From the Journals of Algren Twinbraid

My name is Professor Algren Twinbraid, a researcher and archaeologist from the University of History in Eszath. I do not know if anyone on the surface will ever read these entries, but I still feel the necessity of recording my thoughts and experiences.

I have lost all track of time, having not seen the sun in what feels like months. I was on an expedition into the boreal forests a week’s hike into Sylvanor, studying artifacts within a cave that a logger found. The few rusted metal items we found appeared to be a combination of pickaxes, swords, and metal poles roughly six feet long. The architecture and cut to the stone that made up the walls matched nothing on record.

For days, we slowly ventured further into the cave while taking record of everything that we found. Much of what we discovered weren’t artifacts but scattered fragments of humanoid bones. The amount of bones we found had to be from dozens, if not hundreds of separate individuals. Nearly half of the bone fragments that we took a closer look at seemed to have been gnawed on by something.

After six days of traveling deeper into the cave, we were attacked. I did not know or care at the time what the attackers were, all I cared about was fleeing. Unfortunately, I fled in the wrong direction. I ran until I could barely breathe, and was more lost than I had ever been. Unable to stop for fear of the attackers catching up, I wandered deeper in and down. When I finally could go no further, collapsed in a dwarf-sized mass of exhaustion, I could hear the sounds of footsteps and shuffling coming from behind me.

I lay there, thinking that I was going to die. I am no warrior or mage, just a scholar. On top of that, I was so exhausted it was all I could do to keep breathing. So I stared up at the rock above me, waiting for the end.

As the encroaching footfalls drew closer and turned the final corner, several forms blurred over me, and I heard the sounds of battle alongside a terrible shrieking that reverberated in my bones and soul. Moments later, a baffled elven face gazed down at me. As I passed out, the elf over me looked up and spoke to someone, or something else.

When I came to, I was in a cot surrounded by onyx skinned, white haired elves. I had never heard of such elves even in all my studies. The elf closest to me, a male garbed in some sort of armor, handed me a bottle filled with a liquid. Without light, I could not make out the color of the bottle or its contents, but the fact that I was still alive made me doubt that they would save me only to poison me.

Thus, I drank the potion that I was given. The taste, like most potions, was completely and utterly vile. As the potion began to take effect, the strange words of my elven rescuers began to become clearer. I could only conclude that I was given a potion that allowed me to understand their language. Whether I could be understood, I did not know at the time, I was just happy to hear words instead of screams of terror or the unnatural shrieking that I heard before.

I conversed with the onyx skinned elves for some time as we traveled. They call themselves drow, and are at war. They are under siege on all sides by undead enemies. To the south is a kingdom of ghouls that capture their citizens and breed them like cattle. To the north are what I can only describe as undead giant beetle mages. As ridiculous as it sounds, these undead mages, called Ar’tyk by the drow, are powerful enough to alter the course of a battle on their own.

Though the drow refused to speak of them, I have determined from bits and pieces of conversation that the Ar’tyk are not the rulers of the northern undead. They serve masters of their own. I do not know what could be powerful enough to control the Ar’tyk, and based on what I have been told of the Ar’tyk I am unsure if I want to know.

I have no way of knowing how long we traveled for, but eventually we came upon the drow city. It was…surreal is the only word for it. No lights, but forms moving on bridges linking the stalagmites and stalactites that were their buildings, no sounds of merchants hawking wares, it felt more like an oversized military camp than a city.

When I asked my escorts, I was horrified to learn that for all intents and purposes it was a military camp. All drow society was tied into their military. From the farmers and ranchers to priests and mages, all were subservient to the Marshal General, the highest rank in their military.

As I was brought before the general that my rescuers served, the tall and very intimidating woman demanded to know why I was brought to the city. The answer given consisted of four simple words, spoken in a tone as if they were all that needed to be said, “He is not undead.”

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