Disclaimer: I own none of the places or people in this story. I simply
borrowed them for a few hours to relieve the boredom...
A lone figure sat in the center of the clearing, staring at the stars. The light from a small fire nearby flickered on his ebony skin. A mane of thick white hair fell just below his shoulders. Delicately pointed ears poked out from his hair, a feature clearly marking him as an elf, that long-lived, beautiful, and sometimes arrogant race. But this was no ordinary elf. He was a drow, a member of the subterranean, evil race of elves who were, long ago, banished from the surface by their fair skinned cousins for their evil deeds before and during the great Crown wars that shook the very foundations of Toril so long ago.
Drow on the surface were rare, and a single dark elf was unheard of. The only time the Drow came to the surface was to raid villages of elves and humans. But even then the evil elves came with a large number of their dark kin.
But this was no ordinary drow. He was Drizzt Do'Urden, a renegade drow from the eighth house of Menzoberranzan, and the finest fighter that vile city had ever seen. He had left the city because, unlike every other drow save one, he was born with a sense of good and evil, morality and honor. He was horrified by the acts of evil the drow committed against each other. They ruthlessly slaughtered their "friends" and family for even the slightest gain in power.
The only thing that made his life in that city remotely bearable was that one other drow with a code identical to that of Drizzt Do'Urden. That drow was Zaknafein Do'Urden, Drizzt's father and mentor. The endless sparring lessons in the Do'Urden gym had been the most enjoyable part of life for the young Do'Urden prince. Then the young dark elf had been sent to the academy, the epitome of the drow ideals. Drizzt had survived the drow academy with his morals intact, something Zaknafein had thought impossible.
But then the impossible happened. Drizzt's mother, Matron Malice, had sacrificed Zaknafein. And for Drizzt's mistakes. Drizzt had then fled from Menzoberranzan, into the wild and untamable Underdark. Ten years and many adventures later, Drizzt had arrived at the surface. He had then been taught the art of being a ranger, his true calling, by, of all people, a blind old human named Montolio deBrouchee. Now, after so many adventures in his relatively short life, Drizzt Do'Urden was looking for a home.
Not just a place here he could survive. With his skills, Drizzt could survive anywhere on or below the surface of Toril. But for a place where he could live among others, a place where he would be accepted despite his skin color. So he was moving north, a haven for goblinkind and rogues from every race, hoping to find a small village that would accept him, if only for his skill with the twin scimitars that hung from his belt.
He was now sitting in a small, grassy clearing in a forest overlooking a valley with a small village in it. Well, actually it was a small cluster of houses that could not rightly be called a village.
A sudden sound from the woods off to his right brought him out of his reverie. He quickly kicked dirt over his small fire, grabbed his pack and dashed for nearest tree. With grace that a hunting cat would envy, he swung himself up to the highest branches about twenty feet from the ground. He watched and listened for a few moments, wondering how he could have been caught unaware so easily, when a band of orcs emerged from the woods where he had heard the sound.
The hairy humanoids immediately started making camp where he had been sitting a minute before. The drow guessed that there was about forty of the smelly creatures. After an hour of sitting in his tree, Drizzt was starting to think that he should just go down and attack the beasts. He started to think of a plan when, from the opposite side of the clearing came another band of orcs. This one was larger than the first and the orcs of the second tribe carried crafted weapons.
The largest orc of the first tribe, a monstrous humanoid, nearly 6 feet tall with twisted teeth came forward with a large battleaxe in one hand, a bronze buckler on the other. It growled several curses at the other tribe of orcs and, slamming a gnarled fist to its chest, declared itself the chieftain of the mighty TwistTooth tribe and demanding to talk to the chief of the second tribe.
A second passed before the swarm of orcs before TwistTooth parted, making a path for its own chieftain. The second chief was so large its shadow overwhelmed TwistTooth. Well over 6 and a-half feet, the orc chief pounded its chest and shouted "Tallfist!" so loud that it echoed in the valley beyond. The Tallfist tribe immediately began chanting the name of its mighty chief.
With typical orcish loyalty, nearly a score of the TwistTooth orcs began chanting Tallfist as they moved to the side of the massive orc. TwistTooth roared and moved to attack the deserters, but Tallfist stepped in his way. With a growl, TwistTooth swung his axe hard at Tallfist. The larger orc merely grabbed the wooden shaft of the axe and, with a grunt, snapped it in half. Then, with its other hand, it grabbed TwistTooth's buckler and sent it flying through the distant woods.
The smaller orc blinked, trying to comprehend what just happened, then turned and ran breakneck towards the valley. Before he even got ten paces he fell, the head of his broken axe embedded so deeply in his back it poked out of his chest.
Well Drizzt thought after watching the incident things just got a lot more complicated
A lone figure sat in the center of the clearing, staring at the stars. The light from a small fire nearby flickered on his ebony skin. A mane of thick white hair fell just below his shoulders. Delicately pointed ears poked out from his hair, a feature clearly marking him as an elf, that long-lived, beautiful, and sometimes arrogant race. But this was no ordinary elf. He was a drow, a member of the subterranean, evil race of elves who were, long ago, banished from the surface by their fair skinned cousins for their evil deeds before and during the great Crown wars that shook the very foundations of Toril so long ago.
Drow on the surface were rare, and a single dark elf was unheard of. The only time the Drow came to the surface was to raid villages of elves and humans. But even then the evil elves came with a large number of their dark kin.
But this was no ordinary drow. He was Drizzt Do'Urden, a renegade drow from the eighth house of Menzoberranzan, and the finest fighter that vile city had ever seen. He had left the city because, unlike every other drow save one, he was born with a sense of good and evil, morality and honor. He was horrified by the acts of evil the drow committed against each other. They ruthlessly slaughtered their "friends" and family for even the slightest gain in power.
The only thing that made his life in that city remotely bearable was that one other drow with a code identical to that of Drizzt Do'Urden. That drow was Zaknafein Do'Urden, Drizzt's father and mentor. The endless sparring lessons in the Do'Urden gym had been the most enjoyable part of life for the young Do'Urden prince. Then the young dark elf had been sent to the academy, the epitome of the drow ideals. Drizzt had survived the drow academy with his morals intact, something Zaknafein had thought impossible.
But then the impossible happened. Drizzt's mother, Matron Malice, had sacrificed Zaknafein. And for Drizzt's mistakes. Drizzt had then fled from Menzoberranzan, into the wild and untamable Underdark. Ten years and many adventures later, Drizzt had arrived at the surface. He had then been taught the art of being a ranger, his true calling, by, of all people, a blind old human named Montolio deBrouchee. Now, after so many adventures in his relatively short life, Drizzt Do'Urden was looking for a home.
Not just a place here he could survive. With his skills, Drizzt could survive anywhere on or below the surface of Toril. But for a place where he could live among others, a place where he would be accepted despite his skin color. So he was moving north, a haven for goblinkind and rogues from every race, hoping to find a small village that would accept him, if only for his skill with the twin scimitars that hung from his belt.
He was now sitting in a small, grassy clearing in a forest overlooking a valley with a small village in it. Well, actually it was a small cluster of houses that could not rightly be called a village.
A sudden sound from the woods off to his right brought him out of his reverie. He quickly kicked dirt over his small fire, grabbed his pack and dashed for nearest tree. With grace that a hunting cat would envy, he swung himself up to the highest branches about twenty feet from the ground. He watched and listened for a few moments, wondering how he could have been caught unaware so easily, when a band of orcs emerged from the woods where he had heard the sound.
The hairy humanoids immediately started making camp where he had been sitting a minute before. The drow guessed that there was about forty of the smelly creatures. After an hour of sitting in his tree, Drizzt was starting to think that he should just go down and attack the beasts. He started to think of a plan when, from the opposite side of the clearing came another band of orcs. This one was larger than the first and the orcs of the second tribe carried crafted weapons.
The largest orc of the first tribe, a monstrous humanoid, nearly 6 feet tall with twisted teeth came forward with a large battleaxe in one hand, a bronze buckler on the other. It growled several curses at the other tribe of orcs and, slamming a gnarled fist to its chest, declared itself the chieftain of the mighty TwistTooth tribe and demanding to talk to the chief of the second tribe.
A second passed before the swarm of orcs before TwistTooth parted, making a path for its own chieftain. The second chief was so large its shadow overwhelmed TwistTooth. Well over 6 and a-half feet, the orc chief pounded its chest and shouted "Tallfist!" so loud that it echoed in the valley beyond. The Tallfist tribe immediately began chanting the name of its mighty chief.
With typical orcish loyalty, nearly a score of the TwistTooth orcs began chanting Tallfist as they moved to the side of the massive orc. TwistTooth roared and moved to attack the deserters, but Tallfist stepped in his way. With a growl, TwistTooth swung his axe hard at Tallfist. The larger orc merely grabbed the wooden shaft of the axe and, with a grunt, snapped it in half. Then, with its other hand, it grabbed TwistTooth's buckler and sent it flying through the distant woods.
The smaller orc blinked, trying to comprehend what just happened, then turned and ran breakneck towards the valley. Before he even got ten paces he fell, the head of his broken axe embedded so deeply in his back it poked out of his chest.
Well Drizzt thought after watching the incident things just got a lot more complicated