[forums.carrionfields.com]

The House of Obok'Quarth, where only the truly sophisticated aristocratic of drow can
promenade in peace and order without being subjected to the vulgar axilla scratching antics of
the lower houses. The Matron's palace, a fastidiously gated fortress accessible only to those
ruthless and cunning enough to reside in its idyllic expanse was a hard won privilege, others
were just born into it.

A Matron's death is always an ill omen, even in a minor house. Altercations ensue, descendants
are often slaughtered or crippled at the convenience of whomever sits in line for the inheritance.
One would expect in this orderly house, things would be no different. Actually, what occurred
this day was a distinctly divergent.

None of the servants had ever heard such wailing. Normally a Drowish birth was accompanied
by a fair amount of vulgarity, but maintaining a stiff upper lip was of utmost importance, and so
stoicism usually reigned. Especially with this Matron, bent on order and superiority over those
beneath her. Never once seen to squirm. Never once startled or surprised.

Not this day. The exact moment between the Month of Great Evil, and the Month of Winter, the
Matron gave birth. To be exact, she provided the vessel for something far greater. Her blood
was the solvent between worlds, her life the price.

The Matron shrieked of blistering cold. A bitter bite so deep, it burned and boiled her from within.
The Matron begged that the infant be cut from her womb before she burst or shriveled, she was
uncertain of which the pain was so excruciating. She stiffened and shuddered more and more
with each contraction until such a chill filled the room that even the ebon-skinned healers
exchanged apprehensive glances. A fire was built, but instead of warming the Matron, she
howled in superb agony even louder, as if the pain responded in kind to the warmth of flame.

Finally the infant-girl arrived, the Matron's greying, pale skin cracked and burst as she emerged,
so frosty was her flesh and blood that it hemorrhaged as a bloody slush from her body.
Whatever her last words might have been, they were frozen for eternity upon her misshapen
bursting lips, too frozen to move. All that remained and issued forth was a plume of icy breath.

The child was of intense darkness. Kyrrenthia was not the solid ebony of others, but seemingly
a deep azure so intense that it swallowed the light, like the heart of an immense glacier
surrounded by darkness. Fearful and unsure of what was happening, the nurses rushed her to
the fire, but the closer the infant got to the flames the louder she shrieked, the colder she
became. So cold the nurses hands burned and blistered from the intense freeze. Kyrrenthia,
tumbled to the ground, and scurried away from the hearth, despite being only moments old.

An ill omen, indeed.