Layed out upon Dahakon's bed, sat the finest robes he had ever laid eyes upon. Finely crafted from a magnficient and rare ice blue cloth. Sitting atop of the robes was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly into a square. Written in delicate and beautiful Elvish runes, Dahakon discovers that it is a note from Salias. The letter is written neatly, lacking grammatical fluency, as if one still new to the language had written it.It seems not all of the elves are quick to damn based on ones flesh. Its seems all of us being on this plane, shy the illithid, base things on generalizations. I am called a Drow.. But what is a Drow? Who sets what a Drow is? Do we base this on mere outward appearances? Does that mean if an angel appears as an angel, it is truly good natured? There is no possibility of fallen angels? I've watched your Glade through a large passage of time.. Your kind are indeed different than what I was damned to grow up around. You display... different.. actions.. I lack words to describe it! It is rare to see hatred in the eyes on your kind.. Shy when those eyes are set upon me.. Or drow.. May it not even be hatred? Perhaps fear or a sense of protection to others... I do not know... If they listened to my words instead of being quick to nock their arrows....
Take this robe as appreciation towards using your ears instead of your bow and blade
Dahakon grins to himself as he picks up his new robe, admiring it proudly. Throwing the cloak over his head as he ran out the tower door, he peers into the sunlight and heads into the woods in search of Anga.