<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">'CAUSE THEY'RE ALL SPIES<br/>
THEY'RE ALL SPIES</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">The drow knew it was over,</span></span></span> for the signs were all around her.  Her maximized Eldritch Spear had missed, whizzing through the air as that woman seemed to dodge the blow without even looking towards it.  Whoever she was, Sbatarra had greatly underestimated her, and now she was to pay the price.  Even as she tried to dip away as that inky black energy kept her afloat, she couldn't move quick enough, and took the full force of those sweeping strikes across her injured leg and her gut as well, sending her tumbling towards the ground as her spells faded.  Her body crumpled with a loud thud, and the black, unnatural wings faded into a tattered cloak tied to her waist.  Even as she lay there, clearly unable to fight, she desperately tried to fall upon one of her invocations, to disappear from sight, but even with her regenerative powers for having abyssal ancestors, she couldn't heal the cracked bones fast enough to find the will to fight.<br/>
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When the human took her gauntlet and vial, however, and proceeded to fill it, the drow's eyes went wide and she began to grit her teeth, trying to drag herself towards that pool, as a hand pathetically clutched the dagger at her hip, holding it out weakly.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Don't you d-dare!"</span> she hissed, finding her strength slowly returning to her as her wounds continued to seal.  <i>Not fast enough</i>, she thought.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Kill me, Sililuthsauriva,"</span> the drow spat almost effortlessly, able to pronounce the name with apparent ease.  There was, of course, a slight strain in her tone, what with the pain she was feeling.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Don't you dare spare me, unless you want me to <i>really</i> want to kill you,"</span> the drow went on, eyes flaring with seething hate.  She did not believe in the concept of mercy, and she would never be able to forgive herself if she was beaten by someone better than her, and then spared to live her life knowing there was someone greater than her.  It was just unacceptable to the assassin.<br/>
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<span style="color: #9D612B">"If you intend to let me leave this place, know that <i>Thrice</i> will burn to the ground with the scorn you have filled me with.  When <i>Thrice</i> is in ashes, know then that Sbatarra Baenett will be coming after you,"</span> the warlock spat again, losing all traces of her sense of cool, becoming panicky and reckless.  A part of her didn't want to die, but another wouldn't accept this sort of total surrender.  She wouldn't be able to live with herself if her life had been spared by some goodly creature.<br/>
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Instead, she decided to run.  With some strength regained, she snapped her hand out and snatched the glove and vial both, then disappeared with her invisibility, and half-limped half-sprinted away, stumbling over herself but still remaining on foot, in an attempt to flee the grotto.</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>