The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday
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: A little thing about canon…
I have kept this fic going with the fervent, if naïve hope that this story could not be considered AU because it would prove canon Drizzt is capable of going this insane. Alas, I was proven wrong with the release if Road of the Patriarch where my explanations for Entreri and Jarlaxle's origins were completely different than what RAS came up with, that and I think RotP exists only up until the boys are driven from Heliogabalus the first time.
However, a recent development in the Forgotten Realms involving one of the key characters in this series has drop-kicked this story into its own alternate universe. Details on this change shall be explained in this chapter.
Chapter 21: Whispers
You're enjoying this too much, Mazn'reysla.
Maz merely smirked at the soft voice poking in the back of his brain, which dripped with wicked amusement.
Another scaly creature jumped at him and fell down as a roaring ball of flames with merely a point as another goblin dodged to avoid his burning comrade and lunged a spear at the drow.
Maz caught a glimpse of the thug at the right time to spin on his toe like a dancer and narrowly dodge the point. His black shortsword hacked at the shaft close to the goblin's hand. The goblin snarled, spinning the spear at the right time to avoid the wicked blade. Mazn'reysla raised a fine eyebrow and nicked the point of his sword on the point of his spear. The goblin predictably parried, gnashing green teeth in a smirk. His smirk vanished as two pointed feet smacked into his chest, breaking several ribs as his head flew off a second later in a wave of shadows as the blade sliced through.
I will say your sword skills have vastly improved, the voice pressed again and Maz could practically see the amused smirk and approving nod from his master.
I've been practicing, Mazn'reysla answered back, leaping in the air and slicing into the shoulder of another goblin that tried to thrust a spear at him.
The goblin screeched, encouraging Maz to kick its wound with the heel of his high, black boot instead of slash into him further. The sight of the thing flailing and dying as blood gushed from his wounds made his already gleeful mood a little better.
The fact the goblin's peers were stomping over him as he screamed in his guttural tongue was even more amusing.
Maz idly brushed some dirt off his black leather vest before meeting the spear or another one of the weak creatures. He was holding them off with a blade now for his own amusement, though knew his martial play time would have to end soon. Maz, while adept at physical combat, rarely took part in it; he knew he could tire too quickly and needed to conserve at least a little energy to resume spellcasting.
He stole a glance down the long, grassy hill on which he had made his fighting perch to see about twenty more goblins charging up the grass. They didn't seem to notice the twelve hacked corpses of their companions littered about the hillside where Maz's traveling companions were making short work of their tribe.
Neither of his traveling companions, however, looked remotely as amused as he. Quite the opposite actually; Drizzt was not merely hacking into goblin bodies as much as he was rending them to gushing cubes that resembled a snarling goblin one second and ground meat the next. His animalistic growls and snarls indicated he was using this battle to get out a few frustrations that still refused to go away.
He's reverting to that animalistic state again, the voice pressed again in Mazn'reysla's mind in an amused tsk. Focusing all his pain and rage into spilling blood and smashing flesh apart.
He doesn't enjoy it though, Maz responded, parrying another spear that barely missed his shoulder while stealing another glance at his lover's violent snarl. I can see the pain in his eyes, this state wounds him to the core.
And whose problem is that to fix, the voice calmly responded with a hint of mirth.
Maz smirked and spun out of the way of another spear while glancing down to Drizzt's human companion.
Artemis Entreri was further down the hill, his blades making cleaner cuts into one creature than Drizzt as usual though his lunges and hacks were done with a bit more passion. His face too bore the scowl of one who had seen better days. While Drizzt was taking out aggression, Entreri's expression was merely sour or sourer than Mazn'reysla was used to seeing. It was if this whole battle was dredge work and he was burning out from the mendacity.
I think that one just wants to get this over with, Maz thought.
Or so he would like to think, the voice responded. I wouldn't underestimate our poor human. His surface mind may aim for a life of murderous simplicity, though I know he is silently exploring more than he cares to admit to himself.
This mission does have a purpose for him, Maz replied with a smile as he chopped off half a goblin's right hand.
He could feel his Friend in Shadows smile back in self-amused pride.
Mazn'reysla put his attentions back on the goblin in front of him, which he idly sliced at before the snarling vermin fell apart in a mass of fire. It was one of Maz's little tricks, or at least the lack of a trick as in the lack of need for any gestures, components, or even arcane words. He just needed to look at something he didn't like and it could be either destroyed or in serious hurt in a mere second.
He stole another peek down the rocky hill while waiting another three goblins and looked over at the companion that had become a curious sight. Jarlaxle cut into two charging goblins at once with a double thrust of his twin long swords. The mercenary nimbly spun around and hacked into two more while two more fell a second later with quick backward lunges.
Maz had no idea the Baenre was this graceful in combat; he thought all Jarlaxle knew was throwing daggers or the power of his magic items when he wasn't standing safely behind the shields of his allies. Now he actually fought ably with two swords and finely honed drow dexterity. He had hacked into goblin after goblin for the past hour with no use of daggers or magic items.
It was as series of fighting tactics that would have been a bit less glaring if Jarlaxle actually wore his grand, plumed hat, mounds of jewelry, and finely tailored clothes. This scene was curious if not disturbing facts that his head was bare and actually had a thin coating of hair, the most glaring differences next to his dirty white tunic and gray cloak.
His appearance was not the only thing different; the normally garrulous and social mercenary hadn't even said any taunts or light banter to his companions or the creatures he was killing; instead he fought in almost silence, his face bearing a perpetual tired scowl as the subtle lines in his face appeared deeper.
He was wearing that hat yesterday, the voice said dourly.
He's already deteriorating, Maz replied, flinging a round of magic missiles into the next goblin and sending him rolling down the hill. We must be closer to House Morbasin than we thought; Moril's essence is pulling him home. He insisted the other day that he wasn't shaving his head because he wanted to "try a new look" or some nonsense like that. Now we know the full truth.
And what is that full truth, my son the voice said in amused curiosity.
Maz smiled, watching the two remaining goblins that were fighting him run away screeching with the sparse rest of their defeated kin.
Our plan is working, the clown traitor is taking the bait, Mazn'reysla replied.
Now is the time to prepare for some nastiness, the voice responded, from you… and him.
Maz smiled, looking back down at his companions. Drizzt growled at some of the fleeing goblins, Entreri wiped the goblin blood off Charon's Claw with his cape, while Jarlaxle watched the goblins' retreat with a vacant expression.
If it's not too presumptuous, my Lord, Mazn'reysla thought, do you foretell our victory when the battle is over?
There was a slight pause before a shadowy cackle emitted through his mind.
I foresee House Mourbasin returning to its rightful masters, the voice said in a matter-of-fact tone overflowing with mirth. I see our Prince returning to Cormanthor to a heroes welcome. I see a world where we shall know such triumph, it shall scare the goodly bards to their core; such a fear that will make them write of our defeat on all fronts, or even to inspire some convoluted story of my death.
Mazn'reysla snickered, prompting varying degrees of glares from his companions. He merely smiled at the glares, knowing dark times would come indeed.
---------------
The aroma of wood smoke was faint yet obvious.
Drizzt remained seated on his blanket, resisting the overwhelming urge to open his eyes and formally pinpoint the location of the fire though he took a few more deep breaths and visualized the small, aromatic flame less than a mile away from their location. They were all surrounded by goblins and orcs, yet this fire was too fragrant and mild to have been created by one of those bestial creatures.
He took another deep breath, imagining his body becoming one with the soft blanket underneath him, perhaps sinking into the rocky, grassy ground. Artemis was a few feet away sharpening his blades and he couldn't care less what Jarlaxle was doing, though he knew he probably should.
He tried to clear his mind, become one with his surroundings and ignore all the external and internal distractions, including the smell of the far off fire and the pounding of blood in his eardrums.
It was an old meditation he learned in Melee Magthere where his instructor trained them to get into a perfectly focused state and then release stinging insects of a varying nature to crawl on the students' bodies. Those who cried out or even twitched were usually killed or flogged by a particularly "generous" instructor and killed later.
Drizzt had remained still as a stone during this exercise; making no moves and keeping his eyes closed. The sting in his flesh was like another part of his being that had to be managed.
Decades of personal strife later, it was a perfect calm he had to find again despite all the personal worries and general internal chaos that threatened him at all times to tear him apart.
He focused his concentration on the aroma of wood smoke in the distance though that was another source of stress. Regardless it was a source of stress that had to be dealt with properly to unravel this mystery.
It couldn't be any one of the farmers inching out in a hunting party from any of the notoriously paranoid villages in Sembia, Cormyr, or the Dalelands; the party was stuck in the middle of all this though the area was too hostile and too far out for those groups. The thought of facing a group of pitchfork-wielding Dalelands farmers, however, almost sounded sweet to him; it was an element of home in a way, reminding him that the border of Cormanthor was less than a day's travel.
If the threat wasn't from the villagers, it was the orcs, goblins, and all the other manner of creatures that prowled the Thunder Peaks. Maz insisted the dracolich that was known for haunting these parts was sleeping on the opposite end of the range, though all guards were on high.
The company had left Saerloon two days ago. Drizzt and Entreri left with Jarlaxle, who had at least appeared to be maintaining more self control. Regardless, none of them talked aside from barking instructions during battle or inquiring about observations. The rest of the travel had been dead silence; just the bootsteps of three warriors in various degrees of weariness.
Mazn'reysla insisted on joining the party for magic cover, which no one seemed to protest outwardly though Entreri and Jarlaxle were clearly less than happy. Drizzt enjoyed his company, though neither were in any mood for intimacies other than occasionally nudging shoulders as they passed each other
Ilzir slipped away before they left Saerloon, Maz saying she needed to round up the 55 remaining members of House Mourbasin who escaped Moril's wrath by being on assignments and duties far away from the House.
As for the House itself, Ilzir and Mazn'reysla insisted the central location changed by the hour and was undetectable on all maps to protect the House and its activities. Both clerics insisted they had ways to recognize the presence of the main hold, which had become Moril's headquarters, only available to them.
Entreri and Drizzt at least were hardly buying the explanation. If they did know where the House was located, it was not guaranteed that Moril would stay comfortably in one place.
Drizzt took another deep breath, getting ready to think the next words in such a manner that didn't make his blood boil.
The priests indeed had a way of knowing the location of Moril, Entreri and Drizzt knew this; that indicator was the party itself or more likely one member of the party still recovering from Moril's attack.
Neither of them was amused, yet both of them silently and wearily realized they had no choice. It was only a matter of letting Moril come in close enough and at least weakening him before he could to any major harm to Jarlaxle.
It was a tiny bit of optimism the assassins held in a loose part of their brains, though the thought was only enough to mute both their respective rages and actually continue this journey when they both knew they were likely offering Jarlaxle as a sacrifice to get close to Moril.
The thought that this sacrifice could be easily made considering that Jarlaxle got them all into this mess in the first place was another tiny speck of thought that kept all of them on track while the underlying feeling would also have undone the momentum.
It was a perpetual balancing act between maintaining their cold professionalism to complete the task at hand and their existing sense of friendship in whatever degree to Jarlaxle.
Drizzt gave a deep, frustrated sigh and opened his eyes. This sure as the Hells wasn't Melee-Magthere and he had a whole mountain's worth of nasties of various races, forms, and powers looming over him; he was entitled to be a little less relaxed.
He stretched his legs out on the blanket, planted his feet against the grass, and positioned his legs to let him come to a stand. He took a deep breath of air, awake though a bit calmer than before. The smell of smoking cedar gradually took on the aroma of juicy, roasted beef; another indication whoever was over that hill was not an orc or even a villager.
Drizzt smirked and shook his head, knowing full well to whom the fire and roasting meat belonged. He walked off the blanket, kicking it aside and looking back to the company's small camp. Mazn'reysla was sitting near a mass of rocks on the other side of the area reading his spellbook and sipping a small glass of wine.
Entreri was by the fire systematically oiling and sharpening his dagger with a tired expression. He looked up at Drizzt briefly before turning his black eyes back on the chore ahead of him.
Drizzt slowly turned his gaze to the small, extra-dimensional tent a few feet from the fire. By the fire's faint light, he could make out the slight outline of a sitting humanoid form. Jarlaxle went into the tent after the last battle with barely a word to anyone, likely making his millionth attempt at a real Reverie though Drizzt doubted if Trance would ever come to him. Moril had done such a fabulous job of ripping into his mind that his traveling companion would likely not know any peace.
Moril was not done with him by any means.
Drizzt kicked the tow of his boot into the ground, spinning around and walking swiftly away from that which enraged and scared him. He continued walking past the fire, past Entreri's short glance, and past the blanket on which he tried to find peace earlier. There would be no peace here, or anywhere.
He continued, his steps kicking up the dry soil and crunching on small patches of grass. At first he looked back to see the campsite fading from view, then he stopped looking; only keeping his gaze ahead as his nose locked on the scent of the aromatic fire ahead.
Drizzt knew he could be waling into a trap set by at least a thousand different people with a thousand different reasons for wanting to torture, kill, capture, redeem, or negotiate with him. He could have cared less about any of the implications, just wanting any lingering threads finally tied, whether they were tied with swords or words.
His steps across the grassy, rocky terrain became harder. He had no idea where he was going or if the destination even mattered. Soon his legs fell into a steady run over the boulders and hills that made his path, dodging low-hanging trees and leaping over ancient stumps. The only thing leading him was the strong smell rosemary and smoked beef fueled by his perpetual frustration.
Drizzt's rage was firmly in place, though now as a slow burn instead of an exploding mass. The only thing that tempered him was the underlying reality of exhaustion combined with general frustration about being perpetually helpless to the situation…and his own whims.
The tip of his toe hit a rock in the path, causing him to stumble for a few steps before regaining his balance. A part of his mind wanted to regain his footing and continue running, though his conscience made his body fall with the trip in a controlled way so he sat on the ground with a rough thud.
Drizzt let out a hard grunt and kicked his heels into the dirt before burying his hot face in his hands and taking deep breaths mingled with shallow, almost non-existent sobs.
This has to end, he thought to himself in subconscious words he had held in for so long. For fuck sakes, I can't go on like this. Though how exactly do I intend to go on.
Drizzt picked his head up, flinching at the slight sheen of tears in his gray palms as a calm broke in his brain. He reached to his back and drew the silver shortsword, holding it in his hand and visualizing the shadows that poured from it when he cast Moril from Jarlaxle's body at the house of the Gondorian family.
He gazed into the metal, almost meditating on the hilt's silver vines and the dark sheen it took under the black sky. He took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the blade without reluctance and without fear. It was no longer a tool of his forced servitude, nor was it an implement with uncertain meaning.
It was the sword of his god, the sword he wielded as Vhaeraun's champion.
The words passed through his brain before he could hold them back or even ponder their meaning before they were delivered to a cold, cruel entity.
"A little help, please," he whispered with a heavy sigh, the flat of the blade an inch from his lips.
A dark chill emitted from the sword as he saw a small wisp of shadow circling him on the ground.
What would you have, a soft, almost sarcastic voice floated through his mind. Drizzt didn't know if he was answering himself, though he suspected he had been answered by the intended party.
Drizzt sighed, thinking on the question.
"Peace," he whispered back, expressing his true feelings at last.
He did not say the word with a thought of pacifism or cowardice; he said the word letting out his mass of frustration with himself and everything around him. He felt vulnerable, yet finally gaining control of every emotion that ruled him his entire life.
A small chuckle broke his inner silence, though it sounded more amused than mocking.
"Fine, you son of a bitch, I'm admitting I need your help," Drizzt whispered with a small, unnerved chuckle. "Isn't that what good worshippers do?"
He took a few more breaths and savored the swish of trees in the wind while feeling a rush of various emotions welling up inside him.
"Though maybe to you a good worshipper continues with his scheming and chaos and violence and doesn't talk to you unless he wants to crush his enemies or give you golden shit," he continued in a breathy tone bordering on laughing and crying; not caring how mad he sounded to Vhaeraun, Moril, or anyone else who happened to be listening. "Well in this case, I'm a shitty worshipper, but that's not stopping me from saying something and feel free to fucking send a nasty demon and cut me the fuck down if I do. I'm talking to you, godsdamnit. Deal with it!"
Talk away, the voice responded. You want peace, and how would you have this peace?
Drizzt casually looked around him, seeing the wisp of shadow become thicker as one tendril curled upwards.
"I would have this peace through control," Drizzt replied with a sigh, not wanting to censor himself or mince any more words.
You already have that power, or do you? the voice responded, the tendril of shadow curling into a figure eight and clearly becoming the shape of a mask. Is the mighty Rogue Prince admitting he is lacking in control?
"Laugh it up, whoreson," Drizzt said in an almost defeated tone. "The mighty Rogue fucking Prince comes before you humbled. Happy?"
"Very much so,"the voice responded, sounding less like a thought and more like an actual voice. "Though not so much at your expense; you are actually showing some maturity, horrors of horrors. I should, however, kick your smarmy little ass around these rocks until you're a mashed mess of pulp for not coming to this conclusion sooner. You have wasted so many resources and efforts, least of all that bald piece of colorful meat you considered such a swell friend."
Drizzt's first instinct was to mention how Vhaeraun was less than pleased with Jarlaxle, though he held his tongue knowing there needed to be more cooperation on his part. The eyes of the mask were green, indicating Vhaeraun was a bit curious with this turn of events.
"If I truly knew how to save him, I would," Drizzt said with a slight crack in his voice as more came out. "There, I said it. If I knew how to get that piece of necromantic shit out of his brain you bet your high ass I would. But I don't."
"Good boy," Vhaeraun replied. "Doesn't that feel better to just get it out there?"
"Orgasmic," Drizzt said dourly, "now for fuck sakes how do I do it."
"I thought you didn't desire power?" Vhaeraun said.
Drizzt glared at the mask with a sneer that dripped with hunger.
"I see," the mask replied, eyes turning gold, "so Drizzt Do'Urden is a true drow after all and not just a good natured marauder with black skin. Yes, I know 'laugh it up, whoreson.'"
"Your words," Drizzt said, forcing a smirk.
"Funny, is it not," Vhaeraun said. "I asked you to complete a simple task for me and you've been pissing and moaning about it since night one. Now you are practically groveling before me though trying to keep your head up by still pettily insulting me."
"And you would never have done the same, say, to mommy?" Drizzt said.
Vhaeraun gave a chilling laugh.
"Indeed," Vhaeraun said, "but we are not talking about me. We're talking about a little boy who knows he's in trouble and is begging daddy to dig him out."
"Though my fingernails are clawing at clay," Drizzt said with a cracking sigh, feeling his rage burning but putting in every effort to stay as calm as possible, "and you know that. I'm admitting I'm at the bottom here, whether that is apology enough is up to you."
"And you are too proud to grovel," Vhaeraun said, though his tone was more matter-of-fact than boastful. It almost sounded as if he understood Drizzt's words. "Though you are not too proud to admit when you're fucked, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, abbil. What is your theory on emotion again?"
"Emotion is not weakness, though to lose control of emotion invites weakness," Drizzt said, absorbing every word.
"My point exactly," Vhaeraun replied, his eyes becoming red. "Now that we've finally decided to practice what we preach, I assume I can expect a little more cooperation from you."
Drizzt nodded, knowing it was best to be honest than smarmy. Though he maintained his strong posture and gaze at the mask, communicating he would not be walked over.
The lower portion of the mask turned up in a kind of smile.
"I cannot provide you the answer to your questions," Vhaeraun said, the eyes of the mask turning green. "But you know who can."
Drizzt mentally cursed the enigma, though the buzz in his sword brought the answer to him in a sudden realization that floated through the sudden clarity in his mind.
"The gem is still in the rock," Drizzt said, "and I have to chisel it out."
The mask gave another smile before gradually fading into nothingness. Drizzt concentrated on the shadow, observing its every movement and imagining himself in its blackness. He touched the shadow with his sword, clearing his mind a bit more and concentrating on twirling the shadow on the blade like a snake would coil on a branch.
The wisps of shadow broke apart at first, though Drizzt's movements became slower, more calculated. The tendril wrapped around the blade, a silver glow almost attracting the blackness like a thorn bush would catch a piece of cloth. Soon the shadow was coiling itself around the length of the blade and wrapped its way to the hilt.
The tendril caressed Drizzt's hand, producing a familiar chill that he welcomed. It was unnerving, yet soothing in the same moment; terrifying and orgasmic. He pushed his fear aside, concentrating only on the soft chill of the shadows. His grip on the handle tightened, savoring the feel of shadows and steel.
"What nature of sword are you?" Drizzt whispered with a pleased sigh, feeling as if this blade was calling to him; feeling as if this blade was an extension of his body.
He further concentrated, imagining himself become one with the blade and one with the shadows, feeling himself drifting into a trance. A lingering part of him fought the sensation, crying out against the chill of shadows and coming darkness, though the voice was silenced as it had been repeatedly for the last year and a half.
I will have my answers, he thought through the black haze in his mind.
Are you truly ready? a voice said in his mind…a soft, female voice he heard in his dreams.
You have something to tell me, Hallia, Drizzt thought, picturing the lovely female drow with the same cold lavender eyes that he possessed. I tire of enigmas.
As you should, she replied, her beautiful form emerging from the shadows that clung to her like an elaborate gown. Her thick hair was blown back by a cosmic wind as her face was locked in a playful smirk.
Drizzt reached his hand up and leaned in to caress her face, tilting her head back to better show her eyes.
You are looking at my eyes, Hallia said coyly, though her thick lips remained still. Have you ever wondered how we got this color.
Enlighten me, Drizzt replied, opening his mind for all possibilities.
His name was Eilerin Sorilan, Hallia replied mysteriously, Sekila Mourbasin's favorite bed slave, father of a perfect drow daughter. The surface elven blood, however, hardly diluted; drow red with elven blue.
Fascinating, Drizzt thought back. Are you saying I also must have faerie blood in me?
Hallia leaned in further, wrapping her strong arms around his body and caressing his cheek with her lips. Drizzt paused for a moment, slowly kissing her cheek and holding her ice cold body closer. She felt comfortable, though not like a lover. He felt his heart pounding in perfect beat with hers.
The heir of House Mourbasin, she whispered in his ear. Welcome home, grandson.
Grandson, Drizzt replied with a disbelieving chuckle, though the connection made sense. Whose line did you give your son to?
One was sold to House Do'Urden, she replied, her tone hollow and sad. Another went to House Flaen'Tlabber. You know what became of the third.
Drizzt nodded, sensing the anger pouring from her.
That is why you turned from Lolth, he replied. She ordered the murder of your child.
Her grip around his body grew stronger as he felt her chin rub against his shoulder in a nod. Drizzt sighing laugh in a realization she returned as he felt her smile against his cheek.
He gripped the sword tighter, his body relaxing as his thoughts inquired about its origins. A sudden image of Vhaeraun's weapon belt flew into his mind as did the image of Vhaeraun drawing the sword and handing it to Hallia.
Drizzt opened his eyes and saw Hallia had pulled back from him, gazing into his eyes with a knowing smirk.
A reward for great hospitality while he was in mortal form, he thought. This is his sword, which he must have replaced it when he returned to Ellanith.
Shadowflash, Hallia replied. Very good. Are you going to start taking this a bit more seriously?
Absolutely, Drizzt replied with certainty, feeling a weight of confusion lift from his shoulders. Though one more question; Nazir Klau'Thest?
Hallia's lips parted in a toothy grin before she leaned in and kissed Drizzt on the cheek. The shadows that wrapped her body enveloped him as a gale of wind rushed past his ears with a howl that sounded like a series of drow words.
The wind passed as did the soft chill of the shadows. Drizzt opened his eyes and shivered as he looked upon the same spot of grass and rocks on which he first sat. He jumped to a stand, stumbling over the ground and feeling the mundane breeze and rocky terrain.
Adrenalin coursed through his veins as he beheld the landscape in shock. Where were the shadows and where was Hallia, his grandmother of who knows how many generations? Where was the perfect cold blackness and why was he here? He leaned against a small evergreen and let the dizziness play itself out as he inhaled the aroma of cedar wood cooking succulent beef.
After a moment of concentration, he regained enough of his bearings to be functional; the cool air not baking him and the faint glow of the camp fire on top of the hill not blinding him. He leaned his back against the tree, enjoying the slight sting of the stiff needles as a way of waking him from his momentary trance.
Drizzt took a few deep breaths, holding up his hand and seeing it shaking violently. This was not the shake of rage however; it was the rush of cold happiness. No drug or flesh could replicate this; this was organic, pulled from the planes itself and plunged into his body.
He gave off a series of giddy laughs, looking up at the black sky. The moon was new; back in Cormanthor they would be holding the stag hunt and offering the animal's heart and antlers to Vhaeraun.
I already have my celebration, he thought with another laugh as he pulled himself away from the tree.
The needles clung to his tunic, though his long, thick mane of hair was tangled firm in the branches. Drizzt cursed, grabbed the bulk of his hair, and on instinct sliced of the mass above his hand with the shortsword.
He shook his head as his senses slowly returned, looking at the mass of hair in his hand and feeling his head much lighter. He shoved the hair into his belt and felt the back of his head with his free hand, feeling his hairline was now at the top of his neck. It was a moment that sobered him a little more, realizing he had given himself a haircut without realizing it. Maybe his head would have suffered the same fate with the right sword angle.
Drizzt shook his head. His hair was burned off in a cleric's spell while he slaughtered monks in the temple of Ilmater in Waterdeep, the moment of his true rebirth. Maybe this was the start of yet another evolution.
He laughed, pulling his hair from his belt, throwing it on the ground along with a lit match. The last thing he needed was another necromancer getting hold of some part of his body.
Though Nazir Klau'Thest had his own methods…though Nzifrel Baenre had his own methods.
Drizzt smiled, watching the hair turn to ash then nothingness on the sandy ground.
He had the bastard's true name now, the name with which Lolth recognized him.
Drizzt watched the last of his hair burn away before looking up at the campfire glow. He may have had a way to get Moril, though he would still need a little help.
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Entreri was a few feet away. Jarlaxle knew this, though it almost felt as if he was breathing in his face.
Jarlaxle took a deep breath in the millionth attempt at calming his hypersensitive nerves, though the effort was futile. He could not drift into Reverie, he never would.
The mercenary opened his eyes, seeing his human companion sitting across from him in the tent and giving him a patient glare.
"Pardon me for interrupting your trance," Entreri said calmly, though with little hint of any regret.
"I thought you were outside," Jarlaxle replied in an annoyed tone, the blood pounding through his ears. "I assume you're ready for bed."
"Actually I wanted to say a few words," the human said, his expression still blank. "None of us have been saying anything to each other in the past two days and that is making me a bit edgy."
"Because you are such a fabulous conversationalist," Jarlaxle calmly hissed, wishing the human would just leave him the Hells alone, though the thought of being left alone made him shiver.
"Because you normally are," Entreri said, keeping his casual slouch and holding back so much frustration he felt over the past tenday.
Jarlaxle looked like the Hells. The light orb at the top of the tent only illuminated his sunken eyes and chalky complexion. He looked like an old Chultan as opposed to a handsome, mid-age dark elf. It was the ultimate, sickening reinforcement that Moril was still torturing him. It was the ultimate show of what could happen to a man when subject to magical control; a thought that terrified him.
The priests' wonderful plan to draw him closer to Moril's new headquarters further emphasized this. Jarlaxle now looked like an invalid; like the shell of the man he had always known.
"It's been a long journey and I am a bit tired," Jarlaxle replied stiffly, adjusting his weight forward and becoming increasingly aware of the ache in his back. He felt worn, the perpetual anxiety over every rustle of leaves and call of a wolf was pressing on him.
"We could have used some extra magical support out there," Entreri said, pressing the point further to see how he would react. In a way he was starting to enjoy this dangerous little game; playing with fire always had a small appeal after all.
Jarlaxle gave an uncomfortable laugh, communicating frustration and annoyance.
"They were goblins, and we had the priest," he replied. "That was enough."
"Every little bit counts you know," Entreri said, slowly standing up and walking from the tent.
He had his answer tonight as he had for the past two nights. It was like he was conducting a nightly check-up of Jarlaxle's physical and mental state and his companion was growing worse every night. The sight, for some reason, was unbearable. He gave Jarlaxle one last look as he closed the tent flap and walked out to see where Drizzt had gone off to.
Jarlaxle leaned against the soft wall again, closing his eyes and trying to enter Reverie.
Don't worry, my child, a sickening voice said in his mind. You will destroy him soon enough.
The Hells do you mean by that, Jarlaxle thought back.
Soon, my son, the voice responded. Soon.