I don't own anything! Really! Well, maybe the poem, but the drow belong to their respective peoples.

White on black,

Black on white,

Red eyes in the drowish light

Whispers of magic,

Closed eyes of sight,

Magic and psionics dance tonight.

Crossbows click

Daggers throw

Fireballs shoot high and low

A smell of sulfur

Dark heads in hands

Bodies twine in the deadened lands.

Robes of mind

Robes of magic,

Pleasure sucks the light from everything tragic

Fingernails scratching

White teeth in the dark,

All alone together in the Underdark.