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THE ANTIMAGIC PROPERTIES OF SUSSUR TREE FLOWERS
By: L. De Hurst

For those knowing about Sussur Trees, their magical properties have always been a topic of debate; not only their ability to create an antimagic aura, which is complete enough that even those unattuned to the weave can feel its effect, but also - and most interestingly to those living in the World Above - the way its roots, bark, and flowers can be harnessed to make magic items. Rumors of such items are rare, but spread in settlements bordering the Underdark. Their actual existence, however, has never been confirmed by any of our clerics, or by any other reputable scholars. I hypothesised that these items are no mere legends, and indeed, in this treatise I will endeavour to explain how I myself created items with both antimagic properties, and ones using the magical absorption of Sussur Tree Flowers as a power source.

(Lines have been drawn on the following pages, as if the author intended to fill them with writing, but the remainder of the thin book is blank.)

(This threadbare book looks like it once contained a play, but most of it has been lost to time, vermin, and an unfortunate ink spill. Only two full sentences are distinguishable.)

How can I trust? How will I ever know?
How can I show myself, my darkest me?

(The beginning of this book proudly declares it to be a play by Dame Inia, followed by an extensive introduction, and 23 pages of notes on the text. Though the book itself seems barely touched, one stanza is encircled twice.)

There is a light in every living thing,
It's crawling t'wards the surface to survive.
And in its wake, it tramples everything.
We'll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

(The writing on this torn-out strip of paper is shaky and blotted with tears, making it barely legible.)

The silence stretches on - I'm all alone.
Please, can I hold your hands, for just a while?

Dearest Lenore,
I'm not sure I should say this, but your last letter really worried me. Why in all Hells would you tame a bulette? Just because you found it near Myrna's grave doesn't mean that that's a sign. I'm really worried about you, Lenore. A bulette is not a pet. Using it as a guardian is one thing, but you sound quite taken by it. I know you don't want to come back before you finish your research, but if you are feeling lonely, you know my door is always open.

Lots of love and hugs,
Amarith

PS: It really warms my heart to hear that you put the autumncrocus flowers on Myrna's grave. I remember she liked to roll around in them, even though she'd always sneeze after. She was such a soft, loyal dog. I wish there was more I could do.

THE ROADS TO DARKNESS
An epic tragedy about power, corruption, and loneliness

PROLOGUE. A lonely road.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Soreth.
SORETH:
New sounds through damp and dark oppression break
Is it the foe, that foul, contemptuous heel?
Or art thou friend, a rescue from my lonely wake?
Come out of love for me, not love for blood and steel.

Enter Rysia
RYSIA:
How would I know, how would I know, Soreth?
It's been so long, what do I know of you
And you of me?

SORETH:
Wait - do you hear that sound?

Enter Amphius
AMPHIUS:
What's this? Those figures so familiar both
But still you seem so strange.

SORETH:
It's Amphius.

RYSIA:
Dear Amphius! What happened to your face?
It's pale as death.

SORETH:
Your eyes are black as Shar.

AMPHIUS:
And you? I saw your teeth, they're sharp as blades.
And what is with this road, so slick with blood?
What happened here? What happened to us all?

Exeunt

END PROLOGUE

Act 1. Ten years prior.

(The rest of the play tells the tale of three elven friends, their paths to power, and how - corrupted, mad and lonely - they killed each other.)

From Barakuir we made our stand,
Meant to rule but lead astray
By wicked tentacle and wicked hand,
This world belongs to the grey

Oryndoll stole all we had
Yet taught the weapons by which to slay
Forge your minds to ironclad
This world belongs to the grey

The Exile freed us with his command
To conquer what was taken away
Crush every monument into finest sand
This world belongs to the grey

Trade your heart for steel intent,
For with whip and mind we flay
Let them all hear of our descent,
The world is nothing but grey.

(The paper is torn and patched in many places, as if it was well-used but treasured. On it is a small poem without a name.)

These empty sheets are all that's left of you.
The last of all the thoughtless gifts you gave.
I will hold onto them; it's all that I can do.
I can't throw them away; I've never been that brave.

Elminster said Nhalloth was a wonder to behold when it floated in Faerun's sky. He was surely right. This Netherese enclave was once a jewel in the Empire of Magic, with towers that pierced the heavens. And yet it fell, just as all Netherese enclaves did, crashing down when Karsus's Folly ripped magic from the world. But even after it collapsed into the sea, its ruins still hold a strange, twisted beauty.

I travelled here from Halruaa when I heard the sea had retreated and the ruins of Nhalloth were visible once again. Alas, I was not the first. Looters have stripped the enclave of its material wealth, destroying much of its esoteric riches in the process. I've found arcane books used to make campfires, their magic lost now to the ages.

I have met some Shadovar here whose interests align with mine, and we have agreed to search the ruins together. I'm grateful for these allies. The ruins are mostly filled with thick-skulled adventurers, but I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching us, waiting to see what we uncover.

(Crisp cursive fills the pages of the diary, detailing the daily struggles of a cleric of Mystra studying the magical properties of the Underdark. The last entry dates back about ten years.)

2 Alturiak, 1481 DR

Who would have thought, three years ago, that I would start a diary - not a research journal, but a real diary. I guess when every soul is more like to kill you than converse with you, talking to a book starts making sense. And who would have thought, three years ago, that I would be called back to Baldur's Gate to confer with the other clerics of Mystra, right at the apex of my studies: I have all the pieces, but I have barely started my treatise. No matter. I will take my ring with me, to show them a glimpse of the possibilities. I will leave you, my dear book, here, together with the rest of my research, waiting to be finished. I should be back before next Nightal.

-L.D.H.