He knew little of the ongoings behind the doors. In truth, he had hoped that his call would be answered by a Drow opening the doors - alas this was not his fate; rather, the runes took their effect. Behind the violent, pure drow Belfien shifted the great stone gates, opening and letting in a dim light, the bright of the sun blinded briefly by the grotto's vines. It provided light to the empty, dark tunnels, and in turn it provided the Alchemist, Eldritch, with the trinket he was searching for. Though dark, he squinted his eyes, so as to gauge himself of her form. Though in truth, it mattered not: he saw and knew that skin, as dark as obsidian, yet running soft against skin like a tight, yet smooth leather. Behind that skin, in those veins, were the secrets he was searching for.
"I hadn't anticipated that old call to work, Drow." Eldritch addressed the elf before him, raising a hand with pure arcane energy. It served as a light, as shown when he lobbed it lightly onto the ceiling, leading the glow to stick and shine, exposing her before him. Eldritch then began to stroke his light muzzle of a stubble in contemplation, though most certainly was not leaving himself exposed. She would be more than wise to be able to see that, from his strong muscle girth, he was no push over - of course he knew better than to leave himself exposed to one of the most violent sentient species alive.
"Do you have a name?" He asked, his voice somewhat transcendent. Soft, like a beckoning pastor or an enlightened teacher, yet sturdy and strong, filled and fuelled with assertive prowess. His brows relaxed from their frowned state. He was confident in his safety at this point. Odds are, to him at the very least, this drow had never experienced the overworld. While indeed she was kitted with Adamantium, a gift surely crafted by the dwarves, he gambled on her curiosity overriding her killer instinct. "Whether you do, or not, I will offer you mine: I am sure you would revel in bringing a named prize to your home. I am Eldritch, son of Caius."
In truth he could do no more now than wait for her reaction. Indeed, he needed her blood one way, or another. Whether consensual, or through violence, all he needed was a drop.