As before mentioned, I know it's a pity, but Drizzt is not mine. He and his Companions are the property of R.A. Salvatore. Mykail, Misha, Neva, Meart, Brek, etc. are mine.
This chapter is out of the generousness of my heart. I'm starved for reviews
As the sun crept over the horizon, its first morning rays found Bruenor Battlehammer DoÚrden at a nearby stream with his mother. The mage had managed to release the adhesive quality of the goo, but its presence was still felt. "Lean your head back, my son," Neva instructed, applying more soap to her hands before attacking Bruenor's curls once more.
"Ah! Mum, that hurts!"
"I'm sorry, Bruenor, but that slimy-ick-is stuck in your beautiful curls."
"I can wash me own hair, mum. I'm full grown ye know," Bruenor reminded her.
"You wouldn't have bothered washing it out at all if I hadn't insisted," Neva told him. "You have the cleanliness of a dwarf," she added, pouring her freshly filled water skin over his head.
Bruenor hissed as the icy water met his scalp. "I'll take that as a compliment, lessen ye mean Uncle Pwent," he replied.
"The very same."
"Now, mum, that's down reet cruel, and ye know it," Bruenor protested. "I do no' smell like Uncle Pwent."
"No, you don't," she acknowledged. "I make you bathe, though I have been tempted to force the same on that old dwarf," she added, pouring the rest of the water onto his head. Satisfied that the green was all gone from his closely cropped curls, she then dried them with her cloak. The brisk movement of the cloak stilled though, as she paused in her ministrations to place a tender kiss on his damp locks, a single tear escaping her eye.
"I'm alreet, mum. No' a scratch on me," Bruenor softly reminded her, as he reached up and grasped one of her slender hands. He felt her fingers tighten around his own for a moment, before releasing them. He heard her sniffle, causing him to glance back.
Neva ran her fingers through her son's curly locks, across his brow, his cheeks, down his nose, and across his chin, before pulling him into a tight embrace. "If I had lost you…"
"Ye didn't and ye won't, mum."
Bruenor and Neva picked up their supplies and made their way back to the cliff face where the mage, Neal, still worked to free Mychal. As they walked arm in arm, they heard the unmistakable sound of heavily armed dwarves trampling through the forest. "No sign of 'em yet, me king!" Bruenor shared a look with his mother.
"Speakin' o' smelly dwarves," Bruenor said, chuckling, before calling out, "Uncle Pwent! We be reet here, ye ole coot!"
"I can't seem to find anything among my supplies for countering this. It isn't purely magic, but a manipulation of the elements," Neal stated. "I hate to admit it, but it's beyond me."
Kaitlin soothed her son, brushing her fingers across his brow as his head rested on her lap. His arms had begun to ache after the first hour, then his neck, so that Kaitlin had slid behind him to relieve the strain. "Do no' worry, Mick. We'll get help fer sure," she said, just as a ruckus sounded below, where everyone, but the mage and Kaitlin, had retreated while the mage worked to free Mychal.
"Where's the rest o' 'em, lad. Up there ye say! Course I can climb it, ye durned elfling!" The occupants of the hill perked up at that voice.
"Grady!" Mychal called out, feeling a little childish, but not really caring. "Grady! I'm stuck in the rock!" A dwarf with a battered old helm crested the rise into view, battle ax in one hand. His red beard was laced with streams of silver, but his eyes were sharp and clear.
"Me boy, ye're imp o' a cousin dun told me. Ye're alreet though? No' hurt?" Mychal shook his head. "Good," he said, with a satisfied nod, before turning back to look down the hill behind him. "Stumpet! Hurry yerself up here, woman, and get our lad outta the durned mountain already!" The old dwarven king hollered. Relief washed over Mychal at his Grady's words. Gram was with him.
Just then, Bruenor crested the rise, and with him was a dwarven cleric. "Gram! I'm so glad to be seein' ye. Get me outta here, please," Mychal begged, near to the point of tears.
"Shush, me lamb. I'll get ye out," she said, as she made her way to his side. "Let's have a look at ye." She studied the rock which encased her great-grandson, paying particular attention to the portions immediately surrounding his limbs. "Alreet, ever'one down the hill. It's too durned crowded." Kaitlin made to protest. "You too, me girl. I'll no' have ye sink in while I'm pullin' him out," Stumpet said. However, Stumpet caught her arm as she made to leave. "Send that brawny feller up when ye get down there, Kate. I'll be needin' me a strappin' lad to tug 'im loose."
"Aye, Gran-mum," Kaitlin said, tossing one more glance at her son before heading down. Once Brock went up, the others sat—a visible division between Mareth's group and the Do Úrdens—and waited.
Mareth, having noticed her people's withdrawal, had deliberately made her way over to sit by the Drow ranger. "I have heard much of you, but I never thought to meet you. Your fame is wide spread," she told him. She watched as a soft smile graced his handsome face.
"No doubt the tales are greatly exaggerated," he said. He then pulled a small onyx statuette from a pouch at his side, before turning to glance at the panther currently serving as a pillow for his grandson, Bruenor. "Guen. Time to rest, my friend." With a final lick to Bruenor's pointed ear, a grin at the dwarven king, and a head-butt to the ranger's chest, the panther dissipated.
"She is beautiful. You must feel blessed to have such an ally," Mareth remarked. Where praise of the ranger had only garnered a soft smile, praise of the panther won a glowing one, making the Drow ranger even more handsome than before. His modesty, as well as appreciation of those around him, caused her to honestly enjoy his company. Their conversation was listened to intently by both sides, the Do Úrdens frequently interjecting a comment more readily than her own group, though Neal proved to be a help at breaking down much of the barrier, as he drew the Drow, Bruenor, into what proved to be an amusing conversation.
"Despite what me mum might've led ye to believe. I'm no' always in trouble," Bruenor told the mage.
"Ha! Now that's a loud one," interjected a dwarf, one that had previously been talking with the Drow before Neal joined them.
"Now, Uncle Brek, what're ye sayin'?" Brek Battlehammer, son of Bruenor and Stumpet Battlehammer, leaned forward, locking his eyes on his young nephew's own.
"What abou' that lil' incident with the gray dwarves last month, lad?" Brek asked.
Bruenor quirked a brow at his uncle, "Now, uncle, if'n I bear any o' the fault fer that, then yerself does too! Ye were there, an' as me superior…"
That last remark caused the young dwarf to sputter, "Superior! As if ye'd 've listened to me! Ye're as hard-headed as Pwent!" He watched with satisfaction as his nephew fought for something to say, unknowingly comparing the elf to the Battlerager for the second time that day. "And what abou' that lil' problem we had with those goblins, wherein ye nearly flooded the mines?" the dwarf asked, a sly glint in his eye.
Bruenor's emerald eyes narrowed, all parties present were now intently listening, as he then gave a disdainful sniff, before replying, "Twas an accident an' ye know it."
"Then there were that time ye fell off tha' cliff…" His Uncle Pwent added, to which his Uncle Brek nodded, before continuing.
Bruenor heard his mother gasp. He raised his hands, waving them in hopes of stopping his uncles.
"Then there were that avalanche…" Bruenor slapped a hand over his eyes as the dwarves continued to list his misadventures, in the presence of his mother.
"Bruenor!" Bruenor jumped at his mother's exclamation, having missed the last indiscretion his uncle named.
He looked to the mage. "What'd he say?"
The mage fought the smile that was trying to overtake his face. "He said something about a giant's lair."
"Damned mouthy dwarves," Bruenor whispered, contemplating humiliating retribution. "Mum, it were necessary," he told her in his own defense.
"How is sneaking into a cave with a sleeping giant, to look for gold, necessary?" his mother demanded.
Bruenor turned a glare on his uncle. "Ye durned troll! Ye tol' her 'bout tha' one? Why no' t' other one?" Bruenor asked, his dwarven brogue becoming even more pronounced. He watched as his uncle's eyes sparkled with amusement, though Bruenor convinced himself it was pure mischief.
"I thought I'd let yerself tell it," his uncle said. "We're even now," Brek added, thinking of the last prank his nephew had pulled. "Never mess with a dwarf's beard, lad!" As the Drow's eyes widened in understanding, his attention was drawn back to his mother.
"What OTHER one?" his mother asked.