<div style="text-align: center"><img alt="[​IMG]" class="bbCodeImage LbImage" data-url="http://i.imgur.com/OBYSo.gif" src="http://i.imgur.com/OBYSo.gif" style=""/><br/>
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<span style="font-family: 'georgia'"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="color: #9D612B">HOWLING GHOSTS THEY REAPPEAR<br/>
IN MOUNTAINS THAT ARE STACKED WITH FEAR</span></span></span>​</div><br/><span style="font-size: 9px"><span style="color: #544A41"><span style="font-family: 'georgia'"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="color: #9D612B">With a long,</span></span></span> drawn out sigh, Sbatarra ran both her hands across her scalp, fingers digging into her shaved hair and Mohawk alike, as she swiveled about in her seat and leaned her back against the counter.  She pressed further for a brief moment, only to pop her back in a few hard to reach places, before she dropped both hands down into her lap and promptly folded one leg over the other.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"What's there to say?"</span> she asked, seeming honestly lost on where to begin.  She hadn't the faintest idea of what she could talk about that wouldn't give up much of her life, or suck up too much time before they had to leave for this duel.  The puzzled expression stayed for several good moments, before the faintest of twinkles in her eye gave away her idea.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Oh, I know what I can share, and it'll be brief,"</span> she nodded, smirking as well as she reached for her bottle once more, drinking it as if she were a fish out of water.<br/>
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<span style="color: #9D612B">"Many years ago, back when your father was likely a bouncing babe, I was a bit better off amongst my people,"</span> she began, taking yet another healthy swig from her bottle, threatening to reach the last few drops at this rate.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"I had a mentor, a male believe it or not, who was instructed by my elder sisters to train me in the ways of martial combat.  Now, for a drow woman, these things rarely happened.  See, I'm not sure how savvy you are on our culture, but women tend to be treated much higher in rank than men.  Much, <i>much</i> higher.  That, and we tend to serve as the priestesses and sometimes sorceresses and wizards.  It's almost unheard of for a woman to take up the unimportant art of martial training, but if I was going to be honed into a proper weapon, I needed to broaden my skills,"</span> said the drow, who had paused to consider the remainder of her bottle.  If she was smart about it, she could make it last until the very end of her story, which would be around the time they would need to go to conduct their little duel, and she would walk away a wealthier woman.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"At any rate, there I am, training underneath this male, and for the first few weeks, I don't take things seriously.  I yawn, I slack off, I spend more time picking a weapon to practice with than actually training with them, just to waste his time, and earn him a few extra lashings for not training me properly."</span><br/>
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She said all this as if it were a casual thing, as if even after all these years, the treatment of males should have been law on the surface as well, like she had no strong opinion towards the matter one way or the other, like she would have been perfectly happy no matter how it turned out.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Eventually, however, after a full year of going at this, he had earned more scars from the whip than his actual battles.  By now, I had some level of respect for the man, only because he had endured so much pain and continued to stand, continued to put up with me and try to train me.  More weeks would pass, and I would start to learn.  I put my effort into actually learning under him, and it wasn't very long before I became a skilled swordswoman.  Certainly nothing like I am now, but respectable in my own right,"</span> she explained, waving her hands now with subtle gestures to help accentuate the one-sided conversation.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Five years I learned under him, five years I bled and sweat and cried when no one was looking, until I had learned all that I could under him.  At that point, my family had a task for me,"</span> she said softly, slowly, as if drifting off into a smoky dream.<br/>
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<span style="color: #9D612B">"It was time to prove myself, to prove that I would be capable as our family's <i>secret weapon</i>.  Skipping the boring details of infiltrating my target's home and such, I eventually found myself standing above the man I was supposed to kill.  His back was turned to me, so I didn't see his face, but  I <i>knew</i> he was the one that had to die.  I just knew it.  When my blade dug into his flesh..."</span> she muttered, closing her eyes and bowing her head down low, <span style="color: #9D612B">"... I felt his heart stop, the throbbing beating against my blade one moment, and then the next, nothing.  It was... amazing, to say the least,"</span> she laughed then, apparently losing most of her earlier mournfulness.  She blinked for a moment as she surveyed the scene around the bar.  Apparently, her story had attracted some attention, and with the sun rising and tempers cooling over, an interesting story like hers was worth listening to.<br/>
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<span style="color: #9D612B">"I'm sure you can figure out who my target was.  It's the same old clichéd stereotype of drow society, but it's a cliché for a reason.  It happens.  Often,"</span> she shrugged, sipping the last of her wine.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"My old mentor was my first official kill.  The funny thing is though, I still can't figure out after all that time I spent with him, I didn't recognize those scars on his back,"</span> she shrugged again, and even chuckled, as she leaned against the counter and looked towards the window.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Take whatever moral you want out of that story, there's plenty to go around.  Just know that if I can trust you, I will follow your orders to the letter."</span><br/>
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There was a brief twinkle in the drow's amber eye, though if this was one of deceit or a thin layer of moisture, it was hard to tell.</span></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: right"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 22px"><a class="externalLink" href="http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=454315" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">*</a></span></span>​</div><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>