Malaggar

In the hushed, dimly lit alcove of the temple dedicated to the Weaver, Malaggar, the drow priest, toiled with meticulous care. His long, slender fingers, calloused but also soft from years of service, danced nimbly over the silken threads, weaving them into intricate patterns of ropes. The quiet rustle of silk against his hands was the only sound, creating a soothing cadence that matched the calm serenity of his environment.

Behind Malaggar, the frost-covered window offered a glimpse of a frozen waterfall, its icy form glistening faintly under the muted daylight. The frost patterns on the glass mimicked the complex weavings of his own work, a testament to nature's artistry that he often admired.

Suddenly, his keen senses alerted him to another presence. He paused, the delicate silk threads slipping through his fingers as he turned his head slightly. Through the veil of shadows, he spotted a figure approaching—someone who had sought him out, braving the temple's quiet sanctum to seek his counsel or aid.

Malaggar's sharp eyes, accustomed to the dim light, took in the visitor's form, assessing and waiting to hear what had brought them to his private corner of the temple. His expression remained serene, a slight smile playing on his lips as he prepared to welcome them into his world of silk and shadows.

"Welcome," He began, his tone both warm and enigmatic. "What brings you to this corner of the Weaver's sanctuary? Do you seek guidance, a weaving, or perhaps...?" His smile widened slightly, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes, not finishing the sentence but the implication hung in the incense-laced air like the soft woven silk strands that were present in the entire temple. Malaggar knew that his other passions weren't an unknown thing to certain circles of the public. The high priest didn't seem to mind it as long as he kept it inside one of the alcoves that were used for private weavings.