"Another surface drow, Jarrik?!" Rhegard spat the mouthful of ale he had just swallowed as he ripped the hood from the ebony-skinned captive.

"What's yer problem, Rheg? They all have tight lil' twats between their legs. Surface or no."

"It's jus' becoming fuckin' boring. The broodin', 'mysterious' drow.. I swear there's more up here than down below!"

The lithe form twitched slightly, painted lips curling upwards in a tight, thin-lipped smile.

"Why are you so fuckin' cheerful?" Rhegard sneered. "Yer our prisoner an' next up for a 'line-up' with my men."

"Two reasons." The soft, velvet tones of the dark maiden dripped with menace.

"Oh yeah?!" Rheg sneered again. "What?"

"First, Jarrik has a weakness for coin and the silver tongue of a woman who can supply him with plenty." The drow glanced to the shifting Jarrik, before turning her violet gaze back to Rhegard.

"And secondly, I poisoned that ale before you caught me. When did drow drink beer, dullard?"

*THUNK!* - Rhegard collapsed fairly swiftly with blood dripping from his mouth, the smile on the dark-skinned Illythri curling to a wicked point.