New Drowla

Ildan Ar-Duwyn sings softly of his homeland:

Beside the hearth of a small village tavern in a Pettylin backwater sat a half-elf. An almost impossibly handsome half-elf, whose silver hair and only the barest hint of blue in his pale skin betrayed his Drow heritage. He gently strummed a double-stringed lyre as he looked at the other patrons, simple yeomen, shepherds, and hunters resident in the village. To keep out the cold, he wore a heavy wool coat just as they wore, but under it, a tunic in the Tillian style, slashed to show a lining of bright Tillian silk. He could feel the unease and interest both emanating from the other patrons, and smiled softly to disarm them, winning a few smiles in return.

He looked at his dinner - a bowl of thin stew, a hunk of coarse black bread, and a mug of beer - and nodded appreciatively at the barkeep.

“Let me thank you for your hospitality, and my supper, by singing for you.”

He smiled softly at his listeners, and took a long pull at his drink, his normally bright eyes clouded ever so slightly as he began to remember. Then, almost abruptly, his fingers began to dance again across the lyre’s strings, a soft tune to accompany his words, evoking a sense of melancholy from amongst his listeners.

“Few have gazed upon the great and terrible wonders of al-v’Llotha, that outsiders call New Drowla, that famed city upon the sunless sea, and returned to the surface to tell the tale. Wondrous even from afar. Far beyond the city, as you approach it, though you cannot yet see it, the caverns and tunnels are of varying sizes. In some places, the ceilings of some caverns are low, so low that one might need to crawl through the tunnels on hands and knees. In others, the ceilings are so high that they cannot be seen. Some caves are barely the size of small chambers. Others are large beyond imagination, so large that it is like standing in an open plain. Some are pitch-black, and others are dimly lit by phosphorescent lichen that clings to life even in so hostile an environment.

But once you enter the Great Cavern, it all changes.

Even from a great distance can you see the silhouettes, faint outlines, and flickering shadows. Elegant pale crystal spires that reach towards the roof of a cavern beyond the sight of any creature, palaces and fortresses of the great houses. The air is soft, even, and warm, heavy with moisture. To approach the city, first you must find your way past the damp, fetid forests of stalactites and stalagmites that ring the city, rising and falling from rolling hills and cavern roofs, untouched by wind or weather. Then, you must venture through the terraced mushroom farms, built into the sides of valleys that have never known the light of day. Through all this run narrow roads that wind like water into the city, in places cut into the very cliffs and rock faces themselves. Upon these roll and slide the caravans of the Underdark, sinuously weaving their way into the city - the wains with the heaviest loads pulled by gargantuan snails, some few upon the back of giant spiders, and all others pulled by giant, blind snakes with harnesses nailed into their very flesh.

On the outskirts, huddled together here and there in isolated pockets, are the hovels of the Unclean and the apostates, that freeborn and slave alike avoid except in the direst of needs or darkest purposes. Despite the hate and distrust the residents have for one another, still they gather close to guard against the many horrors of the underdark. Some ways past these are the seemingly endless cottages of the non-Drow freeborn, the poorest of the free Drow, called the Copper caste, all broken here and there by the cramped quarters of the slaves that work the mushroom farms. The taverns and brothels for the poor are here, for use of freeborn and the more trusted slaves. There is little variety of food and drink at these taverns - mushrooms, lichen, fish to eat, along with meat of unknown provenance, and to drink there is only bitter bloodwine, or mushroom beer. No fires burn at their hearths, for the air is already warm, and wood is precious beyond price, but salt and blood to flavour your food are easily available, and affordable to nearly all.

These cottages and slave-quarters, even these last, are often beautiful, adorned with sculptures, paintings, and household idols lovingly shaped by slave and free alike from mushroom, bone, and stone. For the Drow, whose lifespans are long, there is time enough spend on any pursuit - for what is a day or a month to those whose life is measured in many centuries? And for the slaves, whose lives are cheap, it is worthwhile to craft beautiful things. To wrench from the darkness what little light you can, when you can, to add even the barest bit of beauty to what is for most a sad and short existence - memories of a life left behind, dreams stolen by slavery, and reminders of what might have been. Or, for the most faithful and optimistic in spite of everything, the hope that seemingly unheard prayers, made to the idols, may one day be answered.

And past these cottages and slave-quarters, you begin to glimpse the true magnificence of the dark metropolis that is al-v’Llotha.

There begins to rise from every surface, as far as even the keenest eyes can see, the non-Euclidean architecture of the homes and shops of the Bronze and Silver castes, the merchants and warriors. Each home unique, grown from the stone itself, sometimes rising from the ground, other times descending from the ceilings or jutting out from walls. Here and there in these quarters of the city can you see larger edifices.

The mansions and towers and fortresses of the Lesser Houses - whether rising in power, or once-great houses whose power wanes and whose great homes have been stolen from them by a stronger house. The stature and wealth and power of these Houses can be judged from the size and glory of these mansions. For most, if not all of a family, dwells within such mansion - the entire extended clan, unless and until a branch becomes strong or daring enough to form its own House, inviting the now-scorned parent House to attack it or proclaim their own weakness.

Most Houses are led by a matriarch, wizened, ruthless, and terrible. These are typically wizards and priestesses, though some few may have had other backgrounds from long-ago days of study or adventuring. A handful or two of the Houses are led by patriarchs, whose backgrounds are more varied. Those few patriarchs that exist are cunning, patient, and strong, having seized and held power in a matriarchal society that is utterly without mercy, disdainful of change, and openly hostile to breaches of a labyrinthine system of custom and propriety.

The School of Bells, and its attendant parade grounds and duelling circles, is here - training the most talented warriors in the two sword style of daito and shoto, and the crossbow, scutum and gladius of the famed Drow legions for all others. The massive Grey House, guildhall of the Underdark Trading Company, and clustered around it like children around their mother, the guildhalls of the lesser trading companies and other artisans. The various mercenary companies make their home here too, selling their swords, and stranger weapons besides, to the highest bidders. Here are also the least of the temples of the city, whose adherents are few, and whose congregations and clerics cannot afford, or are not strong enough to seize, land in the city centre to house their faith.

Also rising to the ceiling is the Obsidian Key, a black tower in the brutalist style that is headquarters of and named after the largest thieves’ guild, which operates openly and shamelessly throughout all the city save the centre. It is a constant reminder of their power and influence, its open existence mocking those few who would otherwise cry for law and orders, daring those few to confront them and reminding the lesser thieves’ guilds of their weakness.

Here can be found the legendary Great Market, where everything is for sale, for the right price, and vendors cry their wares gathered from every corner of the world. Here you can find magic items, great and small, famed and unimaginable, and mysterious trinkets from empires fallen before the race of man was ever born. Here too are the notorious slave markets of al-Barad, where are gathered peoples of every intelligent race known to man, and many more besides, to be bartered and sold as chattel. To these last come buyers from all lands, known and unknown, and even from other worlds.

To the east is the harbour mouth, and the still sunless sea which stretches endlessly behind it, unmoving, silent, and merciless. Slaves load and unload great cargoes, while fishwives cry their wares, blind fish and amphibians, living or dead as you prefer. The pale wharves of fungus and dark quays of stone reach out, and trading ships, privateers, and war galleys alike are moored here. Most are grown from mushroom or layers of hide stretched across the ribs of slain behemoth creatures. A rare few are made from wood, either conjured or brought at great expense from the surface. A handful, the greatest, are made from steel itself, through what fell magic I know not. All are crewed by massive numbers of slaves, or move under the power of magic, for there is no wind here to fill sails.

Though all the city, save the city centre, prowl the sleek shadowcats, beloved of the quixotic god V’haron who sometimes takes their likeness, fading in and out of sight as they wish, or resting with predatory disdain upon the roofs of the city which they regard as their own.

All this, and more, illuminated in some few places by the phosphorescent lichen cultivated for that purpose. But after many hours of walking or riding, for few lines in the city are straight and even many roads and paths do not remain on the ground, you approach the city centre.

The city centre rises from hills conjured from the floor, a testament to the prowess and might of the wizards, clerics and dark druids who called them forth. These hills, seven in all, circle a perfectly round pool of dark water which is rumoured to have no bottom, or that connects to another plane of existence. At every corner of the area that makes up the city centre are works of art, new and old alike - works of art whose beauty makes you gasp, or whose masterfully crafted hideousness can evoke despair from even the stoutest of hearts. You can see and hear the musical fountains, made of dragonbone, and carved into the shapes of dragons, illithids, and creatures whose names are long forgotten save by the greatest sages and most ancient high priestesses. Here and there, sometimes centred in little parks, are statues of great heroes and villains, tyrants and liberators, friends and foes of the Drow people - upon the plinths of some are recorded their names and greatest or most nefarious deeds and accomplishments. The identity of many others are forgotten, testament to the vainglory of mortals, who lifespans are but a twitch of the eye to the gods, and the inevitable return to the dust and shadow from whence we came, and to which we must one day return.

Here, in the city centre, can you see the greatest buildings of al-v’Llotha.

The outskirts of the city centre hold the lesser temples, and the lesser schools. There is a strong academic tradition in the city, and academia is held in high esteem. Sages and scholars instruct pupils in the traditional fields of reason, arcana, natural history, religion, and the chronicles of antiquity. More than a few delve into questions better left unasked - most find nothing, some are driven mad, whether by the answers or just the pursuit, but a rare few come back with a frighteningly clear understandings or arcane power from beyond. In the city centre rise the pale glowing crystalline spires of the Great Houses, stabbing through the endless blackness above. In these reside the mightiest families, and their many attendants, slaves, and private armies. From here the mightiest matriarchs weave their terrible webs of deadly intrigue, plotting vengeance for slights centuries, sometimes millenia old, thwarting the ambitions of Lesser Houses or the schemes of competing Great Houses, all the while seeking to advance the standing of their Houses even the tiniest iota. There are eighteen spires in all, and the ruins of three others besides, those last a warning to all and sundry that in the game of thrones, you win or you die.

The pale, glowing marble of the Great Forum, where poets recite ancient epics, and great thinkers and philosophers engage in endless debate. Almost always there is an audience, who watch and listen, whether sitting or standing, sometimes applauding, sometimes jeering, and always alert to subtle signs of danger to their own interests. On occasion, decade to decade, demagogues and would-be leaders of “the people” come here, speaking to large and wrathful crowds, seeking to direct them. Most do not last long.

Also in the city centre is the Shadow Theatre, grown from stone that changes in shade and colour. Upon its great stage, the most preeminent and skilled bards and players perform for the amusement of the great. In the halls beneath the great stage, the most promising of the young talent apprentice and train under the eyes of the master bards, and learn ancient songs, or compose new ones. It is said that an apprenticeship here lasts at least a decade, and sometimes a century or more, but those who survive can count themselves amongst the greatest performers to be found anywhere. I say those who survive, because even amongst artists who dedicate themselves to beauty, jealousy and ambition find many adherents, and accidents are known to happen to their fellows and apprentices alike.

Here are the concentric circles of the Senate House, which rules al-v’Llotha, and once ruled a mighty empire that stretched far and wide throughout the Underdark. Each circle is made of a different type of stone, veined through with precious metals from mithril to adamantine. Through social convention, as in all things, the best seats, closest to the front, belong to the most prominent and powerful. From amongst the senators are elected different offices, the highest of which is consul. Each office is elected for a twelve year term, and no officer may hold the same position twice in a row, except if a state of emergency is declared. The senators are elected by the female members of the Gold Caste. Men are prohibited from voting, but can and do strongly influence the votes of others, and men can also be, and are, elected as Senators and to all offices, even Consul. In theory, any free Drow has the right to speak to the Senate and to petition it for relief. In practice, only representatives of the most powerful guilds, schools, temples, and mercenary companies regularly do.

The tower of al-Thulus is the tallest building in the entire city, the home of the Jade Sceptre - greatest of the magi - and their apprentices. They are so-called because each full member wears a mask of pale jade and wields a sceptre of the same material.

The tower is grown from crystalline adamant, it sinks into the ground, the depths unknown to any not of their order, and perhaps not even them, and reaching to heights beyond the sights of any who dwell below. Into the crystalline adamant itself are carved delicate spirals and gently curving arches, patterns of paisley, shapes and symbols in languages I do not know and have never seen elsewhere. The Jade Sceptre values only arcane power and its independence. They intervene in the affairs of the city and its inhabitants only when they are threatened. They are ruled by the Nine, nine masked Archmagi whose identities are not known, save perhaps to each other, and those who report directly to them. From time to time, the tower seems to glow softly, and other times to darken. And sometimes, when you are close, if you listen closely, you can hear a strange, hauntingly beautiful chorus emanating from the tower, as if the tower itself sings.

At the heart of the city, clustered around that black and bottomless pool, are the magnificent high temples of Lolth, V’haron, and Charon, all facing each other in an uneasy standoff. Only the priests and acolytes of each respective god venture into the temples - to do otherwise is to invite an excruciating death. Each is built from blackest stone that seems to absorb all light, even that which is magically generated, and each temple is shaped as a stylized form of the animal loved by each god. In the middle, Lolth’s temple - a massive and alien spider queen, its webs the stairs leading up to what I do not know. On Lolth’s left, the shadowcat of V’haron, half-faded into shadows and claws extended, poised to pounce. And on Lolth’s right is Charon’s bat, its wings spread and fangs bared.

And at the centre, a perfect circle - the black pool of unmoving water. A pool which even the wisest say is bottomless, ever hungry for the sacrifices that feed it, and which leads to another plane of existence. The darkest stories even say that the pool has a mind of its own.

And most of all, the silence and darkness.

For despite the size of the city, comparable in size to any in the western lands beneath the sun, if not greater, sound is absorbed. For sound cannot pierce the walls of rock, or flow around them through the twisting streets. A place may echo with the bustle of commerce, the ringing sounds of battle, or a thunderous roar of mighty magic, but that sound does not travel. And wood, and anything that burns, is rare and precious in the city. Those who reside learn to see in the dark, or wish they had - al-v’Llotha does not cater to the weak, or to the blind. Throughout most of the city, throughout its twisting streets, except at rare intervals, there is only silence and darkness.

Silence and darkness rules that city of the crystal spires, rising from beside the sunless sea, in a cavern measureless to man.”

The half-elf ended his song, letting the last notes linger in the silence in the followed.