Editing Ilsenhoon the Mind Flayer Ministrel (section)

===Chapter 1===
Ilsenhoon stepped back and let the elf's body fall to the floor with a wet thump. He clacked his mandibles several times, sure to dislodge any stray bits of skull or brain matter. Searching his pockets, he produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his tentacles, wiping them clean.

He sat down in his chair and looked at the corpse in front of him. Not long ago, it was pleading for its pathetic little life. Some nonsense about hunting drow. Ilsenhoon cared not, it had stumbled upon his territory, and its life was forfeit.

It did carry peculiar gear, however. Most would go to the city of course, to arm the thralls and perhaps to be traded off to duergar, or the beholderkin. But something caught his eye. It was oddly shaped, and he was sure he'd never seen such a thing before, but nonetheless, he recognized it. Reaching down, the grasped the guitar and untangled it from the cooling corpse. He held it as if he'd played his whole life, and gave it one quick strum.

It made such a pleasant noise... But no, such things were for lesser mortals. Weaklings. He set the guitar aside and departed his quarters... maybe he'd keep it though. The city wouldn't miss it. And it sounded so nice too. He couldn't help as his cheek twitched, in a twisted mockery of a smile.

It had been several weeks since he'd eaten the elf musician. Since then he'd been experimenting with the guitar. He certainly knew how to hold it... he knew all the chords, and he could make quite a racket with it... but there was something that eluded him. Something he did not yet grasp. It infuriated him. There was something he didn't understand about it. It sounded well enough, but it didn't sound right.

Ilsenhoon was browsing the slave pens, examining the new stock. They all stood, half-dressed in the cages like scared animals. They shrunk away as Ilsenhoon passed. He moved on to the benches of equipment, things taken from the chattel as they were stripped down and imprisoned... there it was. A mandolin. Certainly not a guitar, but it was close. Perhaps its owner could reveal the secret of this ‘music.'

He grabbed the instrument and held it up towards the cages. WHOSE INSTRUMENT IS THIS? His thoughts boomed out across the sea of deadened, inferior minds. Almost all flinched at the telepathic contact, but one of the slaves, a human, looked up at the object with a look of familiarity. Ilsenhoon knew it was the owner.

He looked to a nearby thrall guard, BRING THIS ONE TO MY CHAMBERS. It nodded and gathered more guards to open the cage.

Ilsenhoon returned to his quarters with the mandolin and the slave in tow. He tossed the mandolin aside, it was not the thing that intrigued him. He picked up his guitar and pelted out a few chords.

IT SOUNDS WRONG. TELL ME WHAT I AM DOING WRONG, his thoughts cracked into the human's head.

The human flinched away for a second, and then spoke up in a nervous, hurried tone, “Ah... you're not making any music... you're just playing random notes... You need to give it rhythm. Let me go and I'll teach you!” It looked hopeful. Stupid chattel.

THAT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY. THRALLS, RESTRAIN HIM.

There's nothing better than a nice, fresh meal.

Later that night, a sweet, soft melody rang out in the halls around Ilsenhoon's quarters.