Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Drizzt Series. All Original Characters however are mine.
He burst through the trees, a frantic, half-mad figure caked in dirt and blood with the cowl of his hood obscuring his panicked face. He sprinted forward blindly, throwing terrified glances over his shoulder and gripping a blood-slick knife in one gloved hand. His breathing was shallow and erratic refusing to keep rhythm while he ran deeper into the forest, desperately trying to lose his pursuers.
The figure saw a clearing to his right and diverted his path toward it, leaping over logs and barreling through undergrowth. He was so intent on his goal that he didn't notice the steep drop in front of him into he was almost on top of it. He quickly threw out his hands to keep his balance and braced his feet at the incline's edge but his speed and momentum betrayed him.
Dropping his knife, he tumbled down the rocky slope; the sharp rocks dug into his skin and tore great holes in his exotic cloak. He was slammed to the forest floor and he let out pain-ridden shriek as his leg exploded in pain. He roughly threw himself into sitting position and almost swooned when he saw his own knife embedded in his leg, right above his knee.
He quickly rallied against the pain and grabbed hold of his knife then slowly dragged it from his leg, his cloak clenched in his mouth to stifle his screams and whimpers. He had almost pulled it out when he heard the unmistakable sounds of pursuit from the top of the ridge; acting on instinct he rolled to the side, his leg screaming in agony, just as an arrow stabbed into the dirt where he was just sitting. His eyes darted up and he could clearly see his pursuer, a tall wood elf wearing all green, perched on top of the rocky ridge and already readying another arrow. The elf fired his bow and his now-crippled opponent barely managed to avoid being skewered.
…...
The elf hesitated, morbidly amused by his prey's struggles, then notched another arrow and took aim. The prey however tore the dagger out of his leg and sent it flying straight for the elf's heart. The elf, shocked by this unexpected move, threw himself behind a large and gnarled pine tree to avoid the blade. The elf waited a few more moments then slowly raised his bow and stepped out from cover, eyes searching.
His prey was gone, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken brush as it limped into the forest. The elf gracefully leapt down from the ridge, landing on his feet and immediately sprinted after his prey, easily following the blood trail of his quarry.
…...
The prey, now unarmed and crippled, devoted all of his fading strength into fleeing deeper into the forest. His leg was burning in agony, but he clenched his teeth and forced himself to keep moving. He dared to look behind, expecting to see his tormentor about to fire the killing arrow; instead the trail was empty except for a rather scared pair of rodents running across it. He redoubled his efforts hoping that he had, against all odds, escaped his pursuers.
Then he felt his feet stop, his eyes shot down and widened with surprise when he saw that his legs were bound with wire attached to three small spheres. Unable to keep his balance, he screamed in shock as he was catapulted into the dirt, whimper catching in his throat as he struggled to pull himself up.
…...
As hunter drew closer to his fallen prey, watching it flail in the dirt, the smile left his face. The hunt was over, now it was time for the kill. He drew his sword from the sheath and adjusted his hand on the grip, ready to plunge the blade in to his prey's back.
"It is dishonorable to stab one's prey in the back, Elyon." A melodic voice taunted.
The hunter's head peered over his shoulder; chuckling lightly when a second hunter leapt down from a tree branch, landing lightly on his feet and striding over to his partner.
"I don't think this one counts as worthy prey, Wyn." Elyon stated flatly, "Its death is more of a chore than any kind of hunt."
"Chore or not, it took a while for you to catch him." Wyn laughed slapping his friend on the back. "If it wasn't for my bolas, he might have gotten away!"
"I thought I told you stop interfering with my hunts."
"I thought you said it was a chore?"
Elyon's dark green eyes flashed with annoyance at his friend's teasing before giving the struggling prey a baleful glare and tightened his grip on his sword.
Wyn strode forward and squatted down next to the franticly struggling form. Placing his hands under the prey's shoulder and hip he carefully flipped it onto its back in order to get a better look at it. He quietly took in the fallen prey's torn cloak, wild hair, and a wicked looking wound in its leg.
"What happened to its leg?" He asked, blowing a loose strand of blonde hair away from his eyes.
Elyon sharp-featured face twisted in confusion as he examined the prey's injured leg, the prey finding his predators in such close proximity redoubled his thrashing and curled his face into defiant sneer, daring his captors attack.
Wyn, noticing the sneer, smirked and gestured to his friend. "Look it still thinks its superior!" he laughed
Elyon gave it a somewhat frightening grin. "Maybe at falling, he is!"
The prey's sneer hardened, but his wary glaze gave away its confusion; it obviously did not speak elvish. Finally, exhausted and in pain, the prey flopped onto its back gasping for breath, but not daring to look away from the hunters.
Like most elves Elyon hated suffering and always tried to kill his prey as painlessly as possible. It was, after all, rather unsporting for a hunter to torment his prey. He nervously licked his lips, eyes searching for a home for his sword point.
Wyn, noticing his friend's hesitation, pointed to the prey's chest and mouthed the words "In the heart." Elyon nodded, pinning its arm to the ground with his boot and raising his sword two-handed, blade pointed down ready to plunge into the now-struggling prey's heart.
Wyn was holding down the prey's other arm with one hand and its head in place with the other, trying to give his partner a better chance to kill instantly and without pain.
Elyon looked down and stared into its face, the sneer was gone replaced by a look of hopelessness and regret.
*What could he be regretting? He…THEY have no morals, no conscience. he would slit our throats in a second if he had the chance!*
The prey closed its eyes.
"Vedaust ussta euol'gui, F'sarn taudl Usstan inbal ulu sevir dos." It whispered quietly to itself.
Then the blade fell.
10 years after Drizzt escapes Menzoberranzan, four months before the destruction of House Do'urden
Ran'drin Barrindar, Secondboy of House Barrindar, tossed and turned, trying to make himself comfortable in his overstuffed bed. He twisted his body to each side, then spread his arms over his head and bent one knee and managed to give himself a neck cramp before trying a new position. After a dozen positions he gave up, threw his blankets away and slowly sat up.
*Now that I'm up, I might as well get some work done* he thought.
Ran'drin pushed himself off the bed and made his way to his desk. He planted himself on the leather chair, and then scooped up the small stone that lay on his desk. At his command the stone slowly lit up with a gentle blue light. Like most drow Ran'drin's eyes glowed scarlet when he used heat vision, but now that his desk was now blanketed with soft light, his eyes now showed their true hue: a bright, icy blue.
Opening one the cabinets he withdrew a small, black-leather book with a sliver lock and entered the combination. The lock sprang open and Ran'drin flipped to a dog-eared page near the end. In small, messy writing were the words: "Stuff to do this week."
*Pickup contraband, Finish Invisibility potion, deliver strength elixirs to arena, pay off mother….* He continued to list in his mind, trying to find one that wouldn't be much of a hassle. *Destroy shipping records, raise ten thousand gold pieces for gambling debts…* He was about to throw the book back and try to get some sleep when he discovered, in large flamboyant letters, someone had wrote "Meet with Jarlaxle."
Ran'drin bit his lip in thought, trying to recall if a guest had been in the house recently. Matron Nhil'breena often had guests and parties to help spread her reputation for wealth and fashion among the cities' nobles. The parties were always formal affairs where manners and class were everything. Unfortunately for his mother, Ran'drin's sarcastic tongue and independent streak caused so many problems that she finally forbid him from attending anymore of her parties, lest he cause a war.
After about a minute he concluded that someone COULD have been invited by his mother during the last party and slipped away to write this little note, and judging by the fancy handwriting that someone was probably Jarlaxle himself.
Deciding that it would be okay if he had breakfast before meeting the swaggering mercenary, Ran'drin pushed his chair back and trudged to the closet on the far side of the room. Rubbing the grogginess out of his blue eyes with one hand, he opened the closet with his other hand.
The sight that greeted his tired eyes was not a pleasant or a welcome one: A practically hairy spider had decided that it would be fun to make its web directly in the space between his most expensive shirt and his favorite pants while a dried rat husk was oozing grayish juices onto his socks. A few quiet seconds went by as the Ran'drin considered drowning his closet in a river while the spider considered whether or not having a giant pile of clothes on the floor would hurt the resale value of the closet.
Sighing in annoyance Ran'drin bent down and grabbed the first set of clothes he saw, then smoothly shut the door and made his way to the room's only exit. Bundle of clothes tucked under his arm he scooped up his boots, collected his war vest from its peg near the door and, with some difficulty, nudged the door open and strode down the hall.
Now most drow would not have left their room barefoot and wearing only a pair of baggy undergarments, but Ran'drin had long ago decided that the Barrindar compound was safe as long as he paid his dues to the Matron. He was simply too valuable to the house's coffers to be "accidentally" killed off by a rampaging labor troll.
House Barrindar was, unlike most houses, carved out of a cliff face so its slave quarters, storage rooms, and stables for riding bats and lizards were all found on the first story of the house and connected to each other by a twisting network of hallways and stairs. The second story housed the house's barracks, the chapel, and the feast hall and its kitchens (which he infinitely preferred over the other two). The third story was noble territory and Ran'drin's twin older sisters did everything in their power to keep it that way; they beat any commoner who trespassed and on one occasion almost threw Ran'drin out. Luckily Matron Nhil'breena was passing by at the time and put a stop to their so-called "petty fight" before anyone sustained any serious injuries.
Ran'drin turned left down yet another stone corridor and made his way toward the noble kitchens. The kitchens were always warm, toasty and overflowing with new and exotic delicacies like surface fruits, rare rainbow crabs, and the occasional barrel of sweet dwarven cheese. The main cook, an old and loudmouthed gray dwarf named Oni Bigflask, treated Ran'drin like a favorite nephew, saying that the young drow reminded him of himself when he was young. He was also a master of the culinary arts. He worked with food and drink like a sculptor works with stone. He had been working here long before Ran'drin had been born and even earned enough money to buy his freedom a couple of years ago but stayed anyway because he enjoyed the challenge of cooking for the Barrindar family.
"Dwarves are not picky; we eat anything, even stones." He had explained to the Matron "But drow o' other hand, drow eat only the finest foods, and nobles even finer still. Feedin' yer family and feedin' them well, that to me sounds like a good way enough to spend me retirement."
Ran'drin stopped walking and sat down on a small pedestal and started putting his clothes on, since it would be rude to walk in on someone while wearing nothing but your underwear. Most of Ran'drin's clothes were gifts from suitors or looted from drunken nobles so most of them wear too small for him (Ran'drin was tall for a drow and most of his suitors bought him tight clothes on purpose.) So it was only with great effort and a steady stream of cursing did he finally manage to get his pants on and buckled. When he stood up he found that he could not lean too far forward or backward. "Perfect. I look like a stripper," he snapped hoping that the buyer of the pants fell into a ravine. Thankfully his shirt was much looser and was made to fit him.
Ran'drin finished dressing and scooped up his war vest and examined it for any lose straps or holes before strapping it on. The vest was a marvel of drow workmanship; it consisted of dozens of overlapping buckles and straps made from the basilisk leather and mithril and sported about a dozen daggers in varying lengths, blades, and positions. The straps were mobile and slide over one another smoothly to maintain flexibility and lightness while keeping its strength. The vest was a gift from his mother, who had bought it for him when he had staggered home one night with a crossbow bolt in his shoulder, not wanting her prized Secondboy to die in a street fight, she had the vest tailor-made for him and even had the house wizard cast a few enchantments on it.
A short walk down the generously carpeted corridor brought him to the kitchen door. He loudly knocked on the door, knowing that the old dwarf was either preparing tomorrows breakfast or asleep.
"Who be knockin'?" came rough, heavily-accented voice, only slightly muffed by the stone door. "Ran'drin is that you, boy?"
"No it's the matron's pet spider; I would like to spin a web in your beard because your head's full of flies!"
The remark was met by an uproar of laughter as the door swung open, revealing a balding dwarf with a light grey beard which covered the food spattered apron that hid the rest of his rather plump body.
"That tongue be the death of ye, boy!" The old dwarf chuckled, "What do ye want, Ran'drin?"
"Well I was unable to sleep so I thought that I go down and get some snacks to calm my nerves."
The dwarf wagged a stubby finger at the young drow. "This is a kitchen, not a buffet. I can't be havin' every drow in the house comin' in and eatin' all the food!"
Ran'drin carefully stepped past the old dwarf and made his way to the pantry. "Relax, old friend, you won't even notice that I'm here!" He called back over his shoulder with a disarming smile.
The dwarf opened his mouth to argue before the sudden hissing that erupted from the tea kettle made him rush back to the food as fast as his short legs could carry him.
Ran'drin barely noticed the dwarf's grumbling; instead he focused on ransacking the pantry. The secondboy scooped up a jar of raw spices, several bags of smoked meats, and a loaf of bread imported from the terrible surface world. He quickly dumped his takings onto the only table that wasn't covered in food stains, before plopping himself down on the nearest chair.
"Why are you still working, Oni?" Ran'drin asked loudly, dipping a sausage into the spice jar "Usually you're off drinking at the Breaded Gnome by now."
"The BEARDED gnome, ya twit" Oni chastised " your mother be hostin' another blasted party tomorrow, said that some Beaners be attendin' so now I have to be makin' sure all the food be perfect for tomorrow!"
"Baenre."
"What?"
Ran'drin looked up from his meal, giving the dwarf an amused look "Their name is pronounced 'Baenre', not beaner."
"Blast and be bother it, all yer clan names be soundin' the same!" He exclaimed pointing a spoon accusingly at Ran'drin "And stop eatin' all the spices! I be needin' those for the soup!"
Ran'drin kicked his feet up onto the table, tipping the chair back on its back legs, and chewed contently on the sausage. Oni took his silence to be a sign that he should continue and started lecturing the young drow on all the things that (according to Oni) dwarves did better than the drow while vigorously stirring the pot of soup.
This scene went on for a good five minutes before Ran'drin finished his meal, stood and announced that he had business to attend to. His foot was halfway out the door when Oni called him back.
"Wait, come back!" He yelled "Come taste the soup I ben makin'!"
Ran'drin, always ready to sample new cuisine, sauntered back to the stove and carefully opened one of the pots and tasted a spoonful of the heavy, brown broth.
What touched his tongue was nowhere near what he was expecting, instead of the promised delicacy the broth tasted of filth and garbage mixed in with sweat and grease. He immediately spat it out, spraying the wall with the brown slop.
"Oni, that was disgusting!" He cried, nearly choking "What in the nine hells did you put in that soup?!"
"I be also boilin' the crud off the ol' pots." The old dwarf stated casually.
Ran'drin stared at the dwarf in disbelief before his stare hardened into a glare that would send even a demon into a panic attack.
"Try the other pot." Oni suggested with a shrug.