the crypts also contain an entrance into the Underdark, just above the drow city of Szith Morcane. From Szith Morcane, a great underground passage will lead the characters essentially back the way they came, until they arrive at the drow city of Maermydra, directly beneath Mistledale.
Taking this seemingly convoluted route serves two purposes. First, it is actually the most expedient, as the Underdark entrances elsewhere in the Dalelands do not give easy access onto the great passage leading to Maermydra, and second, Szith Morcane is a crucial military target. Firmly under the control of Irae T’ssarion and her followers, Szith Morcane is the most likely staging point for an invasion of the surface. Therefore it must be scouted at the least, and preferably sacked.
The entrance to the crypt of Dodrian is a pair of plain stone doors, carved into the surface of a bluff-face. Two free-standing mausoleums flank the entrance, and after scouting around the openings, Taran signals that there are enemies about, and points to one of the mausoleums.
Taran throws open the door, and to no one’s surprise is immediately set upon by a trio of vampiric drow. There is a brief but furious melee, and one of the creatures almost escapes before its gaseous form is dispelled.
The party searches the once and current corpses, and discovers that they wear military garb, including the house-mark of Irae T’ssarion’s personal guard. Maps and other patrol equipment indicate that they are advance scouts, spending their days here, and their nights gathering information in the Dalelands.
Taran and Thelbar work out as best they can what this group’s reporting schedule must be, and conclude that it will be some time before these scouts are missed. If the party is lucky, Irae T’ssarion will be long gone before they are missed.
The party destroys the corpses of the vampiric scouts, and sets up a base of operations inside the unoccupied mausoleum. That settled, Thelbar memorizes the area for future teleportation, and in an instant, returns the group to Mistledale, announcing that the party requires one further magic item if an entire drow city is to be properly sacked—a portable hole.
Once back in Mistledale, Thelbar and Kyreel set to work creating the wondrous item, but Taran does not join them. He has a heavy heart, and is more unsettled than he has been since he fled from the white dragons in the Great Delve. He walks alone in the forests until the sun sets, and finally manages to gather his resolve. He enters to the temple to Chauntea, and not bothering to announce himself, barges into Jhanira’s quarters. Her temple-maidens tell him that she is not available, and their icy demeanor raises the small hairs along the back of Taran’s neck.
Suspicious, he leaves the temple, and begins to move silently along the trail leading to the small grove where it is Jhanira’s custom to meditate. Along the way, he scans the ground for tracks, and after a few moments, his face contorts into a grim mask, and he turns back for home.
There, he finds Juron and Glim sitting on the front porch steps, playing a cryptic orcish drinking game with a pile of silver pieces and a masterwork dagger. “Hey, Taran!” Juron says, “Thel said that you . . .”
“Shut up, you,” Taran says. He points to Glim. “And you. Shut up. Now, which one of you bastards sold me out?”
There is a long moment of silence as Taran stares at the two men.
“Well?” Taran says. “You’d better start talking, before I do something you’ll regret.”
“But you said shut up,” Glim protests. “We was shutting up.”
“We don’t know who told Jhanira about you and the drow lady, Taran, honest!” Juron says.
“Yeah, we sure didn’t do it,” Glim says.
“How do you know that Jhanira knows, then? I didn’t say she knows.”
Juron and Glim look at one another. “Aw, Taran, it wasn’t us!” Glim says. “You know we’d never!”
“Even though she is a fine woman,” Juron adds. “And deserves a faithful man.”
“What did you just say?” Taran whispers.
“Well, Taran, it ain’t right is all. It ain’t right how you treat her.”
“How I treat her?”
“You know, jumpin’ into the sack with any thing warm and drowish that comes along.”
“You’re the traitor, you gap-toothed otyugh!”
“Uh, Taran. Don’t you get all crazy, now—remember what Thelbar said!”
Taran grabs Juron by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. “I’m going to tell you once,” he whispers into the frightened warrior’s face. “Next time I catch you talking to Nathe, you go missing. Get it?” And with that Taran drops Juron, flings the door open, and stomps into the house.
“That went well,” Glim said. “He’s in a good mood.”
-----
Taran finds Kyreel and Thelbar sitting in the parlor, sharing a bottle of wine, maps of the region spread out before them.
Thelbar looks up, “Have you heard the news, brother? Cormyr and Sembia have gone to war. They claim to be fighting over ancient ethnic territorial disputes, but there are rumors of a rogue dwarven hero-cult in the middle of things.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Taran says as he heads up the stairs.
