Delgar
Chapter XVII
Mirlira Mialeth
Sanlas Mialeth
Inuknu
ciclac, the hunter
Drow troops
Yathrinshee
Delgar
Nestled along the mist-veiled banks of a meandering tributary, Delgar is a humble cluster of weathered cottages and tangled fishing nets, where the scent of riverweed and old smoke lingers in the sunrise air. The villagers, sun-browned and stoic, mend their boats with quiet purpose, casting lines into the glassy water that reflects the sprawling willows and distant, brooding peaks.
Yet beyond the thatched roofs and noisy wharves lies another face of Delgar—one that slumbers beneath moss and roots. East of the village, half-hidden by brambles and the curling arms of ancient trees, the shattered remnants of drow architecture rise from the earth like the bones of some forgotten beast. Black stone arches, inscribed with glyphs now worn by centuries of rain, stand askew at the edge of shadowy hollows. Faint whispers are said to ride the evening breeze, echoes of rituals and secrets lost to time. The bravest children dare each other to peer through the vine-choked doorways at dusk, when pale fungi glow faintly and the boundary between this world and the old magic seems perilously thin.
Delgar’s people seldom speak of the ruins, preferring the simple certainties of river and net, yet every so often, an outsider arrives chasing rumors or relics—reminded by the land itself that History here is never truly buried, only waiting for the right moment—and the right hands—to awaken.
Yathrinshee
Mirlira & Salans Mialeth
As the siblings step gingerly through the curtain of brambles and moss, the air grows heavy, tinged with ozone and the faint scent of earth long undisturbed. In their trembling hands, the amethyst locket thrums with an uncanny warmth, its facets catching errant beams of twilight that filter through the ancient trees. Each step they take reverberates through the ruined stones, stirring sleeping glyphs carved deep into the black arches.
Suddenly, the locket glows with a fierce violet light, casting eerie shadows that flicker across the mossy floor. The runes, once dulled by the ages, flare to life, their patterns twisting and weaving until the barrier between worlds wears thin. For a heartbeat, the siblings glimpse ethereal towers and spiraling drow corridors superimposed upon the crumbled remains, a vision both beautiful and terrifying. The air crackles as ancient magic surges, and the locket’s power surges forth, shattering the last bonds of Yathrinshee’s prison.
With a sound like a distant thunderclap, the portal shudders open, and Yathrinshee emerges, her form taking shape from swirling shadows and dancing light. The ruins, both real and spectral, echo with the energy of her release as the boundaries of Delgar—between History and myth, present and past—are irrevocably changed.