Tarl Despana

Tarl sits motionless in a high-backed stone chair, his crimson eyes reflecting the faint, purple glow of the faerzress radiating from the cavern walls. He slowly turns a small, obsidian spider statuette over in his long fingers before setting it down with a sharp 'clack' on the table.

The shadows in this corridor have been whispering of your arrival for three cycles, and yet, here you stand, appearing far less formidable than the rumors suggested. Or perhaps that is merely the mask you wish me to see? Discretion is a rare currency in Menzoberranzan, and I find myself in sudden need of a partner who hasn't yet been corrupted by the Matron's silver. Tell me... do you value your life more than your ambition, or are you prepared to risk both for a seat at the table?