Author's Note: I haven't written in several years, so I'm a little rusty. I'd really appreciate any constructive critique. I was trying to sort of explore drow motivations in this fic, though I'm not sure how well that turned out. It was sort of a impulsive idea. Heh...let me know how you find it :))

Disclaimer: Everything that's not mine is not mine.

My name is Rizzen and I am a male commoner in the Drow city of Menzoberranzan.

This past week, my patrol was selected as one of the best in the city, to carry out a raid on the cursed faeries of the surface world. My younger sister was displeased with the decision, because she had not yet visited the surface and would have liked to go herself. Her jealousy did not bode well for me, and thanks to her fury, I was in bad shape on the morning of the expedition.

Nonetheless, I was excited to go see the surface world and to exact vengeance on the wretched creatures we'd all learned about in our Lore classes. The tedious journey through the Underdark's tunnels did little to take the edge of the enthusiasm of myself or my companions.

Upon arrival, we traveled cautiously through the 'forest.' The surface is horrifically loud – as a member of a race that supposedly thrives off chaos, I was astounded at the cacophony and confusion that is the surface world. The place teems with life. I cannot imagine how any sane being would survive there. Of course, this is not even to mention the oppressive brightness of the surface. I did expect it to be quite light, but it is one thing to have heard of such a phenomenon and another to be exposed to the constant illumination. It is impossible to feel at all at ease on the surface, which I imagine is likely prudent anyway. I was truly surprised when the priestess on the expedition informed us that we had come up in the nighttime, which is said to be much darker than the day. I cannot imagine the torture of day on the surface.

Finally, our force happened upon the community of elves for which we'd been searching. There were guards posted, but these were incredibly incompetent and it was no trouble for those of us with the hand-crossbows to shoot them down.

We moved into the camp.

Most of my companions began to scale the massive 'trees,' for the actual bulk of the elven village was in the treetops – they had built their homes and even walkways among the branches of the forest. My fellow raiders climbed up and began, presumably, to make short work of the defenseless, resting elves.

I myself was on the verge of following my companions up the trees, but a certain shameful hesitation to engage those rustling, unfamiliar structures held me back long enough to hear the sounds of some un-subtle person crashing through the nearby brush.

I slipped off, attempting to track the individual, whom I presumed to be a fleeing elf. Admittedly, I was not able to be especially quiet myself because I am unused to moving through forest. I was sure after some time that the elf knew he was being followed.

It was quite an unsettling experience, rushing through the unfamiliar, bright, loud forest to try to track this elusive evil faerie. It was not long before I began to regret my decision to leave the party, but I knew that a warrior must not have doubts once he is committed to his path. There was, at any rate, not much glory in going back at this point.

Finally, I sensed that the person I was pursuing was beginning to tire. He had slowed down and I began to catch glimpses of him ahead of me, confirming my suspicions that he was a faerie. He was tall, of a slender build, with golden hair that reached nearly to the small of his back.

After some time, he slowed to a halt, turning to face me as I made up the ground to him. He was severely out of breath, to my amusement. He had striking green eyes, damp with tears, and white, creamy skin, marred by the recent scratches he bore due to his run through the woods. He stared at me as I came to stop in front of him, pulling my swords out. His wet eyes were full of fear and weakness. His face was pale, like mother's milk, speaking all things sweet and young, pure and weak and innocent. That purity was stained only slightly by the salty tear tracks and scrapes.

"Leave me alone, leave me alone," He had a decidedly whiny voice.

"Why do you want to kill me? Don't you have any mercy?" His soft, white hands were weaponless, shaking as he raised them in the air, helpless before me and my hard blackness and my sharp swords. His voice broke. "Don't you ever dream? His pretty green eyes darted around desperately. "Don't you ever think? Why are you doing this?"

I watched those tears run down his face, as he shivered and cried in terror. For one brief instant, as I stood in the light of the strange silvery crescent moon, I wondered…at his hope for mercy; the origins of my own distant, rising amusement and the dark, bitter anger that hid behind it; and at…something that is now lost to me. It came to me for an instant in the dappled light and the old forest and the boy's tears, and it was enough to shake me – so that I still remember, vaguely, the feeling. But the thought that prompted it is gone.

I started to feel something else rising then, growing in my chest and shaking me, a mirror to the sobs that were now wracking the boy's form. And then I was laughing out loud, letting my fierce mirth echo in their green-cushion, softling world. If this boy could survive on the surface, if an ignorant intruder could run heedless through their frightening forests, there was nothing dangerous there.

I knew danger. I grew up in Menzoberranzan, playing the very complex, very serious game of trying to survive. It is generally understood in my city that the life of a male is like a particularly cruel and amusing joke. I felt the familiar emotion of self-revulsion creep up on me – how could I have been scared of this pathetic place, I who am Drow?

"Don't you ever dream? Why? Why would you want to kill me?" The boy was asking, pleading again. His eyes were imploring, as if there was some deeper meaning to what he was saying. I certainly had no idea why he was talking about dreaming. I moved forward, swung my sword up slowly, mockingly slapping him across the face with the flat of the blade. He fell hard to the moss, those dumb, scared-big eyes staring at me with wet horror, even shock. How ignorant of him to expect a dark elf's mercy. Then he screamed as I drove the second blade through his belly, carved a path through his steaming innards. For a second, I stood there and laughed, relishing the raw sound of it, with him dying at my feet.

Then I knelt next to him, aware of the broad grin that had plastered itself on my features. He was still writhing in hurt, struggling to get free of the life that had suddenly become so painful. I grabbed his golden-haired head in my hands, taking a deep pleasure in the way the blood on my hands stained his beautiful hair, and I whispered harsh and laughing into his face, to answer his foolish question, "The weakling pleasure of mercy, the satisfaction of kindness, will never be a match for this, this metallic blood taste in the air, this triumph-thirst in my pounding heart, these hoarse screams of fear and dying." He stared unbelieving into my eyes, red in the half-dark. Then he gave one last shudder and finally died. "I am Drow," I whispered to his broken body. "Killing is all I dream of."

I stood and for several more minutes, I laughed. Eventually, the feeling wore out of me and my laughter trailed off. My eyes were wet, so I wiped them on the sleeve of my tunic.

Then I headed back off in the way I had come, looking to rejoin my companions and return home.