As mentioned before, Drizzt and the Companions of the Hall (who are still alive) belong to R.A. Salvatore, but the rest are mine Enjoy! Feel free to criticize. I don't where my feelings on my sleeve. Promise.
Drizzt Do Úrden held up his hand, calling a halt to the group as Guenhwyvar came barreling out of the wilderness to their left. She let out a startling roar, filled with anxiety, before wheeling about and launching herself back into the direction she had come. The party from Mithril Hall followed after her.
It was not long before carcasses of strange creatures were seen strewn across the landscape, causing the party to investigate, though Guen disappeared into the night. "They look similar to the hook horrors from the Underdark, except they are not," Meart stated, his golden eyes taking in the carnage.
"They are not the only things here reminiscent of the Underdark," Drizzt said, as he pointed out a carcass of a different kind. Ice seemed to flow through the hearts of each in the party at the sight of the Drow.
Meart's eyes shifted, as he called out to the surrounding area. "A pack of wolves nearby gave aid at my son's request, but were driven back once they lost the element of surprise. Our children are facing off with the Drow nearby!" he said, charging off into the night, the others behind him. Guen had already joined in the battle against the Drow.
Meart's fear fueled his mad dash. His son, his fair-skinned son, would likely be the first the Drow would seek to kill. The same skin that allowed Mykail such liberty among the races on the surface would be his bane against the Drow. They would thirst for Mykail's blood more than Bruenor's. His golden eyes grew hard as he thought of what he would do if his son was dead. His despicable kin would pay if they had harmed a single fair strand of his head.
The Drow priestess didn't even glance in Bruenor's direction, despite his insults and threats. She swung the blade down toward Mykail, "No!" Bruenor called. However, she stopped it just above Mykail's throat. Instead of cutting him, she slid the bared blade from his chin to his collar, lightly grazing him, and smiled. She then spoke, in her own tongue, the words coming out as a purr. "What's she sayin', Mick?"
"How am I to know?" Mykail asked, never taking his eyes from the enemy before him. "I know as much Drow as yerself!" An arrowhead suddenly came within a few inches of Mykail's eye, as the priestess knelt, touching his face, only to have an arrow pierce her breast from behind.
"She said something along the lines, 'You look delicious, laid out like a delectable offering or something.'" As the priestess fell, a woman stepped into view. Her form was covered in the borrowed cloak of a dead Drow soldier. Her eyes had a faint glow to them in the night, suggesting some elven blood, as they scanned the forms of the two trapped elves. A soft chuckle escaped her as she knelt beside Mykail, studying him. "I must say, I agree with the spider spawn. You look good enough to eat," she said, smiling down at him. Though her night vision was not as strong as a full-blooded elf, she still had the pleasure of observing his blush as it traveled down his throat, disappearing beneath his armor.
She turned away, giving a whistle, before setting her gaze on Mykail once more. "Could ye be helpin' us out of this by chance?" Bruenor asked, drawing the woman's momentary attention.
"It depends. What's in it for me?" she asked, smirking.
"What is it ye want?" Mykail asked, drawing her gaze back to his, though she allowed it to travel a lazy path over his entire form first.
"Oh my," she whispered, wetting her lips, "that question opens a world of possibilities, doesn't it?" Her voice was naturally deep, more like that of a dwarven female than an elf, and slightly rough. Mykail couldn't help liking it, nor could he ignore the pleasant feel of her warm breath as it ghosted across his cheek.
"Heard your signal," a man's voice stated, startling Mykail. Behind the woman stood a well-armored human, and a rather tall one at that. "The Drow are routed. The other priestess disappeared with the few that were left," he reported.
"I was hoping you would have taken down the other priestess, but I suppose we can't always get what we want," the woman replied. "Fetch Neal. We have some elves here who could make use of his magics." The man nodded and slipped away again. The woman then picked up where she had left off, a slow smile spreading across her face, "Now, about that price." She leaned forward, burying a hand in silvery white hair. Her lips brushed lightly across Mykail's jaw as they traveled to his ear.
Bruenor was dying of curiosity. He watched as whatever words the woman whispered caused his cousin's image in the infrared to flare white-hot, before Mykail attempted to stutter out a response. His cousin had never been at a loss for words in his life. Before Bruenor could demand to know what was being said, the woman spun around, sensing someone's approach, to find a large, black form bounding up to them. "Guen!" Bruenor called. "Am I e'er glad to see ye, girl," which garnered a greeting rumble from the panther.
"I take it she's with you?" the woman asked, a little guarded, since the size of the panther exceeded any she had ever seen.
"Well, she wasn't with us earlier, but it would seem our kin must've been a mite worried," Bruenor corrected.
"We did have a white cat with us, though. Did ye see him?" Mykail asked, as Guen bathed his face with her tongue, the woman's earlier words forgotten for the moment.
Her eyes were alight with amusement at the sight of the panther lavishing attention on the trapped elf, as she acknowledged seeing the other feline taking out Drow around the perimeter. "We saw the cat as an ally, so none of my party harmed him."
"Mychal! Bruenor!"
Mychal started from the sudden call before answering it, "Da! Da, we're here, Da!"
Mychal was unable to see around his overjoyed panther friend, but he did hear as someone challenged his father, to which his father replied, "Let me through, or are you attempting to hold my son against his will?"
Sensing that the situation could turn ugly, the woman reluctantly left the trapped elves, and jogged down the rocky terrain to where her group was barring the path of a Drow. Her eyebrows rose at the sight. "Let him through, Brock. This would appear to be the father of one of our trapped elves."
"He is Drow, Mareth!" Brock replied.
"Indeed he is, as are those trapped above. One of the Drow of Mithril Hall, if I'm not mistaken," she answered.
"Ye're no' mistaken, woman," a voice answered, before several more forms left the tree line. "Ye've aided our kin by all appearances, so we're reet thankful fer yer help, but we've a mind to see our sons," continued this new Drow. Several of the eyes gazing at Mareth and her group glowed lavender, marking them undeniably Do Úrden. One set of those eyes, with the form to which they belonged, approached, placing a hand on the shoulders of the first two males of Mithril Hall to speak.
"I apologize if we seem rude, but we are anxious over our kin. I am the ranger, Drizzt Do Úrden, this is my son, Zaknafein, and my daughter's husband, Meart." Pointing to the rear, he introduced the Drowess, Neva, Zak's wife, and Kaitlyn. "May we see them, please?"
"Well met, Drizzt Do Úrden," Mareth replied, his name alone causing the rest of her party to lower their weapons. "Of course, we were just about to see if our mage, Neal, could get them loose," Mareth added.
"Loose?" Drizzt asked, as the rest of his family ran by to check on the youngest Do Úrdens.
"They're a little stuck at the moment."
"Bruenor Battlehammer Do Úrden! What have you gotten yourself into now!" Drizzt and his current company heard up the hill.
"Mum, tisn't me fault this time! Mick, tell her it couldn't be helped." Drizzt smiled as he heard his son's relieved laughter cascading from above. "Da, it's no' funny!"
"Zaknafein, stop laughing please, and find a way to get our son off that wall," Neva interjected.
As Drizzt hiked up to the cliff face, with his newest allies behind him, his heart lightened to see his family safe. He found the woman, Mareth, had not exaggerated. Mychal was securely trapped in the rock foundation, Kaitlin and Meart currently fussing over him, demanding to know if he was injured as well. Bruenor was still defending himself against his mother, while stuck with green slime to the cliff wall, as his father, Zak, attempted to regain his composure. Drizzt's eyes danced with laughter, though only a small smile touched his face. His grandson did look ridiculous, like a giant creature had sneezed on him, plastering him with his arms all askew. "You said your mage, Neal, might be able to help?"
His words effectively stilled all other conversations. Neva made her way back toward Drizzt and Mareth. Saluting the woman, Neva asked, her green eyes pleading, "Your mage can get my foolish son off the wall?"
"Mum!" Bruenor called out, indignant.
"Does he know a spell fer gettin' our boy outta the rock?" Kaitlin asked from where she sat beside her son. Brushing her unruly auburn hair behind an ear, she then grasped her husband's ebony hand in her fair one as she awaited the answer.
"Neal?" Mareth turned to a slim figure behind her, one who was obviously not a warrior.
"I'll see what I can do, though the rock might prove to be a problem." At Kaitlyn's anxious expression, he added, "I'll do everything I can."
"You had better," Mareth told him, only half playing. She had a stake in it as well. Her eyes met those of Mykail. She was rewarded once more with a brilliant blush. She chuckled softly, realizing the trapped elf must be thinking on her last whispered words to him. She winked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. She watched, fascinated, as his blush brightened even more.
"What is the matter, my son?" Meart asked, noticing his son's altered coloring.
Mykail dropped his gaze from that of the woman's, before answering, "It's nothin', Da. Just bein' stuck like this tis a bit embarassin'." He felt his father's hand at the back of his head.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Mykail."
"Perhaps no', Uncle, but we'll ne'er live it down!" Bruenor interjected, casting a resentful eye toward his own father, who still couldn't look in his direction without chuckling.
"Ye're reet, son," Zak said, a grin stretched across his handsome face as he placed his hand against his son's cheek, clear of the goo, "but at least ye'll be livin'."