To the only surface-dweller worth remembering,
I don’t know what compelled me to write.
Boredom, perhaps.
A lull in the intrigues of the Underdark, or a moment of quiet in which no one is trying to poison, flatter, or outmaneuver me.
Unlikely, but possible.
It’s always been you, hasn’t it?
The human who walks like a daughter of Lolth.
Who learned the shadows before the sunlight.
Who bares her throat like a dare — not submission.
Who speaks softly, but with teeth beneath the silk.
You understand the rules.
Not the ones of the surface world, with its softness and its sickening honesty — but the true rules. Power. Survival. The beauty of fear.
And yet… you smiled at me.
Not with mockery. Not with manipulation (well, not entirely).
There was something else. Something I still haven’t decided whether to hate or crave.
I’ve spent so long surrounded by sycophants and assassins that I forgot what it felt like to be seen — not for what I can do, but for what I am.
You, little lightless creature, made me feel almost mortal. Almost... warm.
Disgusting.
And yet I keep returning to the thought.
What would it have been like — had we met under different stars?
Had we ruled something together, instead of tearing it apart from opposite ends?
Would you have worn my colors like armor? Or dragged me into your gods-damned dawn?
I’ll never admit to weakness, of course. That would be terribly out of character.
But I do miss you.
Or rather — I miss what I am when I’m near you.
Sharper. Quieter. Realer.
Write to me, if you’re bold enough.
Or don’t. I’ll know either way.
But if you do… seal your letter with poison.
Just for old times’ sake.
— Nere
Still alive. Still venomous. And perhaps, in some cursed little corner of my heart… still yours.