Role

Chapter 1

The marching, the drilling, no singing, no killing. Sneakings not thrilling.
Where is the killing?!? Young Ikso had been born into the warrior caste,
much to her chagrin. Though, truth be told, there was no caste for the
likes of her.

She was bored beyond belief with the endless training to join the patrols
of Drow that prowled The Underdark defending the realm, looking for prey,
and being silently b-o-r-e-d. What Ikso (not her real name) truly desired
was to perform. Sadly, there was little outlet for such desires in Drow
society. One might make the case that the priestesses came close, but
who wanted to spend their nights orgasmically droning about spider
goddesses or what not?

Not Ikso. Not Ikso Paxto! She hated training, missing her childhood
home by The Underdark Sea where she swam far from the rocky shore
and let beasts the size of houses swirl beneath her.
Fear was not in her repertoire.

The only part of training that was not sheer agony for the recruit-in-protest
were nights by the fire, where the others chewed rothe meat and Ikso
held court. She was a chameleon, able to imitate any of the others at a
moments notice, becoming them before the crowd. Sometimes, even
the Drill Instructor, The Mistress of Knives.

Now what little humor Drow have is cruel and we must remember that
as we examine this case. For her impressions were not flattering, and
more than once a blade was drawn and pointed in her general direction
before cooler heads called for order.

Oh how Ikso hated those cooler heads. Bring it, she would silently wish,
knowing that the only thing better than the killing was rousing the blood
of another enough to bring out the red stuff. These were the performances
that brought her something close to joy. Can Drow know joy? Whos to say?