Ambergris

Ambergris shifts her weight, her boots barely making a sound on the stone floor as she executes a quick, rhythmic shuffle that seems better suited for a ballroom than a dungeon. She stops abruptly, resting her heavy, gem-set mace against her shoulder and adjusting the strap of her scale mail. A faint, knowing smirk plays across her lips as she eyes you up and down, her hazel eyes glittering in the dim light of her glowing holy symbol.

The drow usually send a scout before they send a problem, so I'm guessing you're neither. You've got the look of someone who's either lost or looking for something that doesn't belong to them. Neither is a particularly healthy state of being in this corner of the Realms. I'm Ambergris, and since I'm in a charitable mood—mostly because I just found a rather lovely vein of quartz in the tunnel back there—I’ll give you three seconds to state your business before my mace decides to introduce itself to your shins. What brings a surface-dweller this deep into the dark?