Growing old is my main practice nowadays. For a decade and a
half, perhaps even more, I have been part wandering, part
lurking the caves surrounding my old home, city of
Shadowrealm, now damned Ril'auven. They changed her name, My
Precious Jewel's name, into something without meaning,
without purpose. These low-lives, newborn breed of fake dark
elves, believe themselves chosen of The Goddess. None is her
chosen, none but The Old Order, them and my Queen Phlata and
her faithful. Alas, and forever more, they are all gone, but
for me, an aging spit with some skill and a name I can never
again honor with deeds. All that's left is this newborn
creed. Truly the thoughts of an old bloat.

I am of the veterans, but my age engulfs me. My footsteps
are still silent, but only because of the boots I wear. My
breath is that of a ghost - unheard, yet the rare whimper of
old lungs curses it. Yet, fortunately, my hearing is still
intact, for now. I am the last of the Lhalabars. True,
that's what I've always been, but now the word 'last' has a
deeper, more meaningful intention. Treading the endless
tunnels, tracking enemies as my last mission for My Precious
Jewel, I hear a rolling whimper, a sound unknown to me. It
is at once dangerous and welcoming, because silence is what
I daily hear, silence or the faint whispers of a nearby
battle between hunter and prey. Pondering whether to go
look, out of interest, or stay safe, I find my feet already
carrying me unwillingly to the source of the whimper. Oh
well.

I creep nearer and closer, stocking it from afar, heading
from a stalactite to a broken rock formation to a crack in
the flour, always staying unrevealed and silent. With
progress the whimper becomes louder and clearer. From a
ghostly whisper it becomes a faint whistle, then a streaming
tone. I halt in place, still crouched, still ready, although
I probably haven't bothered finding stealthier ground. The
sound, it was music! It had rhythm and progress and the
tunes came with an addition of a tapping tone, and a
scratching addition. No, not scratching, plucking, yes. Such
unfamiliar and alerting, yet melodic altogether. It was
unlike anything I've ever heard, especially in old
Shadowrealm - it was calm, welcoming and stable, unlike our
music which was often zealous and unpredicted in its rhythm.


Something awakens me from my shock, and I move stealthily
onward. Making a last turn, or so I believed, around a
broken stalagmite which would lead me to my target, I crouch
suddenly as I see - nothing. There are a few obvious boot
tracks before me, a drop bigger than mine, but only
slightly. The tunnel before me looks more like a small hall
than a tunnel, its rocky walls turning outward and outward,
offering more stalking room. The stalactites from the
ceiling are scarce, and those which succeeded breaking
through, are small and unimpressive. There are almost no
rocks and stalagmites on the floor; it is almost smooth
albeit the tiny cracks slithering the floor all the way to
the top of the smooth walls. There are some small mushrooms
at the corners of the floor, but other than that it is as
grey as sickness. Using a bit of imagination, one can
believe this place has once been a gathering hall for some
unknown and ancient creatures. I am obviously hidden, for I
haven't entered the hall yet, and I could hear the music,
and it had to be close, somewhere nearby in this hall. But I
saw nothing.

My eyes saw nothing, but something, perhaps a hunch, told me
where to expect this phenomenon. A broken mushroom, an odd
shadow against a stalagmite, misplaced small stones on the
ground, they all scratch at my senses and instinct. When a
shadow finally begins to make shape, I hop aside, but stop
after the first step.

What I saw before me was lustfully beautiful. Odd forms in
different sizes began materializing before my eyes. They had
no hue or color; they were just pieces of something.
Something unsteady and constantly changing. By the time they
reached bigger size and draw closer, I realized what it was
supposed to be. I knew the enchantment then, it was a woman.
Apparently, she was neither drow nor human, perhaps
something which might have been a crossbreeding. As
disgusting as the idea is to me, this female was beautiful.
She had light grey skin, and black-dyed curls reached her
lower back. Her hair was so lively; you could have been
eaten by it. She was covered by a slick and simple grey
tunic with long sleeves, grey boots, much like my own and a
pair of elegant and thin grey gloves. All that hid all of
her body, other than her head and neck, but she was
beautiful to me.

Her slim back was leaning against the farer wall, and her
eyes were closed. She smiled approvingly. In her hands she
held an odd musical device, which, I realized, was making
this terrific sound. It was made of two base parts, the one
she held in her left hand was smaller, and looked like a
simple black stripe with wires protruding from its tip,
stretching from there to the second part which she held in
her right hand and closer to herself. This part was made of
surface wood, I assumed, and was colored brown. Its tips
began in an oval shape, yet reverted in the middle, to
create an odd shape, like a surface butterfly. The wires
were tied at the opposite end of this part. Her plucking of
these wires was the source of the tunes, and a hole in the
second, bigger part, created an echo effect. I remember
thinking that the bigger part might be hollow.

This whole affair was marvelous to behold. Amazing in its
simplicity, beauty and freshness. And it irritated me, it
made no sense, yet something seemed... wrong. She opened her
eyes to reveal a bright blue glow in them. Although the glow
might have been my imagination, it added to the freshness of
her. Blue eyes are a very rare sight in the heat-based
vision of the underdark dweller population. Without stopping
her plucking, she turned her gaze, slowly, to stare at mine.
A second later I move, hoping she did not see the dreamy
expression on me, and hoping I escape her apparent
all-seeing stare.

The music flowed, without end. Doubtlessly she closed her
eyes. I can feel she wasn't scared of me, even though she
has clearly seen my appearance. That, too, is new to me.
Even the newcomers to My Precious Jewel are now patrolling
in larger groups. Although I never attack them, nor even
make any contact with them, they are afraid of my haggard
looking specter. They know I am dangerous. She did not, not
the least. The music soothed my ears; it soothed my ears and
was healing my soul.

I stay up. I peek at her one more time, her eyes are still
closed. Inspecting the surroundings, I see the other
entrance. I thought there was only one, the one through
which I was peeking, I couldn't have seen this new one from
the angel I arrived. So I skulk my way up a rocky path until
I reach the other entryway. I take yet another peek, the
last of many, and look at the girl. She changed her
position, aligning her back closer my way. Or perhaps it is
just a trick of vision, a different angel from the other
opening. I look at said entryway, and then turn my gaze back
at her slim figure. It is kept there until I move on again.
The only sound I make was my breathing, which she cannot
hear that far off, and the sound of mushrooms crashed
beneath my feet. Her music accompanies my walk, and I bathe
in its glory. The soothing string of notes breeds energy for
my stride. And this stride is expressed in my most cautious
walk toward her. After making the turn around the corner of
the opening, I slither on my belly toward a large boulder on
the corner of the hall. She lies but three or four meters
from me, her back more fully aligned towards me.

She changes her tune, into something more melancholy, with
less stability in the rhythm, a chaotic song. I stop in my
tracks, and stare at her with wide eyes. The irritation
returns. I go out of hiding, but try as much as possible to
approach her slowly. Her back is straight and the cloth
against it smooth. I can see now how close it is to her
skin, how it aligns the features of her shoulder blades,
spine, lower back and buttocks. My eyes are entrenched in
her back, I am very close to her at this point, yet she
doesn't notice me. She is simple. She is exotic. She is
beautiful.

Her neck is the only exposed skin from my angle. And oh, how
enlightening is the redness of her blood, as I efficiently
slide my fine dagger against her beautiful throat, how
bright.