Drizzt Do'Urden sat alone atop a tall cliff on the side of Kelvin's Cairn. It was summer in Icewind Dale, the only time of year it grew even remotely warm, when the balmy breezes reached up to the tops of the mountains. But to the drow, every day held the chill of winter snows.

He used to sit with Catti-brie beneath the trees that lined the shores of the lake. They would look up at the clouds going by, calling out their shapes and laughing at each other playfully. They had been so happy.

She had been the first, so many years ago he no longer cared to count. She had still been young by the measure of any race, but the chill found her. She had a raging fever but was always cold. She became delirious, unable to recognize him—her husband. He stayed with her night and day, feeding her, washing her, caring for her. She had gotten better too—well enough to sit with him on Kelvin's Cairn, wrapped in blankets and clutching a mug of hot dwarvish medicine between her frail hands. She still coughed, but laughed with him and kissed him, and fell asleep in his arms.

And two days later she was dead.

Bruenor was the next. He had been out on the tundra, returning from a market near Ten-Towns when a polar worm burst from the soil, hungry mouth chomping. When the dwarf king didn't return for two days, search parties were sent out, headed by Drizzt, Wulfgar, and Thibbledorf Pwent.

Drizzt had found Bruenor's mangled body, already being picked apart by the carrion birds. Sobbing, he had wrapped the body in his cloak and carried it back to the halls, heedless of the blood that drenched him. Wulfgar had found the worm, the king's axe still embedded in its jaw. He had slain the creature and brought the weapon back. Bruenor was laid to rest beside his beloved daughter.

And then Regis. He had taken a boat out on Maer Dualdon to fish. Even now, no one really knew what happened to him—he had been alone when he died. It was assumed he fell over the side of the small craft, for whatever reason, and drowned.

After that, Drizzt was very nearly dead inside, reeling from the loss of his wife and two dear friends. His nights were long and sleepless, his days senseless and muddled.

Everything was mechanical.

There was no rhyme or reason to what he did anymore.

But Wulfgar had been there for him, and that helped. The man became his constant companion, and helped to make his existence at least tolerable.

And now even he was gone, not yet three days ago. He had been the only one to die a natural death. He had lived a good life, had married a wonderful woman and fathered two beautiful daughters, and had welcomed a grandson into the world. He had been happy.

But now there really wasn't anything for Drizzt to live for anymore.

So he sat atop the cliff, looking down the sheer, rocky face to the hard-packed, as-yet-unmelted snows far below. The warm breeze blew across his dark face, but still he shivered.

Nothing could heal the deep wound in his heart.

He brought out the small vial of Oil of Impact from his cloak and uncorked it. He swallowed the viscous liquid quickly, ignoring the sting of the acidy substance in the back of his throat. He stood.

He looked down only once, and then he jumped.