The DROW.S.R.

Know, oh, prince, why we fear the dark, why only fools venture into the tunnels of the deep, why it is the wise man, who, when discovering a hole in the earth, fills it with cement. Riches there may be, gold and jewels from ages past, secrets and glory, but none of it more valuable than the life-giving rays of the sun!

Praise be the warmth and the glory of the light!

Falsely does one believe that the Drow were driven from the surface. It was the forest-dwelling faeries that were driven from below! 

Flesh of pitch, darker than night. Sinister eyes, like stars in a merciless sky. Children of the Web! Mate of the Arachnid! A union so foul . . .

Cursed woods under a thick canopy of silk, blotting out the sun, perpetual gloom, this is the outpost of the dark elf.

In their wake, villages littered with bloated bodies, impregnated with the eggs of thousands. Those taken alive are not for labor, but for consumption and sacrifice. A feast for the spider!

Do not be taken alive! End yourself lest you enjoy the notion of cocooned terror, kept alive, knowing only the bitter taste of vile poison until the very last scrap of you is consumed by their eight-legged young, your remaining eye blinking out from the web to behold untold others also pleading with their God, as death is taking too long . . . 

Feast of fungus, blood of man, sacrifice and torture, the orgy of the arachnid! Yet a smile never crosses their poisoned lips. Of alien beauty, with spiders like the flea. If you are chosen as her mate . . . Not a spoken word, do not mistake this agony for pleasure, for what will become of you threatens even the sanity of an Elder God! Some will call you Drider . . . Pale where she is pitch, fanged maw gaped in a perpetual scream as you contemplate your new condition. Madness echoes inside.

Have you ever seen their young, my prince?

And their tongue . . . the clicks can not be unheard.

Their kingdom is far larger than ours, for theirs is the true earth! We are but dwellers in moss, a thin crust atop untold cubic leagues of empire. Every step we take, thousands step below. Believe not the charlatan who speaks of gleaming cities in the cavernous dark . . . their dwellings do not resemble our own . . . nor do their ways. They have a purpose incomprehensible to the light. 

Noble are the dwarves who hold their own!

There is no treaty, no discourse, no compromise, no exception, no understanding of something born of the true essence of Evil. 

Even Hell spit them out.  

 

Related post: The O.S.ORC