The ship, rocking in the harsh waves, threatened to capsize. Rhyl’drin huddled into his chair to listen to the sailor speaking to him.

“You see”, said the man, who was the Drow’s only source of information about the ways of the surface inhabitants, “a man is a rabbit. He spends most of his existence afraid, or hungry- if he is not afraid or hungry, he is dead. You came here, to the surface, because you were driven by some deep need, some inward compulsion, to escape, to find a new life here. To you, the surface- that is your rabbit hole.”

“I think,” Rhyl’drin said, “that you’ve had too much to drink.” He reached into the bowl that the two were sharing for dinner, then took a bite of the spongy, slimy gunk. “What is this anyways?” He tried to ignore the itch dancing over his face.

“I can share that information with you some other time- now, Drow, you must learn about the rabbit. Then, we discuss his hole.”

Rhyl’drin sighed, resigning himself to listening to the drunkard’s rambling. He dared not attend to his itch, for fear of making it worse.

“Now, the important thing is, a rabbit without his hole is a dead rabbit. But a man, you, you must find a way to live without your hole, whatever it is, or at least exist without needing it. Because, my friend, if you are bound to this thing for security... you will never be free of it.”

Rhyl’drin nodded. He felt the itch “I suppose the sea is your rabbit hole.”

“Well aren’t you the smart one,” he replied sarcastically. “Of course this is my hole. The ship is my security. But you would agree that I need to one day overcome the bonds that tie me here?”

“Of course.” The itch begged for attention, but once again the Drow refused to pay it any heed.

“Would you also agree that it is the best interest of everyone to overcome such restriction, imagined or no?”

”Aye. You know, Patrick...”

“Me name’s not Patrick.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but I must address you so, inaccurate or no. Your true name sounds like a word meaning ‘bird excrement’ in the Underdark.”

“Ah”, said the man. “Then continue.”

“As I was saying, you remind me a lot of a friend... Jane, we can call her, for ease. She gave a lot of good advice; but never followed it herself. She had a penchant for strong brew, which I’ve noticed you to have in the same measure. The only difference being, of course, that she is an attractive Drow female, where as you’re an ugly human fellow with a beard.” The man tried to ignore this, shoving more food into his mouth to take up time. The Drow’s hand strayed towards the itch, but he managed to catch it.

“This raw squid is among the best foods I’ve ever tasted!”

“Aye! ...Wait. Raw squid?” The itch had blossomed beyond a mere irritation. “Something’s wrong.”

“What is it, lad?”

“An itch. An itch that won’t go away.” He began to peck at his face gingerly.

“I’ve heard that salty sea air can be bad for your kind. Maybe we need to port for a few weeks.”

“No... this is an itch from the inside. I think....”

“Yes?”

“I dare say it was the squid.” The itch had become painful by then.

“Funny” Patrick replied, “I eat squid quite often; I never get any itch.

“Perhaps you’ve become immune to the itch. I don’t have any elixirs for an itch though.”

“Aha! Your potions are your rabbit hole!”

“Alas that my rabbit hole cannot cure an itch .”

Thus the itch remained. For all his potions, his philosophy, his skill: Rhyl’drin could not cure a simple skin irritation.