Foxglove sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the half-elf bard's song. It was a rare establishment that would tolerate one of his kind, never mind how he had not once set foot in the Underdark. He knew nothing of the drow language, or the culture that he had been born into, only that it was vicious and violent. According to the Woodsinger elves, he had been blessed by the goddess, allowed to grow up among a gentler people under the light of the moon and sun. According to the people he had encountered on his travels, he was akin to an exotic predator, to be gawked and and avoided.<br/><br/>And so he had fallen in with this group, a handful of adventurers who either did not care about his heritage or kept their displeasure under wraps. For that he held a measure of gratitude, but that was as far as he went. He trusted his companions not to murder him while his back was turned, but he did not like them. Nor did he open up to them about the truth of his past.<br/><br/>Foxglove still wore the elegant, layered robes of a cleric of Selune. He even carried a holy symbol, a ring set with a silver crescent and a brilliant white opal. But when he used his magic, it was clear that he was no cleric. When he extended his hands, sending blinding blue lightning to strike an enemy, it was clear that his magic came from a much darker source. He did not disclose to his companions exactly what the source of his power was, but anyone with a basic familiarity with the Abyssal script would know the truth, inscribed into the collar at his throat. Foxglove was bound to a demon of the Abyss.<br/><br/>When the wench set a drink down in front of Foxglove, he took it without thanking her. He saw no reason to be polite, unless there was something he wanted. He might use his silver tongue on that bard, make him sing an entirely new song. But for now he was quiet and sullen, as he so often was.<br/><br/>"And where would you suppose we go?" he said, his voice quiet, with a sharp edge. "Off to play hero, only to be shunted into another cheap tavern when the day is over?" He was not truly upset with his companions, although it might seem that way. These people might reluctantly accept him, but Foxglove's skin was crawling with the familiar feeling of being somewhere he didn't belong.