What does it mean to be remembered? What is to have one's thoughts, opinions, arguments and deeds preserved against the onslaught of time? Does anything around us have any permanence, or are we all doomed to eternal obscurity in the face of increasingly brighter figures.

In a world without light, without hope, with only walls of rock and inky blackness, does it even matter?

I write this because I face the very real possibility of death in the near future. I am lost, possibly thousands of miles from Mother Thay, with little hope of being able to return. My studies, my planning, and my wealth in Surthay are now useless, painful memories of the past to which I can't help but cling as long as their alternative is nonexistent. The single greatest mistake of my life was to show loyalty my superiors. Had I not given into my lust for further power wealth and let logic prevail, I would not have followed Thazar and the others into that damned portal.

There is little time for regret, however. I have much to accomplish here, and I'm rapidly running out of options.

The horned fool is dead. A pity, as I had such grand machinations in store for him. Perhaps it is not too late to make some use of him. I've heard that demon blood can be of use to a practitioner of the Arcane. Maybe it may not be a bad idea to look around for his remains to see if any of it happens to be salvageable. I actually expected to go before him. What a bit of luck.

Magus Thazar has decided on a new course of action that may make things a great deal easier for us. We shall have to see.

The muted candlelight in the room flickered, casting elongated shadows across the room that danced subtly as the candle burned down. Laying on his back on the bed of his room in the Crone, Ivar gazed up at the ceiling through slightly narrowed eyes. This settlement, he mused, will collapse soon. Their ambition and likely course of action are so painfully clear; why hasn’t anyone else seen it? More importantly, why haven’t I joined them?

A fresh scar ran down his cheek into his once elegant beard, now a tangled, dirty mess, and across his chin. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to turn back to life on the surface. Thoughts of the palatable food, fine wine, and elegant women that had filled his life of tutelage flooded his exhausted mind as he rolled onto his side and began to sob. The sun, oh, the Sun! Never before havd he longed for Lathander’s blessing more in his life. Memories of his brother, the last of his family, came to him. Was he still alive? Did Surthay remain? Could the same illithid who had the Magus brought down here have enslaved the entire city? No, he dispelled the thought at once. However powerful it may be, it could not stand against an entire city of Thay.

The last image he had of his mother returned as well. A familiar feeling of powerlessness filled him as he turned onto his side and brought his knees closer to his midsection. That sickening wave of helplessness flooded over him as the memory returned. Her face, ashen with fear. The crumpled body sprawled out next to her. The familiar hands tightening the cord around her throat.

He opened his eyes suddenly at the sound of a heavy knock at the door. I was so young, he told himself. There was nothing I could have done. The uneasy feeling remained as he open the door a crack and peered out before opening it fully and allowiny a solidly built orc to step into the room. Damnit, he thought, the last thing I want is another distraction. What does Thazar see in these damndable brutes, anyway?

Hullo mista Ivar. The orc grunted as he pulled off his dented helmet, revealing the ugly, broken face beneath. Jujuman wants talk you.

Ivar stared into the glossy eyes of the orc for a moment. They were like two polished stones set into a grotesque face, devoid of any real emotion or intelligence. Glancing over the broken, bloodstained armor for a moment was enough to convince him to send the orc away. He let out a long sigh as he pulled his dark, heavy cap over his head.

This had better be worth it.