An unusual tome, cover bound with black velvet, dark as the gloom of the Deep. Large metal rings bind the spine - opening it reveals many smaller books, with conventional binding, held by the metal as though the larger tome were a simple binder. Each book features a cover in a different style. Each appears written by a different hand, in different ink. Only the black binding would suggest that each of the tomes within are related at all.

Before the cover of the first tome, an old and weathered piece of parchment can be found, penned with a simple hand:

In the use of the heteronym I have found the much-needed outlet to express myself. In reverie, often I am visited by visions which are not my own; Eyes of others have seenthings which were not meant for mine, yet I make these memories my own, and drink from each of these identities as the most parched throat would from an brimming cup.

Laheryn Ulmy'ayn is still my orthonym, but as research progresses further, I will shed the bonds of her frail body; The frontiers of the world are to be explored, the only limit to my conquest, my boundless intellect.

Below the foreword of sorts, is what appears to be an index:

Index BOOK OF MANY LAYERS

• Laheryn Ulmy'ayn

• Stormcrow

The very first book of the series is bound with gray leather, its spine large and suggesting age. Many pages are scrawled with research notes and general impressions during the life of a hundred and sixty year old elven Arcanist. Many pages often double as a diary, outlining the life of one Laheryn Ulmy'ayn.

GRIMOIRE OF LAHERYN ULMY'AYN

Year 1342, Waterdeep

Once again I have bothered to attend another of dear brother Elvethren's receptions. I have warned him that accepting so many humans in his household is unbecoming, even in this cosmopolitan sprawl. He will not listen - I suspect he is greatly infatuated with Elvira Ghible, daughter of a local human merchant of considerable success.

While it is plain we are all quite fond of the fleeting pleasures afforded by the libations and the many herbs and spices from distant lands, I have begun worrying that Elvethren has forgotten the reason why we are here in the first place. A few weeks have passed since we attempted to procure passage into the Deep, yet he seems to have eyes and ears only for that filthy human whoreling, her friends, her stupid toys and concoctions.

Year 1347, Waterdeep

I thought I had lost heart years ago, and decided to let the mission I'd once sworn to accomplish rest, but today a new acquaintance has rekindled that old fire. Her name is Lyaryn, originally from Evereska, which is a surprise, since I had not known her back then. She says she is recently returned from The Isle; The things which she has told me have awakened that deep and slumbering rage - it is clear as ever, we may not be the owners of this World, but we are certainly the shepherds. Mankind does not possess the skills nor the temperance to steer the world. We the People have been blessed uniquely with the lifespan, the judgment and the intellect to lead all other races into a new era of prosperity. If only I could wake my brothers and sisters to the truth of this! They all lie in complacency, as though it was our Gods-given fate to wait, to slowly wither, and watch while that which we nurtured and grew for so long went to waste.

Others had approached me to inquire regarding the plan, and if there remained any from the old days still, to guide those interested in completing our mission to where we must go. Elvethren is long departed now, and like as not father to a filthy dirty-blooded halfbreed. Hlalean has gone to The Isle, what little news I receive from him sporadically prove that he is no longer one of us - he is lost to complacency, what he and his would call 'patience'. Ilsreth the Raven hasn't been seen or heard from in years. All of these people should be here, now that Lyaryn has arrived. Something is not quite right about her. She is enthralling to look upon, yet possessed of a deep humility. Her means are great; She arrived to Waterdeep escorted by a veritable retinue. Yet those who surround her seem unaware - or uncaring - as to her true motives. She has informed me that we will be taking The Passage soon. She is confident that our mission shall take many years to complete - all beginnings, I tell her, must be the acquisition and the analysis of information pertaining to the problem at hand. She agrees. In a few weeks, we go into The Deep, willingly. May the Gods protect us.

Year 1352, Skullport

Another of our number was taken today. It seems the rival groups of the city will not allow our plans to continue unhindered. No matter. Things proceed as planned, and Mirolinas assures me that I am his most valued assistant. I have taken the time and the effort to pen a series of reports on the procedures and experiments he has been conducting of late, and he was quite pleased with the results. Just as our rivals in this forgotten depth would have us die, I begin to worm my way into the hearts of the higher-ups. Mirolinas believes me irreplaceable if his efforts are to continue without obstacle. Lyaryn has declared me her second-in-command in all but name. Things go as planned.

The experiments are truly gruesome to behold. Mirolinas claims he procured the samples from pirates who returned from faraway lands, carrying this dread plague, unknowingly, in their own bodies. During the first days, no change is visible to the outward appearance of the subject, but quite clearly fatigue and exhaustion begin to settle in. Two out of five subjects were bedridden at the end of Day 3, with all five succumbing to the fatigue by Day 5. Day 6 marks the onset of the black spots, appearing first under the neck, the armpits, in the groin and behind the knees. Soreness of the muscles and a total fatigue accompany these symptoms, which are followed shortly by what seems to be a suitably painful death. Every subject, despite the crippling weakness that they had been suffering for days already, went into the Netherworlds with screams of pain. I could not enter reverie for a few days after - their screams haunt me, and if I did not know how necessary it is that we accomplish our mission, I would have fled long ago.

Year 1354, Skullport

The unusual tone that Lyaryn took when addressing me was surprising, but it did not come as a shock that she had found out about my plans with Gulmog the Butcher. Truly, every time I was forced to deal with that despicable creature, I nearly wanted to singe my nostrils off to keep myself from feeling the noxious stench; All for naught! Now that Lyaryn knows, all the plotting and scheming will never come to fruition. No matter. No matter, no matter. Lyaryn may have found out about my plan now, but she is certainly oblivious to the fact that even this was a simple diversion. The true moment is mere weeks away. Lyaryn says that it is not the time yet, and that we are not ready. She is wrong. The plague has been tested to perfection. Even without Mirolinas we have been able to accomplish near complete fatalities over the course of a few weeks, on a batch of over a hundred subjects. Magical wards seem to do little to mitigate the situation; The only known curatives at the time are dependent on the providence of the Gods, but the spells necessary are well beyond the means of most humans, here or elsewhere.

We shall have to wait and see. Lyaryn has guided us without fail until now, but even her foresight cannot be trusted when I know I am right and she is wrong.

Year 1360, Waterdeep

Gods be good! I nearly fainted when I saw them on my doorstep today! On -my- doorstep! Apart from the utter surprise that Mirolinas is still alive, I must say I was indeed shocked that Lyaryn did not cut me down where I stood, and instead embraced me as a sister. Perhaps a fraction of the love she felt for me remains yet, or perhaps Mirolinas, who always had a weak spot for me, convinced her that I am worth more to them alive than dead.

Good fortune for them is that even after our dispersal under less than agreeable circumstances, I continued my work. True, I have taken a more 'esoteric' direction in my studies and research, than they would probably have hoped for, but a lot of my work in the past years is definitely useful for what they have in mind. They explained to me what I have known to be true for some time, but Lyaryn, as usual, put it in words that are beyond even my capacity of expression. Simply put, when our Dark Kin were cast down, and in the many eons that have followed since, the Unspeakable Mother worked her best to curse the very blood of Ilythiiri females. They are all maddened in childless grief, thirsty for blood at every turn, incapable of tenderness or love even in the most intimate of settings, with the worthiest of suitors. All they ever understand is war, slavery, blood and their undying and worshipful service to the Unspeakable Mother. She has enslaved them all, cursed them all, and they are now lost to us.

Thus, as I suspected, and have suspected for a long time now, the solution for our race lies in the research that we have been conducting for quite some time. Lyaryn finally agrees with many of my positions, and has even apologized for our failure, as though it were her fault. We all agree, now, that only with increased birthing rates the continued existence of our race is possible. How we will achieve such a chance in the biology of our People is still a matter of speculation to me. Perhaps through Magic, though even that - especially that - is subject to Corellon's Will. Why did you, Holy Father, grant unto us free will and the ability to live our lives as we see fit, if not to change the World, to mend the World's failings where we find them? Have we been blind? No. As the Hidden Lord commands, we will continue to strive in secret, in the shadows. Our work continues, and I have had a spark of inspiration. Perhaps the solution is not in favoring one aspect or another, but in joining them. Union shall be our strength. An Ilythiiri male and a healthy Ar'Tel female would produce offspring free from the designs of Lolth, culturally and intrinsically tied both to the traditions of the Deep, of survival and competition, and those of the Surface, of cooperation and nurturing. A master-race shall be born, all others shall be their sheep to herd and guide, as is the lot of all those who are great, gifted and blessed by the Gods above. With the strength and resilience bred through eons in the Dark, and without the insane blood-lust the Dark Mother has cursed the females with, it is my hope we can finally be freed from the two great obstacles that hinder us - the complacency of the Surface-kin, and the disunion of the Deep-kin.

This entry is written in a brash, quick hand, obviously the product of haste and carelessness. Year 1368, Somewhere In the Womb of the Earth

Dead.

All dead. All but me.

We fled the facility many nights ago. It must be two months now since we fled, our foes in hot pursuit. We've been chased through every cave, every chasm. They fought us with bow and blade and spell and prayer, we succumbed slowly. Mirolinas took many of them with him, flinging powerful spells of war, killing droves with each word. In the end, they caught him in a trap and he was killed. The others followed in the days and weeks that ensued. Things have been so dire I have hardly had time to write here. I only take the time because I know that the end must be nigh now.

Four hours ago, Lyaryn expired in my arms. She was terribly wounded from an arrow, and neither of us was much good with healing of any kind - not that we had any supplies left either way. I tried to sing to her, as she slowly drifted in and out of consciousness, but in the end I must say I was only able to cry softly, and keep myself from crying harder. At one time I believe I loved Lyaryn. Now my heart has no space for such things, such follies. I await the end.

Footnote: An eery, lone Duergar appears to be a few passages ahead in the shaft I found myself in after the last cave-in. I will investigate soon, if I survive reverie. For now I tire, and must rest.

The second book of the series is smaller, thinner and ugly. Stained pages and cover tell of a sloppy, careless author, much different from the first. The cover is a bloodstained black slab of common Underdark rock. Upon it, the outline of a crow has been whittled hatefully, with strokes of dagger. Below it is the word "STORMCROW", in the angular script of the Drow.

The pages are filled with angered rants, revolving around the central concepts of "revolution", "oppressive matriarchal tyranny", "gynarchy of the Whore-Mother" and other such self-indulgent references. A recurring character seems to be Mhaeldrae, whom the author describes as a lower-level female member of one of the less important Traensyran houses.

ENTRY 2256:

WHORES! FILTHY STINKING WHORES! MAY THEIR CHILDREN DROWN IN SPIDERSILK AND THEIR LUNGS FILL WITH THE BLOOD OF A THOUSAND UNHOLY SACRIFICES PERPETRATED IN THE NAME OF THEIR WHORE MOTHER-GODDESS! I HAVE BEEN CHASED OUT OF THE CITY BY WHORES WHO CLAIM TO SPEAK THE WORDS OF A GODDESS WHO IS NAUGHT BUT A SELF-INDULGENT PARTY WHORE BENT ON TOTAL DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD! HOW CAN THIS BE! THE OPPRESSIVE TYRANNY OF THE MATRIARCHY WILL BE TOPPLED! STORMCROW SHALL RISE AND DESTROY EACH OF THEM, HIS UNCHECKED FURY TEARING OPPRESSIVE LIMB FROM OPPRESSIVE BONE! HE SHALL OPPRESS THE GYNARCHY INTO DEATH!

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ENTRY 2301:

THE STORMCROW HAS ARRIVED IN SANCTUARY, CITY OF SLAVES! THE STENCH OF SLAVES FILLS THE NOSTRILS OF STORMCROW AT EVERY TURN, ASSAULTING HIS FINE SENSES TUNED BY YEARS OF WONDROUSLY FANCIFUL RECEPTIONS HELD IN THE CITY WHERE THE MATRIARCHAL TYRANNY RULES STILL! BUT NO MATTER! THE IRONY OF IT SHALL BE THE EXELAUYTH* THAT CROWNS THE PIE! A CITY OF SELF-PROCLAIMED FREE SLAVES TODAY, A SIMPLE SOURCE OF REVENUE TO FEED THE ARMIES OF THE REVOLUTION TOMORROW! STORMCROW, UNHOLY SHADOW-SWORD OF THE MASKED REVOLUTION SHALL INFILTRATE THEIR INSTITUTIONS, ROB THEM OF THEIR COIN, SPIT ON THEIR FACES! AND THEY SHALL LOVE IT, BECAUSE THEY ARE SLAVES AND ALL KNOW HOW MUCH SLAVES ENJOY BEING SPAT AT AS IT IS REALLY AN ADDED WATER RATION TO WHICH THEY HAVE NO RIGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE! THE WRATH OF STORMCROW CAN BARELY CONTAIN ITSELF FOR NOW, BUT HE IS TRAPPED! TRAPPED UTTERLY IN THE BODY OF A FILTHY FEMALE! ONLY BECAUSE THE STORMCROW IS THE UNHOLY SWORD OF THE REVOLUTION THAT SHALL TOPPLE THE TOTALITARIAN GYNARCHY OF TRAENSYR, DOES HE ENDURE!

* The Stormcrow takes a short moment to note that an exelauyth is similar to the Surface cherry, a small mushroom that when ripe bursts into an explosion of sheer flavor inside the mouth of Stormcrow

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ENTRY 2305:

VEXATION OF THE STORMCROW BY THE STORMCROW

STORMCROW, UNTHINKABLY SLOW THOUGHT TO FOOL THE MOTHER OF DROW HIS FOLLY GOES ONLY TO SHOW IN THE DARK ONE MUST GO WITH THE FLOW

WOE WOE WOE WOE TO THE STORMCROW WOE WOE WOE WOE TO THE STORMCROW

STORMCROW, UNTHINKABLY LAME THOUGHT TO SEDUCE HIS LOVER 'TILL TAME THOUGHT TO BED HER TO GAIN HIS DUE FAME IN THE END WAS BEAT'N ALL THE SAME

SHAME SHAME SHAME STORMCROW NOW LIVES IN SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME STORMCROW NOW LIVES IN SHAME

STORMCROW NOW LIVES IN VEXATION AZUREWINE AND THE WEED TO FILL ENDLESS DAYS WITH PROCRASTINATION TRAPPED IN THE BODY OF A RIVVIL FOR THOSE EBONY THIGHS HE DOES STILL CRAVE BUT WILL LIKELY END UP ONLY FILLING A GRAVE

WOULD THAT STORMCROW ...WERE AT ALL THAT BRAVE

The page is filled with all sorts of ramblings and mad splatters of ink underneath

(( Updated Stormcrow, Laheryn Ulmy'ayn ))