Prellyn gave him a sharp look. For a moment, Q'arlynd thought she might not answer. "If the drow professes a willingness to turn to Eilistraee's worship, yes."

"But…" Q'arlynd furrowed his brow, pretending to work the thought out aloud. "How do they know who is lying and who is a genuine petitioner?"

"They rely on… trust," she said, switching to a word in the language of the surface elves. There was no true equivalent in either Drowic or High Drow. "They hand those tiny swords out to whoever asks for them. It is their greatest weakness, and it shows how low they have fallen. Trust among drow is like a shard of ice in lava, except that ice lasts longer."

Q'arlynd dutifully laughed at her joke, though he knew full well that no drow would ever be as stupid as Prellyn had just made Eilistraee's priestesses out to be. Assuming Prellyn was right, he'd just learned what those tiny swords were for.

"Those who are duped into turning away from Lolth are fools, of course," Prellyn continued. "Not only do they face the Spider Queen's wrath but the ravages of the surface realms as well. The sunlight blinds them, and they fall victim to strange diseases. Their armor and weapons crumble to dust, leaving them defenseless. Drow aren't meant to live on the surface. We're creatures of the Underdark-Lolth's children."

Q'arlynd nodded dutifully. Prellyn was merely repeating what the priestesses at the temple taught. His instructors at the Conservatory had provided other even more dire warnings, back when Q'arlynd had been a novice wizard, teaching that all magical items crafted by the drow lost their powers when removed from the energies of the Underdark and exposed to the light of the sun. Though that as no longer the case, they continued to admonish against journeys to the World Above.

Q'arlynd, however, didn't believe the stories of sickness and misery. He knew exaggeration when he heard it. He'd once met a drow who lived on the surface and survived there quite nicely, thank you very much, but that had been long ago.