Sorn Za'Darmondiel.
6th of Quartutus, 1492.
06:24.
***
Elg-Horr. Elg-Horr. Elg-Horr. Everything, everywhere was always about Elg-fucking-Horr. It got old three and half centuries ago. Now, it was just unbearable.
Granted, it was for a good reason. He was perhaps the only one of our kind to possess the most enviable power. To have the most enviable station. The only half-breed to be looked on favorably. His was a station we drow males hardly knew anything about.
Of course, it had not always been that way. We only knew he was Elg-Horr. The Destroyer. Of our enemies? Of ourselves? Of what, we could only speculate and believe it to be true; for we knew nothing. Not the Champion's species. Not their abilities. Not if what was foretold would come and pass in a day or if it would take eons to come to fruition. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither.
Naturally, it became an item of maddening obsession long before me or even High Priestess Nadra was born. Everyone had a theory, an idea as to the Eternal Champion's aims and nature. Time marched forward as always, and now, centuries later, the day had finally come. The prize was before our eyes. We met the Eternal Champion. Learned his name, his species, his abilities; and yet, nothing changed.
'If he is the Destroyer, why are there more tales of him creating on the surface?' That question or cruder variations of it was being flicked around many of our circles and heard whispered by the Matrons and their priestesses. All drow sought an answer for his aberrant behavior- aberrant not just by our standards but by the legacy of darkness within him. Many of them, in turn, came to the most simple conclusion.
Weakness.
Unwise and foolish, all of them. Clerics. Paladins. Fighters. Rogues. Wizards. Even some of my fellow monks- monks I trained! To think one who could so easily walk across Shujen was weak was preposterous. A country fell by his hand and his alone! A hand that would never fall, even from evisceration. A Living Lich of the Nox as the tales so often described.
Here was no different, and yet it was. His march down the Halls of Nydorden was the most marvelous thing my eyes ever beheld. It was akin to a slow-moving calamity, preceded by the punishment imposed by the Abbot. Quiet steps evolved into a cavern-rumbling march that preceded his arrival to the next Hall, always at walking pace before the wedge of undead bodies. But they acted not. They marched behind him in synchronized steps, adjusting each time the half-dead being reacted to something approaching with hostile intent to make more room in the wedge, and all the while, his Troupe walked along the walls or ceiling of the cavern as if they were strolling through a forest, completely uncaring of the many drow-filled stalactites they passed within arms reach as they amiably gazed upon the glory of the Halls.
As innocent as some of them looked and as harmless as most humanoids were said to be, they quickly became the objects of everyone's interest. Everyone wanted answers and assumed they were the keys locking them away. Fortunately for the Matriarchs, we monks were the sole ones capable of finding them, resulting in an unfortunate situation for us.
In truth, I would have rather it been the High Matron to have sent us away from the march to approach the second-most interesting aspect of this situation. She would have just given the order and used the chaos wrapped around our minds to enforce it. My mother- High Priestess Nadra, used violence.
The pain hadn't hurt me for centuries. It was the confusion of what a mother was, that always conflicted me. Has conflicted me, ever since my walk nearly four centuries ago, wherein I witnessed how those on the surface were treated by those who birthed them. Always, I wanted to get away from her. And so, I gladly did as I was told.
This time.
<<"Hello, Uncle. Have you come to take back your station?">>
If one did not end him, the other would have. He was an infant compared to me. Etan Za'Darmondiel was hardly a year older than Amun. I was head monk long before Two Heart and High Matron Etyl first gazed upon one other. Deep down, he always hated the expected quarrel over the position, just as I had.
Now, however, there was something different about him- and not just his black-streaked hair or golden irises. He didn't even look at my boyishly handsome smile- a final means to bring about the same expression once seen in him. He only shook his head in silence; and though he smiled, it was born from something else. Something… outside himself.
At that moment, it felt like the old days, a time not so long ago, when we would stand next to each other with pride as polar opposites. Etan was average, I was tall for a male. We both were handsome and high in station, seen as the first option for the many females below. It was something I took pride in. Much to the point of being one of the only monks in Nydorden Halls to style my hair and ears with shaved designs and piercings. Etan couldn't care less about such things. He had always dressed practically, but he was born into a lifestyle that robbed him of himself.
He stopped smiling, my baby uncle. He stopped laughing. As the day of his destiny neared, he grew anxious, withdrawn. A polar opposite to what stood before me now. And not just me. My brother and fellow master monk, Nijal. Cousins and other senior monks. Sid, Javrith, Antton, and Aldo; our sons, and more. We all stared at the target of Etan's gaze with a wide range of expressions while we sought to connect our true selves with his.
Mine was the first to merge and materialize with Etan's, connecting his inner voice with mine., though I still could not see his true self. "Never have I seen humanoids so relaxed in this place."
To that, Etan normally would have said nothing. A grunt or perhaps a nod would have been it. Instead, he surprised us by turning to face us with his arm pointed at the strange group <<"Those are no mere humanoids. That is no mere half-elf. That is no mere goblin.">> He told us. Out loud and in our mother tongue, uncaring of the many ears listening in the dark.
<<"Iris, Blude, Redd, and Sam were just the beginning. Amun hand-picked those individuals over all others in the Peninsula to be his traveling companions. He freely gave them his knowledge and power. Then he trained and educated them in his divine realm, overseeing the development of their minds, bodies, spirits, and souls. Molding them into paragons of both themselves and their species.">>
"And what of the Destroyer himself?" the voice of Antton echoed in our combined minds while his eyes darted around the dark. "He looked true to his name before. A devil merged with one of us. Now, he looks-"
<<"Divine?">> Etan finished in his stead, again using his voice. <<"He is a Cleric of the Eternal Path. It was that path he stepped down during our journey. That was the origin of the burst of energy seen by the surface dwellers. This arcana around us came from his evolution. His awakening as Demi-Eternal God. Higher in station than any oth-">>
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My heart sank at the calm in my mother's voice, only heard when she was on the brink of exploding. Each of us distanced ourselves and bowed in the same motion. Except Etan Za'Darmondiel. He simply turned to stare at her with that blank look of his and nodded. <<"Of course, High Priestess.">>
While she was deeply bothered, Etan showed her no disrespect. Thus she had no merit with which to punish him. Not that she needed any. Nadra Za'Darmondiel was as cunning as she was cruel, however, thus she sized up her baby brother in a way that pointed out the obvious- by lining his body in the flames of the faerie.
Almost immediately, the violet flames were filled with violet-red streams filled with tiny motes of gold, blue, and white light. Moreover, the fire produced more smoke than a burning village, releasing deep purple clouds that formed an aura around Etan.
<<"You are no cleric, yet divine magic now dwells within you.>> My mother said. <
To that, Etan did as he normally would never. He said nothing.
She pounced on him like a cave clacker, beating on and hissing in his face something foul as she spat out her demands. <<"What did you see?">>
At that, Etan laughed, forcing my mother to step back in shock. But before she could act on his audacity, Etan gave her what she wanted most.
Weaknesses.
<<"When I first left Nydorden Halls, I saw one of his associates. A human artificer in Bakewia by the name of Edward Pascal. He revolutionized transportation in the land, air, and sea, creating carriages and carts powered by oil or magic. Now, surface-dwellers can cross the peninsula in less than a day, and so too can those machines be used to burrow deeper than even the gray dwarves.
<<"We then departed to the City of Bards, where I witnessed another associate of his from afar. New instruments, they were playing, studying, and learning to use in tandem with energy-based communications to reach millions of ears with their voices in real time. I then saw a patch of land in Redagh that was cursed by the Raven Reaper, wherein sat her dungeon, containing remnants of a lost era that hid something remarkable. Ari-Zmon.
<<"In that same place, I saw a dead land receive a breath of life, but I went on to see the surface amid change, heralded by his hand. By his hand, I saw the meek become mighty. By his hand, I saw what was once considered to be evil being seen as good, and good becoming evil. I saw humans. Halflings. Dwarves. Amazonians. Gnomes. Elves. Goblins. Orcs. Ogres. Vampires. Dragonborne. Dragons. Devils. Celestials. I saw. Most importantly, I learned. These places. These creatures. They are not so different from us.">>
<<"You would dare compare us to such filth?">> Nadra hissed before anyone else could.
<<"Especially humans.">> Etan calmly answered and stood tall amidst the growing ire. <<"After all, we Drow and humanity are the only creatures who cannot help warring with ourselves to the point of self-destruction. But all creatures- no matter how much they shy away from the truth- thrive on war. They think of war, always. The games of their young revolve around predation and war. Their greatest tales and heroes are born and die in war. Their cities are raised to protect them from war. Their greatest inventions are designed because of war. Their weapons are improved by war. Their lands are expanded by war. Their treasuries become wealthier from war, so long as they win them.
<<"We are no different. Only our prowess and how we wage war is different and indeed superior.">>
It was an answer that both perplexed and infuriated her. So much was true for me, so it had to be true for my mother. On one blade, using such logic to call a surface elf a barbarian was deeply amusing, but on the other, it implied we were no different from the rest of those animals.
<<"So what, then, what makes us different?">> She seethed, hand reaching toward her mace.
Etan paid it no mind. <<"We are not hypocrites.">> He calmly blinked. <<"On the contrary, we drow are militant zealots who thrive in warfare, industriously impeccable in our application of violence. Moreover, your civilization does not brainwash you into thinking you are righteous and civil. You instead embrace the life nature imposes on you, adapting accordingly.
<<"As does mine.">> He continued, shocking us silent before any could ask the obvious.<<"The last thing I saw before I returned to this Plane was a realm of constant change, wherein everyone is free to live as they please, so long as they can pay the cost of freedom.">>
<<"Freedom.>> Nadra repeated, disgust evident in her voice as her head tilted mockingly. <
<<"Etan Za'Darmondiel.">>