The Mark
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: "The Mark" has no connection to my previous plotlines from "The Lesser Evil," "Midsummer," "Siren's Cry," or their related stories and is its own plot.
This story will contain a graphic description of body alteration. Reader discretion is advised.
6 of Mirtul, 1473 The Year of Risen Ghosts
The Glimmerwood
His neck stiffened for a moment in protest, his nerves knowing that the second he laid his head down on the sweet smelling barley pillow he had sealed his fate.
Drizzt gave a nervous smile in spite of himself, taking a deep breath and relaxing. The soft crunching of barley against cotton pressed down by the back of his head soon followed. He made his choice a tenday ago, it was best to have the experience lest the fear make him spring from the bench he laid upon now.
Sage burned around him, its sweet smell putting him at ease for a moment knowing what he was about to do was purely symbolic of this commitment. It was a far reaching tradition, after all; a tradition in which he had been invited to take part by a group known for remaining hidden from the world.
Drizzt didn't want to pry his gaze away from the garlands of flowers strung above him, though his purple eyes moved from its frozen spot to those who had become some of his closest comrades in too long.
They formed a ring around him, red eyes looking at him in curiosity though there were some looks of sympathy among this mass of unusual drow. Drizzt counted around twenty keepers of the grove surrounded him; their usual woodland leathers and weather beaten tunics in another location as all were bare to the waist. Twenty sets of hardened muscles and lithe forms stood around him, heads of white hair in their usual state of dishevelment or bearing messing ponytails or chopped spikes.
All of them were male, all of them were like him; drow who lived their lives by the rules of the wilderness. All were of different creeds and philosophies, but they had become his friends.
At last he had found drow like him, a miracle in itself. He had actually found a group of drow with principals that closely matched his own; they were not perfect, though they were not wicked like how he has associated his kin. Maybe the past hundred years of personal change, maybe having Tos'un Armgo as a friend changed him. Maybe spending the 90 years after the Spellplague as a lonely wanderer finally made him give in no matter what race his friends would be.
It was a fact that made this decision a bit easier, though no less terrifying.
A smoldering stick of sage danced in the air around him, covering his naked form in the purifying smoke. Drizzt's eyes trailed over to Tsabrak, who wore a robe made from an old bedsheet as he chanted blessings over him. Tsabrak Belthizz was the closest thing to a priest this village had, though he was more of a shaman; a fact that did make Drizzt feel a bit easier. He was not dealing with a priest of the fallen Vhaeraun or an acolyte of the deeply mourned Eilistraee; he was simply a man of nature.
Tsabrak put the smudge on a shell on a small table beside him, putting a few of the burning ashes in another container that lit up with a small, blue flame. The instrument he picked up next only made Drizzt's fear return with a vengeance.
He took a few more deep breaths, steeling his nerves. He had made his decision a tenday ago; backing out now would be an insult to himself and the closest comrades he had in too long.
Drizzt looked up, seeing a mass of stringy white hair in the group that hung over a series of deep scars; one eye red the other pink from an old injury. He smiled at the old drow who had become his mentor of sorts.
It was a title he did not give easily, a sure sign he knew he was doing the right thing.
"Drizzt Do'Urden," Tsabrak said. "Is it your wish to continue the initiation into the Brotherhood? Now is your last chance to back away."
"I have made my choice," Drizzt said. "I come with an open mind and an open heart."
He had made this decision a tenday ago. This is crazy, his mind still screamed at him, though he knew what to expect.
Tsabrak leaned down with the instrument in hand, the other hand with a cloth bathed in witch-hazel.
Drizzt smiled, looking up at the trees. He was surprised he didn't flinch when feeling the unguent spread on his flesh; now feeling ready for what would come next.
A white-hot pain burst through his skin. He took a breath, neck muscles straining and teeth clenched as the pain seared through his skin.
He wanted to scream, though only breathed deeper. The pain was cleansing, he had been told; it was a point of focus, of mediation to bring oneself closer to the spirit while having that commitment marked in his flesh.
Drizzt wringed his hands, meeting the gazes of all his friends before looking at old Gabe, who gave him an encouraging smile.
The fire disappeared, replaced by a throbbing ache. Drizzt's muscles relaxed as he gave off a series of panting breaths.
He dared look down, seeing his flesh altered; bearing the mark of his adopted people.
He gave a laugh, knowing he had made the best decision.