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Yevaud
There, disappearing into the swamp was the dark elf, spawn of Lolth, creature of darkness most hated. Bile began to rise in Yevauds throat as he caught sight of the creature he had been taught to hate since birth, trained to destroy since his enrollment at the bladesinger academy. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, turning the tattooed flesh red as he went through his options. The creature was fleeing, and had already travelled beyond the range of the ensnarement spells he had prepared, and so Yevaud began to chant a spell that would wound the drow, it would likely not be fatal, but the sting would remind him of those whom he fled from.
An ancient language arose from the throat of the elf, a droning chant in a carefully controlled monotone. Hands and arms move in a blur, accompanying the chant emphasizing words in a way that inflection of voice does not. And then... release. The spell is cast, and three cerulean darts emerged from the stretched forth finger tips, flying so quickly they leave visual trails through the air as they converge on the fleeing drow.
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