"Ah, I see you like this more advanced communication method, good. Truly a relentless enemy to be fought. I've lost many men to it, merely got away with my life. For now." Hilkalas takes the drink. "To lost battles, and to victories to come."
A wave of thoughts intrudes in the conversation between the cleric and the drow. "Pain doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things. In all, it hardens, steels you. Pain is good, to deliver discipline, orders. Pain is better remembered, as a silent whip. Leave the cleric with his healing, in the field of battle, he will have his place, even if he doesn't even lift a weapon. He is much a tool, like your knife; the "killing" not even done by those such as yourself, you are the dagger, again, a tool. At any rate, the killing is done by those directing and coordinating your moves in the battlefield to achieve a goal. Someone like me, or perhaps a king, or a lord, who send you out to some gods forsaken place to retrieve something. Everyone sitting here is a mere tool, waiting in the workshop, this smelly establishment, for someone to pick it up and use it."