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The city burned. The screams of the inhabitants echoed throughout the deepening dark, the last remnents of any defence was being put to the sword as the drow mercilessly destroyed the civilization.

The castle had been the last bastion of hope for the people, and was keenly broken asunder by the merauding drow. The flames reached high into the dome which housed this kingdom, the lowly elves watched helplessly as their dreams faded in a puff of smoke.

The king's head was placed on a pole just outside the keep, for all to witness. The queen lay dead, her body torn into an unreckonizable mass of flesh, consumed by the spiders of Lloth.

In the last chamber of the royal court, standing over the only surviving heir to the thrown, The Prince held his scimitar above the craddle and watched as the child merely gazed at him with a benign smile.

"Are you not going to cry, last elvish prince?" The Drow sneared. The child giggled. "Don't you dare mock me." The scimitar slowly edged its way forward, an attendent disturbed the scene when her form rose from a secret passage way near the cribe.

"Prince Tarathiel!" The maiden cried as she tossed herself at the drow warrior. Unarmed, unarmoured, and no decernable martial skills.

The drow prince watched the woman flail at him with her arms, and herd her pleas and cries for mercy. The drow's initial instint was to simply cut the woman down, but he found himself paralized. His wrists refused to work.

"He's only an infinate. Only several weeks old!" The she-elf cried, trying vainly to stop the murderous drow from completing his task. One of her fists rose to strike the drow's nose, but fell short as his blade intercepted the weapon, and his right drove into her chest. The woman cried out continueously until her voice gave out in the swell of blood in her mouth.

The Drow Prince turned his attention back to the infinate who seemed to have fallen asleep during the fight. "Hey you, wake up." The prince kicked the cribe which jolted the child awake. "I am going to kill you now, and you are going to cry this time, correct?" The scimitar rose again, and dangled above the child's chest. "Prince Tarathiel... Like the general." The elf stared at the child. "This is not as saticifying as killing your namesake."

The elf child giggled again, and tried to reach for the blade playfully.

"Stop that." The Drow Prince said as he retracked the blade. "You might get hurt."

The child giggled again.

"No, I am going to kill you, you little white rat." The blade extended out over the child again, and as with the other several attempts to skewer the child, the blade stopped. "Why can't I kill you?"

The room chilled, and the Drow prince looked about to see that some drow soldiers were begining to gather all about him. They seemed rather amused by the specticale of the Drow Prince playing with the elvish child. They began to laugh in ernst when the Prince pulled his blade away from the child.

"Oh, yes. Killing Infants is so my favourite task in the world." He sarcastically assulted the gathering.

"As long as the child lives, this kingdom remains. Killing it, kills the kingdom." One drow officer said, with a rather skeptical tone. "What is wrong Slayer-of-a-Thousand-Heroes, cannot kill a simple child?"

"I can kill it." The Prince said, "Its just I'd rather not."

"Cowerdice? My Prince, your mother would be ashamed to hear such words from you."

"Cowerdice is not murdering specks of dust."

"If you do not kill it, I will." The officer smiled, "That would ensure my place as the father of your next brother."

"No matter what, the child is dead. Either I kill it, or you will." The drow Prince reasoned, "Well then." His blade went out over the child again, and hung dramatically over the infant. "I guess this means I should." The blade lingured for a moment, the Prince staring into the eyes of the infant.

The child smiled at him.

The Prince filled his heart with as many dark emotions as he possible could, filled his mind with the illusions of demons sprouting from this elf's hands. The smell of the Abyss filled his nostrils, this child was a conduit to hell, and would unleash death upon him should he fail to bring his sword upon it.

It giggled and tried to grasp the blade again.

The drow soldiers began to cheer, bloody verses of valour and heroism. The chatter grew into a wave of Hate-filled song, the praise of their demon-god.

Standing over the Prince Tarathiel, The Drow Prince closed his eyes, and felt the pressence of Lloth. Kill the Demon, it will eat your soul if you do not. The words in his head seemed foriegn, and suductive. They promised him sactuary from he evil this child promised the Prince.

The sword fell, blood spilled, and the child did not cry.

Opening his eyes, the Drow Prince saw what he had done, and felt his arm grow weak. He released the hold on his blade, and looked at his hand, were the blood of the infant was still wet, and warm. He looked at the craddle, and felt his heart sink to the bottom of his feet. The sound of the room errupted into a roar of ectasy, but all the Prince could hear was the repeative giggle of the child he had murdered.

A giggling that seemed to plague his inner being, something that seemed to be consuming his soul, like a demon. The Prince stood still for a long moment, his mind seemingly seperated from his body. The sword remained imbedded firmly into the child, and the child's blood remained imbedded firmly in the drow's mind.

It could have been hours, it could have been days, or even centuries since he took the life of the child, but the fighter remained petrified to where he stood. The soldiers left, and building's flames slowly began to be extinguished. A voice, much like a siren's, pulled him from his heavy stupor.

"Well done, my Son. Well done." The woman waited for a responce, but after a few moments, she grew impaitent. "When an Empress bestows favour upon you, it is generally," A many headed whip falshed from her belt, "Expected that you respond." A crack had the Prince sprawled out across the floor, a second strike fell upon him, but then weapon stopped during the flight of the third attack. "Forgive me, son my goddess. Your impudence demanded punishment."

The drow soldier slowly rose to his feet, and turned towards the Empress. His face was drained of viggor, and had he not just rose from his feet, one would assume he had not been struck by the awful weapon at all.

"Why so dispondent? You brought glory to our house, and increased our territory. You destroyed the enemy and brought peace to our land. You have succeeded where our people have failed for the last seven hundred years." The woman blessed, her voice promising much favour. But to the Drow Prince, the words meant nothing.

He continued to stand lifelessly before the Empress, his soul crushed by some wieght, some thing he had never know existed.

"What is wrong my son? You are usually much more cheerful after a hard day of battle."

"I..." The Prince stumbled with his words, he could not express what he was trying to say.

"My paitence is thin with my sons, you are graced by your diving birth, now speak or I will forget your heratige."

"I don't care." Replied the Prince.

"You don't care?" The Siren returned.

"Kill me."

"No."

The Prince's eyes rose in surprise, life returned to his face and he glared into his mother's eyes. "Why not?"

"I do not take commands from impudent males, even if they are demi-gods."

The Prince placed his left hand back on the blade resting in the child to his side, "Then I shall find someone who can." Pulling the blade from the child's corpse, the Drow Prince walked out of the castle.