>>5328644It isn’t much longer before you arrive at the dark elves’ forward encampment. As before, the Drow see you before you see them, but this time they spring no trap. Instead, you are greeted warmly in their strange and derived elf-tongue, and beckoned to follow the elf scout to his people’s closest encampment.
When you arrive, you find it much as you left it in some regards—sparsely-populated, roughshod and primitive in its architecture, and crawling with strange, overlarge arthropods (though none so large as Glowie or her kin, nor do any of the spiders, centipede, or beetles evince any sort of advanced intellect). The elves here are bluish-black of skin, short of stature, and wear scant clothing—primarily leather armour and silk underclothes, when underclothes are present at all.
The biggest change is the atmosphere. It is still oppressive and spartan, but there is a relief here—a release of tension. You see the reason for it, and you feel a swell of well-warranted pride when you do: deeper into the encampment, the head of the Devourer—the great rust monster who you and your allies slew en route to Bloodrise—has been stuck atop a spike and had its eyes replaced with many small gems and polished stones, like a trophy. Around it, Drow warriors toast to its defeat with chitin-cups and ancient goblets, drinking that pungent and earthy mushroom-wine which you were served on your last visit here.
When they see you and your forces marching in, the toast—and a great and rowdy cheer—is raised to you—al of your reptilians, but to YOU in particular. You know enough elf-speak to recognize the words being chanted:
“Savior!” “Monster-Killer!” “Champion!” “Hero!”
You deign to bask in it a little, unconsciously falling into a strut as you approach the centre of the encampment. Once there, you take a strong stance, cloak spread wide and armour gleaming in the faint light of dim and smoky torches. As expected, it isn’t long before the camp-leader, the imposing and illustrious female called ‘Jazkarmel’, approaches. Oluwadamilare, the Degenerate Archer of a southernly human extraction, is at her side, looking much mended... And with body-language and proximity to the elf-leader which cause you to do a second take.
Likewise do the other wounded warriors whom you sent here to recuperate gather, at the head of the trailing dark elves: The Pit Guard, a large and sturdy Steeltalon who once guarded the breeding pits you enviously eyed in your youth; his younger Apprentice; and the Elf-Specialist, who you sent to serve as diplomat, advisor, and cultural liaison, and tasked with instructing Jazkarmel (and any interested followers) in your people’s faith.
