<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/Drenched);</tt><hr/><br/>The elf glanced over his shoulder at Fern and Miaren, stood up slowly and withdrew his two kukris from their sheathes on his back.  Twirling them once, and only once!, his face became a composite of excitement and anger.  He truly looked forward to fighting this thing, because the inclination of stabbing it repeatedly overcame any sensation of fear and cowardice.  Yes, that chip on his shoulder was bellowing at Darque's ego, superego and id, telling them all that he had to show <em>them</em> up.  Bastard elves.  Would any of those tree-licking, leave-saving cowards square off against a giant?  Logically, of course.  In a remote region in Darque's selfish mind, never!<br/><br/> "I'll go first," he muttered as he stepped into the cave, tossing back his hood.   "But somebody please get a torch or a lamp out.  I can't see in the dark.  And... I don't have a lamp.  Or a torch."  He glowered at Miaren, then sort of smirked.   "Before you ask, I don't know what happened to my lamp."  Then he walked in.</td></tr></tbody></table>