* AUTHOR'S NOTE *
GIVEN THAT THIS TALE IS DIFFERENT FROM THE REST OF MY WORKS AND THAT IT MAY NOT BE OF INTEREST TO MANY READERS, I'M GOING TO RELY ON THE NUMBER OF COMMENTS I GET TO GAUGE THE AMOUNT OF INTEREST THERE IS. IF YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO READ, PLEASE LET ME KNOW BY SIGNALLING YOUR PRESENCE IN THE COMMENTS.
MATURE THEMES AND VULGAR LANGUAGE APLENTY. VIEWER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED.
ENSLAVED BY THE DROW
CHAPTER 1 - JOURNEY TO THE DEEP
Far beneath the windswept shores, snowpeaked mountains, and flowery fields of Faerûn stretched another world. An unspoken world. Not a world of sun and seas, but one of angst, darkness and terrors to freeze the soul.
The labyrinth of winding tunnels and underground caverns was rumoured to be teeming with life. It was said that those beings which flourished deep within the depths of the earth were both strange and twisted. It was a land cloaked in near-perpetual darkness, filled with poisonous mushrooms and bioluminescent fungi. Scholars had long theorised that the Underdark was home not only to deadly creatures and long-forgotten secrets, but also to powerful civilisations. It is also said that those who travel to its depths - be it willingly or not - never come back, or at least so the legends say.
Elias had never meant to stray so far from the westbound caravan that would lead him straight to Baldur's Gate. A moment's curiosity, veering from the dusty road to examine what appeared to be a crumbling ruin, was all it took. By the time his senses alerted him to the sharp click of a crossbow, it was already too late. Cloaked raiders swooped in like shadows, masked and silent, emerging from shrubs and crevices like they'd been waiting there all along.
Elias begged, but the men weren't interested in coin. Just bodies. The potent sleeping agent coating the tip of a crossbow bolt did the rest, promptly sending the panicked lad into a debilitating slumber.
They bound him, cruelly tight. Four or five of the masked highwaymen piled atop Elias's light frame and trussed him up with more rope than necessary, even as another one forced a generous wad of cloth into the cavity of his mouth and secured a thick brown muzzle around his amply stuff-gagged face.
Bound and gagged, Elias was carried off under the cover of nightfall. He was carried off through wild fields, hidden mountain passes and into ominous tunnels that seemingly dipped below the earth.
Days blurred into darkness, the air growing colder and the silence unmistakably heavier. Though heavily drugged, the still-bound captive was lucid enough to realise that the raiders and their shoddy cavalcade had come to a full stop. They had reached a rocky hollow carved with faintly glowing, geometric-shaped runes.
It was there that the grey dwarves – commonly referred to as Duergar - waited.
No questions were asked. No names were spoken. Just a quick, silent inspection of raw goods and the clink of payment in gleaming metal cubes. Without a word, Elias's slumped form was uncaringly dragged off his pack mule. His face was relieved of the thick muzzle, and an iron collar was fastened around his neck.
He was taken - dragged into the far deeper and far darker reaches of the Underdark. Behind him, the sounds and smells of the sun-lit world were already fading to memory. What gods he had wronged or what sins he had committed to deserve this fate, he did not know. His only certainty was darkness and the promise of grim deeds to come.
* * * * *
The stone halls of the grey dwarven city stank of sweat and soot. Elias could no longer tell if it was day or night in the world up above. Days stretched into what seemed like weeks – his existence guided only by the rhythm of the lash, the creak of ore carts, and the heavy thumping of Duergar boots.
His hands bled almost constantly now. The crude pick they'd given him was too large and too heavy. The ore too dense. The air too thin, and his rations far too minimal. Still, he tried. Every day, he clawed into the black rock until his shoulders burned and his lungs threatened to give out. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"Ya call that diggin', lad?" barked the merciless Overseer in charge of the slave cohort, his bald head glistening in the torchlight. The Duergar's voice was like gravel under cart wheels. "I've seen one-armed goblins swing harder than that!"
Elias didn't answer, of course. He had learned to bite back his retorts. He only nodded, limply, and reached for the pick again.
The Overseer sneered in disdain and motioned for a nearby guard. "He's useless! He can't haul, he can't mine, he can't even lift a bloody crate without sobbin'!"
His eyes scanned the human like one might a sickened mule - contempt written all over his bearded grey face. "We overpaid."
The approaching guard grunted, apparently concurring with the other dwarf's harsh judgment.
"Toss him into the pit." came the Overseer's gruffly-voiced command.
Elias's stomach immediately tightened at the sound of those words. He'd heard whispers - hints of the pit. A place where the feeble and broken were tossed. A place where those too weak to work were sent to rot. A place where those too insignificant to waste resources on were forgotten. No light. No warmth. No water unless it dripped from the walls. Just the distant echoes of tired grunts and the constant clang of pickaxes hitting rock.
"Be grateful, surface rat." The Overseer spat with a curled lip. "At least down there, no one will bother you to work."
Elias didn't resist as they grabbed him. He couldn't. His legs barely held him upright as they pulled him by the heavy chain at his neck; dragging him past the churning forges and past other slaves who didn't dare watch the spectacle.
As the iron gate to the stinking pit groaned open, and the reeking dark swallowed him, Elias realised something he hadn't yet thought of: death would have been mercy. This was worse, however. This wasn't just death. It was erasure.
* * * * *
Elias spent what seemed like days curled up at the bottom of the lightless pit. He lay among the bones of the long ago deceased, half-asleep, lips parched from thirst and aching limbs colder than usual. He hadn't eaten in so long that the pangs of hunger had begun to dwindle.
Then came the heavy thud of boots. And judging by the sound of it, lots of them.
Three guards wordlessly entered the pit, yanking him upright by his thin arms, and dragging his starved body from the stone cell without explanation. His bare feet scraped over the stone floors. He didn't fight. He didn't have the strength to resist.
They brought him not to the mines nor to the relentless forges, but to a tiled chamber thick with the scent of oil and something reminiscent of lavender. A single brazier burned low in the corner, and a particularly thick-bearded, stout Duergar stood beside a water-filled basin, arms folded and scowling like he was not the least bit happy to be there.
"Strip him down, boys!" the old dwarf grumbled. "And be quick about it. Them blasted Drow like 'em squeaky clean."
Elias blinked. The words didn't make sense at first. But then came the scrubbing - rough hands with even rougher brushes, lukewarm water scented with surface flowers and aromatic herbs. They scraped the dust, grease and grime from his skin, cut his matted blond hair, and left nary an inch of him unwashed and unexplored.
A robe of thin fabric was draped over his slim torso. It covered his hairless chest and trailed all the way down to his toes, whilst at the same time leaving both of his bony shoulders exposed and revealing much of his left thigh via an indecently high slit. This wasn't clothing, Elias recognised. It was presentation. A gift wrapping, if you will. Only, he was to be the gift.
The older Duergar laughed. "There ya go, lassie. Lookin' almost as pretty as one o' your wee surface flowers." he chortled, pinching the skinny human's bum and causing the rest of the stout group to erupt into poorly subdued laughter.
Then came the heavy bronze necklace - more like a collar really - and a pair of matching wrist cuffs; nothing magical, but undeniably ornamental. The Drow – if such heathen even existed - would surely understand its meaning.
It was only then that Elias allowed his watery gaze to rise and his hoarse voice to pose a question: "Why...?"
The old Duergar, now inspecting a small crate of violet gemstones and rare ore nearby, paused. He didn't even bother to look up. "Shipment's late again." he warily muttered. "House Druu'giir expects tribute this week. We're short by two hundred weights of soulstone and three dozen firegems." the dwarf added, before angrily kicking one crate.
He finally turned his dark eyes towards the scrawny young man. "So we sweeten the offering. Trinkets. Relics. And you."
Elias just stared at him - utter disbelief lining his ghostly pale features.
The Duergar merely shrugged, some minuscule string of guilt apparently tugging at his cold, darkened heart. "Oh, don't be looking so surprised, petal. Them dark elves be likin' your kind. Soft, breakable, obedient." His tone wasn't cruel - just matter-of-fact, like someone explaining why the wind blows or why the sun disappears at night.
"You won't like it there. Those pointy-eared bastards be much crueller than we are." the stout dwarf confidently boasted, his loathing for the dark elves - more commonly referred to as Drow - quite literally dripping with every word.
"But business is business. 'Tis nothing personal." he went on to grumble, before walking over and tightening one of the heavy bronze cuffs adorning the scrawny human's wrists.
Elias didn't speak again. He simply stood there, wrapped in fabric that felt foreign on his freshly bathed skin, breathing air that smelled too clean, and waiting for a journey that would carry him even deeper into the lightless depths of this soul-crushing world. Deeper into the Underdark and right into the awaiting clutches of those infamously sadistic Drow.
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