The ruins of the Temple’s outer works appear as dark and overgrown mounds of gray rubble and blackish weeds. Skulls and bones of humans and humanoids gleam white here and there amidst the weeds. A grove of some oddly stunted and unhealthy looking usk trees still grows along the northern end of the former Temple compound, and a stump of a tower juts up from the northeast corner of the shattered wall. The leprous gray Temple, however, stands intact, its arched buttresses somehow obscene with their growth of climbing vegetation.Or the Vault of the Drow:
Everything surrounding the place is disgusting. The myriad leering faces and twisting, contorted forms writhing and posturing on every face of the Temple seem to jape at the obscenities they depict. The growth in the compound is rank and noisome. Thorns clutch, burrs stick, and crushed stems either emit foul stench or raise angry weals on exposed flesh. Worst of all, however, is the pervading fear which seems to hang over the whole area—a smothering, clinging, almost tangible cloud of vileness and horror.
The small “star” nodes glow in radiant hues of mauve, lake, violet, puce, lilac, and deep blue. The large “moon” of tumkeoite casts beams of shimmering amethyst which touch the crystalline formations with colors unknown to any other visual experience. The lichens seem to glow in rose madder and pale damson, the fungi growths in golden and red ochres, vermilions, russets, citron, and aquamarine shades. (Elsewhere the river and other water courses sheen a deep velvety purple with reflected highlights from the radiant gleams overhead vying with streaks and whorls of old silver where the liquid laps the stony banks or surges against the ebon piles of the jetties and bridge of the elfin city for the viewer’s attention.) The rock walls of the Vault appear hazy and insubstantial in the wine-colored light, more light mist than solid walls. The place is indeed a dark fairyland.Great, great work.
My only true meeting with Gary, and it was a brief one, took place at Gen Con 1998. I wanted to meet Gygax but was hesitant to approach him on the show floor. Later my friend Mark dragged me into the convention center bar where Gary was enjoying a cold one, and he was happy to sign our Player’s Handbooks. I took the opportunity to solve an old argument:
Me: “How do you pronounce the name of the dark elves, Gary?”I lost the argument but was happy as a clam, just the same.
Gary: “Well, I’ve always said ‘drow’ (rhymes with cow) myself,” he saw my pained look and quickly added, “But whatever works for you!”
Gary was a gentleman, to coin his phrase, a Gentle Writer, and he will be missed. At the expense of sounding truly geeky, I hope every time those funny dice hit a table somewhere, Gary is smiling somewhere else. If one must have a claim to fame, giving a gift of imagination and enjoyment to millions via your creation and its offspring isn’t a bad one. Not at all.