The Shadow Beneath the Earth: A Tale of Fire, Betrayal, and the Depths of Doomwood
A Chronicle by Eleawen Galadriel, Who Saw King and Queen Descend and Heroes Rise from the Ashes of Delbrook Inn
The quays of Durakiss were bathed in the golden light of a lazy afternoon, the scent of salt and spices mingling with the laughter of merchants and the cries of gulls. His Majesty King Alak and Her Majesty Queen Jula strolled along the docks, their voices a soft murmur against the rhythm of the waves. Peace reigned—until it didn’t.
A figure came sprinting toward them, her cloak torn, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with terror. Brooke Dell of Doomwood, an adventurer known for her steel nerve and sharper tongue, collapsed before the royal couple, gasping: « The Delbrook Inn… it’s burning! The druegars… they came from the earth itself! »
The Call to Arms
Within heartbeats, the clarion call rang out. Adventurers from Durakiss, Sambrune, Doomwood, and beyond answered, their blades gleaming, their eyes alight with purpose. The royal fleet was readied, and soon, the waves carried them toward the Grove of the Windrunners, where the smoke of Delbrook Inn stained the sky like a wound in the heavens.
What they found was carnage and cinders. The inn, once a haven for weary travelers, was now a skeleton of wood and stone, its roof collapsed, its walls blackened. The scent of charred timber and blood hung thick in the air. But worse than the destruction was the silence—the absence of the inn’s usual laughter and song.
A hole gaped in the mountainside nearby, freshly dug, its edges raw and jagged. And there, crouched like a beast at bay, was a druegar.
The Traitor’s Tale
The creature raised a trembling hand, its gray skin glistening with sweat—or was it fear? « I am Krummin Bonedust, » it rasped in broken Common. « I… I desert. » Its voice was hoarse, its eyes darting like a cornered rat. « The Mind Flayers… they rule my kin. They feed on our minds, turn us into puppets… and now they dig deeper! »
A chill ran through the gathered adventurers. Recent tremors in Sambrune—unexplained, violent—now made terrifying sense. The earth itself groaned under the claws of the druegars, and worse, the tendrils of the Mind Flayers.
Krummin offered a bargain: « Lead me to them… and I will show you their lair. »
Into the Abyss
Down they went, into the belly of the earth, where the air was thick with dust and the darkness pressed in like a living thing. The mine yawned before them, its tunnels twisting like the veins of a beast. Then, the city—a hive of stone and malice, where the druegars waited, their eyes glowing with unnatural light.
Battle was joined.
The druegars fought like demons, their spells twisting their bodies into hulking giants, their claws rending armor like parchment. Fire and steel clashed in the gloom, the echoes of combat bouncing off the cavern walls. But the adventurers stood firm. Blades bit deep, spells flared bright, and one by one, the druegars fell.
At last, their chieftain—a hulking brute with a necklace of bones—roared his defiance before falling to a well-placed arrow. But of the Mind Flayers, there was no sign. Had they fled? Or were they watching, laughing from the shadows?
The Return to Light
The survivors retraced their steps, following the underground river that Krummin had spoken of. The water was black as pitch, the current swift, but the promise of sunlight drove them on.
Along the river, they saw five druegar villages but the royalty decided to not raid thoses lands: We can’t complain being raided if we do the same.
When they emerged, gasping, into the Black Market village, they found themselves in familiar territory for a part of the group. With no time to waste, the adventurers commandeered a flying ship—a vessel of Sambrune’s famed sky-fleet—and soared homeward. The wind in their hair, the sun on their faces, they left the darkness behind… for now.
Eleawen’s Epilogue
So, dear readers, what have we learned? That even king and queen can be caught unawares? That heroes are forged in fire and shadow? Or perhaps that the earth itself is not to be trusted—not when Mind Flayers pull its strings and druegars dig its bones?
Erevan Ilesere, that trickster of old, must be laughing still. For what greater jest is there than men and women, so proud upon the surface, scrambling like rats in the dark to face the horrors they never saw coming?