The door swings open to reveal a cluttered office. various weapons hang next to maps and rotas on the walls, and in the centre is a gigantic oaken desk, its surface almost invisible beneath papers and scrolls. Behind the desk, scribbling on one such sheet is another Drow - if the first was to be described as elderly, then the one behind the desk could only be called ancient. His silver hair and matches that of the other, but the black of his skin is barely visible between blood vessels and blemishes. Nonetheless, there is a spark in his eyes as he glances up, a dark tongue flicking out to moisten cracked lips.
’You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t stand - my knees aren’t what they once were.’ His lips break apart to reveal lines of surprisingly white teeth, as he places his quill softly down onto the parchment. ’I believe you are here for the job down South?’ He pauses for a moment, although not long enough to receive an answer, before interrupting himself. ’Ah, but where are my manners.’
‘My name is Arazel, and this is my son, Arath. I hail from a small town in roughly the same direction as you may be heading, called Kestal. needless to say, as a town full of Drow, it isn’t the most favourably viewed place at the best of times, but I have received word from lingering relatives of particular hostilities recently -’ the smile at last fades from his face, and he is now rather somber. ‘- From the Varden Empire no less. Apparently they took offense to people living on land they claimed as theirs, and attempted to take it ‘back’ -’ the word is tinged with sarcasm. ’- and needless to say, there was something of a resistance. Now, whilst I have no real proof, I have suspicions, and in this little world of coincidences they are practically the same thing.’ He hesitates, searching for understanding in the group eyes. ’What I mean to say, albeit in my rambling way - it comes with age - is that this village may well be the ‘bandits’ referred to by your most humble employers.’ The last few words are spoken in a complete deadpan, before a strangely distorted laugh comes from his son - the first sound the group has heard him make.