Episode 39 - Whistling Caves

Previously on All Drow, All the time, the party turned its focus to Clan Ironchaser’s crisis: the disappearance of their elite scouts in the Whistling Caves. The moment the heroes crossed the threshold, the tunnels came alive with eerie, broken dwarven echoes drifting from every direction. Traveling deeper inside, they found four scouts slain and a fifth slumped and comatose against the far wall.

After rendering Duergar first aid to her by letting the wound bleed to flush out any infection, the whispers swelled into a maddening chorus. Dozens of dwarven voices overlapped: sobbing, laughing, pleading, and one calling for help. Then the gibbering mouthers emerged. Writhing masses of flesh, mouths, and eyes, dragging themselves across the stone, warping the ground around them.

The battle was chaotic. Ahl d’Kukyz found himself momentarily entranced, convinced the creatures’ babbling held the secrets of existence, only to snap back periodically just as a snapping maw lunged for his head. The party cut the aberrations down, and with their defeat, the dwarven woman, Edda Ironwhisper’s trance broke. Shaken and exhausted, she resigned from the Ironchasers on the spot, handing Ahl d'Kukyz her Resonant Tuning Fork — a tool capable of casting Shatter once per day.

Returning to Hammerhand, the party delivered the recovered stone journal and received the praise of Mayor Torin Stonetooth. In recognition of their deeds, the clans offered them Deepbrew — one of the highest honors a dwarf can bestow. Nick Beardless took a swig, swished it, swallowed a bit… and spat the rest onto the floor. The hall froze in horror. Ary quickly explained it was a Duergar tradition to “pour one out” for the fallen. The council begrudgingly accepted the excuse, as Nick shrugged.

As the congratulations resumed, Ary and Wynder noticed a large bat clinging to the underside of a rose‑colored crystal high above.

A soft thwick cut the air.

Sleep‑tipped hand‑crossbow bolts rained down from the ledges, striking the clan leaders. Dwarves collapsed mid‑toast, tankards falling from limp hands as the venom took hold. The bodies falling to the floor. Then the shadows peeled from the ceiling. Cloaked drow descended like falling knives, sliding down the clan banners and slicing them apart as they dropped.

At the chamber doors, the two dwarven guards barely had time to turn before their throats were cut in a single motion. Blood sprayed across the stone as their bodies fell silently to the floor.

The drow weren’t raiding.  They were executing a decapitation strike.