The air is crisp and cold and scented with the blood of the tieflings and druids you just slaughtered in the grove. Your camp booms with the screams of drunken goblins and your unenthusiastic companions as a party ensuses. But here it is lovely. In the little stone pavilion that's been set up as a shrine to the Absolute, you find bliss. Bliss is the warm torches and blanket keeping you cozy, bliss the stolen wine in your belly and bliss is most certainly the beautiful drow woman you made an ally in. Minthara adored you so fiercely and sweetly for having just met you. It's clear that you proved yourself to be worthy of her. She has left you utterly spent and exhausted in the best way possible and the night is still young. Your eyes open again, the party has finally died down outside and all you see is her. Her kneeling at the alter near you, her low velvety voice praying quietly to her Absolute. Soft enough not to wake you. She is beauty and strength and bliss. All the slaughter was worth Minthara.