It seems in my usual habits of wading hip deep in blood, I have missed something actually worthy of my attentions and time.

A shame, that. Such a delicious distraction might have been what I have needed, xas.

The screams of fellow drow echoing in the depth of cavernous dark are no longer half as sweet.

If I did naut know better I would call myself melancholy; but I would rather chew on the fat of my own spleen first.

He is so very lucky he is pretty.

I am still caught between kissing and killing.

And a second time, I have met death arisen from the floor boards. His hair is as long, longer, than mine and glorious.

I told him to bathe. He said he would try.

I am...stilled, by his response to a stranger he does not know.

There was a female who asked me if I would teach her to fight.

A pretty thing, a little thing, a perfect thing with hardly any scars inside or out. I asked her if she could kill someone and she did not understand what that had to do with fighting.

Everything. Everything.

The edge. To win, you must be able to have the edge. You must be able to follow through, there must be intent to win.

Her inability to understand the reasoning of my question was proof enough I would not teach her. I would break her, her mind, her body and reforge her into something her retinue of friends would naut forgive me for.

I do naut think Taneth needs to learn how to fight. Taneth should be Taneth, xas, not Suliss'.



There is trouble brewing. I have kept myself from several I would visit and know because...there are little pups on my trail again. A hunting party, perhaps. They've tracked me so far to the Inn itself.

I should, of course, find someone I do naut like very much within and spend some time with them--less work for me, xas, if hunting party killed them for me.

I must lay low.

It is naut the usual raiding party. They scent like old caves with tunnel walls closed from cave-ins, surface drow.

--Surface drow. It is the oddest taste in my mouth when I say it.

They know. I have killed several, shaken few off my trail and left several bloody messages. It has naut stopped them.

They are surface drow, but they reek of the spider b**ch--xas--how does that happen?

Good question. I intend to find out when they believe they have run me off. No time to warn anyone, only make a path anyway for them to follow.

Spring is eldritch in me. I can see the pathways of my thoughts; they are clear and make straight roads when before they were shattered and broken.

There was a man who asked me for my kiss.

There once was a man who asked for a drows kiss--

It is like a story, nau? Perhaps sounds the beginning of a fable.

Perhaps it is all of the lights which I have chewed this year. They are strung across snow-whispered eaves; patches of land with strange fat men smiling, smiling, ever smiling in red and white. They are stretched to form shepherds canes of red and white, or delicious looking deer whom I find are naut deer at all...but lifeless replicas of a meal I would hunt.

There are lights.

Little things that blink or twinkle. Like the lights in the sky when it is cold. Or perhaps the fire flies in summer and fall. Or once, once, once....Once there were little lights in my stomach.

They grew and grew and grew until I felt as if every time I said his name they fell out, one by one from my mouth, stringing about every thing which he did.

So when I find them now I eat them.

I kill them.

They should remain dead.

There was a man who asked for my kiss. So I kissed him. I had hoped the taste of his bleeding lips and tongue would rip away the taste of memory. Nau, it did naut.

So I kissed a woman with jewel-hair and an arm that was naut an arm to chase away the taste of memories. It did naut work.

No matter where I go there are little lights buried deep within the snow, the chill-of-me. I try and bury them, I try and kill them, but they fall out of my mouth when I speak his name. One trickle or two, three or four liquid-slipping to the air, a tiny point of yellow-white illumiation that hiccups; stuttering a new born breath then wheezing toward the ground already decaying.

Where the earth eats them. The earth eats everyone I know, eventually--
and only the wind will hear me.