DonKallard sat upon an awkward throne. It was grand in size, but odd in shape and made of twisted gargantuan roots, gilded in gemstones glittering from the slight glow of a nearby moss. He felt more comfortable at his desk and in the training pits, but sometimes such pomp and circumstance was required of the Prime-arch. He was receiving the leaders of all of his new households, and would declare to them victory; for the old houses that remained were few enough to count on a single hand and even then soon it would be none. He had hoped to hold this meeting with his son at his side, but fortune had its limits for DonKallard. He wondered if his son was even alive at all, or if the people of Travance lied to him for some fell reason. One day he would know the truth. His thoughts turned on the long term plans for his people. The Demon was almost done with its destruction, and what would it do then? Would it leave, or would it stay and throw his new society into chaos before it even has a chance? The latter he believed, and so Travance he knew to be his only hope, what an ironic place to seek out his salvation…
* * * * *
Throughout the darkness, the skittering of feet overtakes the sound of dripping water. The moans of the dying have ended long ago. Without the Matrons to bind them the slaves of all races began to file out of the caves into the sunlight - some intent on revenge and others just glad to be free. Yet others still are compelled to move further down into the Underdark, or as it will be called henceforth, the Darkholme. The deeper they trek the colder the tunnels get. Deeper tunnels have frost covering the walls and deeper still icicles hang from the ceilings. Nonetheless the slaves trudge onward toward a frigid will coercing them forward…
