Balaern'sus threw himself into the old chair with a inebriated grunt.  Carelessly, he unsheathed his kryss and dropped it on the floor. 

The old drow took another swing of the cheap Jhelom ale and unclasped his Piwafwi, the magical cloak he had received after completing his Initiate trial so many years ago.  The colors had faded to a dark gray now.  He smiled, not the usual plastered mask he usually wore, but a genuine, almost sad expression as the weight of the years settled on him.

He had seen the final whimpering end of the once-mighty Dark Rychen as it became just another sub-unit in the Leviathan known as the Crimson Alliance.  He recalled the day he was removed from his "high" station as Qu'el'saruk and sent on his way and how the Qu'ellar Vlos'Ilhar had been born.  He saw in his mind's eye Jarlaxle, Toren, Rimswick and himself gathered together in that house near the crypts laying plans, glad to be out from under the domination of the humans that plagued the surface.  He recalled the reign of the Trisa d'Oloth, followed by his insane niece, Vlondril Mlezzyr.  He chuckled to himself at the vile mechanizations of Kait'exil and Faeryl Kyil.  But they were dead or missing now.  Come to think of it, almost all of those he had once knew were gone.

He grunted, drained the last bit of ale from the bottle and noticed a small spider slowly drop from the ceiling.  With sudden drunken fascination, the old drow watched as it landed in front of him.  Slowly, he stood.  Then, he squatted before the tiny arachnid.

The spider crawled one way and then stopped as if it were aware of the ragged breathing of the dark elf. 

With a reflexes that a case of smelly ale could only slow, the old drow smashed the spider with his fist.  Turning his hand over to look at the mess, he sighed almost crying.  Llolth had a long list of grievances against him and this small thing would barely register, he thought.  He accepted his fate as he always had.

Udos vel'uss z'hin maglust--we who walk alone.