Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

(This event took place on the mortal year of 2009, the 29th October)

In this Lolth forgotten whole, Darkness is our only confidence.

A distant howling, unatural, caught the priestess dark pointy ear, echoing wall uppon wall to reach her. Standing still from her underdark march, her eyes gaze upon the old door, to a thin opening that gave way to the erie sound, from the ruined structure some have pointed out as a toomb.

"Sshamath, what ever did these drow burry here ? Do they still carry out the drow traditions of burring the dead worth remembering ?"

The dust settles deeper into the stone blocks as her boots press on, and the door is opened wide. The dim light of a few torches blinds the dark eyes for a moment before ajusting, revealing the ancient hall.
A few steps are answered only by their own echo. Dust covered stone as far as the sight can see, perpetuating a never ending cyle, as erosion patiently caresses the walls and roof, urns, crypts and decors old as time itself, boring to death.
A dark corner is turned, an old door opened, and yet again the same sight is revealed, hall upon hall of dust moist and a moaning. Worth looking into, for a change of scenary.
As she inspects the door, it repeats, the exact same notes, as if nothing new to be added, and the door is opened with a faint squeak. Silence.

[To be continued...]
[...]
Cautiously, step by step eyeing the room, she walks by the pilled stone toombs, seeking the origin of such monotonous moaning.

She lets out a breath. And suddenly the quick sound of ground scratching followed by rushing spaced steps expose the dried up figure of a rotten running corpse, almost like a moth rushing towards the light, the undead desperatly sets its beacon on the warm breath drew, only to be met by a cold iron spiked ball at the end of the priestess punishing flail.
Blow upon blow she is unable to hide her smile as dust and rotten flesh peals from the once vivid corpse, untill a pile of twisted rags and bones settles by her feet.
Her teeth grins and the fist clenches upon the handle of the chastising ball and chain.

[To be continued...]

Look arround for usefull unwanted prizes, her mental voice commands her, its not as if anyone here will need them. Her foot carelessly pushes a lid asside, and the toomb riding begins. These lids are particularly easy to push asside, and the spoils prove worthless, for whatever miningfull findings are surelly adorning the necks and fingers of other living scavangers.
She stops for a moment.

"Taking from the dead ? ... Heh ! It is not likely that the Mother Queen would thik ill of this, these are the rogues of Sshamath ! Beside, what may be worthy to some, may also be worthless to me !"

Before another thought could be formed, again the humming sound of moaning despair is heared through the halls. Her hand grips tight on the handle once more, and her steps push forward towards the newly found amusement.
Taking for granted is allways a mistake. Again this rule is proved as the priestess finds a room full of moths that welcome the barging light to converge to.

Just one second to hesitate before a strategicall retreat. Tactics are allways a mean to achieve victory. Once the battlefield is crudely set, the bashing beggins.
Not all battles are met with victory and after the skirmish the tides needed a shift. The Mother Queen provides to the strong, and so it was that the outcome was glorious to the priestess, of course with its toll.
The sent of fresh blood was scatered through these dusty halls, and distant hummings arise. Time to return, for the true quest for this unsettling howling proved fruitfuless.

[...]

Backtracking, the pace is quickened, one last look behind to assure that nothing is following from the darkness. As a dorway comes closer she turns her head forwad and there it is - Suddenly she finds herself face to face to a silent, standing still long deciesed mold green ghoul, had it a breath, they would be feeling each other's.
Again the flail is hold tight as she quickly takes a step back, surprised at the next reaction of the thing in front of her. It speaks dragging its words - "who are you" it asks.
Who are you ? What a unexpected question from a living corpse. This one's brain must have been only half eaten for it to pose such a question.

"Who am i? I am the claw of the Mother Queen, bringer of her will ! What are you to pose such question ?"

Before an answer could be heared, she notices a familiar mark, even if corrupted by the decaying flesh on the creature's arm - The mark of Lolth.

"I too was once as you" it said, and the figure of a once drow could now be pictured in the rotting creature ahead.

She looks it over, and passes judgement - "A fate fitting of the weak and forgotten"
Disdain is obvious in her expression. "What brought you to this ?" She asks.
The creatures pauses for a period, the question forced it to search an answer "I do not recall ... remember falling, and then this..."
Forgetfullness had swept its essence. But in a brief rational like moment it cried out "Release me !..."

The grip is still tight on the handle, and a grin comes to her teeth. With pleasure she thinks, unleashing the iron spikes from the twirling chain into the dry rotten flesh of the pathetic creature.
The creature remains motionless, as if accepting the punishment, and while distracted with the the job at hands, she fails to see the approaching dark armored figure from the shadows ahead, noticing it only once it speaks.

"Why do bash my thrall ?"

This one's speach is clearer, with unatural heavy tone. She stops.

"Your's ? Is this your doing ? Who are you hold such claims ?"

Something of a grin is now half showing from the dark figure's helm covered face - "You like it ? It could be you ..."
"Carefull now," anger takes over her face " i have bested many in this place, you could be next"

[To be continued...]