The shadows dance. The sounds of a troubadour drift upon the wind and seemingly coalesce into the figure before you. A drow. The dirge emanating from somewhere deep within it's being has no hint of hope. A lithe hand stretches out. Fingers point out like a long, conductor's wand. They tremble to the rhythms of dark desires. Long arms extend from a fragile frame. Great thought was put into the creation of this mahogany maven. Or perchance, it was a bit of neglect that fashioned folly from a fearless bloodline. The eyes sing crimson cries. They shout like, loud noises. It's impressive! They are telling you a story between blinks. They could be tall. Depending on whom they are standing beside. The could be in better shape if they did not commit to a dour life. The music that graced, graces no more. Just a moment of pure silence. As if without the melodies no other sound is important. As if, all other sound is waiting for this creature to as one would expect. His neck, taut like the string of a lute. His body shudders a moment and you can discern the where the rest of his frame is. It's all there: hips, legs and torso. Another moment passes in this short exchange, but what finally grabs your attention is his incessantly tapping feet. What could they possibly be happy about? They almost betray his aura of self-loathing.