Such is the Heart of Madness
A Letter to the Matron Mother of House Duskryn
Since you are now dead, having drowned in a pool of your own blood, I have decided to write a series of letters to your corpse. As you have instructed, I have gone out among the people so that I may learn what it means to be drow and to work through my more conflicted thoughts through these letters. My conflictions of late have led to thoughts regarding my station within our family, house, church, and homeland.
In all the world of the drow, there is no more important word. It is the calling of our religion, the incessant pulling of hungering heartstrings. Ambition over rides good sense and compassion is thrown away in its face, all in the name of the Spider Queen.
Ascension to power in drow society seems a simple process of assassination. The Spider Queen is a deity of chaos, and she and her high priestesses, the true rulers of the drow world, do not seem to look with ill favor upon ambitious individuals wielding poisoned daggers.
Of course, there are rules of behavior, every society must boast of these. To openly commit murder or wage war invites the pretense of justice, and penalties exacted in the name of drow justice are merciless. To stick a dagger in the back of a rival during the chaos of a larger battle or in the quiet shadows of an alley, however, is quite acceptable, even applauded. Investigation is not the forte of drow justice.
No one cares enough to bother.
Station is the way of the Spider Queen, the ambition she bestows to further the chaos, to keep her drow “children” along their appointed course of self-imprisonment. Children? Pawns more likely, dancing dolls for the Spider Queen, puppets on the imperceptible but impervious strands of her web. All climb the Spider Queen’s ladders; all hunt for her pleasure, and all fall to the hunters of her pleasure.
Station is the paradox of the world of our people, the limitation of our power within the hunger for power. It is gained through treachery and invites treachery against those who gain it. Those most powerful in Menzoberranzan spend their days watching over their shoulders, defending against the daggers that would find their backs.
Their deaths usually come from the front.
All trust is foolish,