Veszolin Zaurret was dying. He was not suffering from a life-threatening illness. He was not dying of old age. The mere concept of such an end is an anathema to his Underdark brethren. This is in part because there is no real definition of 'old age' for the drow, who have been known to live for more than two millennia, circumstances permitting. That last clause is especially pertinent given the cannibalistic nature of drow society, which rarely permits any drow to live to see one millennia pass, let alone two. A drow might count himself lucky the measure his existence in centuries. Given his present predicament, Veszolin Zaurret would have counted himself lucky to be included in that last quotient.
As it was, the Elderboy of Menzoberranzan's forty-second house found himself staring at the ceiling of a low cavern located on the outskirts of his native city. His vision was growing gradually blurrier as his lifeblood was slowly but steadily pumped outward onto the instrument of his demise. The short, squat stalagmite had ignored the magical protection of his piwafwi and proceeded to violate his thoracic cavity, splintering his flimsy ribs and perforating the sorcerer's right lung.
He craned his neck upward to survey the damage, if for no other reason than because that was all he could manage. The exertion of arching his neck wracked a low rasping wheeze from his broken body. His head lolled back, all thoughts of movement abandoned, at least temporarily. Thoughts of survival, however, remained racing through his head, accompanied by the thunderous pounding of his heart between his temples.
Drow are creative creatures by nature, and Veszolin was no exception. New ways to kill, inventive methods for survival, and fresh plots of treachery: all standard implementations of drow innovation. Even with his time expiring, Veszolin had formulated two possible escape plans. The first and easiest option would have been to use his house talisman to simply levitate his broken body off the makeshift spear. That option was no longer available, thanks to the treachery of his younger brother. Secondboy Ranyl Zaurret had happened across his misfortune and pocketed the amulet, presumably as proof of Veszolin's demise.
The second option would be to call upon the magical abilities of a blink dog. Exercising this power would phase Veszolin into the Ethereal Plane. His momentarily incorporeal body would slide into the floor for a short duration, at which point he would re-solidify inside the rock and be shunted to the nearest open space. Painfully. And there would almost certainly with negative consequences for the injured sorcerer.
Even if he survived the immediate effects, Veszolin knew he would have to get to healer almost immediately, which further complicated his situation. Ranyl had taken the singular healing potion provided to him. There was really only one way to travel with as much expediency as Veszolin required: dimension-hopping. The House Zaurret sorcerer would have to utilize the short-range teleportation to get back to a reliable healer. Having a house like Zaurret in one's debt might be inclination enough for some, but Veszolin was not naïve enough to believe that there weren't others who would simply prefer to put a dagger in his back. After all, he had made his share of enemies.
Of course, this thought process took a matter of seconds, or Veszolin would already be a corpse. With Lolth's blessing, he might make it. It all depended on how long his miniature ethereal jaunt lasted. Without waiting another moment, the wounded spellcaster recited the proper incantation and began sinking into the floor. He waited what seemed like an eternity before feeling his molecules re-assume their normal place in the Material Plane. And then, back in the cavern, Veszolin Zaurret burst through the hard stone floor, complete with brand new lacerations all over his body, courtesy of his journey through the Underdark rock. Thoughts of the fate of his house flickered briefly through his dying mind, followed by a reflection on his short life up to that point.
And there, draped in the tattered rags of his piwafwi, Veszolin Zaurret died, bathed in an ever-expanding pool of his own blood.