[Necromancing the Stone]

The smell of brimstone, ozone, smoke, and blood hung in the air.  

The carnage of battle lay from one end of the house to the other.  The floor was no longer visible due to the heaps of bodies strewn about where they fell.  Blood was slowly drying.  Steel was already beginning to show signs of rust.

Somewhere in the distance, something....water? was dripping.

Duagloth crawled out form under the body of the soldier of house Mizzrym that had fallen on him.  The soldier had landed a stunning blow with a mace just as Duagloth had driven a sword through his heart.  By the time he woke up, the battle was done.  The retreating enemy must have though him dead.  And with the size of the dent in his helmet, he probably should be.

He stood and surveyed his formerly great house.  His entire family was dead.  All of the power they had accumulated...the wealth they had hoarded was carried out and gone.

And for what?  The Glory of the Spider Queen? The senselessness of the actions started burning a hole in his brain.  The utter stupidity of warring at each others throats, the chaos sewn of rewarding only those willing to stab their own people in the back to curry just a little favor with the Goddess ate at his mind.

As he stood there silently, the moans of the not quite dead invading his solitude, something burned in the back of his mind.

Duagloth was growing something..... It was a gnawing light at the back of his mind, banging against the side of his head.  That banging grew louder and louder and closer until it filled all corners of his mind , from the very depths of is subconscious came roaring in:  a conscience.

The thoughts were unbidden, but complete. The unbridled disappointment in what had resulted in.....this devastation.  The futility of clinging to a system where Drow killed their own for nothing but a few scraps of power from the Queen of Spiders, filled him with disgust and rage. 

He looked around and began the task of putting the not yet dead out of their misery.  As he ended the suffering of his house mates, he swore a vow.  In his head he vowed utter retribution and devastation on all manner of Drow beholden to the the philosophy that could only end in their own destruction.  The oath he swore filled his soul with purpose.  His focus on the vengeance against the practitioners of this violence against him provided him a clarity of purpose and will he had never thought possible.  He would start with House Mizzrym, he would end with Drow society itself.  He found himself filled with...something.  Something he couldn't name yet.  But faith in his newfound purpose, dedication to his plans, calmed him and gave him peace.  He had faith this feeling would be named at the right time.

As he stabbed clean and merciful cuts he realized, he was in no position to begin his vengeance here.  He needed a base where he could be free to accumulate what he needed.  If the Drow here discovered who and what he was, he would be hunted to extinction.  He knew he needed a base, and the only place that would almost be safe was the surface.  

He set about grabbing what he could savage from his ruined house and his now deceased family members and started to do the work.