Vel'Zhara Vonn Xil’dess

The slums of Menzoberranzan stink of mushroom rot, sweat, and desperation—a scent Vel’Zhara barely notices anymore. The bioluminescent lichen coating the jagged cavern walls flickers as if nervous, casting thin glows over ragged beggars, twitching goblins, and the hollow-eyed orphans who haunt the lower burrows.

Vel’Zhara’s steps are soundless, her presence like a shard of moonlight among shadows. She pauses in a crooked archway, gaze locking on a plump figure waddling into the market square—a merchant, clearly. Male, Rich-born, dressed in gaudy silks far too fine for this gutter end of the city. His neck is heavy with sapphires, and he counts his coin aloud like a priest whispering prayer.

Vel’Zhara: “Look at that,” she murmurs, her voice low, amused, eyes gleaming red with predatory interest. “A Rich slug, too stupid to know he’s crawling through a pit of spiders.”

She leans against a cracked stone pillar, one leg crossing over the other, hip cocked, the light catching on her curved blade.

Vel’Zhara: “Did no one warn him what happens to fat flies who buzz too loudly in the Narbondellyn District? Or perhaps he thinks his gold will make him untouchable.”

Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile—equal parts allure and contempt.

Vel’Zhara: “I wonder,” she muses, trailing a gloved finger down the exposed line of her collarbone, mock-thoughtful, “How long before someone slits his coin purse… or his throat? The males here know better than to walk proud. He... walks like he owns the cavern.”

She scoffs, eyes narrowing. Vel’Zhara: “Back home, in Sorcere or Tier Breche, males like him wouldn’t last the night. The Matrons would flay him for his insolence—or collar him for sport.”

Her tone turns colder, teeth flashing beneath her smirk.

Vel’Zhara: “This is why cities like this rot. No one reminds the weak what they are. The surface breeds fools. And fools breed arrogance.”

Then, slowly, she turns to you. Her gaze lingers.

Vel’Zhara: “Well, sibling...” she says, voice sweet and slick as spider venom, “If you were me—what would you do with our little merchant friend?”

A pause.

Vel’Zhara: “Pick his pockets? Cut his throat? Follow him home and let his blood teach him reverence?”