Quite a few things seemed to be happening at once, now, but Ealdwine's gaze remained firmly fixed on the drow, his voice plodding through the lyrics and his fingers unerring in their performance. He felt an inkling of pride at her darkening expression.[i] Ha! Not much used to the unbidden tongue of a free man, eh?[/i] He imagined she was used to being obeyed by males and feared by non-drow. But she would have no such pleasure from he! Nay, nay!

And then the drow maid turned toward him, and everything began to darken. The music faltered for the first time since the knife had been tossed. He could see nothing. His left hand went instinctively to his sword, loosing it in its scabbard.

[b]"I told you to stop playing didn't I, foolish human?"[/b]

Ealdwine did not have to see to know who spoke. Fear gripped him, then. But he did not cry out, but offered a hearty laugh instead. She would not have the satisfaction of terror, by the gods! He had been pushed too far. Suffered too many bitter disappointments. Been scorned once too many times by fate itself. He did not want to die hungry. He did not want to die sober. He did not want to die at all, truthfully. But he would die on his feet, as he had lived- and that would be enough.

He called out loudly, uncertain how far away the drow actually was.

“You would sooner dance, dear lady?” he asked, a violent, mocking mirth creeping into his voice.

“A romp in the darkness, aye! We hardly know one another- but its never stopped my blade from striking home before. [i]Come[/i], and let us become [i]acquainted[/i]!”

But he heard her voice again, evidently addressing another.

[b]“You want to die first?"[/b]

And then, before he could even register that comment,

[b]BANG.[/b]

Now [i]that[/i] rattled the bard. He felt something pass dangerously close- a magical missile, perhaps? Panic rising, he ran his off hand across Arthelia's curved body. He found, to his utter horror, a sizable [i]chip[/i] in her neck- and a [b]broken[/b] string.

And then Ealdwine snapped, tossing his lute carelessly across his back. He drew his rapier, shouting. All pretense of civility fell away, and he uttered a lengthy stream of every applicable racist and sexist slur and epithet he knew, the most repeatable of which being [i]'thrice-damned, knife-eared strumpet![/i]' After a brief moment of rapid firing vulgarities, he settled into simply yelling one particular four-letter Anglo-Saxon word, much too inappropriate to record here, dear readers.

He charged blindly toward where he assumed the drow was, his sword slashing this way and stabbing that way.