The Rogue Prince

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This piece was written on the fly, yet it is the start of an idea I've been playing around with for a while. For some reason I had the inspiration to finally start this. Like "The Cruelest Fate," this is more of an experimental idea dump. Constructive criticism always welcome.

Rated M for graphic violence, strong sexual themes, and strong language.

Entry One: The Rending of Purity

16 day of Elient, 1373 DR, The Year of Rogue Dragons

The dream has always started the same.

I am in the forest, walking aimlessly through the mist in search of a sign I know will come. I am thirsty, my water skin dry and my throat the consistency of sand while my body is wracked with chill.

I run through the forest, my bare feet torn from the brambles and stones. I can feel my blood oozing out and painting my path in hot red. Yet I run still.

The mist is thick, blurring my vision, yet still I know I am looking for my sign.

And my sign comes to me, suddenly appearing right in the middle of the woods.

A silver light cuts through the darkness, yet my eyes are not bothered. I stop in my tracks and focus. The silver glow that takes over the landscape fades into a form.

I then look to see a grand, graceful unicorn standing in my path. Her muscles are taut and honed, her coat of pure silver while her long mane reflects stars from a thousand galaxies. Her glowing, emerald eyes bore through my very soul as she merely stands and stares at me.

I will stand still in complete awe, feeling a very small creature in front of this powerful, beautiful creature. She slowly walks over to me, her green eyes pleading. I just stand still, waiting for her to gore me or nuzzle me.

I stand, the feeling of awe and fear starting to dwindle. I manage to move my legs a bit, and then walk forward to her. At last this grand creature is within arm's reach. I stop again, looking into her pure eyes. A small tear comes down her cheek, compelling me to slowly reach my hand forward and pet her mane. She leans her head into the touch and cranes her neck forward.

I laugh, getting a better feel of the softness of her mane while savoring her pure beauty…and feeling it scraping against my very being.

Her pure white mane is dyed with red now as my scimitar connects with her neck. She bucks, whinnies, and stops making any noise as I slice through her thick throat. More slices appear along her body, cutting apart every sinew of muscles. I want to see ever ounce of that pure, silver flesh stained, dyed, and soaked in her own blood.

I hack into her and tear apart her torso; glowing entrails flying out and being cut apart as fast as I can strike. I am giving her no moment to struggle. Every movement is a mockery to my very being.

I hack wildly, feeling her pure blood splash on my flesh and burn it, though I savor the burn. I savor the pain for the sake of spilling pure blood and rending silver flesh. I want to see every ounce of it a mere pile of meat bleeding out on the ground and dying the grass red. There is now red, thick mud under my feet as her graceful legs go out from under her in a heap and the rest of her body is now fit for dog scraps.

All I see in this mass of blood and flesh is her head, one tear still streaming down her cheek, and her still beating heart next to it.

I stand, looking over her body and still feeling those green eyes mocking me even more. I am about to stab them out when calm comes over me.

I slowly reach down into the mess, my flesh blistering with her pure blood, and lift up her heart. It still pounds in my hand, pleading to me more than her eyes ever could. I look down at it, slowly sink my fingernails into the tissue, and begin to squeeze.

My hand is raw, the whinnying of the head is shrill and I swear I heard my name being screamed by a mournful woman.

Then I stop caring. Then I ignore the pain, turn it around, and savor the feeling of spilt blood, though there is even one more feeling that invigorates my being and makes my heart leap with joy.

It is the sight of purity and goodness destroyed. This is my power. This is what cleanses my soul.

The heart crumbles in my hand, the blood drying and turning to gray dust against my black skin. I slowly look back at the head and take a leap to cave it in. The blood now feels cooling against my skin, the wet feel now soothes my aches, fills my throat with blood, which I swallow greedily.

I stand in the woods; the red stains my standard, the bloody ground my realm, and the corpse of an innocent my herald while a chorus of shadowy voices call in fanfare:

All hail the Rogue Prince.

I can only guess the meaning of this dream given my change of situation in the past three months, though it haunts me still for whatever reason.

It is not guilt; that I know for a fact. I have stopped feeling any guilt for my actions. I am responsible for my own destiny and am free to my own actions good or ill.

Are these dreams a final indication of my insanity; the part of my brain that finally broke with the rest of my morals? I am not ruling out that possibility. Regardless, these visions trouble me.

There is however that sense of unfinished business, that sense that these dreams are the final point in the right direction. The logical answer to that would be Cormanthor, the land I left in celebration three months ago. I have yet to return, perhaps out of uncertainty, perhaps distrust, perhaps my unwillingness to finally admit the inevitable.

There is a friend waiting for me in those weeds, a troupe of allies who have hailed me a leader. There was one friend, a priest, who gave me a teleportation wand with the ability to return me to that land whenever I chose. That wand still sits on my bureau, though I will look at it at least once a day.

I know there there is a group of friends and allies who wait for me, those who would be honored and blessed in my presence, though I say that more in morbid jest than any egotism.

Though there is that one friend I left in the forest, though I know he still watched over me…though I know he is still a part of me.

He is Lord Vhaeraun, the specter in the woods, the god figure who inflicted scars on me, though opened my thoughts to endless possibilities. A part of me has wanted to ignore this moment, pretend it never happened. Then there is that louder side that is a little curious about seeing him again.

I think my dreams have solved that dilemma for me.

I know he is just waiting for me to announce myself at last, and I feel obligated to oblige.

-Drizzt Do'Urden