<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/>Draque's expression changed considerably when Fern laughed at him.  His eyes narrowed and his hands turned into two large fists.  Then, when she laughed at him, he brought his hand to his eyes, covered them, and with the other hand, he gestured for Fern to stop.   "All right!  Forget I asked..."<br/><br/>Relaxing after a moment, he continued:<br/><br/> "We're leaving soon, I expect.  I can hardly stand it here and I know that Miaren shares my sentiments.  These people are like walking sacks of flesh."  His tone of voice turned from being disdainful to inquisitive suddenly.  "What are you carrying nowadays, Fern?" he asked regarding her weapons.   "Miaren and I were discussing tactics, but I've become unfamiliar with what you employed."  <br/><br/>He reached over and grabbed Miaren's mug and took a sip.</td></tr></tbody></table>