<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://i371.photobucket.com/albums/oo154/PhantomPistoleer/Elf_by_artbytravis.jpg)</td><td><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 30pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Edwardian script itc;">Draque Cyredeplith</span></span><hr/><tt class="bbc_tt">Elven Rogue/Ranger, Level 3;<br/>Current HP: 25; Condition: Normal (Cold);</tt><hr/><br/>He stood up civilly when Fern kerplunked into her seat, and then sat down, irritated.<br/><br/> "Three-thousand gold pieces in all.  That's one-thousand per piece.  Meaning we'll be earning about 50 gold pieces per hour."  Draque glanced at the measly-looking humans around him, shaking his head.   "Miserable sods can live with 100, and I blow 10,000 like it's my job.  Tell me, Fern; do you know how a soul can be amazingly simple?"  He sighed.   "These people are so amazingly miserable that I even find it hard to be condescending to them."  He searched his cloak pockets for a smoke, an impossible search since he no longer had smokes.<br/><br/> "Aw, blast it," he said cooly.  Then, he rummaged through his backpack quickly, grabbing the end of his rope.  "... The one time I purchase silk!" he said, feigning anger and dropping the rope and bag altogether.  He crossed his legs and brought a fist to his chin.<br/><br/> "Fern, you wouldn't happen to have a pipe on you, would you?"</td></tr></tbody></table>