war of the spider queen 1 dissolution

　hadn’t　expected　it　to　employ　stealth　and　attempt　to　poison　her；　though　in　retrospect；　that　tactic　made　perfect　sense。
The　question　was；　had　the　demon　done　all　it　planned　to　do；　or；　since　its　first　ploy　had　failed；　would　it　strike　at　her　in　some　other　way？
Off　to　the　west；　someone　screamed；　the　sound　echoing　down　the　stone　halls。　Quenthel　had　her　answer；　and　it　was　the　one　she’d　expected。
Her　heart　beat　faster；　her　mouth　felt　drier　still；　and　she　realized　she　wasn’t　eager　to　confront　this　new　intruder；　certainly　not　without　the　supnotport　of　her　personal　guards。　Yet　she　was　mistress　in　these　halls；　and　it　was　unthinkable　to　turn　tail　and　let　an　invader　make　free　with　her　domain。
Besides；　if　she　fled；　the　cursed　thing　would　probably　track　her　anyway。
Leaving　her　fallen　patrol　with　their　useless　magical　treasures　strewn　about　them　on　the　floor；　she　strode　toward　the　noise。　She　shouted　for　other　underlings　to　attend　her；　but　no　one　responded。
In　a　minute　or　so；　she　entered　a　long　gallery；　where　wall　carvings　told　the　history　of　Lolth　as　it　had　occurred　and　as　it　was　prophesied：　her　senotduction　of　Corellon　Larethian；　chief　deity　of　the　contemptible　elves　of　the　World　Above；　their　union　and　her　first　attempt　to　overthrow　him；　her　disnotcovery　of　her　spider　form　and　her　descent　into　the　Abyss；　her　conquest　of　the　Demonweb　and　her　adoption　of　the　drow　as　her　chosen　people；　and　her　future　triumph　over　all　other　gods　and　ascendancy　over　all　creation。
A　silhouette　appeared　in　the　arched　entry　at　the　far　end　of　the　hall。　It　changed　color　and　shape…humanoid；　quadruped；　blob；　worm；　cluster　of　spikes…from　one　instant　to　the　next。　Somehow　perceiving　Quenthel；　it　let　out　a　cry。　Its　voice　sounded　like　a　wavering；　cacophonous　jumble　of　every　noise　she’d　ever　heard　and　some　she　hadn’t。　Within　the　first　discornotdant　howl　she　caught　the　shrill　note　of　a　flute；　the　grunt　of　a　rothe；　a　baby　crying；　water　splashing；　and　fire　crackling。
Quenthel　recognized　the　demon　for　the　profound　threat　it　was；　but　for　a　moment；　she　was　less　concerned　for　her　safety　or　fired　with　a　fighter’s　rage　than　she　was　surprised。　Poison　surely　suggested　an　assassin；　yet　the　demon　before　her　was　plainly　an　embodiment　of　chaos。
The　spirit　started　down　the　gallery；　and　the　walls　bulged；　flowed；　and　changed　color　around　it。　Quenthel　reached　into　the　leather　bag　hanging　from　her　belt　and　brought　out　a　scroll；　then　something　hit　her　hard　in　the　back　of　the　neck。

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Ryld　peered　about　the　room。　Judging　from　the　sunken　arena　in　the　center　of　the　floor；　the　ruinous　place　had；　in　another　era；　served　as　a　drinknoting　pit…one　of　those　rude　establishments　where　dark　elves　of　every　stanottion　went　to　forget　about　caste　and　grace　for　a　few　hours；　guzzle　raw　spirit；　and　watch　undercreatures　slaughter　one　another　in　contests　that　were　often　set　up　in　such　a　way　as　to　give　them　a　ical　aspect。　
In　other　words；　it　would　have　been　a　crude　sort　of　place　by　the　stannotdards　of　elegant　Menzoberranzan；　but　it　had　grown　cruder　since　the　goblinoids　had　taken　it　over。　Scores　if　not　hundreds　of　them　packed　into　the　space；　and　the　mingled　stink　of　their　unwashed　bodies；　each　race　malodorous　in　its　own　particular　fashion；　was　sickening。　The　loud　gabbling　in　their　various　harsh　and　guttural　languages　was　nearly　as　unnotpleasant。　It　all　but　drowned　out　the　rhythmic　thuds　that　filtered　through　the　ceiling；　but　of　course　the　shaggy　gnoll　drummer　on　the　roof　wasn’t　playing　for　the　folk　already　inside　but　to　guide　others　still　in　transit。
To　Ryld’s　surprise；　a　fair　number　of　the　creatures　assembling　there　hailed　from　outside　the　Braeryn。　He　observed　plain　but　relatively　clean　and　intact　garments　suggestive　of　Eastmyr；　and　even　liveries；　steel　collars；　shackles；　whip　marks；　and　brands…the　stigmata　of　thralls　who’d　sneaked　away　from　their　mistresses’　affluent　households。　Obviously；　those　who’d　e　from　beyond　the　district　couldn’t　have　heard　the　drum　through　the　magical　buffers。　Some　runner　must　have　carried　word　to　them。
Still　magically　disguised　as　ores；　though　not　the　same　ones　who’d　tricked　the　two　bugbears；　the　masters　of　Tier　Breche　had　squeezed　into　a　corner　to　watch　whatever　would　transpire。
Certain　no　one　would　hear　him　over　the　ambient　din；　Ryld　leaned　his　head　close　to　Pharaun’s　and　said；　〃I　think　it’s　just　a　party。〃
〃Do　you　see　them　celebrating？〃　Pharaun　replied。　His　new　porcine　face　had　a　broken　nose　and　tusk。　〃No；　not　as　such。　They’d　be　considerably　more　boisterous。　They’re　waiting　for　something；　and　eagerly；　too。　Observe　those　female　goblins　chattering　and　passing　their　bottle　back　and　forth。〃　Pharaun　nodded　toward　a　trio