Updated: Aug. 10, 2024, 6 a.m.
The moon hung low over Waterdeep, casting an eerie glow upon the bustling city. Gromph Baenre, the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, stood atop a secluded hill just outside the city walls. In his hand, he held a magical talisman, intricately carved with runes of power, and a Horn of Summoning that shimmered with a sinister energy.
Gromph’s crimson eyes gleamed with anticipation as he surveyed the city below. Waterdeep, a bastion of human civilization, would soon witness the fury of drow magic. The talisman thrummed with a dark pulse, resonating with the power within the horn. He could feel the raw energy coursing through him, an intoxicating blend of chaos and control.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Gromph raised the Horn of Summoning to his lips. The ancient artifact had lain dormant for centuries, waiting for a master powerful enough to wield it. As the first notes of the horn echoed through the night, the air itself seemed to shiver in response.
The sound was both beautiful and terrible, a haunting melody that seemed to reach into the very soul of the city. Waterdeep’s denizens paused, their hearts gripped by an inexplicable dread. From the depths of the shadows, creatures began to stir, summoned by the horn’s call.
Gromph watched with satisfaction as spectral figures emerged from the darkness, their forms shimmering with an ethereal light. Wraiths, specters, and other undead horrors drifted towards the city, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent. The talisman in Gromph’s hand flared with power, amplifying the horn’s call and binding the summoned creatures to his will.
With a final, triumphant blast, Gromph lowered the horn. The city below was now a cauldron of chaos, its streets filled with the screams of the terrified and the roars of the summoned. He could see the flicker of torches and the flash of steel as Waterdeep’s defenders rallied to confront the threat.
But Gromph knew it was futile. The power he had unleashed was beyond anything the city had faced before. He watched with cold detachment as the undead swarmed through the streets, their ghostly forms cutting down all who stood in their path. Buildings crumbled and fires raged, casting an orange glow against the night sky.
For a moment, Gromph allowed himself a smile. This was the power of the drow, the might of Menzoberranzan brought to bear against the surface world. Waterdeep would fall, and its people would learn to fear the name of Gromph Baenre.
As dawn approached, the city lay in ruins, its once-proud towers now little more than smoldering husks. Gromph turned away, the talisman’s power fading as the Horn of Summoning fell silent. His work here was done. Waterdeep had been reckoned with, and the Archmage's message was clear: the drow were not to be trifled with.