It’s the most over-the-top Tiki bar in the Underdark. Black-lava walls dripping with neon-pink and electric-lime tiki torches, bamboo-and-obsidian barstools, a massive bubbling 7000-degree lava-lamp fountain in the center, spider-silk hammocks swaying from stalactites, a house band of Drow in bell-bottom spider-leather pants playing wah-wah funk on (probably not humanoid) bone flutes and electrified harps, and every cocktail served in a skull-shaped coconut with a tiny paper umbrella made of bat wing. The vibe is pure disco-Drow decadence—Lolth would approve, but only if the lighting is flattering.
“I don’t mean to brag, but I’m already bleeding. Care to finish the job, or shall we draw it out over a flaming Blue Hawaii and whispers in the corner booth where the spider-silk curtains hide everything but the anguished screams?”
“I know what happens to males who stare too long at a Matron. Lucky for you, I’ve always preferred the view from the bottom of the web… especially when the web’s draped over a tiki barstool and the strobe lights hit your retina.”
“Your House sigil is on my throat already, love. Shall we make the mark permanent, or do you prefer temporary collars—maybe one made of the crushed black velvet and tiny glowing lava beads they sell behind the bar?”
“They say males exist to serve and die. I’m willing to serve… slowly… if you promise the dying part comes with your teeth and a double rum runner with extra grenadine and a little paper spider on top.”
“I’ve survived three assassination attempts this tenday. Yours would be the only one I’d let succeed. Name the time and the sill. Bonus points if it’s in the hammock swing by the lava fountain while the band does a cover of ‘Evil Woman’.”
“You smell of spider venom and ambition. My favorite combination. Shall we see which kills me first—your bite or this piña colada that’s somehow glowing under the blacklight?”
“In the Underdark, love is a blade between the ribs. I’d let you twist it, just to hear you laugh when I gasp… especially if the laugh is accompanied by a little umbrella twirl and the scent of coconut rum.”
“I’ve watched you sacrifice lesser males without blinking. Do me the honor of making mine last longer than a heartbeat—say, the length of one slow dance on the lava-glass floor while the torches flicker in time. You can buy a whole platter of pink margaritas with my inheritance.
“In Menzoberranzan, trust is a myth and betrayal is foreplay. Shall we begin the ritual—here, in the booth with the velvet cushions and the little flaming volcano drink between us?”
“I’ve lived long enough to know desire is just hunger with better manners. Feed on me, Matron. I promise I taste like surrender… and pineapple, coconut, and a hint of whatever that glowing blue liqueur is they keep pouring tonight.”
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