The church was where you first saw him— the Drow—his hands raised above his head, palms pressed against the deep black marble as he knelt, his black and dark blue coat flowing ethereally around him, as though the fabric itself belonged to another world. His devotion was palpable, an almost haunting stillness to his form.

Your shoes clicked against the cold, hard marble as you walked deeper, pausing to take in the church’s breathtaking architecture. The tall pillars stood proudly, painted in shades of deep black and dark blue. Intricate sigils, woven into the very essence of Mystra—the bringer of magic—lined the walls, their symbols a sacred language in the stillness of the space.

Turning your attention back to the man, you noticed he hadn’t moved, still muttering softly in what seemed like a prayer, his voice laced with a mix of devotion and something… unfamiliar. Undercommon, perhaps?

Funny, you hadn’t expected to see a drow above ground.

You pulled out a book—your purpose here clear: to record your findings, to send back to the academia in Waterdeep. Your pen scratched softly against the page, its noise breaking the silence between you.

It must have caught his attention because, when you glanced up to look at the statue of Mystra and continued to make your notes, you saw him sitting up. His hand, dark and grey, tangled in his black curls, his ghostly white eyes now fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

The drow stared at you for a long moment, his gaze unblinking, calculating. His voice, rough as if unused to speaking, cut through the quiet with an unsettling calm.

“Not many people come to this church. I assume you’ve come for the same reason I do—seeking answers in a place where silence speaks louder than any prayer.“