Eat, Prey, Shove: One Drow's Search for Everything

[sheevandfriends]

It's difficult to condense your life into a few pages, and if a Drow was so inclined he could talk about himself over several books. These books would be boorish, so instead I shall write about my life in a manner more pleasing to the reader. For the sake of brevity I merely sum up my experiences, but the broad strokes are true, or at least they contain slivers of truth as I recall what I can about the collapse of Szith T'ylnan.

It was more than two centuries ago. I have lost track of the precise date, and the date you could have called the city "Lost" depends on what you mean. It was torn apart by infighting long before the city was properly destroyed. Lolth's worshipers saw to that. The city was originally in their control, and the Temple was not just a place of worship but the building in which all decisions, from military exercises to how many portions could be eaten at meals, were made.

Honestly they should have seen the revolt coming. Drow would always chafe under an ascetic lifestyle. The only part that surprised me was that the one at the head of the revolution was a male. And that by the end of it he would declare himself sovereign. It was completely unthinkable. And yet, as I completed my training as a Magthere I watched as he over-turned the rule of Lolth's chosen. He spent half of the gold stowed within the vault in a decade, and half of what remained by the end of that next year. Spices and wines and jewelry flowed through the city like water through a fountain.

Under the rule of King Zur'ik Y'pell anything seemed possible. His rule was one under which miracles became mundane and anything could happen. A Drow could live in excess of excess, I even saw one grow so fat he had to be beheaded for it. The blood must stay pure, but what a sight he was. I heard he had gained so much weight he adjusted the notch on his belt. I mean, can you imagine?

It was during his reign that I completed my training, thinking that anything was possible and that anything could happen. After my training was complete I would spend the next 6 months locked in the Sorcere along with my fellow Magthere who had met the requirements. Here is where we'd be tested one last time for any special connection to the Weave, and learn to properly combat magical opponents.

That was when the retaliation occurred. The survivors of the coup attacked the city over 10 years since they were deposed, we aren't sure why they waited so long. But when they did return it was with a small army of Driders and in a single bloody strike they crippled the would-be response from the King.

With both armies now more or less even the people of the city were forced to pick sides, trying to foresee the winner. During the months long occupation the streets were a battlefield with snipers posted on rooftops, everyone accusing everyone of being a spy, and the air of distrust growing thicker all the time as it became natural to walk about with drawn weapons.

My teachers were always tired, forced to work long hours casting divinations trying to determine who was a liar and who told the truth, who was a fraud and who had good intel, trying to determine which of us were even the enemy so this blasted war could be won.

And suddenly, there was a sound like an earthquake and the ceiling ripped open, debris falling in messy arrangement. Buildings crumbled, people were buried, and I could swear that before the cavern was filled I saw a ray of sunlight light up the field of carnage.

I watched the roof of the cavern fall, destroying the city whose rulers had squabbled and gamed the lives of many powerful and intelligent drow. My teachers, my contemporaries, me. All their machinations to maintain power, and they had been killed by a single somebody. I escaped only by sheer virtue of being selected to muck the Rothe stables.

One of their clerics had used magic to burrow above the city, using a scroll or possibly detonating some magical contraption. All I knew was that somewhere under that blood and dust was buried my future. And all the politics I had played to stay alive in those final days, all the ratting out of my confidants, all the times I had played both sides off against each other to save my skin had ended in...a hole in the ground.

I escaped of course, ran off with the few magical tomes I could pick out from among the rubble and fled before I was enslaved by whatever rivals had done this to us. I was not about to become embroiled in another senseless intrigue so soon after I had become disillusioned.

The next few years were the hardest. I had ranged out from the city before, but never without an entourage or at least someone to keep watch on my flank. It was easier when I learned to command a familiar, and easier still when I learned how to run away rather than stay and fight a hopeless battle. I was still foolish back then.

And after that period came the bulk of my adventures. I would spend more than 200 years wandering the tunnels. Progress on my magic was slow, progress in mapping the caves was slow, and slowest of all was how long it took to go mad. I was always waiting for it to happen. And it never did. Or perhaps I am already mad for a Drow. In the few times I met them during that time they treated me as if I was something to be avoided. Something at odds with the way they view the world. Maybe they just resented me for not having to go a

I became a merchant for some time. I knew the best path to lead caravans through the caves, and though I was no ranger I knew enough of the local wildlife to stay competitive. I eventually sold the business and left to travel towards Andunor. Curiosity had finally caught up with me.

All I left behind was a few Rothe, some petty shares in a few other businesses, and my maps. It is my understanding that my maps are still copied and widely distributed to anyone who crosses through my old haunts.

What is waiting for me in Andunor? What is waiting for me outside this room? And am I going to get sucked into another mess of betrayal and intrigue? One would hope not.

-A memoir written on a small stack of vellum, folded and tucked away inside a drawer aboard a boat landed in Andunor