Alone in his room, Zane opens an envelope and withdraws the black letter contained within.� As he reads the crimson runes, they flare and disappear, leaving the scent of brimstone in their wake.� A weak sigh escapes his granite lips as his head falls to rest upon his chest.� His once gleaming crystal eyes cloud over as if plunged into the deepest bank of fog.� His hand falls heavily to the side and the letter escapes his waning grasp to float lightly to the floor. Upon reaching the cold stones, the nebulous document polymorphs into a mass of dark spiders that scurry between the cracks in the wall to make their escape. The flickering flame of the lone candle wages a losing battle with an unseen draft that chills the room.� Its labored last light throws a shadow upon the empty envelope which lays abandoned on the table.� An envelope which bears only the broken seal of an Underdark Dragon.

Hastily making their way through the depths of the Underdark, the seething mass of arachnids enter a forboding and unmarked dwelling.� Treading past mindless undead drow guards, the spider horde halts before a dark brooding form.� The spiders writhe in ecstasy before their master and coalesce into their natural form, that of an underdark dragon.� A dry voice rasps, "Myst.� I trust that the message has been delivered."� In answer the obsidian beast hisses a rebuke.� The master's bone-thin fingers tap the arm of his chair in thought.� "I think it time we see how far our little cantrip has progressed, don't you agree, my pet."� Rising from his seat, he beckons for Myst to follow as he retires to a private chamber.� Within the confines of the candlelit room (a rarity in the Underdark and yet a necessity for wizards wishing to read stolen surface spells) a huddled mage looks up from his bundled scrolls at the unexpected intrusion.� At a barked command, the spellweaver nervously exposes an onyx bowl filled with what appears to be blood.� As he completes his spell of activation, the liquid violently whirlpools and clears to reveal the unconscious form of the master's ire.� Leaning over the scrying bowl, the dark form's face revels in the pain of the huddled being in the liquid.� "Yes, you have done well, Myst.� Soon he shall learn the truth.� Woe unto him and his family of interfering Guardians, when he does."� He laughs wickedly and turns to return to other pressing matters.� As his form passes the last remaining candles of the room, their meager light causes the red gemstone embedded in his forehead to glow fiercely and seemingly limn his drow form in a crimson sheet of madness.

The candles of the study have long expired, leaving Zane's room pitch dark and eerily quiet.� As his unconscious form labors to survive, his mind flashes through distant memories as if reliving them distantly through another's eyes.� Each event parades before his view and is replayed until every bit of information is extracted.� The tiny part of him that remains aware knows only that it is not he that is siphoning these memories, but some outside force entirely alien to him.� His inner self rails against the psychic intrusion, attempting to stop the theft of his identity.� His attempts are summarily thwarted as a particularly powerful memory unfolds before his sight, confusing and distracting him.�
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The night is strangely silent and tense, the stars having dimmed their gaze upon the world.� Seeking solace of thought, a lone dwarven cleric rests in a secluded chapel square.� He is draped in heavy leather armor of varying shades of grey, hence his name, Zane the Grey.� He swings his stubby legs back and forth from the bench, enjoying the chill of the night air.� Lost in thought, his hand traces the crescent-shaped scar which mars his face.� His voice lifts in prayer to the Goddess Mielikki -- in answer his hands glow with the healing powers that only the divine may grant.� As his palm depresses the marked cheek, the scar grows cold in angry retaliation and rejects the
curative blessings.� With a sigh he resigns the attempt and lowers his hand to his lap.� "Supposin yer surprised it didna work?!", he growls to himself.� Confused and troubled, he laments the unreliability of his powers, chastising himself for failing to control spells that other adepts of his Order have long mastered.� It is almost as if his very magical essence is leached from his small frame with each casting.� A sudden tug at his neck causes a startled yelp to escape his lips.� Whirling quickly about, he discovers a frail and filth covered moon elf clutching desperately to the end of his cape with a shaking hand.� The amber-eyed wretch searches Zane's face imploringly, "Can...... would you.... spare a pauper a ... few coppers, Master.� It has been so.... very long... since I have eaten."� Zane's pitied stare takes in the length of the bedraggled elf.� With a sigh he reaches into the pouch at his belt and withdraws a platinum coin.� He smiles and flips the coin to the needy vagabond and returns to his thoughts.� Deftly the coin is caught in mid air by the agile elf as he stealthily retreats to the shadows of a nearby alley.� Ripping the soiled clothes from him, the elf cackles maniacally and utters a hasty command.� The depths of the alley erupt in a crimson tide of power as a portal opens and five silent vacant-eyed drow shamble forth.� "He bears the mark of Kiaranselee.� The covenant must be kept.� Take him!", a now whisper thin voice rasped.� The shadows thickened as the zombies leapt to their master's order and moved to surround the unsuspecting dwarf.� Watching from the shadows, the moon elf smiles wickedly.� His eyes burn crimson as the malignant jewel embedded in his forehead flames to life and burns the vestiges of his disguise away to reveal the cruel form of Elaith Craulnober.

Lashing out like a serpent, a salt encrusted and studded glove connects again with a restrained dwarven form.� Angry red welts rise at the sight of impact, cries for mercy escape the dwindled form's cracked lips.� Elaith grasps Zane's exhausted head roughly by the hair and forces him to meet madly arcing crimson eyes.� "Oh how the mighty have fallen... truly a shame that you couldn't suffer the indignities of pain in silence.� Mewling cries merely push me to punish you that much more.� Fear not insipid Guardian, your time of suffering is nearly at an end," an evil grin fills Elaith's face, "... or rather I should say, the suffering of your current form is about to end.� You shall, however, contnue to serve me well."� Zane's face contorts painfully into a mask of confusion, "Ye may crush mine own mortal coil, but me soul is promised and protected by the love and promise of me Goddess... that ye may never claim to keep."� Again red-washed pain clouds Zane's vision as the dreaded fist reconnects.� "FOOL!� You bother to speak to me of petty surface dwelling Faerun gods.� Are you so blind that you cannot see, you are held in sway by one more powerful� than the forest dwelling harlot you worship."� Elaith withdraws a crude metallic implement baring an oddly familiar shape.� "Recognize this?"� Zane's eyes trace the outline of the form and he gasps in sudden recognition.� Elaith grins wickedly, "Yes.� It should be familiar... this is the sign of Kiaranselee, drow goddess of the undead.� It also happens to be the very same brand which marked you as a cur at the whim of her many pleasures."� Elaith traces the scar on�� Zane's sweat drenched face.�� Elaith contorts his face into a form of mock enlightenment, "No wonder your powers work so erratically!� You have been bastardizing your goddess' blessings with my goddess' curses.� Delightfully and ironically duplicitous don't you think.� To have a greater evil done for every miniscule good which you did."� Zane's head resignedly falls to his chest and he weaps ashamedly at his failure and stupidity.� "Oh come now, cleric. you still remain of great use to us and the Dark One is greatly pleased by your works.� Indeed, your powers shall soon be augmented tenfold... though you shall ever remain under our thumb."� Darkness rises like a tangible fog to cloak Elaith, "Yes, I have great plans for you and the confused compatriots you bungle about the world with.� You should be well pleased I will allow you the ability to retain your mind... at least for now." Zane's form shivers uncontrollably; dangling limply from the constraining shackles as Elaith departs... whether from fear, pain, or deepest sorrow... he can no longer tell the difference.

Hate-filled eyes search the night sky... waiting for the Blood Moon to break the horizon.� Anxiously, the crimson stone embedded in his forehead strobes erratically in anticipation of some momentous event.� Elaith's growls in irritation and commands the Mhaorkirra to halt its glowing fits and camouflage itself once again.� "Patience.� The time is nigh."� Elaith coldly clutches an ancient elven tome and turns sharply to return to the spell chamber where the others wait.� The sacrifice lays spread upon an altar of darkest obsidian that glows with eldritch fires from the Abyss itself.� Black robed, vacant faced drow circle the chamber to bear witness to the power about to be released.� Elaith strides purposefully to the side of his waiting mage and thrusts the book into his waiting hands.� The mage eagerly accepts the book with hunger filled eyes, his hands trembling.� Turning back to the altar the mage opens the tome to the proper place and makes his preparations.� Cold, sharp pain erupts at the base of his neck.� Elaith's cold voice rasps, "I warn you wizard, make no attempt to do anything other than what I have brought you here for... I well know the necessities of this casting and will instantly recognize if you are doing something other than what you must."� The dagger withdrawn, the mage hastily reviews his components and nods about him that he is prepared to begin.� Suddenly a chorus of dark prayer erupts from the impassive undead drow throng.� Their maladictive whispers forming a tangible blanket of darkness to enshroud the chamber in deepest foreboding.� The mage enters into a strange casting, his whole form dancing and moving to some unheard song.� His voice lifts in a broken song of power... that sounds elven.� Elaith winces and spits in disgust, nearly overcome by his ancestral hatred of all things related to fairie elves... the outcome however, will be worth a little discomfort.� Reaching the climax of his casting the wizard bounds to the shackled prisoner and sets glowing hands upon him.� Zane's body jolts, as if struck by a hundred bolt.� His limbs flail wildly and he begins shimmer with an unnatural green light.� His face contorts painfully, looking as if the worst of all possible horrors have been visited upon him.� Then he stops... suddenly, as if not out of any conscious decision of his own.� Frozen, unmoving, petrified.� Emerald fires erupt from his pores... consuming his body from within... attempting to break to the outside.� The wave of energy and light grows so intense that everyone, including Elaith, look away in squinting pain.� The light subsides quickly.� Elaith turns back to the grim altar and smiles.� Piles of ash lie strewn about it, roughly in the form of the one just recently shackled to it.� Where the now dead occupant's head would have been... two shimmering green crystals radiantly glow with a power of their own.� Snatching them quickly, Elaith holds them in the palm of his hand and cackles maniacally.� He peers intently into their swirling depths and smiles knowingly.� "I told you I had plans for you...", Elaith whispers to the jewels, "...be pleased in knowing that you are the first of many kirra that the drow will create.� Your power is now accessible directly to any evil drow hand which can touch you.� But fear not... none but mine shall ever do that."� Elaith's richtous smile only widens more as the light of the crystals dims sorrowfully.� Elaith turns to the undead drow and sweeps a hand at the altar, "Scatter the ashes... they still reek of dwarf."