DM: The trial against you has finally come to an end. You are tired and all you want is a soft comfy bed. You arrive back at Rosegate to find all but a few diligent students awake. They greet you eagerly, not having seen you in nearly a week. You push them away gently and they go back to their studies. You walk to your room and, after shedding your robes, collapse in bed.
Iron Mage: Jacques Cossette.
DM: The speaker states it as a fact, no question can be heard anywhere in their voice.
Iron Mage: You will rouse yourself despite you exhaustion.
Jacques: I thought I told you to go back to work and let me sleep-
DM: Towering over your bed is a figure clad entirely in armor that, even in the total dark of the room, glows with a subdued light.
Jacques: Inferno Dothros!
DM: The fireball begins to manifest before your fingers, but before it can fully combust the fire dissipates off the armor. In the sudden illumination the rest of the figure is revealed.On their back is a flowing red cape and carried in their hand is a long wooden staff, carved intricately with magical runes. You now recognize him: The Iron Mage.
Iron Mage: Neither you nor I have any time for this. If I was here to kill you I would have done so with one of twenty spells I have prepared that would destroy you and the house in which you sleep. Now get up.
Jacques: Um, what?
Iron Mage: You will rouse yourself. The events that will soon unfold do not wait.
Jacques: Uh, okay. If you’ll give me a minute to get dressed.
Iron Mage: You are now clothed.
DM: You are fully garbed in the finest of silk robes.
Iron Mage: Now stand.
DM: The Iron Mage raises a hand with his index finger extended. Slowly, he traces a circle in the air a meter in diameter, a silvery strand remaining in the air where his finger has been. When it is complete a semi-transparent sheen fills the air within. It looks like a complex scrying technique.
Iron Mage: Look in.
Zachean: Doth thuul nizh Gabvrak?
Andriel: I… don’t understand your language.
Zachean: My apologies. I am glad to see you have learned the elder tongue. It is more civilized than the barbaric language of these bottom-feeders [motions to the other drow] more suited to our kind.
Andriel: Our kind?
Zachean: The Obyri. The eternal who lurk in the shadows, ever watching as the world changes before us. There are more of us than you would think.
Andriel: How were you created?
Zachean: That is a story for a different time. My son told me that you had a question for me. Is this true?
Andriel: It is. I wanted to know how the drow race came into being. I have never seen your kind before.
Zachean: It is a long tale, though I believe it will serve you greatly to know it. In the beginning, the progenitor god Praemus created the world, not as a home, but as a prison for the Galchutte, creatures of pure chaos and hatred. He made the Elder Gods to oversee the world and they made the Godlings. Cahethal, Zazriel, Andriel, Sabrael, Umbriel and Nuriel. They, together, created the first race, the elves.
They ruled for thousands of years they ruled, but one among them, Andriel, was killed in his attempt to remove the Dread One, Esthlagos Malkith, from power. His sister and lover, Sabrael, was heartbroken. Despite their attempts to console her, she remained in a state of grieving. Her bitter sadness was of such magnitude that its ripples were felt across the multiverse. It was not long before a being of great power, the mighty Gorgoth-Lol came to this plane, already a goddess of supreme power.
She saw the suffering of the elven peoples under the rule of the never-present Godlings and sought to help them. She convinced a group of them to follow her and for their devotion she granted them darker skin to match her own and the skills to survive underground where no surface elf could hurt them.
Andriel: Why didn’t the other Godlings intervene?
Zachean: They were too busy trying to get in contact with the Elder Gods, who just left one day, never to return. This realization snapped the usually calm mind of Cahethal and she immediately flew up to the top of the spire, intending vengeance on some unknown foe. After three days her lover Zazriel flew up after her.
Andriel: What had happened?
Zachean: No one knows. Centuries later Zazriel emerged, only now he called himself Ghul, son of Esthlagos Malkith.
Andriel: Nurial and Unbriel, what happened to them?
Zachean: They withdrew within each other, eventually fading from this world.
Andriel: How do you know all of this?
Zachean: I was one of the first elves to follow the Spider Goddess. I have existed here for millennia.
Andriel: How could you betray the Elder Gods-
Zachean: I did what I had to to ensure the continuation of our race! I do not need to justify my descision to you. And besides, my story is not done. While all this happened around her, Sabrael grieved. The tears no longer flowed, but within turmoil lingered. Deep below the surface of Praemal one of the Galchutte stirred. He felt Sabrael’s mental defenses and they were weak. He pushed his chaotic nature upon her and she absorbed it. She stood with her first moment of clarity in thousands of years. Her people were broken, divided and corrupt. She felt each of their souls, heard each of their thoughts. She drew her holy sword and sliced off her wings. She had fallen. The last of the Godlings. Somehow she learned that the Church of Lothian was responsible for the Elder Gods’ leaving, for they, in one of their “holy crusades” had wiped out the last of the followers of the Elder Gods, leaving only the faded memory in the minds of those old enough to remember.